Sullied By Childbirth...

From the fetid, rank, depressing confines of a sci-fi convention in Nuneaton appears a young woman of stunning beauty. Relatively.

She’s actually about my age, perhaps older, and glamorous rather than beautiful, but she bursts through the cloud cover of black Metallica and Warhammer t-shirts like a Supernova localised in the Travelodge cafeteria. When I recover from the shock I go back to flicking through the rail of seventies movie posters that I have no intention of purchasing but I have another four hours to fill before my reading and Q&A session. I have been given a small amount of cash by Mavis at Harper Collins to get ‘tanked up’ before I take the makeshift plywood stage at ten pm.

“Excuse me,” the woman says and I turn, already reaching for my pocket in anticipation of a request for a felt-tip pen, which for some reason these nerdy cretins fail to carry around with them despite seeking the autograph of everyone remotely connected with anything they may have heard of. I have signed six programs so far because I am wearing my ‘Christopher Hardy – King of Sci-fi’ t-shirt and people have recognised my name from the listings. The woman points at the shirt. “Are you the actual Christopher Hardy or just someone wearing his t-shirt?”

“The one and only,” I say.

“Wow. It’s really nice that you mingle with the punters before your performance.”

“Why?” I say, panicked. “Is it not the done thing?”

“It’s okay,” she says, somewhat alarmed by my reaction. “There isn’t really a done thing. I don’t think many authors do it, though.”

“Damn it,” I say. “You don’t understand. My entire life is constructed as an attempt to fit in. The way I dress, my hair, my voice, they’re all just there to blend in with everything else. Well, except for this t-shirt, of course. But that’s justifiable irony. I can’t be doing anything that causes me to stand out.”

“Right,” the woman says, nodding and trying not to look freaked out. I push on to show her how normal I can be.

“What the hell are you doing here? You don’t look like a sci-fi nerdlinger.”

“Thank you. Neither do you. Except, of course…”

“…For the t-shirt,” we say together and then laugh and I grit my teeth.

“Actually I work in publishing so I’m here on business.”

“Jesus. You must be low on the totem pole to be sent here.”

“Well…Assignments are handed out on a rota basis, really.”

“Oh. I’m sure you’re very good at your job.”

“I am,” she says. “Do you fancy a drink?”



We sit at the hotel bar and she buys us pints and insists on shots as well. I am weak.

“How do you know me?” I ask her.

“I read a short article about your novel in a magazine. It sounded intriguing. When’s it out?”

“October the sixteenth.”

“Are you excited?”

“Impatient. I just want it to be out. It’s been such a long wait.”

“Well, you’re guaranteed at least one sale.”

“Who?”

“Me. I shall buy a copy.”

“You won’t regret it. Unless you don’t like it, of course. Actually, best play it safe and just not buy it. I can’t stand the thought of wasting people’s time and money.”

“Such a good salesman.”

She has finished her drink so I drain mine and order another two beers.

“Let’s try a different shot this time,” she says. “Two tequilas barkeep.”

“Easy,” I say. “My per diem is only twenty-five pounds.”

“Put your money away,” she says. “I’ve got an expense account.”



Four beers and four shots later we are leaning into each other as we start a new round, legs pressed together and hands placed on thighs as the alcohol washes away inhibition and we talk without pause about everything and nothing, genuinely eager to discover each other. I have set the alarm on my watch to make sure I don’t miss my slot.

“Where’s your wife?” she asks, looking at the ring on my finger.

“She’s in London. She turned down the chance to discover Nuneaton.”

“Do you have a good marriage?”

“I could lie and say no.”

“I don’t want you to lie.”

“Events like this are rare, though.”

“Like what?”

“Actually talking to a woman. It seems like there’s no point in going out when you’re married, you know? When you’re single you can walk into a bar on any given night and think, conceivably, I could take one of these girls home tonight. There’s always that possibility. When you’re married that part of your life disappears. You might as well just stay in.”

“Some married men still go out to meet women.”

“Lucky them.” I swallow my vodka and then some of my beer. “You’re very pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“Have you been sullied by childbirth?”

“No.”

I try to avoid her seductive gaze.

Two rounds later she tells me, unprompted, that The Velvet Underground and Nico is her favourite album and so when she nuzzles my neck I don’t push her away. One more round and I am leading her up to my room. We stumble into the lift and she holds my hand and just looks at me and I look at her legs.

In the room I nervously keep my back to her and dig a bottle of Scotch out of my bag that I have brought in case the bar was closed or something equally terrifying. I ignore her as she approaches me, pretending to read the label even though it is replicated in triple on my retinas.

Her arms wrap around me. “Oh,” I say. “It’s a blend of 42 Scottish malt and grain whiskies.”

“Christopher,” she whispers.

“Yes, love?” She pushes me onto the bed and I roll onto my back. “Clumsy.”

“I want you,” she says. “We have time before your reading.” She runs her hand up the inside of my thighs.

“Not sure what Cheryl would say,” I squeak.

“She doesn’t have to know.”

“We haven’t even opened the bottle.”

“What if I just suck your cock? You don’t even have to touch me. You didn’t have a choice…”

“You’re making this increasingly difficult to be good.”

“You invited me up to your room. You knew what you were doing. You want me.”

“It would be fantastic to take your clothes off. Probably. But…”

“Say that you want me.” She takes her shirt off.

“Yep,” I say immediately. I look at my trouser bulge. “Look, we’re both answering.”

She crawls up me and unbuttons my fly. I lean back.

“Oh God.”

I don’t feel anything for a few seconds and when I open my eyes and look up she has put her shirt back on. “Err…Anything the matter?”

“I have to go.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to go.” She looks at her watch. “I have a taxi waiting to take me to my hotel.”

I sit up, trying to comprehend. “What? Why?”

“I’ve done my job.” She sits down and puts her shoes on. I didn’t notice them come off.

“What the fuck?” I say less kindly.

She stands up again. “Mavis sent me. She wanted to make sure you got nice and fucked up.”

“Mavis?”

She nods.

“But why did you bring me up here?”

“She wanted you all riled up. She wants a good performance. Don’t forget the Scotch.”

She leaves and I sit on the bed for awhile, deflating, before I open the bottle with its satisfying clicks. When my alarm goes off the bottle makes it up on stage with me. I think.