My Troyboy Is A Twat by Paula Houseman #Blogtour #Extract

Synopsis

Love, romance, marriage, and a dark little secret. Shh Small things let loose can grow out of hand.

Ruth Roth’s new husband can’t keep it in. If only he had all those years ago, things might be different now.

His big mouth sends every family member into hell. Except for Ruth’s late mother. She blows in from there. Seems the woman just won’t die. Or let up. Faaaark!

As if Mama’s earbashing isn’t enough, everyone else needs a scapegoat. Ruth is it. Somehow, this mess is her fault.

With everything falling apart, she feels overwhelmed. Until a hunky celebrity pants man—who clearly wants to get into hers—befriends her and makes her feel all warm and fuzzy. At the same time, an educated silicone seductress has designs on hubby.

Temptation abounds. But it’s overshadowed when a startling discovery throws Ruth and her man into uncharted waters, and life comes crashing down.

Ruth has survived plenty with the help of her friends. And as a writer, her wry wit, dirty muse, and a bent for ancient mythology have sustained her. This, though, might be her undoing.

Purchase Links

Amazon Uk

Amazon US

The sound of the doorbell was like cymbals striking against the sides of my head. No dream this time. I looked at the clock:7:05 am.

What? It was too early to have visitors. I’m closed. Go away.

The bell rang again; the caller was insistent.

Oh God. What if my dream had been a premonition and Ralph really was there with a gun?

Who cares? At least it’ll put me out of my misery.

Ding dong. Again!

It couldn’t be Ralph. Hit men are supposed to be calm and patient, and it was clear the person at the door wasn’t. Ralph was generally calm and patient. Maybe that was a pretence. Could it be his early modelling career had been a cover and he had been a sniper for the 2nd Commando Regiment? Maybe he was preying on my fear. He knew I wouldn’t ignore the doorbell now because I had a thing about early-morning and late-night phone calls or visits—these potential whorebringers of doom.

Another ding dong was followed by a loud rapping.

It was the sort of thing the police did, rang the bell then rapped if there was no answer. In TV shows, at least. What if something had happened to Ralph? I must be listed as his next of kin and this would be the police!

Too terrified to move, but then, needing to know, I slipped into my bathrobe and yelled, ‘I’m coming!’ as I held my head and stumbled to the door.

I partially opened it, peeked out and rubbed my eyes. It was not a pair of men in blue. But what fresh hell was this?

A pair of hillbillies stood on the other side.

‘Yes?’ I grunted.

‘Hi. We’re your new nixt door neighbours,’ the man said.

Phoebe and Zac, who’d owned the adjoining duplex, had moved out a week ago. We’d hugged our goodbyes and promised to stay in touch. ‘Oh, and say bye to Ralph,’ Phoebe had called out as she got into her car. Who knew her words would be prophetic?

I’d heard the comings and goings of another set of removalists on Tuesday, but I’d been too disconsolate to even go watch the action through the lounge-room window.

I rubbed my eyes again and stared at the new owners. A corn-fed Ma and Pa Kettle, they looked to be in their mid-forties. They stood there grinning like manic monkeys as I sized them up.

Wide-mouthed Ma had pasty skin; a flat, turned-up nose; and jellyfish-blue eyes with saggy bags under them and an un-tweezed, mono-brow pelmet above them. She had a large head that sprouted black, woolly, Maggi Noodle hair, and she wore a khaki midi-skirt and a clinging beige tee with a plaid peplum. Her big tits, along with the three tiered rolls of fat under them, resembled a dog’s four sets of post-partum teats.

Pa had a thatch of red hair, his freckled face was shaped like a butternut pumpkin, and his ears stuck out like a pair of ailerons—a desirable feature for a winged being, but it would have got him beaten up in the schoolyard. His duds complemented hers—khaki tee under tight, beige overalls. The straps needed some serious lowering to overcome the unsightly moose knuckle and cut his balls some slack.

He and she were the perfect combo, and not just because they were mix and match. He was the shape of a triangle, she, the shape of an inverted triangle. Their sex life was probably interesting.

He cleared his throat and formally introduced himself and his pardner. ‘I’m Bin en’ thus us Bitty.’

Huh? ‘Bin an’ Bitty?’

‘No. Bin en’ Bitty.’ He emphasised the names.

‘Uh …’ I scratched my fragile head. ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

‘No. You sid Bin en’ Bitty.’

Huh? ‘Oh.’ They were Kiwis. ‘Ben and Betty!’

‘Yip. End you are …?

Too goddamn tired to hobnob. ‘Ruth.’

‘Hi, Ruth.’ He lunged forward, grabbed my hand, which I didn’t offer, and started pumping it. It was like he was shaking a bottle of bubbly. What was inside my head started to fizz and was threatening to explode if the pressure jacked up. Thankfully, he stopped, but he didn’t shut up.

Jes’ wanting to warn you, you’ll prob’ly cop the smill of pissed aside wafting today. Bitty here hess bun bedlee butt’n.’

I once worked with a New Zealander. It hadn’t taken me long to grasp the vernacular. I was good enough with languages that I didn’t need storytelling with props. I wished I’d said so now.

Bitty lifted her skirt to show me a whole lot of nasty red welts on her inner thighs. It was too much information for this early in the morning. Hell, it was too much information at any time of the day. Or night. I had to look away.

‘End litting you know too, I’ll be benging away working unthe beckyard. Not tilling you on what, though. Et’s a surprise.’ Bin clicked his tongue and winked at me.

Like I give a rat’s arse. I responded with a wan smile.

It took a few moments of awkward silence for it to become clear to Bin and Bitty that I wasn’t going to invite them in.

Bin said, ‘Right. Need to git working. En Bitty’s stull got lots of unpecking to do. The early bird cetches the worm, eh?’

Maybe in the country, but there are no fucking roosters in suburbia. I hoped to God this man, who was used to waking up to cock-a-doodle-doo, didn’t start his ‘benging’ so early in the coming mornings.

I closed the door and leaned against it. ‘Jesus. From Portnoy to this? Not funny, God. Why me? Why me!

An answer came from above—from the land of the long white cloud: ‘You wanted comedy. Be careful what you wush for.’

All About Paula

 Paula Houseman was once a graphic designer. But when the temptation to include ‘the finger’ as part of a logo for a forward-moving women’s company proved too much, she knew it was time to give away design. Instead, she took up writing. 

She found she was a natural with the double entendres (God knows she’d been in enough trouble as a child for dirty wordplay). 

As a published writer of earthy chick lit and romantic comedy, Paula gets to bend, twist, stretch and juice up universal experiences to shape reality the way she wants it, even if it is only in books. But at the same time, she can make it more real, so that her readers feel part of the sisterhood. Or brotherhood (realness has nothing to do with gender).

Through her books, Paula also wants to help the reader escape into life and love’s comic relief. And who doesn’t need to sometimes?

Her style is a tad Monty Pythonesque because she adores satire. It helps defuse all those gaffes and thoughts that no one is too proud of.

Paula lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband. No other creatures. The kids have flown the nest and the dogs are long gone.

Where To Find Paula

Twitter

Goodreads

Facebook

LinkedIn

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s