Only One Naked Read online

  Roger had followed her. She signalled him to go and get her dress, but he shrugged in bafflement.

  The operator was talking on. As well as some details about Mr. Wilson, they insisted on taking Maisie's name. “Are you a relation?”

  “No, I'm his –” She was on the point of saying 'bookseller', but that sounded absurd, so she mumbled, “I'm a friend.”

  It wasn't until after the words were out of her mouth that she realized how shady this sounded. If they'd thought before that it was strange that a young woman who wasn't a relation was phoning up, by now they would be scenting scandal.

  Sure enough, the operator asked, “Did anything bring the attack on? What was the gentleman doing at the time?”

  “He was a – it was a party.”

  “With alcohol?”

  “Yes.”

  “And any other entertainment?”

  She paused. She was almost certain this wasn't a standard question. The way it had gone straight to the point completely petrified her. At the same time, she couldn't bring herself to lie when a man's life was at stake.

  “Some – some photography.”

  “I see.”

  She could hear the cog's turning in the operator's mind, but nothing more was said.

  “Can I put the phone down now?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She hurried back inside and knelt next to Mr. Wilson. Thankfully, he didn't seem any worse. Then, all aflutter, she stood up and roughly pulled on her dress. It looked very tarty to her now. Mrs. Wilson's CD was still playing. It sounded like stripper music, so she turned it off. She was still worried about that operator – she'd bet anything he'd gone straight on the radio to the ambulance driver with all the dirty details. Important for everyone's sake to make a good impression when they arrived. She cast her eyes around for her thong. It wasn't anywhere to be seen. And the dress was barely decent without it.

  “Has anyone seen my thong?”

  Most of the group were too distraught to pay her any attention. Roger ostentatiously avoided her eye. She was pretty sure he'd scooped it up in the confusion, the sick old pervert. She was trying to summon the nerve to confront him when the bell rang.

  No one else moved, so she went to answer the door. As she did so, she became terribly conscious of her dress. A strong gust of wind, and everything would be on view.

  She opened the door on two burly, solemn young men. Their lips crinkled slightly when they saw her.

  “You're the, er, lady who called?”

  Flushing, Maisie nodded and pointed them into the living room. The paramedics knelt down next to Mr. Wilson and began fiddling with their stethoscopes. While they worked, Maisie stood well back, anxious for Mr. Wilson but feeling more and more like an outsider.

  One of the paramedics beckoned for her. Pressing her hands down on the front of her dress, she stepped forward shyly.

  “I understand there was some kind of photography session? Were any illegal substances consumed? Did any physical contact take place?”

  “No!” she said, shocked. “No, I swear!”

  He looked disbelieving. In another ten minutes, the ambulance was moving off, Mr. Wilson inside. As they watched it go from the front garden, Mrs. Wilson stood next to Maisie, sobbing on her shoulder. Maisie felt distraught, but also out of place.

  “Well, I'd better be getting off home,” she said gently. “I do hope Mr. Wilson will be alright.”

  The others, Maisie knew, were planning to follow the ambulance in taxis. Mrs. Wilson looked up, wet cheeked. “Oh, you'll come too, won't you, Maisie?”

  “Um ...”

  “It'll mean so much to Derek. You won't desert us?”

  Maisie hesitated. A lengthy visit to hospital in a short dress with no underwear seemed like a recipe for further humiliation. On the other hand, she was fond of Mr. Wilson, and, although it was hardly her fault she'd been stripped naked in front of him, she couldn't help feeling somewhat responsible for his condition.

  Ten minutes later, she was being bundled into a taxi with Shirley and Mrs. Wilson, squashed between them in her pale green dress like a lettuce leaf. There followed a very drab time at the hospital. They waited for hours in a quiet corridor, sitting in a row. She must have drifted off.

  A hand gripped her shoulder and shook her awake. A pretty young nurse leaned over her.

  “For God's sake, cover yourself up!”

  Maisie discovered that it was broad daylight. The surrounding chairs were full of out-patients. During the night her dress had ridden up over her hips, and she was flashing everyone.

  Blood rushing to her cheeks, Maisie squirmed upright. She pulled down her dress and stammered an apology. The nurse gave her a haughty look and strode off down the corridor.

  Maisie was aware of eyes boring into her – some curious, some amused, some disapproving, a few disappointed that the show was over. She was alone. Where were Roger and Maddy and Colin and Shirley and Mrs. Wilson?

  Too self-conscious to sit still, she stood up and, her hands carefully pushing down her dress, trotted in what she hoped was the direction of the ward. She walked along a grey corridor and peered through a doorway. Four beds down, she saw them. They were all gathered around Mr. Wilson, who spotted Maisie and waved. Apart from being in a hospital robe, he looked his usual self. Tearing up with joy, happy as a dog reunited with its owner, she bounded forward, only to almost collide with the angry young nurse from before.

  She shrank out of the nurse's way, then hurried to the bedside. The others made room for her. Mr. Wilson patted the bed. She perched on the edge of it. Close up, he seemed pale and shaken, but there was plenty of strength in the hand that squeezed her knee.

  “It was just an episode, so they tell me,” he explained. “With any luck I should be out by the end of the day or tomorrow morning.”

  “We were going to wake you,” said Mrs. Wilson. “But Roger convinced us that it was a shame when you were having such a nice sleep.”

  “How thoughtful of him,” said Maisie.

  One slow, drowsy afternoon the following week, Mr. Wilson reappeared in the bookshop. His step was spry, and he was wearing a smart blazer with a crest. He glanced around and saw that he had the place to himself. “Hello, Maisie.”

  Maisie sat up straight behind her desk. She threw back her shoulders, clasped her hands and rubbed her knees together. She'd missed him.

  “Mr. Wilson, how are you?”

  “Tickety boo, thanks. Been doing a lot of resting. And a lot of reading. It's about time I stocked up on a few titles.”

  He glanced meaningfully at the stepladder.

  “Oh! Are you … sure? You wouldn't rather wait in case you strain your, er, eyes?”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I could take another look at that encyclopedia of great battles?”

  “Yes, Mr. Wilson.”

  Heart pounding, Maisie rose from behind the desk and seized the stepladder. She was halfway up it when Mrs. Wilson came wafting through the door.

  “Ah, there you are, Derek! Found anything yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Mr. Wilson. “No hurry, is there?”

  “None at all.” Mrs. Wilson joined him. She looked up grinning. “Good afternoon, Maisie.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wilson.” Maisie spoke in a small voice. She could see where this was going.

  “ Now I come to think of it, I could do with a good book myself. What an eye-catching top shelf! Where, oh where, shall I start …?”