by Cassie Caine
“Wait a minute... You mean you're... that's to say, Jean-Louis is...”
She gaped at him.
Tall, handsome, literary-minded.
It made sense.
Ben lowered his eyes, keeping whatever emotions were churning inside him to himself. “I always knew Denis – that was my mum's first husband – wasn't my real dad. I think he knew it too. The guy's ginger with freckles for Pete's sake, whereas I'm kind of dark and Mediterranean. As soon as DNA testing became widely available, I checked and sure enough... So you see, on one level, these letters only confirmed something I'd always known. Anyway, after I found them, I researched Jean-Louis, bought his books second hand and kept my eyes peeled for any news of him online. There wasn't much, which was frustrating. Then I read about the book launch, and its tie-in with the Dalchester literary festival. I wangled an internship on Litstop and I've been sleeping on a friend of a friend's couch, all just so I can be in the same town as him.”
“But why didn't you say anything? To Jean-Louis? Or to me?”
“Well, when I saw how elderly he was... I thought the best thing was to grab something of his and do a quick DNA test, just to be absolutely certain.”
The Kleenex! That's why he snagged the used Kleenex! He wasn't a mad memorabilia collector after all. And oh Jesus – the coatstand man! The shadowy figure lurking in Miss Tweedle's office at Jean-Louis' talk, who saw Maisie pleasuring herself in a moment of complete abandon... That was Ben!
Suddenly feeling very cross and embarrassed, she snapped, “But that still doesn't explain why you stole Jean-Louis's manuscript. You weren't going to test that for DNA, were you?”
He grimaced. “Sorry about that. I just couldn't help myself, I was overcome by curiosity. I thought I had a right to be the first to read it. In my defence, I was going to return it to you right away. I would never have destroyed it. I'd have given it back to you already, if you weren't still a bit moist about the edges.”
“It's not funny,” she scowled, not at all appreciating the way the corners of his lips were twitching with amusement.
“It is kind of,” he said. “I haven't told you the best part yet. The reason why I was throwing my letter in the river when you found me.”
Maisie turned from him with a shrug, feigning indifference. Ignoring her play-acting, he continued. “I sent Jean-Louis' snotty Kleenex off to an express testing lab, and I just got back an email about twenty minutes ago.”
“And?” She gave up pretending she wasn't listening.
“Turns out he's not my father after all. ”
She squeaked like he'd just poked her with a sharp stick. “He's not? How's that possible?”
Ben rubbed his stubbly chin. “Well, now I come to think of it, in the book my mum's character does sleep with a couple of other guys as well, so maybe it was one of them.”
Maisie swallowed a sudden fit of giggles. Poor Ben. His mother sounded like a right goer...
Ben bent his features into an expression of mock outrage. “You do realize this is emotional dynamite for me? Could you try not to laugh in my face?”
“Sorry. What are you going to do now?”
He shrugged. “Don't know. One thing's for sure, I can't spend my whole life chasing after random Frenchman.”
Maisie shifted her soggy bottom on the bench. Now that Ben's story was over, she was conscious of the spectacle she was making of herself in her soaking wet frock.
“Ugh! That's it, I'm off home for a hot shower and a change of clothes. Come on.”
“I can walk with you?”
“I need you to carry the manuscript. Oh, and I'm borrowing your T-shirt.”
He pulled it off and tossed it to her. She wriggled into it gratefully. Within moments it was almost as damp as her dress, but at least now she had the benefit of layers. Leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her, she picked up her auntie's shopper and began pushing it back along the cycle path.
“I'm dead sorry about everything.”
She half-smiled. She had already more or less decided to let him off, what with his impressive tale of woe and the fact that he looked so lithe and limber with his shirt off, but it was nice to have a formal apology.
“So what's it like?” she asked. “I'm assuming you've read it?”
“Jean-Louis' manuscript? I had a look at it, yeah.”
“And?”
“Don't you want to wait and see for yourself?”
“Well, obviously I'll form my own opinion. But I'm curious to know what you think.”
Actually, it had crossed her mind that, with Miss Tweedle pressing for the manuscript's return, she could just get the low-down from Ben and save herself the bother of deciphering the great author's handwriting.
She quirked an eyebrow, inviting an answer. Ben looked uncomfortable. “To be honest, I wasn't exactly blown away. I know you were his muse and everything, but –“
“Go on.”
“Well, if you must know, it just seemed like a rather tired rehash of The Naked English Girl. Of course, it's hard to tell from a rough copy, but I don't think this is going to be the triumphant return to form you were all hoping for. Sorry.”
“Thanks for your candour.” She walked on, wheeling her bike.
“You don't seem too disappointed.”
Maisie treated him to a sly smile. “That's because I've got a plan.”
CHAPTER 9
Maisie caught up with Miss Tweedle at Heart's Desire at closing time and returned Jean-Louis' manuscript.
“You made photocopies?” said Miss Tweedle, opening the folder and seeing clean white extra pages along with the handwritten ones.
“Well, you know. Can't be too careful.”
“How thoughtful of you. I'll hold onto these for safekeeping and we can give the original back to Jean-Louis. So – what did you think of it?”
This was the moment Maisie had been dreading. After treating herself to a nice long shower, Maisie had dipped into the manuscript, only to find herself agreeing with Ben: Jean-Louis did appear to have written the same book all over again. Of course, Ben had the advantage of her in that he had actually read The Naked English Girl, but Maisie felt as if she had come to know it pretty well over the past days. And if the broad similarities were apparent even to her, they would presumably be glaring to any Jean-Louis Robbe aficionados out there.
Miss Tweedle was still awaiting her verdict. Maisie flapped her hands excitedly.
“Loved it. Couldn't put it down. There's just one thing...”
“Yes?”
“Some people might think – just here or there – that it's a little bit like The Naked English Girl –“
“Oh, don't worry about that,” Miss Tweedle shrugged, locking the photocopies away in a filing cabinet and retying the folder. “Authors rewrite the same book all the time. It's a brand new novel by Jean-Louis Robbe, that's the important thing. We've accomplished something that no one else has managed to do. Who cares if it's a little samey? Just tell Jean-Louis that you liked it.”
Maisie nodded obediently. “Are we still meeting them at that wine bar like you texted earlier?”
“They should be there by now. Did I tell you I got them a radio interview?”
“You did. Congrats. Sounds like interest is really picking up.”
“Shame they're going home tomorrow, but Lise is anxious to get back to her cats, and you know Jean-Louis, no way he'll stay without her...”
Miss Tweedle chattered on as she locked up the shop and they walked the short distance to the wine bar. Although her face wore a truculent expression out of habit, she was almost bubbly, her financial anxieties alleviated for the time being. Maisie couldn't help being a little shocked at her cynical attitude to Jean-Louis's new book, though. She was worried about Jean-Louis – what would he think? It was unsurprising that, last night, in all the excitement, the fact that his new book bore a strong resemblance to The Naked English Girl had escaped him, but he was sure to spot it eventually, and would
n't that be a wee bit depressing? And even if he failed to notice, the reading public surely wouldn't. As Ben had pointed out, it was hardly the triumphant comeback everyone had been hoping for.
Then again, what do I know? Maisie reflected. I'm not even a proper bookseller, not officially.
They found the Robbes ensconced at a corner table. The interview had gone well and Jean-Louis was positively purring with pleasure. Kisses on the cheek and small talk were exchanged, drinks ordered, then they looked at Maisie expectantly.
“We're anxious to know, how did you enjoy the book? Be gentle and remember that it was only a rough draft.”
Maisie felt her mouth going dry. This was her cue to glance across to the bar and give a small nod.
“Oh, it was awesome. Really, I don't know where to begin. But actually, I've got a surprise for you.” She gestured nervously towards the tall, slender figure who had approached at her signal and was now hovering over them. “You remember Ben?”
“My friend the almost writer,” said Jean-Louis.
“Ben's got something to tell you.”
Ben swallowed. He hadn't wanted to do this at first, but she'd talked him into it. She was convinced it would be cathartic for him. Plus he owed her big time.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Jean-Louis and Lise wore expressions of polite confusion, Miss Tweedle a not-so-polite expression of annoyance. Maisie was grateful for Ben's charm, which carried him smoothly through the next few moments as he pulled up a chair and flashed a touchingly awkward smile around the table.
“It's kind of personal actually,” he said to Jean-Louis. “Look, I'll just blurt it out. You knew my mother a long time ago.”
“I did?” Jean-Louis waited for Ben for explain, but the young man simply gazed across the table at him with mild brown eyes.
Then the penny dropped. Jean-Louis looked at Ben more closely. There was a new tone in his voice – something calm and grave – as he asked, “Who exactly are you, young man?”
“I'm Caroline's son. You remember Caroline?”
If this was a shock to the old man, he didn't show it. He simply nodded, a tremendous stillness seeming to fall upon him.
Ben lowered his eyes. “Sorry I didn't tell you who I was earlier.
“These things are never easy,” the writer murmured softly, almost to himself.
Faced with this blast from the past, Maisie reckoned that nine people out of ten would have bolted for the door. Jean-Louis did get up, but only to sidle around the table and throw his arms around Ben in a hug that was solid and deliberate. It confirmed her impression that, whatever his failings as a writer, he was at heart a decent sort of bloke.
“But how is Caroline?” he wanted to know.
The elderly writer's face fell when Ben told him that she had passed away. Was that a moment of unsteadiness as he sat back in his chair? The next moment he was his full, ultra-civilised self again. Lise, ever loyal, squeezed his arm. She smiled bravely. “This certainly is a wonderful surprise. You'll have to forgive us, we're not used to such excitement.”
“The thing is, Mr Robbe, I have something for you.”
All eyes were on Ben as he reached into his shoulder bag. What was he going to pull out? A gun? An old souvenir? Maisie felt a swell of excitement at being the only one to know what was going to happen next.
“These are the letters you wrote Caroline all those years ago.”
Maisie's heart thudded as Ben passed the scans over the table. The author's long brown hands trembled slightly as they accepted the weighty bundle.
“I had forgotten,” Jean-Louis murmured. “I thought they were lost.”
“It's all there,” said Maisie, “reminiscences about the time you spent together, erotic fantasises. Anyway, we were thinking that they would make an amazing book. The Real Naked English Girl... like the sound of that, Miss Tweedle? You know how people love true-life stories, and there are lots of photos as well – Ben added some at the back there.”
That was all Miss Tweedle needed to hear to take command of the pile of papers and start flicking through them.
“I can't believe Caroline is gone,” said Jean-Louis sadly.
“Don't worry,” said Ben. “It's all good. She led a full life, from the moment she met you.”
They began to reminiscence. Maisie glanced across at Lise, but she seemed happy, relaxed about past affairs and glad for her husband to be reminded of such precious memories. As for Miss Tweedle, she was looking through the letters with an expression of rapture, because this bundle surely had the making of a bestseller.
Pleased with her work, Maisie decided to excuse herself after she'd finished her drink, and leave them to iron out the details and get to know each other better. Her job here was done, and she suddenly felt eager to see her aunt.
CHAPTER 10
Aunt Barbara's bookshop was still open, although the lights were dimmed, a sign she was about to close up. She was inside, taking advantage of the early evening quiet to put some new stock on the shelves.
“Hello, stranger. Gosh, I've hardly seen you this last week.”
Was that her aunt's way of hinting that some people had seen far too much of her? Or was Maisie being paranoid? “Well, the Robbes are leaving tomorrow, so Miss Tweedle won't need me any more … So I'm all yours again,” Maisie added hopefully, nervously picking up the nearest book to hand, an illustrated guide to meerschaum pipes.
“Oh, I see.” Aunt Barbara tucked a bulky techno-thriller into place.
What now? Am I staying or am I going? The need to have this question resolved was now almost painfully urgent. Maisie stared at her aunt's shoulders and the back of her head, interrogating them for hints as to her state of mind. Finally, feeling as though she was going to burst, she blurted out:
“I do love working here, Auntie Barbara.”
“Oh, good.”
“I was, er....”
“Hmm?”
The willowy redhead steeled her nerve. “I was wondering... hoping... maybe I could stay on permanently?”
Her aunt faced around again, slowly. Don't show any weakness. That's what people said about lions and tigers. Maisie was pretty sure it applied to aunts as well.
Aunt Barbara smiled. “The truth is, Maisie, you've made such an impression on my customers, I wouldn't dare get rid of you, even if I wanted to. Of course you can stay on. I'm sure you'll more than earn your keep.”
“Oh, Auntie, thank you! Thank you!” Tripping forward, Maisie wrapped her slender arms around her aunt's capacious midriff and snuggled her face affectionately against her greying hair. “Auntie, I love you so much!”
“Yes, yes, I know you do. But would you feel that way if I didn't have all this?”
“Auntie!” Maisie's eyes brimmed with shock and hurt. Not because it wasn't true, but because her aunt had been mean enough to mention it. It wasn't her fault she was shallow.
“Never mind. I wouldn't want you any other way.” Aunt Barbara's bosom heaved in a silent chuckle. “Oh, and about all that going up the stepladder.”
“Never again,” Maisie vowed solemnly.
“Well, that would be a pity. I'd hoped I could count on you to keep the top shelf fully stocked at least a couple of times a day. I wasn't above spending a fair amount of time up the stepladder myself in my younger days, you know.”
Maisie's eyes widened a little. These days her aunt looked like a tea cosy, so it took her a moment to get her head around this disclosure and the mental pictures it conjured up. But she nodded eagerly. “Anything you say, Auntie! Whatever it takes to be a totally kickass bookseller!”
They were grinning at each other, when there was a sharp rap on the window.
A female face, surmounted by a policewoman's chequered bowler hat, was scowling in at them over the displays of leather-bound books.
Oh god! The butch WPC! The one Maisie was supposed to be hooking up with! The one whose phone calls she'd been ducking!
“That constable see
ms very irked about something.”
“Does she?” said Maisie, who was doing her best to hide behind her aunt.
“See the way she's crooking her finger at you? You'd better go and see what she wants.”
“Er – do you I have to?”
“Whatever it takes, Maisie.”
Maisie sighed and went.