Dying to Write Read Free

for a smoke. For a while I mirrored Mr Woodhouse, but not very successfully. Then I linked up with Courtney.
    They gazed dutifully, his dark-brown eyes and my blue ones. And our hands tracked one another obediently. Then Courtney spoiled it.
    â€˜I’m glad I got you again,’ he said. ‘You’re nice and safe.’
    â€˜Gee, thanks. And middle-aged, too, I suppose.’ I’m always having this problem with my students – they think you’re way past it by the time you’re thirty.
    â€˜I didn’t say that. You’re younger than Nyree, I should think. But at least your hands – I mean, what’s a guy s’posed to do when a woman – I mean …’
    I shook my head: what had she done?
    He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Her hand, Sophie. She had her hand straight on my you-know-what. I mean!’ For a second his voice was camp: ‘On to a bit of a loser with me, though.’
    We grinned at each other. It was nice to have a potential ally.
    Then we had to change partners. Soon I was staring into Matt Purvis’s eyes. They were grey, within a tangle of crow’s-feet. Our hands circled in parallel swirls and dips. We were very good. Until he broke all the rules and looked away.
    â€˜Jesus!’ he said. He nodded at Mr Gimson’s crotch.
    Nyree must have groped him, too. Or perhaps he just wished she had.
    â€˜I know there’s a novel in me,’ someone was saying earnestly. The girl with the brace, I think.
    We’d moved the furniture back and were allowed to sit down and relax. A glass nestled closely in my hand. Nyree had produced a litre bottle of gin, and it seemed the only way we’d prevent her sinking the lot was to discover a little cache of glasses in a top cupboard. Some of us saw it as a positive duty to make up for others’ lack of dedication. The result was that not only the names but also the name badges were by now a little hazy.
    â€˜So why are you here, Sophie?’
    Blast Matt.
    â€˜I won a prize.’
    There were aahs, both appreciative and resentful.
    â€˜In a raffle. The head of English at my college sold me a ticket. He said if I won, he’d come. But he had to change a tyre on the principal’s car and now he’s having his hernia repaired. So here I am.’ After a close encounter with death earlier in the year, I’d resolved to grab every new experience that came my way. So I added, terribly earnest with gin, ‘Now I’m here, I’ll try anything.’
    â€˜So will I, darling, so will I.’
    â€˜Ah, Nyree. Why have you joined the course?’ Matt succumbed to
force majeure
.
    I could have told him the answer to that. It wasn’t so very different from the one she gave.
    â€˜Because it’s easier than the OU, darling.’ She tipped forward to show him more of her left breast.
    â€˜The OU?’ repeated Matt, foolishly.
    â€˜Of course. You know, darling: summer schools.’
    Yes. That sort of education.
    Having silenced him, she continued: ‘Not that I don’t mean to write. I’ve started on my memoirs, darling. Married to a secret agent. And now what does he do? Gets made redundant, and asks for political asylum in Viet-bloody-nam. So I stayed here. To meet a few red-blooded Englishmen. God, I’m sick of fucking pansies!’
    Kate caught my eye. We sniggered into our gin.
    â€˜I’ve got to Chapter Seven, now, darling. Willies I have known. I’ll be a very good student – I know how important research is.’ She leaned back. Her breasts might have sunk to comparative oblivion but her legs hadn’t. In case anyone hadn’t noticed, a languorous hand lay halfway along her thigh, weighted down by a ring with more carats than should decently occupy one space.
    Matt was clearly unequal to the situation. But Kate wasn’t.
    â€˜Thank you, Nyree. I’m sure you’ll have a very fruitful time