by Maureen Lee
‘You said some very intimate things that night, Francie.’
‘I wish I’d done them, not just said them.’
Lily was her own worst enemy. Josie didn’t know what to say.
‘I wouldn’t mind if I’d done anything wrong,’ Francie continued irritably. ‘You know, Josie, I swore to meself I’d never get married because I wanted to avoid this type of thing. I’m a laid-back sort of guy, I like to get on with people. I never cause trouble. If people like me ruled the world, there’d never be another war. If it weren’t for the lads, I’d do a runner. I can’t take much more.’
It was that bad! She’d speak to Lily, if she’d let her. Try to talk some sense into her bad-tempered friend.
She kept putting it off. Lily would be taking Simon to school, collecting Alec from playgroup, making dinner, making tea, just sitting down to the television, on the point of going to bed.
In the end it was Lily who rang her, early one morning when Josie was about to go down to her office. ‘I’ve got a lump, Jose,’ she whispered fearfully.
‘Oh, no, Lil! Where?’ Josie cried.
‘In me breast.’ She began to cry. ‘Will you make sure Francie looks after the boys properly when I’m gone? I don’t want to ask our Samantha. She’s only young, and she’s expecting again. Not that I’ll see it,’ she wept. ‘I’ll go in that hospice near Ormskirk. I’ll not let me family watch me suffer. I’m going to be dead brave, Jose. And don’t send flowers to the funeral. I’d sooner the money went to cancer research.’
‘Is it much of a lump, luv?’
‘Well, actually, I can’t find it,’ Lily sniffed, ‘though I’ve felt all over. But I had a mammogram last week, and they’ve written and said to come back this avvy for another. They’ve found something on the X-ray. Oh, Jose. I don’t want to die.’
‘You bloody idiot!’ Josie gasped with relief. ‘That might mean nothing at all, just that the X-ray hasn’t come out properly or there’s some quite innocent shadows. Even if there is a lump, the chances are it’s benign. It’s a bit early to be planning your funeral, Lil.’ The same thing had happened to Esther only last year. Mind you, Esther had been worried sick when she’d got the letter asking her to go back. She said, more kindly, ‘I’m not surprised you’re upset, but try not to worry. Would you like me to come with you to the clinic?’ She had arranged to drive to Rhyl to take a new author to lunch, but it would have to be changed. Lily came first.
‘Please, Jose. I don’t like worrying Francie.’
Another X-ray and a thorough physical examination revealed Lily’s breasts to be completely lumpless. They went to town to celebrate, and got slightly tipsy over a pub lunch. Then they linked arms and went shopping.
‘This is just like old times,’ Lily said. ‘But Liverpool’s so different from how it used to be. There’s no Owen Owen’s any more, where Francie threw me on a bed and sort of proposed. It’s Tesco’s instead.’
‘There’s no Blackler’s either, or Reece’s, where we used to go dancing.’
‘The Rialto burnt down,’ Lily reminded her.
‘Most of the cinemas have closed. And we’re two middle-aged women with grown-up children and greying hair.’ Josie laughed. ‘Everything changes, Lil. Us and Liverpool included. Come on, let’s have coffee in St John’s Market. That’s not half changed, too, since I used to go there with me mam.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for a while,’ Lily said when they were on their second coffee. ‘I’ve been rather busy, what with the boys. I thought … Oh, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t exactly been meself lately.’ She crumbled the remains of her scone. ‘I think Francie’s a bit fed up with me.’
‘That’s not like Francie,’ Josie said carefully. ‘He’s not the type who easily gets fed up.’
‘How would you know?’ Lily was immediately suspicious.
‘For goodness’ sake, Lil. We’ve both known him since we were sixteen. He doesn’t like people making waves. Remember when he walked out of that pub in Smithdown Road?’
Lily pursed her lips. ‘There was no reason for that.’
‘Yes, there was. You were moaning your head off over just about everything in sight. He couldn’t stand it so he left.’
‘I’d die if he left again.’
‘Then don’t make waves,’ Josie said simply.
‘Who said I was?’
‘You, in effect, when you claimed he was fed up. He wouldn’t get fed up without a reason.’
‘As I said, I haven’t been meself.’ Lily scowled. ‘He drives me mad when he walks away and all I want to do is talk.’
‘You mean nag?’
Lily suddenly grinned. ‘Probably. Anyroad, I’m going to be as nice as pie to everyone now that I’m not going to die. I was ever so scared, Jose, when that letter came. I’m glad I’ve got you.’ She squeezed Josie’s hand. ‘Thanks for coming with me.’
‘Think nothing of it. Now, let’s go try on those frocks we saw in that boutique in Bold Street. You’d really suit the red one. And I’ll treat you to a shampoo and set. I could do with a trim meself. Oh, and another thing, this new woman who works for me, Cathy, goes to a gym in the lunch hour. I thought I’d do the same in the evenings. I’m getting a paunch.’ She patted her stomach which was as flat as a pancake. ‘Why don’t you come with me, Lil?’
‘I must admit me figure’s not what it used to be.’
‘Then it’s a date. We’ll go together, twice a week.’
Dinah was homesick in London, but now she had a flat of her own and was determined to stick it out, become an international executive and travel the world.
‘Well, your room’s always here for you, luv,’ Josie assured her whenever she rang.
‘I know, Mum. It’s that thought that keeps me going, knowing I’ve got a real home in Liverpool if things go wrong. Is Barefoot House busy?’
‘Incredibly busy.’
Brewster & Cronin had bought the US rights to five books, and she had bought British rights to six of theirs. It meant Barefoot House would soon be producing a book a week. Josie was sometimes in her office until midnight, writing letters, reading manuscripts, making phone calls to New York where the time was five hours behind.
One of her books reached number five in the bestsellers chart, and stayed there for almost two months, an achievement only surpassed by William Friars, whose transfer to Havers Hill she’d read about in Publishing News, though there was no mention of when his new novel would be coming out.
My Carnal Life was reprinted for the eighth time. Val Morrissey reported that Miss Middleton’s Papers was being seriously considered by a Hollywood company, Close-up Productions, for a film. Josie rang Julia Hedington when she knew her children would be home, in case she fainted at the news.
One hot, clammy morning in July, Cathy Connors came into Josie’s office holding a manuscript. Josie recognised the look on her face straight away. She’d read something that wasn’t merely a run-of-the-mill enjoyable thriller, suitable for publication but unlikely to set pulses racing throughout the land. She’d read a ‘breaking new ground’ book, as Josie called them, different, exciting, innovative.
‘This is marvellous,’ she said in a rush. ‘I read it last night – all night, in fact. My husband thought I’d fallen asleep downstairs when he woke up at four o’clock and I wasn’t in bed. The thing is, Josie, the author’s only twenty-one. He lives in Northern Ireland.’
Josie looked at the cover. My Favourite Murderer, by Lesley O’Rourke. ‘It’s a woman,’ she said. ‘The man’s name is spelled differently.’
‘Of course! I’m so tired, I can hardly think.’
‘I know the feeling. Go home, why don’t you? Have some sleep. I don’t expect my employees to work all night. I’ll read this later. I’d start now, but I’d never get a minute’s peace.’
Cathy said she’d slip off at midday. ‘You’ll enjoy that, Josie.’ They smiled at each other. ‘I almost envy you, having it to read for the first time.’
; ‘There can’t possibly be a better recommendation than that!’
Everyone felt lethargic with the heat, despite the open windows and electric fans. The front door was propped open. Even Richard’s typing wasn’t at its usual fast pace. The telephone hardly rang; perhaps all over the country people felt the same. Cathy went home, Richard and Bobby went to lunch. Eric was still to arrive. There was only Esther in Reception when Josie went upstairs to take a shower and change her soggy clothes. It was one of the advantages of living over the office.
She emerged from the shower, feeling only slightly fresher and longing for a little nap. The heat was debilitating. Half an hour wouldn’t hurt, on the bed in Dinah’s room, which was at the back of the house, much quieter. She put on the alarm in case she slept all afternoon.
The high-pitched beep sounded thirty minutes later. Oh, Lord! She felt worse, not just tired but groggy. Her head seemed to be stuck to the pillow, she could hardly hit it. And she’d had a terrible dream, a nightmare, in which Francie had slain Lily with an axe, and Laura had been watching, laughing. Then the dream changed. Mam appeared, crying bitterly, and Josie began to cry with her. ‘Stop that!’ Aunt Ivy screamed, pinching her wrist. The dream changed again. She was with Jack in the snow-covered garage in Bingham Mews. ‘I love you,’ Jack whispered. ‘I don’t want you to go.’ But Josie had flown away, soaring up into the night sky until the world below disappeared, and she was alone in the stark, black wilderness, knowing she was destined to stay for ever, that she would never see another human being again.
She rolled off the bed, put on a towelling robe, went downstairs and made tea. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She dried them with her sleeves, blinking because the room looked so weird. The units, the taps, the kettle – all seemed to have two outlines, the real one and another, slightly fainter, behind. She couldn’t wait to go down to the office – talk to Esther, ring Lily, do some work – so everything would seem back to normal.
‘Is anyone there?’
The voice, a man’s, came from downstairs. Josie went on to the landing and peered over the white bannisters. A blurred figure, framed by a halo of dazzling sunlight, was standing in the doorway, clutching a travelling bag. Not many people came to the office without an appointment. It was probably a salesmen, offering stationery at a discount, or office machinery. Esther would see to him. At any other time Josie would have done it herself, but she was wearing a bathrobe. It would give a most unbusinesslike impression, even if only to a salesman.
Esther must have gone to sleep. The man’s eyes, probably blinded by the sun, hadn’t yet adjusted to the change in light, and he hadn’t notice the door marked ‘Reception’.
‘There’ll be someone with you in a minute,’ Josie called.
The man stepped inside and shaded his eyes with his hand. He looked up, saw Josie, smiled. ‘Hi, sweetheart,’ he said.
It was Jack Coltrane.
2
Over the years, Josie had sometimes imagined how she would greet her ex-husband should they meet. Coolly, she had decided, even though the longing to see Jack again was never far away. But she had her pride. He’d made no attempt to contact her. ‘Why, hello, Jack,’ she would say with a warm, slightly distant smile.
Never had she thought she would burst into tears, race downstairs, throw herself in his arms and hungrily kiss him, as if it were only yesterday they had parted.
‘Jack, Jack, Jack.’ She kept saying his name over and over between kisses. ‘I’ve just been dreaming about you. Oh!’ she wept, ‘I felt so sad. I flew away, and you wanted me to stay.’
It really was only like yesterday when he held her face in both hands, kissed the tears, then her trembling lips. He touched her hair, pressed his cheek against her burning forehead. She felt his body shudder. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, drawing away, embarrassed. ‘I’m feeling a bit … weird! You must think I’m mad, throwing myself at you like this. It’s been twenty years …’
‘Hey.’ He pulled her back in to his arms. ‘I like you weird. I expected to be shown the door. This is a welcome surprise.’
Esther opened the door of Reception, blinked and quickly closed it. Richard and Bobby’s voices could be heard outside, returning from lunch.
‘Let’s go upstairs.’ Lord knew what they’d think if they found their employer in her bathrobe with a strange man. She pulled Jack towards the stairs.
Had he come another day, had she not just had the awful dream, felt so distinctly weird, no doubt she would have greeted Jack with the warm but distant smile. Instead, when they reached the landing, out of sight from down below, they kissed again.
‘Let me look at you,’ Jack said huskily, and undid the knot on her robe. It fell in folds around her feet. His eyes travelled slowly over her body, and she felt every single nerve quiver, turn to liquid, and was filled with desire. ‘You’re as lovely as ever. I’ve missed you, sweetheart. You’ll never know how much.’
‘I do, Jack. I’ve missed you.’ She looked at him properly for the first time. He looked tired, she thought. His face was thin and drawn, and there were tiny crinkles beneath the warm brown eyes, perhaps slightly duller than they used to be. Deep, craggy lines ran from nose to jaw. But his hair was as black and thick as it had always been, and lay in the same careless quiff on his forehead. His skin was brown, from the Californian sun, she assumed. The off-white linen suit he wore over a plain white T-shirt was crumpled, but worn with such casual panache it looked smart. Some men were lucky, she thought enviously. Age served them well. Jack was fifty-one, but as charismatic and attractive as he’d always been, possibly more so.
He reached out and began to caress her breasts, brought her closer, stroked her waist, her buttocks, slid his hand between her legs. Oh, this is mad, she thought wildly. This is quite mad. It’s been twenty years …
‘Come.’ She drew him up another flight of stairs, to the bedroom, where she lay on the bed, inviting him. He kissed every part of her body, made her come with his tongue, with his hand.
‘Jack!’ she said urgently. She badly wanted him inside her.
He laughed joyfully and began to remove his clothes. ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ he said incredulously, and the familiarity of his smile, his closeness, the way his hair flopped down in front of his eyes, made Josie gasp. He bent over her, and she stroked the brown skin of his arms, his chest, noting somewhere at the back of her mind that he’d lost a lot of weight, too much.
When he entered her, it was as if a miracle had occurred. This was something she had thought would never happen again. But it had, and it was almost too much to bear. She giddily wondered if it was just another dream, like the one she’d had before, and any minute she would wake up and he wouldn’t be there.
But then it was over. She was lying in Jack’s arms, and it wasn’t a dream. It was real.
‘What I’d like now,’ he said comfortably, ‘is one of your famous cups of tea. I’m still in throes of jet lag.’ He gently kissed her lips. ‘You’re a very demanding woman, Mrs Coltrane.’
‘I’ll get dressed.’
He watched her find clean pants and bra, and slip into a thin white cotton frock and sandals, then began to put on his own clothes. Two floors down a phone rang, and she realised she had forgotten all about Barefoot House, which could manage perfectly well without her.
‘The kitchen’s on the floor below.’ In Maude’s room! She went down, put the kettle on and was waiting for it to boil when she heard his footsteps on the stairs and smiled at him through the open door.
He smiled back, but she wondered why he was walking so stiffly. Why did he have to concentrate so hard, hold so tightly to the bannister, as if he was worried he’d fall? At first she thought it was the jet lag, but a chill ran through her bones when she realised he was drunk. He’d been drunk when he’d arrived, and he was drunk now. Not mildly, not even moderately, but completely, totally inebriated. And he was so used to it, it was so much a part of him that he’d learnt to cope, to conve
rse, to pretend, when he’d probably been drunk for days, for months or it might even be for years.
‘What made you come?’ she asked over the tea. His hand, holding the cup, was shaking slightly. They were in the lounge, sitting together on the pink and cream settee.
‘Two things. Remember Bud Wagner? He was always round at the apartment.’
She shook her head. ‘No.’ She remembered hardly anyone from those days.
‘Well, he remembers you. He runs a literary agency in New York. We’ve kept in touch, and he sent an article from the trade press about a company – I don’t recall the name – buying the US rights to books published in Britain by a firm called Barefoot House. That rang a bell. You’d told me that’s where you lived with Louisa Chalcott. When I read that the firm belonged to Josephine Coltrane, I knew it could only be you.’
‘What was the other thing?’
His lips twisted ruefully. ‘Dinah.’
She remembered, too late, one of the reasons for the cool reception she had planned, the warm, distant smile. He had ignored the letter telling him about Dinah. ‘You took your time, Jack.’ She tried not to spoil things by sounding cold. ‘I wrote to you about Dinah on her fifth birthday. She’s twenty in September.’
‘I only got it last week, sweetheart. I showed Jessie Mae the article, told her who you were and she gave me the letter. It’s Mae with an “e”, by the way, she’s particular about that.’
She’d actually forgotten he had a wife! If only he’d arrived yesterday, or tomorrow, when she was fully dressed, with a clear head, when she hadn’t felt so damn weird.
‘Coral used to open mail that came from the lawyers about the divorce,’ Jack was saying. ‘We were living together by then.’
‘Who’s Coral?’
‘My wife. She died two years after we were married. Leukaemia.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was horrible to hear him say, ‘my wife’, when it wasn’t her he was referring to. ‘Then who’s Jessie Mae?’
‘She’s my daughter, stepdaughter. She’s nineteen, same as Dinah. I have a stepson too, Tyler. He’s twenty-one.’