(12 minute read)

by Francis H Powell

(France)

It was the usual rush to get ready for work. Hastily drinking coffee and munching some toast. Thinking about the day ahead. My wife applied some makeup. She muttered something; I didn’t hear it. The radio was blaring in the background, the weather forecast for the weekend.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” I said between bites.

Her voice lifted above the noise of the radio.

“I said, We are going to Hannah Cunningham’s place for the weekend, remember?”

“Hannah who?” I demanded, pulling a face.

“For God’s sake, Seymour, my wife groaned, “you know Hannah Cunningham.” 

Her voice was raised, and she said the name as if I had suddenly gone partially deaf. She obviously expected me to look impressed. My brain tried to process the name and conjure up an image as to who this Cunningham woman was, but I drew a blank.

“Really who is she? I asked innocently, “Should I know her?”

“Are you feeling all right, Seymour? My wife said, shaking her head, looking at me exasperated. “Almost the whole world knows Hannah Cunningham, and her books are read by millions. The film series is a massive success; on top of this, there is the merchandise, the video games, and the Danny Sprocket dolls,which sell around the world, like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Who for the love of God is Danny Sprocket?” I said, looking out of the window, as Nick Hynds, my neighbour, kissed his glamorous wife goodbye before speeding away in his show-off red sports car.

My wife put her head in her hands, as if she were a teacher who’d tried everything to teach a simple mathematical problem to a hapless simpleton. 

“You must have been walking around this world with your eyes and ears firmly shut for the last ten years. You must know Danny Sprocket, the boy wizard; everybody knows him.”

“Well, everybody apart from me.” I said it defiantly, holding my ground.

“You have got to be kidding me, Seymour. We are talking Hannah Cunningham, who writes fantasy novels for teenagers.”

“Well, I’m not a teenager,” I said sarcastically, “so no wonder I haven’t heard of her.”

My wife seethed. I hadn’t seen her so wound up in a long time.

“I hope you are not going to act like this when we get to see Hannah; this is my big break; she rarely does interviews; I only set this one up by pure chance.”

I finished off my toast and felt like I was a teenager being told to be on my best behaviour. We went our separate ways, and a strange atmosphere seemed to have come between us.

During my lunch break, I went to a local cafe to get a sandwich with Jay Jay Starling, who worked in the same department as me. While we were walking back, I decided to slip the name Hannah Cunningham into the conversation.

“Er Jay Jay, do you know a writer called Hannah Cunningham?”

Jay Jay Starling stopped dead. He looked at me as if I had just said the dumbest thing ever. 

“Of course Seymour,” he replied, rolling his eyes, “everybody knows Hannah Cunningham; in my opinion, she’s on TV far too often; I am sick of hearing about Danny Sprocket; my kids can’t stop going on about him; they dress like him; they even try to do some dumb magic with wands, using pseudo-Latin mumbo jumbo words; and Arnie insisted on having the same glasses as him; I had to pay well over the odds, so he could look like Danny frigging Sprocket.”

“I see,” I muttered, feeling crestfallen.

“Why did you ask that?” Jay Jay asked, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s just that Verity and I are going to her house for the weekend.”

Jay Jay Starling stared at me, agog.

“Get away; you are kidding, right?” Jay Jay started laughing hysterically.

A few passers-by looked at him in dismay. 

“Well, you know Verity is a journalist and sometimes gets to do interviews with celebrities.”

“Yeah, but Hannah frigging Cunningham, what a coop! I reckon any journalist worth their salt would give their right hand to spend time with her to get some kind of quote.”

I drew some breath.

“But listen, Jay Jay,I said hesitantly, the name Hannah Cunningham means nothing to me; I have never heard of her.”

“Stop messing about Seymour, Jay Jay said, wagging his finger. Even my mother-in-law has heard of Hannah Cunningham, and she is gaga and in her nineties. If you had children, they would be talking all day about Hannah Cunningham and her books. I can vouch for that. It’s kind of like our house has been invaded. It drives me mad.”

I decided not to mention the name Hannah Cunningham to anyone else. However, by about three o’clock, the whole of my department was conscious that I was spending the weekend with her. Jay Jay was never one to keep a secret. People were disrupting my work, demanding, “Are you really going to Hannah Cunningham’s place?” I had to admit that I was. I had become a reluctant hero, on everybody’s lips.

I googled Hannah Cunningham; sure enough, there was a writer of that name, but not nearly on the scale that my wife and work colleagues seemed to be bigging her up. As for films and merchandise, there was not a solitary mention. She’d made it into a local newspaper, she had a broad smile as if she’d just planted a flag in the North pole. She was doing a book signing. She looked like she was retired, possibly a grandmother, who’d taken up writing late. It was highly unlikely she’d ever made it to OK magazine.

This discovery left me even more puzzled. I felt there was some kind of conspiracy going on. So my wife and a few others were trying to convince me about a famous writer—that wasn’t really famous at all, more likely a wannabe writer—who was lucky if she sold a book in a month. That was it. Nothing more, nothing less. This was my wife’s doing, a rather elaborate prank that Jay Jay and others at work seemed happy to go along with. I also decided to go along with it as well, why would I spoil their fun.

I was the first to arrive home, just in time to see Nick Hynds in a tight clench with his wife, in an open show to the world that they were blissfully in love. Why does he always have to be so blatant? I thought to myself. A soft porn show on my doorstep. Who needs that after a day’s work?

“Hello, Nick,” I muttered as I put my keys into the door.

“Oh hi Seymour, he said giving me a cursory glance, keeping well, I trust,” he managed to say before turning his attention back to his wife, like some love-sick teenager.

I shook my head in disgust and entered my house, kicking some letters and undesirable publicity with my feet.

My wife arrived home seemingly in a great mood, all revved up with this date with destiny, this interview with an alleged writer, who according to Google didn’t even merit a Wikipedia page, but according to my wife, was taking the world by storm.

I couldn’t resist provoking her.

“I suppose you have been on the phone all day with Hannah’s representatives, right?”

“Do I detect sarcasm, Seymour? my wife said with a disapproving look. “Here I am about to get an exclusive interview that will launch my career to unfathomable heights, and yet you mock me.”

“No, no, darling, I’m sure the world is waiting with baited breath to discover the awe-inspiring gems of the literary genius known as Hannah Cunningham.”

“You are insatiable, Seymour. I just hope you snap out of this behaviour, when the time comes to meet Hannah. Oh by the way we are going straight after work on Friday.”

“I suppose a limousine will collect us, right?” I sniggered to myself.

“As a matter of fact, her driver is coming to collect us. I was wondering if you have any appropriate clothes to wear; apart from your suits for work, your home clothes are an embarrassment,if I am to be totally frank.”

“You have never said that before,” I said aggrieved, shaking my head. I looked at my wife, slightly wounded, “I always thought you liked my clothes.”

An argument broke out, the evening was tense.

When I got home the following evening, my wife was busy packing.

“Listen, Verity, this is a joke, right? I said, I mean, there isn’t a world-famous writer called Hannah Cunningham; I looked her up.”

“Here you go again, Seymour; soon you will discover for yourself and will feel utterly humiliated. She had a sickening smug look on her face, like somebody about to play their trump card. “Oh there’s the limousine,” she declared triumphantly.

I looked out the window, as a large limousine pulled up. Nick Hynds was watering his garden, and even he seemed mesmerised. The driver knocked on our door. Verity had packed for me. I brought the cases down. We walked to the car, and the chauffeur opened the back door.

There in the back of the car was a woman, her face veiled, wearing sunglasses. There was a waft of strong, intoxicating perfume. She looked like a film star from the 1960s—a blonde bombshell with a giant bouffant. She was probably an actress, being paid to be in this elaborate joke. She was wearing a pink chiffon gown and had white gloves. Once my wife and I had settled in our seats, she

casually asked her chauffeur to drive on. Neighbours peered behind curtain windows; no doubt this got a few tongues wagging in the neighbourhood.

My wife went into sycophantic mode.

“What a pleasure and privilege it is to spend some time with you, Hannah.”

“Think nothing of it, darling.” Hannah purred in her sultry voice, staring out of the window.

Conversation proved tricky. This Hannah Cunningham, or fraud, was elusive. We began to get out of the city en route to the Cunningham mansion. I started to feel drowsy, and I found it hard to focus. Ten Hannah Cunninghams formed in my mind, each one grinning at me in the most derisory way.

“He’s a muggle; he doesn’t believe in magic; pathetic really; well, I’ll show him. She took a magic wand out of her handbag. “Expecto Patronum.” She said in a shrill rasping voice.

I saw a herd of albino deer gracefully leap alongside the car, while a flock of owls circled close in front. It all seemed so real. There was a long tunnel ahead. I found myself no longer in the car but travelling on a broomstick at a supersonic speed. I was being drawn along by a powerful magnetic dark force. The tunnel appeared to get darker and darker until my mind blacked out completely.

When I came to, I was back at home on the sofa. The fire was burning, the room was hot like a bakery. The television was on in the background. A monotonous film had sent me to sleep. I struggled to get back to full consciousness.

My wife looked at me, concerned.

“Are you all right? Seymour, you’ve been asleep for ages; maybe you are working too hard, Dr Allbright told you, that you need to slow down.” I bolted upright, like I’d been jump started with a spike of electricity.

“But, er, what about Hannah Cunningham? I spluttered “ you know the interview.”

“Who the hell is Hannah Cunningham? My wife said frowning. “Really, Seymour, you do come out with the most ridiculous things.”

Copyright © 2023 – Francis H Powell. All rights reserved.

If you live outside of the U.K and would like to make a donation:

Please click the button below to donate via PayPal and help keep the site going. We appreciate your financial support.
* U.K residents can also use this option if you’d prefer.