That Summer at the Seahorse Hotel
Page 1
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THE VAMPIRE SET
SENDING SIGNALS
STATION TO STATION
LAZARUS
A LONG LUNCH
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
HER MAIDEN VOYAGE
TOTAL RECALL
SUFFERING SABOTAGE
CASE CLOSED
THE KISS OF JUDAS
SOMETHING BORROWED
NOTHING TO WEAR
MEMORY MAKING
WELL, WELL, WELL
THE PIRATE
CALLED TO THE BAR
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
UNDRESSED REHEARSAL
SENDING THE GIRLS IN
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY
TRIXIE’S PLAN
NEEDS MUST
TREASURE ISLAND
THE COFFIN DODGER
SKULLDUGGERY, NO LESS
SEA CHANGE
TO THE BAT CAVE
THE LEGACY
FAMILY AFFAIRS
THE UNDERSTUDY
THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS
SCARE TACTICS
NOT ON THE GUEST LIST
CHAMPIONS AWAIT
BOARDOOM GAMES
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
THE RED KIMONO
SHOWTIME
FINALE
REFERENCES
GLOSSARY OF TERMS & QUOTATIONS
ALSO BY ADRIENNE VAUGHAN
PRAISE FOR ADRIENNE VAUGHAN
That Summer
at the
Seahorse Hotel
Adrienne Vaughan
First published in 2018 by The Paris Press
ISBN: 978-0-9955689-2-1
Copyright © Adrienne Vaughan 2018
The right of Adrienne Vaughan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Cover based on an original photograph © Shevtsovy
Cover design: Trevor Stocks www.stocksdesign.co.uk
Author photograph: Peter Alvey Photography www.alveyandtowers.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Adrienne Vaughan has been making up stories since she could speak; initially to entertain her sister Reta, who never allowed a plot or character to be repeated – tough audience. As soon as she could pick up a pen she started writing them down.
It was no surprise that Adrienne grew up to be a journalist, diving headfirst into her career after studying at the Dublin College of Journalism. These days she is recognised as a talented author and poet, having published several highly-acclaimed novels and an award-winning collection of short stories and poetry. That Summer at the Seahorse Hotel is her fourth novel.
Adrienne lives in rural Leicestershire with her husband, two cocker spaniels and a rescue cat called Agatha Christie. She still harbours a burning ambition to be a ‘Bond girl’.
www.adriennevaughan.com
For rights enquiries: lisa.eveleigh@richfordbecklow.co.uk
DEDICATION
For Marion,
my amazing, wonderful and inspirational mother,
with love forever. X
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
THE VAMPIRE SET
SENDING SIGNALS
STATION TO STATION
LAZARUS
A LONG LUNCH
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
HER MAIDEN VOYAGE
TOTAL RECALL
SUFFERING SABOTAGE
CASE CLOSED
THE KISS OF JUDAS
SOMETHING BORROWED
NOTHING TO WEAR
MEMORY MAKING
WELL, WELL, WELL
THE PIRATE
CALLED TO THE BAR
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
UNDRESSED REHEARSAL
SENDING THE GIRLS IN
HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY
TRIXIE’S PLAN
NEEDS MUST
TREASURE ISLAND
THE COFFIN DODGER
SKULLDUGGERY, NO LESS
SEA CHANGE
TO THE BAT CAVE
THE LEGACY
FAMILY AFFAIRS
THE UNDERSTUDY
THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS
SCARE TACTICS
NOT ON THE GUEST LIST
CHAMPIONS AWAIT
BOARDOOM GAMES
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
THE RED KIMONO
SHOWTIME
FINALE
REFERENCES
GLOSSARY OF TERMS & QUOTATIONS
ALSO BY ADRIENNE VAUGHAN
PRAISE FOR ADRIENNE VAUGHAN
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Seahorse was inspired by a story I read as a teenager, about a girl inheriting a large estate from a movie star she had never even heard of, so I’ve always wondered …
Addicted to theatre and film from an early age, I blame my grandmother Alice Houlihan, who loved ‘fil-ums’, had a deep affection for Ronald Coleman and herself resembled Mae West.
And her daughter, my mother Marion Wrafter, whose movie knowledge is encyclopaedic, being able to name actors, their spouses and children at a glance – or so it seems. So, to both these wonderful women; thank you for passing on the passion, I’ll keep working towards the BAFTA!
I’d like to say a huge thanks to Rebecca Waite, costumier extraordinaire, who has worked with some of the biggest names in the business and on many of today’s most successful movies and TV shows, for taking the time to impart in depth details of her fascinating career, so warmly and generously shared; I’m truly grateful.
Also invaluable as ‘back stage research’ my time on the BBC Poldark set as guest of writer Debbie Horsfield and producer Margaret Mitchell of Mammoth Screen Ltd – with special thanks to Aidan Turner and all the cast, I would never have known about the hot water bottles without you!
There at the beginning, my mentor and earth angel, June Tate; copy editor, Julie Gibbs and beta reader/hawk eye, Natalie Keene – who all loved Seahorse from the start. My bestest writing buddy, Lizzie Lamb and the New Romantics Press, June Kearns and Mags Cullingford, and all my wonderful friends in the Romantic Novelists’ Association – a huge and priceless support.
Massive thanks to one of my favourite authors and pals, Adele Parks, who finally nailed the title over a glass of wine in The Betjeman Arms. For snippets of detail via my brilliant Facebook team: Martin Stanley, Deirdre Cotter Daly, Aine Daly, Grainne O’Brien, Carol Lanigan, Tawna Wickenden, Katrina Creighton Wrafter, Martin Phillips, Catherine McEvoy, Marie Teresa MacBride Kearney, Jeanie Nic Fhionnlaigh and Isabella Tartaruga.
Special thanks for always believing ‒ my close family and friends – especially Marion, my sister Reta Wrafter, brother-in-law John Reddy and ‘one’s aunts’.
Added to this, a fond farewell to my dear friend and staunch supporter, the incomparable and hugely missed Madeline Poole. Rest assured the ‘Peaker Park’ team – Jane, Debs, Vanessa, Carole and Jilly will keep the flag flying, Mads.
At this point, I would like to introduce my fabulous agent Lisa Eveleigh, who is a new and dazzling character in the latest chapter of this author’s story. Thanks for taking the leap of faith, Lisa.
And as these final credits roll, to my real-life leading man, Jonathan
‒ thank you for being the star that you are!
PS. One final thank you. I like nothing more than a long-haul flight to pen a few thousand words of my latest tome. Chatting to a charming lady about movies and books on a flight to New York I was convinced my notebook was in my bag until I arrived at my hotel and realised it was missing. Panic set in, hours of work and thousands of words gone – Seahorse was sunk!
I called the tour operator, the airport, the airline; I was awake all night – not a word. Anxious hours passed. Then a call; a member of the United Airlines team – a real-life knight in shining armour called Al Balparda – had searched the plane and found the notebook, promising to keep it safe until I could collect it and get on with finishing the story.
And so a happy ending. I sincerely hope you enjoy this book; thank you.
That Summer …
Through seaweed hair and slitted eyes,
We woke to watch the Sun God rise,
Laid nestled in our sunken dune,
Where swooning, we had bathed in moon.
But night had left us high and dry,
The dawn flashed waves, mid seabirds cry,
And silken sand, now smooth and damp
Gave telling of our lovers’ camp.
So fingers touching, side by side,
We stood to face the rising tide,
For soon we would be crying too,
Sweet sea salt tears, soft as the dew
That glistened on the sandy gorse,
Dark, prickly leaves to draw remorse.
Yet solid, in your calm embrace,
We’re unashamed, there’s no disgrace,
We gave our love, all ours to give
And while I breathe and while I live
My heart is sealed, I’ll never tell,
Your secret’s safe … Seahorse Hotel
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in
ourselves …”
William Shakespeare
PROLOGUE
Only minutes before the sun had been shining, the sand warm underfoot as they ran laughing over the dunes, searching for a secret place, somewhere to hide from the world and make love. A love so fresh, so startling, it filled every daylight minute with glittering promises and the long black night with agony; the cruel and constant ache of separation. For their love was forbidden, their love was wrong, their love meant hellfire and eternal damnation and they could not care less, or care more.
The rain was sudden, torrential and hot, the hottest rain she had ever felt. Caught in the downpour they were skittish as puppies, running back to the house. He had taken off his tee-shirt, wrapping it round his precious guitar, desperate to spare it. He tiptoed behind her, upstairs where she found towels and dry socks. There was a shirt stuffed in his duffle bag, a striped one, cool. She put it on, it suited her. She twirled for him, curls flying as she danced, looking under her fringe, eyes alight.
He caught her as she spun and pulling her to him, breathed her in.
“I want that back, it’s the only good shirt I have,” he said.
“No, I want to keep it.”
She stepped away. He lunged at her and she skipped off, breaking into a run along the galleried landing. They were barely clothed as they raced laughing, tripping with giddiness, to the secret staircase leading to the library. She was half-wearing his shirt, he had pulled on jeans. He was carrying the red kimono, trying to persuade her to swap it for his shirt. She turned quickly to escape him and slipping on silk fell into his arms as they reached the last step. The door, disguised as a bookcase, flew open and they tumbled into the room.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. Someone had been playing the piano earlier, Elton John, her favourite, Tiny Dancer.
The music had stopped. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.
A cultured voice cut through the quietude.
“So, The Seahorse Hotel continues to provide its legendary services.”
He made a sound, a gasp, all air let out of him. Then pulling her to him, wrapped her in the flash of crimson, hiding her in his embrace. She wriggled free. The room seemed full of people.
Fenella jolted awake, her heart beating hard at the base of her throat. It was the same dream, always the same, as vivid as the actual day yet played out slowly, languidly until it neared the end, the race along the landing, falling into his arms, the rush of excitement, happiness, ecstasy turned so suddenly to fear. Why did the dream never end? She had been there, it had surely been real ‒ the love, the passion. She could feel it still, burning in her chest, whenever and wherever she awoke, London, Hollywood, Paris, she was always in the same place, clawing through the mist, the panic still raw. And then it would melt away, like mist on glass blown by lips, a farewell kiss and she could not remember what had happened next and why she felt so lost, so lonely and abandoned, every time she dreamt that same dream.
Now, in another place and time – and no longer a girl – the dream had come again, ending abruptly as she woke, the room full of people evaporating into the dawn as the trill of the phone nagged her to wakefulness.
“Long distance, Miss Flanagan, Ireland, shall I put it through?”
She knew immediately who it would be, still using a landline, dialling reception. But she was wrong, it was not Archie and when asked if she were sitting down, she pulled the sleep mask from her eyes and sat back, propped on pillows, the call was unprecedented and so was the news.
Barely able to say goodbye, Fenella replaced the receiver. The caller had been calm, imparting the information in an almost business-like fashion and whether Fenella chose to believe it or not, she was to be in no doubt that in the very near future she would lose someone very special indeed. Someone who had shared her dreams, dispelled her nightmares and made her feel, above all else, loved; her greatest ally, at times her deadliest enemy but always her dearest, most precious friend. The kind of friend who knew secrets, secrets hidden in the deepest, darkest corners of her soul and whose vow of silence had helped her survive that terrible day and every day since.
Suddenly desperate to return, she cut short the promotional tour ‒ the film company was piqued ‒ and giving only a vague explanation, packed hurriedly to sit waiting in a daze for the car to the airport, a flight to London and home.
Once back at the Lodge, anxious and weary, she went straight to her room. Trembling, she found herself flicking through pages, an old album, faded photographs; the early days in black and white, then vivid as the seventies and eighties flashed by. Images of the house, the beach, the parties. She stopped.
‘The Fabulous Five’, he had named them and they were indeed fabulous. Humphrey tall and broad, arms folded across his tanned chest; Archie grinning, tight jeans, hair tamed with a red bandana and the Dark One, chin tilted, sardonic smile, wearing his favourite shirt and the love beads she had made. She touched the image with a finger; caught in his embrace he was tickling her and she was scowling, scowling yet beautiful.
Bernice, the fifth member of the crew, had taken the picture; she had taken hundreds that summer, her new Polaroid camera constantly pointing.
It was Bernice who had made the call, knowing the news would pierce her heart, as indeed her own was pierced. Pain was something they had shared over the years. Pain and passion.
Fenella sank into a chair and closing her eyes allowed herself to go back, back one more time to that day, the day the picture was taken. She must have drifted off, for when she woke her face was wet with tears and the album had been flung across the room, pages ripped from its ageing spine, screwed up and scattered on the floor.
Rubbing at a paper cut, she looked down, her hands stained with print. Had she done this? Desperate yet again, to wipe the memory of the past or worse, frantic to find the memories she had lost, the ones that would not come at all.
As she rose to gather up the shreds scattered about the room, she spied the empty bottle behind the chair. Still no recollection. She gave herself a shake, straightenin
g her shoulders. A change was coming, she knew that. Maybe the time was here at last, time to face the past and look those dark secrets in the eye, whatever devastation the truth might wreak.
She dropped the bottle in the bin, along with the remains of the album. An uncertain future beckoned – and not for the first time.
THE VAMPIRE SET
The stage was set for seduction. Its centre piece a beautiful four-poster bed scattered with cushions, velvet coverlet drawn back revealing crisp white linen, a ribbon of silk on a pillow, sensual, suggestive …
“I could just climb into that and crash,” Lol whispered. Mia pulled her colleague out of earshot to where the crew sat huddled on the stairs.
“And action!”
Amelia stood at the window, the carved balustrade before her. She was waiting. Lifting a hand to her hair, she pushed strands loosened by the breeze – wind machine ‒ off her pale face and removing a turquoise glove to secure the comb in her hair, noticed her hand was trembling.
Please don’t get make-up on that glove, Mia thought.
The wind was building.
“That wig looks ready to collapse,” Lol said.
“Quiet on set!”
They watched as she waited, chewing her lip, drawing the white fur stole over her shoulders.
Or dirty that stole. Mia was anxious.
The dolly bearing the camera slid across the set.
The male lead appeared, cape swirling ‒ dramatic effect. He locked the door.
“What on earth?” Amelia said, aghast. Lol was pleased, the costume worked; he looked threatening and sexy at the same time.
“Tonight, with or without your consent.” He moved his mouth at her lips.
“Really, sir?” she joked; his scent was odd. She tried to relax. He kissed her. She drew back. The camera still rolling. She could smell whiskey.