Copyright © 2018 Sheila O’Flanagan
Extract from What Happened That Night © 2017 Sheila O’Flanagan
The right of Sheila O’Flanagan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by
HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
First published as an Ebook in 2018 by
HEADLINE REVIEW
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 3540 4
Cover images © Shutterstock (Svetlana Ryajentseva, Mirelle, sun_and_moon, Pakhnyushchy and L. Lauzuma). Hand-lettering © Carol Kemp
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
Also By Sheila O’Flanagan
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Read the opening section of WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT
Have you read all of Sheila O’Flanagan’s irresistible novels?
About the Author
Sheila O’Flanagan is the award-winning author of over twenty bestselling novels, including What Happened That Night, The Missing Wife, My Mother’s Secret, If You Were Me, All For You (winner of the Irish Popular Fiction Book of the Year Award) and Bad Behaviour, as well as the bestselling short story collections Destinations, Connections and Christmas With You.
Sheila has always loved telling stories, and after working in banking and finance for a number of years, she decided it was time to fulfil a dream and give writing her own book a go. So she sat down, stuck ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a page, and got started. Sheila lives in Dublin with her husband.
www.sheilaoflanagan.com
@sheilaoflanagan
/sheilabooks
Praise for Sheila’s irresistible novels
‘A fabulous tale with refreshingly inspiring heroines’ ***** Heat
‘An exciting love story with a deliciously romantic denouement’ Sunday Express
‘Romantic and charming’ Candis
‘This Gone Girl-esque novel will have you gripped until the very end’ **** Look
‘I read the book in one sitting as it was so enjoyable, full of romance and kept you riveted until the last page’ Woman’s Way
‘This is a real must-read’ Closer
‘Will keep you guessing right up until the end’ Bella
‘One of our best storytellers’ Irish Mail on Sunday
‘A thought-provoking read’ New!
‘A captivating novel of family ties and romance’ Sun
By Sheila O’Flanagan and available from Headline
Suddenly Single
Far From Over
My Favourite Goodbye
He’s Got To Go
Isobel’s Wedding
Caroline’s Sister
Too Good To Be True
Dreaming Of A Stranger
Destinations
Anyone But Him
How Will I Know?
Connections
Yours, Faithfully
Bad Behaviour
Someone Special
The Perfect Man
Stand By Me
Christmas With You
All For You
Better Together
Things We Never Say
If You Were Me
My Mother’s Secret
The Missing Wife
What Happened That Night
The Hideaway
About the Book
What would you do if you discovered you were living a lie?
When a shocking news report shatters Juno Ryan’s world, she suddenly finds herself without the man she loves – and with no way of getting the answers she so desperately needs.
A distraught Juno flees to the enchanting Villa Naranja in Spain. The blue skies and bountiful orange groves – along with Pep, the winemaker’s handsome son – begin to soothe her broken heart, but only Juno herself can mend it.
Just when she begins to feel whole again another bombshell drops. Can Juno put the past behind her? And will she ever learn to trust herself again?
Chapter 1
There was a long queue at the car rental desk and I was at the back of it.
I’d congratulated myself on being first off the plane and thought I’d be first in line at the rental desk too, but I’d forgotten there would be other flights into Alicante airport and that those passengers might also be hiring cars. Now it seemed that everyone who’d landed that evening was in the queue ahead of me. And it was moving at a snail’s pace.
I was standing immediately behind a family of four whose flight had arrived nearly three hours late and who were feeling very cranky about it. The little girl, aged about two, was holding on to her mother’s leg, whimpering pettishly, while her slightly older brother was aiming his bright-green plastic laser gun at the waiting adults and whooping ‘gotcha’ every couple of seconds. The parents were venting their annoyance in equal measure at the airline and the car rental agency, asking each other why it was taking so bloody long to hand over a set of keys. The last comment was pitched loudly enough for everyone in the line to hear, and there were plenty of approving nods as well as a few mutters of ‘bloody disgrace’ from the waiting hordes.
The two people currently at the desk had been there for at least twenty minutes. If everyone ahead of me took that long, I’d be waiting for nearly two hours. Which would mean that it would be after midnight before I got my car, and at least another hour before I reached the Villa Naranja. So my time on the ground would be practically as long as the flight itself – longer if, as I feared, I got lost.
‘You won’t get lost, Juno,’ Pilar had assured me as she’d highlighted the route on Google Maps. ‘Once you’re on the road to the house, you’ll be fine. The hardest part is the turn just before the town because it is quite sharp and easy to miss in the dark. But you’ll know you’ve passed it if you end up in Beniflor.’
‘Is there a hotel nearby if I do lose my way?’
&
nbsp; ‘Not in Beniflor itself,’ she replied. ‘But there’s a lovely one about fifteen minutes past it. La Higuera. Small, but very chic. Even though it’s expensive it’s always booked up. Honestly, Juno, you’ll find the Villa Naranja, no problem. Don’t worry.’
I wasn’t exactly worried, but despite my limited budget I wished I’d opted for the chic and expensive option, at least for tonight. I supposed that if things took too long, I could always drive into Alicante city, check in to the first hotel I saw, and leave looking for the Villa Naranja until the morning when it would be bright and everything would seem better and easier. Even as I considered it, I told myself not to be stupid. The drive was straightforward enough and I was perfectly capable of finding a country house, even in the dark. I was a strong, competent woman, wasn’t I? It might be true that both my strength and competence had been called into question of late but I shouldn’t be such a . . . a . . . the disparaging word I was about to call myself was lost as, out of nowhere, the pain and the grief enveloped me like a tidal wave, literally knocking me sideways. I gasped an apology as I bumped into the mother in front of me.
‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘It takes it out of you, doesn’t it? Travelling. And all this hanging around is ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if going away on holiday is worth the hassle.’
She kept talking without waiting for me to answer, which was just as well because I wasn’t listening to a word she was saying, and I couldn’t speak anyhow. My throat had constricted and there was only room in my head for my anguish. The problem, of course, was that I had no right to be anguished and no right to be in pain. Yet it caught hold of me when I least expected it, and wouldn’t let me go.
Without wanting to, I was replaying the moment I’d heard the news. The moment I’d seen the photograph flash up on the screen and my life had been turned upside down. I was utterly unable to stop the memories or the images filling my head. It was all I could do not to cry.
The queue moved forward again.
‘We’re staying at my sister’s.’ The woman’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘She has a place in Altea Heights. It’s beautiful. Views of the sea. Lovely terrace. And a private pool.’
‘It sounds great.’ My voice came out as a croak but she didn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh, it is,’ she told me. ‘Sadly, we won’t be able to come this time next year. Cooper will be in school then, and they fine you for taking them out in term-time now. It’s ludicrous. Everyone knows the airline companies scam you on flights during school holidays.’
‘It’s the nanny state at work,’ said her husband.
I nodded in agreement. As a single woman just past her thirtieth birthday, school holidays were irrelevant to me, but I understood her frustration.
‘Are you on your own, then?’ She looked at me, inviting conversation.
To my enormous relief a second window at the rental desk opened at that moment. The queue split and hustled forward and I didn’t need to answer. To avoid any possibility of talking, however, I took out my phone and looked at it. But I already knew the most recent message would still be the one from Pilar, sent just before I boarded the plane in Dublin.
Slight problem. Mum didn’t get to the house today so electricity is still off. No fresh food either but there is coffee and tea. Best pick up something at airport for snack and brekkie. Hope you have great time. Px
I’d bought two extra Danish pastries on the flight. They’d looked soggy and unappetising even before I put them in my bag but I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry. I wouldn’t be hungry in the morning either. I’d lost my interest in food along with almost six kilos in weight over the past couple of months. I knew that I couldn’t really afford to lose any more. I’ve always been on the slender side, and dropping almost a stone didn’t really suit me. But the last thing I cared about was how I looked.
I scrolled through my other messages, even though I told myself not to. I stopped at the last one in the conversation with Brad.
Tonight’s dinner location. Joining them shortly. Love you. Miss you. Bxx
The wave of grief hit me again. I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip on the handle of my luggage. At that moment, it was the only thing keeping me upright.
A final move forward and then it was my turn at the desk. I gave my details and was handed the keys to a Ford Fiesta, which the rental agent said was on the third floor of the car park. I thanked him, and walked towards the exit. The family of four was still at the desk. The little boy was bashing their suitcases with his plastic laser gun and the father was arguing with the agent about the insurance excess charge.
The car park was busy. I checked the bay number for the Fiesta and strode along one of the rows. The dark blue car was where it was meant to be. I gave a sigh of relief, popped the boot open and hefted my case inside. I opened the door and slid into the seat before I realised I was on the passenger’s side. I got out and walked around to the driver’s door.
I’d driven on the Continent before, so left-hand drive didn’t bother me. The first time – in France with my closest friends, Cleo and Saoirse – had been a little scary, but after the initial anxious minutes I’d been fine. I’d been the one to do most of the driving through Europe with Sean, my fiancé, a few years later. Sean became my ex-fiancé after that trip, although it hadn’t been on account of my driving. It had been on account of him deciding he wasn’t ready to marry anyone. Or at least that he wasn’t ready to marry me. Of course I’d had broken relationships in my life before Sean, but I’d never felt as devastated as I’d felt then. All the dreams and plans of the life I’d expected to lead had come crashing down around me. I’d felt battered and bruised and despairing. Humiliated, too – though I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t a reflection on me that Sean had changed his mind. And better at that point than after we were married. Still, it was a difficult few months. But I’d got over it. I’d rebuilt my life, advanced my career and moved on. Now my heart was broken all over again, and this time it was much, much worse. This time I didn’t know how to get over it, I didn’t know if I’d ever recover.
I took a deep breath, then put the Fiesta into reverse and eased out of the parking bay. It was good to have something to concentrate on, something to pull my mind away from the dark places it still wanted to go. Besides, I like driving. I’m a better driver than Sean ever was. I’m alert and confident and I don’t let myself be bullied on the road. That was why Cleo and Saoirse always made me drive on holidays. And I honestly didn’t mind, because I like being the one in control. I’m much better at giving orders than taking them.
I hadn’t been on holidays with the girls since I’d started going out with Sean. But after Brad, Cleo had asked me if I’d like to go away for a weekend with her. To a spa, she suggested. Somewhere top-notch. Somewhere I could be pampered.
‘I don’t deserve to be pampered,’ I’d told her in a voice that was tight with the effort of not crying.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Cleo protested.
‘I know. But it feels like a judgement somehow.’
‘You’ve got to give yourself a break, Juno,’ she said.
‘They didn’t get a break, did they?’ I asked.
And Cleo hadn’t said any more about pampering.
‘At the roundabout, take the second exit.’ The female satnav was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.
I concentrated on my road positioning and followed her instructions. Most of the route to Beniflor was by motorway, which made things fairly simple. I like motorway driving. I like putting my foot down and giving the car its head.
But I didn’t put my foot down too heavily in the Fiesta. I was afraid to drive too quickly. There was a chance I might burst into tears, and I didn’t want to be travelling at 120kph when that happened. Nevertheless there was a tiny, tiny part of me that thought driving off the road and into oblivion had its merits.
I fixed my eyes on the road ahead. I wasn’t going to think like that. I’d had those thoughts
in the darker days but I’d told everyone that I was much better now. The thing is, I wasn’t, not really. The reason I was here was because I wasn’t at all better, and because I couldn’t do my job properly. Because I’d felt obliged to hand in my resignation before I did something really stupid. And before they fired me.
I was really good at my job before. I know women aren’t supposed to blow their own trumpet and say they’re brilliant at anything – like driving, or our jobs. We’re meant to be self-deprecating and modest and put it all down to luck rather than being super-capable. But I was one of the best radiographers at the private hospital where I worked, and I knew it. I knew it because the patients said so. The staff said so too. And I loved my job so much, I was always trying to improve my skills and to make the experience better.
The patients are the most important part of my work. They’re either nervous or in pain, or both, when they come to radiology. A big part of what I do is to make them feel relaxed. But how could I make anyone else relax when I was as tight as a coiled spring myself? And how could I be cheerful and positive with them when I was unable to come up from the depths of my own misery?
I tried, I really did. But it was asking too much. One day, after I’d finished an ultrasound of a young woman with abdominal pain, I burst into tears right there in the room beside her. The patient, not surprisingly, thought I’d seen something terminal in her ultrasound, and she burst into tears too. She was utterly inconsolable and wouldn’t believe that she wasn’t about to die.
Afterwards, I was called in to see the head of the department. Drina O’Driscoll is in her fifties; she’s cool, professional and a role model for everyone in radiology. She looked at me without saying anything. I handed her the letter and she placed the envelope on the desk in front of her.
‘I know you’ve had some personal issues, Juno.’ Her voice was steady. ‘I realise they have affected your work.’
I was gripping the edge of the seat with my hands in an effort to keep my composure. I wondered what she knew about my personal issues, and how she knew it.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have allowed a private matter to affect me professionally.’
The Hideaway Page 1
