Julie

Beverley Hansford

Description

Julie Marsden has learned to deal with life. She has already survived the early loss of her parents, a repressive upbringing by her aunt and a brief marriage and divorce. When her aunt dies suddenly, she moves to London and, encouraged by her best friend Penny, reinvents herself as a chic office girl. The transformation leads to her meeting the men who will shape her life. David is a quiet, budding writer, and for a while life with him is idyllic. When David goes to America, Julie finds solace in an offer to work in Paris. There she meets the debonair film producer Ren and is introduced into his world of glamour and expensive living. Ren would like to make the relationship permanent, but Julie remains loyal to David. Only when she receives a letter from David announcing that he intends to marry someone else, does Julie agree to marry Ren.Immersed in the role of being the wife of a minor celebrity, Julie tries to be all that Ren demands, but all too soon she realises that she has been the innocent victim of a plan by her new husband and his close friends to ensnare her into marrying him, having carefully concealed his darkest secrets from her.As a result, Julie finds herself trapped in a loveless and unhappy marriage. But before she can extract herself from her predicament, tragedy plunges her into the biggest and most traumatic challenge of her life.

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 05 juillet 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785896026
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Julie

Copyright © 2009 Beverley Hansford
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador Unit E2 Airfield Business Park Harrison Road Market Harborough Leicestershire LE16 7UL Tel: [phone] / 9312 Email: [e-mail] Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador Twitter: @matadorbooks
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental. Names, locations and the events described are for use of the story and there is no intention to describe actual places or procedures.
ISBN 978 1785896 026
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
TO JOHANNA
Without whose help and encouragement, this book would never have been published.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 1
Henry Cornelius Ferguson sighed quietly to himself. The Rotary Club luncheon he had just left had been excellent and he had enjoyed the company and socialising involved; he felt a little irritated at having to return to the office to keep the present appointment. He made a mental note to instruct his secretary to keep his early afternoons free on Rotary days. He opened the document on his desk slowly, perhaps subconsciously delaying the task before him; it was never easy telling someone something they did not wish to know, especially a woman. You never knew what the reaction might be – anger, tears, perhaps. He glanced at the young woman who sat facing him across the desk; she seemed well composed, quietly waiting for him to begin. Of course, she was not a stranger; he had seen her with her aunt in church every Sunday for years now. He had gone to school with her aunt, and when he had become a solicitor her aunt had turned to him at odd times when the occasion demanded his professional skills. It was her aunt’s will that he had on the desk before him now.
He cleared his throat and began to speak.
‘Miss Marsden – I beg your pardon: Mrs Brenner.’ He had forgotten she had been married for a short period.
His client interrupted quickly. ‘Oh, it’s quite all right, Mr Ferguson: after my divorce, I reverted to my maiden name.’
Quick on the uptake, he thought, and cleared his throat yet again.
‘Miss Marsden,’ he began, ‘did your aunt convey the contents of her will to you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ his client replied. ‘She made it quite clear what she intended to do some time ago.’
He could have breathed a sigh of relief as he continued; at least she was aware of the situation.
‘The will is in fact quite straightforward: you are the only beneficiary and are to receive all money after the expenses have been met, together with the entire contents of the house to dispose of as you deem fit. The house itself your aunt has left to St Andrew’s Church.’
He commenced reading the will, glancing up every now and again at the young woman and waiting for some reaction to his words; but none came. She gave no hint of emotion and seemed to be absorbing every detail. At last he finished and gave his client a steady gaze to prompt a response. He would rather read wills to men: they seemed easier to handle as far as he was concerned, though of course as a solicitor he could not show that. However, it was Julie Marsden who spoke first.
‘That’s exactly as Aunt Edith told me it would be, but I would like to ask how long I have to clear the house. It will be quite a job to do.’
‘Yes, of course. It will take a little time to sort everything out at this end as well. Could we say perhaps three months? Availability of the house by the thirty-first of March next year?’
Julie thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think that would be fine.’
Henry Ferguson began to take a more sympathetic view of his client; he liked her calm and confident manner. He ventured a question.
‘What will you do now? Have you anywhere else to live?’
‘No. That is something I have to sort out. I really haven’t had much time to think about it since Aunt Edith died so suddenly.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘It must have been a great shock for you. My understanding is that she was not ill before her death; she was in church the Sunday before.’
‘Yes, that’s right. I returned home from work on the Wednesday and she was in bed and said she felt unwell. During the evening I could see she was getting steadily worse, so I called Dr Riley and he ordered her straight to hospital. She died during the night.’
‘As quick as that,’ he sympathised. ‘A big shock and loss to us all. She will be greatly missed for all her excellent work at St Andrew’s.’
‘Yes, I know. It was very much part of her life.’
During this brief conversation, Ferguson had been replacing the document in the folder on his desk, perhaps indicating that the interview was over. His client took the hint and rose from her chair.
‘Thank you for your help, Mr Ferguson.’
The solicitor extracted his portly frame from his chair and extended his hand. ‘If I can be of any assistance, do please contact me. I knew your aunt for many years.’
‘Thank you. If I need any help, I will,’ she said, walking to the office door.
Henry Ferguson moved ahead of her to open the door, taking in as he did so every detail of her appearance. Could be quite attractive, he thought, with her slim figure and good legs, but the clothes she wore made her look like an old spinster. Blouse buttoned right up to the neck and a skirt well below the knees, when a few inches above was quite common these days for young women. As for the shoes she wore, well, not the least bit of fashion about them. He compared her to his daughter, Janice, who must have been about the same age: twenty-four or five, he guessed. In the early days at school they had been in the same class for a brief spell, until his wife had insisted they move their daughter to a more up-market school. There was certainly a striking contrast between the clothes his daughter wore and Miss Marsden’s. Janice was always immaculately groomed in her fashionable clothes and high heels.
He said goodbye and smiled as Julie passed him on her way out, and she responded with a pleasant smile and a thank-you. He watched her proceed down the corridor until she turned the corner and then he retreated into his office and closed the door. Just time, he thought, for half an hour reading The Times before his next appointment.
Henry Ferguson would perhaps have been surprised to learn how Julie felt about the whole proceedings: she regarded the appointment as a mere formality, one of the many she had been forced to endure since her aunt’s sudden demise. Aunt Edith with her usual preciseness had told Julie more than two years previously what she intended to do in her will. As far as she was concerned the church was the most important part of her life and must benefit when she passed on. Her lifelong friend, solicitor and fellow church member Henry Ferguson would handle everything.
‘After all, Julie,’ she had said, ‘you will receive all the rest.’
Julie had respected her aunt’s decision and accepted the situation without question, but at the time Aunt Edith had been a fit and active sixty-nine, and to Julie the event she talked about seemed a long way off. Now it was here, and she had to deal with it.
She had been surprised that Mr Ferguson had referred to her as ‘Miss Marsden’ and not by her first name; after all, he knew her well enough and she had seen him standing opposite every Sunday morning in church, though she knew he rarely spoke except when he had to, and he seemed to be very much under his wife’s influence in social matters. Julie always pictured him standing alongside his wife in church and walking slowly after her on the way out. Of course he was one of the old school and always raised his hat when greeting the opposite sex outside. Julie guessed he was a rather shy, withdrawn man, despite his professional standing. She knew he was semi-retired now that his son had qualified as a solicitor and come into the practice. It was now Ferguson, Ferguson and Partners.
She had been glad to escape the atmosphere of the office: it was a drab, depressing place, with its old-fashioned desk, brown linoleum, and filing cabinets in a row along one wall. It stank of stale smoke, and Julie, a non-smoker, had noticed as soon as she entered. While Mr Ferguson had slowly read her aunt’s will, the smell had been in her nose. The old-fashioned picture of a religious subject on the wall behind Mr Ferguson had fixed her gaze, and her thoughts had wandered to her future. With the formality of reading the will over, the impact of her new circumstances became apparent to her; before that it had been something that she only thought about now and then.
Deep in thought, she walked the short dist