Out the corner of my eye, I saw Aunt Carole watching from the door that led to the living room. She looked as though she’d just got back from some kind of strenuous activity, her face damp, cheeks highly coloured and, in her shaking hand, she carried the most battered and well-read copy of my book – of any book – I had ever seen.
‘I would argue the sex is the story,’ Jericka replied as my aunt crept in, pressed up against the wall like a shadow. ‘So often we see the female character’s self-actualisation channelled through the male gaze, leaving us with either an underdeveloped naïf awakened to the wonder of ecstatic sex by her lover, or a promiscuous but invariably unhappy woman who cannot connect to her emotions until the hero shows her how. You have presented us with a real, multi-layered, nuanced woman and that’s so rare, Joseph—’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said, the words out my mouth before I could second guess them.
‘Sophie.’
My mother said my name like a warning shot across the bow.
‘But it isn’t,’ I insisted, all eyes on me. ‘There are hundreds of books out there with “real women” in them,thousands, but you haven’t read them because you think they’re beneath you.’
It was not a suggestion that went down well.
‘Soph, it’s not that we consider your opinion invalid,’ CJ leaned forwards, condescending as ever, ‘but you’ve said yourselfBridget Jones’s Diaryis your favourite book of all time. A masterpiece, I think, is what you called it when I asked you to defend the position.’
‘There’s nothing to defend,’ I replied as I stood up. I would not take this sitting down, literally, and as usual, he was begging for a slap. ‘Itisa masterpiece. Not one of you would argue if I saidPride and Prejudicewas my favourite book and the only thing that separates them is two hundred years.’
‘Personally, I’ve always considered the canonical importance of Austen to be overblown,’ CJ directed his response to the frail older gentleman who nodded in agreement. ‘Northanger Abbeyaside, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ the old gent snorted in agreement.
‘Sophie, we’re not here to debate a genre,’ my mother admonished. ‘We’re here to listen to Joe. Who else has a question?’
‘Are you Eric?’ Aunt Carole blurted out, the book grasped tightly in her sweaty hands. ‘Is he based on you and your … physical attributes?’
‘Joe, we should get going,’ I said before she could cross the room and demand he drop his trousers so she could see for herself. ‘I, um, I promised my friend, Sarah, we’d meet her down at the fête and help her … do stuff.’
‘I think a literary discussion takes precedence over guessing the weight of a fruitcake,’ Mum said sharply. ‘You go and help Sarah, Joe can stay here with us. Iknow Maggie wanted to ask something about your background reading.’
Maggie, a bright-eyed woman with canary yellow hair, raised her hand. ‘Thank you, Pandora. My question is, would you say you drew more from the writings of Anaïs Nin or Mary Gaitskill for your erotic scenes? There is less overt sadism in your writing, perhaps, but I for one felt it was always hovering at the edges, hidden in the subtext?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I answered before Joe could. ‘There is no sadism, hovering or otherwise. It’s good sex, happy sex. Nothing and noone is tortured about any of it. If anything, I’d say it was influenced by Christina Lauren but I doubt you’ve read them.’
‘Darling, please, don’t be irrelevant,’ Mum said, sounding chippy as I watched Aunt Carole open the Amazon app.
‘I’m being entirely relevant,’ I argued while my aunt downloaded a sample ofThe Unhoneymoonersto her Kindle. ‘It’s context.Butterflieswasn’t published in a vacuum, there were hundreds of other brilliant books that paved its way but you’re pretending they don’t exist and my book is some kind of anomaly when it isn’t.’
‘Your book?’ Carole’s head snapped up from her phone. ‘What do you mean, your book?’
‘My book, our book, the book,’ I said quickly. ‘Este’sbook.’
The whole room sat in silence while they debated whether or not to accept my explanation.
‘Joe’s book,’ I added with weak defeat. The conservatory breathed a sigh of relief and everyone started talking again happily, turning away as if I’d never saida word in the first place. Only CJ continued to stare, as if trying to read some very fine print on my forehead.
‘Where is he? Where’s my bestselling boy?’
It would have been more helpful if Gregory had chosen to appear ten seconds earlier but I was still unbelievably grateful to see his mutton-dressed-as lamb self stride into the conservatory. He pushed his way through the room looking like a large uncooked sausage in his baby pink tracksuit, and tackled Joe into a bear hug that knocked him out of his seat.
‘Look at my son!’ he bellowed. ‘My brilliant, beautiful, million-copy-selling filth-monger. Giving the ladies what they want, like his old man.’
‘Gross,’ I muttered, not as quietly as I should have.
‘Proud is not the word,’ he went on regardless, helping himself to his son’s chair. ‘Awe. I’m in awe of you, son.’
‘You’ve read the book, Gregory?’ Maggie asked politely as he pulled Joe down into his lap like Santa Claus if Santa Claus was halfway through a midlife crisis, dyed his hair an improbable shade of brown and half the breadth of the child on his knee.
‘Read it? Fuck no. I thought it was chicklit shit like the rest of you. But I will now. I’m so proud!’
