Chasing Victory
By
Beverley Watts
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2016 by Beverley Watts. All rights reserved worldwide.
No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author.
Cover Design Karen Ronan
www.coversbykaren.com
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Final Author’s Note
Claiming Victory
Author’s Note
You may have noticed that I’ve used quite a lot of naval colloquialisms throughout The Dartmouth Diaries – most of which I believe are generally understandable in context (I hope so anyway!)
However, in Chasing Victory I mention the word Pompey. For the benefit of all non naval personnel (which is most of you I suspect), Pompey is an affectionate nick name for the city of Portsmouth on the south coast of England - still regarded by many as the sacred home of the Royal Navy.
Also, just in case you’re interested, nearly all of the colloquialisms I’ve used throughout the series have been purloined from Jack Speak by Rick Jolly - a comprehensive guide to the humorous and colourful slang of Britain’s senior service.
I have spent many a happy hour chuckling away at some of the more lively phrases!
You can order a copy by going to the link below:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B017VWJAZK
For my very own darling Isaac, the reason it’s taken me so long to write this book :-)
Chapter One
‘Those are salad tongs, you are NOT putting any bloody kitchenware in there.’
Victory Westbrook, my best friend since forever, is in labour. Nearly three weeks early. And her husband of six months, the totally gorgeous, more famous than the Queen, Oscar nominated actor Noah Westbrook, is stuck in an airport in Canada. Fog bound. In June. Which means I get to be her birthing partner instead…
Wincing sympathetically, I lean forward to wipe Tory’s sweating brow. ‘Sweetie, you need some help getting junior out. It’s been over ten hours and you’re knackered.’
Tory moans in answer, and grabs hold of the gas and air. ‘I feel like bloody Darth Vadar,’ she mutters, plastering the mouthpiece to her face. After taking a deep breath in, she glares at the doctor before saying in a slightly slurry voice, ‘Okay, do your worst. Maybe you can check out my tonsils while you’re in there.’
Ten minutes later Isaac Charles Westbrook arrives into the world kicking and screaming, a whopping nine pound four.
‘Oh my God Tory he’s beautiful,’ I murmur as the midwife places the little red bundle onto her chest.
‘He is, isn’t he,’ she responds tearfully, stroking his head gently.
As I stare down at mother and baby, I feel the sudden unfamiliar stirrings of envy. I’ve never considered myself parent material. I’ve always been pretty blasé about it – if it happened, it happened, sort of thing. The world is vastly overpopulated anyway. But standing there looking at my best friend - weary, but literally glowing with happiness, I feel my maternal instinct kick in with all the force of a charging rhino.
Swallowing a sudden lump in my throat the size of a golf ball, I lean forward and hug them both, breathing in the scent of new baby, helplessly wondering where Jason stands in regards to siring a couple of little Buchannans in the not too distant future.
Although we’ve been dating since Tory and Noah’s wedding last December, and things have been pretty good, we haven’t really gotten around to discussing the important life changing stuff like children. To be fair, Jason’s job means that we don’t get an awful lot of time together – although I have been wheeled out of the closet as his significant other at various naval functions.
Jason Buchannan is a captain in the Royal Navy, and currently he’s the Captain of Britannia Royal Naval College - the RN’s premier officer training establishment, situated high on a hill overlooking the picturesque yachting town of Dartmouth in the south west of England. It’s all very queen and country with a liberal dose of stiff upper lip. Jason suits it like he was born to it. Me? Not so much. But hey, so far I haven’t managed to cause a diplomatic incident…
Forcing my mind back to the matter at hand, I follow the orderlies as they wheel Tory’s bed up to the maternity ward. As Noah Westbrook’s wife, she could have had specialist treatment in a private clinic, but she insisted on having her baby at the local hospital in Torquay and giving them a donation equal to the cost of private care. No idea why, just one of Tory’s quirks.
Once she’s settled in, I give both her and Isaac a last kiss before heading out to my car. I have a list of items Tory all of a sudden deems necessary for her stay in hospital – although why she thinks a tin opener is likely to be useful is anybody’s guess. But if I do the fetching and carrying, Noah gets to head straight to the hospital when he finally arrives. The last text said he he’d just landed in Heathrow.
It takes me twenty minutes to get from Torquay to the Higher Car Ferry. Dartmouth sits at the mouth of the River Dart, so getting to it from the holiday resort of Torbay necessitates crossing the river. All well and good most of the time, but a hell of a challenge at stupid o’clock in the morning. However, Tory’s father lives this side of the river, so I have a small detour to make before I cross over.
Turning into a small road, just before the last few yards to the river’s edge, I finally pull up outside a massive fence and gate which would do justice to Buckingham Palace.
Tory’s dad is affectionately known locally as the Admiral – for the obvious reason that he was an Admiral in the Royal Navy. I say affectionately. There are those who would just as soon ring his neck given the penchant he has for meddling in affairs that are none of his business. But then, knowing him is never ever dull. Goodness knows how little Isaac will fare, having him as a role model…
Climbing out of the car, I press the buzzer next to the gate and settle back to wait. Both gate and fence came courtesy of The Bridegroom – a romantic comedy which was a massive box office success two years ago. Part of the movie was filmed at the Admiral’s house - a large Edwardian pile with the rather original name of the Admiralty. Tory was living at home at the time. Noah was the leading man and voila – the rest as they say is history.
‘You can tell your bollocking editor that I’ve got nothing to say apart from take your bloody pen and paper and shove it up your duck run.’ The Admiral’s voice booms out of the small intercom, and instinctively I glance up and step back. Tory’s father obviously thinks I’m some kind of undesirable and he’s been known to discourage such unwanted visitors by lobbing something unpleasant over the fence. Although to be fair, that little inclination only surfaced to dissuade the more determined paparazzi camping outside his back door once Tory and Noah became an item.
‘Admiral it’s me, Kit,’ I yell back hastily, concerned he might turn off the intercom and that would be that. I’d have a better chance of getting in to Fort Knox. I can hear Dotty and Pickles barking frenziedly in t
he background, drawing an answering mutter of, ‘What a bloody cake and arse party.’ Then without warning he changes volume and his voice blasts directly into the intercom, giving me a mini heart attack.
‘PIPE DOWN YOU MISERABLE MUTTS OR YOU’LL BOTH BE RELEGATED TO THE BOLLOCKING SHED FOR THE REST OF YOUR BLOODY NATURAL.’
I take a deep breath, heart still pounding, getting ready to add my own contribution to the din, but luckily before I get chance to join in, the buzzer goes off and the gate clicks open. Murmuring a quick prayer of thanks, I hurry through to give Tory’s father the good news.
Half an hour later I’m pulling off the car ferry on the Dartmouth side of the river. I can’t help but smile to myself as I remember the Admiral’s delight when I told him he had a grandson. He insisted on pouring us both a glass of Port to toast his first carpet crawler. When I showed him a couple of photos I’d taken on my phone, he pronounced with satisfaction that Isaac was definitely Victory’s as he had the Shackleford chin. I didn’t like to ask who else’s he thought the baby could be…
After parking my car in the garage, I make a quick phone call to Freddy to appraise him that he’s become an honorary uncle, and his squeal of excitement is in complete contrast to his earlier blasé attitude towards Tory’s pregnancy. Our gay friend wastes no time in vowing to ensure that little Isaac doesn’t lose touch with his feminine side which I’m not sure is necessarily a good thing, and agreeing to meet me and the Admiral at the hospital as soon as he’s finished at work. Cutting the call, I pop quickly up to my flat to have a shower and get changed.
Tory showed the first signs of labour at four o’clock yesterday afternoon, so I dashed over to her house with nothing but the clothes I was standing up in, envisioning myself rushing her to the hospital in a car journey straight out of the movie Fast and Furious. However, I don’t think they ever filmed Fast and Furious during a seaside town’s rush hour - it took us so long to get to the hospital, Tory could have delivered triplets. It was a good job her waters didn’t actually break until two in the morning.
This time, determined to avoid a repeat performance of Slow and Laborious, I’m back outside the Admiralty by three in the afternoon, before the local schools begin regurgitating their pupils. As Tory’s father squeezes himself into my ten year old Fiesta, I briefly mourn the loss of my beloved seven seater, sacrificed nearly a year ago on the altar of unemployment. Although things have definitely been looking up since I organized my best friend’s high profile wedding last December, I’ve nevertheless not quite reached the dizzy heights of corporate cardom.
The Admiral is uncharacteristically silent as we head over to the hospital. It actually feels quite strange being in an enclosed space with Tory’s dad, especially after the revelation that he and my Aunt Flo had once been married.
‘Is Dotty behaving herself?’ I ask finally as the silence becomes a little oppressive
The Admiral frowns at me before offering the word, ‘Spoilt,’ along with a humph that makes his feelings about the little dog perfectly clear. I can’t help but wince a little. Being looked after by the Admiral must be akin to going from a five star hotel to a zero star hostel. Still, at least she’s got Pickles.
‘You spoken to your aunt yet?’ The Admiral’s question takes me completely by surprise and I cast him a wary glance while frantically thinking what to say.
‘I take it that means no,’ he continues gruffly when I take too long. ‘You can’t ignore it forever Kit Davies, the whole bollocking load of horlicks has been under wraps for far too bloody long. It’s time to get it all out in the open.’
I throw another, this time incredulous, glance at the man whose penchant for secrets is pretty much legendary, and he has the grace to look a little embarrassed before determinedly ploughing ahead, his voice at once defiant and sincere. ‘The thing is Kit, secrets have a way of catching up with you when you least want them to, and let’s be honest, I should bloody well know.’
The truth is, I haven’t spoken to my aunt about my less than conventional entrance to this world. Despite my initial determination to know the whole sordid truth, there’s a big part of me that enjoys being in cloud cuckoo land about the whole affair. Surely it’s enough to know that my father was a complete nutcase and I’m lucky Aunt Flo managed to sneak me away from his corrupt influence and bring me back to the UK - after blowing his brains out of course.
Surely that’s enough?
Coughing awkwardly, I concentrate on pulling out of a junction into the heavy oncoming traffic. Jason, Tory and Freddy have been badgering me for months to have The Conversation with my aunt. In fact the only two people on the planet who seem reluctant to have this particular tête-à-tête are me and Aunt Flo. Oh things are okay between us, and if we haven’t quite got back to the familiar, easy relationship we had before she dropped her bombshell, well no-one would know it apart from the two of us. I think we’re just happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Or maybe I just can’t bring myself to ask her why she abandoned me in Dartmouth as a scared two year old because I don’t think I’m going to like the answer.
Determinedly I turn my mind back to my driving, promising myself that I’ll speak to Aunt Flo – soon…
Six hours later, Freddy and I are wetting little Isaac’s head in The Cherub, and it has to be said that all the excitement has definitely gone to our heads – or it might be the two bottles of Prosecco we’ve just consumed.
‘I’m going to be the best uncle since Uncle Buck.’ Freddy’s words are definitely slightly slurred.
‘I thought he was supposed to be a totally crap uncle in that movie.’
‘Nope. He was awesome. Got on the same level as the kids, totally rocked it. That’s gonna be me.’
‘You’re going to have to put some weight on then if you’re going to measure up to John Candy.’
Freddy frowns at my drunken observation, looking down at himself in dismay. ‘You’re right,’ he murmurs, ‘Damn, I’d better order some chips.’
‘The grease will definitely soak up the alcohol.’ Noah’s voice is wry, which of course is completely lost on both of us and I jump up with a very unlady like squeal, throwing my arms around my best friend’s husband in an enthusiastic rugby tackle. Staggering under my unreserved hug, Noah laughs, holding me briefly before setting me carefully back on my feet.
‘I’m not sure you guys are a good influence on my son,’ he growls, his grin belying his stern words. ‘I think it’s gonna take more than a few fries to get you both sober, I’ll order a couple of pizzas.
‘Is Jason coming over?’ Noah’s last words throw a dash of cold water over my delightfully alcoholic haze, doing a better job of sobering me up than any amount of fast food.
‘I’m not sure, I haven’t managed to speak to him since yesterday. We’ve left each other a couple of messages, but so far we’ve been playing answer phone ping pong. I think he’s been in meetings pretty much all day.’ I omit the part where Jason’s voice in his last message this afternoon sounded cold and distant, causing my heart to flutter uncomfortably. ‘I’m sure he’ll make it if he can,’ I continue determinedly cheerful in the face of Noah’s too perceptive glance. Luckily, he doesn’t pursue it any further and heads to the bar.
‘That’s not like you and Jason. Thought you murmured sweet nothings to each other at least twenty times a day.’ Freddy’s light words do nothing to alleviate my anxiety and my response is sharper than I intended. ‘I think you’re referring to you and Jacques. Your phone bill must be the size of a small mortgage since he’s been in America.’
‘God, that’s good.’ Noah’s arrival back from the bar with his pint effectively puts an end to the conversation and I gratefully turn the subject back to baby talk.
‘How are Tory and little Isaac,’ I ask, delighting in the look of pride and joy that immediately transforms his face.
‘Well, aside from my wife being the most amazing woman on both sides of the Atlantic, and my son obviously the most beautiful baby ever to be bo
rn, I’m pleased to report that both are doing fantastic. I should be able to pick them up tomorrow morning after the pediatrician’s stopped by.
‘I can’t thank you enough for being there with her Kit, I was going crazy stuck in Toronto.’ The relief in his voice that everything turned out okay is palpable and I put my hand over his with a smile.
‘Hey, that’s what friends are for. And anyway, it was very enlightening – and not just for whole getting to see a baby born thing, which of course was absolutely awesome – I actually think Tory used her father’s entire repertoire of swear words. You should have seen the midwife’s face.’
Noah laughs again, effectively ending the gravity of the moment. ‘Hopefully I’ll get to see it next time.’
Then he looks around the small bar at the cluster of regulars who are trying very hard not to eavesdrop, and stands up with a grin. ‘I’m not sure if you guys know it, but I’ve become a father today. Go grab whatever your poison is, the drinks are on me.’ His words prompt a smattering of applause followed by lots of back patting, not to mention parental advice. I have time to wince at an old wives remedy for colic, when my phone rings. Glancing down, my stomach does a slight skip as Jason’s name flashes across the screen.
‘Hey you, had a busy day?’ For some reason my voice comes out hoarse and dry.
‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier.’ His voice is clipped and short, a tone I haven’t heard from him in months, and my heart slams against my ribs in an instinctive response.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask automatically, unable to stem the rising tide of fear in my gut.
He sighs, and for a second I think I’ve imagined everything, then he continues, ‘It’s my father Kit. He’s had a stroke. I’m on my way up to Scotland now.’
Chapter Two
It’s two in the morning and I’m lying in bed unable to sleep. The pizza is sitting in my stomach like it was made of concrete, and my mind is going over and over my last conversation with Jason.
Chasing Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 1