A Summer Of Secrets

One long hot summer. Secrets never stay buried for long…

Portia is determined to restore Buttersley Manor, her family’s crumbling ancestral home, to its former glory. Yet she has a feeling that there are a few forgotten skeletons in the dust-covered cupboards.

Jenny has put her life on hold for far too long. It’s time to finally start living and to dig up those hopes and dreams she’s kept hidden all these years – but is she brave enough?

Rich is happily married with a beautiful wife and lovely daughter. In fact, his world is perfect until a very unexpected consequence of his past walks through the door…

Joe would like nothing more than to travel back in time to when he and Gina were happy. But is it too late to rescue what they once had?

One thing’s for sure, nothing’s ever quite what it seems when it comes to life in the country!

A perfect, feel-good summer read about love, life and family.

Available by Alice Ross:

Countryside Dreams

An Autumn Affair

A Summer of Secrets

Forty Things To Do Before You’re Forty

A Summer of Secrets

Alice Ross

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Alice Ross 2016

Alice Ross asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474047463

Version date: 2018-07-23

ALICE ROSS escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108.

Thank you to my wonderful family for being just … well … wonderful.

And to my fab editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all her encouragement, support, expertise and – most importantly – patience.

It is a pleasure and a privilege to work with you and the Carina team.

To Cody

For being the best dog in the world.

And for never failing to make me smile.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

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

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘And that, I’m afraid, is it.’

Across the wide, mahogany desk, Portia Pinkington-Smythe stared at Dillon Harwood, the balding, kindly faced man who, for the last five decades, had had the dubious pleasure of serving as the Pinkington-Smythes’ family solicitor. Yet, despite this well-forged connection, and an impressive IQ of one hundred and thirty, Portia still failed to compute the information he had just imparted.

‘You mean … my father died leaving a pitiful sum in the bank and a whole heap of debt?’ she eventually asked.

Dillon nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Portia. I had no idea things were this bad. I wish your father had told me. If I’d known sooner, perhaps I could have helped somehow.’

Portia gave a weak smile of gratitude. Her father’s recent death had been traumatic enough, but to now discover the shabby state of the family finances had proved another devastating blow.

‘But at least you have Buttersley Manor,’ Dillon continued, squeezing a large dollop of optimism into his tone. ‘And there are endless possibilities there.’

Portia grimaced. ‘There are. But I doubt any of them would be viable in the building’s current state. It was bad enough before Dad went into the nursing home eighteen months ago and I haven’t seen it since.’

‘Perhaps you could take out a loan for the work.’

She shook her head. ‘I doubt I’d be a good risk. It’ll take thousands to put the house right, and I’d need a guaranteed income to pay it back. And now that I don’t have a job …’

She trailed off, tears scorching the backs of her eyes. All these dramatic changes to her circumstances over the past few weeks suddenly seemed too much to bear. Not only had she lost her remaining parent – the man upon whom she had doted – but she’d also walked away from her career as a successful war correspondent. And now, to top it all, she’d discovered the Pinkington-Smythe coffers were in a monumental mess.

Portia had never been money-orientated. Indeed, she rarely gave the subject much consideration. Likely because she’d never had to. With a more than adequate salary, on the rare occasion a little extra had been required, her father had always eagerly obliged. Leading her – and everyone else – to assume the family finances enjoyed robust health; that they were hale and hearty. Following this afternoon’s conversation with Dillon, however, just how wrong that assumption had been had become glaringly obvious.

‘Of course you could always sell the manor,’ the solicitor suggested diffidently.

Portia furrowed her brow. Sell the manor. The mere words made her already knotted stomach churn.

‘And if you do decide to go down that route, I can recommend reputable estate agents and the like.’

Bile rose in Portia’s throat. She swallowed it down. She didn’t want to think about reputable estate agents and the like. She didn’t want to think about anything. The mental exertion required to deal with recent events had left her brain feeling like it had been pulverised by a herd of stampeding buffalo. Blinking back the still-threatening tears, an impromptu wave of exhaustion washed over her.

‘You okay?’ a concerned Dillon asked. ‘Would you like a glass of water? Or something stronger?’

Portia shook her head. The manoeuvre caused the wide green and white stripes on the wallpaper behind the desk to jump out at her, leaving her with the terrifying sensation of being surrounded by bars.

‘I, er, think I’d better go,’ she announced, thrusting to her feet.

The solicitor’s expression remained dubious. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? Would you like me to call you a taxi? Or –?’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied, hurtling out of the office before the man had time to finish his sentence.

***

‘And you know, if ever you’re passing, you can always pop in and join me.’

Rich Stevens congratulated himself on not rolling his eyes. If he’d had a penny for every time he’d heard that invitation over the six years he’d been in the hot-tub business, he’d have been rolling in lovely moolah by now. Not that he’d ever taken anyone up on it. And if he had been looking for a little extra-marital titillation, it certainly wouldn’t have been in the very rotund form of Mrs Blake-Jones, whose folds of flesh, sagging over the top of the luminous pink sarong tied around her waist, had put Rich right off his dinner. But he couldn’t allow the woman to see the slightest hint of his revulsion. That wouldn’t do at all. No – flirting with the customers, Rich had long since discovered, was all part and parcel of the hot-tub business. So, still battling the eye-rolling urge, he arranged his features into a well-practised surprised/grateful expression.

‘I might just take you up on that,’ he rejoined, causing Mrs Blake-Jones’s chubby cheeks to flush crimson under her streaks of greasy pink blusher.

‘My husband’s away at a conference next week,’ she tittered, her flush deepening as she ran a finger, tipped with glittery purple nail varnish, along the curve of her ample bosom, which strained against the confines of her turquoise bikini top.

Rich’s heart sank. Usually the invitation was an open one. Much easier to brush off than specific timescales. Still, he was a professional. And thinking on his feet had always been one of his strong points.

‘Is he now? Well, in that case, we’ll have to see what we can arrange, won’t we?’ At the cheeky wink he added, Mrs Blake-Jones broke into a fit of maniacal giggling.

‘I’ll call you,’ she cooed, twizzling a brassy strand of hair around her podgy finger and shooting him what she evidently thought was a seductive look, but which put Rich in mind of the pink spacehopper his sister had lugged around with her when she was five.

‘You do that,’ he replied, in as fervent a tone as he could muster. The woman’s giggling reaching fever pitch, her porcine face now a worrying puce, Rich whipped up his laptop case and, resisting the urge to leg it as fast as he could to his car parked at the front of the enormous Georgian pile, opted for a steady trot instead. As he turned the corner and spotted the shiny black BMW X5, sporting this year’s registration, and every gadget known to Jeremy Clarkson – his pace increased to a jog. No sooner had he slid into the cream-leather interior than he pressed the central locking system, started up the motor and shot down the gravelled drive.

At a safe distance from his admirer, Rich pulled into a lay-by, switched off the engine and leaned back in his seat.

God. With his hammering heart and sweaty palms, he’d felt like a caged animal in there. Completely ridiculous, given he’d been in similar situations dozens of times before. Usually these little scenarios amused him. Today, though, it all seemed a bit … well … sad.

The woman had been gagging for it. And Rich had led her on. Which couldn’t possibly be right. But what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t his fault if clients practically threw themselves at him.

While not in the Poldark league of masculine supremacy, at thirty-nine Rich considered himself in reasonable shape. And he paid meticulous attention to his appearance, his suits costing more than the average family’s annual fortnight in Benidorm. His dark-blond hair was fashionably short and tousled, and his eyes – by far his best feature – were a startling shade of cobalt-blue, framed by exceptionally long, dark lashes. They were eyes that, with one meaningful glance, had a profound weakening effect on the knees of any red-blooded female, or so his wife Alison maintained. And were, apparently, what had first attracted her to him fifteen years ago. An occurrence for which Rich would be eternally grateful.

Rich had met Alison at a trade fair. He’d been in the decidedly unsexy business of guttering supplies at the time. Alison had been manning the stand opposite, flogging mobile air-conditioning units. Her curvy, petite form squeezed into a short, black skirt and matching jacket, a mass of platinum-blonde curls clipped up on her head, she’d put Rich in mind of a wicked combination of Charlize Theron with a splash of Marilyn Monroe. And every time she bent over to retrieve an information pack from the low table behind her, Rich’s temperature climbed a couple of degrees higher. He’d been mesmerised by her. As, apparently, had the other males in attendance. From the way they flocked around her, it was obvious their interests lay in more than her additional dehumidifying function. Neither Rich’s product nor his cleavage having quite the same effect, he’d observed the proceedings with interest. Not only was this girl sex-on-legs, he concluded over the course of the day, but she also appeared to be bloody good at her job. As he made a great pretence, at overly regular intervals, of reorganising the leaflets at the front of his stand, he could hear her impressively spouting forth about wattage capacity and thermostats. And all in a sexy, throaty voice that made his skin tingle.

It wasn’t until they were packing up that he had an opportunity to speak to her.

‘Busy day?’ he asked, kicking himself at how lame that sounded when he’d had hours to concoct something more original.

Fortunately, she appeared unfazed by his lack of ingenuity.

‘Manic,’ she exclaimed, flopping down into a chair. The manoeuvre caused her skirt to ride up. Rich tried not to gawp at the smooth expanse of thigh now on show. ‘There were supposed to be two of us on today,’ she explained. ‘But my colleague, Sheila, called in sick at the last minute. Just got back from holiday in Egypt. Dicky tummy.’

‘Shame,’ muttered Rich, contorting his features into what he hoped was a sympathetic expression, while wondering – not for the first time that day – if the black nylon covering her legs came in the form of tights or stockings.

‘It is,’ the girl continued, tucking a wayward blonde curl behind her ear in a way that made Rich’s heart stutter. ‘We normally make a proper break of it when we’re away at these things. Use the hotel spa, have a nice meal, that kind of thing. Now I’ll be ordering room service and crashing out in front of Coronation Street.’

Rich didn’t reply. He couldn’t. A battle raged in his head: one side desperately trying not to think about stockings, the other attempting to digest the information she’d just hurled at him. Because, if his digesting was correct, it meant she would be staying over tonight. In a hotel. All by herself. And as he would be staying over, too … in a hotel … all by himself … wouldn’t this be the perfect opportunity to ask her to dinner? He opened his mouth to do just that, but no words came out. Completely pathetic. He’d never had a problem asking women out before. In fact, although never usually one to blow his own trumpet, his success rate in that area would probably be classed as impressive. Particularly at trade fairs, where a large proportion of the contingent were happy to exchange more than business cards with their counterparts. Something about this girl, though, put her way above all that. And it wasn’t just her killer bod.

‘Anyway …’ She hauled herself to her feet and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Rich suddenly felt slightly giddy. ‘I’m so shattered, I think all I’m good for is crashing in front of the telly tonight.’

Rich cleared his throat. ‘Right,’ he muttered, feeling like a medicine ball had landed in the centre of his chest, knocking the wind, and his ability to form a sentence, completely out of him. What a plonker. He’d just passed up the perfect opportunity to spend some quality time with this goddess, to find out more about her – assuming, of course, she’d accepted his dinner invitation. Still, he deftly reasoned, there was always tomorrow. He’d be more prepared then; have his thoughts ordered; his usual sparkling, witty repartee polished.

‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she said, gazing at him with the greenest eyes Rich had ever seen.

‘Wh … what?’ he stammered.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she repeated, a slight smile touching – what he considered – her very kissable lips.

‘Oh. Right. Yes. Tomorrow,’ he managed to mumble. Before turning around and colliding with a pile of air-con units: the self-evaporating type with three fan speeds, he absurdly noticed.

Rich didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t settle. Images of that pert bum and what lay beneath that tight black jacket skipping through his mind like an Irish dancer on acid. And the thought of her curled up in bed wearing God knows what, possibly in the same hotel, possibly in the next room, drove him to distraction.

By the time morning came around, he felt like he’d completed three marathons – in a spaceman’s suit. Despite the dark smudges under his eyes he made every effort to appear the consummate professional, spending an age arranging his hair so it looked naturally dishevelled, and using half a bottle of mouthwash, just in case there’d been any trace of garlic in the bangers and mash he’d consumed the previous evening. Today, he resolved, he would not act like a gawky, adolescent school kid. Today he would be perfectly in control. Play it cool, but not so cool she didn’t get the message.

He sucked in a deep, reassuring breath before entering the exhibition hall. Then, affecting his best nonchalant swagger, made his way over to his stand. Spotting the figure at the opposite stand, though – a podgy male figure in a cheap, pinstripe suit, with a jowly, sweaty face – Rich’s swagger dissolved into more of a stumble

‘Morning,’ the chap called over. ‘I’m Eric. I’m manning the stall today.’

Rich’s head began to spin. ‘Um, where’s the, er, girl who was here yesterday?’

‘Had to dash home,’ Eric informed him, tipping a box of branded pens into a wicker basket. ‘Something about a burst pipe. I’ve only been with the company three weeks but there was no one else available at such short notice. Hope I do okay.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ Rich mumbled, an urgent need to sit down suddenly overtaking him. God, what a prat he’d been, passing up that platinum-plated, diamond-encrusted opportunity to ask her out yesterday. What on earth had he been thinking about – other than stockings? He hadn’t been himself, obviously. A few minutes in her dazzling presence and he’d completely lost his head. Still, there was no point crying over spilled milk, he reasoned, as a willowy redhead sashayed past. It wasn’t, after all, as if Ms Theron/Monroe was the only good-looking female on the planet. But as much as he tried to steer his thoughts down that route, or indeed any route which did not include gorgeous, petite blondes, Rich couldn’t shift the image of that delectable form, those startling green eyes, and that tumble of blonde hair from his mind. Three weeks on, the fantasising continued. So much so that, after hours staring at her company’s website, he plucked up the courage to call, under the guise of a prospective customer enquiring about their next sales event.

‘Glasgow,’ a nasally male voice informed him. ‘Then I’m afraid that’s it for the year. The next event isn’t until spring.’

Rich’s heart sank. Glasgow was at least a six-hour drive away. But there was no way he could wait until spring. He’d be a physical wreck by then if he carried on at this rate. So, with all the resolve of a starving lion out to catch his prey, he booked three days’ holiday from work, packed a bag, filled the car with diesel and headed up the road. It had been the middle of November, the slate-grey sky sending forth intermittent flurries of snow. The radio informed him that several roads north of the border had been closed. But Rich ploughed on regardless. Even persistent negative thoughts – that she might not be manning the stand; that he didn’t even know her name; that she could be married with three kids; and that she probably hadn’t given him a second thought since their one and only meeting – didn’t deter him.

By the time he arrived at his destination, he’d been both mentally and physically exhausted. But the moment their eyes met, and her beautiful face lit up, he forgot all about the harrowing journey; all about the mental anguish. It had, he knew instantly, all been worth it.

‘Hi,’ she said, those incredible green eyes twinkling. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I checked the attendees, but your company wasn’t listed.’

‘I’m not here on business,’ Rich informed her.

‘Oh?’ A slight flush touched her smooth, creamy cheeks.

‘I came to see you.’

At which point her extremely kissable mouth broke into a wide smile and Rich’s insides turned to semolina.

They became a couple immediately after that and, even now, fifteen years on, Rich still considered his wife the sexiest female on the planet. And a terrific businesswoman. They’d started Bubbles from scratch and, within the first year, had blasted to smithereens all of his meticulously considered financial predictions. Add to the mix his adorable six-year-old daughter, Bethany – a smaller version of Alison – and life was good. Or at least it had been.

Until two days ago.

When a nineteen-year-old girl appeared in the showroom.

With news Rich could never have predicted.

Chapter Two

‘This tea’s cold’.

Jenny Rutter opened her mouth to point out to her mother that the tea wouldn’t have been cold had she drank it within the first ten minutes of Jenny setting down the cup alongside her. But she promptly clamped her lips shut again. Arguing with Phyllis Rutter, she had long since concluded, was a pointless exercise. At eighty-eight, the woman was still as sharp – and as cutting – as a bacon-slicer; could surpass any politician in the oratory field; and was so set in her ways she made a block of concrete seem pliable. But by far Phyllis’s most distinguishing trait was that, whatever the subject matter – and however well or badly informed she was thereof – she always, always, had to have the last word.

So, rather than stating the obvious, Jenny sucked in a calming breath and, on the exhalation, calmly asked, ‘Would you like me to make you another cup?’

Phyllis gave a derisive sniff. ‘Don’t put so much milk in it,’ she sniped, without taking her eyes off the evening TV quiz show Jenny had heard so many times, she could recite the presenter’s banter off-pat.

Jenny picked up the lukewarm drink and wandered into the kitchen, heading straight for the biscuit barrel. Removing the lid, she picked out a chocolate-coated digestive and, as she munched it, tried not to dwell on the fact that, unless something drastic happened to change the status quo of her life, she could be listening to exactly the same banal banter, from exactly the same TV presenter, at exactly the same time of day, for years to come. She had, rather depressingly, been attempting not to dwell on the same fact for the last thirty years.

Jenny had made a relatively late appearance in her parents’ lives. Married for almost twenty years, any reproductive hopes the Rutters might once have harboured had long since evaporated by the time their daughter bowled into the world. To describe her arrival as something of a shock, therefore, was akin to describing Niagara Falls as a steady drip.