Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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TEASER: Rebuilding Alexandra Small

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Mo Fanning - Rebuilding Alexandra Small

With (hopefully final) edits well underway on what will become my next romantic comedy novel – Rebuilding Alexandra Small – I thought I might tease you with an extract from one of the earlier chapters. No spoilers (beyond those on the dust jacket), just a conversation with a stranger that sets Alexandra on the path to something better.

Through rusting seafront railings, I gaze down at the grey pitch roof of the Beachcomber Cafe. In its tiny backyard, a petrol generator rattles and sooty chimneys belch evil fumes.

‘Are you OK, love?’ says a woman whose dog has been sniffing at my pumps. Big brown eyes gaze up from a pointy white face.

I tell her I’m fine. Except I’m not, and my voice wobbles.

‘If those are tears over a lad, wipe them dry,’ she says. ‘None of them are worth it.’

She nods over at a bench, and we sit.

‘My best mate works down there,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to decide whether to tell her what’s happened … and she can convince me everything will be OK.’

The woman weighs my words. ‘It’s been my experience that OK is exhausting.’

I glance sideways. ‘Have you considered joining the Samaritans?’

She chuckles to herself. ‘I was someone’s wife for thirty-seven years. I spent the last eighteen months looking after a man who should have passed two years earlier. When he went, my sister took me in and made me better. She called me a shadow. I lay down in her spare bedroom and didn’t get out of that bed on my own for another two weeks. I had to learn how to do everything again for myself, I’d invested so long looking after him.’

She hesitates a minute.

‘They had to prompt me to shut the bathroom door when I used the loo. I’d become used to leaving it open in case he fell and cried my name. I’d forgotten how to sleep. All I did was doze with one ear tuned to his voice. Everyone sent cards telling me how sorry they felt about him dying. Nobody thought to ask if I minded.’

I look into bright blue eyes shaped by sadness, and my heart falls silent.

‘I was glad his suffering ended.’ Her voice becomes a whisper. ‘Not because I wished him dead. I didn’t. I just realised he didn’t want to be the husband he’d turned into, so subservient, watching me waste away.’

She wipes the back of one hand across her eyes, and her dog peers up, as if sensing tears.

‘I had been telling myself that when he died, I’d be better. I’d make myself well again. He’d be out of pain, and life would go on. Until we meet again. If that’s what transpires. I never know. I’m not a Christian or anything, but I don’t count out the afterlife.’

‘My marriage is over,’ I say.

Out loud it sounds dramatic. Diva like. Dumb.

‘There’s some who would say it’s best you learn what sort of man you’ve married now rather than later. Do you have children?’

I shake my head.

‘Then you’ve had a fortuitous escape, even if it doesn’t sound like it.’ A stiff hand finds mine. ‘When my Donald left me, that was my fresh start. This is yours.’

‘What if I don’t want a fresh start?’

‘Life decides for you.’ She chuckles to herself. ‘We don’t get any say. What counts now is what you do next. Replay the mistakes or make new ones?’

Coming soonRebuilding Alexandra Small by Mo Fanning

After losing her job, husband and home in the space of three hours, Allie takes stock. Does she want what she had or is it time to rebuild her life?

Rebuilding Alexandra Small tells the story of what happens when a have-it-all life crumbles, and a new one starts.

It’s available later this year.

Would you like to read all my books for free, before they even come out? All I ask for in return is that you post an honest review when each book launches on Amazon.

To be on my ‘street team’, please email mo@mofanning.com

 

 

Love in the time of Corona – Chapter 3

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Closure

New readers start here
This is a short story to fill the gap between books – a love story set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going. Read the first chapter here

Smug Ellen’s face looms enormous on the screen as Liz ducks past to take the last free boardroom chair. When she sits, a nerdy guy shakes his head.

‘That’s an isolation seat.’

‘OK,’ she whispers. ‘But I’m late. I need to sit down.’

‘You can’t. We need to stay at least one chair away from each other.’

Now might be as good a time as any to explain that she’s spent two entire weeks climbing her Farrow and Ball-painted flat walls in self-isolation. Corona holds no fear for Liz. She’s become immune.

‘You need to move,’ he says again. ‘It’s not safe.’

So much for sneaking in unseen. Her boss scribbles something on a notepad. Liz drags her isolation seat level with the boardroom door.

‘The thing to remember is take care of each other.’ Smug Ellen’s tinny voice crackles through black-grilled speakers set into a long grey table. ‘Check in and make sure we’re all doing fine.’

Eyes roll as she launches into a self-aggrandising story of how she plans to spend her evenings knocking on the doors of old folk to ask if they need emergency supplies. She’s already signed up to be an official volunteer.

‘Likely so she gets to shop in Tesco during the special hours,’ Derek from the Sales Team says, and heads nod.

Liz has no idea what he means. Derek is her work husband. One of the few people she still likes at Allied Recruitment.

Smug Ellen ends the meeting by suggesting they all say out loud the one thing they feel grateful for in what she calls ‘difficult times’.

Liz has heard that phrase too often. The words lose all impact. Like when people say sorry after letting a door slam in your face.

Difficult times.

‘I’m grateful for having lived through Corona,’ she says and looks around. ‘Now I’m immune.’

Nobody appears sure what sort of face to pull.

Liz hit a nerve.

‘So if anybody fancies going to the pub after work, I’m buying,’ she says, determined to lighten the mood. ‘First drinks only. No doubles.’

Nervous looks are exchanged.

Determined to win over the room, she claps her hand to her mouth and does comedy bug eyes. ‘I forgot, the pub’s are out of bounds.’

‘Face,’ everyone yells.

The ferocity causes Liz to startle.

‘OK,’ she says, still rattled. ‘Some other time.’

Smug Ellen’s face vanishes and people file out.

One by one.

*     *     *     *     *

‘Why did everyone shout?’ she asks Derek as they join a line to use the office kettle.

‘BoJo’s latest advice,’ he says, and when she wrinkles her nose, he explains further. ‘Boris Johnson reckons we need to learn new behaviours. Each time someone touches their nose or mouth or eyes, you yell ‘face’.’

‘Why the hell would anyone sane do that?’

‘To relearn nasty habits.’

‘Is that what’s passing for government advice?’

Out of habit Liz avoids the news. When Corona took over the headlines, she unplugged her TV, stopped going online and rediscovered the joy of a book. Let others spend their days worried where they might secure the next loo roll. When a doctor in a mask confirmed she had Corona, it came as a surprise. Fair enough, she’d refused to become a total nob-head and deny NHS workers protective clothing, but she’d used handwash and lived off Deliveroo.

‘You and me are the only ones who know,’ Derek says.

‘Know what?’

‘BoJo acts like Corona is the black death. People think if they so much as touch a door handle they’ll die in pain.’

‘Are things that bad?’

‘I went to Waitrose this morning. They’re out of olives.’

‘No.’ Liz feigns shock. ‘Tell me they’re OK for quinoa.’

She nods at Derek for his coffee cup.

‘We’re not allowed to make drinks for each other,’ he says. ‘HR policy.’

She doesn’t bother arguing.

*     *     *     *     *

Liz only spots an unfamiliar number flash up on her phone by chance. She’s listening to music on her headphones thanks to the office no talking rule. Words spread germs.

‘It’s Brett,’ a familiar voice says when she answers. ‘How’s your day going?’

She gave him her number after much pestering.

‘Full-on,’ she says. ‘We’re being made to sit two metres apart and most people are working from home.’

‘Wish we could do that.’

Brett worked in Boots, behind the pharmacy counter. His day was taken  up arguing with people determined to panic buy paracetamol. Angry customers blamed him for the lack of hand sanitiser.

‘They’ve impounded the staff kitchen.’ Brett sounds mournful. ‘We have to bring drinks from home.’

She looks up as Helen from reception walks past with a roll of yellow tape and starts to stick strips around the stationery cupboard.

‘We’re about to ration sticky notes,’ Liz says. ‘The world might as well end tomorrow.’

Derek sits down at the next desk. She turns away to stop him eavesdropping.

‘Are you getting the bus home?’ she says, part hoping they might spend more time laughing at this weird world.

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Brett says. ‘There are no buses.’

‘OK … so, we’ll share an Uber.’

‘The app says there’s a four hour wait. I might hire a car. Do you fancy going half?’

‘I can’t drive.’

‘I can.’

A bubble of joy lifts inside. How come she never spoke to this weird guy before?

‘Is that a yes?’ he says.

What else was she going to spend her wages on? Most of the shops were closed. Cafes were shut. Pubs were now only fit for pariahs.

‘It’s a yes,’ she says.

‘OK, I’ll pick you up at six.’

Liz’s working day ended at five, but she didn’t mind hanging around. She’d find something to do.

‘Hot date?’ Derek asks when she puts down her phone. ‘Your latest boyfriend?’

‘What?’ Her skin prickles. ‘No.’

‘It’s just you did that giggle thing you always do when you talk to someone you fancy.’

‘What giggle thing?’

Derek purses his lips and skips from one foot to the other.

‘Oh, you.’ He affects a lisp. ‘You’re such a powerful man, maybe you can help me carry this big heavy box of paper.’

Liz glares. A year ago, she tried to cop off with Andy from the tech team, and still her best work friend won’t let her forget the shame of hearing about his husband and two adopted children.

‘It’s my neighbour, if you must know,’ she says. ‘And he’s most likely gay too.’

Love in the age of Corona – Chapter 2

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Coffee machine

New readers start here
This is a short story to fill the gap between books – a love story set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going. Read the first chapter here

Liz and Nod Hello Man – or Brett as she now knows him to be called – reach the main road. On any other day, four lanes of traffic would rattle towards the city centre. Today, Liz hears bird song.

Brett’s grey gimlet eyes narrow. ‘That’s weird,’ he says.

Liz snorts. ‘Perhaps all the sensible people decided to self isolate. How many died now? I didn’t read the news.’

Brett fishes a phone from his bag and taps the screen. ‘I can’t get a signal down here.’

She can’t help but notice it’s a minute to nine.

‘I’m about to miss  the start of my meeting,’ she says, deflated. ‘I might as well get coffee.’

Costa is closed.

Pret too.

Liz groans.

‘How are we meant to survive?’

Brett frowns. ‘I know a van. They do the best bagels.’

Liz wonders if they might be the only two people stupid enough to venture out. Back when the whole Corona thing started, her boss was super supportive and insisted the team work from home. When everyone found reasons to skip the Tuesday meeting, his tone changed.

I’ll supply the santiser, you supply the magic, a terse email suggested. Let’s make this a face-to-face.

She wanted to reply with snark and was glad she held back when sheep-like colleagues sent supportive messages about the values of social cohesion.

Smug Ellen is due to present today. Smug Ellen says things like ‘No matter what I eat, I never put on weight’.

‘I’m already late,’ Liz says with a shrug. ‘What harm can more minutes do?’

Brett leads the way down a side street.

‘It’s gone,’ he says as they emerge onto another car-free road. ‘That’s weird.’

‘Perhaps they shut him down.’

‘They said we can eat at takeaways. There’s less temptation to lick tables.’

Liz allows him a smile. Until now, she took him to be the sort of bloke who conveys a free spirit through flamboyant ties. He just might have a personality.

‘My sister lives near here,’ she says. ‘And she has more money than sense. She bought an obscenely expensive coffee machine.

Brett falls in beside her.

‘I’m going to the office because my boss is a twat, what’s your excuse?’ she says.

‘I figured I ought to make the effort. I’ve been off sick for two weeks.’

‘Did you have Corona?’

His brow darkens as if she’s said the most moronic thing ever.

‘Stupid question. Obviously you had Corona.What was it like?’

‘Flu.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

They stop in front of a red brick building, and Liz studies the buttons.

‘I know the entry code,’ she says, although Monica keeps threatening to change the combination.

She types four numbers and the door clicks open. Liz smiles.

Once inside, instinct sees her beeline for hand sanitiser. The bottle is empty. Dust on the counter suggests a cleaner off sick.

‘Don’t bother,’ she tells Brett as he leans past to do the same.

Luck must be on her side, as a lift stands open on the ground floor.

‘I usually have to wait ages,’ Liz says as they step inside.

On the third floor, Liz hammers Monica’s front door.

‘Come on,’ she calls through the letterbox. ‘I know you’re home. We need coffee.’

‘Perhaps she’s out?’ Brett says.

Liz rolls her eyes. ‘Monica works nights. She’s home.’

‘Right, so … is she a nurse or something?’

‘Or something.’

When there’s no answer, Liz rummages in her bag for a key.

‘Should you be doing that?’ Brett says as she lets them in. ‘Aren’t we trespassing?’

‘She’s my sister. I do stuff like this all the time.’

Still, he hesitates.

‘Do you want coffee or not?’ she says. ‘Last chance.’

He looks around as if casing the joint and steps inside.

Monica’s flat is a mess. Lipstick stains an empty wineglass on the filthy kitchen counter. Green fur grows on dishes that fester in the sink.

‘She’s not a nurse,’ Brett says. ‘Unless she’s growing penicillin.’

‘My sister is a confirmed slob.’ Liz holds her nose as she drops a dirty dishcloth into an overflowing bin. A mouse darts under the washing machine.

Brett screams. Liz brays a laugh.

‘How can you find this funny?’ he says. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I lived in Amsterdam for five years. You get used to the mice.’

‘This isn’t Amsterdam.’

Liz pulls out her phone. ‘Even by Monica’s standards, this is extreme.’

A recorded voice confirms her sister has turned off her phone.

‘Typical,’ Liz says. ‘We need coffee and she’s on the missing list.’

Brett doesn’t answer.

‘If you’re willing to take your life into your hands, I can make coffee,’ she says and reaches into a cupboard for a jar of coffee beans. Like everything else, it’s sprinkled with dust. Typical Monica. She spent a fortune on the biggest, best machine, and promptly lost interest.

‘I should get going,’ he says. ‘I’ll be late for work.’

Love in the time of Corona – Chapter 1

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Love in the time of Corona 1

Chapter One
I’ve decided to write a short story to plug the gap between books and wanted to make it topical – which I don’t usually get to do with a novel – there’s such a lag between idea and publication. This is a love story (I think) set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going? I’ll post installments every few days … whenever the urge/muse hits. Hope you enjoy it.

7.30am.

How did she sleep through another alarm? Liz knows her boss will have a fit when she rolls in late. It’s Tuesday. Strategy brainstorm day. Everyone gets to stare at the boardroom table and wish their lives shorter while this week’s sacrificial lamb flicks through six drab PowerPoint slides and explains away disappointing sales figures.

The milk is off.

How can that be? She only bought it two days ago. Or maybe three. Certainly, it’s not older than a week. She’ll stop going to that garage. Nothing from there lasts.

There’s a cereal bar in her bag. Liz eats it.

She runs a brush through her hair.

If she runs, she might just make the meeting.

Waiting for a bus, Liz remembers she didn’t clean her teeth and finds a single breath mint stuck to the lining of her pocket.

Always be prepared.

A nearby car looks abandoned. That happens a lot these days. Sussex Street used to be lovely, but it’s gone downhill since all the big houses became flats and they took away the parking permits.

The car is covered in dust.

The roads are quiet.

Quieter than usual. It’s never mad busy in this part of town, but this feels more like Sunday.

Briefly, Liz wonders if she overslept and mixed up her days. Is it Sunday?

She pulls out her phone.

Tuesday, 17 March 2020.

8.15am.

Liz could call in sick. But she already did that.

Two weeks ago, she self isolated, claiming a sore throat and fever, and coughing when her boss sounded like he might not be buying it.

‘They warned us to stay home for seven days,’ she reminded him. ‘The last thing I want to do is spread my germs or infect an old person.’

Across the street, she spots a guy who always nods hello.

He’s grown his hair. It suits him.

He nods hello.

8.25am.

Liz fiddles with her phone. Even if a bus comes now, she’ll be late. Perhaps she could go home and scavenge breakfast. An egg. There might be bread. Certainly there’s crusts. And a jar of cinnamon-spiced marmalade left over from the sales team Christmas hamper. Money would have been nicer, but the biscuits were lovely.

‘Do you think there’s been an accident?’ Nod Hello Man says.

Liz puffs out her cheeks, checks the time and looks both ways.

‘It is quiet today,’ she says.

The art of doing two things at once

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If I could choose a superpower, it would be multitasking. I can do two (or even three) things at roughly the same time, but I won’t pretend I’m doing anything other than dividing my focus. Each task gets a slice of my brain, nothing gets the whole twisted deal.

When I tried my hand at stand-up, I set goals. I would see if I had it in me to tell jokes in front of two hundred people and make them laugh. I’d also find new ways to sharpen my writing.

I performed in front of 200 people last December.

Since then, I’ve continued the quest to write better material, and believe I’ve made headway. But it’s come at a price. My next novel stalled.

Back to the edit

This week, I blew the digital dust off my latest draft and set to work editing. After an enjoyable hour or two of writing new life into the opening scenes, I sat back satisfied and rediscovered the happy vibe of an author who’s totally nailed his story.

With comedy class a day or two away, I put my story to one side and set about writing something new to try out in front of fellow comics. Once more, things went well and the words flowed.

I was multitasking.

The next day, I tried to edit my story some more, except I wasn’t feeling it.

Fair enough, it’s been a while.

I switched back into stand-up mode. An hour brainstorming ideas that would become jokes that might make it through the ruthless edit of class is still time well spent.

Except I wasn’t feeling it.

Multitasking fail

My novel needs my full attention. There are threads to juggle, characters to shape, dialogue to shave, elaborately familiar pictures to write. Stand-up demands choppy delivery. Sketches drawn in five words or fewer. Specific personal attitude. These two different styles of writing don’t fit with multitasking.

I spent a day back in my Amsterdam home town this week. Along the way, I talked to old friends about writing, and what I heard was me admitting something has to change.

I’ve enjoyed the comedy classes. They’ve taught me how to write sharper jokes, but right now, I need to tell stories. And that’s forbidden in the style of comedy advocated by my current mentor.

In July, I’ll take my final stand-up bow (for the time being) and return all focus to writing ‘The Toast of Brighton’. When the nights grow long and I’m itching for validation once more, who can say. Perhaps I’ll find some other comedy class with a different focus. Perhaps I’ll find a different distraction.

Until then, here comes the summer.