‘I – I… you can’t do this you ungrateful bastard,’ his agent sputters, a look of incredulity on his face. ‘You were a nobody when I took you on. I made you what you are today. I own you.’ I draw in my breath, watching Noah’s hands tighten into fists, truly frightened now that he’d do something he might regret. But after a couple of seconds, his fingers unclench and he comes back from the brink, saying calmly, ‘You’ve been paid very handsomely for your services Tim, but nobody owns me and you of all people should know that. I love Tory and I will marry her. My private life is my own - it has nothing do with you or anybody else. Now, get the fuck out of my face.’
I stopped listening at “marry”. Noah Westbrook wants to marry me. OMG…
Tim opens his mouth to reply, but one look at his former employer’s set features, changes his mind. Face flaming, he turns abruptly on his heels and heads back to the dining room, leaving us alone again in the lobby. We stare at each other for a couple of seconds, then Noah beckons me to him, and as I reach his side, he folds me in his arms with a sigh. ‘I think you should go back to your guests,’ I finally mumble reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to stay here, safe in his arms, forever. His answer is to tip my chin up to look at him before saying quietly, ‘Are you willing to marry me Tory?’
I nod my head, finding it so hard to speak round the sudden lump in my throat. Then, knowing he needs to hear me say it, I swallow convulsively and place my hand gently against his cheek before whispering, ‘Yes.’
You might be wondering, given my dramatic exit, whether I accompanied Noah back to the dinner table. The answer is yes. For some reason, Noah seems reluctant to let me out of his sight, announcing arbitrarily that I will be living in this house from tonight. I know he has to return to Ireland in a couple of days to wrap up filming Nocturne, so I allow him to boss me around. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go together to tell my father and our friends.
But tonight is ours. As we return to the dining room, Noah actually has the caterers move my seat next to his before announcing brazenly to the rest of the assembly that I’ve had a promotion. I can tell the whole table is waiting with baited breathe to see if he’ll elaborate – including me. But he leaves everyone guessing. I think he’s intending to show me later exactly what my new job entails…
I’m done hiding in the shadows, fixated with other people’s ideas of who I should be. I finally know who I am. I am Victory Britannia Shackleford, soon to be Westbrook.
I am me.
Epilogue
Charles Shackleford was a contented man. Life was going swimmingly – not that it was all due to chance of course. His firm philosophy was that you only got out of life what you put into it – and in the Admiral’s book, that meant interfering whenever necessary. Mabel had agreed to shack up with him, providing they made it legal pretty sharpish, and, the icing on the cake? He’d been invited to a Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace no less. So here he was, hob-knobbing in a posh hotel with Mabel, both of them about to get their glad rags on to go and meet the Queen. Charles Shackleford didn’t think it could get any better than this.
To be fair, he had no idea why he’d been invited, especially as the invitation had only arrived a few days ago. This particular garden party was actually an addition to the usual shindigs held at the Palace during the early summer, but the reason for it was another mystery. He didn’t actually like to ask, just in case his invitation turned out to be a mistake.
While Mabel commandeered the en-suite, the Admiral struggled into his uniform - jacket, gold laced trousers and blue waistcoat. The last time he’d worn this get up was for the bloody premier of The Bridegroom in Leicester Square. He’d gone as far as having the whole lot cleaned afterwards (the smell of mothballs seemed to put some people off) and he was now convinced it had shrunk. Puffing and panting, he finally managed to get the whole ensemble on, and observing himself in the mirror he couldn’t help but reflect what a fine figure of a man he still was – emphasized by Mabel’s admiring comments as she finally emerged from the bathroom. ‘We certainly look the business Mabel old girl,’ he said finally, and picking up his cap, he ushered his bride to be out of the hotel room.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at Buckingham Palace, joining the queue of people waiting to get into the royal gardens. As they stood in line, the Admiral actually felt a little miffed. He had no idea there would be all these bloody people – there must be a few thousand. What chance would he and Mabel have to meet Her Royal Highness in this bloody cake and arse party? Still, as they shuffled forward, he contented himself with the knowledge that, if nothing else, an invitation like this would definitely see him in the local paper.
It was another half an hour before they finally got into the Palace gardens but there was no time to relax as almost immediately the National Anthem signified the arrival of the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. As Mabel twittered next to him, the Admiral kept his eyes peeled to see if there was anybody he recognized. They were ushered into rows and the Admiral waited with baited breath to see which Royal they would be introduced to. This would keep him in beer at the Ship until at least Christmas. Suddenly, in the distance, he could see her majesty as she slowly began making her way towards them. Yes. The Admiral felt a swelling of patriotic pride as he waited in line, abstractly wondering whether Mabel had ever curtsied before. Craning his neck in an effort not to miss anything, he gradually became aware of a man in civilian clothes walking slightly behind the Queen, to her right. He definitely looked familiar. As the party drew closer, the Admiral frowned, Her Royal Highness briefly forgotten, as he struggled to remember where he’d seen the man before. Until, finally the Queen was there, directly in front of them. As she stopped and smiled, Charles Shackleford bowed, murmuring, ‘Your Majesty,’ as he’d been instructed. Then, straightening up, he looked directly into the eyes of Doris.
There could be no mistake. He might look older but it was definitely Doris Day. The Admiral stared with an open mouth as the Queen slowly moved past them. Then, unbelievably, the former sub lieutenant turned back towards him and winked. Who the hell was he? The Admiral tried making discreet enquiries to the people standing next to him, but nobody seemed to have a clue. Later, in the tea tent, he tried again, but everyone he questioned seemed to have only had eyes for the members of the Royal Family. The men who accompanied them appeared to be almost invisible.
The Admiral saw the Queen once more from a distance as she left the festivities, but although he strained, he couldn’t see whether Doris was still with her. Disappointed, he distractedly took Mabel’s arm and they made their way towards the entrance.
As they arrived back at the hotel and were crossing the lobby, he was so deep in thought that at first he didn’t realize that someone was blocking their path. Looking up he saw a woman he remembered seeing at the reception desk earlier. ‘Are you Charles Shackleford?’ she asked politely but impersonally. At the Admiral’s nod, she thrust out her hand holding a small cream coloured envelope. ‘I think this is for you Sir,’ she continued, handing him the missive. The Admiral looked around wildly. ‘Who – who gave it to you?’ he asked urgently. ‘It was left at the desk about five minutes ago Mr. Shackleford,’ was her infuriating answer, ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have other guests to check in.’
The Admiral pulled Mabel aside, next to the lift, and with trembling hands he opened the envelope and drew out the letter inside. There were just a few lines.
Hope you enjoyed the Royal Garden Party Charlie, the invitation was my way of saying thank you. I wish I could have done more.
It was good to see you looking so well after all this time, and who knows, we might bump into one another again at some future cake and arse party…
Until then, I remain
Yours aye
Doris
THE END
If you enjoyed Sweet Victory, you may be interested to know that All For Victory - Book Three of The Dartmouth Diaries, and Chasing Victory – Book Four – are now avail
able on Amazon. You can download them from the following links:
All For Victory
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
Chasing Victory
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
Of course, if you happened to have missed Claiming Victory - Book One of The Dartmouth Diaries - you can grab it from the links below:
Amazon.com
Amazon.co.uk
Author’s Note
As I mentioned in Claiming Victory, if you ever find yourself in the South West of England, it is truly worth your while to take some time to visit the beautiful yachting haven of Dartmouth.
If you’d like more information about the town and the surrounding areas, here’s a link to the Tourist Information Centre:
http://www.discoverdartmouth.com/things-to-do/shopping/dartmouth-tourist-information-centre-p1509323
And the second location in Sweet Victory…?
Loch Long in the glorious Scottish Highlands does exist – although I’ve yet to come across Bloodstone Tower! The loch itself is a beautiful sea loch surrounded by mountains. It forms the entire western coastline of the Rosneath Peninsula in Western Scotland, an area so magnificent it will take your breath away…
For more information about Loch Long and the Rosneath Peninsula, click on the link below:
http://www.trossachs.co.uk/loch-long.php
Just in case you were completely baffled, here’s a list of the Scottish phrases used by Aileen in Sweet Victory, along with their meanings…
Awrite, guid mornin, nice tae meit ye: Hi, good morning, nice to meet you.
A hae tae gang, a'll be reit back: I have to go, I’ll be right back.
Haur ye gae: Here you go.
Haud yer wheesht: Be quiet
Ah, guid eenin: Hi, good evening.
Hou's aw wi ye: How are you?
Och ye scunner, watch ma tatties: Oh you clumsy thing, watch my potatoes.
Tatties o’wer the side and no mistake hen: It’s all gone wrong/disaster’s struck my dear.
Keep the heid: Keep calm and don’t lose your head.
It’s gaein be awricht ance the pain has gane awa: As soon as that pesky bad stuff is out of the way, everything will be fine.
Och, ye numpty, ah pure wallaped ma heid aff that bloody shelf: Oh, you idiot, I hit my head on the shelf.
~*~
If you enjoyed Sweet Victory, I’d be really grateful if you would leave a review/star rating on Amazon. This is soo important and helps so much with both sales and of course my self esteem :-)
However, if you do decide to leave a (hopefully) nice review, could you please do so via the Amazon website and not via the ‘Rate This Book’ feature on your Kindle; those reviews don’t connect to the website half the time!
For any of you who would like to connect, or, if you’d like to find out when Book Three of the Dartmouth Diaries is out, I’d really love to hear from you.
You can contact me via my website at http://www.beverleywatts.com or my facebook page
And lastly, thanks a million for taking the time to read Book Two of The Dartmouth Diaries. I really hope we can continue on to Book Three together…
Yours aye
Bev
If you haven’t already read Claiming Victory – Book One of the Dartmouth Diaries, turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek…
Claiming Victory
Chapter One
Retired Admiral, Charles Shackleford, entered the dimly lit interior of his favourite watering hole. Once inside, he waited a second for his eyes to adjust, and glanced around to check that his ageing Springer spaniel was already seated beside his stool at the bar. Pickles had disappeared into the undergrowth half a mile back, as they walked along the wooded trail high above the picturesque River Dart. The scent of some poor unfortunate rabbit had caught his still youthful nose. The Admiral was not unduly worried; this was a regular occurrence, and Pickles knew his way to the Ship Inn better than his master.
Satisfied that all was as it should be for a Friday lunchtime, Admiral Shackleford waved to the other regulars, and made his way to his customary seat at the bar where his long standing, and long suffering friend, Jimmy Noon, was already halfway down his first pint.
‘You’re a bit late today Sir,’ observed Jimmy, after saluting his former commanding officer smartly.
Charles Shackleford grunted as he heaved his ample bottom onto the bar stool. ‘Got bloody waylaid by that bossy daughter of mine.’ He sighed dramatically before taking a long draft of his pint of real ale, which was ready and waiting for him. ‘Damn bee in her bonnet since she found out about my relationship with Mabel Pomfrey. Of course, I told her to mind her own bloody business, but it has to be said that the cat’s out of the bag, and no mistake.’
He stared gloomily down into his pint. ‘She said it cast aspersions on her poor mother’s memory. But what she doesn’t understand Jimmy, is that I’m still a man in my prime. I’ve got needs. I mean look at me – why can’t she see that I’m still a fine figure of a man, and any woman would be more than happy to shack up with me.’
Abruptly, the Admiral turned towards his friend so the light shone directly onto his face and leaned forward. ‘Come on then man, tell me you agree.’
Jimmy took a deep breath as he dubiously regarded the watery eyes, thread veined cheeks, and larger than average nose no more than six inches in front of him
However, before he could come up with a suitably acceptable reply that wouldn’t result in him standing to attention for the next four hours in front of the Admiral’s dishwasher, the Admiral turned away, either indicating it was purely a rhetorical question, or he genuinely couldn’t comprehend that anyone could possibly regard him as less than a prime catch.
Jimmy sighed with relief. He really hadn’t got time this afternoon to do dishwasher duty as he’d agreed to take his wife shopping. Although to be fair, a four hour stint in front of an electrical appliance at the Admiral’s house, with Tory sneaking him tea and biscuits, was actually preferable to four hours trailing after his wife in Marks and Spencer’s. He didn’t think his wife would see it that way though. Emily Noon had enough trouble understanding her husband’s tolerance towards ‘that dinosaur’s’ eccentricities as it was.
Of course, Emily wasn’t aware that only the quick thinking of the dinosaur in question had, early on in their naval career, saved her husband from a potentially horrible fate involving a Thai prostitute who’d actually turned out to be a man…
As far as Jimmy was concerned, Admiral Shackleford was his Commanding Officer, and always would be, and if that involved such idiosyncrasies as presenting himself in front of a dishwasher with headphones on, saluting and saying, ‘Dishwasher manned and ready sir.’ Then four hours later, saluting again while saying, ‘Dishwasher secured,’ so be it.
It was a small price to pay… He leaned towards his morose friend and patted him on the back, showing a little manly support (acceptable, even from subordinates), while murmuring, ‘Don’t worry about it too much Sir. Tory’s a sensible girl. She’ll come round eventually – you know she wants you to be happy.’ The Admiral’s only response was an inelegant snort, so Jimmy ceased his patting, and went back to his pint.
Both men gazed into their drinks for a few minutes, as if all the answers would be found in the amber depths.
‘What she needs is a man.’ Jimmy’s abrupt observation drew another rude snort, this one even louder.
‘Who do you suggest? She’s not interested in anyone. Says there’s no one in Dartmouth she’d give house room to, and believe me I’ve tried. When she’s not giving me grief, she spends all her time in that bloody gallery with all those airy fairy types. Can’t imagine any one of them climbing her rigging. Not one set of balls between ‘em.’ Jimmy chuckled at the Admiral’s description of Tory’s testosterone challenged male friends.
‘She’s not ugly though,’ Charles Shackleford mused, still staring into his drink. ‘She might have an ars
e the size of an aircraft carrier, but she’s got her mother’s top half which balances it out nicely.’
‘Aye, she’s built a bit broad across the beam,’ Jimmy agreed nodding his head.
‘And then there’s this bloody film crew. I haven’t told her yet.’ Jimmy frowned at the abrupt change of subject, and shot a puzzled glance over to the Admiral.
‘Film crew? What film crew?’
Charles Shackleford looked back irritably. ‘Come on Jimmy, get a grip. I’m talking about that group of nancies coming to film at the house next month. I must have mentioned it.’
Jimmy simply shook his head in bewilderment.
Frowning at his friend’s obtuseness, the Admiral went on, ‘You know, what’s that bloody film they’re making at the moment – big blockbuster everyone’s talking about?’
'What, you mean The Bridegroom?’
‘That’s the one. Seems like they were looking for a large house overlooking the River Dart. Think they were hoping for Greenway, you know, Agatha Christie’s place, but then they spied “the Admiralty” and said it was spot on. Paying me a packet they are. Coming next week.’
Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Page 18