Contents
About the Author
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Acknowledgements
Preview: If He Really Loved Me…
About the Author
Julia Roberts was born in Nottingham and was inspired to write her first play at the age of ten after winning second prize in a writing competition with a short story called ‘The Foundling’.
Throughout her forty-two year career in the entertainment industry, initially as a dancer before becoming a TV presenter twenty-five years ago, she has written articles for magazines and newspapers and for the past five years a weekly blog on qvcuk.com where she has worked for twenty-one years.
Although she had always wanted to write a book Julia was a busy working mum so it wasn’t until her two children left home that she finally fulfilled her dream and finished her first book, a memoir entitled ‘One Hundred Lengths of the Pool’. Two weeks after it was published by Preface Publishing, Julia went on holiday to Mauritius and was instantly inspired to write a novel, Life’s a Beach and Then… the first book in the Liberty Sands trilogy.
She now lives in Ascot with her ‘other half’ of thirty-seven years and occasionally one or other of her children and their respective cats.
Life’s a Beach and Then...
Julia Roberts
Copyright © 2015 Julia Roberts
The right of Julia Roberts 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 worldwide in Print and E – editions – 2015
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, copied or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher and author. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978 0 9932522 1 1
Copy edited by Justine Taylor
Book cover illustration Angela Oltmann
life’s a bitch and then you die
Chapter 1
Holly sank back into the comfortable leather seat of the air-conditioned, chauffeur driven car that the Plantation House hotel had sent to meet her at Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport. She was grateful to escape the vicious heat of the early afternoon Mauritian sun, which had caused a trickle of perspiration to run down her spine in the short walk from the terminal building. It was a complete contrast to the freezing temperatures she had left behind in London twelve hours previously.
The flight from Gatwick had been delayed by three hours, initially to wait for some passengers arriving on a connecting flight from snowbound Paris, and then for the de-icing procedure which had kept them sitting on the tarmac for over an hour, unsure whether or not they would be leaving for their exotic destination.
Holly didn’t mind too much, after all it wasn’t her hard-earned cash paying for the trip to Mauritius and besides it gave her the opportunity to do a bit of people-watching, a pastime she indulged in a lot these days. The only thing that had made her slightly nervous was the engineer repeatedly making his way from the flight deck to the economy-class section, torch in hand, to peer through the porthole windows checking the condition of the flaps during the de-icing procedure. Holly had comforted herself with the thought that the pilot would not risk his own neck, or that of his crew, just to appease a bunch of holidaymakers.
By the time the flight eventually took off Holly’s eyelids were feeling heavy and she was asleep before dinner was served. Since she was a small child mechanical motion had a sleep-inducing effect on her, as her father had discovered when she was a teething baby. He would bundle her into her car seat and drive around their council estate in a suburb of Nottingham until she was lulled to sleep.
Holly bit her lip to stop it trembling as she thought of her father and wondered what he would have made of her travelling to a five-star resort on an island paradise in the back of a limousine. He would probably have been quite sad that I am on my own, she concluded.
She turned her head to look out of the window at the passing countryside but also to avoid making eye contact with the driver through his rear-view mirror, particularly as her eyes were filling with tears. She reached into her handbag for a tissue. At this sign of movement the driver, who had introduced himself as Sachin when he had held the car door open for her at the airport, tried to strike up a conversation.
‘Is this your first time in Mauritius?’ he asked.
It was a standard opening gambit and Holly was very tempted to say ‘No’, which would probably have saved her from further conversation, but it actually was her first time and she knew from past experience that the information her driver/guide would impart could be very useful.
‘Yes it is,’ she replied and settled back to soak up all the local information, occasionally interrupting his flow with a question of her own.
At least it made the journey pass quickly and in no time at all they were making a right turn onto a road signposted to Flic en Flac and she saw the small town at the bottom of the hill, with the beach and ocean beyond. Sachin drove through the town, still indicating points of interest, until they reached a T-junction with only a stretch of grass, scattered with tall trees, between them and the beach.
‘Are they pine trees?’ Holly asked, as Sachin turned the car to the left.
�
��They are filaos trees,’ he replied. ‘They help to prevent sand erosion.’
Less than a mile later the car turned into a sweeping driveway at the end of which stood the Plantation House hotel, a striking colonial-style building, which was to be Holly’s home for the next seven days.
‘Pretty impressive,’ said Holly almost to herself as the car door was opened for her by one of the uniformed reception staff. She noticed the slight nod of the head, the smile and the look of pride in the man’s eyes. Obviously he is happy in his work, Holly thought, as she thanked Sachin, handing him a 200-rupee tip, and climbed the half dozen steps to the front entrance.
This time she kept her thoughts to herself as she found herself in a double-height reception area with a vaulted ceiling and a view straight through to the beautifully manicured gardens, against a backdrop of the deep blue ocean.
‘Welcome to the Plantation House, Ms Wilson,’ said a tall slim man in a light-coloured linen suit. ‘My name is Vikram. Please follow me and we can get you checked in as quickly as possible. I trust you had a pleasant journey?’
‘Yes thank you,’ said Holly, as she followed Vikram through to a comfortable seating area which, although not air conditioned, had a pleasant breeze blowing through the glass-less windows and overhead ceiling fans to assist the flow of air.
‘Please take a seat,’ he said, indicating a low rattan sofa, ‘and I will have my colleague attend to you.’
Moments later a waiter appeared carrying a tray, on which there were three glasses containing a peach-coloured liquid, complete with a bendy straw and a cocktail stick piercing a piece of fresh pineapple and mango.
Holly took one glass and allowed her eyes to follow the waiter as he delivered the two remaining drinks. She instantly recognised the distinctive middle-aged couple who had been sat several rows in front of her on the plane, in the business-class section. The man had been very attentive towards his travel companion making sure she was comfortable throughout the long journey. Holly had thought at the time that it was good to see that chivalry hadn’t completely died out and it had made her wish that she had someone other than her darling son Harry to care for her. As the man took his drink he noticed Holly and raised his glass in acknowledgement.
Oops – caught, she thought, raising her glass in his direction and feeling the warmth in her cheeks as she flushed slightly. I must be tired. I don’t normally get caught people-watching.
‘Ms Wilson,’ said Vikram, clearing his throat slightly to gain her attention, ‘there is a short registration form to fill out and then we will transport you to your room.’
Five minutes later Holly had completed the form, making sure she had ticked the box for premium Internet access so that she could work in her room and not just the public areas. She finished her drink and was escorted back to the front of the hotel, smiling at the couple from the plane as she passed.
A golf buggy, already loaded with her silver Antler suitcase, a purchase she had made eight months previously with the first paycheque from her new job, was waiting to take her to her room. The buggy carried her through the colourful gardens, past the tennis courts which unsurprisingly were unoccupied in the heat of the afternoon, and the children’s play garden, again completely deserted, despite being located under the shade of giant trees with huge waxy leaves, eventually coming to a halt outside a two-storey building housing a dozen rooms.
After Deven, the porter, had finished his explanation of how everything in her room worked she pressed a 100-rupee note into his hand. It always helped to have a good relationship with the hotel staff.
Holly sat on the edge of the bed taking in her surroundings. The decor was in neutral shades of ivory and taupe with dark wood furniture. There was a flat-screen television, which Deven had explained showed not only the local channels but also DVDs of recent movies played out from the hotel reception. The en-suite bathroom had a bath and a shower and was separated from the bedroom by a glass-less window that had a Venetian blind for privacy, a necessity as her room was on the ground floor. This meant there was a terrace rather than a balcony, complete with a small table and chairs, and two sun loungers, and her room was less than twenty metres from the adults only pool.
This is perfect, she thought, reaching for the telephone receiver and dialling 0 to speak to reception. It was answered on the second ring.
‘How can I help you, Ms Wilson?’ asked the receptionist.
‘Oh, hello, I’m sorry to trouble you but my room doesn’t have a sea view,’ Holly said.
‘I see. Did you request one when you made your reservation?’
‘Yes I did,’ replied Holly, mentally crossing her fingers.
There was a tiny pause before the receptionist said, ‘I must apologise for our mistake. Please give me five minutes and I will see what I can do.’
Chapter 2
Robert closed the door to the terrace as quietly as possible. He didn’t want to disturb his sleeping wife. The flight had taken its toll, particularly with the three-hour delay in London, and Robert was beginning to wish they hadn’t agreed to meet Philippe for dinner that evening, but it had been difficult to turn down the invitation after their friend had driven across the island to meet them at the airport. Robert had said it would be just as easy to take the transport laid on by the hotel but Philippe had been insistent.
‘You are my friends,’ he had said, ‘and friends help each other.’
Besides, Rosemary really enjoyed his company and had spent the journey catching up on all his news and laughing at some of the scrapes he had got himself into. It was almost like she was flirting with him at times, especially when she referred to him as her ‘toy boy’, but Robert knew that deep down she viewed him as the son they had never had.
Robert cradled his wine glass in his hand and swirled the red liquid around gently to warm it. He smiled as he thought about the unnecessary action, after all the early evening temperature was still in the late twenties and would warm his Chateau Neuf du Pape without any intervention from him. A shiver trembled through his body as he looked at the deep red of the wine. It reminded him of blood and there had been so much blood over the last two years. He shook his head to try and clear morbid thoughts, then lifted his gaze to admire the beautiful sunset. It was one of his and his wife Rosemary’s favourite things to do. He thought briefly about waking her but decided instead to deal with her annoyance at missing nature’s awesome display later. He breathed in the warm air scented with frangipani. The decision to come to Mauritius had been the right one, even though it was against the advice of the doctors. The break would do them both good in preparation for the tough road that lay ahead.
The orange globe of the sun was now halfway over the horizon and almost as if she knew what she was missing Rosemary opened her eyes and focused first on her beloved husband and then the glorious scene beyond. She swung her long legs effortlessly to the floor, slipped her feet into her favourite flip-flops and went out onto the terrace.
‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ Robert said. ‘You looked so peaceful.’
She looked into his chocolate brown eyes reproachfully and planted a gentle kiss on his still firm lips.
‘We’ve already missed too many sunsets,’ she murmured softly as she arranged her shoulders under his waiting arm and rested her head against his chest.
Chapter 3
After dropping off his friends at the Plantation House hotel, Philippe had spent longer in the shower than usual in the hope that the sharp driving needles of water would refresh his mind as well as his body. Unfortunately they hadn’t. He stared at the computer screen, which he had been in front of for more than an hour, and re-read the two paragraphs he had written.
‘Merde,’ he cursed under his breath and then started to laugh.
In his head he had dramatically ripped a piece of paper out of a typewriter, screwed it into a ball and thrown it across the room into an already overflowing wastepaper basket. He hit the delete button which was not so theatr
ical but it had the same effect of condemning the nonsense he had written to the ‘trash’.
‘Why do I always swear in French?’ he asked himself.
Philippe had not lived in France since his English father had left his French mother when he was thirteen years old. There had been no fight for custody, his mother, Veronique, had decided she couldn’t cope with bringing up a teenage boy on her own and had agreed to Philippe returning to England with his father. She had open access to visit them in Kent whenever she chose but sadly she didn’t choose to visit very often. He believed that his mother loved him in her own way, and he loved her unconditionally, of course he did, she was his mother, but theirs was not the close relationship he witnessed between some of his school friends and their mums.
It had been hard for Philippe at the time, having only a masculine influence for most of his teenage years, however it had provided the basis for his widely acclaimed first novel, Maman. How easily the words had flowed. He rested his head in his hands for a moment and then lifted his gaze to admire the view that was supposed to be the inspiration for his second book.
Jo, his editor at Ripped publishing, was so certain that Maman would be a success, she had managed to secure him a three-book deal with a healthy advance. The advance had enabled him to leave his job as a journalist for a tabloid newspaper to concentrate on his new career. The idea for the second novel had come very easily, but when he had submitted the first fifty pages Jo had said the characters lacked warmth and believability.
‘It’s like reading a travel guide about Mauritius,’ she had criticised, ‘with a bit of romance thrown in, but no real story.’
The words had stung at the time but Philippe knew she was right. He had taken all the background information from the Internet and glossy travel brochures. He had never set foot on the island of Mauritius and it showed. The success of his first book was because he knew the subject matter intimately. He needed to experience Mauritius first hand so he had booked a two-week holiday staying at the Plantation House hotel. That was where he had first met Robert and Rosemary.
Life's a Beach and Then... (The Liberty Sands Trilogy Book 1) Page 1
