The Runaway Woman. Josephine CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Dear Readers,
It’s a very strange and exciting feeling to realise that I have written fifty novels, and that my stories have found a place not only in the UK but also in many far-off countries across the world. Many of the millions of people who have taken both me and my stories to heart also take precious time out of their lives to write to me in such heartfelt words; it’s almost as though I were a long-lost friend.
With every one of these much-cherished letters I always write back. Because of my many commitments, it may take a little longer than I would like, and it seems there are never enough hours in the day; but I would not want to change my life for anything. Over the years, at signings and events at various venues, I have met many thousands of my readers, who continue to correspond and share their lives with me, as I do with them. We also keep in touch through my magazine, Chatterbox, which HarperCollins sends out with each new book publication, and now through my Facebook page. Every reader knows me so well, and through their letters they feel they can trust me, and that I would never willingly let them down.
Having such a loyal, worldwide following is something I had never envisaged when I sent my first manuscript to the publishers, and now I feel as though I’ve been accepted into a huge, rambling family. I often think back to my humble beginnings in the backstreets of a northern cotton-mill town. Many of my experiences, good and bad, come into my stories. Characters both angelic and evil people my stories, as they do in life.
At the tender age of four, I would sit on the steps of our house and watch life unfold down the street. I was fascinated by everything around me – especially by the people simply following their daily lives, with all the ups and downs that happen. I took it all into my heart, where it was kept safe, and now those cobbled streets, their mysteries and characters fill my stories – the good and the bad, the darkness and the tears, the joy and the heartache. They’re strong stories, hard and real, with dramatic twists we never seem to expect. Not even I do.
In my fiftieth book, The Runaway Woman, I tell the story of Lucy Lovejoy, a hardworking woman, loyal and true to her family, unaware that her husband, Martin, is cheating on her in the worst possible way. In the wake of her discovery, both her life and the lives of her husband and family are turned upside down, and Lucy knows that this is the moment when she must take a stand. Her incredible strength throughout this turmoil, and in making some unimaginably difficult decisions, surprises everyone. Don’t judge Lucy too harshly. She is a woman on the edge, and, for both Lucy and her husband Martin, there is no easy way out. I have already started my new book, a dark story with many twists and turns. The characters have introduced themselves to me; the scene is set and, as always, I am raring to go.
I have so many stories waiting to be written, and my mind is forever taking me in new and fascinating directions. The truth is, with so much more to come, my fiftieth book seems like just the beginning …
With love always,
Wayburn, Bedfordshire
1962
DURING THE DAY, Lucy kept herself busy.
That way, she had less time to think about all that was wrong in her life.
At night, though, she would lie awake in her bed, her troubled thoughts wandering back over the years to when she was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl.
Because of her shy nervous nature, Lucy had always found it hard to make friends. With her plump figure and lack of fashion sense, she believed herself to be unattractive, and unable to fit in with her peers. She was never whistled at, or chatted up by the boys at school, though that didn’t really bother her. As was her nature, she accepted the way of things and took it all in her stride.
Martin Lovejoy was a good-looking boy on the verge of leaving school that summer. Outgoing and flirtatious, he was commonly referred to as Jack the Lad, a title he wore like a badge of honour.
Unlike the other boys, Martin had always seen more to Lucy than her nervous smile and quiet demeanour. He thought her smile was pretty, and her shyness attractive.
Some of the other girls were shameless flirts who would offer themselves to any boy at the merest wink, whereas if Lucy was ever offered a ‘bit of fun’ down a dark alley, she would probably run a mile. But Martin meant to change all that.
While the other boys regarded Lucy as a shrinking violet who was not worthy of their interest, Martin thought they were missing a trick and, to everyone’s surprise, he set his cap at her.
He saw her as a rare challenge, a conquest to be made. A ripe apple, ready to be picked.
On a sweltering hot day during their final week as schoolchildren Martin Lovejoy made his move on Lucy; who could hardly believe that one of the most admired boys in the school had made a play for her.
Her younger sister, Paula, and some of the other girls tried to warn her against him, but she was flattered by Martin’s attention and chose to ignore their advice.
Later, though, she was devastated on discovering that she had made the biggest mistake of her life. By then it was too late. Life had taken her by the throat and forced her into a situation that she bitterly regretted – and still regretted, some twenty-four years on.
Now, with her fortieth birthday just a couple of weeks away, Lucy felt cheated, and desperately lonely. She’d spent all these years looking after her husband Martin and their children. She also worked, to help make ends meet. Yet she was deeply ashamed of these feelings, believing it was wrong to regret her life, especially when she had been blessed with a family, while many women had not been so fortunate.
Her husband, Martin, was a hard worker who had recently set himself up in business. He professed to love the ground she walked on and, as a dutiful wife, Lucy did her best to keep him happy, but for her, there was something missing from their marriage. Something precious that had been lost … way back there, on the long, lonely journey. He never said she looked nice, never noticed what she was wearing, if she looked tired, if she could