Only One Naked Part 2 Page 2

  “Hi, I'm with Litstop.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Litstop? The Dalchester literary festival's official online newsletter? Name's Ben. Saw the poster for tonight's event in your window and I wondered if you'd like us to give it a plug for you?”

  “Well, that would be nice,” said Miss Tweedle, who had overheard and jumped to her feet, “especially as I emailed you a press release last week. And got absolutely sod all response.”

  The boy flinched at her biting tone – or maybe it was at the belligerent way she was clutching her box cutter.

  “Ah! Sorry about that. My bad. There's just the editor and us unpaid interns, so it hasn't been easy keeping up.” Thinking quickly, he said, “Event's not until six-thirty, yeah? Not too late to get the word out. I'll get it sorted right away, if you like. Could I come in?”

  Stepping inside, he pulled a tablet out of his bag. “Would you happen to have a copy of the PR release?”

  “I can probably lay my hands on one.” Still far from mollified, Miss Tweedle put down the box cutter and flounced off to the inner office.

  Ben picked up one of the gleaming new paperbacks and perused the blurb. “A naïve English girl with boyfriend problems goes to the South of France and meets a sophisticated older man,” he read out loud.

  His left eyebrow – it was soft and fluffy, a perfect match for his eyelashes – twitched in amusement. Maisie stared back coldly, out of loyalty to Miss Tweedle's publishing venture, but also because she wanted him to know she was a serious bookseller with a suitably mature and humourless attitude towards her literary wares.

  Miss Tweedle returned with a printout, which he scanned with practised speed. “There's going to be a live model? That's different.”

  “Yes, Maisie's doing the honours.”

  In an instant, Maisie's expression of frosty superiority gave way to a rosy blush. Great, so much for being taken seriously. Now he would think she was just some glorified piece of tottie who was only here for her bosoms, not her brains. It was only a matter of time before he started leering and mentally undressing her.

  Or was she overreacting? Slightly annoyingly, Ben seemed in too much of a hurry to give her much thought. Instead, after taking no more than polite interest in this latest revelation, he moved briskly about his business, using his tablet to snap a few photos of one of the Naked English Girl displays, with the pair of them standing on either side of it.

  “I'll write this straight into the back end. Won't take more than a few secs.” He sat down at the sales counter and began typing. Hypnotised by the sight of his thumbs tapping away at the tablet's touchscreen, Maisie was caught off-guard when he suddenly asked for her name.

  Did she want her name bandied about all over town on an e-newsletter? “Just say 'a model',” she decided. “Or better yet, 'an anonymous model'.”

  He curled his lip. He had nice lips, she noticed.

  “What's wrong with that?”

  “First rule of journalism – accuracy. There's not a single anonymous thing about you.”

  Was he flirting with her? She tilted her chin coquettishly. Miss Tweedle harrumphed. “Are we about done?”

  “Drop in a pic. Save. Hey presto, it's live on our landing page.” Ben held up the tablet for them to see. There their faces were on the Litstop website, right next to the horsey grin of Lee Gurney, a comedian whose scandalous tell-all autobiography had just been released in hardback. “I'll tweet it around too, give it a boost. I'm sure it'll be a great success.”

  Conscious that Miss Tweedle hadn't exactly showered him in gratitude, Maisie hung in the doorway for a moment as she saw Ben out and treated him to an extra sweet smile. “Thanks for that.”

  “No worries. Best of luck with your modelling gig.”

  She rolled her eyes, trying not to show how nervous the mere mention of it made her feel.

  “You know what, I don't think I've ever met anyone with such a keen sense of duty to literature. Maybe we ought to do a follow-up interview sometime?”

  “Maybe,” she grinned.

  He held her gaze for a fraction of a second, then turned and moved off, quickening his pace as he hurried to catch a bus. She followed him with her eyes for a moment. Then she heard Miss Tweedle:

  “Maisie! I've just had a text from Jean-Louis!”

  The French had arrived.

  CHAPTER 3

  Now it came to the crunch, Maisie was nervous about meeting her very first erotica author.

  She had one main worry as she parked at the railway station, having dashed across town in Miss Tweedle's dusty Skoda to collect Monsieur Robbe and his wife and bring them back to the shop. What if he was totally sex mad?

  You'd have to be, wouldn't you, to write a book like The Naked English Girl? And for all she knew, after his long, dull journey he could be champing at the bit to sample some local talent. God, she hoped not. It wouldn't help the launch to go smoothly if she had to keep fighting off some horny old gent with octopus arms.

  Hurrying onto the platform, she found it packed with press and excited autograph hunters awaiting the London train. No chance that they were there for Jean-Louis Robbe, alas. Word must have gotten out that some other, more newsworthy personage was en route.

  Sure enough, when the train pulled in, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway of the First Class carriage, cocking his head like a budgie on amphetamines.

  It was Lee Gurney, the comedian. It seemed like just a second ago that she had been looking at his beaky grin on the Litstop site. Now she thought about it, she remembered seeing something on Twitter about him coming up before a magistrate for drink driving offences and being stripped of his licence. He could have slipped into Dalchester quietly by chauffeured car, but presumably arriving by train like this was a calculated act of bravado, an ironic gesture that would reap even more headlines.

  For some minutes the platform was impassable, dense with a media scrum. It only began to clear when the comedian, having tossed out a few soundbites and posed for a few selfies, moved on in search of a taxi to take him to his hotel.

  As the hubbub died down, Maisie discerned a distinguished, slightly elderly couple making their way slowly up the platform, wheely bags in tow. The man was tall, in a well-cut casual suit, with the big, kind, sad, sloping face of a Newfoundland. His wife was a pretty, petite little thing turned stout and matronly, all butterscotch tan and fluffy, coppery curls. They were both swathed in silky scarves.

  Spotting the copy of The Naked English Girl in her hand, they trundled towards her, wreathed in smiles.

  So this was the notorious author? He seemed harmless enough at first glance, but you never could tell!

  “Mr and Mrs Robbe?”

  Maisie moved forward to introduce herself, then stiffened as the writer kissed her on both cheeks in greeting. “It's Jean-Louis, please.” Thankfully he kept his hands to himself.

  “Welcome to the Dalchester Literary Festival. Here, let me take those for you.” Stepping back from him just to be on the safe side, she relieved them of their wheely bags, which they were only too glad to surrender. “This way.”

  Trundling the bags behind her, Maisie led them to Miss Tweedle's car.

  “You work for Hattie?” Lise was looking about her, patting at her many pastel-coloured scarves with a hand jingling with beaded and woven bracelets.

  “She's a friend of my aunt's. I'm just lending a hand for a day or two while you're here.”

  “That's exceedingly kind of you.”

  “Not at all, glad to help,” Maisie said, tugging one of the bags out of a pothole. This would have been a good time to reveal that she would also be the model at this evening's talk. But she felt shy of mentioning it, not that they wouldn't find out soon enough.

  As they plodded across the car park, the departing press pack were climbing into a fleet of taxis. Maisie couldn't help reflecting on the difference between the reception poor Jean-Louis was getting and the one accorded to Lee Gurney, whose four-lette
r-word-laced memoirs would no doubt soar to the top of the bestseller lists as a result.

  “Here we are!” Grunting with effort, she packed the bags into the boot of the Skoda. As she leaned forward to give them a last shove, her billowy Pepe Jeans tunic rode up the small of her back and the curves of her bottom strained against her denim cut-offs in an eye-catching way. Her sixth sense told her this had not gone unnoticed. Glancing up, she expected to find Jean-Louis ogling her, but he was innocently blowing his nose – apparently he suffered badly from hay fever. A pair of eyes was watching, though. They belonged to Lise, and they sparkled with amusement... and something else.

  Maisie coloured, uncertain what to make of this. However, by the time she was driving them across town, she started to think that her mind must have been playing tricks on her. The Robbes seemed like such a sweet couple. Fussing over each other, speaking in gentle, cooing French. As for the supposedly sex mad Jean-Louis – the more she looked at those large, reassuringly friendly features, the harder she found it to believe that they could harbour a single dirty thought.

  Deciding it was silly to keep silent about it, she chirped, “Actually, I'm not just helping out with the chauffeuring. I'm also going to be – er – assisting with the talk this evening.”

  She glanced at Jean-Louis half-curiously, half-fearfully, wondering how he would take this bombshell. Her imagination quickly played out all kinds of scenarios, from cries of gratitude for helping out an impoverished author, to renewed attempts to grope her.

  In the event, he hardly reacted at all – just nodded benignly, then asked a question about Dalchester's one way system.

  Maybe he hadn't heard her properly? Or not understood her English? Or maybe in his world girls stripped down to their bikinis all the time, and it was nothing to get all het up about?

  She had a lot to learn about erotica authors.

  Miss Tweedle had tea and cakes waiting for the Robbes when they arrived – she planned to settle them in their hotel herself a little later on, as it was only a short walk away. No sooner had he said hello and hissed Miss Tweedle's plump cheeks than Jean-Louis nipped straight back out again. Supposedly it was to enjoy the one cigarette a day Lise allowed him, but Maisie suspected he had been moved almost to tears by the sight of the displays and posters for The Naked English Girl that festooned the shop.

  Noticing the way Maisie was eyeing the cakes and pastries, Miss Tweedle muttered to her, “Tuck in, poppet. Glad someone can eat.”

  It was typical of Miss Tweedle that she couldn't even let someone enjoy a deliciously creamy treat without piling on the guilt, Maisie reflected, grabbing an éclair and moving out of the bookseller's way. But then you had to remember she was under a lot of pressure. There was tremor in Miss Tweedle's hand as she passed Lise a cup and saucer. “I don't suppose there's any sign of a new manuscript, is there?”

  Lise shook her russet curls in an emphatic non. “Hattie, I understand your frustration. But I must ask you, please not to press him on the matter. He is devastated, you understand. It is terrible for him that he cannot write; it makes him feel like an old man near to death.”

  Her ears pricking up at this, Maisie peered out through the window worriedly at Jean-Louis. He looked sturdy enough, puffing away on his Gauloise with his cashmere scarf flung rakishly over one shoulder, but you never could tell, maybe he was on the verge of keeling over. Was Lise telling the truth, or was she putting a guilt trip on their distraught publisher, doing to Miss Tweedle what Miss Tweedle did to everyone else? If Miss Tweedle had been planning to say anything, this plea was bound to give her second thoughts.

  Miss Tweedle gazed dolefully into her cup of Darjeeling. “I know, Lise, it's just... I've poured my life savings into this.”

  “And he already has put much time and effort into it, to no avail. To press him will only make it worse. We can only hope for inspiration to strike. Who knows, maybe this talk tonight will... what is the expression? Get his juices flowing?”

  “Yes. Or maybe something else will.”

  With that, they both glanced furtively at Maisie. Realizing they were looking at her, she smiled back, wondering if she dared ask for another cake.

  CHAPTER 4

  The piece on the Litstop site must have done the trick, because Heart's Desire was full of people that evening. They filed through the door, buying their tickets from Miss Tweedle, then helping themselves to wine and cheese, and browsing among the copies of The Naked English Girl and the other Jean-Louis Robbe memorabilia that was spread everywhere in rich array.

  Maisie observed all this from the safety of the shop's little storeroom-cum-office. Here she, Jean-Louis and Lise were hiding out until it was time for the talk to start. They were standing there in the twilight, with just a desk light on and the evening sun filtering through the reinforced glass window of the back door.

  She was still very anxious, mainly because she had no idea what to expect. She'd gone home, soaked in a bath, done her hair, buffed herself up, and now here she was in a robe over a bikini and a pair of high heels. It was like posing for one of her friend Nicole's life drawing classes, but in a way even worse. This was a talk about erotica, after all. The S-word was in the air.

  Jean-Louis appeared to be experiencing some trepidation too. Lise was rubbing his hands and cooing to him in gentle undertones. Maisie wished someone would coo at her.

  The only good bit of news was that Aunt Barbara had stayed away, on the grounds that she didn't want to make Maisie self-conscious. Maisie was scanning the crowd through a crack in the door, making doubly sure that her aunt wasn't lurking somewhere, when she spotted someone else she knew.

  Ben from Litstop had wandered in, looking alertly to left and right. He'd changed out of his faded tee into a fitted midnight blue long-sleeved shirt that accentuated the wiriness of his frame and the pallor of his skin.

  She beckoned him over.

  “I felt guilty about the mix-up earlier, so I thought I'd do a follow-up piece for the newsletter,” he told her, propping himself casually against the doorframe as though they were old friends.

  Or had he come to get a peek at her in her swimsuit? There was a twinkle in his eyes, or a nervous glitter, she wasn't sure which. The thought made her heart beat hard and fast in her chest.

  “Who is that, Maisie?” asked Lise.

  Maisie opened the door wider and pulled Ben inside. “Mr and Mrs Robbe, this is Ben. He's a writer too.”

  “An intern for the Festival newsletter, that's all, I'm afraid,” Ben corrected, shaking their hands bashfully.

  “And I'm a notorious pornographer,” Jean-Louis smiled. “No, correction – once notorious. We are neither of us proper writers yet but maybe one day, eh?”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir. I wouldn't want to bother you this evening as I know you're very busy, but maybe I could catch you for a brief interview sometime while you're here?”

  “We have a book-signing tomorrow,” said Lise. “Come along afterwards.”

  “If that wouldn't be any trouble?”

  “No trouble at all, young man,” Jean-Louis chuckled. “We almost-writers should stick together.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy... everything,” said Maisie after they'd settled on a time.

  “Actually, I'm still not quite sure what you're doing.”

  “That makes two of us,” she confided to him.

  He gave her a look that was sympathetic and wryly funny, then drifted off to the back row, his face becoming serious once again as he took out a pad and pen. No sooner had he gone, than Miss Tweedle appeared, looking flushed and excited. “We're sold out and they've already eaten all the cheese and pineapple. Think it's time to get started!”

  Fingers crossed behind her back, she sallied forth to invite everyone to take their seats and to deliver a short, stumbling introduction.

  Maisie watched all this numbly, only half-listening. She had thought she had just about gotten used to the idea that she was going to be parading around in v
ery little clothing in front of a bunch of strangers. For some reason, though, the discovery that Ben was going to be here had set her all aquiver. What was it exactly she was feeling? Sheer terror? Or could it be a weird kind of pleasurable excitement? Hard to say, but whatever it was, it was making it very difficult to concentrate.

  To polite applause, Jean-Louis was summoned out front to meet his audience. Lise wandered out after him and watched from the sidelines. Maisie stayed where she was. The first part of the talk would consist of Jean-Louis' reflections on his career, plus some readings from The Naked English Girl. She wasn't needed for that bit.

  Because of the state of her nerves, Maisie found it hard to pay attention, but it was obvious even to her that Jean-Louis was being very charming. Sitting on a high stool in his crisp linen suit, with his open shirt collar, his healthy tan and his neatly combed silver hair, he looked the very image of a literary lion, belying his actual rather modest stature in the world of letters. Luckily, his hay fever didn't seem to be bothering him too much this evening.

  “I'm aware of the heavy irony of giving a talk on how to write erotica when I haven't actually written any myself in twenty years. All I can say is, when it did happen for me, it happened in a trance. Experience was certainly important. Many of my books have elements of autobiography, I am not ashamed to admit that. But that alone wasn't enough. One other thing was key. In those days my muse, my lovely wife Lise, inspired me to such a pitch... I'd better not say how exactly... but we would stay up all night, and by the end of it I would have a first draught. Then I would edit, expand, move sections around; but that first draft was the foundation.”

  On he went, drawing the audience into his world. Exactly because he made light of his situation so gallantly, Maisie felt sorry for him and became even more determined to do a good job when it was her turn to join him in the spotlight. She couldn't entirely forget Ben, though, and kept glancing his way. He was busy making notes, his face almost stern as he focussed on the pad on his knee.