Only One Naked Part 2 Read online

  “But what about Aunt Barbara? What would she say?”

  “I'll explain everything to her later. It's not like she can complain – you're doing this for art.”

  As far as Maisie could tell, she would be doing this for Miss Tweedle's bank balance. But she nodded glumly. Why did everyone think it was no big deal for her, going naked?

  Showing a rare turn of speed, Miss Tweedle nipped across the yard at the back to another shop to borrow a deckchair that had been used in a display the week before. Lise bundled Maisie into the office and shut the door behind them. It was the first time she had been back there since her brush with the unknown the night before, and she felt herself coming out in goosebumps. Then she yelped as Lise grabbed the little shift dress she was wearing and yanked it clean over her head, leaving her standing there in just her heels and a dainty white bra and panty set.

  “I can undress myself, you know,” Maisie grumbled. But Lise was already unfastening her bra with deft fingers, snapping, “Vite! Vite!” Sighing and wondering why, unlike other girls her age, she found it so hard to keep her knickers on, Maisie resignedly pushed down her panties.

  The door opened and Miss Tweedle stepped back in, her grin telling them her mission had been successfully accomplished.

  “Are you sure this is legal?” Maisie asked, standing nervous and completely nude between the two ladies, doing her best to cover her quivering pink parts with her arms. “I mean, I don't want to get arrested or anything.”

  “It'll be fine. There's a festival going on. The usual rules go out the window.”

  “And the naked girl goes in the window,” said Lise brightly. Pulling Maisie's arm away from her breasts, she rubbed lotion into them with a quick patting motion that was all the more intimate for being so casual, then refreshed her lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. As a final touch she planted a sunhat and sunglasses on Maisie's head. Maisie couldn't help reflecting that, considering this was supposed to be a spur of the moment thing, they seemed awfully well prepared. Could they have been planning this all along?

  The two women steered her across the still-empty shop towards the window display, which had been cleared of its clutter, and where the deckchair now sat at an angle, awaiting her. Jean-Louis' desk had been placed with its back to where Maisie would be sitting. This meant that the customers, should they arrive, would be able to gawp at her both from from the street and while they queued to have their book signed.

  “You don't think we should just postpone till a better time?” pleaded Maisie, digging in her heels.

  “Nonsense!” Lise shoved her forward. “Keep your hat pulled down over your face, if you're worried about people recognizing you.”

  It didn't seem like the most helpful of suggestions, but in lieu of any better advice, she did just just that, burying her chin in her chest and tilting the hat down over her eyes as she settled into the deckchair. Lise handed her a copy of The Naked English Girl. She immediately opened it wide and held it in front of her face, carefully positioning her forearms so that they hid her nipples. Her legs were tightly crossed in an effort to ensure that passers-by wouldn't be able to see that she went completely hairless down below. It wasn't an entirely comfortable pose, but it could have been much worse, exposure-wise.

  All the same Maisie's heart was in her mouth. This is insane. How did I let myself be talked into this? she wondered, aghast at her own foolishness. It was one thing to model nude, as she had done last night, for a select group who could be relied upon to behave themselves, quite another stripping off in front of the general public. Who knew how they could react, what they would do, or what the fall-out might be?

  On top of that, it was stiflingly hot in the window. Caught in the full glare of the sun, she felt like a chicken in an oven. She prayed for clouds. Instead, she got crowds.

  As though the sight of her had somehow robbed them of the use of their legs, people began to collect in front of the window, sticking to the pavement like flies to flypaper. Chuckling Asian tourists, sweaty shoppers clutching carrier bags, people on the way to or from work, parents with kids, there they stopped, some grinning, some slack-faced, all groping for their smartphones. Miss Tweedle bobbed among them, taking photos with a small digital camera.

  With mounting alarm, Maisie witnessed all this through her sunglasses, which granted her a modicum of privacy and allowed her to observe everything that was going on even as she pretended to be absorbed in her book, turning over a new leaf at regular intervals.

  Every now and then she would get uncomfortable and have to uncross her legs and cross them again the other way. Catching onto this, a slim, artsy-looking teenage girl stood there patiently with the lens of her Flip camcorder trained on Maisie's crotch. Maisie was willing to bet that that particular bit of footage was going to wind up on the Internet, playing in ultra slo-mo.

  Yet while some of the crowd just stood and gawped, a fair few were decent enough to come inside, see what was going on and buy a copy of the book. Sitting just off to her right, Jean-Louis was kept busy doing signings, and there was a steady crackle of camera flashes as people took photos and selfies with the author, with naked Maisie forming the backdrop. People who had never heard of him before suddenly wanted to know who Jean-Louis Robbe was. By now those intimidating piles of paperbacks she and Miss Tweedle had unpacked yesterday must surely be looking less steep.

  Then, peering out through her sunglasses over the top edge of her book, Maisie suddenly noticed something that made her blood run cold: a police uniform among the throng.

  A pretty young female constable was staring in at her, eyes narrowed, lips drawn in a thin, tight line, one hand on her utility belt, the other on her walkie talkie, as if poised to call in a case of flagrant public disorder.

  Maisie blenched. If she hadn't been frozen with fear she would have bolted from the deckchair. She jumped as a hand touched her bare shoulder. It was only Miss Tweedle, leaning in to reassure her. “Don't worry, poppet, I'll handle this.”

  Miss Tweedle hurried outside to engage the constable in conversation. All the time they were talking, the girl in uniform kept her eyes locked on Maisie. The way she was fingering the end of her baton was enough to make Maisie feel faint with terror. The slim redhead heaved a sigh of relief when the constable finally went on her way.

  “There we go,” Miss Tweedle returned and whispered into her ear. “All sorted. She said we can have another ten minutes.”

  “How did you get rid of her?” Maisie whispered back.

  “She's one of my regulars, always having a nose around the lezdom section. Anyway, she agreed to turn a blind eye so long as you would go out on a date with her.”

  “What?” Maisie wailed.

  “Shush! Stay in character. Anyway, I gave her your number. Expect a call.”

  Maisie buried her face in The English Naked Girl, stifling a moan. Pimped out to a butch WPC! Could this week get any worse? Still, look on the bright side – at least now she knew that she only had another ten minutes to go before she could experience the bliss of wearing clothes again. And while she was counting her blessings, it was a bloody good thing that Ben hadn't turned up early and seen her flaunting herself – that would have been totally galling! What if he'd taken a photo and published it on Litstop, where her auntie might have seen it? No, don't think about it … Christ, she was sure she was going to get it in the neck from Aunt Barbara for this.

  When the ten minutes was up, Miss Tweedle tucked a shawl around Maisie's shoulders and helped her to her feet. The crowd's phones jumped into action smartly. The shawl left Maisie's lower body bare and for a moment, as she struggled to get up, they had a nice view of her baby-smooth cleft, followed by her perky little backside and another glimpse of plump labia from the rear. She came down off the deckchair trembling but excited, and darted as quickly as she could into the office, cameras crackling in her wake.

  “We've shifted fifty copies, that's one for every two minutes you were up there!” Miss T
weedle had followed her into the office, beaming. “Took some brilliant photos too. Look!”

  Given that she hadn't even had a chance to put her knickers on yet, Maisie wasn't really in the mood for admiring amateur photography. But, clutching the shawl about her, she glanced politely at the back of the camera while Miss Tweedle shuffled through the shots she'd taken. She recoiled as she got an eyeful of bare flesh – her own, which only made it worse.

  “Well, I never said I was David Bailey,” snapped Miss Tweedle, sensitive as ever.

  “No, they're … er … very artistic. Just please don't show them to Auntie Barbara.”

  “Why not? She's as artistic as they come, that one.”

  “I suppose. But she's also my aunt. It would make me feel funny.”

  “So she gives you bed and board and she's the only one who doesn't get to see you with your clothes off? Doesn't seem very fair.”

  Maisie's sugary little mouth opened into a perfect oval of outrage. But before she could think of a cutting reply, Miss Tweedle peeped out through the door, which was still a few inches ajar, and remarked airily, “Hello, here's your friend Ben.”

  “Oh lord! Don't show him the pictures either!”

  Miss Tweedle shook her head, as though to suggest that it was hard work dealing with such a diva, then trotted off, patting at her wiry hair. Maisie closed the door behind her and treated herself to a heartfelt sigh.

  She couldn't face seeing Ben, not until she had her clothes back on and had had a chance to calm down a bit.

  By the time Maisie had slid back into her sundress, the hubbub outside had subsided. Just like that, it seemed, the shop had cleared, as people remembered that they had other places they needed to be on this busy Festival week.

  Hearing Ben's soft, pleasant voice, she couldn't resist opening the door a crack and peering out. He and Jean-Louis were sitting down in the now-quiet bookshop.

  “So, Mr Robbe, you've spoken eloquently about the importance of a muse, and how your wife Lise inspired many of your novels. But I can't help wondering, are any of your books autobiographical? Do they draw on any of your own experiences? The Naked English Girl for instance?”

  “It is interesting that you should ask that. In most of my stories, there is probably more fantasy than autobiography, truth be told. But The Naked English Girl is different. It was based on an actual affair I had with a very beautiful young lady from your country. It is okay to mention this because Lise and I were on a break at the time. She knows everything and she is not jealous. Isn't that so, my darling?”

  “Maybe a little bit jealous,” Lise laughed.

  “A little jealous,” he grinned. “But the point is, there, where I had fact to draw upon, I tried to be truthful to it. Ah, excuse me.”

  Jean-Louis grabbed a Kleenex and wiped his nose. The pollen count was apparently bothering him again today.

  Ben lowered his eyes politely and then asked another question. Maisie was impressed by how serious and professional he was being. Not that she was totally paying attention. Maybe it was something to do with the way her nerves were all jangled from her long bout of nudity, but she couldn't help gazing at his lean shoulders in his tight-fitting Dalchester Literature Festival T-shirt, the play of muscles in his arm as he made notes.

  Patting his long, regal nose with a flesh Kleenex, Jean-Louis continued to answer every question with charm and honesty, until Lise called him away to take a phone call from France. Maisie was just about to nip out and say hello when she noticed Ben doing something weird while the elderly writer's back was turned. Surreptitiously, he reached out towards Jean-Louis' crumpled Kleenex, which was sitting there forgotten on the table, and palmed it. His hands hidden under the table, he wrapped in inside a clean tissue, then slid both into his trouser pocket.

  What the...? Why would anyone steal a soggy tissue? She was stumped for an explanation. All she could think was that Ben was a keen collector of literary memorabilia. Or maybe he was hoping to sell it on eBay. After all, he was just an unpaid intern, perhaps he needed the cash. But would Jean-Louis Robbe's used tissue really have any kind of resale value?

  She was still pondering this conundrum when he turned and spotted her. He started, looking guilty. She reassured him with a smile and a wave.

  “Hi. How's the interview going?”

  “Great. He's just on the phone.”

  It seemed cruel to mention the tissue, so she said nothing.

  Miss Tweedle wandered up. “You missed some fun earlier, Ben. Maisie's just been –”

  “Selling books,” Maisie cut in quickly. “Selling, selling.”

  “Well, you are a bookseller.”

  “Exactly.” Her phone bleeped, telling her she'd received a text. She checked it and pulled a face. “That was quick!”

  “What was?”

  “Oh, I've been set up on a date.”

  She was satisfied to see that Ben didn't look at all pleased.

  “With another woman,” she added.

  “Oh?” Now he looked intrigued. He was a normal guy after all.

  “Jean-Louis' waiting.” she pointed out. And indeed the author had finished his call and was now sitting, ready to resume the interview and dabbing his nose with another collectible tissue.

  “Did you say something about a date?” Miss Tweedle said to Maisie. “Not tonight, I hope. Everything's gone so well, I'm having a little celebratory dinner. I'm counting on you being there.”

  Maisie had been looking forward to having some free time again, but she nodded agreeably. A celebratory dinner couldn't hurt.

  CHAPTER 6

  After all she'd been through, Maisie thought she was well within her rights to expect a slap-up meal at a nice restaurant, with the wine flowing. She was therefore decidedly underwhelmed to learn that Miss Tweedle would be cooking for them and that they would be eating in her little flat above Heart's Desire.

  Given how little care Miss Tweedle took of herself, Maisie worried that the flat would be plain and untidy and the food likewise. In fact, she was surprised, that evening, to find herself in an attractive double-aspect room decorated in antique bordello style. There were erotic prints on the walls, a small round mahogany dining table at one end, a plush Victorian chaise longue and two matching chairs at the other. In the middle was a broad, leather-topped desk.

  Off this room were a tiny bedroom, a bathroom and a galley kitchen whence some delicious smells were emanating.

  Apparently Miss Tweedle was serving some Provencal dishes in the Robbes' honour. Jean-Louis was in there with her to see how she was doing, and to judge by the happy noises he was making, they were on course for a tasty supper.

  That left Maisie alone in the lounge with Lise, who pressed a large glass of red wine into her hand and drew her away to stand among the heavy velvet furniture.

  “You look more beautiful than ever tonight, my dear,” Lise observed. She spoke, not to flatter, but with the acuteness of an experienced ex-model, turning Maisie by the elbow so that she could admire the line of her back, bare to well below the shoulder-blades.

  “Why, thank you,” Maisie preened. Restaurant or not, she had pulled out all the stops. She looked sleek and tidy in a short, strappy Desigual slip dress in a bold chrysanthemum print, with her hair up in chignon. And why not? It was every day she dined with a famous author – or once famous, soon to be famous again, fingers crossed.

  “Listen, little one, you have done much for us already, but I need to ask one more favour of you. You know Hattie gave us money for a new book? We would return it if we could, but regrettably we can't. It's killing Jean-Louis, not to be able to do this, it makes him feel like an old man. So it's for his sake – and also for Hattie's, so she'll have something to show for her investment, something to sell – it would be nice if, before we go home, she could announce on your friend's website that a new Jean-Louis Robbe novel will be published very shortly.”

  “I couldn't agree more, Lise. But what can I do to help?”

&n
bsp; “Isn't it obvious? It stares us in the face, no?” Lise reached up one heavily ringed hand to stroke Maisie's cheek. Her crackling little voice lowered itself to an urgent whisper. “I want you to do for him what I used do. I want you to be his muse.”

  Maisie recoiled. “Me? Oh Lise, I couldn't.”

  The hand dropped to her shoulder, holding her firm. “Yes, you can. I saw his eyes when he looked at you last night. You bring out the spark in him.”

  “But how –?”

  At this point Jean-Louis came bustling in. Maisie was left to wonder exactly what Lise had in mind. Soon they were sitting down, enjoying a Salade Nicoise and a bottle of rosé. There was only just enough room at the table for the four of them – which perhaps explained why her aunt hadn't been invited, and hadn't been surprised that she hadn't – and the atmosphere was cosy and informal. Much to her astonishment, Miss Tweedle was an excellent cook. As always when she was in the presence of good food, Maisie forgot her worries and gave herself over to the simple pleasure of clearing her plate. Only eventually, when they were on the dessert, did she notice that the conversation had reverted to the topic of muses.

  Lise was saying, “Do you remember all those times, Jean-Louis, when you would be, what is the word, stumped, and I, I spent all night flaunting my body, describing my deepest fantasies?”

  “And in the morning, I had a novel.” Jean-Louis chuckled fondly at the memory. “Golden years. Not that I do not still find you a constant inspiration, my love.” He lifted her bejewelled little paw, pressing it lightly and fondly to his fleshy lips. Their eyes sparkled at one another over the table.

  So sweet! Maisie sighed to herself, spoon halfway to her mouth. They were still so obviously in love.

  “But it is a new era. For that you need a new inspiration.” Lise looked at Jean-Louis with solemn eyes, then turned to curl her heavy lips invitingly at Maisie, who immediately wished she'd kept her head down. “I have seen how alive you have been around this young girl. I believe she can do for you what I no longer can.”