Thievery is a series of blog posts about my story inspirations.

The Story:

‘Underskirts’ won third place in the 2010 Bridport Prize and is published online at PANK.

An extract:

She found me with my hands around chickens, fingers stretched wide, thumbs over beaks. My skirt, mud-weighed, tugged at my ankles as I dipped low. Silly to curtsey while armed with birds, I knew, but it had to be done. If I’d let go they’d’ve flown at her, chuttering through her red hair. And what a sight that would’ve been! The lady, still horsed, with her legs one on either side and her skirt hitching up to show a handspan of stocking. And her horse as white as cuckoo-flowers, with its little red haunch-spot not quite hidden by the bridle. I kept my thumbs tight over those dangerous beaks.

The Inspiration:

In March 2010 I went to Amsterdam with my girlfriend Susie. This is us, looking like the professional creative people we are:

We went to the Van Gogh Museum and it was incredible and inspiring and enlightening and all that other good stuff, and I went on to read The Yellow House by Martin Gayford (which I highly recommend). But then, at the end of the museum, there was an exhibition of paintings by Van Gogh’s contemporaries. And that’s where I saw this painting, ‘Portrait of Guus Preitinger’ by Kees van Dongen:

And my brain said DING DING DING in the manner of a winning slot machine. Well, okay, it wasn’t that dramatic. It was more like ’she looks interesting, I would enjoy writing a story about her’.

When I got home, I flipped through my writing notebook and found a note I’d written to myself months ago – lady lifts servants’ skirts. I have no idea what I meant, but I thought it fit nicely with the painting.

But a story can’t be about one character – what the lady needed was a love interest. I searched through online archives of paintings and found this one of a farmer-girl gazing dreamily into the distance. Aha!, I thought, this is the sort of girl who would run away on adventures.

So I wrote a story about a lady who lifts her servants’ skirts, and about the sorts of girl who ran away on adventures. The ending, you might notice, comes back again to my fascination with anchoresses, because as much as I wanted the lady to have a happy ending I knew that she could not.

(Note: My first thought on seeing ‘Portrait of Guus Preitinger’ was ‘hey, she reminds me of PJ Harvey.’ And when I went down to Bridport to collect my prize, who was there at the ceremony but… PJ Harvey.)

I’m super-excited to say that my story, ‘In Our House By the Sea’, is now available at Found Press! I’m joined by the madly talented Cynthia Flood, Danny Goodman, and Lana Storey (seriously, go and check out Lana’s work – she’s too cute for words).

Here’s an extract of my story:

The radio crackles its way along chart hits whose lyrics I didn’t even know I knew. You dance around the kitchen, your bare toes sliding on the blue linoleum squares. I sit at the table, the backs of my thighs sticking to the wooden chair, my feet sweating a little in my wool socks. The cat winds between my ankles, then retreats to the warmth of our empty bed when I fail to scratch behind his ears.

Outside the morning sun is struggling through patchy clouds, flashing on and off like a faulty light bulb. The kitchen smells of clean laundry and hot butter. You reach up to get the eggs out of the fridge, and I see that you’re wearing that underwear I used to love: the hot-pink leopard-print ones, cut like little shorts so that the cheek of your bottom peeps out. When we first started seeing each other, you’d wear those when you thought I was going to see them. I know that because you told me.

You’ve put on a bit of weight since then, and they’re tighter than they were. This only serves to reveal more of the peach-round curve, and all I want to do is cup my palms around that perfect sphere so that the tips of my fingers press into your heat. The oversized t-shirt you’re wearing barely skims the tops of your thighs, and every time you move I get a little flash of hot-pink leopard-print. I slouch down in my chair: a lower vantage point might reveal another inch.

You glance over at me and I realise how strange I must look: lolling at the kitchen table in my fluffy socks, my pyjama top unevenly buttoned. You dance over to me, the pan of scrambled eggs still in your hand, and kiss me like I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Also, check out the Found Press site for an extract and some extremely kind blurbs from the beautiful Ms. Amber Sparks, the eternally charming Mr. Ewan Morrison, and the sultry Mme. Shanna Germain.

Mega-thanks to Jacqueline and Bryan for putting together such a shit-hot website.

Don’t forget to pop back and let me know what you think of the story!

Thievery is a series of blog posts about my story inspirations.

The Story:

‘The Rental Heart’, first published in PANK #4.

Reprinted online at Expanded Horizons and in print in By Invitation Only (Unbound Press).

Soon to be reprinted in Best British Short Stories 2011 (Salt).

An extract:

The problems came when the hearts got old and scratched: shreds of the past got caught in the dents, and they’re tricky to rinse out. Even a wire brush won’t do it.

But the man in the rental place had assured me that this one was factory-fresh, clean as a kitten’s tongue. Those heart rental guys always lied, but I could tell by the heart’s coppery sheen that hadn’t been broken yet.

I remembered perfectly well how to fit the heart, but I still read the leaflet to the end as a distraction. A way to not think about how Grace looked when she bit her lip, when she wrote the curls of her number. How she would look later tonight, when she. When we.

It was very important that I fit the heart before that happened.

The Inspiration:

I’ve been with my girlfriend, the adorable and talented Susie McConnell, for over two years now. But before I met her, I dated. I dated a lot. I lined up dates like items on a To Do list, and I was ruthless about it. Boring date? She hasn’t called? Caught some girl’s eye in a bar? On to the next one!

But before that – before I became a mercenary girl-heart-shredder, that is – there was this one girl. Let’s call her Girl A. We only went on about four dates and we were never a couple, but she was the first person I’d been interested in since coming out of a four-year relationship. I can’t even explain what it was about her; she was self-absorbed and boring, but something about the shape of her mouth and the way she held her shoulders made me want to stare at her all day. She talked too fast and she collected fruit stickers in a little notebook because her uncle and grandpa did. She was an apologetic smoker. She teased me for being a lightweight drunk, for being obsessed about time, for drinking black coffee and red wine, for being terrible at pool.

She worked at a club, and if I said I was going to a bar nearby she’d hang around in the rain on the pavement outside just in case I came by. Then she’d ignore my text messages for a week. Then she’d call me to say we were still super-casual and not in a relationship, but we weren’t allowed to see anyone else. And then she’d spend all night sending me dirty text messages, and then I wouldn’t hear from her for a week again.

My head span, and not in a good way. I told myself that no-one ever died of a broken heart. I thought if I kept saying it, over and over, then maybe it would be true. But it hurt, it fucking hurt. It felt like my heart was too big and it was crushing my lungs; it felt like there was a chunk of wood in my chest, a chunk of wood still smouldering, filling my chest with smoke so I couldn’t breathe.

Anyway, one night after I’d spent an entire evening staring at my phone and willing it to ring, I thought fuck this shit. I deleted her number, and I went out and met other girls.

I pretended that I had a rental heart. I pretended that I could use it to be with someone and then return it afterwards, that it would be like nothing ever happened. I made sure that no-one I went out with left a scratch on me.

And then I met Susie. She was a cute nerdy tomboy musician with cropped bleached hair and very soft skin. She had strong opinions on fonts and was going to be a rock star. I didn’t expect to fall for her but she played grandmother’s footsteps with my brain, tiptoeing in when I wasn’t looking. Every night I would go round to her tiny tidy flat and she made me dinner and we drank wine and listened to riot grrrl and fucked. The next morning she would get dressed in the dark and kiss my sleepy cheek and go to work, then I lounged around and drank her coffee and watched daytime TV. It was love, love, love.

By the time I had gained enough distance to write ‘The Rental Heart’, I’d dug my heels into my life with Susie. We are still together, and I have learned to trust in my internal tick instead of fearing it. I have learned that hearts do not shatter after all. There is no need to return them; the one you have will do just fine.