Читать книгу What Happens in Devon… - T A Williams - Страница 18

Penny had abandoned Émile Zola for the time being. She was sitting at the kitchen table doing her best to compose something suitably raunchy on the laptop. Scott was just finishing the crossword.

‘Scottie, what word should I use for vagina?’

‘What’s wrong with vagina?’

‘I just wonder if it isn’t naughty enough. Should I say … ?’ She paused, unsure how to continue. ‘Should I use a stronger word? Maybe the “c” word?’

‘Woah, there, Pen. This isn’t Lady Chatterley, you know.’

‘Well, to be quite honest, this erotic novel thing is supposed to be a whole lot sexier than Lawrence. We’re talking whips and canes and things.’

‘Yes, Pen, but that’s just kinky stuff. The icing on the cake, so to speak. You can’t use a word like that.’

‘Scottie, you’ve gone quite red. Have I crossed some kind of line here? Is that a taboo word?’

‘Well, how often do you use it? When’s the last time you said to yourself, “I really must scratch my you-know-what”?’

‘I suppose you’re right, not that I scratch my you-know-what half as often as you two boys fiddle with your bits.’

‘It’s complicated down there for us chaps. It all needs rearranging from time to time.’

‘Too much information, thanks, Scottie. But this is set in the 1800s. I can’t use a word like pussy. It’s too modern. Scott, you’ve gone red again.’

‘I’m sorry, Pen, it’s just that I’m not used to having this sort of conversation with you. With Jamie it’s all the time, but with a girl?’

‘So I’m still a girl, am I? I thought I was an old auntie.’

‘I never had an auntie who looked as good as you, Pen.’

‘That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Scott. Thank you. Now help me with my vagina.’

‘Oh lord. Well, your piece is set in the South of France, isn’t it? Isn’t there some French word you could use? You could say, he rammed his Aznavour up her Sarkozy, and nobody would be shocked and appalled.’

‘Now there’s a thought.’

‘So how do you say it in French?’

‘Say what, Scottie?’ She pretended innocence.

‘Sarkozy of course.’ He was fighting back.

‘Well, let me see. Do you know, I thought I spoke pretty good French, but I only know one or two very ordinary terms for that part of the body. More to the point, what word would they have used in the nineteenth century? I know. How about chatte? That’s a female cat, but it also works as you-know-what.’

‘Thank God you’ve sorted that out. So, what’s the plot, then? Do I get to read it?’

She had been thinking about that. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t, Scott. It’s bad enough knowing that this Marshall man is going to be reading it. The thought of somebody I know and like … Why, you might be so disgusted, you would never speak to me again.’

‘I won’t be disgusted. I promise. But it might be a good idea to let somebody else see it before you send it in. You know what they say. Two heads etc.’

‘All right then. I’ve just got to stick in a few chattes and I’m done. Upon your own head be it. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea while I’m finishing off?’

He did as bidden, while she inserted a few nineteenth-century French vaginas. As he appeared with the tea, she clicked Save.

‘Well, if you’re sure you want to read it, it’s done. Read it on the screen. That way if anything needs changing, I can do it, before printing it out.’ She passed him the computer and went upstairs.

When she came back down again, he was well into it. He looked up briefly as she came past him. She sat down on the sofa and raised an eyebrow.

‘Disgusted yet?’

‘It’s amazing, Pen. All this time, living alongside you, and I never realised you were such a–’

‘Pervert?’ Her tone was light, but she was worried.

‘No, no, not at all. I was going to say, such a good writer. Can I make a confession?’ He was red in the face. ‘I would never have thought that just reading the written word could give me a hard-on. But it has.’ This time she blushed redder than him.

‘Oh good lord above, your auntie has given you a hard-on?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Pen. If only you knew’, he thought to himself, as he hastily returned his attention to the screen.

He read it through to the end. The last page was particularly striking. The story ended on a note of redemption.

The Marquise bent forward and cupped the girl’s pert little breasts in her hands. As she did so, the stable lad saw again the red stripes across the milky white of her ladyship’s buttocks. He remembered her cries for mercy as he brought the crop down on her naked flesh. It was clear that she had truly learned her lesson. Now, in place of the evil dominatrix, there was only this compliant, docile servant.

He ran a gentle hand across her battered flesh. She turned towards him, a smile upon her face.

‘‘Thank you, Master.’

Scott looked up. His cheeks were red and there were beads of sweat on his brow. She avoided looking at his crotch.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘Penny, have you ever done any of this stuff?’ He sounded hoarse.

‘Nope. Last time I touched a riding crop I was fourteen. And, before you say anything, it was a horse who received the odd whack.’

‘But you write about it so vividly.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘How do you do that?’

‘Scottie, Émile Zola wrote about coal mining, child birth and prostitution. It’s a pretty safe bet he never tried any of them. It’s called imagination. Plus a fair bit of research in the nether regions of the internet.’

‘Well, you had me convinced. I have to admit, I could see you there.’

She was intrigued. ‘In which role? Hopefully not the stable boy. But did you see me as the maid, or as the Marquise?’ She waited for his answer with considerable interest. She was to be disappointed.

‘I couldn’t possibly say.’

‘You little tease, Scott. So, anyway, any comments, changes, suggestions?’

‘I thought it was very well written. Only one line struck me as a little bit corny. Right at the end, do you really have to describe her butt as milky white? It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’

‘You’re absolutely right. Thanks a lot. I’ll take milky out. I could use the word virginal, but there’s precious little that’s virginal about the Marquise.’

‘How about referring to the texture of the skin, say pure or flawless?’

‘Flawless, that’s perfect. Thanks Scottie. I’ll print it out. Just promise me one thing. Don’t tell Jamie you’ve read it. I couldn’t stand that.’

‘My lips are sealed. And that’s more than you can say about the Marquise.’

Just for a moment, Penny toyed with the idea of offering to help him with his state of arousal. Then she gave herself a good talking-to: He’s years younger than me. What am I? A cradle-snatcher?’

She stood up. ‘I’m calling it a day. Thanks, Scottie, for your help.’ As she stepped past him, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.