The Bed and Breakfast on the Beach: A gorgeous feel-good read from the bestselling author of One Day in December

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

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About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE (#ue42192f8-6a9b-5d8e-80f7-f8810caecec0)

Forty-eight hours earlier …

‘It looks like a pink sugar cube.’

Winnie flicked her Havaianas off onto the warm sand and slid her huge sunglasses down her nose to get a better look at Villa Valentina.

‘Well, they weren’t lying when they said it was on the beach,’ Stella murmured, grabbing hold of Winnie’s elbow while she bent double to slip her jewelled flip-flops off the backs of her heels.

Beside them, Frankie dropped her oversized shoulder bag on the sand and lifted the brim of the pink floppy sunhat she’d bought at least a decade ago, inspired by the effortlessly chic Kristin Scott Thomas in Four Weddings.

‘What it looks like to me, ladies, is heaven.’

For a second, all three women stood shoulder to shoulder in contemplative silence. Life had dealt each of them an unexpectedly rough hand over recent months, and this weekend was very much needed to take stock, swear like troopers and sink as much ouzo as Skelidos could supply them with.

‘Do you think it’s too early for a G&T?’

Winnie and Frankie looked at Stella between them in pristine white skinny jeans, her scarlet toe-polish jewel-bright against the pale sand. Her eyes were trained on the faded pink mansion’s deserted terrace beach bar, her hands on her hips as if she meant business.

‘It’s just after nine o’clock in the morning, Stell,’ Winnie said, laughing, the bangles on her wrist jangling as she picked at the frayed hem of her denim shorts.

Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Says the woman who sank a double brandy on the plane four hours ago.’

‘She’s a nervous flyer,’ Frankie soothed, half-hearted in Winnie’s defence.

‘You’re telling me,’ Stella said, flicking her fringe out of her eyes. ‘The poor bugger in the seat the other side of her is probably in A&E now with crushed fingers.’

Winnie wriggled her toes blissfully in the powder-soft sand, wandering forward slowly. ‘Well, if you’d have put your drink down for more than five minutes I’d have been able to hold your hand instead of his. I’m sitting by Frankie on the flight home, she’s more sympathetic.’

Frankie caught Stella’s eye behind Winnie’s back and shook her head frantically. Stella nodded and pointed first at Winnie and then at Frankie: a clear signal that her friend was on her own when it came to keeping Winnie calm on the homebound journey.

Winnie knew what they were up to behind her, of course; she’d known Stella and Frankie for as far back as sentient memory allowed. Born within four weeks of each other a stone’s throw apart on the same street, the three of them had been united by both age and the fact that they were the only girls amongst the rowdy rabble of neighbourhood boys. It was a happy coincidence that they’d turned out to be similar in far more than birthdays; they shared a sharp sense of humour and a strong, abiding loyalty that bound them closer than sisters, albeit all very different in looks and temperament.

‘Is that an actual tattoo, Win?’

Frankie leaned forward to get a closer look at the flowers circling Winnie’s ankle.

Winnie paused and turned back.

‘Temporary. I’m trying it on for size.’

‘Shame you couldn’t have done the same thing with your husband,’ Stella said, throwing in a gentle wink to soften her words. In truth the comment didn’t sting, because, in point of fact, it was pretty darn accurate. Rory, he of the wild dark curls and sparkly eyes, the man who’d pursued her endlessly and showered her with his ardent love, had turned out to be the very same guy who’d abruptly turned the shower off to an icy water-torture trickle once the chase down the aisle in front of all of their friends was over. Winnie was a different woman because of him. She’d spent the first thirty-three years of her life merrily believing the schmaltzy songs on the radio; these days she flicked stations at the opening bars of a slow song, tossing the radio an accusatory look, as if it were personally responsible for Rory’s flimsy heart. She favoured girl-power Little Mix anthems now, belted out at the top of her lungs with the hard-won knowledge that there was no such thing as forever when it comes to love.

‘Let that be the last mention of him this weekend,’ Winnie said, lifting her face to the already warm morning sunshine. ‘As of now, his name is on the banned list, along with Gavin.’ She glanced at Frankie as she mentioned her friend’s soon-to-be-ex-husband. ‘And Jones & Bow, too, for that matter,’ she added for good measure, looking the other way towards Stella. Jones & Bow had been Stella’s employers and pretty much her home for the last decade or more, and they’d recently repaid her loyalty with an out-of-the-blue redundancy notice and a box to put her things in. The fat redundancy cheque hadn’t even been a plaster on the near-fatal wound they’d inflicted on her pride, not to mention that it wouldn’t last for ever given Stella’s love of designer labels, far-flung holidays and the best new restaurants with waiting lists as long as Dudley Dursley’s Christmas list.

‘Deal.’ Frankie nodded, resolute.

‘Come on then.’ Stella linked arms with her friends. ‘Let’s get checked into the sugar cube. We’ve got forty-eight hours of serious drinking and plate-smashing to get through.’

‘I don’t plan on smashing any plates,’ Winnie said with a frown.

‘You’re in Greece. It’s the rules,’ Frankie said. ‘Just don’t do it until you’ve eaten your dinner. They’d consider that the height of bad manners.’

‘I love Greek salad,’ Winnie said, imagining colourful plates laden with fat ruby tomatoes ripened beneath the Greek sun, and huge, creamy chunks of feta.

‘I love Greek men more.’ Stella grinned as on cue a shirtless Adonis emerged from the sugar cube, all oiled chest and mirrored sunglasses.

‘Do you think he’d be offended if I asked him to sing “Careless Whisper” to me?’ Frankie murmured. Her enduring love for George Michael had seen her through many a dark time. There were several times in her life when she wished she’d turned a different corner.

‘Probably.’ Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Think he’d be offended if I asked him to slather me with baby oil?’

A second, equally gorgeous guy in DayGlo neon shorts joined the Adonis and kissed the back of his neck.

‘Fuck,’ Stella sighed. ‘All the best men are gay. Look at Matt Bomer.’

‘And George Michael,’ Frankie added.

‘You really need to get over the George thing. He was always too old for you anyway.’

Frankie looked horrified, as if she’d been asked to get over the loss of a limb or broker world peace.

‘I think he’s staring at us,’ Winnie murmured, as Adonis checked his watch then studied them intently. Throwing a few words over his shoulder towards his lover, he broke into a Baywatch-worthy jog across the sand and came to a halt in front of them.

‘Ladies, welcome,’ he said, his accent only adding to his allure. ‘You must be the three new guests due this morning?’

Winnie glanced at the other two and nodded, pulling her paperwork from the side of her weekend bag and scanning it quickly.

‘Are you … Ajax?’

He nodded with a slight bow. ‘And one of you is Winifred?’

Frankie and Stella both laughed under their breath at the use of Winnie’s much-detested full name. She’d been sentimentally named after a great aunt who’d died a few days before her birth; even her mother had gone off it within a month and everyone had called her Winnie from thereon in.