Creating and writing Cate Carlisle has been one of the most exciting experiences of my life. I’ve tried to write novels before, but somehow nothing quite worked.
As soon as I thought of Cate though, I knew exactly what she would be like. She would be feisty but not bolshy, friendly but not a blabbermouth, fluent in several languages, well travelled, independent and practical. All that I wished I had been as a teenager but wasn’t!
I made a resolve that the Cate Carlisle Files would always be about glamour, sunshine, cool people and fabulous locations. I wanted you, the reader, to have some fun, some escapism from our dodgy weather and sometimes endless school work. But I also wanted to open up your eyes to the amazing world out there. So Trapped is set on a yacht in the South of France, and the next adventure is in Australia.
I hope you enjoy reading about Cate and that she inspires you to enjoy our world.
Isla Whitcroft
TRAPPED
ISLA WHITCROFT
First published in Great Britain in 2011
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
www.piccadillypress.co.uk
Text copyright © Isla Whitcroft, 2011
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 copyright owner.
The right of Isla Whitcroft to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 84812 154 6 (paperback)
eBook ISBN: 978 1 84812 192 8
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque Ltd,
Croydon, CR1 4PD
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Sue Hellard
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
To my father John Whitcroft (Janek Witkowski), a man of great spirit who never gave up
PROLOGUE
Deep down, below sea level, was a room so secret that only five people in the entire world knew of its existence. Carefully regulated artificial daylight, air supply and temperature made it perfect for long-term survival and indeed the walls of the room were lined with animal cages of varying sizes, stacked high on top of one another.
Through the wire mesh and steel bars at least twenty pairs of eyes stared out into the sterile environment. They looked angry, resigned or unbearably sad while above them video cameras placed at intervals on the ceiling clicked and gyrated, checking into every corner and crevice of the room.
For these were no ordinary household creatures. Each was from a highly protected species. In one cage, a white lion paced up and down in its cramped space, in another, an orang-utan endlessly counted the fingers on its hairy hands. A Sumatran tiger, an Iberian lynx and a giant panda were also trapped in the endless hell, where water came through a tube and food was scarce.
There was something else notable about the animals: they were all young. The tiger still had the fluffy cuteness of a cub and the orang-utan had yet to develop its powerful limbs and terrifying roar. But the energy and the playfulness of young creatures were non-existent. And their eyes – their eyes seemed to be those of much older animals.
Now the mountain gorilla was staring at something. In a large cage near the sliding doors an object was stirring. But this wasn’t an animal – it was a human.
The gorilla suddenly stood up in the cage and screamed in rage and frustration, jolting the other creatures out of their stupor. Within seconds, the room was filled with cries and howls and squawks of protest and panic. The clamour reached through the fuzziness that was swirling around inside the human’s head.
A hand slowly felt around, trying to gauge the surroundings, and came up almost immediately against the coldness of a metal bar. Using it as a support, the human slowly and painfully managed to drag itself up into a sitting position.
It was a girl of no more than sixteen, with matted hair and tanned skin. Underneath her tan she was pale, and an injury had left congealed blood dried in a random mess around her forehead. Her throat felt as if it had been burnt with acid and she licked her bone-dry lips. She gagged and spat saliva out. Then, spotting a water drip in the corner of the cage, she dragged herself over to it and placed her mouth under the tube, grateful for the small drops that fell agonisingly slowly down into her parched mouth.
Suddenly the animals went quiet and moved to the back of their cages. The girl was at first too busy to notice but, as the silence sunk into her consciousness, she stopped. With a feeling of dread, she heard footsteps getting louder and louder. She could hear the click of high heels and the more powerful thud of a heavy man’s shoes hitting the ground. There was the subdued whoosh of electronic doors sliding open and then the girl could see two sets of legs – one male and one female – standing in front of her cage.
‘Well, well,’ said the man in a Russian accent. ‘And just what new and amazing species do we have here?’
CHAPTER 1
As far as the eye could see there were boats – billions and billions of pounds’ worth of boats. Large glistening hulls in every imaginable shade of white, cream and blue swayed in the sparkling water.
The early morning Mediterranean breeze blew in quiet fits and starts and, every now and again, the great gleaming giants strained against their thick ropes in a futile attempt to break free.
Uniformed staff swarmed around each of these huge boats. Handsome men with tough bodies and sun-bleached hair hosed down already immaculate wooden decks. Fit young women in tight denim cut-offs and impossibly white T-shirts buffed gleaming brasswork and French-polished handrails.
Every so often yet another small van would pull up by a gangway, dropping off vast hampers of luxury food, or gleaming spare parts for the massive fuel-hungry engines that lay below deck.
All the while the banter between the people on the boats went on, in French, in Spanish and in English spoken with Australian, South African and American accents. There was laughter and shouting, teasing and flirting. To Cate, as she stood staring, it seemed as if she had suddenly been given access to another world – a world of beautiful people, easy living and wealth beyond measure. Right now, more than anything, Cate wanted in some way – any way – to be part of it.
It was amazing to think that just a few hundred miles away, at this very moment, her friends would be waking up to another grey English day.
Cate looked down at the print-out in her hands. It had been her most prized possession since she had received the email two weeks before, from her father.
Darling Cate,
Charlie, my old friend who runs a yacht agency in Antibes, says that he has found someone who is mad enough to take you on for the summer. Go to berth number 694, Antibes marina, any morning in the last week of June. And I’ve promised Monique that you will be back at school in September. Don’t let me down or I’ll never hear the end of it. Stay sensible, trust your instin
cts and send us an email sometime.
Love you and good luck,
Dad
The email made Cate smile. It was so like her father – kind, straight to the point and determined not to be too controlling of his only daughter.
Seven years before, Cate’s mother had left the three of them – Dad, Cate and her brother Arthur – to follow her spirit wherever it took her, which finally turned out to be LA and a variety of weird and wonderful cults and crazies. Cate’s dad, a high-flying diplomat had, without fuss, swept Cate and Arthur off to a world of foreign countries, new languages, tutors and as much love and affection as he had time to give.
Luckily Cate had thrived on the organised chaos and constant stimulation that had made up her new life. She had adored living out of a suitcase, never tired of airports and working out strange currencies and felt proud to be part of the close-knit community of ex-pats who always looked out for each other.
There were summer holidays in America staying with their mother and Christmases skiing in Switzerland with their father and, as a result, she considered herself to be an international girl who felt as at home in Lyon as she did in La Paz.
And now, after catching the late night Eurostar from St Pancras, then the early morning TGV from Paris, here Cate was, in one of the most beautiful towns, on one of the most stunning coastlines in Europe, breathing the salt-scented air in excitement.
She pushed her gold-rimmed Ray-Bans – a last minute present from her father’s long-term girlfriend, Monique – up on top of her dark blond hair. ‘This is it,’ she said to herself. ‘Time for an adventure.’
Glancing at the numbers painted onto the slatted wooden pontoons, Cate set out on the curved walkway towards the far end of the marina, away from the looming medieval walls built to protect the port from invaders.
As the berth numbers rose to five then six hundred, Cate turned off the concrete walkway onto the pontoons. Through her light flip flops she could feel the warmth of the wood, already heated by the sun. Another few hours and it would be almost too hot to tread on without the protection of thick soles.
Just as she was about to run out of walkway, Cate finally arrived at berth 694 and looked up at the boat. Catwalk II was beautiful. The jade green hull was topped with dark polished woodwork and a pure white three-decked stern. The brass fittings sparkled in the sunshine and, through the large glass door, Cate could see luxurious sofas edged around a large salon. A wooden walkway with a rope handle was slung at a sharp angle between the middle deck and the pontoon and, at its foot, stood a big, round basket full of deck shoes.
The boat was twenty-five metres from stern to nose, but seemed devoid of life. While Cate tried to decide whether to call out or simply walk on board, a tall, almost boyishly thin, young woman appeared at the top of the gangway. She had a large straight nose on which rested an enormous pair of sunglasses and her dark hair was tied up with a scarf. She looked Cate up and down, taking in her dusty footwear, her crumpled cut-off cotton trousers, her dirty white shirt and her rather battered suitcase.
‘Yes?’ she said. The tone was not unfriendly.
‘My name is Cate – Cate Carlisle,’ said Cate, trying not to sound intimidated. ‘I was given the number of this berth by Charlie Summers. He said you were looking for help. He should have told you about me . . .’ Cate’s voice trailed off in the other woman’s silence. Had her dad and Charlie got their wires crossed?
To her relief the woman suddenly smiled. ‘Typical Charlie,’ she said in a South African accent. ‘We do need crew but he never mentioned that he was sending someone. Good job we hadn’t hired in the meantime. You’d better come aboard.’ She nodded towards the basket. ‘Ditch the footwear and choose a pair of deckies. Rule number one of sailing: you can’t come aboard in shoes with soles and, worst of all, heels. If you do, the captain will throw you straight back down the gangplank.’
Cate rummaged in the basket for a pair of size sixes. Luckily almost the first pair she picked out fitted perfectly, the expensive tan leather lying like silky slippers around her feet.
She picked up her flip flops, her suitcase and her precious Mulberry rucksack that had seen her through many an adventure and took her first step on board Catwalk II. This would be home, she hoped, for at least the next eight weeks.
‘You’ll have to talk to the captain,’ said the woman, as if she was reading her mind, ‘but later – he’s downstairs working on the engine and must not be disturbed.’ She suddenly grinned sardonically and Cate warmed to her. ‘I’ll show you around in the meantime. I hope you’re not afraid of hard work.’
As they walked through the glass doors into the interior of the middle deck, Cate gazed at the utter luxury around her. The middle deck salon was a good five metres square, kitted out almost entirely in cream leather and polished wood. The last time Cate had felt carpet pile this deep was when her dad had taken her and Arthur to the safety of the French Embassy in Damascus after a particular nasty demonstration against the occupation of Iraq had got out of hand.
At the front, on the bridge, a bank of computer screens was blinking and flashing next to a huge nautical steering wheel. An adjustable leather seat was lined up next to the wheel and the view through the sparkling glass window was vast.
In the centre of the salon, several individual seats and sofas were scattered around a wooden block which housed a sink, a fridge and a cabinet with a huge selection of crystal glasses. There was a massive flat-screen TV on the wall and Cate spotted several speakers discreetly built into the furnishings.
‘This is where we do the evening and the wet weather entertaining,’ the woman explained. ‘If the weather is good, the guests prefer to be on the top deck.’
She gestured towards a small spiral staircase in the far corner. They climbed the tiny steps and came out into the sunshine. Wooden sun loungers were invitingly laid out next to a bubbling jacuzzi and small crescent-shaped splash pool. Marble-topped bar stools were submerged into the bright blue water and within arm’s reach of the pool was a fully fitted, fully stocked bar. Beyond that stood an LED TV and the slimmest music centre that Cate had ever seen. It was the ultimate rich man’s playground. For a few seconds Cate was stunned by it all. Then the woman finally held out her hand.
‘I’m Wendy, Wendy Bloemfeld. I’m the steward on board, in charge of housekeeping, entertaining and generally keeping everyone happy. As well as me, there is Marcus the chef and Bill, our illustrious captain, who you’ll see in a minute.’
Cate took Wendy’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Wendy, Charlie didn’t quite explain —’
‘I need a general dogsbody,’ said Wendy. Mind-reading seemed to be a particular skill of hers. ‘Someone to make the beds, take the laundry to be washed, clean up after the guests and, if I think you’re up to it, stand in for me so I can have a bit of time off the boat.
‘Usually we’re quiet, but when the boss decides to turn up it’s all systems go for as long as she stays. It could be for a day or a month and we don’t get any notice. And when she is here – well, don’t expect much time off and be prepared for anything.’
Cate was impressed by Wendy. Although probably only in her mid-twenties, she had the no-nonsense air of someone who could cope with most situations.
They headed back down the staircase. On the middle deck they walked through the boarding area of the boat and down a wide, carpeted set of steps into the lower salon. Wendy pushed open the large double doors and Cate took a deep breath. The wood-panelled salon was even more impressive than the one above. The carpet was thick and deep, the jade and cream sofas and chairs liberally strewn with plump cushions. Crystal wall lights provided daylight-level brightness.
At the far end of the room a door was open. ‘The master bedroom,’ said Wendy, following Cate’s gaze. The master suite was bigger than the sitting room in Cate’s house in London and was decorated in scarlet and green. There was a marble fireplace in the corner and mock candle lights flickered
and stuttered, illuminating the heart-shaped double bed, the floor-to-ceiling closets and the bathroom fashioned almost entirely out of marble. It could have looked tacky, but instead felt sumptuous. At a discreet distance from this room, but also off the main salon, were four large ensuite guest bedrooms.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ said Wendy. ‘We get a bunk and a basic bathroom down in the crew quarters.’
Cate suddenly felt a pang of homesickness for her messy, comfortable home and the familiar faces of her family and her best friend Louisa, who she’d met on her first day of school and been practically inseparable from since.
She took a grip of herself. She and Wendy grinned at each other.
‘Bill should be just about finishing up now,’ said Wendy.
Down in the bowels of the boat, the huge twin engines gleamed, a twisted labyrinth of pipes and blocks and pumps. To Cate’s eye, the whole thing seemed an unintelligible mass of metal but clearly the man with his back to her, wiping his hands on a rag, had no such problem. He was tall with broad shoulders and a shock of blond hair. As he heard them approaching, he turned slowly around.
‘Bill, this is Cate. She’s looking for work as a deckhand and can start today. Charlie sent her.’
There was silence while Bill looked Cate up and down with his piercing blue eyes. Finally he spoke in an Aussie accent. ‘Bit young, aren’t you?’
‘I’m old enough to work.’ Inside Cate felt her stomach curling but she forced herself to sound steady.
‘Hmm. We’re not bloody interested in anyone with trouble behind them. Not running away from anything, are you?’
Cate grinned then. ‘Not unless you count exam results,’ she said, and saw the beginning of a smile on his handsome face. She took a deep breath and went for it. ‘Look, Bill, I love boats, I need a summer job. I’m used to travelling, fending for myself and I hate trouble. If you want to check me out, why not ask Charlie? His office is in town.’
Trapped Page 1
