My Granny Writes Erotica 2 (The Second Quickie)

My Granny Writes Erotica 2

By Rosen Trevithick

Smashwords Edition 1.0.8

Copyright Rosen Trevithick, 2014.

http://www.rosentrevithick.co.uk

With thanks to TextMender Editing Services.

http://www.textmender.com

To be enjoyed after the original

My Granny Writes Erotica

My Granny Writes Erotica 2

Betty’s agent threw his hands up in horror. What are you wearing?

Betty felt she was the picture of elegance from her roller-set ‘suburban chestnut’ hair right down to the brown sandals she had polished especially for the occasion. The high neckline of her mauve, floral dress was lined with a white, lace collar. Its cotton skirt draped loosely over her plump midriff and dropped down to her knees, which were encased in thick, beige stockings. What do you mean? asked Betty. It’s tasteful.

"I don’t want tasteful. You’re an erotica writer about to hold her first press conference!" scolded Ben, her dismayed agent.

I said you should have borrowed something of mine, murmured Scarlett, Betty’s newly acquired assistant. In striking contrast to Betty, Scarlett had glamorous, peroxide-blonde hair, false eyelashes and bright red lipstick.

Betty frowned. ‘Erotica writer’ was not a phrase that sat well with her. Yes, she had written a rumpy-pumpy novel, but she had spent the twenty years preceding that writing literary romance. She hoped the press conference would give her the opportunity to show the world the intellectual lady she really was.

They’re going to want to see a bit of leg, a bit of chest … explained Ben. He pointed at Betty’s wrinkled stockings. "Not those."

Scarlett began unfastening her belt – a black PVC affair that Betty had tried to veto. She approached Betty and began unbuttoning the front of the novelist’s dress.

What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? barked Betty, pulling away and preserving her dignity with a hand, as if an inch of neck was something deeply obscene.

Here, take my belt. I’m sure we can hoik that skirt up a bit, offered Scarlett.

I do not want to ‘hoik’ my skirt up a bit, thank you very much. It is perfectly fine without even a smidgen of hoiking.

We have to do something, interrupted Ben. The reporters will be here any moment and you look like a middle-aged suburban grandmother.

"I am a middle-aged suburban grandmother."

We need less ‘Bingo’ and more ‘Sex Goddess’.

Betty’s face flushed. She turned to Scarlett. Maybe you should do it. You be Figgy Brown.

Scarlett grinned and tossed her arresting bleached tresses.

It’s too late for that, Ben pointed out. "If only the Daily Mail hadn’t named you, we’d have got away with using a sexier figure."

Now wait a minute! protested Scarlett, jumping to Betty’s defence.

This is me, asserted Betty. "They want to see the woman who created Ricardo Haberdasher and that is I."

And a bit me, Scarlett reminded her.

Agreed, smiled Betty. Your contributions were enormous. I’d be happy for you to play Figgy Brown, but like Ben says, it’s too late.

The double doors opened. In walked a square-shouldered woman in a bright red trouser suit. Her enormous shoulder pads created an impression of an inverted triangle on legs. She had thick, straw-coloured hair cut into a triangular bob with a blunt fringe.

Mrs Brown, she greeted, walking up to Scarlett. In contrast to Betty, Scarlett was wearing a tight, leopard print miniskirt and a black satin tunic. Her ears were decorated with enormous hoop earrings.

Betty frowned. She had asked Scarlett to dress down. The novelist had good reasons for hiring a former lady of the night as her researcher and personal assistant, but she was determined to keep Scarlett’s disgusting past a secret. Besides, all that hoo-ha was becoming increasingly irrelevant now that Betty was helping Scarlett return to polite society. Betty had taught her to shape serviettes into swans but hadn’t yet got to the lesson about the connotations of animal print clothing.

"Actually, I’m Figgy Brown," Betty pointed out.

The woman looked Betty up and down, with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes lingered on Betty’s knee length skirt. Betty gulped and hurriedly looked down. Surely her petticoat wasn’t showing …

You’re Figgy Brown? asked the reporter, looking amused. She turned to Ben. Nice try.

Ben frowned.

I’m Lara Lancashire, freelance journalist, she announced with overtones of grandeur. She had a loud, piercing voice. I was led to believe that this was going to be a genuine press conference.

"It is genuine," said Ben, through gritted teeth.

"The brief said that Figgy Brown was ready to go public, and you turn up with this?" She looked at Betty and smirked.

With respect, you need to do better research, chastised Betty.

Just then, the double doors opened again. Another reporter popped his head around the door. Are you ready for us?

Yes, come in, said Ben, with a long-suffering look on his face, despite only having met Betty four weeks prior to the occasion.

Ben indicated to Betty to take a seat at a wide table, then he and Scarlett sat down next to her. Betty hoped that she wouldn’t live to regret inviting Scarlett along. Certainly, putting the woman in front of the press was a risk, but she needed somebody here in case a reporter asked a question she didn’t understand. Only that morning she’d had to ask Scarlett what the word ‘rimming’ meant, despite having described the unsanitary activity in detail in her now famous Wendy house scene.

Betty was astonished by the number of reporters who squeezed into what was only a medium-sized room. Quickly she found herself confronted by a sea of dictation machines, boom microphones and cameras.

Ben had insisted that he would be making the opening statement. Betty’s attitude was a marketing nightmare and he didn’t entirely trust her brassy researcher, whose appointment by social-climbing Betty was a total mystery to him.

Thank you for coming, he told the journalists. "You all know, of course, about Figgy Brown’s Ricardo Haberdasher, the erotic novel that became the fastest-selling serialised novel in British history. Figgy Brown’s identity was a mystery at first, but less than a week after the book’s final instalment, the Daily Mail received an anonymous tip, naming Betty Berry, a married grandmother from Suburbia, as the writer. We are here today to confirm the rumours. The kinky, erotic romp was indeed written by the lady now before you. Cameras pointing at Scarlett started flashing. Not that lady, that one," added Ben, pointing to Betty. The journalists mumbled in some surprise, and refocused their cameras.

Betty is a very private lady, so I am requesting that you refer to her as ‘Figgy’ and keep your questions both respectful and limited to the book. Thank you.

Why did you decide to write an erotic novel? asked a man with the BBC logo taped to his microphone.

Poor Betty was already stumped. It was embarrassing for her to admit that she’d been in debt. They had a wine cellar, for goodness sake.

Betty wanted security for her family, offered Scarlett.

That’s right! exclaimed Betty. "Although we have always been reasonably affluent, we were recently blessed with the next generation of Berrys … I mean … Browns … and I wanted to secure the best education money can buy, for little Ava."

Why erotica? asked a lady in a beige jacket.

Betty didn’t like to admit that, despite twenty years of trying, she had never been able to interest anybody in her romantic novel Richmond Tabernacle. Yet the introduction of a little ‘How’s your father?’ had transformed it into an international success.

Betty respects the genre, offered Ben. She finds it liberating that we live in a time in which people can openly read and write about intimacy.

I most certainly do not! Betty responded.

"You don’t endorse erotica?" asked Beige Jacket, confused.

Um … stuttered Betty.

Scarlett intervened. "I think what Betty is trying to say is that she finds the success of Ricardo Haberdasher a little overwhelming. One day she was writing down her most intimate fantasies for a small audience and suddenly, millions of people were reading them. Anybody would need a while to adjust."

Betty opened her mouth to object – they weren’t her intimate fantasies – but Ben hurriedly pointed to another reporter, a lady in a primrose yellow dress. "Is it true Ricardo Haberdasher is going to be made into a film?" she asked.

Betty opened her mouth to share her disgust at the thought of her work inspiring pornography.

Ben quickly cut in, No comment.

Betty scowled.

Journalists began to shout from every direction.

"Figgy, are these your fantasies?"

Even the Wendy house scene?

What made you decide to feature a glass butt plug with rainbow hair?

Did you know that the My Ickle Pony Tail is now the fastest selling sex toy in the country?

Do you test your storylines on your husband before writing them down?

Betty froze. She had only just filed for divorce. Most of the time, she saw Rodney for the pathetic, weak little man that he was. But some mornings she woke up still expecting to find him in bed next to her. Some mornings, when she remembered he wasn’t there, it hurt like having her skull bludgeoned with a croquet mallet. Sometimes just looking at Scarlett reminded Betty of Rodney’s betrayal and it stung as though the wound had not healed at all.

Then Lara Lancashire played her trump card. Is it true that you’re divorcing your husband because he had an affair?

Betty gasped. Scarlett gulped. The two ladies looked down at the table, wishing it would swallow them up.

"I did ask that you would limit your questions to the book," Ben reminded the journalists.

A smart looking gentleman in the front row raised a hand.

Yes, granted Ben.

Betty, do you take it up the bum?

Betty’s eyes popped. She flew up from her seat. Wash your mouth out with soap and water, young man!

"The book is about anal sex," the reporter pointed out.

Betty got out of her seat, pushed past Scarlett and hurried out of the room. She had never felt so humiliated in her whole life. Did people assume that Robert Louis Stevenson was a pirate? Did people assume that Lewis Carroll hosted ridiculous tea parties? Was Hugh Wheeler interviewed about his peculiar dietary tastes? It was ludicrous for people to assume that Betty practised botty congress, just because she happened to have written a novel about it.

But Betty could hardly tell reporters that the kinky nature of the first chapters had been nothing more than an embarrassing mix-up, that she’d tried to write about tasteful hanky-panky but had been grossly misunderstood. She couldn’t tell them that the hindquarters angle was something she decided to go with after paying customers misunderstood and heralded her work as a botty masterpiece. She couldn’t tell reporters that she had had to hire a sex worker and enlist the support of her elderly mother-in-law to finish writing the book.

Not for the first time, Betty wished that none of this had ever happened. She was suited to organising dinner parties, trimming magnolias and lounging in the bar of the country club. She was not suited to vulgar press conferences and tabloid articles titled, ‘Anal Champion is Dirty Grandmother’.

* * *

Betty needed to go to the country club to calm down. She didn’t play golf or any of the other sports that the club had to offer, but she felt that the ambience at the club house suited her better than the tone of those vulgar international coffee chains, which served atrocities like the grand skinny soya gingerbread latte. Betty wanted a proper cup of English tea served with a rich tea biscuit, and in the company of people who would appreciate the quality of her Marks and Spencer’s frock.

In she walked, with her head held high. The press might have misunderstood her, but the patriots of the country club knew the real Betty, the woman who could crochet, macramé and knit.

As she took a seat, she was aware that people were looking at her. Well, she thought, being a famous author is bound to turn a few heads. Perhaps I’ll be asked to give a talk.

She settled in a bay window and looked through her handbag for her club card. She didn’t want to flash her cash by paying full price for a cup of tea in front of people who knew she qualified for the membership discount. She might be a millionaire but it was important to blend in.

She strutted over to the bar. The club house hadn’t been the same since they’d abolished table service, but Betty knew better than anybody that you had to move with the times.

Good afternoon, she smiled at the barmaid.

The barmaid stared, open mouthed.

I’ll have a cup of tea with cream, please, stated Betty.

The barmaid continued to stare.

What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? asked Betty. She looked around. People at other tables quickly looked away, pretending that they hadn’t been staring.

Finally, Betty saw the erect, square-shouldered figure of Phyllis Parker appear behind the bar. Her short, ‘Cottage Acorn’ hair bounced from her head in a style that appeared to have been modelled on Maggie Thatcher’s. However, Phyllis’s receding chin, ratty jaw and pudgy nose negated any Maggie-like poise. Betty was confused. Phyllis’s husband was a consultant. Surely Phyllis didn’t need to work! Do you work here now? asked Betty, naively.

In a manner of speaking, grinned Phyllis. I’m the new captain of the country club.

If Betty had been served in a timely manner, she would have spluttered out her drink. The first woman captain? she stuttered.

Indeed, said Phyllis, with a smug smile. Then she added, I wonder if we could go somewhere private to have a little chit chat.

Betty felt excited. She wondered if Phyllis