The Girl From Barefoot House

by Maureen Lee

  ‘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.

  5

  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.’

  He laid his hand flat on her stomach. ‘Pleased to be of service, ma’am.’

  Since Dinah had gone, she had missed having someone there with whom to discuss the events of the day. Ben was particularly soothing to be with. They had been together three months, and he was a perfect companion, utterly reliable. She would have trusted him with her life. If Ben said he would telephone at six, or arrive at seven, he would keep his promise to the dot. He looked up timetables for her, met her off trains, made sure her car was serviced and filled with petrol, kept an eye on when insurance premiums we
re due, found things she had lost. He even brought her tea in bed each morning, and generally looked after her in a way no one had ever done before. She felt dearly loved and very precious.

  They were virtually living together in Huskisson Street, though he hadn’t properly moved in. He returned to his flat in Princes Park to change his clothes, do his washing, keep the place dusted and tidied. He wanted to move in permanently, but Josie had put him off. ‘Not just yet, let’s leave it a while,’ she had said gently.

  ‘Hmm. That’s nice.’ She sighed dreamily when he began to rub his hand in a circle on her abdomen. Closing her eyes, she immediately began to worry that she was using him. At the back of her mind there was a feeling that the relationship wouldn’t last, which was why she hadn’t wanted him to move in, give up his home. He knew she didn’t love him, not in the way he loved her, but it still felt wrong.

  Dorothy Venables turned up in a leather jacket and well-worn jeans. She was in her fifties, thin and lanky with dark, burning eyes and a badly scarred chin. She looked as tough as old boots. A cigarette dangled from her narrow, unpainted lips. Having been forewarned by Lynne, Josie had booked a table in a restaurant that didn’t have a dress code.

  Books were one of the few subjects not mentioned throughout the meal. Dottie – Josie had been told to call her Dottie – smoked between courses, slagged off the government, the aristocracy, royalty, the stock exchange, banks, building societies and any other bastions of the establishment that came to mind, using the sort of language that never appeared in her novels. Unmarried, her most scathing criticism was directed at men, most of whom she unreservedly loathed. Josie found it incredible that such tender love stories could have been nurtured in so cynical a mind. Even so, she liked down-to-earth Dottie Venables very much. Lynne was right. Josie just knew they would become great friends.

  Josie and Lynne had come by train, and would make their own way home. Lynne went to see her mother in Brent, and Josie to the West End to do some shopping, then to Holborn to meet Dinah after work.

  Her daughter emerged from the high-rise office building carrying a briefcase, looking anxious and flustered. ‘I don’t like leaving so early,’ she said.

  ‘Early!’ Josie looked at her watch. ‘It’s twenty-five to six.’ She thought Dinah looked rather pale and much too thin.

  ‘Yes, but everyone works all the hours God sends, Mum. I felt dead conspicuous, being the first to leave. I hope no one noticed, else it’ll be a black mark against me.’

  ‘People should live to work, Dinah, not work to live.’ Josie took her arm and ushered her inside the first reasonable-looking restaurant they came to. ‘I’m sure not everyone works as hard as you say,’ she said when they were seated, ‘otherwise they’d have no home life.’

  ‘Well, no, not everyone,’ Dinah conceded, ‘but I’m the youngest assistant editor there, and the only one who didn’t go to university. I have to put in more effort than the others if I’m to get anywhere.’

  ‘And where exactly is it that you want to get, luv?’

  ‘I’ve told you before – to the top,’ Dinah said promptly. ‘Some of the senior editors fly all over the world, meeting writers. I’d like to work in the States one day, become an executive, edit a top magazine. I want to get on, Mum.’

  ‘Well, while you’re getting on, I wish you’d eat properly. You look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in ages.’

  ‘I’m too busy to eat,’ Dinah muttered.

  ‘I suppose you’ll be too busy to come home for your birthday.’ Dinah would be twenty-one in a fortnight’s time. It was a long while since she’d been to Liverpool. ‘We can have a party,’ Josie said coaxingly.

  ‘I can’t see me managing it, Mum.’

  Josie would have liked to discuss the matter more, but Dinah rushed the meal. She pointed to the briefcase and said she had stacks of work to do at home.

  The journey back seemed to take for ever, and Josie worried about Dinah the whole way. There’d been a hardness about her daughter that she hadn’t liked, yet beneath the hardness had been an air of vulnerability that touched her mother to the core. And she was admirable in her way. She could have had a cushy, secure job at Barefoot House, but preferred to make her own way in the publishing world. Josie sighed. Perhaps she was old-fashioned, but she felt a young woman of twenty should be out and about having a good time, not working herself to death in an office, skipping meals.

  Ben had been primed as to when the train would arrive, and was waiting at Lime Street station. ‘I’ve had some great news,’ he said joyfully. ‘I had a letter today from Cuba. Our Peter’s coming home for Christmas. I haven’t seen him in over two years.’

  Twelve people sat down to dinner that Christmas in Huskisson Street: Josie and Ben; a very tense Dinah; Peter Kavanagh, now a lovely bronzed young man, the image of Imelda; Francie O’Leary and his two little boys; Esther, Josie’s secretary, still alone; and Colette, Ben’s daughter, with her husband, Jeremy, and their twin daughters, Amy and Zoe. They were staying in Ben’s flat.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Josie swore, as she struggled with pans of vegetables and a giant turkey in the steaming kitchen. ‘I can’t believe I wanted a big family. I would have had this lark every sodding year.’

  ‘Need a hand?’ Francie poked his head around the door.

  ‘No, that’s the problem. You’re not the first to offer help, but I don’t know what to give people to do! Colette’s set the table, Ben’s organising the drinks.’

  ‘Can I peel a potato or something?’ He sidled into the room.

  ‘I did them last night, idiot. Can you see the white dish I was going to put the sprouts in?’

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘I think so. I need one like it for the carrots.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your Dinah? I think this might be the carrot dish.’

  ‘Ta, Francie. She’s working too hard, that’s what.’ She suddenly noticed Francie’s bizarre outfit. ‘Why have you come to Christmas dinner at my house wearing a nightshirt?’

  ‘It’s the latest fashion, Jose.’ He did a little twirl. The long white shirt almost reached the knees of his black velvet trousers. ‘Hey, I knew you and Ben were seeing each other, but I didn’t realise you were such a close item. I’m dead envious. If I’d known he was going to make a move, I’d have proposed to you at Lily’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh, Francie. You only say things like that to shock. If you’re not careful, I’ll find someone else to print me books.’

  ‘I let you go once, I’m determined not to let it happen again.’

  She snorted. ‘It’s a bit late. Anyroad, Mr O’Leary, it was the other way around. It was me that let you go.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He waved his hand. ‘Seriously, Jose, Ben’s a decent guy, but I hope you’re not going to marry him or anything daft like that. He’ll bore you rigid after a while. Here, let me help you with that.’ Together, they lifted the sizzling turkey out of the oven. ‘Me, now, I’m a different proposition altogether, but you already know that. And we were great together when we did the bed bit.’

  ‘Shush!’

  There were footsteps outside and Ben appeared. ‘I thought you might need some help. Will dinner be long? It’s chaos back there. The twins are starving, Simon and Alec are squabbling over something out of a cracker, Esther’s worried dinner might be so late she’ll miss the Queen’s broadcast, and our Peter and Dinah are having a flaming row about Fidel Castro.’

  ‘I think I might treat meself to a holiday,’ Dinah said somewhat surprisingly over breakfast on Boxing Day. Ben had left early for Princes Park to see Colette, and Peter, who was staying in Josie’s spare room, had risen at some unearthly hour to go for a walk. ‘I’ve enough money saved. I’ve never been abroad. We never managed to get to Los Angeles, did we?’

  ‘No, luv.’ Josie sighed. ‘But what about work? You can’t just take time off without telling anyone.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll give my boss a ring,’ Dinah said carelessly, which wa
s even more surprising.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Josie offered. ‘Cathy Connors and her husband have gone to the Seychelles for Christmas. She said the weather’s perfect this time of year.’

  Dinah blushed. ‘Actually, Mum, I’m going to Cuba.’

  ‘Cuba!’ Josie’s face burst into a delighted smile. ‘With Peter Kavanagh?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing in it. He said it’s a wonderful place, and I said I didn’t believe him. It’s a dictatorship, however benign. He invited me to come and look for meself. I’m only going for a fortnight.’

  Josie couldn’t have been more pleased. ‘I hope you have a lovely time.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Dinah said darkly. ‘Peter’s a dead irritating guy. He has these really peculiar opinions. All we do is argue.’

  A fortnight passed, and Dinah didn’t come back from Cuba. She wrote to say she had telephoned the company she worked for to say that she’d left, and had no idea when she would be home. She’d got a job in a hospital and was learning to speak Spanish. Peter had turned out okay after all, and they were sharing a flat. The Americans were shits, the way they treated the Cubans. Would Josie mind driving down to London and collecting her belongings from the flat? She’d given the landlord a month’s notice. The dishes were hers, the pots and pans were the landlord’s. In the oven there was a lovely casserole dish which she didn’t want left behind.

  ‘Why the hell should she give a damn about a casserole dish when she’s in Cuba?’ Josie wanted to know. ‘Your son has a lot to answer for, Ben Kavanagh.’

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Ben said anxiously.

  ‘Of course not. He’s a lovely lad. Though I wish he lived a bit nearer.’ Josie smiled wistfully.

  ‘So do I. I wonder if our children ever miss us as much as we miss them?’

  ‘I doubt it.’