Bon Voyage
A novel by
Michelle Betham
Copyright © Michelle Betham 2012
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, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the author.
The story, characters and events in this book are the work of the author’s imagination. They are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual person, places or events is purely coincidental.
Also by Michelle Betham
No Matter What
Too Much Trouble in Paradise
See You At The Show
Dedications
To my fabulous friends and the many amazing people I’ve met/spoken to/tweeted with etc. during my on-going journey as an independent author – your support, kind words and encouragement is never underestimated and always appreciated, more than you’ll ever know. Special mentions go to my fellow author and lovely friend, Amanda Egan, and my cousin Sharon – the support from you guys has been incredible. Thank you.
But I’d especially like to thank my wonderful husband, once again, for his patience, and his much-needed and appreciated help in completing this book. None of my novels would ever have seen the light of day without him!
CRUISE DAY 1
Newcastle International Airport – North East England
7:25am
The voice booming out over the tannoy system announced that everybody for flight FX3235 to Palma, Majorca, should proceed directly to Departure Gate 3. Or, at least, that’s what Aimee thought they’d said because, in all honesty, it sounded as though they were talking through a teabag. And even if that was what they’d said she couldn’t proceed anywhere until Jemma came out of the toilet.
Checking her watch one more time, Aimee tried to block out that slight panic she always felt when there was a chance she could be late for something, fanning herself with a copy of Celebrity Secrets as she leant back against the wall and waited – rather more impatiently than she had done five minutes ago – for Jemma to show her face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Jemma asked, finally making her exit from the toilets, her head buried in her far-too-oversized fake Luis Vuitton handbag, which Aimee was surprised had even been allowed through as hand luggage because she’d seen smaller suitcases being slung down that baggage belt.
‘The flight’s been called,’ Aimee replied, shoving Celebrity Secrets back in her rather more sensible-sized handbag, checking her boarding pass was still there.
‘We’ve got ages yet, come on, let’s go grab a beer.’
‘No, hang on, Jemma!’ Aimee ran after her friend, who was heading at an almost indecent haste towards the large bar in the centre of the Departure Lounge, which was a feat in itself in the heels she was wearing. But that was one thing about Jemma – it didn’t matter what the occasion, there was no way she was going anywhere without her heels. ‘We haven’t got time for a beer!’
Jemma turned round and looked at Aimee – but not before she’d thrown one of her flirty smiles at a group of young lads sat at a table behind her, which in turn earned her a barrage of wolf-whistles – her hands on her hips, her suitcase-sized bag resting in the crook of her spray-tanned arm. ‘Of course we’ve got time. How long does it take to get a beer down your neck?’
North east born and bred, Aimee Anderson and Jemma Jordan were both thirty-three-year’s old and had been best friends since Primary School, gone through college together, and now they both worked in the same branch of SuperStyle – a large and popular chain of beauty stores – as retail supervisors. They’d always looked out for each other, always been there for one another through good times and bad; more like sister’s than best friends, neither of them could really think of their life without the other one now. They were good for each other – Aimee kept Jemma’s feet on the ground during those times when she had a tendency to get carried away, and Jemma brought out the more confident side of a much quieter Aimee. They balanced each other out, which could only be a good thing when they were due to spend the next two weeks together sailing the Mediterranean on an all inclusive cruise.
‘It’s 7.30 in the morning, Jemma. I’m having enough trouble getting a cup of PG Tips down at this hour; can we please leave the beer until we get on the boat? We’re all inclusive on the ship, remember? We can drink as much as we like once we get there.’
‘I’m a firm believer in the holiday starts the minute you set foot in the airport,’ Jemma smiled, receiving a round of applause and more whistles from the table of lads behind her. ‘And anyway, where’s Marcie? We can’t go anywhere until she turns up?’
Aimee sighed, suddenly feeling that, now, the only kind of holiday spirit she could cope with came out of a green bottle and belonged to someone called Gordon. Maybe Jemma was right. Maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt.
‘Where did you last see her?’ Aimee asked, turning round and scanning the Departure Lounge of Newcastle airport, which was growing steadily busier by the minute, filling up with more and more people heading out of the north east of England to sunnier climes.
‘I left her in WH Smiths about half an hour ago,’ Jemma replied. ‘She was trying to sell a copy of her new book to a slightly startled woman she’d cornered by the bottled water.’
Marcie Marcello was Aimee’s mother – real name Kathleen Anderson – but ever since she’d won a short story competition in Ladies of Leisure magazine, which had subsequently bagged her a book deal with the well known romance publishing house, Hearts & Flowers – something which had allowed her to leave her good but mundane job as a doctor’s receptionist to follow her writing dream – she’d decided that the name Kathleen just wouldn’t do. So, after careful consideration, and an afternoon of watching made-for-TV movies on some satellite channel to gather together ideas, she’d come up with the name Marcie Marcello, and so the North East’s newest romance novelist was created. Ever since then she’d made Barbara Cartland look subtle. Gone were the slacks and blouses, the smart but safe clothes that Kathleen had always worn, and in came the flowing kaftans, candyfloss-pink-dyed hair and an abundance of gold bangles and earrings that made so much noise when she walked you could hear her coming half an hour before you saw her. But Marcie Marcello had an image to keep up.
From across the other side of the Departure Lounge Aimee heard her mother’s familiar shrill voice, so loud they could probably hear her in Gateshead, and she couldn’t help but cringe.
‘She’s trying to hide the Geordie accent again, isn’t she?’ Jemma said, examining her newly-manicured nails before slapping away the hand of one of the lads behind her as he tried to grab her bum. ‘That’s sexual harassment, that is. Try that again and I’ll lay you out.’
And that wasn’t an empty threat either. Aimee had seen Jemma deal with unwanted attention on more than one occasion on plenty of nights out. One incident in a curry house near Newcastle’s Quayside stood out in particular after a keema naan bread had been used to ward off a table of over-exuberant lads from Stoke out on a stag night, causing more than one of them to wear their chicken rogan josh. It hadn’t been pretty.
Aimee grabbed Jemma’s hand before anything else kicked off, and they ran off in the direction of Marcie’s voice, which was telling anyone within a five mile radius that she had a new book out and would anyone like a signed copy?
‘You grab one arm, I’ll grab the other, then we drag her – kicking and screaming if we have to – down to that departure gate, you got that?’ Aimee asked, shoving her bag up onto her shoulder, glad she’d made the sensible choice to wear trainers for this flight. ‘I am not missing this cruise for anyone, o
r anything. Okay? I need this holiday.’
Jemma looked at her friend, stopping briefly to give her a mock salute. ‘Why-Aye, Captain!’
Palma - Majorca
12:30pm
Back in the 1990’s, Bon Voyage had been a phenomenally successful boy band from the north east of England. They’d been manufactured, of course, thrown together thanks to a long and lengthy audition process, but once the perfect mix had been found, a money-making, million-selling machine had been created.
Back in the day they’d played sell-out shows in huge arenas all over the U.K. and Europe; they’d been followed by legions of screaming fans, had groupies hanging round stage doors at every gig, some had even camped outside their homes for days on end and those girls were usually the same ones who, somehow, always managed to find out which hotels they were staying in on tour – which meant they were also usually the ones who got to live out that fantasy they dreamed about constantly of meeting their favourite pop star, and maybe even do more than just meet them. Bon Voyage had never been ones to miss out on anything the life of a popular boy band member had to offer. Oh, Bon Voyage had had it all – fame, money, invitations to the biggest and best showbiz parties and award ceremonies, model girlfriends; their faces in the papers and magazines on a daily basis. They’d been big.
Andy Crabtree, Danny Johnson, Ross Nelson, Cal Connor and Frankie Monroe had been 90’s heart-throbs, the dream men of a million and more girls and women of all ages.
Andy had been the “front man”, the one they’d pushed forward because he’d had the strongest voice. Originally from a small Northumberland village his life in Bon Voyage had been a revelation, a chance for him to escape the confines of his close-knit, rural northern community and get out into the big wide world. Tall, with dark blond hair and a dry sense of humour, he’d been the sensible one, the grown-up of the group; the one who’d kept the band together during those wild times. He’d never been the best looking of the bunch, but he’d had enough charm to get more women than he’d ever dreamed possible. But the one thing about Andy was that the older he’d got, the better looking he’d become. Time had been very kind to Andy Crabtree.
Danny Johnson, however, had very much been the one with the drop-dead-gorgeous looks back then. He’d been the group’s major heart-throb, the “bad boy” of the band with his many tattoos and a reputation for drinking, women and wild nights out. He’d been the one who’d always got the most screams, the one all the woman had wanted first and foremost with his dark, sometimes unruly hair, piercing blue eyes and killer smile, but once he’d been taken the rest of the lads had been quite happy to accept his cast offs. Time had also been kind to Danny because, unlike his hometown – the small seaside town of Whitley Bay – Danny had weathered the years extremely well, and despite now being in his (very) early 40’s, he still looked incredible, with the body of a man half his age thanks to tireless hours in the gym.
Ross Nelson, along with Frankie Monroe – two boys from the west end of Newcastle – had been the dancers of the group, the ones with the moves, the ones who had caused the band’s army of fans to scream with delight as they’d spun round on their heads or back-flipped their way across the stage during their energetic gigs. Both of them had been good-looking in a quirky kind of way, very tall and very lean, thanks to all that dancing, but unfortunately the years hadn’t been all that kind to their physiques. Middle-aged spread had come to say hello, and although they were still two fairly good-looking guys, the prospect of any head-spinning or back-flipping wasn’t looking likely these days.
And last, but definitely not least, there was Durham boy Cal Connor. With his green eyes and dirty-blond hair, and a cheeky smile that could melt a girl’s heart all the way over in the back row, he’d been the cute member of the band with boyish good looks that had drawn him a fan club from all over the world. Cal hadn’t been able to put a foot wrong during their hey day. Popular didn’t even begin to describe him, and whenever he’d taken lead vocals on stage the place had erupted with the sounds of thousands of over-emotional girls begging him to take them home and do whatever he wanted to them. Which he had done. Sometimes. As long as he’d been certain they were old enough.
Yeah. Those had been the days. But it hadn’t lasted, of course. Bon Voyage had started to get very tired and very tetchy with each other during their spring 1996 Stretched to the Limit arena tour, which they should have seen as a kind of omen, really, because by the end of that tour they’d all but reached their limit. The rows between Andy and Danny – their relationship had always been slightly on the edge of mutual dislike – had turned into something of a daily occurrence, and jealousy within the band had started to rock relationships even more when Cal had bagged a modelling contract for a trendy jeans company. It soon became evident that Bon Voyage were very much on their way out. Their time was up.
They’d called it a day just before Christmas 1996, causing an outpouring of grief from their loyal army of fans the like of which hadn’t been seen for the demise of a boy band in decades. And the end of the band left the boys themselves with the biggest decision of their lives – just what did they do now the pop star dream was over? Because it didn’t take all that long for Bon Voyage to be forgotten. It didn’t take long at all.
They’d all gone their separate ways, with most of them heading back up to their native north east England. Only Andy had stayed in London, settled in a house he’d bought with the more-than-good-but-not-quite-as-much-as-you-might-think money he’d made during his time in Bon Voyage, and tried to forge out a solo career that had lasted until the summer of 1998, when he’d realised that he couldn’t really hack it on his own. His music was being panned, the fans were slowly deserting him, and a more-than-very-public-affair with an infamous glamour model hadn’t helped matters either.
With the money drying up he’d had to look into other ways of making a living, so he’d bought a pub with an old school friend, and whilst it was doing okay it wasn’t exactly giving him the retirement prospect he’d hoped for. And he missed the fame. He missed it a lot. So, when he’d got a call from a TV production company just a few weeks earlier asking him if he’d like to get the band back together for a reality show that would follow them over the course of two weeks as they performed a series of reunion gigs on a cruise ship sailing the Mediterranean, he’d jumped at the chance. What did they have to lose? Apart from their dignity, reputation, street credibility…
Luckily, with the rest of the band not exactly flying high in the post-boy band career stakes either – Danny had started his own painting and decorating business, Ross had become a landscape gardener, Frankie an insurance salesman, and Cal was a local radio DJ, making him the only one to have retained even a modicum of fame that he could cling onto, even if he was on at 4am – it hadn’t exactly been difficult to get any of them to join him in making their reunion a reality. And, with failed marriages behind three of them (Ross, Cal and Frankie), Danny’s on the rocks, and Andy still free and very much single, nothing was stopping any of them from grabbing this opportunity with both hands. Whatever the outcome. Bon Voyage had faded into pop oblivion, so maybe now it was time for the world to wake up and see that they were back. That was the plan, anyway.
So, here they all were, aboard the MS Atlantica for two weeks of heaven knows what, and this time they were going it alone. This time they were in charge of their own destiny. No manager, not even a record company as yet, but hopefully that could all change if this trip was a success. They’d be getting some excellent TV exposure, the money they were being paid wasn’t bad, and who knew? Maybe Bon Voyage could do what everyone thought was impossible. Maybe they could actually make a comeback, and whip up the same kind of hysteria they’d created all those years ago.
‘Hey, Andy, we’re here,’ Frankie said, calling Andy back as he wandered off up the narrow corridor, wheeling his chrome-effect suitcase behind him. ‘The cabins are here, mate.’
Andy stopped and turned around, wheeling h
is case back in the direction of their allotted cabins - home for the next fortnight. ‘Sorry. I was miles away there.’
‘I can’t wait to be miles away,’ Danny said, swiping his key card through the slot on the cabin door, pushing it open with his shoulder. ‘As far away as bloody possible.’
‘Davina giving you a hard time is she?’ Cal asked, holding the door open as Danny wheeled his suitcase through.
‘Like you wouldn’t frigging believe. She’s changed her mind about the divorce now, hasn’t she? Suddenly decided she doesn’t want us to split up anymore and, get this, she says if I still want a divorce then she wants half of everything I’ve got, which – right now – is precisely not-very-much-at-all.’
‘You should have something by the end of all this though,’ Ross remarked, opening the neighbouring cabin door. ‘We could start raking it in again if this all goes well. I mean, loads of 80’s and 90’s bands are getting back together now, aren’t they?’
Danny came back out of the cabin, leaning against the doorpost, folding his arms as he looked at Ross. ‘Yeah, and that’s the whole problem though, isn’t it? When I met Davina I had nowt, when I married her I had nowt – even though it’s quite evident now that she only married me because of who I was and how that might benefit her – and when that didn’t work and I still had nowt, and she still didn’t have that Z-List celebrity career she so desperately wanted, she started divorce proceedings, which I quite happily agreed to, but now – now she’s playing Queen Bitch, saying she’s decided to hold off on the divorce until after all this has finished. She wants to try again, can you believe that? When I had nowt I meant nowt to her, but now there’s the prospect of some cold hard cash on the horizon and maybe – maybe – even a sniff of some kind of rekindled fame, and she wants to try again!’
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