Eloise is an erratic, faded fashionista. Bradley is a glum but wily teenager. In need of help to write her racy 1960s memoirs, the former 'shock frock' fashion guru tolerates his common ways. Unable to remember his name, she calls him Boy. Desperate to escape a brutal home life, he puts up with her bossiness and confusing notes. Both guard secrets. How did she lose her fame and fortune? What is he scheming - beyond getting his hands on her bank card? And just what's hidden in that mysterious locked room?
Note To Boy by Sue Clark was published on 23 July 2020 by Unbound Digital.
As part of the #RandomThingsTours Blog Tour, I'm delighted to share an extract from the book with you today.
Extract from Note to Boy by Sue Clark
She weren’t a bit like I expected.
‘Kindly remove your headgear,’ she goes, ‘in the presence of a lady.’
Well, that’s me done for, I think to meself, pulling off the beanie. Just when everything was going smooth as.
It’s a miracle I get there at all. Never go in that newsagents no more. On the Parade. On account of the creep behind the counter. He’s a gawper. One of the worst. That’s why I always wear a beanie or a hoodie when I’m out. Both sometimes. On account of the gawpers.
ET I call him, inside my head. His fingers is black, you see, from the papers. All except one. That’s pink, glowing pink, like ET off of that old film. Why? ‘Cause it’s always up his nostril, that’s why, digging for buried treasure. One minute he’s snot mining, the next he’s serving sweets to little kiddies. Makes me want to vom.
Like I say, it was stroke of luck I saw it. Sellotaped in the corner of the window.
‘’Wanted!! Urgent!! Refined, respectable lady authoress seeks domestic assistant of same ilk. A degree of reflexology. Usual rates.’
And a mobile number.
Well, I get the ‘domestic assistant’ bit. That’s a cleaner, right? But I don’t know nothing about ilks nor degrees. Still, what have I got to lose? I break my rule, nip into the newsagents and pretend to be browsing in the gardening section. I glance over. ET’s got his elbows on the counter, head deep in a mucky mag. As I’m leaving, I feel his dead, gawping eyes follow me to the door. Don’t matter ‘cause I got the card in my pocket. Well, don’t want no-one else going for it, do I?
I go home. Just my luck, Dom’s up. He’s in the kitchen, ramming a sarny in his gob like he ain’t ate for a week. Raspberry jam dripping everywhere. Right off, he eyeballs the card. Next thing, he’s snatched it.
‘Watch it,’ I go. ‘You’ll get jam over that.’
‘You’ll get jam over that,’ he goes, in a stupid whiny voice what’s supposed to be me. ‘What’s this then, Bradley? Postcard from your boyfriend?’
He’s always saying stuff like that.
‘It’s a job,’ I tell him. ‘Leastways, could be.’
‘You stupid or something?’ he snorts. ‘You know Ma’ll go mad if you get a job. What about her bennies?’
‘No, it’s sound,’ I go. ‘Cash in hand.’ Leastways, that’s what I’m hoping.
‘What kinda job?’ He squints at the writing. Never were much cop at reading, our Dom.
‘Dunno ‘til I call, do I?’
‘Cheeky,’ he goes, cuffing me one round the ear. I take my chance and reach for the card. He grabs my wrist, twists my arm up my back and shoves his pie-hole up against my ear. ‘You come across anything interesting, you be sure and let your big brother know,’ he hisses, spraying jammy paste over my cheek. ‘No sneaking behind my back, you little freak.’
He loosens his grip and for a sec I think that’s it. Then he comes back at me, jabbing a nasty little Bruce Lee punch above my elbow. He strolls off, still chewing. I hear the flatscreen fire up and stand there, wiping jam and tears off of my face.
If you’ve got a long memory and good eyesight, you may recall Sue Clark’s name from the credits of various radio and TV comedy shows. Alas Smith and Jones? Weekending? News Huddlines? Jason Explanation? Giggly Bitz? Fast Forward? Ring any bells?
She’s also written for magazines and newspapers, as well as contributing to the online satirical website Newsbiscuit. She’s worked for the BBC, ITV, newspapers and PR agencies.
She’s grilled John Humphreys, exchanged quips with Ronnie Corbett and penned funny lines for the likes of Lenny Henry, June Whitfield, Tracy Ullman, Roy Hudd and David Jason. But she’s never done what she’s always wanted to do: write a novel. Until now.
The background to her comic novel Note to Boy was inspired by a time when she worked in London for a film company, lived in a flat opposite Liberty’s, bought her miniskirts in Carnaby Street, and bumped into James Bond actors at parties. It was almost as glamorous as it sounds.
She now lives in the sort of Oxfordshire market town that spawned Midsomer Murders with her husband and a fluctuating number of adult children.
Note to Boy is her first novel.
Twitter @SueClarkAuthor
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