Long Time No Sea

Portia Macintosh

Description

There’s trouble in paradise...

Moving home in her 30s was not the life plan Jas had in mind. So when her best friend gets in touch to say she's arranging a long overdue reunion with their high school friends, Jas is very much up for the escape. Oh, and it's all expenses paid to Italy - so that's a bonus!

But while being whisked away to the beautiful Italian coast may seem idyllic, Jas has to come face to face with not only her ex-boyfriend, but the one that got away too!

It's a week of sun, sea and unravelling secrets, and as the love triangle from the past starts to develop once again, this trip is not panning out exactly as Jas imagines...

Should the past be left where it is, or could there be a second chance at love on the horizon..?

Join top 10 bestseller Portia MacIntosh for a sun-drenched, laugh-out-loud love triangle romantic comedy!

Sujets

• Contemporary history
• Romantic Comedy
• Contemporary
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 06 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804266670
• Langue: English

Extrait

LONG TIME NO SEA


PORTIA MACINTOSH
For the unforgettable Betty Ellener
CONTENTS



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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34


More from Portia MacIntosh

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Portia MacIntosh

Love Notes

About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE
THEN – 14 AUGUST 2008

Today will not define you. That’s what everyone has been telling us all day – our A-level results day – again and again, like a broken record, shaving our expectations down while simultaneously reassuring us that everything is going to be okay, no matter what happens.
‘I said can you step back, please,’ a firewoman demands, her cheeks bright red through a combination of having to scream her instructions at us again and the intense heat coming from the burning building in front of us.
A fireman runs back out from where the door used to be. He’s wearing breathing apparatus, so he gestures to one of the other firefighters out here.
‘No sign of him,’ the second man shouts, confirming our worst fears.
I cough to clear my lungs as the smoke burns the back of my throat.
Today won’t define us, today won’t define us.
How could it not, though? And how can things ever be okay again?
1
NOW

‘The last time we were at Saffie’s house, her mummy made us special chips and they were all different colours, and she said they were healthy, not like these .’
Cecelia waves one of the French fries I just made around in the air, looking at it in disgust, like it’s a stick she found in the park with a bit of shit on the end. Sierra chews her lip as she nods in agreement.
Wow, when I was eight, the same age as the twins, chips were chips. I didn’t want them to be healthy and the only reason they would ever be a different colour was from me dousing them in ketchup.
‘Well, I’m not Saffie’s mummy,’ I remind them. ‘Saffie’s mummy is a chef.’
And she isn’t just any chef, she’s a mumfluencer, with a YouTube cooking channel that boasts over a million subscribers.
‘I don’t like normal chips any more,’ Cecelia persists as she drops the French fry back onto her plate, pushing it away, showing me she means business.
I pause for a moment. The basket of dirty washing I’m carrying digs into my hands as I hover on the spot, staring at the kids, wondering how they got so spoilt.
Obviously, I would just love to make it my life’s work to cook them multi-vegetable, multicoloured healthy root fries every night. Sadly, between driving them back and forth to school, doing the washing, tidying the house, and helping with their homework, I just don’t have the time to get too creative in the kitchen.
‘Well, I’m going to go and put these clothes in the washing machine,’ I tell them. ‘When I come back, I’m hoping you both will have eaten something – you only get dessert if you eat some dinner.’
‘Dessert is probably just as unhealthy,’ I hear Cecelia tell her sister as I walk away.
When I was eight, all I cared about was watching TV, dancing and I’m pretty sure that’s when I went through my phase of my favourite foods being anything that was pink – pink wafers, ham, strawberry laces, fruit. Of course, I didn’t refuse to eat other foods, and I certainly didn’t sass my mum over anything she made for me. I feel a million years old for saying this but, honestly, kids today…
The twins are eating at the kitchen island, seeing as though it’s just the two of them, and not a family meal night. They don’t happen all that often these days, to be honest, with their dad working so much, but you don’t get a big, beautiful house like this without someone putting in the hours.
I plonk the basket on the floor of the utility room. One machine is still washing a load, the other is almost done with a drying cycle. It never ends.
Sometimes it just feels like I move from one room to another, moving things from room to room, cleaning up after the kids, washing clothes, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathrooms, cooking – and just when I think I’m finished, I have to start again.
The utility room is the size of a decent kitchen and, after a few rounds of washing, is in need of a tidy itself, so I make a start. I fold clothes, placing them in a neat pile on one of the worktops, then once the machine is done with the drying, I unload things into the basket for clean clothes and then reload the machine with Evan’s work shirts.
‘Jasmine?’ I hear him call out.
Speak of the devil.
‘Jasmine, are you there?’ he calls again.
I sigh as I close the washing machine door and set it going again. Then I head for the kitchen.
‘Daddy is eating my chips,’ Cecelia informs me.
‘Did you ever hear of kids being fussy about chips?’ Evan asks me through a smile as he pops another into his mouth. He turns to his daughters. ‘I would’ve eaten chips off the floor when I was your age.’
The girls laugh and I can’t help but smile. They worship their dad and it beams out of them like sunshine.
‘Have you got a minute?’ he asks, nodding towards the hallway.
‘Of course,’ I reply.
Evan loosens his tie, in that way he always does soon after getting in from work, before he goes up to get changed – it’s like he can’t wait to get it off. He’s tall, with short, neat greying hair – the kind society loves to see on a man because it makes him look dapper and distinguished. It certainly does suit him. Society has me suitably brainwashed too. I’m sure I’ll be reaching for the dye when greys start sprouting in my long blonde locks – I don’t know when they’re supposed to start but I’m only thirty-two, so if they’re not here yet, perhaps I’ve got more time.
The hallway is massive, with high ceilings and an ornate wooden banister, very much setting the tone for what you can expect from the rest of the property the second you walk through the front door – well, that is if you make it past the intercom, the electric gate, and up the long, winding driveway cloaked by rows of mature trees.
This room, like much of the rest of the house, is grey. Grey carpets, grey walls, grey furnishings – you know the kind, very modern, for now at least. I don’t suppose it will be long before the next trend that is everywhere will slowly but surely take over the house. For now, though, it’s fifty shades of grey, with the occasional pop of colour in the form of overpriced art or the green leaves of various houseplants – which reminds me, I need to water the plants.
Evan hands me a package.
‘I collected this from the sorting office for you,’ he tells me. ‘I had a few to pick up, I’m not sure how long it had been there.’
‘Oh,’ I say curiously. ‘I’m not sure what that could be.’
‘Cerys orders things all the time and forgets,’ he tells me, somewhat awkwardly. ‘Perhaps you did that.’
I begin opening the box, picking at the tape, eager to see what’s inside.
‘Listen, Jasmine, we need to talk,’ Evan says after taking and exhaling a deep breath.
Well, this can’t be good.
‘Is everything okay?’ I can’t help but ask, even though it’s pretty obvious that I’m about to find out, and that it’s not going to be good given the look on his face. I continue to pick at the tape on my package, more out of anxiety than curiosity now.
‘We have a problem,’ he continues, lowering his voice. ‘Cerys thinks she caught me, erm, in the shower, with one of your… well, one of your bras.’
I feel my jaw part lightly.
‘Why on earth would she think that?’ I ask in overwhelming disbelief.
‘Well… because she did,’ he explains as his cheeks flush bright red.
Evan is clearly embarrassed to be telling me this – how could he not be? Getting caught by his wife, in the shower, with the au pair’s underwear, doing God knows what.
Oh my gosh, I feel so creeped out and uncomfortable – and why is he telling me? I could have lived happily never knowing that happened.
Evan only makes the situation even more uncomfortable by, despite being mortified, maintaining an almost intense level of eye contact. There’s something else in his eyes, something almost apologetic.
‘Oh,’ is about all I can say. I wonder whether he took the bra from my room, or whether he snuck into the utility room and lifted it from the washing. I wonder if it was a clean one or a worn one. I wonder why I’m wondering about any of this because none of the specifics are going to make it any less creepy. Not only is Evan my married boss but I’m really, really not paid enough for this shit. I’m not even supposed to be an au pair, I was hired as a live-in tutor, someone to help the twins with their schoolwork during their formative years, helping them to get the best start in life. Somehow I’ve wound up being a babysitter, a cook, a cleaner – none of the things I started out wanting to do, but just kind of ended up doing.
I don’t really know what to say – what can you say, to such a revelation? I finally peel the long piece of tape from the top of my package, breaking the awkward silence. Somehow this encourages Evan to speak again.
‘She says you can’t work here any more,’ he tells me plainly.
I mean, on the one hand, good. I don’t want to keep working – and living – somewhere with such a creep. On the other hand, though, this is my job and my home we’re talking about – and they’re both things I need, unfortunately.
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, bizarrely casual given the circumstances.
‘We’ll still pay you at the end of the month, for the full month, obviously, but Cerys wants you gone before she gets home,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
‘Wait a minute, you can’t do that,’ I insist quickly. ‘Evan, I live here, you can’t just turf me out with