Book Focus: The Beasts of Belmont Park by Hud Saunders

Today I have a slightly different post today, as this book extract comes from The Pigeonhole

The Pigeonhole is a fresh approach to publishing. We take books of all genres and serialise them direct to your phone, tablet and desktop. Each book comes bursting with multi-media extra content, real-time conversation with the author and fellow readers, and live events.

If this sounds of interest to you, I have a short extract of one their books to share with you. Please read on.

The Beasts of Belmont Park by Hud Saunders

Paul reached the corner of the road before he could even begin to make sense of the torrent of thought that was pouring through his head. In his mind he could see an image of Laura,  just a few moments earlier, staring at him with a mixture of hurt and anger on her face. Well, fuck  her, he said to himself. It’s all about her, isn’t it? Her name, her house, her fucking career.  What about me? He stopped mid-stride, stunned by this onslaught. What have I done? I’ve let her  completely take over my role. The man’s role. He stared abjectly at the pavement, grey and glittering in the sunlight, reflecting his anger back at him. ‘It’s not right,’ he muttered. ‘It’s not right at all.’ After a minute’s gloomy contemplation, the answer came to him: I’m going to find a goddamn reliable  au pair girl and then I’m going to see Vernon. And with that decision made, he straightened his  back and strode onwards. Vernon Doyle was Paul’s agent, for what it was worth. Roles for Paul had completely dried up after  the massive toothpaste campaign. Vernon had convinced Paul that this was the gravy train, the  golden ticket, the big one. And twenty grand plus residuals that eventually amounted to nearly  £50,000 had persuaded Paul that Vernon was right, despite the fact he’d assiduously and  contemptuously avoided TV commercials up to that point. It was that bloody director, Francine,  who’d swayed him though, in her short skirt and shirt unbuttoned to the bra. He’d wanted to fuck  her  right there and then. Indeed, they’d shared a passionate snog and were getting down  to what  swimming pool signs used to describe as ‘heavy petting’, when Brian, Francine’s producer-husband,  had appeared unexpectedly and that was the end of that one. But by then, he’d already signed the  contract. He’d still like to do her though. God, she was hot. Fuck it, after that ad he was… dog shit. ‘Nothing I can do about it, love,’ Vernon had said, holding his hands out in martyred resignation.  ‘I’ve tried, Paul, I’ve really tried, but you’re overexposed. You’re going to have to lie low for a  bit, until this has all died down, then we’ll pick things up again.’ But months had turned into years, kids had been born, and Paul had believed, with a large measure  of self-delusion, that he and Laura were not just a family, they were a team. He reflected  painfully on how he’d really bought into that new-age crap about role reversal and equality. ‘It doesn’t matter who does what, we’re a family, that’s what counts,’ he’d proclaimed on several  occasions, and his listeners had always agreed, especially the women. ‘Oh yes, you’re so right,’ they said. ‘Good for you, Paul!’ ‘You’re a New Man. A Renaissance fucking man.’ He laughed bitterly at it now. But when it comes down to it, he thought, fuck it, I am a man; I’ve  got balls and I’m pumping testosterone. I’m a goddamn hunter, not a fucking nanny. All of a sudden he felt an overwhelming sense of shame. He slumped against a wall, holding his head in his hands, tears welling up in his eyes. How did I let this happen to me? A bin lorry rumbled past, shaking the pavement. Paul wiped his eyes, pushed himself off the wall and continued walking along the tree-lined avenue. The thing was, he considered, it all seemed to happen so naturally. It wasn’t like he’d done it on  purpose. And, he forced himself to admit, he actually liked loafing around, doing nothing, playing  a bit of pitch and putt in the local park with his mate Tony, or having coffee with one or other of  his fantasy-fuck local mums. The kind of life being a househusband afforded him. But it seemed conditional on him  suppressing some vital  part of himself, a part that needed expression. And if it didn’t find an outlet in his work, then  what? A vision of a scantily clad Katie Novotna popped into his head. He batted the image away. He  was not without ambition; far from it. At one point he’d even had the crazy idea he could rival  Laura, and had embarked upon his own short-lived literary career, spending several months in  between playgroups and toddlers’ ballet lessons writing and embellishing a play about one of his  favourite subjects, and the object of his boyhood fascination: Isambard Kingdom Brunel. It was  mainly in the form of a monologue; well, more of a diatribe really, concerning the failure of  modern capitalism to embrace, with even a semblance of compassion, the philanthropic ethics of the  wealthy Victorian industrialists. He’d spent so much time on the internet researching his play that he’d got sidetracked, following  strange and unexpected paths, until he found himself becoming increasingly world-weary and cynical  about politics and the machinations of governments and big business. So much so that, long after  the play had been politely rejected by several theatre groups and arts councils, this newfound  sense of postmodern angst still clung to him. Joining online debates, commenting furiously on  recondite forums, even going on the odd demo, his anger at the world seemed to be a reflection of  some inner trouble he didn’t care to look at. And somehow, he  considered glumly, all this sound  and fury filled his days. Along with looking after the kids and assisting Laura occasionally, and  holidays, and coping with Laura’s success, and… What the fuck I am doing with my life? Shaking his head disconsolately, he looked up, realising he’d somehow reached the Three Kings. He stopped walking and gazed through its etched windows. It was nearly empty, but Chiara was there, with her cute arse and friendly smile, cheerfully pulling pints behind the bar. Oh, sod it, just the one drink. * By the time he’d sunk his third pint, he’d calmed down considerably. After his fourth, he felt  quite sanguine about the world and was even able to laugh about his trouser- wearing wife and the  way things had turned out. Fuck it, if she really wants Ellie to become some kind of feminist  replica of herself, so be it. What do I care? He pulled out his phone and dialled the landline.  They’d had rows before and, like all the rest, he bet this would prove to be just another storm in  a teacup. When he heard Laura’s voice on the other end of the line, he knew everything was going to  be all right. And as he listened to his wife’s soothing and apologetic tones, he suddenly  remembered that tomorrow, tomorrow he was having coffee with Katie Novotna.

The Beasts of Belmont Park will launch on 5 November 2015

Hud Saunders was born and bred West Londoner, raised in the passionately feminist household of his single mother. He became a father himself at 22, shouldering the responsibility of parenthood, and struggling to make ends through a variety of jobs – builder, baker, candlestick maker. This novel pays homage to his eclectic experiences, and the even-handed attitude with which he approaches life – none of the characters come out looking good!