Waves of Betrayal (The Isabel Marsh Trilogy Book 1)

by Michelle J. Bennett

  Waves of Betrayal

  By Michelle J. Bennett

  Copyright © 2016 by Michelle J. Bennett

  All rights reserved.

  Michelle J. Bennett has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including copying, extracting, printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please email the publisher at media@sixsquarespublishing.com.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First edition, published in 2016 by Six Squares Publishing, a division of Zumey Digital Media:

  Zumey LTD

  71-75 Shelton Street

  London WC2H 9JQ

  United Kingdom

  www.sixsquarespublishing.com

  A percentage of the proceeds of this book will be donated to the Alexander Fund: www.alexanderfund.org

  Cover design by Six Squares Publishing.

  Cover photo by Shutterstock.

  ISBN 978 0 9957609 0 5 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978 0 9957609 1 2 (eBook)

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1.3

  Dedicated to all parents who have lost a child to cancer

  Life is worth living, even when all hope is lost.

  With love, to Alex. Forever in our hearts.

  The Isabel Marsh Trilogy

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Isabel Marsh wobbles on one leg at her classroom door, adjusting the leather straps on her new shoes. She debates whether she has time to make a quick dash to the store cupboard to grab the resources that she has forgotten, but decides against it as her heel is sore from a full day on her feet. She stands upright in an attempt to look authoritative as a thundering rabble of fourteen-year-olds begin to form an excitable queue in front of her. An unruly sea of burgundy sweatshirts, bearing the school logo of an old oak tree and a distant horizon. Oh, how she wishes for a moment alone there on that tranquil horizon!

  At least, since James Lapthorne became Head of Highview Comprehensive two years ago, the pupils have been freed from the restrictive ties and blazers. She always thought them more fitting for a high-flying Grammar school than an oversubscribed Comp on the outskirts of a bustling agricultural town in Cornwall.

  Isabel likes James, he is only forty years old, married to Maria, who spends most of her time writing papers for her PhD in Archaeology, as far as she understands. They live in one of the big, fabulously expensive detached houses overlooking the village of Cartheston, where Isabel lives. Their eleven-year-old daughter also goes to Highview. Isabel remembers how she drew and labelled their family home in her French class. It’s amazing what you can find out about your students’ family lives when teaching a foreign language! All a very long shot from her own rented terraced cottage, but then again, at the age of twenty-seven, she still has thirteen years to reach the dizzy heights of Principal and maybe even a mansion in Harbury!

  After ten minutes of registration, recording names of those who had not completed homework, and explaining a thousand times that, ‘yes, you will need your pencil case even though it is the last lesson on a Friday’, Isabel finally settles the class and launches into a quick-fire question and answer activity in French on how many brothers and sisters everybody has. She smiles to herself as she sees through the window in her door that Nicole, the German teacher, has won the Departmental battle for the TV this week and is showing cartoons with subtitles in English!

  Finally, the bell rings at 3.30 p.m. and most of the pupils have managed to draw a family tree with their relatives all labelled in French without too much arguing about which ones go at the top and where the half-sisters fit in! As they leave the classroom excitably, running towards the various waiting coaches and parents, Isabel collapses into her chair with a heavy sigh. Just two weeks left until the Summer holidays and then six long weeks of doing whatever she feels like. Until then though, she has a pile of books which she should really mark if she is to enjoy her weekend. Paul won’t be home from the bank, where he works, until six o’clock anyway.

  She pulls the band from her dark wavy hair, running her fingers through it and re-tying it into a messy knot on top of her head. Maybe she could go for a run, instead of marking homework? At only five-foot-three and of petite build, she is the envy of her two best friends, Rachel and Claire. With her olive complexion, deep brown eyes and long lashes she hardly ever needs to apply make-up. She remembers how she used to be taunted at school for her Hispanic looks. A gang of spiteful girls in her class used to call her “Isabella”. Probably out of jealousy, her mother always used to tell her. Most of the girls in her class had thin mousy hair and blotchy skin that turned a worrying shade of pink in the sun. It was no wonder, then, that she resented the after-school Spanish lessons that her father had insisted on. There was no family connection at all with Spain, apart from the fact that her father, Duncan, earned a First Class Degree in Spanish and History from the University of Exeter and is now a Senior Lecturer at the University of Plymouth.

  Claire and Rachel were her best friends through secondary school and they have remained close. Claire is very slim, tall and blonde. She was nicknamed “horsey” at school because of her tomboy looks and her obsession with horses. She works as a stable hand and riding instructor in Cartheston. Rachel, in contrast, has always been proud of her curvy size fourteen figure. She embraces it and carries off the Marilyn Monroe look very well in her fitted dresses and four inch heels. She left school at sixteen and is now Manager of a successful Boutique clothes shop in Harbury.

  Isabel glances up at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes wasted, daydreaming! Friday evening is usually pizza- and DVD-night with her boyfriend Paul, but tonight she’s out with the girls in their local for a catch-up and a few glasses of wine. At least she won’t have to cook tonight. Just the thought of a large portion of scampi and chips and home-made coleslaw launches Isabel into action. She decides that the books can wait until Monday. Instead, she slips off her heels and sighs in pleasure as she sinks her feet into a pair of comfortable flat pumps that she keeps under her desk.

  Slipping quietly out of the side door to avoid lengthy conversations about problem pupils and exam results, she waves conspiratorially at Nicole through her window and heads out to her car. The beauty of owning a tiny Nissan Micra is that it’s almost impossible to get blocked in in the carpark. White, with patches of rust around the wheel arches and splatters of mud encrusted on the rear doors, the old car makes her drive more confidently. If she owned a pristine Mercedes like James Lapthorne she doubts she’d drive anywhere for fear of damaging it!

  Mounting the low grassy curb, the yellow smiley-face air freshener dances cheerfully on the rear view mirror as she squeezes easily past her late-working, conscientious colleagues’ cars. She feels a tiny twinge of guilt as she pulls out onto the main road leading to Cartheston.

  What a haven! There is just one road running through the village, lined with rows of little pretty terraced cottages. Further out of the village are the large detached properties where the likes of Mr Lapthorne live. Set up above the road, boasting fantastic views of the dramatic cliffs dropping down onto the beautiful, pebbly beaches below. There is a corner sho
p owned by a couple in their fifties; Frank and Audrey, who have lived in the village for eons, a charming, grey stone church with a small cemetery, and The Ploughman’s Arms, the local pub. Inside there is an impressive open fireplace for the cold winter evenings and, outside, a large grassy beer garden with wooden picnic benches and views of the fields and distant farms. There are often seagulls in the summer months, scavenging for food, reminding everyone of Cartheston’s proximity to the coast.

  Isabel pulls the little white Micra into a space in front of her cottage and looks up to see that Sasha, her Jack Russel, is waiting for her on the back of the sofa, in front of the window. She is mostly white with a big black patch over one eye and her little stubby tail wags her entire hind-quarters in her excitement. She will enjoy a run too, no doubt, and it’s such a lovely summer afternoon. Isabel smiles happily. Even though their cottage is the only one that has not been painted a cheery pink or dusty blue like the neighbours’, it is still immaculate and she happens to prefer the natural, uneven brown stone facade. She thinks back to the first day that she viewed the house with Paul, nearly three years ago. Their first house together, even though they’re only renting for now. They were so excited when they saw the patio doors from the kitchen leading to a small garden and seating area. Perfect for entertaining friends, and there was even a spare room; the size of a shoe box but space for a blow-up bed at least! After their first year in their new home though, they realised that the Cornish climate does not allow for many outdoor parties and, with the limited indoor space, they are often “forced” to entertain in the Ploughman’s Arms instead.

  They were surprised how quiet the village was at first, compared to the city of Plymouth where Isabel’s parents live. On still days, all you can hear are the waves lapping lazily on the rocky shoreline and the distant sounds of working farms.

  Being on the main road, there is the occasional traffic noise and the windows rattle when the bigger lorries pass by. But otherwise it is so peaceful that, for some people, it can be unsettling. Isabel has wind chimes hanging in the little garden by the back door which provide a quiet tinkling, comforting presence.

  Isabel realises that she has been sitting for a while now, reminiscing, and Sasha is getting increasingly excitable. The window panes are already smeared with saliva as she presses her wet snout against the glass, desperately trying to get her owner’s attention. Worried that Sasha might damage the sofa, Isabel snaps out of her reverie and snatches her school bag from the passenger seat. As she steps onto the pavement she sees her neighbours, Alex and Jules, crossing the road from the direction of the pub. Their VW Beetle is parked further up the road.

  ‘Back from sunny climes again then, guys?’ Isabel shouts.

  ‘Just for a few months,’ laughs Jules, as she stumbles and grabs Alex’s shoulder for support.

  Obviously a celebratory return drink or two in the Ploughman’s, Isabel thinks. She rummages for her keys in her handbag and watches them tumble into their cottage. She is only three years older than Alex and six years older than Jules but they always manage to make her feel like a total frump, with their cool surfer clothes, blasé attitude to life and their unsociable partying hours. Jules studies Spanish part-time at the local college and Alex never works many hours at the electrical appliances shop in Harbury, as far as she can tell. In fact, she doubts whether he has a job at all! They spend most of their time travelling abroad with their surfboards on the roof of their camper.

  With a casual wave, Isabel opens her front door and steps into the immaculate, musk-scented living room. She drops her bag onto the worn floral sofa and, giving Sasha a quick ruffle of her spikey snout, she digs out her unwashed running clothes from the laundry basket.

  ‘Ok Sasha, let’s go!’

  Chapter 2

  ‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ says Joan, as she rushes out of her front door towards Isabel, stopping her in her tracks. ‘I was looking out for you.’

  Joan looks immaculate as always, wearing a classic cream blouse and a navy blue skirt, her hair in a French pleat. The only thing that betrays her formal appearance are her pink fluffy slippers on her stockinged feet.

  ‘Oh hi, Joan,’ pants Isabel. ‘Everything alright?’ she asks, clearing her throat as she leans against the wall, stretching her legs.

  ‘Good actually. Yes, really good. I’m going up to London for a week or so. I was hoping to catch you before I left.’

  ‘London?’ asks Isabel, unable to hide her surprise.

  Joan had lost her husband six months ago and Isabel can’t remember her having been anywhere further than the local shop since. Isabel had thought it very sad to witness such a strong, intelligent woman turn into a timid recluse, sapped of all self-confidence in a matter of days. Isabel knows that her parents have invited her for dinner several times, but she usually declines. She spends most of the day alone, reading or tending to her beautiful rose garden. Isabel remembers thinking that the saddest thing of all, was that Joan’s husband, Derek, had retired just three weeks before he died of a heart attack in Blackpool. They had both worked hard all their lives so had taken early retirement at the age of sixty. Derek had been a skilled carpenter and Joan, the Headmistress of a Girls’ Grammar School in Harbury. They planned to see the world together. She remembers how they had shown her glossy brochures of cruises down the Nile, guided tours of Rome and the Vatican, and of the white sandy beaches of the Caribbean.

  ‘Just for a week,’ says Joan, fiddling with the buttons on her cardigan. ‘I’m going to stay with my son. It’ll be lovely to see the grandchildren again,’ she smiles, her eyes becoming glassy with tears, betraying her strength.

  ‘They want me to go to Spain on holiday with them in August,’ she continues hesitantly, ‘but I’m not one for the heat. You teach Spanish, don’t you?’ she asks, looking hopeful, as if Isabel may be able to help her somehow with her decision.

  ‘No Joan, French. But I did start to learn when I was younger. My dad didn’t give me much choice really,’ she says as she feels her face flush remembering her Spanish teacher, Marcos. That was almost thirteen years ago, she realises. Marcos had been eighteen and Isabel just fourteen. Her father had ended the lessons immediately and she hadn’t seen him since.

  ‘My father, as you know, is Senior Lecturer of Hispanic Studies at Plymouth University now,’ she stammers on. ‘Being born with olive skin, dark hair and with my nickname Isabella, it’s no surprise that I’m often mistaken for being Spanish. I had lessons for two years,’ she says lightly, feeling an unfamiliar fluttering in the pit of her stomach as she remembers her first crush.

  ‘It’s a beautiful language,’ says Joan, with a wistful look in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ hurries Isabel, aware that she is trying to avoid more questioning on this distant, private period of her life. She realises suddenly that, for some reason, in the five years that they have been together, she hasn’t even told Paul about Marcos. She didn’t feel the need I suppose. Nothing really happened to be ashamed of.

  ‘Jules is learning Spanish at college, apparently,’ Isabel blurts out smiling, glad of a distraction.

  Joan gives a disapproving snort in the direction of Isabel’s neighbours, her diamante hair comb shimmering in the sunlight. ‘Such a pity. That cottage used to be so well maintained. They’re hardly here, that pair. Bringing down the reputation of the village with their bright coloured van with its noisy exhaust and their surfing-gear smothering those beautiful flower beds. Such a shame. Nothing can be done though apparently,’ she continues without pausing for breath ‘they must pay their rent, god knows how though. I’d say they’ve never done a day’s work in their lives. And you, working so hard at that school and never even going away on holiday...’

  ‘To be honest,’ interrupts Isabel, ‘I’m not much of a traveller myself. More of a home bird,’ she smiles, thinking of Paul.

  ‘But the way that girl, Jules, dresses,’ Joan widens her eyes and wobbles her head, leaning closer conspirator
ially, ‘I’d be surprised if the entire population of Cartheston hadn’t seen her knickers at some point. Miniskirts, hot pants... well, it’s embarrassing really.’

  ‘Hmmmm,’ mumbles Isabel, gazing down at her own tracksuit bottoms and one of Paul’s old t-shirts. ‘She’s a lovely girl though. Her parents own a house in Tarifa in Southern Spain. Great surfing apparently,’ Isabel smiles, not wanting to run down her neighbours on her doorstep. ‘Sometimes, when they’re away, Paul and I look after their dog, Beth. A lovely, big German Shepherd. You get on really well, don’t you Sasha?’ Isabel looks down at her panting companion and realises that they both need a drink after the five-mile circuit, through fields and over stiles.

  ‘Well Joan, you have a lovely trip won’t you?’ says Isabel, turning the key in her door, smiling fondly at her over her shoulder. ‘I’m going to go and jump in the shower. Call me if you need anything.’

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ says Joan, handing over her key hanging on a strand of red ribbon with a tiny embroidered rose attached to it, ‘just for emergencies.’

  Chapter 3

  What to wear? Always the biggest most difficult decision. Even cooking a three course meal for twelve executives from Paul’s bank would be easier than this! ‘It’s only the Ploughman’s across the road for god’s sake!’ Isabel mumbles to herself but collapses backwards in her underwear onto the bed in fake exhaustion.

  ‘Hey, hard day sweetie?!’ Paul sweeps into the bedroom still smelling of Calvin Klein and looking totally relaxed but professional in his Boss suit and shiny turquoise tie.

  Isabel jumps up to wrap her arms around his neck but he laughs, backing away in mock fear, protecting his favourite suit from creasing before removing the jacket and scooping her up and kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose.