Venus Was Her Name

By Patricia Dixon

“Oh wow! The read of the summer—stunning and beautiful, I smiled and I cried . . . heart stopping . . . truly magnificent.” —Goodreads reviewer, five stars

Time is running out for an ageing rock star living in France, in this compelling epic by the author of Birthright . . .

Older and wiser, Joe Jarrett, who was once the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands on the planet, has left his wild and hedonistic days behind, preferring a quieter life in his farmhouse by the sea.

Family is everything to Joe, and when his beloved son, Ace, brings his new girlfriend, Edie, to visit, things seem to be going well. But when a shocking exposé points a finger at the band, including historic claims of rape and murder, it appears everything Joe holds dear is about to be torn apart.

As Joe is forced to face the consequences of the past, threatening letters arrive at the farmhouse. A stalker is on the loose and is determined to make him pay. But who is she?

Meanwhile, newcomer Edie, is living a lie and harbours a shocking secret of her own.

When all is revealed, will Joe’s life will be changed forever, and can anything be the same again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504076777

Patricia Dixon

Patricia Dixon lives in Manchester and is an international best-selling author of eighteen novels. She writes across genres including women’s fiction, historical fiction and psychological literary fiction. Her stories are often set in her home city and the Loire. Both places are close to her heart and from where she gathers inspiration for her characters and tales. In May 2017 she signed with Bloodhound Books, leading fiction publishers.

Book preview

Prologue

There’s this guy.

There’s a guy out there who broke my heart, and he doesn’t know my name

There’s a guy out there who broke my heart, he caused me all this pain

There’s a guy out there who broke my heart, no clue that I exist

There’s a guy out there who broke my heart, and even after all of this,

To have a night, a day, an hour with him, is my one and only wish

---

The questions run around my head, they’re poisoning my brain,

But I ask them time and time again, my dreams are all the same

Would you sing for me a lullaby?

Then stroke my head to sleep

Read a hundred fairy stories

Share secrets we could keep

Hold my hand whenever I get scared

Wipe my tears if I should weep

Never let me down, always be around, be the earth beneath my feet.

---

Can I blame this man who broke my heart, when he doesn’t know my name?

Doesn’t know how bad he broke my heart, oblivious of pain

And the reason that he broke my heart, is because I don’t exist

He didn’t mean to go and break my heart, put me bottom of his list

---

So, to all the men who’ve hurt me

Those who only saw my face

Each of you has played a part

In my every fall from grace

And I wish that you had seen me

For who I really am

Just another lonely girl out there, who’s searching for a man

---

A man who’d never break her heart, and always know her name

Someone to hold her tightly in their arms and take away her pain

Someone good and kind, and brave and true, who’d never let her down

Someone who’d lift her up, not cut her up and always be around

---

Vx

Chapter 1

Chelsea, London

August 2002

---

She knew he was gone before she’d even opened her eyes. That the space beside her on the bed would be empty and all that remained of him would be a hollow in the pillows where he’d lain the night before. Instead of rolling over and facing the truth she kept her eyes closed and allowed herself the fantasy, only for a moment, that he was still there, using the bathroom or outside on the balcony, having a smoke. There was no unmistakable sound of a male peeing or the flush of the chain, no draught from an open door, or traffic noise as London went about its business, not even the unmistakable waft of, what were they? Ah yes, she remembered now, picturing the red, white and black packet he’d pulled from the pocket of his faded jeans. Marlboro.

The hit of disappointment took her by surprise, but in some ways it should have been familiar because after all, that’s what blokes did. They let you down, ran out on you, lied, cheated, pissed all over your bathroom floor and drank the last of your milk before staggering off into the sunset. Or in this case, the early hours of a misty Chelsea morning.

Her list of poor choices and regrets was huge but, in this case, he’d been honest, a good guy who’d told her he had to leave early, catch another flight to another city.

‘I have to leave in the morning so if you’re sleeping, I won’t wake you. Now close your eyes and dream good dreams. You’ll be okay, kid; you just need to straighten yourself out and keep away from the booze and the pills and guys like me. Will you promise me you’ll try?’

The stuff that flowed through her veins must have had her in its grip and she was fading in and out, like someone messing with a dimmer switch inside her head. Back on again and he was stroking her forehead as he spoke, brushing away strands of hair, and she could still feel his fingers on her skin, and even though she’d willed her eyes to stay open, to make the moment last, the drink and whatever was in the pills she’d taken forbade it, so instead she’d nodded, agreed.

And there was something else, something he’d done but she couldn’t grasp it, or the whispers of words that floated somewhere on the edge of her memory. Stars, a compass maybe. No, that wasn’t it. Then she heard the radio, a song, or was it humming, did he sing to her? But it was fading away again.

Keeping her eyes firmly closed, the black canvas of her lids provided the perfect backdrop to the dregs of memories from the previous night. She was determined to remember. They came and went like stolen glimpses from behind a veil. Some in multicolour glory while others were murky grey and blurred around the edges, like a contact sheet of overexposed images, out of focus and destined for the bin.

The evening, her snapshot recollection of it, began at a party, somewhere in Berkshire, a huge event for charity. She didn’t want to go but her agent, Marvin, had talked the talk and persuaded her it was a good gig, easy money and she’d have fun if she made the effort. He was wrong.

She’d already had far too much, even before she’d glided past a bank of photographers whose cameras flashed as she headed inside the stately home on the arm of a Britpop idol. They were the new golden couple; their agents were loving it. She thought he was a pillock so refused to smile for the birdie and told each photographer to get fucked, but only in her head. The only reason she’d turned up was because if she stayed in her hotel room, she’d have gone mad, overthinking and raging against the world and her mother.

So, she’d worn the beautiful silver Armani dress and ridiculous shoes that her agent had couriered over, slapped on some make-up then wiped it all off again, scraped back her white-blonde hair into a ponytail, preferring the tortured, gaunt, spaced-out alien look she’d perfected. Spotting her reflection in a huge gilt mirror she congratulated herself on nailing it, capitalising on being off her face to a tee.

And no matter how badass she behaved, she would get away with it, she always did, because the paps loved the moody mare persona, the middle finger salute that would end up on the front page of The Sun. It was her trademark reaction, and her face was one that was recognised on magazine covers all over the world – only on this occasion, the expression was for real, not for sale.

The glare from ice-blue eyes belied the white-hot fire that raged in her soul, anger reflected by the set of her jaw which was making her face ache as she sucked in her temper, holding back the demons that prowled inside. She knew they would escape eventually. Just a matter of time, and she would pay for it the following morning when she had her head stuck down the toilet and Marvin called and told her to curb it. Again.

While her date waved and postured, she looked straight ahead and cringed when she spotted the reporter from a celebrity magazine who had walked in and was on her way over. In an attempt to smother her irritation at having a microphone shoved in her face, never mind the banal question the eager woman posed, she ground her teeth so hard she could feel a vein pounding in her temple. She needed a drink so badly.

At functions like these, no expense was spared so once they’d taken their seats, she’d be able to quench her thirst and ignore whatever knobheads were unlucky enough to be sat at her table. She was bad company at the best of times and as her mum would say, tonight, she was on one.

The reporter really couldn’t take a hint and tried again to engage. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?

She stared for a moment and reminded herself that the poor cow was only doing her job so she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘No, mate, I’m only here for the beer.’

Before anyone had a chance to respond she pulled her date away and as her body relaxed she allowed herself to laugh but only on the inside. It was a second-hand story, told by her mum, that it was something her grandad used to say at every ‘do’ he ever attended. He loved a good knees-up, apparently. What she would give for a Saturday afternoon at the Labour Club; bingo, pie, peas and gravy and a couple of bottles of stout. Dancing to Slade and shouting Merry Christmas, helping him blow out the candles on his cake. Her grandma rolling her eyes and telling him to sit down. She had missed out on so much. Thanks for that, Mum.

That was when she knew she couldn’t stay. Not for a pay cheque, or for the kudos of seeing her face in a magazine or a Sunday spread, not even for a charitable cause. These weren’t her people. This thought, even though it was true, unsettled her further, sticking the knife in, agitating her current fragile state of mind.

After unhooking her arm and walking away from a man who wouldn’t even notice she was gone, she grabbed a bottle of champagne from the hands of a passing waiter who gave her a look and got a better one back, then headed towards the rear of the room and out the nearest door, not caring where it led. The place was vast, easy to become lost in, so she wandered the corridors unchallenged, taking herself further and further away from the twenty-four-hour party people, and by the time she emerged into the summer evening, through the French doors of a very plush room, her mood had eased.

She was in the grounds at the rear of the building, and she could just about see the drive where headlights of limousines lit the way. She wasn’t supposed to be there and expected to be removed at any minute by a security guard but until it happened, she would savour the solitude.

Her feet were killing her; after she kicked off her stupidly high heels, she walked a while. Then hoping she was well out of sight, she flopped onto the spikey grass and winced, the earth hard beneath her bottom, baked by the sun and needing sustenance, just like her. Resting against the trunk of a huge tree, the strains of music from inside just about audible, she began to open the bottle of… she twisted it around and rolled her eyes at the label, Bollinger. Perfect for washing down whatever the hell was in the little plastic pouch she’d been given earlier. Her date said they could share. Tonight, she felt like being greedy.

It was cigarette smoke, the scent of it that roused her, not the violent shaking of her shoulders or the voice of a man telling her to wake up but when she did, she saw a smudged face that gradually came into focus, one she recognised.

He’d found her in a bad way. She must have wandered towards the driveway, where, so far out of it, she’d collapsed. His driver had spotted her by the fence. He said later that he thought she was dead. He hadn’t seemed fazed when she threw up all over the grass, told her not to worry, seen it all before apparently, but he’d been kind and offered to take her home.

Then there was something weird that she had to unscramble, not as clear as the other stuff. She was looking down at the stones on the driveway, and the back pocket of his jeans, head dangling and her eyeballs felt like they were popping out of her head, then she realised he’d thrown her over his shoulder. Next, his Rolls Royce glided alongside them and once he’d lowered her to the ground she’d managed to crawl inside and onto the back seat. Her head lolled against his shoulder and the spirit of ecstasy carried her away, or at least to her hotel room in Chelsea.

He had stayed, saying he wanted to make sure she was okay, when he could have got his driver to dump her in the foyer. And as he held her upright in the lift, she presumed he wanted payment in kind, unsurprising but hey, at least she could say she’d laid a legend.

Instead, he’d wanted nothing of the kind, had been such a gentleman, she knew that, could tell by the way she was still wearing her designer dress, all zipped up, slightly grubby and crinkled but on the right way round, just like her knickers.

Opening her eyes, she tried to remember the rest, fill in the blanks but nothing came to her. She hoped it would once the pills and alcohol wore off because the night with him had been special. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, but she did. There was something tangible lodged in her heart, like she’d been touched by magic or graced by the presence of an angel. Or you’re still high.

Just to make sure, she looked round the room that was strewn with her clothes and as she suspected, he had gone. All that remained was the ashtray on the bedside table, half full, and a can of Coke, scrunched sheets and the indent in the pillow. Reaching out, she rested her palm in the gap and once again closed her eyes, but nothing came, only the shrill sound of the phone ruining the moment.

Expecting it to be Marvin her first thought was to ignore it, but he’d only keep on ringing and worse, come round, so preferring a verbal reprimand than one in the flesh she reluctantly picked up the receiver.

When she heard the voice at the other end, she was surprised since the last time they’d spoken she’d been vile, truly vile. Shock was swiftly replaced by annoyance as every one of her mum’s words grated. ‘It’s me. Don’t put the phone down please… just hear me out. I’ve been ringing your room all night. I was scared you’d done something stupid.’

And then it came, a flashback.

Him picking up the notes that had been shoved under the door and reading the top one. ‘Looks like your mother really wants to speak to you… you should call her back.’

She had bridled, said it was none of his business and grabbed them from him then scrunched them into a ball before staggering to the loo. After she staggered back, she flung herself onto the bed, kind of hoping he hadn’t taken it personally. Instead of leaving, she’d watched him take a can from the minibar before he came to sit next to her.

‘You want to talk about it?’ And once he’d said it, she realised she did, needed to say the words out loud before they ate her alive. So, while she lay, arms crossed over her chest, he sat, and when she managed to make her lips work and her brain stay on track, she explained her anger. He had listened. For the first time someone listened.

Now it was her turn, because at the end of the phone was another angry woman who only wanted someone to hear their words, so she allowed her heart to soften a touch. ‘What do you want, Mum? I told you I had nothing to say to you, so please give me space so I can work this out in my head, okay? You can’t expect me to just carry on like everything is normal after what you’ve done.’

An audible sucking in of breath, or was it temper, preceded her mother’s reply. ‘Yes, I understand that. It’s been a shock, but we will get nothing sorted if you keep running away. And refusing to talk about it won’t help so please, just come home and we can discuss it properly. Or shall we talk now, get it over and done with and out in the open? At least then you can think about it, get your head straight before you get back.’

‘NO! Mum, just leave it. I can’t deal with it right now. I have to work so stop messing with my head and pestering me.’ She began to tremble, a mixture of anger, hunger and coming down.

When she replied, her mum sounded angry, and from her tone running out of patience too. ‘When will you be back? I spoke to Marvin earlier and he says you have a two-day shoot then nothing booked for a month, so I expect you home after that. No excuses.’

‘How dare you! Stop ringing Marvin. I mean it. Stay out of my business. You have no right doing that.’ She knew she did and had just given her mum the perfect excuse to say so.

‘Oh yes I do! I’m worried and I’m also the one who cares for your daughter so that you can do what you do, and we all know exactly how you react to pressure. Christ, the whole bloody world ends up knowing, which is why I want you home before you end up in the gutter. I mean it. Your child misses you and I’m scared you’ll do something stupid so please, listen to reason. Come home and we can talk, see your little girl, that’s all I ask.’

She heard the crack in her mum’s voice and her heart plummeted. Her mum was a good person. The best. It had never been as bad as this between them, ever. Yes, she’d been a nightmare teen, but they’d always promised to be best friends forever, her and her mum. Falling out and making up. That’s how it went. And when she’d been spotted by a talent scout during a trip to the capital and signed by a top London agency, her mum had been proud and so supportive, just like she had when the pregnancy test proved positive and threatened to ruin her glittering career. Her mum deserved better, in many senses of the word.

‘Is she okay though?’ The face of her two-year-old sunbeam was clouded by tears that she flicked away and she prayed for an answer that wouldn’t rip open her heart. She couldn’t take much more.

The voice at the other end of the phone was gentler now. ‘Yes, of course she is, but she misses you, like I do.’

Taking a deep breath, knowing she had to face up to things sooner or later, a promise was made. ‘I’ll do this job then come straight home and then we can talk – well, you can explain. I’ll get Marvin to arrange a driver then I can set off straight after the shoot and avoid the commuters. The job’s here in London, we should finish at midday so I will be home early Friday evening.’

It was as though the smile on her mum’s face was being transmitted down the phone, relief echoing in her voice. ‘Thank you.’

‘Is she there?’

‘She’s having a nap, but I can ring later if you like. Or you ring us, that might be best. We’re always here.’

Ignoring the insinuation, whether it was meant as a criticism or not, she suddenly realised that given a choice she would have left there and then because despite everything she missed home; them. ‘Okay. I’ll try to ring later when I’ve had my fittings. I’ve got to go now, I’m already late… I love you, Mum.’

There was a heartbeat, silence and then the voice at the end of the phone managed a croaked reply. ‘And I love you too, my darling girl. I always have and I always will and I’m sorry for what I’ve done, I truly am.’

She was crying now, barely able to speak but managed to squeak the words her mum needed to hear, that she meant more than anything in the world, no matter how hurt and angry she was. ‘I know, Mum, it’s okay, we’ll sort it out. Don’t worry. I’ll be home soon. I love you too.’

When the spell was broken by someone hammering on the door, Marvin no doubt mad as hell and on the verge of firing her again, she ended the call. ‘Mum, I have to go. I’ll ring later.’

Heaving herself off the bed she rested her feet firmly on the plush carpet and waited for the room to stop spinning and focused on a spot, the dresser. It was then that she saw the note, peeping out from the book she carried everywhere, that was littered with her own scribblings, pencilled notes and thoughts, lines that she might use in a poem or a song, maybe one day when her face no longer fit.

Her heart flipped as she called out to Marv. ‘Hold your horses. I’m on the loo.’

She took two strides and grabbed the book, adrenaline pumped, cleared the stage as a scene from the night before played on a reel in her head. It was an epiphany; he was back in the room, and she was desperate not to let him go so blocked everything out and held on tight.

His white shirt was rolled at the sleeves and at his neck a silver cross on a black leather cord. His long brown hair fell onto his face, but she could see his eyes, blue like hers as he looked up. He was holding a can of Coke in one hand, her book in the other. ‘This yours?’ He read the title out loud. ‘Romeo and Juliet.’

She nodded and watched from the bed as he made his way over, her lips having trouble forming words, her response slurred. The chemicals were pulling her down, too deep. ‘Read it at school. S’my favourite. I pinched it. Keeps me safe.’

And just as swiftly as he’d arrived, he drifted away, leaving her with only the note which she unfolded and pulled close to her face so she could focus on the words, a twist on a line from the play.

To the brightest star in all the heavens. Keep shining. Smile more. Go home and see your mum. Be good until we meet again. And remember. Stay away from guys like me. x

Chapter 2

Nanou

La Babinais, Atlantic Coast, France

Present Day

---

Nanou carried the basket of vegetables over to the kitchen table and began chopping the carrots into chunks. Neither the sound of the knife as it sliced through the orange flesh or Radio France could drown out the raised voices that echoed along the corridor.

Joe, her boss, was in an unusually bad mood which annoyed her because normally the house was a happy one. A place where everyone just jogged along doing their own thing. Joe spent most of his time in his studio or reading by the fire, and sometimes he was happy just sitting at the kitchen table, chatting to Nanou and interfering with her recipes or entertaining whoever had dropped by. He liked the company of easy-going folk, but he also liked solitude, time alone to think. So would spend hours walking his dogs along the footpaths that straddled the coastline.

Yes, Joe had his demons but them aside, he was a mellow soul and so was Ace, his youngest son who she adored. But it was Lance, the eldest, who always upset the rhythm of life. From the minute he turned up, Nanou felt the dip because he brought bad vibes with him, and no matter how much he pretended he was glad to be there, she saw through the fake smile and caught the surly looks directed towards Ace when he thought nobody was looking. It was twenty years ago, and Ace had only been four at the time, but Lance had resented him from the moment they met. No matter how much Ace had adored his new big brother, the then fifteen-year-old Lance didn’t have it in him to be kind, let alone brotherly.

Nanou tutted. The mere thought of Lance made her grumpy and as she’d often said to her husband, Silvestre, it was about time the thirty-five-year-old man-child grew up, got a job and stopped sponging off his papa.

Lance had always been horrible. She first met him as a spotty teenager, when he would turn up for the summer with a chaperone – one of his mother’s lackeys who’d been assigned to accompany her son on the flight from LA and dump him on his father. Lance was a Hollywood child who’d been mollycoddled by his actress mother and was, in all fairness, a stranger to his mostly absent papa who might as well have been from another planet.

In total contrast was her beloved Ace who she looked upon as a grandson. As she chopped the vegetables, Nanou recalled the day he confided in her that he didn’t want to go with his mother when she ‘consciously uncoupled’ from Joe.

Ace had been seated at the kitchen table, eating a galette, his favourite, with eggs, ham and cheese and the yellow yolk dribbled onto his chin as he spoke. ‘Will Papa let me stay here? With you and Silvestre? Mama will be okay on her own, do you think?’

Nanou’s heart had soared, but she couldn’t make a promise that wasn’t hers to keep, even though she wanted him to stay more than anything. ‘I think that you should ask Mama et Papa, and tell them how happy you are here, and assure them that I will take good care of you while she is away. And you need to wipe your chin, chéri.’

Ace had nodded and dragged the cuff of his jumper across his mouth. Nanou knew that he appreciated being spoken to in a direct manner. His intelligent and inquisitive mind liked everything untangled, a straight line of facts that he could process one by one. Somewhere in his head, spectrums collided and even though Joe and Jenny accepted this, that their son had his own special and unique traits, between them they had nurtured him well. Ace had been given the understanding and tools to thrive, run free, play in the mud, go to school and make friends, be happy.

Nanou had known that Jenny would let him stay because she was a good mum, in her own haphazard way and that she would trust Nanou to care for Ace. And that was how it had been. She and Silvestre were the next best thing to Mémère et Grand-père and Joe was, and continued to be, the best papa ever.

Throwing the onions into the pot, Nanou blamed them for the tears that leaked from her eyes, not her memories. Pulling herself together she made a mental list of things she needed to do, in preparation for another house guest the following day. Along with her more pastoral care of Ace, she was also the housekeeper, a job she took immense pride in, but couldn’t take all the credit for. She had help with the cleaning and laundry when her niece Gigi came three times a week because Nanou believed in keeping things in the family, like the old days.

When Joe bought the ramshackle sheep and dairy farm from them twenty-years before, part of the deal was that they stayed on, in the shepherd’s cottage that was converted first. Joe had wanted to make La Babinais his permanent home but as he was on the road for much of the year, he needed someone to care for the place when he was away. The arrangement had suited everyone concerned, not least Silvestre who, despite failing health, hadn’t wanted to let the farm go. It was where he’d grown up, but they were making a pittance, each year harder than the last so Joe’s offer was too good to turn down and now they were like family with Ace at the centre of it.

The house was so big now. Six bedrooms, a recording and photography studio, two lounges and a dining room and sun terrace took a lot of work. The main section of the farmhouse where she had brought up her family had been knocked through to the huge but dilapidated barn at the end, and a loft conversion had added another floor. Below, in the old cave was a state-of-the-art gym that Joe had used to get fit before tours; and a cinema where he and Ace spent many an evening watching old reels of his shows. There was also a holiday annexe, created from one of the outbuildings, that slept five people. That was where non-family guests stayed.

Joe had hired a flamboyant interior designer from Paris who had transformed the whole house, retaining most of the period features including knick-knacks he’d found around the property. The old but defunct hunting rifles that had belonged to Silvestre’s grand-père were now features and hung on the sturdy exposed beams. The whole house was stunning, decorated in rich, earthy tones and complementing the quirky antiquities. The walls were adorned with paintings Joe had collected from around the world, and photographic artwork courtesy of Ace.

Still, no matter how luxurious the farmhouse was, the kitchen was the place Nanou loved the most. Two rooms knocked into one to create a vast space, retaining the old fireplace at one end where logs burned all through the winter. It was where she’d dried her children’s clothes on the maiden; hand-reared lambs who’d lost their mothers; and where Silvestre’s ancestors once cooked their evening meals.

The rest of the kitchen was simply beautiful; rustic and homely, lined with oak cupboards stacked with tasteful crockery; shiny copper pans hung from a rack on the ceiling. Nanou was spoilt for choice by an array of state-of-the-art appliances. And then there was her range: it was like something from a Michelin restaurant. And one of her secret pleasures was ordering food to stock the biggest fridge-freezer she’d seen in her life. Amidst the glitz, and knobs and dials, right at the centre was a huge oak table and even

Reviews for Venus Was Her Name

[amywaters · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Good read. Hated the way it just dropped at the end. Couldn’t put it down