by Cassie Caine
“Hey, thought I'd run into you here. But you look like you're going, not coming.”
She turned to find Ben smiling at her. He scratched his stubble and hitched his canvas bag onto one thin shoulder. “Fancy a coffee?”
One bat of his big, long-lashed eyes, and she ditched her plan to go home and crash. It would be nice to spend a bit of time in the company of someone her own age.
“What's that interesting-looking folder thingy?” he asked a few minutes later when they were sitting down in a nearby cafe over savoury croissants and mugs of frothy latte.
“Jean-Louis' new novel,” she told him reverently as she gobbled her breakfast. “I was his muse.”
“How did that work?”
“How...?” Maisie choked on a crumb of pastry. “Well, I – just, er, inspired him... generally... You know, the normal muse stuff.” Idiot, why hadn't she thought before she'd spoken? Ben seemed easy-going enough, but she wasn't sure how he would react if he found out she'd been taking her clothes off yet again. She cleared her throat. “Anyway, I've got the only copy and I'm going to be the first person to read it.”
“Big responsibility. What if it's a load of old poo? What will you tell him?”
She stared at him, crestfallen. “Oh lord, I hadn't thought of that! That would be terrible. It might give him a heart attack or something. I hate it when I do that to old people.”
“Not to worry. It's bound to be amazing, with you as the whatchamercallit.”
He was probably just saying it, but the compliment went a long way towards cheering her up. She leaned forward confidentially. “It'd make a juicy piece of gossip for your site though, wouldn't it? Sources close to the author reveal that the twenty year wait for a new Jean-Louis Robbe novel might soon be over.”
“Definitely.”
“You can use that word for word, if you like.”
“Thanks.”
She sat back. Miss Tweedle would be proud of her for plugging the book so quickly. “And just think, when they hear what it's done for Jean-Louis, lots of other authors will want to come to the Festival too.”
Ben said nothing. As he glanced at her over his coffee mug, his wry expression seemed to suggest that the obliteration of Jean-Louis Robbe's writer's block had less to do with the Festival than with a certain redhead sitting not too far away from him. Then it was his turn to clear his throat. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure. I'm an open book.”
“No, seriously, tell me if I'm out of line?”
She nodded and waved for him to continue.
“It's just, doing things like the talk, you know, the modelling? Is it nerve-racking, or does it get you, er... hot under the collar?”
“I wasn't wearing a collar.”
“Yeah, so I remember. Vividly.”
She wasn't quite sure how it was that they found themselves back at her place. As she'd hoped, her aunt wasn't there – she'd already gone off to open up the bookshop. They kissed and cuddled inside the front door, on the stairs. Finally they made it to her little bedroom.
He started to unbuckle his belt.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Bad manners to make love with your trousers on.”
“Yes, but don't you want to undress me first?”
“Narcissist.” He refastened his belt and moved towards her. “Well, at least let me take this off so it doesn't poke you in the eye.”
He tossed his identity card to the ground. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs and cupped her bottom. He tugged on her panties, pushing them down to mid-thigh. Wanting them off, she wriggled and made them fall the rest of the way, then stepped out of them. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he lifted her up by the waist. “The dressing table,” she hissed in his ear. From there she hoped she would be able to see herself in the wardrobe mirror. He sat her down on it, knocking aside pots of cream and tubes of lipstick. Its painted top was cold on her bare behind, making her open her lips in a silent gasp. He kissed her, his furry cheek tickling her small, pointed chin, his tongue brushing her even white teeth.
He pushed her legs wide. His eyes smouldered at the sight of her blushing labia in the shadow of her rucked up skirt. He stepped between her open knees.
“Alright. You've shown me. Now I'll show you.”
She nodded, her heart in her mouth. Ben unzipped his flies and yanked out his cock. It was narrow and lean, its head an angular as a snake's. It pointed straight towards her as though she was the only thing in its world. He touched it to her inner thigh. She gnawed her lip. It was hot, almost scalding against her sensitive skin. He dragged it up one leg, then across her smooth-shaven mound and down the other thigh. Then, snuggling closer still, he let it nose its way up under her skirt until it butted her in the belly button. She arched her back, her bottom wiggling sexily, grinding her flat belly against his erection.
Craning her head over his shoulder, she glanced into the wardrobe mirror. All she could really see of herself were her knees, either side of Ben's taut, chino-clad bottom. Maybe if she leaned sideways...
“Where are you going?” Pulling her upright again, Ben hoisted the dress up over her head, exposing her small round breasts and rose-pink nipples to the dappled sunlight breaking in through the tree-shrouded bedroom window. He took half a step back, the head of his penis slithering down and rubbing itself against her clit. It stayed them for a moment, its moist heat causing firework displays behind her eyeballs. Then it dipped, dove inside her, thrust. She heaved a deep breath, her diaphragm tightening with desire, her eyes closing, her bottom lifting clear of the dressing table as she wrapped her arms around Ben's neck, and she forgot about the mirror for the moment.
Later, she was snoozing happily among the tangled bedsheets, when she was became dimly aware of Ben getting up, shuffling around, zipping up his flies or that bag of his or both. He kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“Places to go, I'm afraid. But this was lovely.”
She nodded, too contentedly sleepy to respond. Even if she wanted to move, she couldn't have – her limbs felt like warm butter, half-melted into the mattress. She heard him tiptoeing downstairs, closing the front door gently behind him.
Eventually, Maisie dragged herself out of bed. She needed a shower. Sauntering back into the bedroom, all cleaned up, she was tempted to climb back under the duvet again, but she decided she ought to read the manuscript. She wasn't exactly a fast reader, and if she was going to get it back to Miss Tweedle any time soon, she'd better make a start. Besides, she was curious – what sort of book had she inspired? Standing there in a towel, yawning, Maisie reached for the pretty antique folder and untied the faded red ribbon. Suddenly she was wide awake, a chill running over her from head to foot.
The folder was empty.
CHAPTER 8
Maisie stared at the empty folder. Jean-Louis' manuscript! Gone! And only one person who could have taken it – Ben!
But why?
He had to be some kind of mad literary memorabilia collector. Or perhaps an unscrupulous dealer, who was prepared to go to any lengths to service his crazed clientele. It seemed absurd, but all the evidence pointed in that direction. Look at the way he had snatched up Jean-Louis' Kleenex! And now he'd used her to scoop up the biggest prize of all!
For a moment, she felt helpless with horror. She couldn't even imagine what Miss Tweedle would do to her when she found out she'd lost the manuscript. As for the Robbes, it would devastate them. And this would prove once and for all to Aunt Barbara that her niece wasn't fit to run a bookshop. Yes, she'd be chucked out like a set of old encyclopedias.
No, no, I can't let that happen. I've got to get the manuscript back!
But how? Call Ben, threaten him, plead with him, tell him she knew what he'd done! Only one problem with that. She'd slept with Ben without even bothering to get his number. Not only am I a rubbish bookseller, she moaned to herself, I'm a total slut too!
She sat down on the bed, ey
es leaking tears, shoulders shaking as she began to snivel. Her bare heel touched something cold. On the floor, between her feet, was Ben's identity card. The thieving bastard must have been so keen to make off with his prize that he'd forgotten to take it with him. She snatched it up and glared at it. There, under his photo, was a contact number for Litstop.
Hallelujah!
She keyed the digits into her mobile phone. After a few rings, a bored-sounded man with a Northern accent picked up. When she asked for Ben, he mumbled something about him being out on assignment.
“Where?”
“Um, can I ask what this is regarding?”
“I want to punch him in the face.”
It probably wasn't the best thing to say, but her show of exasperation worked, because the terrified man blurted, “The Reading on the River event. Down at the Riverbank Leisure Centre.”
Maisie hung up. The Riverbank Leisure Centre! If she took the cycle path she could get there in five minutes. She threw on the first item of clothing that came to hand, which happened to be last night's dress. Then she slipped on a pair of red Converse trainers, seized her tote bag, grabbed her auntie's bike and headed out. As she climbed onto the saddle, she realized she'd forgotten her underwear. Oh well – no time to worry about a little thing like that when Jean-Louis' manuscript was at stake.
Dumping her bag in the bicycle basket, she pedalled to the end of the street and turned off onto the cycle path. Lined with trees that striped it with deep shade, it ran in a bee-line down to the river, through a leafy park and past the High School playing fields. With the cathedral spire and the university buildings beyond, the vista never failed to impress Maisie – usually. Not today. She pumped her knees furiously, one hand on the handlebars, the other hovering over her skirt, which began to flutter dangerously as she picked up speed, earning her some curious glances from the joggers and dog walkers who were sharing the path with her.
Her phone rang. Praying it was Ben, she fished it out of her bag as she careered along.
“Well? What's the verdict?”
Maisie tried not to groan as she recognized Miss Tweedle's voice.
“I'm guessing you've steamed through Jean-Louis' manuscript by now. So – are we looking at a best seller?”
If I can lay my hands on it, Maisie thought unhappily.
“Give us a hint, then. What's it about?”
Maisie just about had the presence of mind to stammer, “Wouldn't you rather wait? I'd hate to spoil it for you!”
“Fair point. So can you pop it back some time later today? I know Jean-Louis' eager to hear what you think too!”
Brilliant, no pressure then. Maisie couldn't help heaving a sigh. Then she let out a shriek.
A freak gust of wind appeared out of nowhere, making her skirt balloon up to her armpits. The left hand, the one that was supposed to be protecting her modesty, was currently clutching her mobile phone to her ear, leaving her no choice but to wrestle the flimsy garment back down between her knees with her right. That meant she was now cycling along with no hands on the handlebars. And as her shopper swerved and teetered, another bike suddenly shot out of the patch of deep shade right in front of her.
It was touch and go for a moment, but Maisie finally managed to stop without doing herself or anyone else an injury. The other cyclist – a pretty teenage blonde in purple bib shorts – stopped too. She swivelled in her saddle to throw Maisie a nasty look, which turned into a sneer of amusement.
In her efforts to regain control of the bike, Maise had lost her seating and almost toppled over the handlebars, but the back of her skirt was still draped over the saddle, with the result that at least one of her blushing pink bum cheeks was clearly visible to the other girl. Before Maisie could yank the dress free, the blonde snapped a picture of the wardrobe malfunction with her smartphone.
“What was that?” Miss Tweedle was still on the line. “Did you have an accident? Has something happened to Jean-Louis' manuscript?”
“It's nothing,” Maisie sing-songed into her phone. “Sorry. Gotta go.”
With the girl still clicking away, Maisie cycled on at top speed. Another few minutes, and she emerged next to the Riverbank Leisure Centre, an award-winning piece of architecture that looked like a giant blue and white soap dish. She hopped off her bike. By the looks of it, the Reading on the River was already under way. A group of punts laden with tourists, literary themed picnic hampers and presumably one or two authors had just pushed off from shore and was making its way awkwardly upstream, towards the green lawns of Bishop's Mead. Shading her eyes, Maisie scanned the punts, but Ben didn't seem to be anywhere among them. Maybe he had been and gone? Or maybe he was somewhere nearby, writing up what he had seen?
Hoping and praying that was the case, she pushed the shopper a little way further along the pathway. And that was when she spotted him, sitting on a bench beside the riverbank.
The manuscript was on his knee. He was reading the pages one by one and tossing them into the river, where they undulated gently on its glassy surface.
“Oh my God!”
Maisie dropped her bike, ran forward and jumped in to rescue them, gasping as the icy-cold water shot up under her dress. Tossed about by the ripples that spread out from the point of impact, the pages began to sink. She snatched at them wildly.
“Maisie, what the fuck?” Shoving the rest of the manuscript in his bag, Ben leapt to his feet and approached the edge of the water. “Have you gone mental? Get on out of there!”
He offered his hand. She ignored him, grabbing at the soggy pages and clutching them to her chest. Only when she had every last one did she grudgingly let herself be hauled out onto the bank.
“Christ, you could have done yourself an injury. What were you thinking?” Ben was staring at her, as were one or two passers-by who had stopped to see what was going on.
She was certainly a sight. She glared back at him, oozing water from every pore, her hair and trainers a squelchy mess. Fuming, she covered a boob that had popped out, tugged her skirt down over her shiny-wet rump. Not that it helped much – because of the way her thin frock stuck to her body, an opaque film that hid nothing, she still looked almost naked. On top of that, she was freezing cold standing there in the shade; it was only anger that stopped her teeth from chattering.
“What was I thinking? What were you thinking, you pillock? You've no idea what we went through to get this bloody book written, and you go and toss it in the river? Jean-Louis is going to hate me, Miss Tweedle is going to kill me. Oh fuck, oh fuck.”
She tried to straighten out the pages with her wet hands. Only then did an uncomfortable thought strike her. Jean-Louis' new book had been handwritten. These pages were word processed and had come off an inkjet printer.
What was going on?
This wasn't Jean-Louis' manuscript...
“Don't worry,” said Ben, “your manuscript's fine, bone dry the last time I checked.”
“Then what...?”
She blinked at him, completely nonplussed. He took advantage of her state of surprise to steer her out of the shade towards the sunny bench, where she sat down numbly.
“What you saw was this.” He pulled another bundle of papers, rather thicker than Jean-Louis' manuscript, out of his bag and showed it to her.
Squinting through watery eyes, she peered at the topmost page. A letter of some sort. Long, rambling, typed on a word processor. Then she jumped as she saw to whom it was addressed.
“This a letter to Jean-Louis!”
“Well spotted. To be exact, it's my letter to Jean-Louis.”
“Your letter? What were you writing to Jean-Louis for?”
“Because I had a lot to say to him, or thought I did. I wrote a whole bunch of versions, pages and pages. That's what I was destroying when you arrived on the scene in your inimitable fashion.”
She was still completely lost. Noting how thick the bundle of papers was, she remarked, “That can't all be one letter. What's the rest?”
“This little lot? These are letters written by Jean-Louis to my mother. Or scans of them, at any rate. The originals are –“
“Whoa!” she cut him off with a wave of her still-soggy hand. “Backtrack. Jean-Louis knew your mother?”
Now she was totally confused. Forgetting for a moment that she was a wet girl in a see-through dress in a public place, she stared at him all agog.
“Freaky, right?” said Ben, sitting down next to her. “I only found out after she died.”
His mother knew Jean-Louis and she was dead? Maisie couldn't keep up. By the time it occurred to offer her condolences, Ben was already speaking again, with a wistful smile:
“She was a free spirit, my mum. Kind of embarrassing, actually. She was into all kinds of mad stuff – healing crystals and ley lines and UFOs. Even the way she died – in a road accident on her way to Stonehenge with a bunch of her hippy-dippy mates for the winter solstice. Apparently they were all baked out of their skulls. Still, she lived her life the way she wanted to, fearlessly, that's the main thing.”
Taken at face value, this wasn't the most fulsome of eulogies perhaps, but she sensed the warmth and love behind his words. He quickly came to the point. “Anyway, afterwards, when I was going through her belongings, I found this cache of letters, and you won't believe what they prove.”
“The two of them had an affair!” Then, digesting the full implications of this, “Your mum was the original naked English girl?”
“It was just like it was in the book. Girl escapes her stifling suburban family and dull fiancé and goes on her hols to the south of France, where she meets a sophisticated older dude and has a wildly passionate affair. The dude, of course, was our Monsieur Robbe. He and Lise were on a break at the time. These,” Ben explained, patting the stack of papers, “were the letters that Jean-Louis wrote to her after she got back. They recreate the affair in loving detail, reliving the whole thing on the page. He stopped writing them when she got married, by which time she was already extremely pregnant. With me.”