(This story has footnotes, located right at the bottom of the email. This means I can’t do my usual plugging/catch-up at the end because otherwise your reading experience will be ruined (!) by self-promotion. Basically, tl;dr, Bristolians. I’m back in town and doing two new shows this Friday at the Room Above I’m planning to take to the Edinburgh Fringe. I’m doing an hour of stand-up and trialling our panel show and they’re both going to be really fun. We’re also doing a deal where you can tickets to both for just £8 here. Would love to see you there! On with the story!)
Jamie
When Paula suggested I come along to her writing group, I was initially hesitant. I had ummed and ahhed about it for weeks outside the school gates before I relented and finally went. Walking into Paula’s living room for the first time, clutching the 500 words of Jilly Cooper rip-off I’d prepared, my hands shook rustling the paper. Everyone looked at me as if I had stumbled into a secret lair. I turned out to be the only person who’d bought along any writing that month. I’d rarely been more nervous in my life and drank far too much white wine to compensate. It got me through reading it though, and the encouragement of the other women encouraged me to come back.
That was nearly ten years ago now. I never wrote anything else, of course, most of the women don’t after their first time, except for Raunchy Angela. She’d occasionally jot down some outrageous self-insert pornography into her Pukka Pad then read it out to shrieks from those gathered. It was just a good excuse to get out, drink, and laugh with a group of women my age. No men allowed!1
It wasn’t a deliberate rule. Paula advertised the evening every week in the local paper with no explicit gender policy. But for some reason, it only ever attracted the same clientele; the same group of fun-loving ladies — who wanted to let their hair down under the guise of “appreciating literature”.
In fact, it was easy to forget that it wasn’t just a group of old friends and in all my years attending the group, not one man had ever come.
Until the night Jamie came.
When the doorbell went, we all looked up and did a quick headcount. We were firmly into the second bottle of sangria and all the regulars were here: Myself, Raunchy Angela, Paula, Divorced Susan, Jen, Twice-Divorced Susan and Frosty Rachel. As Paula pulled herself off2 to open the door, we all did a mental head count of who it could be. That woman who had come twice? Who’d stormed off after Jen fell asleep while she was reading her historical novel about Anne Boleyn? Jules? I think her name was? Could it be Felicity? Who had run off with Twice-Divorced Susan’s second husband? Although I’d been grateful at the time that we could finally distinguish the Susans nominally — she’d have some nerve coming back.
Paula reentered the room with her eyes widened with cautionary formality.
“May I have your attention, ladies?” she asked.
We stopped talking and looked up at her quizzically.
“We have a new member of the group this week.” She said in a tone I had only ever previously seen her use when making a speech at a PTA fundraiser. “This is Jamie, and he’d… like to come along to the writing group.” She stood to one side, revealing who was standing behind her.
Standing in the doorframe was a teenage boy. He couldn’t have been any older than 14 years old, with glasses that looked as though they belonged to a man much older with a boring job. I could tell he was blushing, although it was hard to tell under the flares of teenage acne. He was wearing a backpack and had a thick stack of paper under his arm that, as I squinted at it, I recognised as a manuscript.
My heart sank.
“Jamie’s come to discuss writing… He’s into sci-fi and fantasy… Apparently he’s got a whole novel we can maybe hear some of!” continued Paula.
Jamie gave a jerky wave to those gathered and Paula ushered him to the chair where she’d been sitting before. “I’m going to fetch some more wine.” She said. As she backed away from the circle over Jamie's shoulder, she shrugged and winced at the rest of us and dived off to the kitchen.
All our eyes turned to the teenager who was sitting awkwardly clutching his stack of papers as tightly as he could.
Divorced Susan missed children, she could only see hers supervised on alternate weekends3, so she spoke first.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jamie… Um… Would you like some wine?”
Frosty Rachel elbowed her. “How old are you Jamie?”
“15.”
“Well, I don’t think you should be drinking alco-”
“That’s old enough!” cried Angela. “First rule of writing group is - it’s always wine o’clock!”4 Before anyone could protest, she was pouring a large glass out and pressing it into Jamie’s hand. “Tell us about your book, darling.”
Jamie took a sip of his wine and grimaced as he swallowed. “Um… I’ve been writing it for a while. It’s called ‘Borealis’. It’s sort of… a political sci-fi adventure? ”
Angela didn’t have a response to that. Neither did the rest of the room, and there was an uncomfortable beat.
“… But I think there’s something in it for everyone!” Jamie said hurriedly. “There’s a romance arc as well-”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll love it, won’t we ladies?” announced Angela, looking pointedly at Frosty Rachel and Twice-Divorced Susan, the least easily pleased of the group.
We all murmured our approval as Paula came through the door holding 5 more bottles of wine. “How are we all doing?” she asked.
“Jamie was just telling us about his book.”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to hear some, won’t we?” said Paula, doling out the bottles between all of us.
“Does no one else want to read something first?” asked Jamie.
“No, no no. We’ve all read ours already.” Angela said. “Let’s hear it.”
“Okay.. Umm. Well, if we start at the beginning…”
He began to read.
It had been a long day on Sector 823445542, and Sergeant Hornswaggle was beginning to tire. The Florgons had been wreaking havoc with the gutter-snakes on his pentoship’s rear thrust boosters and…
Jamie stopped reading. It was becoming impossible to hear as Angela was snoring so loudly.
“Ignore her,” I said. “We’re all listening.” Looking around, I could see that wasn’t true. Divorced Susan was rifling through her handbag5 and Frosty Rachel was on her phone. Jules and I were the only ones who looked at all engaged in the story.
“Did you say something before about a romantic arc?” I asked.
Jamie blushed. “Yeah, there’s one in part 4.”
“How about we hear some of that? That’s what this group really specialises in.”
“Speak for yourself,” muttered Twice-Divorced Susan under her breath.6
“Okay, well, I guess it starts about here…” Jamie said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and shuffled through his papers.
Tįrgë turned and saw her. He’d heard stories across the cosmos about Princess Elive and her beauty. He’d seen pictures of her on the information wire. But nothing compared to seeing her in real life. She turned and looked straight back at him and, before he could react, smiled at him. The most gorgeous smile he could ever wish to see.
Angela opened one eye.
It made one of his hearts explode. Which reminded him: he needed to get back to work. If Captain Abraham Sœlosopod caught him gawping on the job. It would be back to the futuriam mines for him before he could say ‘woozle’.
Angela shook her head and closed her eye again. Paula looked at Jamie.
“Is that it? For the romance?”
“For now, I’m planning for them to actually talk to each other in book three or maybe four.”
“Why not sooner?” I asked.
“Because… Um well… I’m not sure.”
“Is he too scared to approach her?”
“Partly…” Jamie said “But also he doesn’t know whether she just looks at everyone like that. Or even what to do if she does.”
“Sounds scared to me,” said Rachel.
“He’s got a lot at stake, though. You guys don’t know what’s happened to him before.”
“But he’s got to put that out of his mind, though. She doesn’t know about his past - and she probably wouldn’t care anyway if she really liked him.” said Jules.
“Even if she probably should.” said one of the Susans.
“It’s not canon. But I’ve written a scene when they… um… copulate. If that’s what you’re after.”
“You mean they bang?” said Jen.
“Umm yes?”
“Why didn’t you lead with that then?” cried Angela. “Get reading boyo!”7
Jamie reached into his backpack and pulled out a folder, plucked out some more sheets of paper, and read.
They met in the rain and hugged. Hard. As their lips met Tįrgë knew he’d be giving his recently regrown 4th heart a hell of a workout. They twirled in the storm, tongues dancing as free as the wind. Holding on to each other for dear life - as if they would never let go.
Jamie looked up. All of us were on the edge of our seats. We hadn’t heard anything this good in years. Probably since Angela tried to pass off a 50 Shades sequel as her own work.
“Why are you stopping? Keep going!” said Rachel.
“It’s… It’s not finished yet and…”
“Make it up then son,” said Angela, in a deep, threatening tone. “I need this.”
As the water trickled down their bodies. Tįrgë felt his pee-pee go weird. The Princess saw it and Tįrgë stopped, worried she’d think he was being too forward. Instead, she got down on one knee and began to blow on it.
Tįrgë smiled.
Now he knew they were going to be married.
He stopped her, kissed her on the cheek, and smiled even more. Then they both took off all their clothes. He looked at her naked and he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Can we sex?” he asked.
She beamed at him. “Yes, we can.” They hugged again and started to sex. It was awesome and everything Tįrgë thought it would be. The Princess did an orgasm and so did Tįrgë and they did it for a whole day with no breaks. Even tea.
As they lay on the floor together, the rain stopped and a rainbow appeared in the sky above sector 64. The Princess whispered in Tįrgë’s ear, “That was the best anyone has ever done to anyone else. I don’t know what I was doing wasting time with those morons from Planet Thootbal. I think I love you.”
“I love you too.” Said Tįrgë.
Jamie looked up nervously.
“Oh, Jamie my love,” Paula said, “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
Jamie came to the writing group every week for three months after that. It turned out he was at the same school my boys had been at and had set his heart on two things. A girl from his English class called Amy and being a famous sci-fi writer. We took it upon ourselves to give him some pointers.
“You’ve got to be confident! Look her in the eye and smile and you’re already halfway there!” said Jen.
“Make sure you shower!” Said Frosty Rachel.
“Don’t propose until you’re absolutely sure you’re not gay!” Said Twice-Divorced Susan.
We helped him rework the story too, with more of the stuff we thought was good and less of the stuff we told him that Maya wouldn’t be too keen on. After a few months, we had a new manuscript. Slimmed down to a beach-read-friendly size and a new title: “Journey to Planet Phwoar!!”
They apparently disqualified it from the school creative writing competition but, apparently, it was doing very well on a forum that Angela frequented.
After a month or so, though, as we were about to say goodbye after another meeting. Jamie cleared his throat.
“Guys, I can’t make it next week.”
“That’s okay. What are you up to?” asked Paula.
“I… um… Have a date?”
We all cheered.
“With Amy?” asked Rachel.
“Yeah.” Jamie blushed. “I did exactly what you said. I asked if she had any plans on Friday and then she said no. And I said ‘Now you do.’ And just walked away, all mysterious, just like Mr Grey. Then I text her and it turns out we’ve loads in common. She really loves sci-fi too, and we’re going on a date next week!”
“Yes!” we all exclaimed. And we all mobbed him with congratulatory hugs.
“You’ll smash it,” I said.
“Give her one from me!” said Angela.
“Thanks guys,” Jamie said once he could extract himself from the scrummage. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I felt an immense sense of motherly pride rise within me. The kind I hadn’t actually felt for a while as my own children had turned out to be an immense disappointment.8
Jamie turned to walk out the door, then quickly wheeled around to all of us pointing finger guns. “Set Phasers to Sexy,” he said.
“Loud and clear, Captain!” we all cried.
He walked out the door and we never saw him again. I hope he’s doing well.
Or as Angela always says. “Unless they’re called Jacob and have their own Creek” (if you know what I mean!)
Behave!
And between you and me, after what the social services found during the custody hearing*, she was lucky to even get that.
* Meth in her handbag (that’s between us!).
The other rules of the writing group:
1. It’s always wine o’clock
2. Hoes before prose
3. We don’t ask Divorced Susan any questions and she won’t tell us any lies.
See Rule Three of Writing Group.
Classic Susan.
I don’t know whether I mentioned it before but Angela is Welsh.
One is on a never-ending gap year and another is doing Experimental Theatre at Southampton Solent.