Only One Naked Part 2 Read online

  Only One Naked Part 2: The Naked English Girl

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  ONLY ONE NAKED PART 2:

  The Naked English Girl

  by

  Cassie Caine

  Copyright Cassie Caine, 2015

  All rights reserved

  CHAPTER 1

  “This one, Mr Wilson?”

  “Next one along. 'Fraid you'll have to stretch for it!”

  Elongating her back, Maisie hooked two fingertips over the dusty, faded spine of a hefty tome about the Boer War and gave it a tug.

  She was teetering, in mid air, in something like the Lord of the Dance yoga pose – not for the first time. Hard to say exactly how it had happened, but climbing up the stepladder in a short skirt and putting on a bit of a show seemed to have become a key component of her sales technique over recent weeks. It wasn't the sort of thing they did in other bookshops. Still, it was great for getting the kinks of out your back. It also did a lot for Mr Wilson, to judge by his dreamy expression.

  The Boer War book slid off the shelf into her waiting palm, bringing a musty smell of old paper with it. The weight of it surprised her and she wobbled slightly on her lofty perch.

  “Oh, whoops-a-daisy, steady there.”

  His look of intense interest turning to one of concern, Mr Wilson put a hand on her bare leg to steady her, so high it very nearly went up her Mango sundress. Mrs Wilson did likewise, her painted nails chilly on her inner thigh. “Not to worry! We'll catch you if you fall!”

  I'm sure you will, Maisie thought, an image popping into her head of Mr and Mrs Wilson as a pair of cheerfully grinning crocodiles, eager to gobble her up.

  They were both sneaking sly peeks up her skirt. She didn't really see the point – they'd seen everything she had on previous occasions – but they were very good customers so she really didn't mind.

  “Phew! Thanks very much. I'm okay now.”

  “Better safe than sorry, that's my motto,” said Mr Wilson.

  Still gripping her firmly, they helped her down. The slender redhead found herself cornered between Mr Wilson, a natty ex-military man with a clipped moustache and a blazer with shiny brass buttons, and his tall, thin wife with her long, straying fingers.

  “That was exciting.” Maisie hugged the book, her cheeks colouring as she wondered what was coming next. The Wilsons had timed their visit well. It was the end of the day and they had the bookshop to themselves. It was just the three of them and deep, shadowy aisles closed-packed with printed matter of all shapes and sizes. While the Wilsons might have looked like, and mostly were, a harmless old couple, she wasn't entirely sure she could trust them to behave in these circumstances. Which, to be honest, was what she liked about them.

  Mr Wilson pinched the corner of his moustache. “Now, Maisie, Mrs W has something she wants to ask you... you'll be a good girl and hear her out, won't you?”

  “It's nothing really,” Mrs Wilson tittered. “It's only, we were hoping to arrange another of our little soirées, and we were wondering if you'd like to attend. You know, the usual thing. Just a few friends. Perhaps a little photography?”

  “Um, are you sure that's a good idea?”

  The last time they did that, Mr Wilson ended up in hospital.

  “It'll be fine. Do please say you'll come.”

  “If you're worried about me,” said Mr Wilson, “the sawbones has given me a clean bill of health. Fit as a fiddle.”

  Mrs Wilson poked a finger over the top of the Boer War book to touch the girl's milky-white clavicle.

  “They'll be champagne. Lots of it.”

  Maisie loved champagne. Her pert little mouth quivered slightly.

  “And caviar,” Mrs Wilson continued.

  “Caviar?”

  She felt her resolve weakening.

  Just then, the doorbell tinkled and a woman swept in. She was built on generous lines and wore flip-flops and a flowy floral maxi dress. Her face and arms were brown, her grey hair up in a neat bun. She took off her sunglasses and glanced around the aisles until her eyes alighted on Maisie.

  “Auntie Barbara!”

  Aunt Barbara owned the bookshop. Maisie had been standing in for her while she took a long, restful holiday in Normandy.

  “Auntie! I thought you weren't due back for another fortnight!” Maisie let out a squeak of delight and scampered forward to greet her, then remembered the heavy book she was carrying and stopped in her tracks.

  “Hello, you. I felt so much better, I got restless and decided to head on back and surprise you. Just dropped off my suitcases and came to see how you're getting on. It's alright, tend to your customers first.”

  “Okay. Did you want this book, Mr Wilson? You know Mr and Mrs Wilson don't you, Auntie Barbara?”

  They exchanged pleasantries. Her aunt watched carefully as Maisie entered the purchase in the ledger and rang it up on the till.

  Maisie couldn't help feeling a slight irrational fear that Mr and Mrs Wilson might say something incriminating about her escapades while her aunt had been away, but she needn't have worried. They behaved with decorum and excused themselves after a minute or two.

  “Seemed like very satisfied customers,” said Aunt Barbara once they were alone. “So you've been managing then?” She took up the ledger and inspected it. “This is really good, I'm impressed.”

  Sitting behind the desk in her aunt's battered antique swivel chair, Maisie purred with pleasure. She had done a pretty good job, in her own unconventional way. Despite the distractions of the Wilsons and posing for Nicole's life drawing class. But immediately the pleasure turned to disquiet. She was thrilled to see her aunt, of course, but what did this mean? Was she about to be sent packing? She'd grown to love it here, in Dalchester, working in the bookshop. She didn't want to go home.

  “Why don't we close up and we can have a nice chat?”

  A nice chat? Already she could hear her Aunt saying, “Thanks for all your excellent work, but you must be champing at the bit to get back to Slough.” Back to boring temp work? Back to the hotel of mum and dad? The very thought was enough to turn Maisie's stomach into a flip-flopping mess like a bundle of washing on a slow spin. What she needed was a delaying tactic, some way of putting off the conversation until her aunt had gotten used to having her around and she had become part of the fixtures and fixings.

  Thus she couldn't help heaving a sigh of relief when, just as she was flipping the sign on the door over from Open to Closed, a harassed-looking woman with short curly hair came bursting in and exclaimed breathlessly:

  “Barbara, you're back, thank God. I was just passing and I thought that was you. I need to talk to you. I'm in a terrible pickle.”

  The woman's mouth was wobbly, her eyes close to tears. Aunt Barbara took one look at her and ordered Maisie to fetch the emergency bottle of brandy from the back of the shop.

  By the time Maisie trotted back, Aunt Barbara was settled behind her desk as if she'd never been away. The distraught lady was fidgeting on a straight-backed chair, groaning and shaking her head as she tried to decide where to start her tale of woe. Maisie poured out a stiff drink, then hovered, unsure whether to stay or go.

  “Maisie, this is Miss Tweedle. She owns Heart's Desire, the erotica bookshop on Dowager's Walk. How's the erotica business, Hattie?”

  “Oh, you know – up and down like a pair of French knickers.” This was an old joke, apparently. Miss Tweedle chuckled briefly, then swallowed her brandy and subsided into gloom.


  On second thoughts, Maisie thought it might be better if she made herself scarce, so they could talk in private. But Miss Tweedle said, “No... Maisie, is it?... Stay, if you don't mind.”

  Aunt Barbara's brow was creased with worry. “What's going on, Hattie?”

  “I've got and done something really stupid.”

  “What?”

  Miss Tweedle groaned. “I've become a publisher!”

  Maisie and Aunt Barbara exchanged a puzzled glance. Miss Tweedle laughed hollowly. “Thought it would be fun to start my own publishing label. Fun! I'm releasing my first title next week, to coincide with the Dalchester Literary Festival.”

  “Congratulations,” said Maisie, only to bite her tongue as Miss Tweedle subjected her to a baleful look.

  “Don't you mean commiserations? If it's not a success, I'm totally screwed. I'll lose my shirt – and my sanity. Oh God, what was I thinking?”

  At a signal from Aunt Barbara, Maisie hastily refilled Miss Tweedle's glass. It emptied just as quickly as before.

  “What are you publishing?” asked Aunt Barbara.

  Miss Tweedle sniffed. “Jean-Louis Robbe's great erotic novel, The Naked English Girl. Actually, that wasn't plan A. Plan A was to get Jean-Louis to write an entirely new novel, his first in twenty years. Thought that would be a bit of a coup for a new boutique publishing label. I even paid him a decent advance. Unfortunately, the old coot failed to cough up a manuscript in time, so I've had to settle for issuing a reprint. I've got the author coming over especially, but what if no one's interested? He's so unfashionable. Even The Naked English Girl, which is a classic, an absolute keystone of erotica... no one reads it.” She buried her head in her hands. “Honestly, I could be facing ruin. What was I thinking? I'm dead meat.”

  “Come on, Hattie, I'm sure it's not as bad as all that.”

  “Sorry. It's the stress. It's all getting a bit much for me.” Miss Tweedle breathed in through soggy-sounding nasal channels and blinked red-rimmed eyes. “Thank Christ, I persuaded Jean-Louis to do a talk on how to write an erotica novel, and tickets for that have sold quite well. Only thing is, he's insisting on having a model in a bikini to assist him – a young, pretty one needless to say, else I'd do it myself, I'm not ashamed. Anyway, I haven't the first idea how to go about getting a model, so I thought of Maisie.”

  “Me?” Maisie blurted out.

  “I've seen what she's done for you here since you've been away, Barbara. You must have noticed the shop's been heaving.” A note of bitterness crept into Miss Tweedle's voice. “This one's been sucking away all the local trade with her porcelain good looks and her endless supply of short skirts. Especially my customers. Bloody sex maniacs. Not that I'm blaming you, poppet; you might as well flaunt what you've got while you've got it, because it bloody well won't last.”

  Maisie pushed down nervously on her tiny frock, wishing she could cover up more of her slim, creamy thighs.

  “Sorry, auntie. I just wanted to be useful and sell books. And they really don't seem to sell themselves.”

  Aunt Barbara allowed Miss Tweedle to run on for a few minutes more, then said, “Tell you what, Hattie, why I don't make it up to you by lending you my secret weapon for a day or two? She'll help out with this talk and around the shop, and do whatever she can to make the release of The Naked English Girl a roaring success. Won't you, Maisie?”

  Maisie was uneasily aware that people weren't supposed to lend people to each other like chattels. But then again, she'd be quite happy to be Aunt Barbara's chattels, just so long as she got to stay in beautiful, leafy Dalchester. Besides which, her heart couldn't help going out to Miss Tweedle, who already seemed halfway to becoming a homeless bag lady.

  “No problem,” she said reassuringly. “Whatever you need, Miss Tweedle!”

  It wasn't ideal, the fact that she would be out of the shop. Was this the thin end of the wedge that would see her bundled off back to Slough? But at least it would delay any conversations about her future for a couple of weeks. That would have to do for now.

  “Oh, thank you so much, Barbara, you're a life-safer!” Glimmers of tears peeped from the corners of her sad, droopy eyes as Miss Tweedle leapt up to kiss and hug Maisie's aunt. She didn't bother too much about thanking Maisie, rightly supposing that the pretty redhead was at her aunt's beck and call.

  There was only one outstanding matter of concern. After Miss Tweedle had gone, Maisie asked, “Are you quite sure this is okay with you, auntie? Miss Tweedle said something about a bikini. It wouldn't bother you, auntie, me, er, flaunting myself like that?”

  “Flaunting?” Aunt Barbara scoffed. “What a choice of word. We're not living in Victorian times, I don't think we need to worry about causing a scandal. Besides, it's all in the cause of literature.”

  “Oh! Okay then. Just checking.”

  Well, that was a relief. But could she be sure Aunt Barbara really meant it? After all, she wasn't to know that her darling niece sometimes had more than a bit of trouble keeping her clothes on.

  CHAPTER 2

  The following week, Maisie was still no clearer as to whether or not she had a future in the second-hand bookselling business. Her aunt hadn't said anything, and she hadn't dared ask. She'd carried on helping out at the shop, keeping her forays up the stepladder to a minimum but wearing various low-cut frocks to show willing. There'd been a slight falling off in custom, but nothing drastic.

  For the moment, she was more concerned about the talk. She felt nervous about the event, which was to be the centrepiece of the launch of the first title of Miss Tweedle's new publishing label. Since Miss Tweedle was annoyingly vague about it, there was no way of preparing, and she was worried about making a fool of herself. Still, she'd picked out a dainty triangle bikini which she was sure would look nice.

  On the day of the launch, Maisie, in a boho tunic and denim shorts and with her hair up in a scrunchie, cycled on her aunt's shopper to Dowager's Walk to help set up. By now, the Dalchester Literary Festival was in full swing. The media were in town, vans topped with satellite dishes clogging the High Street. The familiar faces of A-list novelists, celebrity chefs and comedians-turned-writers glowered, grinned or gazed soulfully from posters, and she gawped as a famous author – a beautiful tall, thin young black woman with several bestsellers to her name – swayed gracefully out of a minicab and into the foyer of the Dalchester Royal Hotel.

  She hadn't appreciated until now what a big deal the festival was. Every small business owner in town seemed to be cashing in on it, with restaurants and bars serving literary-themed menus and cocktails. No wonder Aunt Barbara had cut her recuperation short to rush back and resume the running of the bookshop.

  Maisie had expected Heart's Desire to be a seedy-looking place with blacked out windows and a hole-in-the-corner vibe. Quite the reverse, it was actually one of the smartest and grandest shops on Dowager's Walk, which was otherwise a fairly ugly, unloved side street. Rather than being discreetly blacked out, it had a big display window through which she saw a bright, tranquil space painted in soft pastels and light greys, like a luxury hotel room. Inside, the shop was divided into neat, orderly sections each with its exotic label – “Comix”, “Hentai Manga”, “'Eurotica” – and there was a glass case containing valuable rare editions in exquisite gilt bindings. In short, the shop had all the elegance and outward sophistication and air of being pampered and adored that Miss Tweedle herself lacked.

  The shop was closed for the day so that everything could be reorganized. The event was taking place at the rear of the premises, which meant that the central aisle had to be moved, rented plastic stacking chairs set out, a bar station set up for drinks and snacks. On top of that, there were several boxes of books to unpack, and piles of Jean-Louis Robbe memorabilia – old paperbacks with lurid covers, DVDs of film adaptations, posters, even some VHS videos.

  “Here we are, this is what all the fuss is about.” Huffing and puffing, curly hair even wilder than usual, Miss Tweedle cu
t open a box, pulled out one of the identical paperbacks stacked within and handed it to Maisie. “The Naked English Girl. Your very own copy. Would've given you one before, but the blooming things have only just arrived, hence the panic.”

  The paperback had a sunny yellow cover. Under the title was picture of a pretty girl, nude but for a straw sunhat and a pair of sunglasses with red plastic rims. She was lounging gracefully in a deckchair, reading a book which she held away from her at an angle so it didn't obscure the lines of her small breasts and flat tummy.

  “That's the original cover art,” said Miss Tweedle proudly. “The model was Jean-Louis' wife, Lise. You'll meet her later on, fingers crossed.”

  “What's Mr Robbe like?”

  Miss Tweedle looked up, box cutter in hand, and smiled.

  “He really is a great author. He doesn't let on, but you have to understand, Maisie, it's tough for him, adapting to a changing world. There was once a time when the sophisticated erotic novel was considered a cutting edge art form. But that changed, and Jean-Louis was cast out into the wilderness. True, there's been a whole new interest in erotica recently, but in a way that's made it even worse, because he's still forgotten, and now there's a whole bunch of Johnny-come-latelys steeling his thunder.” She sat on the box of books and sighed. “God, I hope this goes well, for his sake and mine. If only he would get on and write a new novel, really show everyone how it's done. Sad to say, the last I'd heard, he'd gotten absolutely nowhere. Maybe there's a reason he hasn't written a word in twenty years. Maybe he really is past it. I hope not.”

  Maisie felt sorry for poor Miss Tweedle and vowed to do her best to help. They were busily putting together displays of The Naked English Girl when there was a gentle tapping at the outer door.

  A tall young man stood there, a thin canvas bag, the sort you use to carry a laptop, slung over one shoulder. He was dressed in a slim fit tee and chinos and had soft, friendly eyes. He looked no older than about twenty. Around his slender neck was an ID card on a lanyard, which he held up for their inspection. Maisie opened the door a crack.