An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  Le Mal de Tanger.

  Tangier Sickness, it’s the excuse people give, the reason why they remain in this city. I already had it bad, back then. Now I’m incurable. I’m a true Tangerine, like the best and the worst of them.

  Of course, Tangier – my Tangier – is gone. It changed around me, even as I walked the streets, just as it had for Ale, for Hilde, for Arthur Langham.

  Still, I see that lost city every day. To live in Tangier is to live in a dozen versions of the same place, to walk with one eye filled with ghosts. I see it in the faded advertisements on the medina walls. I see it in Abdelhamid’s shop, which hasn’t changed a bit. I see it in the old, flamboyant characters, clasping their fraying masks to their faces, taking the same seats in the Café Central that they did fifty years ago, sullenly sipping tea where once they drank down Fundador.

  I see it every time I walk past the Bab al-Bahr, and the white walls of Dar Portuna rise up before me. A few times, I have almost forgotten myself and turned the corner, almost raised a hand to brush aside a fall of jasmine that is no longer there.

  Dar Portuna doesn’t belong to me, any more. It really never did. Zahrah chose to sell, just after we were married. The authorities didn’t like that – they were still turning up every so often, looking for Ale – but they couldn’t do a thing. Ale’s will was watertight. So we had our wedding there, a final party attended by our friends in the city: by Abdelhamid and Mouad and their families, by Bet and the crew from The Hold, who had known all along that I would never leave, by my bemused parents and siblings and a few people we later found out were never invited at all. For one last evening, champagne flowed and music tangled in the old fig tree and I’m sure the lights could be seen from the darkness of the strait.

  Then, Bet helped us sell the place to a contact of hers, a foreign gentleman investor whose name I never quite caught. Zahrah used the money to start her own business. We had a future to build, not a past to languish in. Dar Portuna is a hotel now, an exclusive one, where they serve cocktails on the terrace and cook English-style breakfasts for those that want them. It seems fitting. Sometimes, Zahrah and I joke that we’ll spend the night there for our anniversary, but we never have.

  We live in the new town, in a flat that overlooks the strait with its eerie blue colour, its constant mix of two waters, tumbling together. My writing desk is by the window, and on good days, after a coffee at the Gran Café de Paris, I stare out at the smudge of Spain on the horizon and hack out a few chapters, before picking up the girls from school.

  Zahrah often works until late. Her business – imports and exports – is going from strength to strength. Sometimes I think about the envelope that Ale left, addressed to her: thick with papers that she has never let me read, surely containing more than a simple will. Sometimes, I ask if I can help. But my wife only smiles at me, and says I wouldn’t like all of the details. These days her personalized briefcase is full of papers in English, Spanish, French, even Russian.

  As for me, it took two years to knock that first, scrappy manuscript into shape, another year to find an agent in London willing to take a punt, and another before I was finally holding a finished copy of the book in my hands. Last Drink in Tangiers. It did OK, for a debut. Sure, there were some critics who said it was far-fetched, but my editor told me to ignore them; she said that as long as there are readers, there will always be appetite for a good story.

  I guess she’s right, because my books have sold pretty well since then. They’re crime novels mostly, tales of smuggling and glamour and adventure, all set in a past age. Bet helps me when I’m stuck for ideas, says she has more tall tales than she knows what to do with.

  But recently I’ve been thinking of writing something different, a particular story that has been nagging at me for a long time. I know how it begins. I was reminded of it just the other day, when my daily walk took me past the ragged old Hotel Continental. When I glanced up at the terrace, I swear I saw two elderly gentlemen sitting there, wearing beautiful white flannel suits. They stuck in my mind, so I decided to turn around, to take a closer look.

  By the time I jogged up the steps, they were gone, leaving nothing but a pair of empty cocktail glasses. I asked the waiter if the old men were lodging at the hotel, but he didn’t seem to know what I was talking about.

  Of course, I could have tried to find them. I could have tracked them down and asked where they had come from, where they were heading, Marrakech, Paris, Shanghai? I could have asked whether they were old friends who had previously lost touch, but who now, in their autumn years, saw each other clearly for the first time.

  I could have told them they reminded me of people in a story I once heard. I could have asked whether that drink on the terrace of the Hotel Continental was the first or the last of many …

  I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, I went home, sat down at my desk, and began to write.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing this book has been an adventure in more ways than one. Thanks must be mixed and measured according to equal parts, as follows:

  To my dad, for his stories of camels and kif, travelling and trouble, airmail letters, near-arrests and Pete the Squeak.

  To my mum, for her endless support and encouragement, and for helping me to find my own freedom.

  To my sister, fellow traveller.

  To the Coppells, for aiding and abetting.

  To Grandma Iris and Pat, who can spin any yarn over a drink.

  To Ed, for the Negronis.

  To Darcy, for helping to shake up the good parts and strain out the bad.

  To all at Transworld, for their work behind the scenes.

  To Gareth, for giving this book its own recipe.

  To Zahrah, for her spirit, and the use of her name.

  To everyone at La Tangerina, Tangier, for the food, tea and welcome.

  To Abdullah, for the tall tales.

  To Charlie, Tim and Louis, for always opening the door, no matter how late.

  To Alashiya, Maartje and Emma: partners in crime.

  To Becky, for propping up the bar and listening to the same old woes.

  To Nick, for being there at the end of the night and the beginning of the next day.

  The Secrets Between Us

  Laura Madeleine

  A gripping mystery with a heart-breaking revelation, The Secrets Between Us is a deeply moving story of lost love, betrayal and the dangers of war.

  High in the mountains in the South of France, eighteen-year-old Ceci Corvin is trying hard to carry on as normal. But in 1943, there is no such thing as normal; especially not for a young woman in love with the wrong person. Scandal, it would seem, can be more dangerous than war.

  Fifty years later, Annie is looking for her long-lost grandmother. Armed with nothing more than a sheaf of papers, she travels from England to Paris in pursuit of the truth. But as she traces her grandmother’s story, Annie uncovers something she wasn’t expecting, something that changes everything she knew about her family – and everything she thought she knew about herself …

  Where The Wild Cherries Grow

  Laura Madeleine

  I closed my eyes as I tried to pick apart every flavour, because nothing had ever tasted so good before. It was love and it could not be hidden.

  It is 1919 and the end of the war has not brought peace for Emeline Vane. Lost in grief, she is suddenly alone at the heart of a depleted family. She can no longer cope. Just as everything seems to be slipping beyond her control, in a moment of desperation, she boards a train and runs away.

  Fifty years later, a young solicitor on his first case finds Emeline’s diary. Bill Perch is eager to prove himself but what he learns from the tattered pages of neat script goes against everything he has been told. He begins to trace a story of love and betrayal that will send him on a journey to discover the truth.

  What really happened to Emeline all those years ago?

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  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Swan

  an imprint of Transworld Publishers

  Copyright © Laura Hounsom 2019

  Photography © Shutterstock & Richard Jenkins

  Design by Beci Kelly / TW

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

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781473542952

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