The Girl From Barefoot House (51 page)

At six o’clock, Ben came to take Josie to dinner. He was staying the week with Marigold. ‘You didn’t say yesterday you had your own business. Our Marigold told me this morning. Who’d have thought it, eh? I’ve actually read two of your books.’

‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she said indignantly. ‘Did you think I was too thick to start a business?’

‘I never considered you even vaguely thick, Jose. You didn’t seem the type, that’s all.’

‘I suppose it was born of necessity.’ She glanced around the office, at the rows and rows of bright red books. ‘I was in a rut, and the thing just grew and grew.’

Ben had come in his car – the latest model BMW, she noticed. The job on the Isle of Wight must pay well. They drove into the countryside and ate in a little seventeenth-century pub near Ormskirk, with beams and an inglenook fireplace. Over chicken and chips, she told him about Richard’s suggestion. ‘But I’m not as entrepreneurial as I look. Barefoot House became a success despite me. It happened so gradually I hardly noticed. If I’d known I’d end up handling things like film rights and TV rights, I’d have probably backed off.’

‘I doubt it,’ he said comfortably. ‘Anyroad, most businesses start from nothing. Didn’t Marks & Spencer
grow from a stall selling candles? Or was that Harrods? Great oak trees from little acorns grow, so it’s said. Would you like to finish off this wine, Jose? I’ve already had two glasses, and I’m driving.’

He emptied the bottle into her glass. It had been an enjoyable, relaxing evening. They had talked, without a hint of strain, about when they had been children living in Machin Street, the things they’d done together, the times they’d had, about Lily and the tantrums she used to throw. He seemed to have got over the passion he’d once had for her, and she was glad. He had spoken about Imelda, how painful the marriage had been, how he and the children had suffered from her moods.

‘It would have been so easy to blame her, hate her, but the poor woman couldn’t help it. She was sick. If she’d had a physical illness, everyone would have been sympathetic, but people have no patience with the mentally ill.’

She was reminded of how kind he’d always been, how understanding. ‘Imelda was lucky to have had someone like you.’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ he muttered. ‘There were times when I felt at the end of my tether. I’m the sort who likes a quiet life.’

Mrs Kavanagh had remarked once, ‘Our Ben will make some girl a good husband, but not a very exciting one.’

‘He’s a soppy lad, our Ben,’ Lily had said.

He took out his wallet and picked up the bill. Josie watched his face as, frowning slightly, he counted out the money. It was a sensitive face and, despite all he’d suffered, the green eyes were guileless and innocent, like a child’s. He was a good man, through and through.

‘If you can spare the time before you go back, perhaps I could treat
you
to dinner,’ she said impulsively.

His face lit up. ‘I’ve always got time to spare for you, Jose. Not tomorrow, I’m seeing Francie. The night after?’

‘It’s a date.’

Josie woke suddenly with the eerie feeling that she’d just been sharply prodded in the ribs. The room was pitch dark, and the electric alarm clock showed thirteen minutes past three. She reached out a shaking hand to switch on the bedside lamp, terrified that another hand would grab it. She would never get used to sleeping alone in the big old house.

‘Who’s there?’ she enquired timidly.

No answer. Josie gritted her teeth and sat up. The bedroom was empty. She rubbed her left side, where there was the definite sensation of having been poked. Lily had had the irritating habit of poking people if she thought they weren’t listening, or had said something she didn’t like, a habit Josie had suffered from more than most. It had driven Francie to the verge of murder, as his ribs were unnaturally exposed.

It dawned on Josie that Lily was dead.
Lily was dead?
She would never see her friend again. ‘Lil,’ she wailed. ‘I want you back.’ She began to cry for the first time since Francie had called from the hospital to say Lily and the baby had died. The tears flowed for the girl who had been her best friend since they were six, whose death she’d been unable to grasp. Until now, when she’d been poked awake by an unseen finger.

‘You bitch, Lily Kavanagh,’ she whispered through the tears. ‘You did that on purpose.’ She’d like to bet that, all over the country, various Kavanaghs and a somnolent Francie O’Leary had been awoken by a red-faced, bad-tempered Lily, waving her arms and stamping
her feet because no one had acknowledged the fact that she was dead. No one had cried. No one had mourned, only her daughters and her two little boys.

‘You’ve left a great big hole in me life, Lil, and I’ll always miss you.’ Josie snuggled back under the bedclothes. ‘But if you do that again, I’ll bloody kill you.’

Two months later, on the first of July, Ben Kavanagh returned to Liverpool, having procured a job with a chemical company over the water in Birkenhead. He bought the top half of a large Victorian house in Princes Park which had been converted into two flats.

The evening after his furniture had arrived from the Isle of Wight, Josie helped arrange it in the big, elegant rooms.

‘You’ve got excellent taste,’ she said as she straightened the cushions of the comfortable three-piece, upholstered in coarse, oatmeal wool. The carpet was new, mustard tweed.

‘I got most of the stuff from Habitat. I like the modern look – plain colours, no curly-wurly bits on the furniture, white walls.’ He was stacking books in alphabetical order on a natural wood bookcase.

‘Shall I hang the curtains?’

‘Please. I put the fittings up last night. The rings are already in.’

The navy blue curtains took only a few minutes to slide on the pole. She found a screwdriver and secured the pole at each end, then took the screwdriver and another set of curtains, brick red, upstairs to hang in the bedroom. Here the carpet was grey. The bed had a slatted base, a polished plank for a headboard and was covered with a grey duvet. A wardrobe and six-drawer chest were equally unadorned.

She hung the curtains, secured the pole and sat on the bed to admire her handiwork. A bit Spartan, but what you’d expect of a man. Well, some men. Jack’s apartment in New York had looked as if he were about to hold a jumble sale.

Ben came in. ‘I’ll hang my clothes up tonight. They’re still in boxes.’

‘What else shall I do? What about ornaments?’

‘Don’t believe in them. I prefer the cool, uncluttered look.’ He sat beside her on the bed.

‘That chest looks very bare. It needs something.’

‘It’ll have a bowl for my small change, and that’s all.’

‘What about a little vase on the window-sill? I’ve got things in my attic you can have.’

He grinned. ‘They can stay in your attic, thanks all the same. Ornaments need dusting. I can live without them very well.’

‘You’ve always been so sensible and organised,’ she said admiringly.

‘It doesn’t seem to have got me anywhere.’ He laughed shortly. ‘So far, my life has been extraordinarily chaotic. My wife killed herself, and I’ve spent years living in places I didn’t want to live.’

‘Well, you can settle down now.’ She patted his knee. ‘You’re home.’

He put his hand over hers before she could remove it. ‘I’m looking forward to it, Jose. But I’d look forward to it even more if I were settling down with you.’

‘Ben!’ She tried to remove her hand but he wouldn’t let go. Instead, he took her other hand, placed her arms around his neck, and drew her towards him.

‘I won’t kiss you,’ he whispered. ‘I want you to listen, that’s all. I still love you. I know you don’t love me, and I won’t come out with all that guff about me having
enough love for both of us.’ He drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

‘You just said I was sensible, and it makes perfect sense for us to be together. I don’t want a commitment, I’m not going to propose. Instead, I’d like us to conduct a little experiment, which is what I do all the time in my job. When you feel ready, if you ever do, I’d like us to be lovers, not just friends. Let’s see how we get on, you and me, together, as a couple.’ He released her so suddenly, she almost lost her balance. ‘I’m not being very sensible now, am I?’ he groaned. ‘That was totally impetuous, and I’ve probably alienated you for ever.’

Josie didn’t speak. She went over to the window which overlooked the back of the house. A very old man was mowing the grass in the garden next door, and a woman about the same age, presumably his wife, was fetching in washing. She wondered what it would be like to have been married to the same person for forty or fifty years. Had she married Ben, they would have clocked up their silver wedding anniversary by now. Their children might be married, they might have grandchildren. She would never have experienced the ecstatic highs and the tragic lows there’d been with Jack Coltrane.

There was still no trace of Jack. It could be another twenty years before he resurfaced. But Ben was here, loving her still, loving her for a whole lifetime. He had always made her feel safe and secure, even when she was a child. But he hadn’t understood her need for adventure, even if it was only a few months at Haylands, because he wasn’t adventurous himself. But Josie was forty-seven, and Barefoot House provided all the excitement she needed. Jack Coltrane had never made her feel remotely safe or secure, but Ben would.

‘Ben.’ She turned. He was still sitting on the bed,
watching her, and the love in his eyes made her heart melt. ‘Oh, Ben!’ She sat beside him, laid her head on his shoulder. ‘I don’t deserve you. You make me feel a desperately horrible woman.’

‘You’re the woman I want.’ He kissed her lips, softly, gently, and she laughed. ‘You were always a good kisser. You haven’t changed.’

Nothing much had changed. He undid her blouse, caressed her breasts, kissed them, and Josie found it pleasant, slightly arousing, but that was all. She felt more aroused by his own mounting passion, which was catching, and the tenderness of his touch, the lovely things he said between kisses. He made her feel a uniquely special person, the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. She felt cherished and very fortunate that a man like Ben regarded her body, possessing it, as equivalent to finding the Holy Grail.

They reached orgasm together. ‘Darling,’ Ben panted. ‘Oh, darling, that was wonderful.’ He folded her in his arms, and she was conscious of his pounding heart, his body shuddering against hers. ‘Was it all right for you?’ he said anxiously.

‘More than all right, silly.’ It had been sweet and enjoyable. She would quite like to do it again.

Josie was founder and managing director of Barefoot House, but didn’t want to appear an autocrat so she called a staff meeting. Everyone crowded into her office, and she asked for their views on the company branching out to include another genre of novel.

‘What do you think? It’s ages and ages since Richard
suggested it, but I’ve had a lot of things on my mind lately, personal things.’

‘Why don’t we do westerns?’ This came from Bobby, the post-boy, who Josie was surprised to see there as he hadn’t been invited. But he was a cheeky character, blissfully unaware of his place in the office hierarchy. ‘They’re me fave.’

To her surprise, there was a rumble of agreement. ‘Westerns are like thrillers, always popular,’ someone murmured.

Josie thought westerns old hat, but didn’t say so. It was quickly turning into one of those times when she felt inferior to her staff, who were mostly far more experienced and knowledgable about publishing than she was herself. She folded her arms on the desk and tried to look cool and in charge of the situation.

‘Josie, do you know Dorothy Venables?’ asked Lynne Goode, who had come to Barefoot House almost a year ago.

‘I’ve heard of her, naturally.’ Dorothy Venables wrote women’s sagas that sold by the cartload. Her name was always near the top of the year’s bestselling writers.

‘I was going to talk to you about this anyway. She had a three-book contract with my old company,’ Lynne explained. ‘I was her editor. It was the only thing I regretted about leaving, parting with Dottie. We still keep in touch. She’s uneasy about signing a new contract since they’ve been taken over by this big, soulless American company. It’s the reason I left myself. I think I could persuade her to come to us.’

There was an even louder rumble from the assembled staff, this time of excitement. ‘I can’t believe you have
that
much influence, Lynne,’ Cathy Connors said jealously.

‘No one can influence Dottie. She’s more than capable of thinking for herself.’ Lynne smiled. ‘I’ve told her about Barefoot House. She’s a right-on feminist, though you’d never tell by her books. She likes the idea of being published by a woman.’

‘Would she want a massive advance?’ Josie enquired.

‘Probably, but you’d get every penny back, and more.’

Josie swallowed nervously. Women’s sagas! Dorothy Venables! Was she getting in too deeply? Would she be able to cope? She was aware of a dozen pairs of eyes, watching her intently, and felt a sudden thrill of excitement.
Dorothy Venables!
‘Sound her out,’ she said to Lynne. ‘If she’s willing, I’m willing, as long as she doesn’t want an advance that will bankrupt us.’ She grinned. ‘Or even if she does.’

Dorothy Venables telephoned an hour later. She spoke quickly and aggressively in a hoarse, gruff voice, with a strong North Country accent. ‘I’ve read about you, and I like the sound of you,’ she growled. ‘Come from a working-class background meself. We drank our tea from jam jars in my part of Yorkshire.’

Josie was unable to match such depths of poverty. She promised to draw up a contract. The advance agreed on was less than expected. Lynne said later it was only half what she had received for her previous novel.

‘She realised a figure like that might cause problems. She’s very kind underneath all that bluster. I’m sure you two will become great friends.’

‘Dorothy Venables!’ she crowed that night.

‘Never heard of her,’ Ben said.

‘She’s published all over the world in umpteen different languages. It’s like signing up the Queen. I’m going down to London next week to take her to lunch.
Lynne, one of me editors, is coming with me. They’re old friends. I sent Bobby out to buy some of her books. I want to read the lot before we meet. Gosh, Ben. Sometimes I can’t believe this is happening.’ She still felt nervous and strung out. She was lying on the pink and cream settee, her legs draped over his knee, and she smiled up at him. ‘I’m glad you’re here to talk to.’