THE RED BODY STOCKING

A number of years ago, I started a screenplay called The Red Body Stocking, then realized that it would make a great book, so started writing the book at the same time. This is something I tell my students never to do: always finish one project before starting another.  Winston Churchill said: “we rate ability in men by what they finish, not by what they attempt,” so I imagine he would have had no time for me at all, but I know, one day, I will finish both.

The Red Body Stocking focuses on Liz Hopkins, a middle-aged woman who believes that life is something that happens to other people, but an incredible discovery shows Liz that she can have a great life, if she pretends she's someone else! 

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the following light-hearted extract and would like to read more.  

Chapter 1

The fact that my life is a valium-filled vacuum suddenly hits me as I buy a bag of walnuts from the local shop one dismal morning in late October.

‘Morning, Mrs. Hopkins. Another bag of walnuts, I see. ’ Mr. Wilson, the shop keeper, says cheerfully. I stare at him, wondering if they’ve upped his daily dosage of Diazapam.

‘Morning, Mr. Wilson. Just off to the library.’

‘Walnuts and books, eh?’ He winks at me knowingly as he gives me the wrong change. I think Freud could have started a new branch of psychotherapy if he’d met Mr. Wilson.

 I stride into the library and scour the shelves for the self-help books. There’s one on the top shelf called: 'Utilising One's Talents.'  I take it down, breathe deeply and queue up in front of the chief librarian whose lips always remind me of my appendix scar.

'Another one on self-improvement, Mrs. Hopkins,' she smirks, banging the stamp triumphantly. ‘Your sixth this year, isn’t it? They don't seem to be working very well.’ Her laughter ricochets round the library and the group of O.A.Ps lurking in front of the large print books smile at me, sympathetically.

I smile back and crack three walnuts in my hands, showering the carpet with shells. It’s taken thirteen visits to the library before I’d discover the delights of walnuts.

 I catch the bus home and read the opening of the book.

‘I too was a weak, indecisive, meanderer through life until I discovered my hidden talents. And you know something? You have them too!’

Who does he mean? I glance briefly at the emaciated man sitting next to me, who is also deep in a book.

No, don't look at the guy sitting next to you. I'm talking to YOU. Yes. YOU! Everyone on this planet has undiscovered talents. Once you unlock the door to your talents the world is your oyster. Yours for the taking. So what are you waiting for?  GO GET THE KEY! NOW!

What key? I desperately scan page after page looking for clues. Nothing. All I have is a clutch of clichés.

‘What key?’  I shout before throwing the book against the bus window.

It hits the man sitting beside me a glancing blow on the head as he’s reading The History of Western Philosophy. He looks mildly concussed.

‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry.’ I gasp in embarrassment.

‘That’s quite all right.’  A thin line of blood trickles down the side of his head. He mops it with a grey handkerchief.  ‘I’ve just been reading about the fact that all objects and experiences are products of the intellect. And all objects perceived by the senses have an inherent reality independent of the mind. I’m just trying to work out what sort of experience the impact with your book has given me and what its inherent reality is… Have you read any Philosophy at all? It’s very - ’

‘My stop!’ I shout, running down the stairs.

‘I was just  -’

His voice trails away as I jump off the bus as it stops at some traffic lights. He waves frantically at me through the windows. I ignore him and thankfully the bus drives off. I suddenly look around at the unfamiliar streets, realising I am miles from home. Well, walking never hurts anyone, does it? Then I remember my Aunt Elsie who had an accident with a rampaging lawn-mower which ran over her right foot and Aunt Nellie whose left foot got caught in a revolving door. Well, apart from those two. Then Uncle John’s leg swims into my mind. Lost in some Peruvian jungle in 1962.   Aunt Nellie warned him about going there, but who would have thought he would lose a leg? I try desperately to think of something else. A waving hand in the distance catches my attention - the man on the bus is still pestering me. Men like that ought to be locked up.

I am almost home when I remember the book. Suddenly the world moves in small waves; I lean against a lamp-post, thinking of the librarian’s reaction.

‘Actually lost your self-improvement book this time, Mrs. Hopkins. Dear, oh dear. I believe in signs, don’t you?’ Then that awful, raucous laugh.

I decide to go to see Roz. She always seems to have the answers to everything.

                                                              *

Roz Walton's house is full of expensive furniture which once adorned the pages of a Christie's catalogue. The Waltons believe in money in a big way. Every time Ivor and I are invited to dinner, I mention how wonderful it would be to have furniture that actually fitted into the room. Yet within five minutes of us getting back home, Ivor will be in his workshop building yet another piece of furniture Noah couldn’t possibly have got into the Ark.

‘Roz - are you there?’

I peer through the windows of Roz's patio door. I know it’s open, but I don’t like to walk in. Not after the last time.

I see Roz walking towards me, wearing another exotic piece of lingerie; a very short tiger-skin chemise with a tie front which isn’t actually tied, I notice.

‘Come in, darling. Lovely to see you. What on earth are you wearing? It’s hideous.’

Roz pads, crimson-toed, into the kitchen where a young man seems to be doing a mime with a wrench in front of some pipes.

‘This is Jerry. He's …fixing something ... coffee?’

‘Lovely.’

I can’t get used to the number of young men who hang around Roz’s house ‘fixing something’. She squeezes past Jerry to fill the kettle. He’s having some difficulty with his wrench and is perspiring badly, although it’s late October.

‘Let's call it a day, Jerry, umm?  See you the same time tomorrow. You can fix something then. All right, darling?’

Jerry wrenches himself away from a pipe and walks out of the house without a word.

‘Bit rude, isn't he?’

‘Had a traumatic childhood. You wouldn't believe it.'

All Roz's young men seem to have troubled childhoods, but I don’t mention it.

‘I’ve got to change my life, Roz. I can't stand it any more.’

What have I been telling you for years? Leave Ivor with his furniture. Would he even notice?’

I sit down in Roz's designer kitchen and smell the aroma of real Costa-Rican coffee.  Not a hint of the chicory we have at home.

‘I can't leave Ivor and there's the kids to think of.’

‘Kids? They're 20 and 17 for God’s sake!  Tom will be leaving home soon.’

I know Tom will never leave home. He was created for another planet where life is out of focus. The first time I found him a Saturday job in a shoe shop, he worked for an hour in the wrong shop before the manager came out of his office to ask him who he was.  He still didn’t know after Tom tried to tell him.

‘Anyway. What would I do? I've never had a career. You know what Ivor's like. Never liked the idea of me working.’

‘Yeah - there's books written about men like your Ivor. A hundred years ago.’

‘He's a good man. Lovely with the kids.’

Roz astonishes me by putting her hands together in prayer and staring up at the ceiling. ‘Dear God, spare me from good men and bring me the bad ones. Please.’

Roz makes me laugh. At least she’s honest about things like adultery. 

‘Problem is … How do I change my life?’

She looks at my dress for some time before saying: ‘Come to my party next week and bring some friends.’

‘A party? What sort of party? Shall I bring Ivor?’

‘Good God - no!’ Roz shudders. ‘Ivor wouldn’t fit in at all. This party will transform your life, Liz. Trust me.’