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  About the Book

  Do the friendships you make on holiday have anything to do with real life?

  It might be sensible to hope that they don’t.

  For the last few years, Beth and Ned have gone to the same Caribbean island to the same luxury spa hotel. There they meet the same crowd, and take up where they left off last time. Real life, home life, family life, are all safely left behind.

  Except this year. This year, home problems have somehow tagged along for the ride. Ned has been playing away – a bit of a drunken fling, that’s all, nothing to worry about, Beth thinks. But although they have put it all behind them, what Beth doesn’t know is that Ned’s fling was with the female half of one of the couples they are holidaying with.

  To make matters worse, Beth has insisted on bringing along their sixteen-year-old daughter Delilah, who’s been ill and needs rest and sunshine. Not so ill, however, that she can’t look around for some entertainment . . .

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 Champagne Classic

  2 Pollyanna

  3 Opening Night

  4 Morning Glory

  5 Beachcomber

  6 Headless Horseman

  7 Black Velvet

  8 Screwdriver

  9 Rum Punch

  10 Splash and Crash

  11 Hot Pants

  12 Kiss-In-the-Dark

  13 Lady Killer

  14 Sex on the Beach

  15 Double Standard Sour

  16 Thunder and Lightning

  17 Corpse Reviver

  About the Author

  Also by Judy Astley

  Copyright

  All Inclusive

  Judy Astley

  With love to the regular November/December La Source returners, especially Arnie, Vicki, Geoff, Diana, Rebecca, Gaffar, Susan, Dave, Jan, Morag, Karsten, David, Jennifer, Bob, Lynne, Vivian, Shirley, David, Diane, Nick (Jasper Carrot), Sue, Mel, Marion, Maryse, Tony, Jude, Boyd, Barbara, Robin (and in memory of Melanie), the hotel staff and management, especially Leon, Niron, CJ, Adrian, Gavin, Fabian, Jeremy, Petra, Cassie, Jennifer, Alicia, Ray, Miriam, Dean, Eric and the brilliant Denis Thomas.

  You will be highly relieved to know that, incredibly inspiring as you all are, none of you are in this book.

  1

  Champagne Classic

  21 ml brandy

  1 sugar cube (white)

  Angostura bitters

  champagne

  ‘Cyn! Cynthia! Hi! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!’

  Oh Lordy that came out all wrong, Ned realized as the words tumbled out loud and witless. What kind of a conversation-opener was that? People were staring, as well they might, both at him and at the woman on the far side of the Harrods meat counter, weighing up an oven-ready pheasant in each hand. All the same, what he’d said was true enough: here in the bustling Food Hall Cyn was elegantly wrapped up against the February frost in a honey-gold suede coat, shimmery olive velvet scarf and spike-heeled pointy brown boots. Last time he’d seen her, on that hot-sun holiday back in November, she’d been poolside on a lounger in a pink and scarlet bikini with matching sarong and shell-trimmed flip-flops.

  ‘Ned! Good heavens, how are you? What are you doing in here?’

  There was the dazzling flash of a fabulous smile that was just as sunburst-radiant even with the tan long faded. She had that high-maintenance high-gloss look, as if she began each day by having her skin gently buffed by handfuls of lightly oiled pearls.

  Ned hesitated, stopping short of blurting out that he was in urgent pursuit of meat in case that too could be misinterpreted and result in a hasty summons to Security. He pushed his way through the lunchtime customers towards Cyn and kissed her on each cheek. He caught a hint of vanilla and coconut and was at once transported back to the beach bar on the island of St George, lining up the cocktails at sundown. Her choice was always a rum punch, he remembered, its surface thickly flecked with nutmeg and cinnamon. There would be a chunk of coconut on a cocktail stick and she’d dunk it in her drink and bite off little slivers of the flesh.

  ‘I’m after a big slab of Beef Wellington,’ he told her. ‘Under orders from the domestic front to bring home something Beth can pass off to the new neighbours tonight as home-cooked. She’s up to her eyes checking recipes for World Wide Wendy’s new book and the last thing she feels like is cooking for us. I was just wondering if the lamb shanks wouldn’t be a tastier option when I saw you. Almost didn’t recognize you in winter plumage.’

  ‘Hmm . . . so you announced to half the store! That Wendy woman’s never off the telly; last week I watched her doing, what was it? Smothered muskrat! Ugh! Poor Beth, fancy having to cook that one!’ Cyn wrinkled her nose and giggled, shoving the pheasants back to their place in the display. She tucked her arm through his and led him away from the crush at the counter. ‘Are you on a lunch break? Have you got time for a quick drink and a catch-up? So strange seeing you on home ground. It’s as if those few Caribbean weeks are real life and this isn’t!’

  Next thing he knew, Ned was not, as he should have been, on his way back to the office clutching that evening’s supper and preparing to sell a Kensington mansion to a balding rock legend. Instead he was perched beside Cynthia on a bar stool at the oyster counter, where they celebrated this coincidental meeting with champagne and a dozen best Whitstables. Followed by another dozen. The beef went completely out of Ned’s mind and that evening as he grovelled an apology to a furious Beth, he somehow found himself putting the lapse down to simple forgetfulness, in preference to compounding the offence by admitting to the lavish lunch.

  As he rummaged penitently through the freezer in search of enough boeuf bourguignon to feed six, he thought about the day and how Cyn hadn’t talked about Bradley and he hadn’t talked about Beth. He’d miss Cyn on next November’s trip to St George. She’d been, during that same fortnight for the past three years, a lively annual fixture holding court from her lounger beneath the tamarind tree, halfway between the pool and the beachfront jacuzzi. She and Brad had been keen to go for a fourth time, but the dates clashed with a family wedding. A niece of Bradley’s was to be married on a tropical beach way out east somewhere: a luxury spa and spiritual retreat where, Cyn had assured him, you got your chakras rebalanced every morning and a rub-down after lunch with smouldering bamboo scented with jojoba. Just about to die for, apparently.

  ‘Of course, I’ll miss the old faces,’ Cyn had sighed. ‘But who knows? The year after we just might be back.’

  Ned winced as Beth hurled the frozen block of fancy stew into the microwave and slammed the door shut. Her dark blonde curls flashed this way and that as she zapped between the sink and the cooker, chucking potato peelings inaccurately at the bin and stirring something that bubbled angrily.

  ‘One bloody thing I asked you to do for me today, just one sodding thing. I’ve had a completely hellish day over at Wendy’s. Why she thinks anyone outside Saskatchewan is really gagging to serve up braised bear steaks I’ve no idea. She gets madder by the month.’

  Wondering if she’d have thawed out by the time the supper had, Ned went to the fridge to see if he could help her mood along by handing her a glass of Chablis. As he poured it he pictured the way his unexpected lunch date had licked an escape of oyster juice from around her lips and he thought, yes, he might just give Cyn a call, as she’d suggested, just to be friendly, to keep in touch. Where was the harm in that?

  2

  Pollyanna

  3 slices orange

  3 slices pineapple

  56 ml gin

  14 ml sweet vermouth

  dash grenadine

  It was all going horribly wrong. Beth understood
well enough that the risk of disappointment, hovering like a big hungry hawk, was always a factor with events you really, really looked forward to, but after such a crap few months she’d hoped the mischievous gods would allow things to go a bit more smoothly.

  This November’s holiday to St George had ‘doomed’ stamped all over it before the tickets had even arrived. First Delilah had been stricken with glandular fever and now this. Beth put the kitchen phone down and went back to the table. What was left of her interrupted chicken and its fragrant tarragon sauce no longer looked as appetizing as it had those few pre-phone-call minutes ago. This was a pity as she’d gone to a lot of trouble with it, making sure the sauce was just the right side of piquant and that the cream went in at the proper time, rather than being sploshed in haphazardly while her attention was on the last blank squares of the Guardian crossword.

  ‘How was your mother? Looking forward to her annual punishment duty with the kids?’ Ned was picking at bits of the salad from the bowl, licking a drip of the dressing off his thumb. Beth wanted to ask him not to do that, tell him that he’d spread germs around, but she managed to stop herself. Instinctive mumsiness was not attractive. She was careful about that sort of thing these days, since it had all come out about Ned’s springtime fling. In spite of what he’d done, she was still pretty fond of him and wasn’t going to be careless enough to give him any excuse to bugger off and do it again. Taking a Parisian, rising-above-it attitude towards a mistress might be acceptable, but only once.

  ‘Mum’s fine . . . but she’s not bloody coming,’ she told him as she pushed the chicken around her plate with her fork. She really didn’t fancy it at all now. Its rather overwhelming tarragon flavour reminded her of the casseroled emu recipe she’d been checking out a few weeks back for World Wide Wendy’s next series. Instead she topped her glass up with the last of the Sauvignon. She was in urgent need of calming.

  ‘She’s not coming,’ Beth repeated after a good gulp of the wine, ‘because she’s off playing bridge in Madeira or Malta or one of those other elderly winter refuges they all flock to to save on their heating bills.’

  Not very fair, that. She felt guiltily disloyal but furious. Helena was entitled to a life, obviously, but not to break long-held arrangements quite so blithely. She’d been coming to take over at the house for that same fortnight for the past three Novembers while Ned and Beth went away on their annual low-season, battery-charging break to St George. Helena, really, really loved, she’d always insisted, spending such a good long time catching up with her grandchildren, cooking up the sort of cold-weather comfort meals that she was sure their own mother ought to bother with more, and finding plenty in Beth’s domestic chaos to tut about. Except this year. Suddenly, now it was October and with only five weeks to go, Helena had made other plans. It would have to be this year, oh thank you so much God, when Delilah would still need the kind of TLC only a close and devoted relative could guarantee, and enough rest to make sure she didn’t relapse.

  ‘What do you mean, not coming? I thought it was all fixed up.’ Ned pushed the salad bowl away from between them as if he needed a clearer view of her. ‘So what will you do now?’

  ‘What will I do?’ Beth was genuinely puzzled. How come the question of who would take care of Delilah and Nick was suddenly only her problem? Did he think you could book teenagers into boarding kennels like dogs? (Not such a bad idea, come to think of it, and not just for holiday times either.) Or did he imagine she would volunteer to stay home and insist he went alone? Perhaps he did, perhaps ticking somewhere in the back of his brain were certain tempting possibilities that might be on offer at a swanky spa to a solitary man. Ned was an attractive sort and always would be. He would age into that slightly dishevelled louche look that gladdened the eye of women of all ages. At Christmas when she watched The Great Escape, she could see that he had a hint of the Steve McQueen about him. Even Delilah had mentioned it. Every line and bit of grey just made him look craggy and interesting rather than droopy and drab. This only happened to men, of course – one of life’s major injustices. Plenty of carefree holidaying women at the Mango Experience (Sport ’n’ Spa) would be eager to take him under their outstretched tricep-toned wings. There was always a good selection of single ones: lone, excitable aunts as part of a wedding party, hyper-energized by the Caribbean heat; defiant divorcées getting the hang of holidaying alone and busy professional women treating themselves to a week of intense pampering prior to the Christmas party season.

  Beth evicted such unhelpful thoughts. More useful thinking was in order here. And of course she’d be the one to come up with the answer – wasn’t she always? Wasn’t she the one would could always be relied on to find a bright side to look on and a solution to everything? It was like being bloody Pollyanna – as if they needed a cheerleader to keep them hyped up and fully functioning. Sometimes she wondered what they’d all do in the event of her sudden death. Would any of them have the nous to phone an undertaker? Choose hymns? Would they browse carefully through the coffin catalogue, knowing she would absolutely hate to be sent to the eternal flames in a faux-mahogany box with a relief carving of The Raising of Lazarus tactlessly etched on its side? Probably not.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Her brain raced to sort this hitch, coming up with nothing immediately promising but plenty that wouldn’t work. ‘We can’t inflict Delilah on someone else – it wouldn’t be fair on her or them.’ Beth trailed a limp piece of tepid asparagus around in the remains of her tarragon sauce as she thought aloud. ‘And we can’t leave her here with just Nick, she’ll only get worse again.’

  And she’d starve. Delilah’s gap-year brother Nick spent every daylight hour taking the bets behind the counter at William Hill and stashing his wages away for the big Australia trip. His night-time hours were spent in ostentatiously noisy sexual activity with a sleek foxy sort called Felicity. If he ate anything at all, it intended to arrive late in the evening by bike, lukewarm and rubbery in flat, square boxes. It was either that or something he’d inadequately defrosted in the microwave between bouts of humping. Not ideal for a convalescing girl in need of building up.

  ‘If we left her behind, she might decide she’s feeling much better and have parties,’ Ned warned. ‘She could fill the place with pissed-up teenagers who’ll throw up on the carpets and have sex in our bed. Or the other way round.’ He chuckled.

  Thank you Ned, so helpful. That didn’t get said either. Sarcasm was another item on Beth’s new list of don’t-dos. Hard work it was turning out to be, this business of Saving Your Marriage. So many times in these months since Ned’s heart-stopping revelation she’d kept her mouth clam-shut when her instinct had been to snap something at him, remind him of what a prize pain he’d been. Not that he didn’t know, she conceded. No-one could have been more miserably contrite than Ned, the day he’d come clean about the mysterious silent midnight phone calls and the Tiffany key tag (engraved simply, tackily, with the single word ‘Darling’. Ugh!) that he’d blushed to unwrap over his birthday breakfast. She’d given it three months now and sometimes she felt she was the one on last-chance behaviour, not Ned. How had that come about? Still, like the idea of Ned let loose alone in the Caribbean, it was not to be thought of now. Delilah and the holiday needed to be sorted.

  ‘There is one solution,’ Beth considered slowly, reluctantly.

  ‘Hmmm. Bit late to cancel.’ Ned second-guessed her. ‘I doubt the insurance people would give us a refund on the grounds of a missing granny. And it’s only six weeks ’til we go.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I meant we could . . . um . . . take her with us?’ The suggestion came out almost as a whisper. Being in charge of a lone teenager at the Mango Experience (Sport ’n’ Spa) was not a prospect that could be seen as a bonus to a holiday. Even with Delilah’s energy level at its lowest, it would be like taking a loose-pinned hand grenade.

  ‘Take her with us?’ Ned looked terrified. Beth imagined she did as well.

  I must be a
very shallow person, Beth mused a week later as she rummaged through the bottom drawer in the spare room wardrobe. It was where she kept her instant holiday kit – swimwear, flip-flops, sunhats (two), sarongs (several), beach bag, snorkel and so on. She was taking out all her swimsuits, lining them up on the bed before trying each one on to decide which were still wearable and which – according to whether she had mysteriously outgrown them or whether the Lycra content was terminally decayed – should be consigned to the bin. This activity, on a dank and miserably dark autumn afternoon, was lifting her spirits enormously. The sight of these gaudy handfuls of patterned cloth, the splashes of unseasonal colour against the slate-blue satin throw on the bed, cheered her far more than, say, looking round an exhibition of worthy art in a pale, cool gallery.

  What was so shallow about that, the voice of her supportive inner sister asked. Was anything wrong with the cheap thrill of vivid pattern, or the satisfying certainty that possession of the right swimsuit was an essential (possibly the essential) ingredient of a beach holiday? Isn’t it OK to relish the deep, perfect pleasure of owning a delicious pink and lilac floral La Perla number with matching wrap-around? And better yet, the pleasure of the thing still fitting flatteringly two years after purchase and a certain amount of midlife weight gain?

  Shallow was, Beth replied to the voice as she untangled a couple of sarongs that were caught in the strap of her snorkel mask, shallow was choosing to be up here sorting out swimwear a good month before she needed to pack, when she should have been cooking up a test batch of Endive Flemish-style (Witloof op Zijn Vlaams) to Wendy’s newly adjusted salt level. Shallow was, in a spirit of anticipatory excitement, already having made that booking at Salon Aphrodite for preliminary vacation groundwork in the form of a Fake Bake tan plus manicure, pedicure, bikini wax and pre-flight de-stress massage. Worst of all, shallow was relishing the prospect of escape from the dank atmosphere of illness that surrounded Delilah downstairs and was somehow making the entire house feel as if it was going slowly mouldy. Unless, as was possible, that was something one of the cats had brought in and secreted in the dark distant reaches under the sink.