Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) by Nick Spalding Page A
Authors: Nick Spalding
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ploughs onwards with this feeble line of comedy. 'I certainly wouldn't want to see old Craig our agent with no clothes on!' My hand goes to my forehead. 'Or anyone here who's fat!' Facepalm . 'Or over fifty!' Double facepalm .
I suppose it was inevitable that I'd have to step in and take over at some point, but you like to think in life that things can change every once in a while. I had hoped that at the age of nearly forty, Jamie would be able to stand in front of a small group of people and make a short, sensible speech without insulting anyone, but it appears that I am comprehensively wrong.
'I'm sorry everyone, my husband gets a bit tongue tied when he has to speak in public,' I smoothly interject. 'Why don't you let me say a few words, darling ?'
Jamie's left eye twitches a couple of times. 'Yeah... maybe you should. Thanks,' he replies slowly, and hands the floor to me.
'What I think my husband was trying to say,' I start, attempting to polish this turd a bit, 'is that we're very grateful to see you here this evening, and that it feels quite humbling to have all of your support.' This gets me a few appreciative nods, so I know I'm on the right lines. 'While Jamie and I write these books, they wouldn't see the light of day without your hard work, and it's very important that we - '
I'm interrupted by the sudden glare of the overhead lights ratcheting up in intensity by several notches. Everyone in the room is forced to shield their eyes to adjust, as the general ambience goes from the soft gloom of an Italian bistro, to the harsh arc sodium glare of an operating theatre.
While this brings a short and unpleasant wince from everyone gathered, it marks a far darker turn of events for yours truly. The hideous yellowness of my face is now on display for all to see and gawk at. I might as well start charging 50p to come up and have your picture taken with the half banana woman.
What's more, Jamie has of course told everyone that I am suffering from photophobia, so I'd better do something right now to back up the charade, or I'm going to make him look like a liar.
I turn my head away from the lights as swiftly as possible.
This doesn't feel like it's enough to convey how bad my fictional photophobia is, so I also make a hissing noise as I do so. I'm meaning to sound the same way a person does when they put their hand into scalding hot water, but what I actually sound like is Christopher Lee at the end of Dracula, when Peter Cushing pulls the curtain aside to let in the glorious Transylvanian sunlight. I have gone from erudite public speaker, to evil creature of the night in a few split seconds.
Jamie sees what I've done and decides to make the whole thing worse by throwing his arms around me and barking 'will somebody please turn down the lights! My wife!' He screeches this in such a high pitched, tremulous voice that anyone would think my face was melting right off and into the carpet.
'Somebody turn the bloody lights down!' Craig roars, picking up on Jamie's panicked tone.
'Get me to the bloody toilet Jamie,' I whisper to my husband from my hunched position. "And calm the fuck down before somebody calls an ambulance!"
'Sorry! Just trying to sell the illusion!'
'I think you've sold it, bagged the damn thing up, and followed the customer home to watch them insert it. Now get me to the toilet!'
Jamie does as he's told, shielding me from the crowd as we trot swiftly across the room. We hurry down a corridor and I slam the door to the ladies open, disappearing inside without another word, leaving Jamie to handle the concerned partygoers.
The lights in the toilet are pretty bright, but at least I don't have to worry about pretending they are burning my face off. With a sigh of relief, I lean against the long row of marble sinks and take a deep breath.
'Photo bloody phobia,' I mumble. 'What a great excuse Jamie,' I admonish to my absent husband. What had seemed like a great idea to begin with, has now turned
I suppose it was inevitable that I'd have to step in and take over at some point, but you like to think in life that things can change every once in a while. I had hoped that at the age of nearly forty, Jamie would be able to stand in front of a small group of people and make a short, sensible speech without insulting anyone, but it appears that I am comprehensively wrong.
'I'm sorry everyone, my husband gets a bit tongue tied when he has to speak in public,' I smoothly interject. 'Why don't you let me say a few words, darling ?'
Jamie's left eye twitches a couple of times. 'Yeah... maybe you should. Thanks,' he replies slowly, and hands the floor to me.
'What I think my husband was trying to say,' I start, attempting to polish this turd a bit, 'is that we're very grateful to see you here this evening, and that it feels quite humbling to have all of your support.' This gets me a few appreciative nods, so I know I'm on the right lines. 'While Jamie and I write these books, they wouldn't see the light of day without your hard work, and it's very important that we - '
I'm interrupted by the sudden glare of the overhead lights ratcheting up in intensity by several notches. Everyone in the room is forced to shield their eyes to adjust, as the general ambience goes from the soft gloom of an Italian bistro, to the harsh arc sodium glare of an operating theatre.
While this brings a short and unpleasant wince from everyone gathered, it marks a far darker turn of events for yours truly. The hideous yellowness of my face is now on display for all to see and gawk at. I might as well start charging 50p to come up and have your picture taken with the half banana woman.
What's more, Jamie has of course told everyone that I am suffering from photophobia, so I'd better do something right now to back up the charade, or I'm going to make him look like a liar.
I turn my head away from the lights as swiftly as possible.
This doesn't feel like it's enough to convey how bad my fictional photophobia is, so I also make a hissing noise as I do so. I'm meaning to sound the same way a person does when they put their hand into scalding hot water, but what I actually sound like is Christopher Lee at the end of Dracula, when Peter Cushing pulls the curtain aside to let in the glorious Transylvanian sunlight. I have gone from erudite public speaker, to evil creature of the night in a few split seconds.
Jamie sees what I've done and decides to make the whole thing worse by throwing his arms around me and barking 'will somebody please turn down the lights! My wife!' He screeches this in such a high pitched, tremulous voice that anyone would think my face was melting right off and into the carpet.
'Somebody turn the bloody lights down!' Craig roars, picking up on Jamie's panicked tone.
'Get me to the bloody toilet Jamie,' I whisper to my husband from my hunched position. "And calm the fuck down before somebody calls an ambulance!"
'Sorry! Just trying to sell the illusion!'
'I think you've sold it, bagged the damn thing up, and followed the customer home to watch them insert it. Now get me to the toilet!'
Jamie does as he's told, shielding me from the crowd as we trot swiftly across the room. We hurry down a corridor and I slam the door to the ladies open, disappearing inside without another word, leaving Jamie to handle the concerned partygoers.
The lights in the toilet are pretty bright, but at least I don't have to worry about pretending they are burning my face off. With a sigh of relief, I lean against the long row of marble sinks and take a deep breath.
'Photo bloody phobia,' I mumble. 'What a great excuse Jamie,' I admonish to my absent husband. What had seemed like a great idea to begin with, has now turned
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