The Girl From Barefoot House (25 page)

There’d been women before her. She found hairclips and an earring under the bed, a pink jumper in the wardrobe, a half-f bottle of scent in the bathroom cabinet. Josie tortured herself with the thought that, like these other women, she was only temporary, that one day Jack would meet someone else and she would be dispensed with. Once they were in bed and he told her how much he loved her, that he’d been waiting all his life for a girl like her, the thought would vanish, then slither its poisonous way into her head next morning. She hadn’t known it was possible to be so deliriously happy one minute and so abjectly miserable the next.

She got a job in Luigi’s, the dry-cleaner’s downstairs, where she worked from two till ten, the same hours as Jack worked in a local bar. To her horror, she discovered she was classed as an illegal immigrant, but Luigi didn’t give a damn that she didn’t have a green card allowing her to work legally in the States. Anyroad, she’d have been useless in an office, where she could have earned more, because they never went to bed before dawn.

For Jack Coltrane, the good times started late. New York was a sleepless city, with plenty of all-night clubs and all-night bars. All-night parties were the norm. He always knew where a party was being held, and there was never a more welcome guest. Within seconds he would be surrounded by people, wanting to touch him, wanting to know his opinion on this or that, hanging on to his every word, and Josie would be left with mixed feelings. This slight, not very tall, delightful, handsome man, this man in a million, loved
her
. She would feel a glow of possession, particularly when Jack put his arm around her shoulders and drew her into the crowd.

What she wanted more than anything was for them to get married, for him to be truly hers in the eyes of God and the law. She was careful never to drop the slightest hint. Marriage might be the furthest thing from Jack’s mind.

When, one Sunday in October, Miranda Marshall arrived at Jack’s apartment Josie pretended not to care. Every Sunday from midday on, people began to drop by, armed with a bottle of wine. They came to talk, to argue, to sort out the world. Around teatime, Jack would send for a Chinese or an order of pizzas.

Miranda, though, was different. She hadn’t come to talk, she’d come for Jack.

She was a sleekly attractive woman with a feline, sharply angled face. Glossy maroon lipstick made her lips look wet, and gold shadow adorned her almond-shaped eyes. Her dark brown hair was tied in a ponytail, not at the back of her head but over to one side, giving a jaunty and slightly eccentric impression.

Miranda was an actress, and had appeared in Jack’s off-Broadway play. They had been great friends for years, and she was just back from Hollywood after an unsuccessful attempt to get into movies.

‘I’m going back, I’m not giving up, but I just felt like a few days in New York to see my friends. I thought I’d lay claim to your couch for a few days, Jack.’ The almond eyes rested fleetingly on Josie. ‘I didn’t know you had company. I’ll find somewhere else.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Jack said. He looked at Josie. ‘You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart?’

‘No,’ Josie lied.

She minded terribly. She minded so much she wanted to cry, particularly when Miranda went to the bathroom
and came back waving the scent from the cabinet. ‘So
this
is where I left it,’ she crowed.

They must have been lovers! Miranda had been hoping to take up with Jack where they’d left off. Laying claim to the couch had been a lie. It was Jack she wanted. Josie burned with inner fury.

That afternoon a whole crowd of them went to a political rally in Central Park to protest against the Chinese occupation of Tibet. Miranda came with them. She accompanied them to Pogo’s, a blues club in SoHo, then to a party in Canal Street, where she seemed to know everyone. Josie watched closely, sensing that no one liked Miranda much. They made faces behind her back, which pleased Josie so much she felt ashamed.

By the time all three returned to the apartment, her head was spinning and she felt sick, imagining Jack creeping out of bed in the middle of the night to make love to Miranda on the couch. Wouldn’t most women protest if their lover invited his old lover to stay? They’d never had a row before, but she’d have it out with him that night.

When they went to bed Jack immediately reached for her, but she gripped his hands. ‘I want to ask you something.’

He nuzzled her neck. ‘Ask away.’

Josie took a deep breath. ‘Have you had an affair with Miranda?’

‘Yes,’ he said lightly. ‘It didn’t mean anything but, yes, I have.’

‘Would you mind if one of my old lovers turned up and I let them sleep on the couch?’

‘Sweetheart, you’re
jealous
.’ He laughed and tickled her waist. Josie squealed and put her hand over her
mouth in case Miranda heard. Their guest was in the bathroom getting washed.

‘I didn’t say I was jealous.’ Josie pushed his hands away and did her best to sound reasonable. ‘I asked a direct question. How would you feel if the situation were reversed?’

‘I’m not sure.’ There was a long silence, during which he rested his face against hers. ‘How many lovers have you had?’ he said eventually.

‘Only one. I had a fiancé, too, Ben. We were going to get married when he finished university, but I gave him up.’

‘What was the lover’s name?’

‘Griff. He was an actor. Still is, I expect.’

Jack lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. ‘I don’t know why, I thought you were a virgin, that I was the first.’

‘I hope you’re not going to say you’re disappointed.’ She adopted a slightly amused tone. ‘I was probably the twenty-first for you, or the hundred and first, for all I know.’

He turned and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘I know it’s unreasonable, but I can’t stand the thought of another man touching you,’ he said gruffly. ‘I want to ask stupid questions, like how was it with this Griff – was he better than me?’

‘He wasn’t. It was just a holiday romance. Was Miranda better than me?’ she asked, more flippantly than she felt.

‘Don’t joke.’ He shook her and said urgently, ‘There’s never been anyone better than you, and there never will. I love you with all my heart and soul. I’ve told you that a million times.’

‘But I’ve told you the same,’ she cried as she clung to
him. ‘It didn’t stop you getting cross about Griff. I think I’ve a right to worry about Miranda. I can’t stand the thought of you having slept with her. I can’t stand the thought of you having slept with
any
woman. I don’t want you to so much as
touch
another woman again, only me.’

‘As if I would,’ he said softly, kissing her. ‘You’re for me, and I’m for you, and that’s the way it’s going to be till the end of time.’

They made love, and it was as if they’d never made love before and were discovering each other’s bodies for the first time. When it was over, and she nestled in his arms, he said, ‘I’ll tell Miranda to go in the morning.’

‘There’s no need,’ Josie said contentedly. From now on she would never feel insecure again.

Of course, she did. Even when she discovered the couch was empty, and Miranda had done a midnight flit, the doubts had already begun their stealthy return. It seemed she would never feel fully happy with Jack Coltrane unless they spent the rest of their lives in bed!

Autumn had arrived in New York. The trees in Central Park shed their leaves to make a crisp, golden carpet. The air became fresher, cooler, with a hint of champagne. The endless hooting of the traffic sounded slightly muted. People had begun to wear coats, scarves, boots.

When Josie bought a fur coat for five dollars from a thrift shop, she thought longingly of the smart winter clothes she’d left in Lily Kavanagh’s wardrobe. She bought a pair of dead cheap boots, one a slightly darker grey than the other, but at least they hadn’t been on some other woman’s feet. Luigi paid peanuts in the drycleaner’s, and she was always short of money.

On 25 November Jack abandoned his precious play,
and took her to see the Thanksgiving Day parade. The entire length of Broadway appeared to be covered in balloons, thousands of them, millions, of every conceivable colour. Josie watched, entranced, as float after float drove by, each more glorious, more eye-catching and inventive than the one before. This was the day Santa Claus arrived in New York, and he finished off the parade in a white fur coach, clanging his bell, already wishing everyone a Merry Christmas.

‘That was wonderful,’ she breathed when everything was over and the crowds began to disperse. Jack was standing behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. He kissed her neck.

‘How about a coffee?’

‘I’d love one.’

‘Then a coffee it is.’

They linked arms. Jack began to walk quickly, his step slightly ahead of hers so she had to hurry to keep up. He did everything quickly, combed his hair, washed, dressed, undressed, typed, ate – as if worried the world might end before he’d finished. She had something to tell him. Perhaps over coffee? But should she tell him yet that she was pregnant?

She hadn’t taken much notice when she’d missed her August period. Although she’d always been as regular as clockwork, one missed period wasn’t worth getting worked up about. But two! When nothing happened in September she began to worry, but convinced herself she couldn’t possibly be pregnant because she felt so well. There’d been no morning sickness. She didn’t go off her food, or get a hankering for peculiar things like treacle butties, as Marigold Kavanagh had. Then she’d missed October, and yesterday another period had been due …

There was no doubt about it – she was four months
pregnant. Her waist was starting to thicken. She was expecting Jack’s baby, and didn’t know whether to be glad or not.

It must have happened the night they met on the steps of Best Cellar, because since then he’d always taken precautions – he was so careful that she took it for granted he didn’t want a child. Their lifestyle would have to change drastically. She had tried, but she couldn’t see Jack content to stay home at night, happy to relinquish the parties, the clubs, the politics. The apartment wasn’t big enough for a baby, and she’d have to leave work. Jack’s wages weren’t much. He made as much again in tips, but not enough to pay the rent and support a wife and child.

She imagined telling him, imagined his face lighting up. ‘I’ve always wanted a child, a son.’ Men always seemed to want a son. That was the best scenario. But he might be horrified, might even suggest an abortion. He was a Catholic, but didn’t go to church. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t told him. She was leaving it until it was too late even to discuss getting rid of her child,
their
child, because it was something she would have flatly refused to do, even for Jack.

Josie sighed. ‘The bar will be busy today,’ Jack said. ‘The parade’s over, but not the celebrations. Hey, this place looks interesting.’ He steered her inside a diner with a real skeleton in the window. It was called Bones. ‘What was that big sigh for, sweetheart? I felt it shudder right through me.’

‘Nothing.’

Josie’s waist was becoming thicker, her stomach bulged slightly. Hardly anything fitted. She tried to avoid Jack seeing her naked, reaching for something to put on
before getting out of bed, because she still hadn’t told him. Though he was bound to notice soon …

‘Sweetheart …’ he said one morning. It was a week after the Thanksgiving Day parade, and he was seated at the table, typing like a madman. She emerged from the bedroom, having only just got up. ‘Sweetheart, I think you should cut down on the spaghetti. You’re getting quite a tummy on you.’

Josie didn’t answer. She looked down at the baggy cerise jumper she’d bought in Macy’s on what she’d thought would be her last day in New York. It wasn’t baggy enough to hide the ever-growing bump. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in the club, girl,’ Jack went on in the pretend Liverpool accent he occasionally used as a joke.

‘I
am
in the club, Jack,’ Josie said softly. ‘That’s the reason for the tummy.’ She sat on the other side of the table and watched his thin, expressive face.

He looked stunned, then he frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first except a groan. Then he said, ‘Of course, that first night!’ He tried to smile. ‘You must be very fertile, sweetheart,’ he said lightly. ‘If we’re not careful, we could end up with twenty kids.’

‘Do you mind?’ It was a silly question, because he obviously minded very much.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure.’ He laughed, not his usual, wholehearted laugh. ‘I’m twenty-six. I suppose it’s about time I settled down.’

‘But you weren’t planning on settling down just yet?’ He didn’t want the baby. She felt her veins turn to ice, and cursed herself when two solitary tears trickled down her cheeks.

‘Sweetheart! Come here.’ He patted his knee, and she
crept into his arms. ‘This is my fault. I should have been more careful. How far gone are you?’

‘A bit over four months.’ She began to cry properly.

‘Aw, shit, Josie,’ he said angrily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

Because I was worried you’d react in exactly the way you’re reacting now, she wanted to say. Instead, she whispered, ‘I don’t know.’

Suddenly he grinned. Nothing could keep Jack down for long, not even an unwanted baby. ‘Will you marry me, Miss Josephine Flynn?’ He tipped up her chin with his finger. ‘Please say yes.’

Josie nodded. ‘Yes.’ But she felt sure he would never have asked if she hadn’t been pregnant. She would never be sure of anything with Jack Coltrane.

So that the priest wouldn’t be shocked by a bride on the verge of motherhood, the wedding was arranged to take place as soon as possible.

The bride’s outfit came from a thrift shop – a pink, silkily soft velvet skirt with a long, matching jacket to hide her swollen stomach.

On the morning of the wedding a letter came from Lily, enclosing a cutting from the
Echo
. Louisa Chalcott, the American poet, who had lived in obscurity in Liverpool for more than thirty years, had died peacefully in her sleep a few days before.