Copyright © 2017 Evonne Wareham
Published 2017 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Evonne Wareham to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
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 publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN
EPUB: 978-1-78189-417-0
This one has to be for Kath, Lorraine and Stacey.
And to commemorate Ming – a family legend.
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
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
Thank You
About the Author
More Choc Lit
Introducing Choc Lit
Preview of Summer in San Remo by Evonne Wareham
Acknowledgements
Thanks first to Kath, Lorraine and Stacey, my companions at lunch when the idea for this story first took hold. To the team at Choc Lit for pulling out all the stops to get it into this year’s Christmas list and to the Tasting Panel (Melissa C, Jenny M, Jennifer S, Heather P, Jo L, Lucy M, Rosie F, Joy S, Jo O, Yvonne G, Gill L, Jane M and Els) for their invaluable feedback. And to my fellow Choc Lit authors, just because …
Thanks also to Julie, Dave and Simon at TL Computer Systems for their hospitality when I suffered a catastrophic internet disaster on launch day for my July release – Summer in San Remo, and to Claire at JA Hughes, for information on court proceedings. Any errors of interpretation are my responsibility.
And finally thanks to everyone who has supported me in getting back into print after a long gap, when life threw stuff, in large amounts, and especially to Evelyn and Jenny. They know why.
Chapter One
28 April
Any minute now all his fingers were going to break.
He’d lunged too soon, or not got the angle right, or both. His hands and arms were taking the whole weight of his body, and he was flailing against the side of the train carriage like a badly landed fish. With a gigantic effort, that almost wrenched his shoulders out of their sockets, Drew pulled himself up and belly-flopped onto the roof of the train, legs still dangling over the side. Clint, the stunt coordinator he was paying to choreograph this torture, was standing further down the roof, smirking and curling his fingers in invitation. ‘C’mon, Mr Best-Selling Author, let’s see what you’re made of.’
Right now? Try a hank of wet string. Or over-cooked spaghetti.
Drew sucked in air. He didn’t have the brain power to remember or the spare breath to utter the choice collection of insults and curses he ought to be flinging at Clint’s fat, grinning, turnip head.
Just get on the damn roof.
With an undignified heave he gathered the rest of his body onto the stable surface, where he crouched on his hands and knees, panting. Clint was ostentatiously looking at his watch. ‘You planning on standing up any time soon, Mr Vitruvius?’
Drew mustered just enough breath for a low-pitched ‘Bastard.’
He tottered to his feet. Still half crouched against the light breeze that up here felt like a howling gale, he knew he deserved a medal for making it this far.
Clint didn’t look impressed. Instead he pointed to the ladder leaning against the side of the carriage. The ladder that led back to safety and solid ground and the ability to walk upright. ‘Down you go and do it again.’ He flashed Drew an evil smile. Two gold teeth glittered in the pale morning sun. Drew had never had the nerve to ask what had happened to the originals. ‘Once you get this right, maybe we can even try it when the train is moving.’
Chapter Two
29 November
‘No. Definitely not. No way.’ Drew shook his head as well, for added emphasis, letting out a long disgruntled breath. Normally he enjoyed the visits to his agent’s offices, tucked in a tiny Georgian courtyard off the Strand. Books and good coffee and the occasional bottle of champagne, if he’d cracked another award or best-seller list – what was there not to like?
But today? Not so much.
Geraldine Ennis rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, Andrew. It’ll be fun.’
‘You think?’ Drew shrugged himself out of Geri’s ‘visitor’s chair’ and prowled over to the window, reaching over a row of bright red poinsettia parading along the sill, to tilt the blind and look down into the courtyard. It wasn’t an inspiring view – two large dustbins and a pile of cardboard waiting for recycling. A ragged scrap of tinsel had fastened itself to the wheels on the bottom of one of the bins and a column of thin winter sun made patterns on the facade of the building opposite, eye-wateringly bright when it hit the narrow windows. Drew squinted, looking up. A square of blue showed over the roofline. Four weeks to Christmas and the weather was cold but clear, and forecast to stay that way.
No snow again this year.
Not that you really care whether it snows or not.
Drew dropped the blind and turned back to face the woman who had masterminded his career this far with steely efficiency, but who now seemed to have taken a brief detour into crazy. ‘What exactly is fun about being kidnapped?’
Geri had stopped rolling her eyes. She fixed him with a beady look – the look she used when he launched one of his time-travelling protagonists off on another trek after Mayan temples or Viking gold, when the dude should be spending quality time with the heroine of the book. It wasn’t that Drew had any objection to quality time with a heroine. It was just that they’d been a little thin on the ground lately in real life. Writing about bloody battles
in the Highlands or break-neck chases through rampant alien jungles on distant planets was a whole lot easier.
Just the basics. Kill or be killed.
He breathed in with a jerk. His mind had been wandering. Not a good idea with Geraldine anywhere in the building. She’d propped herself against the edge of her desk, still giving him that sceptical eye. A steel-smooth fifty-something, with a mind like a hunting leopard.
She looked him up and down. ‘Considering that your idea of fun is being dumped on an uninhabited island, or in the middle of a desert, or some equally inhospitable place, I’d have thought you’d have jumped at this.’
‘That is research,’ he pointed out, with dignity. ‘This is just nuts.’
‘It’s for charity.’
‘Which one?’ Hell, are you weakening already?
‘Your choice.’
‘Huh!’ Drew chucked himself back down in the visitor’s chair. Geraldine knew about his support for a couple of groups who worked with the street homeless and ex-offenders. If this damn stunt can make a difference …
‘Of course, if you really don’t want to do it, I can always offer them Brandon Phipps …’
Drew raised both his hands to point at her. ‘Unfair. You know that supposed feud is something a journalist thought up. I’ve only met the guy twice. We did not come to blows on either occasion. I don’t give a shit if his debut novel shoved The Irish Stone off the top of the best-seller list. Something had to.’
Geri tilted her head, sizing him up for her next gambit. ‘Andrew – it’s the Phil Philmore Show.’
‘It’s also a crazy time for something like this.’ Not to mention that I’m on a deadline for the next book. Yes – definitely not to mention … ‘A few days before Christmas?’
‘All the better to touch people’s hearts, and their wallets.’
‘Assuming you haven’t scared them to death! Kidnapping? Yes, that’s right up there with tinsel and mince pies for Christmas spirit.’
Geraldine made a noise that in someone else would be classed as a snort. ‘I would have thought that alone would have sold it to you.’ She reached behind her on the desk to locate a slim folder in a glossy green cover, waving it from side to side. ‘You know what Philmore is like. He’s only just come up with the idea. This is the brief. It was couriered round an hour ago. Super top secret. “If I tell you I have to kill you stuff”. He thought you’d be totally up for it.’
‘So if I say no, he puts a contract out on both of us?’ Drew flexed his shoulders and sighed. Definitely weakening, you sucker.
Phil Philmore was the TV host of the moment. By force of personality and an inventive mind, he’d taken a weekly chat show from late-night, low-budget to award-winning, top-billing, prime-time viewing. The man was clever and confident and with his production company had come up with a distinctive and quirky formula. An in-depth interview with a featured author, with insights into their research methods, locations they had used and special plot features, which was then broadened out into an analysis of depictions of their work on stage and screen, head-to-head discussions with actors who had brought their characters to life, musicians who had written scores, special effects departments – anything and everything for a behind the scenes glimpse at a best-selling book, in all its incarnations. Held together by Philmore’s unique style, it had managed to catch and hold the attention of the viewing public. Drew had been a featured author twice, once with a camera crew shadowing him on a training exercise in white-water rafting.
Not, thank God, the debacle with the train.
And now Philmore was inviting him to be kidnapped, live, on TV.
‘It’s different,’ he said cautiously.
‘It’s Philmore.’ Geri shrugged. ‘He’s a genius for putting stuff together, you know that.’
‘Who else is involved?’
‘That’s under wraps, but the PA “suggested” that it would be another author – female, a sports personality, a couple of actors and a singer – probably other people like you, who have done the show in the past. But at this stage, no names, no pack drill.’
‘Until they find out whether the people they want are nuts enough.’ Drew held out his hand. Geraldine put the folder into it. You’re going to do this, aren’t you, you daft bugger?
‘Philmore has hired one of those companies that specialise in extreme experiences. They don’t offer designer kidnapping as a general rule, but they’ve agreed to stage this as a one-off, because it’s for charity and because—’
‘—it’s Philmore.’ Drew finished the sentence. ‘The guy could charm snakes out of trees.’
Geri indicated the logo on the front of the file. ‘Have you heard of them?’
‘I’ve used them.’ Drew flicked through the pages. ‘They do outward bound stuff, survival courses – they’re good.’
‘Maybe they’ll decide to add this to their repertoire.’ Geri gave a small, theatrical shudder. ‘I’m told there are people out there who pay money to be snatched off the street and held hostage.’
‘And now you want me to be one of them.’
‘It’s your call.’
Drew sat still for a moment, the file resting on his knee. Geraldine nudged his foot with hers. Instead of her usual killer heels, today she was wearing trainers, exactly like the ones he was wearing, he noted with surprise.
All the better for chasing down recalcitrant authors and biting their heads off?
She’d never really sunk her teeth into him, but there were stories. And he’d once found a junior assistant, sobbing on the stairs. Not one to cross, our Geraldine.
She was watching his face.
‘Go on. You know you want to. It’ll be for a good cause.’
‘Run it past me again.’ Drew leaned back in the chair, arranging his face into sell-it-to-me mode. He knew from Geri’s expression that she wasn’t really buying his reluctance, but what the hell? He didn’t have to roll over straight away.
She sighed heavily and nodded towards the folder. ‘These people stage a series of kidnappings. The PA did “let slip” that they were hoping to kick off with the American actor from that West End play that’s so big at the moment—’ Geri snapped her fingers.
‘The Conquistador,’ Drew supplied helpfully.
‘That’s the one.’
‘Which probably means that he’s already agreed to do it.’
Geri nodded. ‘Doubt if the name would have been mentioned, even in confidence, if he wasn’t already in the bag. The other kidnappings will follow. Philmore has his usual early evening spot, with spaces for updates throughout the evening and a big finale around midnight. Viewers pledge money to ransom their darlings.’ She gave Drew a sly grin. ‘Including an internationally best-selling fantasy author?’
Drew kept his face as deadpan as he could. Geraldine pouted and carried on. ‘After the first kidnap, everyone is going to cotton on to what’s happening. The excitement will be revved up with speculation about who might be next. And then, at the end, there’s the grand bidding war, to see how high donors can get the various ransoms.’
‘Humiliating for the poor sod who comes bottom of the list.’
‘I doubt if you’ll have any need to worry,’ Geraldine said, looking off, over Drew’s shoulder. ‘The sexiest beast in the best-seller list.’
‘And that was a journalist too.’ An excitable freelancer whom he’d determinedly avoided ever since. Unfortunately the tag the woman had chosen had stuck. Now it got rolled out practically every time his name was mentioned in print.
‘Whatever is raised from the ransom goes to the charities, and Philmore has privately pledged to match the sums out of his own pocket.’ Geri shrugged. ‘Okay, he’s looking to knock all the other Christmas specials out of the park, but he is prepared to put his money where his mouth is.’
Drew ran his finger over the glossy cover of the brief. It was pure Philmore. The off-the-wall stuff that he did so well. If anyone could convince the viewing public to add one
more gift to the ones they’d already spent too much money on, he was the one to do it.
But even so …
‘I don’t know …’ he paused. Are you really going to say it? Out loud? ‘It may have slipped your mind, but I have a deadline looming.’
‘Which you will be meeting several days before this happens.’
Drew didn’t miss the thread of steel in Geri’s voice. Yeah, well …
‘You already have a sold-out speaking date for that night,’ Geraldine continued briskly. ‘We sweeten the audience with some freebies and TV screens in the room, showing the other kidnappings as they happen. They’ll love being part of it.’
‘And if they don’t, I get lynched with a string of fairy lights, just in time for Christmas?’ he enquired dryly. He tapped his finger on the brief. ‘The audience does need to be in on it. I don’t want to risk anyone trying to have a go and getting hurt.’
Geraldine’s eyes glittered. ‘You’ll do it?’
‘Yeah.’ Drew made a face. ‘You know bloody well you had me at “charity”.’
‘Darling’. The slight tension in Geri’s shoulders dialled down as she leaned forward for an air kiss. ‘The money will make such a difference.’ She patted his arm. ‘Aveline will take care of all the details.’ She straightened up with a pussycat smile. ‘All you have to do—’
‘I know.’ Drew was ahead of her. ‘All I have to do is lie back and enjoy it.’
Chapter Three
18 December, 4 p.m.
The Christmas lunch for Cardiff Bespoke Home Office Installations – we promise you the best service in the Principality – had gone really well.
Damn right it did, as you were the one who organised it.
Lori France grinned. Self-satisfied, much?
But wasn’t she entitled to a little self-congratulation for a job well done? The last before the firm knocked off for the Christmas and New Year break. And everyone else had said how much they’d enjoyed themselves. As always, it had been fun. Good food, good company and good wine, although, as she was driving herself home, she’d stuck to one glass.
And also good that you will not be seeing any of the people around the table again for two whole weeks.
What Happens at Christmas Page 1
