Prime Time

Prime Time

by Jane Wenham-Jones

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781908262790
Publisher: Accent Press
Publication date: 01/12/2012
Series: Jane Wenham-Jones
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 370
File size: 500 KB

About the Author

Jane Wenham-Jones is the author of acclaimed novels – Raising the Roof, Perfect
Alibis, One Glass Is Never Enough and Prime Time. She also writes for women’s
magazines and the national press and has a humorous weekly column in her local
newspaper. She has also written two writing guides - Wannabe a Writer? and
Wannabe a Writer We've Heard Of?

She lives with her husband and son in Broadstairs, Kent.


Jane Wenham-Jones is the author of three acclaimed novels – Raising the Roof, Perfect Alibis and One Glass Is Never Enough as well as  Prime Time, and two popular writing guides, Wannabe a Writer? and Wannabe a Writer We've Heard Of?  As a freelance journalist she writes for women’s magazines and the national press and has a regular humorous column in her local paper. She has presented for the BBC on both radio and TV.  Jane lives in Broadstairs, Kent.


Jane Wenham-Jones is the author of four novels – Raising the Roof, Perfect Alibis, One Glass Is Never Enough and Prime Time which have received wide acclaim. She also writes for women’s magazines and the national press and has a humorous weekly column in her local newspaper.

She has also written two writing guides Wannabe a Writer? and Wannabe a Writer We've Heard Of?

She lives with her husband and son in Broadstairs, Kent.

Find Jane at:

Twitter: @JaneWenhamJones and @UWannabeawriter

And her blogs:

www.100waystofighttheflab.com

janewenhamjones.wordpress.com

 

Read an Excerpt

Recent research has shown that the kind of male face a woman finds attractive can differ depending on where she is in her menstrual cycle. For instance, if she is ovulating she is drawn to men with rugged, masculine features. Whereas if she is menstruating she is more prone to be attracted to a man with a heavy pair of scissors shoved in his forehead …

Ho bloody ho. I sit on my hands so I can’t punch the computer screen. Hilarious, these Internet jokes. Or they might be if not so close to the truth. I quite often imagine Daniel cowering in a corner, whimpering while I take a blunt instrument to him. Or the way he might look if I wiped away that supercilious expression by treading on it. Especially on Day 19. Day 19 of my menstrual cycle is when I am at my most malevolent and think my darkest thoughts. Then I write vitriolic letters in my head and fantasise about wreaking revenge on everyone who has ever done me wrong. It is when I smash crockery, forget things, scream, shout and eat four KitKats without drawing breath. It is Day 19 today and already I am …

‘Am I going to Dad’s tonight?’

Stanley appeared in the doorway in his school shirt and boxers. His hair, as usual, stood up in tufts. He yawned and wrinkled his freckled nose. ‘Do you know where my tie is?’

I gripped the edge of the keyboard. ‘No, I do not know where your tie is. It is wherever you left it, the same as it is every morning when you ask me, and yes, you are going to your father’s. We’ve been talking about it for five days. Since the last time you went, in fact. Which was last Sunday. When your father said he would pick you up this Friday, which is today, and you could stay the night with him and he would take you to the football match. You know you are going to your bloody father’s …’ I clapped a hand to my mouth and bit it.

Stanley’s face, which had lit up at the thought of 22 blokes kicking a bag of air, clouded again. ‘I hope She isn’t there.’

‘She will be,’ I said grimly, suffused with shame at swearing and giving my son’s future therapist even more material to work with. ‘She lives there.’

She is Emily, Daniel’s new girlfriend, who is totally welcome to him because I wouldn’t have him back if his was the last paunch on earth. She has set up home with him which I don’t care about at all. I do think, however, it smacks of indecent haste as far as Stanley, who has to visit them, is concerned. Them and their laminate floors and low black coffee tables and single lilies in tall glass tubes (I didn’t press Stanley for these details – he gave them up quite readily under cross-examination).

Stanley wrinkled his nose even more. ‘I can’t find my trousers either.’

‘Boiler!’ I got up from my desk in our tiny spare bedroom and stomped to the door in two paces. ‘They were muddy, remember? I washed them. I told you they were on the boiler to dry. I knew you weren’t listening … And why weren’t you dressed ages ago? I’ve got to get this lot finished today,’ I shrieked, jabbing a finger at the pile of paper teetering on the top of the ancient filing cabinet. ‘And how can I do that with you constantly interrupting me?’

‘All right. Take a chill-pill.’ Stanley sighed and plodded across the landing. He knows when it is that time of the month.

‘Keep it on,’ he called from the safety of the stairs while I kicked the waste bin. ‘Will you make me some toast?’

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe in and out. Adopt sing-song voice to disguise the fact I want to throttle him. ‘Yes darling,’ I trilled through gritted teeth. ‘I will make you toast even though you are 11 and a half and quite old enough to make it yourself. Even if I am right in the middle of a paragraph.’

‘You were doing emails.’

‘Work ones. When I was 11 …’

‘You got up at dawn to scrub all the floors, made breakfast for the whole family, did all the washing and walked through fire and flood 20 miles to school …’ Stanley poked his head back round the door and grinned.

I glared. ‘Just get ready!’

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