by Fiona Harper
And instead of having to race around all day like she did when she was at work, she could attack the day’s chores at a leisurely pace. No need to check Juliet’s little flowery book, because it was blatantly obvious what her next task was. First stop: the supermarket. Seriously, these kids needed a little excitement in their diet!
In fact, if things went as well as they had done the last twenty-four hours, she wasn’t going to need Juliet’s twee little notebook at all. She didn’t know what she’d been worried about. So far it had all been easy peasy.
* * *
JULIET WOKE AT ONE A.M. and then again at two. At two thirty she punched her pillow and let out a frustrated growl. Stupid jet lag.
She rolled over and stared at the mosquito netting above her bed, only just able to make out the soft gauze in the darkness. The horrible empty feeling tried to creep up on her again, but she refused to let it near. She also pushed away thought of her kids, stopped herself wondering what they were doing now and if they’d got to school on time.
If she let herself go down that path, she’d just spend the whole day in bed feeling miserable, and it was because of them she was doing this, remember? It was practically her duty to stop moping and enjoy herself, so that when she got back home they’d have a happy and refreshed mother to start the New Year with. The trick would be to keep herself busy so she didn’t get maudlin.
So she reached over, turned on the bedside light and picked up one of the paperbacks she’d brought with her. By four she’d decided she didn’t have enough brain cells functioning to keep track of a complicated thriller and resorted to reading the hotel information folder from cover to cover. By six o’clock she had her day planned out—meals, snacks, time at the beach, a trip to the spa —everything. She wrote it all down in a pocket notebook and tucked it into her beach bag. No reason why she couldn’t turn her plans for the perfect Christmas into the perfect Christmas holiday, was there?
It seemed like an age before the main restaurant opened for breakfast. Not that she was sure she was hungry. Her body clock was all over the place, but at least it was something to do.
Outside it was gloriously sunny. What else had she expected? She decided not to call for a shuttle, so after packing her beach bag she slung a cotton jersey sundress on over her swimming costume and headed down the steps into the cove. She’d walk round, just as she had done the night before.
At her feet sank into the sand, she couldn’t resist a little glance at the villa next door. No sign of life. Part of her had half expected to see him still standing at the balcony railing, calmly watching her.
Stupid, really. Nice fantasy, Juliet, but he’s much too good-looking and much too young for you. If you couldn’t even keep the interest of your average-looking suburban husband, why would such a man even notice you exist?
Only he had. Noticed her.
In a very small way. It hadn’t been a phantom he’d raised his glass to the night before. Not that she was going to read anything much into that. It had just been a friendly gesture, nothing more.
She sighed as she crossed the rocks and headed for the centre of the resort. The beach was virtually deserted, the only sign of life a couple of determined swimmers and a handful of hotel staff who were raking the beach into perfection, removing any pebbles and clumps of seaweed that had been audacious enough to cling on to the sand as the tide had retreated.
Beyond Pelican Joe’s bar was a large swimming pool surrounded by hibiscus trees. It too was deserted, save for the little robot attached to a hose that was scuttling around on the bottom, dealing with all the rubbish. She felt a strange affinity for that little machine. It was in the most beautiful place in the world, but it never noticed, because it always had its head down, doing its job, cleaning up after other people.
Once breakfast was over she headed for the beach. She was sure that with judicious application of sunscreen and carefully timed sunbathing sessions she could turn something approaching an attractive colour before she went home. What better proof of the perfect holiday than the perfect tan?
She walked to the far end of the beach, lay face up on a lounger for twenty minutes, then face down for another twenty, then dragged her lounger under the small, waxy-leafed tree so she could carry on with her thriller.
The day sped past. She swam in two of the pools, ate a beach barbecue for lunch, then went back to her air-conditioned room for an afternoon nap before sunbathing on her private beach and then showering before dinner. She tried to get in the waterside restaurant that specialised in seafood, but it was fully booked and she ended up back at Pelican Joe’s eating mango chicken again.
When she got back to her villa she poured herself a gin and tonic from the well-stocked bar in her living room and went to sit at the little table on the covered section of her terrace, feeling too self-conscious to wander out onto her balcony again. From her position she could glance over at the neighbouring villa in relative secrecy.
He was there again, drink in hand. This time, sitting on a chair with his feet propped on the balcony railing. The outside light was on and he was reading a battered paperback in its dull glow while giant moths danced around the glass casing. She sneaked a look every now and then, trying to make it seem as if she was just taking in the scenery.
After about quarter of an hour, he said something in a language she didn’t recognise. Italian or Spanish she guessed, but she wasn’t sure.
Even though he hadn’t shouted, his question shattered the silence. She’d been staring at the rising moon, and she jumped in her chair and whipped her head round. She’d assumed he was talking to the goddess, somewhere in the bedroom, but he wasn’t looking back inside his villa. He was looking at her.
She felt a blush climbing up her neck and was glad the darkness camouflaged it. ‘I’m sorry...’ she answered, her voice sounding squeaky, ‘Je ne comprends pas.’ She was pretty sure he wasn’t French, but that was the only language she’d learned at school, so that was the language that came out on autopilot.
He nodded. ‘I was asking if you would like a drink,’ he said in the most sexily accented English she’d ever heard, and raised his empty glass.
Italian. He sounded Italian.
‘I need a...’ he paused while he searched for the right word ‘refill...and wondered if you did also.’
Juliet shook her head and then realised he probably couldn’t see her fully from where he was. She stood up and took a step out from under the cover of the balcony’s edge and lifted up her half-full glass.
‘No. I’m good,’ she replied, and mentally smacked herself for saying so. ‘Still some left. And I’m tired...’ She did an exaggerated yawn to demonstrate the point, and instantly wanted to curl up and die of embarrassment. ‘Jet lag,’ she added, not that the explanation would help her regain any of her dignity. He must think she was a right nutter—an eccentric English lady on holiday on her own.
He lifted his glass and gave her that little nod again. ‘Then I wish you sweet dreams.’
Juliet nodded nonchalantly and tried not to melt as he turned and headed back through the French doors and into his softly lit bedroom.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AS GEMMA WALKED INTO Juliet’s kitchen she was greeted by a rowdy and enthusiastic cheer. All four kids were sitting expectantly round the table, waiting for their evening meal—something Juliet always had said she had to threaten death or injury to get them to do. She placed a stack of takeaway pizza boxes in the centre of the table and stood back, out of range of the feeding frenzy.
They were still just tucking into their first slices when the doorbell rang. She jogged back to the hall, purse in hand, suspecting the collection of coins she’d dumped in the delivery driver’s waiting palm maybe hadn’t added up to quite the right amount. She had let the twins count it...
But when she opened the door she disc
overed that the tall, dark shape behind the stained-glass panels wasn’t a motorcycle-helmeted youth. It was someone altogether much less welcome.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked, keeping the door mostly closed and casually blocking the space with her body.
Will Truman stared back at her. ‘Can I step inside for a second?’
Gemma didn’t move. So it had started already, and Juliet had only been gone just over twenty-four hours. ‘Look, I know what you told my sister, but I’ve got this covered. And I promise, if I need your help, I’ll yell.’
A total lie, of course.
He knew it too, from the way his eyes narrowed. Odd. When she’d seen him standing there on the front step she’d had a fleeting thought that she’d put her usual magic to work and charm him off the doorstep and back into his own house. But here they were, barely a minute later, and all she’d succeeded in doing was getting the man’s back up.
‘It’s not that,’ he said, giving her a serious look. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Juliet.’
Gemma stiffened. ‘What about my sister?’ She wasn’t about to offer romantic advice to this man. Poor Juliet had ditched one boring, high-maintenance husband; she didn’t need a second.
A flash of honest concern crossed his features and, damn, if Gemma didn’t feel it tugging deep down inside. She was so used to dealing with fully grown male toddlers or total philanderers that she’d almost forgotten the male species was capable of more noble emotional states.
‘Is she really as okay as she says she is?’
Gemma opened her mouth to say of course she was, but she realised she was hardly qualified to make that judgement, especially as she and Juliet had only been in the same room as each other for a few hours in the last couple of months. The truth was she was worried about Juliet too, and Mr Uptight here probably had information she needed, seeing the amount of time he spent sniffing around her.
She opened the door wide and stepped back to let him inside, and was just debating whether to make him talk right there, or take him into the sitting room, when an almighty crash came from the kitchen. They both raced down the corridor, Will slightly in front, which irked her.
They arrived to find Josh and Jake fighting over a piece of cheesy garlic bread. It seemed Jake had lunged across the table and knocked his chair over in the effort to wrest the prize for his brother’s sticky fingers. Will righted the chair while Gemma separated the warring factions. She then rummaged under the tower of cardboard pizza boxes for a smaller one and flipped the lid open, revealing a second order of garlic bread. She slapped it down on the table between them.
‘Sit! Eat! And I don’t want a fight about who’s having the squashed piece and who’s having the new bit. You can have half each.’ She ripped the mangled piece of garlic bread in two and dropped half on each boy’s plate.
Hang on. Plates? When had they made it out of the cupboard? Juliet must have the kids trained better than she thought. She’d just slung some kitchen roll in their general direction and let them get on with it.
Will glanced around the kitchen table. ‘Where’s Violet?’
Gemma watched his eagle-eyed sweep of the room, saw the furrowing of his brow. He’d come to talk to her about Juliet? Hah! Give her a break. He was just checking up on her.
‘Violet?’ she said innocently, and pretended to think hard. ‘Oh, yes. The big one. I know I saw her somewhere recently...’
Will opened his mouth, but she barrelled on.
‘Oh, I remember!’ she added with a sarcastic little smile. ‘Last night when I dropped her off at that strip club.’
His expression of concern hardened into something else.
Gemma exhaled forcefully. ‘Well, you kind of asked for that. What kind of moron do you think I am?’
Polly, who was halfway through a slice of pepperoni, put her hand up in the air.
‘Don’t answer that,’ Gemma said grimly, and Polly let her arm drop, looking slightly disappointed.
One of the boys obviously thought this was a fun game, because his arm shot up in the air too. She was pretty sure it was Jake.
‘Didn’t you hear what I just said to your sister?’ Gemma asked.
He blinked at her. ‘I have a different question.’
‘And that would be...?’
‘What’s a strip club?’
‘Maybe we should have this conversation somewhere more private,’ Will suggested.
Gemma hated him for being right. She nodded towards the conservatory, which was joined onto the kitchen by double doors. It was far enough away to afford them a little privacy, but close enough for them to intervene should the Garlic Bread Wars resume. They walked to the end of the tiled room and stood by the French doors that led onto the garden.
‘Violet’s at a friend’s,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘Okay? This isn’t camp X-ray, you know. The kids are allowed to have a social life.’
‘Well, I’m sure you know this, but... Juliet always makes Violet tell her how long she is going to be and how she’s getting home.’
Gemma gave him a tight smile. ‘All arranged.’
Or it would be, when she’d managed to shove this pain in the neck out of the door and text Violet. She glanced back towards the hallway. ‘Didn’t you say you had something to ask me?’
Will’s exhaled. ‘The truth is I’m worried about Juliet. This whole holiday idea is most unlike her. There isn’t something you’re not telling me, is there? She’s not ill or anything like that?’
Gemma wanted to tell him it was none of his damn business, but the look in his eyes stopped her. Okay, maybe he had been checking up on her, just a little bit, but when was the last time she’d seen anyone that concerned about her sister? Juliet had been teetering on the edge of something. Why hadn’t she realised before it had all reached boiling point?
Maybe because you were too busy drawing up battle plans and trying to get away as quickly as possible.
She swallowed. She felt terrible about that, especially now she realised it should have been her, not Will, asking these questions about Juliet, and that maybe she should have been asking them a long time ago.
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I think she’s just a bit stressed. And I’d booked a trip for myself, so when I realised that maybe she needed the break more than I did I suggested she went instead.’
His brows lowered as he studied her face. ‘Yes, she told me that.’
What? He didn’t think she could be that altruistic? Just what had Juliet been saying about her to him?
‘Nothing much more to say,’ she said calmly. ‘I’m sure she’ll still be fine after a couple of weeks’ rest.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ he said, not looking much happier than when he’d first knocked on the door.
Ugh. He was one of those men, wasn’t he? The kind with a knight-in-shining-armour complex, and Juliet was his current damsel in distress and had to be protected from big, old, ugly dragon Gemma. Which meant he was going to be in her hair for the next fortnight whether she wanted him to be or not. Fabulous.
And, as if he’d read her mind, he said, ‘I’ll be back at the weekend to see if you need anything,’ then started striding towards the front door.
Gemma trotted after him. ‘That’s really not necessary, you know. In fact, now you’ve seen that I’m not a serial killer and the kids are surviving, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t keep sticking your nose in.’
He didn’t say anything until they got to the hall, but he turned to look at her as he walked out the door. ‘Listen, I know we don’t get on that well...’
Understatement of the year!
‘...but I made Juliet a promise. I know she had a packed schedule and was concerned it was all too much to juggle. All I’m offering is a bit of neighbourly help.’
Gemma smiled sweetly at Will, remembering belatedly that charming people was what she did best. ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ she said, then shut the door in his face while he was still opening his mouth to argue back. Infuriating man! She didn’t need him stepping into her sister’s place while she was away.
She just turned to march back into the kitchen when the doorbell rang again. She wrenched the front door open and yelled, ‘What now?’ before she’d even seen who was standing there.
It wasn’t Will, but the pizza delivery driver. He held out a handful of small change. ‘There seems to be a bit of a problem with your payment...’
* * *
WHOSE GREAT IDEA HAD it been to go Christmas shopping on the last Saturday before Christmas with four kids in tow? Not only that, but they’d waited until the afternoon, when the whole of South East England seem to have converged on Tunbridge Wells.
Oh yes, Gemma thought sarcastically to herself, it had been her wonderful idea.
Well, not so much an idea as Plan B. Plan A had been get out nice and early to beat the crowds, but Plan A had gone by the wayside when she’d overslept and hadn’t tumbled out of bed until after eleven.
She’d only been living Juliet’s life for three days now and already she was exhausted. Christmas holiday? Hah! She’d come straight off the film set to this. She thought her job was demanding, but at least she could blow off steam at the end of a day, take a break now and then, but this was relentless. And, as cute as the kids were, this was all very hands-on, not much time to be ‘fun Auntie Gemma’. There was the cooking and the driving and—oh, my God! —the washing. Not to mention the nose wiping, now the twins had got the sniffles. Her only saving grace was that they were old enough to wipe other bits themselves.
She bustled down the pedestrianised shopping area, a twin in each hand, Polly leading the way and providing a running commentary on the local history of the area, and Violet lagging behind, messing around on her mobile phone. There was obviously some kind of teenage crisis going on, because Violet had been fairly helpful with the little ones until she’d got a message for her friend Abby, and since then they’d been texting back and forth in a frenzy.