“But then Chester could hold back his throbbing desire no longer.
“As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…” I hesitate “…a Heleioporus eyrie frog.”
“A what?” says Metaphor at once, raising her hand.
“It’s a frog,” I say defensively. “It moans.”
“Carry on, Aria,” says Farida softly. “Let’s keep all queries and comments till the end.”
“As his breeches descended, she knew his manhood.”
I wince inwardly, because I wasn’t wild about “manhood,” but what else could I say? I turn the page and feel myself getting into my stride.
“He was inventive. He was thoughtful. They carried on all night. As the moon shone down, they sat on the big stone windowsill, drinking wine and nibbling grissini, knowing that their hunger for each other was building again; knowing that it would be sated. They were practically strangers. They knew so little about each other. But their connection was so real. Later, as he slept, she gazed at his true, honest face. His thick dark hair. His powerful, muscular stature. She was mesmerized. Tantalized both by what she knew of him and what she didn’t know. He seemed to her like a wonderful new land, waiting to be discovered.”
I come to a halt, and there’s a round of applause.
“Well done,” says Farida, smiling at me encouragingly. “Writing about such intimate moments isn’t easy….Yes, Metaphor? Did you have another question?”
“Just a few.” Metaphor shoots me a snide look. “Grissini? In Victorian England?”
Oh. Oops. I was picturing Dutch and me last night. I should have said “sweetmeats.”
“Just a little slip,” I say easily. “If that’s all—”
“No, it’s not all,” says Metaphor. “I thought Clara and Chester grew up together in the village. Why are they suddenly strangers?”
“I wondered about that,” agrees Scribe.
“I have a question too,” puts in Austen in her mild way. “I thought Chester had blond hair and was slim built? But now he’s suddenly dark and muscular.”
Metaphor glances meaningfully at Dutch, then raises her eyebrows at Austen. Has she guessed? I push back my hair, feeling rattled. How did I forget Chester was blond?
“It’s…a work in progress,” I say, avoiding everyone’s eye. “Anyway, let’s hear from someone else.” I fold up my printout before anyone else can catch me out.
“It was very good, Aria,” adds Austen quickly. “Very…you know. Realistic.”
“Thanks.” I smile at her, as Farida says, “Who would like to read their work to us next?”
At once Dutch puts up his hand, and everyone goggles at him.
“Dutch!” Farida sounds fairly astonished herself.
“I know, right?” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Last person you expected. But I was inspired today.” He holds up a page covered in handwritten words, and Scribe, who is sitting next to him, exclaims, “Wow!”
“I’ve never been inspired to write before. But…” He shrugs, his face creasing into his infectious smile. “Somehow today the words flowed.”
“This is a special moment, then,” says Farida, her eyes gleaming softly.
“Well done, old bean!” exclaims Author-to-Be, clapping Dutch on the back.
“You see? Everyone can become a writer with the right inspiration.” Farida smiles around at us all. “This is very exciting, Dutch. We can’t wait to hear what you’ve written.”
Dutch glances down at his page, then adds, “I don’t have a plot or anything like that yet. I guess I was finding my voice. Like you told us yesterday?” He looks up at Farida. “You told us to be bold and honest. That’s what I went for. Bold and honest.”
“Bravo!” says Farida. “Indeed I did. Let’s hear this bold, honest voice, Dutch.”
There’s a moment of silence, then Dutch draws breath and begins: “They fucked.”
As his voice rings through the space, there’s a jolt of slight surprise.
“That is bold,” murmurs Booklover, next to me, as Dutch continues.
“It was incredible. She was hot. And she was loud. Louder than he’d expected. It was intense. Afterward, they drank wine and ate grissini. Then…”
He pauses, frowning at his own handwriting. There are prickles of interest around the room, and I feel a few glances coming my way.
“Grissini,” murmurs Metaphor. “Who’d’ve thought?”
I’m feeling a bit unreal here. I somehow want to signal to Dutch, but he’s drawing breath to read again.
“Her skin was beautiful, like—”
Dutch breaks off and says, “Sorry, I can’t read my own…Is that silk? Or…” He turns his head and scrutinizes my leg as though for a prompt, and his brow suddenly clears. “Oh, right, I remember—milk.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Dutch,” says Metaphor, raising her hand politely, “but since we’re on a pause: Is this fiction?”