by Jill Mansell
Also by Jill Mansell
An Offer You Can’t Refuse
Miranda’s Big Mistake
Millie’s Fling
Perfect Timing
Rumor Has It
Take a Chance on Me
Staying at Daisy’s
To the Moon and Back
Nadia Knows Best
A Walk in the Park
Thinking of You
Don’t Want to Miss a Thing
The Unexpected Consequences of Love
Making Your Mind Up
Falling for You
Good at Games
The One You Really Want
You and Me, Always
Three Amazing Things About You
Solo
Meet Me at Beachcomber Bay
Head Over Heels
This Could Change Everything
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Copyright © 1994 by Jill Mansell
Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Elsie Lyons
Cover image © venimo/Shutterstock, kikovic/Shutterstock, DigitalVision Vectors/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Originally published in 1994 in the United Kingdom by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers Ltd. This edition based on the paperback edition published in 2014 by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, an Hachette UK Company.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
To Lydia with my love
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
Chapter One
Running away from her boring old fiancé had seemed such a brilliant idea at the time. It was just a shame, Maxine decided, that running out of boring old gas four hours later should be turning out to be so much less fun.
“Oh please, don’t be mean,” she begged, but the middle-aged gas-pump attendant remained unmoved.
“Look,” he repeated heavily, “you’ve filled your car up with twenty pounds’ worth o’ gas. Now you tell me you’ve only got seventy-three pence on you. You ain’t got no credit cards, no checkbook, nor no identification. So I don’t have no choice but to call the police.”
Maxine’s credit cards, house keys, and checkbook were back in London, lurking somewhere at the bottom of the Thames. Exasperated beyond belief by the man’s uncharitable attitude, she wondered how and when the inhabitants of Cornwall had ever managed to acquire their reputation for friendliness. As far as she was concerned, it was a filthy lie.
“But I’ll pay you back, I promise I will,” she said in wheedling tones. “This is just silly. I don’t know why you won’t trust me…”
The attendant had a glass eye, which glinted alarmingly in the sunlight. Fixing her with the bloodshot good one and evidently immune to the charms of hapless blonds with beguiling smiles, he exhaled heavily and reached for the phone.
“Because it’s seven o’clock in the morning,” he replied, as if she were being deliberately stupid. “Because you can’t pay for your gas. And because you’re wearing a wedding dress.”
• • •
Janey Sinclair, peering out of her bedroom window overlooking Trezale’s picturesque main street, was embarrassed. She’d had twenty-six years in which to get used to being shown up by her younger sister, but it still happened. What was really unfair, she thought sleepily, was the fact that none of it ever seemed to faze Maxine.
“Shh,” she hissed, praying that none of her neighbors were yet awake. “Wait there. I’m coming down.”
“Bring your purse!” yelled Maxine, who didn’t care about the neighbors. “I need twenty pounds.”
What Maxine really needed, Janey decided, was strangling.
“OK,” she said, opening the front door and wearily surveying the scene. “Don’t tell me. You’re eloping with our local policeman and you need the money for the marriage license. Tom, are you sure you’re doing the right thing here? Your wife’s going to be furious when she finds out, and my sister’s a lousy cook.”
Tom Lacey, Trezale’s local policeman,
had been married for ten months and his wife was due to give birth at any moment, yet he was blushing with pleasure like a schoolboy. Janey heaved an inward sigh and wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Maxine, however, simply grinned. “I did offer. He turned me down.”
Janey pulled her creased, yellow-and-white robe more tightly around her waist. That was something else about Maxine: she always managed to upstage everyone around her. And although it was still relatively early on a Sunday morning, it was also mid-July, practically the height of the vacation season. Tourists, unwilling to waste a moment of their precious time in Cornwall, were making their way along the main street, heading for the beach but pausing to watch the diversion outside the florist’s shop. They couldn’t quite figure out what was going on, but it looked interesting. One small boy, deeply tanned and wearing only white shorts, deck shoes, and a camera slung around his neck, was even taking surreptitious photographs.
“So why are you wearing a wedding dress?” she demanded, then flapped her arms in a gesture of dismissal. Maxine’s explanations tended to be both dramatic and long-winded. “No, don’t bother. Here’s the twenty pounds. Can we go inside now or are you really under arrest?”
But Maxine, having whisked the money from her sister’s grasp and popped the rolled-up notes into her cleavage, was already sliding back into the passenger seat of the police car. “My car’s being held hostage,” she said cheerfully. “Tom just has to take me to pay the ransom first, but we’ll be back in forty minutes. Tom, are you as hungry as I am?”
“Well…” Tom, who was always hungry, managed a sheepish grin.
“There, you see. We’re both absolutely starving,” declared Maxine, gazing with longing at the array of switches studding the dashboard and wondering which of them controlled the siren. Then, fastening her seat belt and flashing her sister a dazzling grin, she added, “But you mustn’t go to too much trouble, darling. Just bacon and eggs will be fine.”
• • •
Tom, to his chagrin, was called away instead to investigate the case of a stolen parasol outside the Trezale Bay Hotel.
“Toast and Marmite?” Maxine looked disappointed but bit into a slice anyway. Rearranging her voluminous white skirts and plonking herself down on one of the wrought-iron chairs on the tiny, sunlit patio, she kicked off her satin shoes and wriggled her toes pleasurably against the warm flagstones.
“Why don’t you change into something less…formal?” Janey, who was wearing white shorts and a primrose-yellow camisole top, poured the coffee. “Where’s your suitcase, in the car?”
Maxine, having demolished the first slice of thickly buttered toast, leaned across and helped herself to a second.
“No money, no suitcase,” she said with a shrug. “No nothing! You’ll just have to lend me something of yours.”
Janey had looked forward all week to this Sunday, when nothing was precisely what she had planned on doing. A really good lie-in, she thought drily, followed by hours of blissful, uninterrupted nothing. And instead, she had this.
“Go on then,” she said as Maxine stirred three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee cup and shooed away an interested wasp. “Tell me what’s happened. And remember, you woke me up for this, so it had better be good.”
She had to concede, ten minutes later, that it was pretty good. Three years at drama school might not have resulted in the dreamed-of glittering acting career, but Maxine certainly knew how to make the most of telling a story. In the course of describing the events of the previous night her hands, eyebrows—even her bare feet—became involved.
“…So there we were, expected to arrive at this costume party in less than an hour, and bloody Maurice hadn’t even remembered to tell me it was on. Well, being Maurice, he phoned his mother and she was around in a flash with her old wedding dress tucked under her skinny arm. It’s a Schiaparelli. Can you believe? So we ended up at this chronic company party as a bride and sodding groom, and everyone was snickering like mad because the thought of us ever actually tying the knot was evidently too funny for words. And I realized then that they were right—I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life pretending to be a dutiful banker’s wife and having to socialize with a bunch of boring stuffed shirts. So I told Maurice it was over, and then I told the stuffed shirts and their smirking wives exactly what I thought of them too. Poor Maurice—as far as he was concerned, that really was the last straw. It didn’t matter that I’d humiliated him, but insulting all the directors was too much. Janey, I’ve never seen him so mad! He dragged me backward out of the hotel and told me I wasn’t worth his mother’s old slippers, let alone her precious wedding dress. I screamed back that as he was such an old woman he should be wearing the bloody dress! Then I kicked him because he wouldn’t let go of me, so he called me a spoiled, spiteful, money-grabbing delinquent and chucked my evening bag into the Thames.” She paused, then concluded mournfully, “It had everything in it. My favorite Estée Lauder eye shadow palette…everything.”
All the toast had gone. Janey, reminding herself that it didn’t matter, she was supposed to be on a diet anyway, cradled her lukewarm coffee in both hands and remarked, “Bit daring for Maurice. So then what did you do?”
“Well, luckily, we’d taken my car. All my keys were in the river, of course, but I’ve always kept a spare in the glove compartment and the driver’s door is a cinch—you can open it with a hair clip. I just jumped in, drove off, and left Maurice standing in the middle of the road with his mouth going like a guppy’s. But I knew I couldn’t break into the flat—he’s got that place alarmed to the eyeballs—so I headed for the M4 instead. And because the one thing I did have was a full tank of gas, I thought I’d come and visit my big sister.”
With a grin, Maxine ran her fingers through her tumbling, gold-blond hair and shook it back over her shoulders. “I’m seeking sanctuary, darling. Just call me Quasimodo.”
“Don’t call me darling,” grumbled Janey, who hated it. “And whatever you do, don’t call me big.”
But it was no good. Maxine wasn’t going to go away. Neither—despite having driven all night from London to Cornwall—did she apparently have any intention of falling asleep.
Janey, who loved but frequently despaired of her sister, followed her upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed while Maxine carried out a brisk raid on the wardrobe. She wondered what Maxine had ever done to deserve a twenty-two-inch waist.
“These’ll be fine.” Forcing another hole through the tan leather belt, she patted the size 10 khaki shorts with approval and admired her reflection in the mirror. The white shirt, expertly knotted above the waist, showed off her flat, brown midriff, and her dark eyes sparkled. “There, ready to face the world again. Or dear old Trezale, anyway. Where shall we go for lunch?”
“You don’t have any money,” Janey reminded her with a sinking heart, but Maxine was already halfway to the bedroom door.
“I’ll sort something out with the bank tomorrow,” she replied airily. “They’ll understand when I tell them what that pig of an ex-boyfriend of mine did with my checkbook. Now come along, Janey. Cheer up and tell me where we can meet all the most gorgeous men these days. Is the Dune Bar still good?”
“He wasn’t your boyfriend,” said Janey, wondering at the ease with which Maxine had apparently discarded him from her life. “He was your fiancé.”
Maxine looked momentarily surprised. Then, waving her left hand in the air so that the large, square-cut emerald caught the light, she said gleefully, “Of course he was! How clever of you to think of it. If the bank gets stuffy, I can flog the ring instead.”
• • •
“You think I’m a heartless bitch, don’t you?”
They were sitting out on the crowded terrace of the Dune Bar. Janey tried not to notice the way practically every male was lusting after Maxine. Maxine, who genuinely appeared not to have noticed—it was a pa
rticular speciality of hers—sipped her lager and looked contrite.
“I know you’re a heartless bitch,” said Janey with a faint smile. “But at least you’re honest about it. That’s something, I suppose.”
“Don’t try and make me feel guilty.” Maxine glanced down at her engagement ring. “I didn’t love Maurice, you know.”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“I liked him, though.” With a trace of defiance, she added, “And I adored the fact that he had money. I think I managed to convince myself that ours would turn out to be like one of those arranged marriages, where love eventually grows. He was generous and kind, and I did so hate being broke…”
“But it didn’t work out like that,” Janey observed, shielding her eyes with her forearm and gazing out over the sea. A red speedboat, skimming over the waves, was towing a water skier. Ridiculously, even after eighteen months, she still had to convince herself that it wasn’t Alan before she could bring herself to look away.
“It might have worked, if Maurice hadn’t been so boring.” Maxine shrugged, then grinned. “And if I weren’t so easily bored.”
Not for the first time, Janey wondered what it was like to be Maxine. Maybe her cool, calculating attitude to life wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It might not be romantic, but at least it meant she spared herself the agonies of unrequited love and those endless, gut-wrenching months of despair.
I married for love, thought Janey, the cold emptiness invading her stomach as readily as it ever had. And look where it got me.
“Oh God,” cried Maxine, intuitively reading her sister’s thoughts and grabbing her hand in consolation. “I am a callous bitch! Now I’ve made you think about Alan.”
But Janey, managing a wry smile, shook her head. “I think about him anyway. It’s hardly something I’m likely to forget, after all.”
“I’m still an insensitive, clodhopping prat,” insisted Maxine. Her expression contrite, she lowered her voice. “And I haven’t even asked how you’re coping. Does it get better, or is it as hideous as ever?”
“Well, I’m not crying all over you.” Finishing her drink, Janey met her sister’s concerned gaze and forced herself to sound cheerful. “So that has to be an improvement, don’t you think?”