Portuguese House

D Holloway Pamela

Description

After being badly let down by her husband, writer Liz O'Malley takes a holiday in Goa, in India. To her surprise she falls in love with the place, the people and an old, somewhat derelict, Portuguese house. To her sister's equal surprise she buys the house and employs local people to return it to its former impressive glory. At a social event she meets the widowed British Ambassador and there is a definite frisson. The beginning of a romance is shattered when one of his two sons is taken ill. The situation is further complicated when the Ambassador moves to Paris, and a wealthy German divorcee targets him for her next marriage.Meanwhile Liz is offered a book tour of the United States and has further adventures there, accompanied by an extremely lively P.R. from her publishing house. But will it be possible for her romance to be re-kindled, and will she find happiness in her new home in the Portuguese house?

Sujets

• Contemporary romance
• Goa

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 novembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838597863
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 Pamela D Holloway

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,
or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents
Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in
any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the
publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with
the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries
concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781838597863

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd





My wonderful grandchildren for all the joy they give me. Alice, Rose, Sam, Dominic, Jacob and Rupert.
contents
acknowledgements
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
chapter 35
chapter 36
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
chapter 41
chapter 42
chapter 43
chapter 44
acknowledgements
So many thanks to the supportive team at Matador/Troubador including Jonathan White and Joe Shillito. The Editor and Proofreader, Author Alfred Douglas. Dezi Dalton for, as ever her caring and enthusiastic support. Finally, Martin Wimbush (actor) for his kind and encouraging words.
chapter 1
Liz O’Malley stood on her balcony watching the sunset. It was like no sunset she had ever seen before, a great red ball sinking slowly into the sea. A boat silently moved over the water and for a moment its silhouette was like a black shadow picture against the orangey -red backdrop.
It was gone. With a sigh, she picked up the vodka and tonic from the glass-topped table and took a gulp. God, it was strong. Still, after that journey, it was exactly what was needed. For a few more moments she gazed out at the peaceful scene, the caw-caw of rooks sitting in the palm trees the only sound.
She sat in one of the two rattan chairs on the small balcony and leaned back, her head resting on the attached towelling-covered pillow. The last month had been difficult, no, she corrected herself, not difficult, a taste of hell. She closed her green-grey eyes in pain at her thoughts and buried her face in her hands, her thick, almost black hair falling over her face like a shield. For a moment she fought back the threatening tears. Then she could almost hear her father’s voice, his lovely Irish brogue saying, “Now Elizabeth O’Malley, and what’s my beautiful daughter got to cry about. Remember the O’Malleys are not quitters. Remember girl, never give in.”
She smiled to herself, he had been dead almost three years now, but it was his words she always remembered in times of crisis. Padraig O’Malley had been both father and mother to his two girls when Sinead had died in the car accident that snowy Christmas. Breaking the news to his little girls, Elizabeth, aged seven, and Kathy, who was only four, had been as hard as losing Sinead all over again. He was grateful that Sinead had always said that if anything ever happened to her she would want the girls to attend her funeral and the mass. Elizabeth couldn’t see the sense of it: “We won’t see Mammy, she is in heaven now.” Kathy had cried for her mammy. She missed the cuddles and little songs that Mammy would sing as she bathed them. So, Padraig, to his surprise, found himself singing them now, songs he didn’t even know he knew, and he and his daughters bonded in a way that they never had before. It was as if Sinead was part of him now and he was able to display emotions he never knew he had.
In Derry, they all thought he was a fine father. The girls loved him and trusted his every judgement. Over the years, Liz, in particular, loved reading and writing short stories. Her father enjoyed reading the stories she wrote both at home and in school and she would write stories especially for her little sister. In time Liz became a writer and had four books published in fairly quick succession and was working on her fifth when she met Steve. He became her agent and she was swept off her feet from the moment she met him. He teased her later that from the moment he saw her “straight off the boat” he loved her too.
Her almost feline good looks and glossy black hair that hung below her shoulders like a cloak, and her pale, almost translucent skin ensnared him immediately. “My little cat,” he called her in moments of affection.
Daddy, she recalled, had not been happy that she was marrying an Englishman, and a Protestant at that! But if Steve made Elizabeth happy then he accepted it and welcomed Steve into the family.
They had been so happy, she recalled. Her husband, Steve, was so proud of her achievements. Her second book had been shortlisted for the Whitbread Award and the film rights had been subsequently purchased. Oh yes, Steve was proud of her. She remembered their first serious row. They had only been married a few months when she began to talk about having a baby. Although a good Catholic girl, she had been on the pill and felt the time was right, at twenty-five, to start a family. They had talked before they married, of course, about children. “Oh dozens!” she had said carelessly when she expressed her feelings about a future family. She couldn’t understand the change.
“Not yet, dear, your work is important, so is mine. We need a life together for a few more years,” Steve said.
“A few years!” She had been scandalised. That night they lay as far apart as they were able. Her, up to the edge of the mattress on one side of the bed, and him up to the edge on the other side. He was cool, she remembered, in the morning, and every time she raised the subject he fobbed her off. By the time they had been married for four years she had, with deep sadness, accepted that he did not want children. Her writing became ever more her solace, and she poured out raw emotions that were not there before into her books. Her last book won the Booker Prize and Steve was proud to be at her side at all the many functions they attended. They were an A-list couple now. Young, good-looking, successful and, she in particular, talented.
Thinking back, she began to see where it had all gone wrong. She was wealthy now. Independent, while he just played the supporting role. He became withdrawn. At first, she had tried so hard to get close to him again but there seemed to be a wall between them. He went away to meet clients – and stayed overnight. She half wondered if he might be having an affair, but put it out of her mind because in bed at least life was good. He knew how to excite her and she knew she excited him. It was therefore totally out of the blue the evening he came home and instead of coming into the studio she heard him go straight to the bedroom. Intrigued, she had turned off the computer and wandered along the landing to their bedroom. He had collected one of the large holiday suitcases which was now open on the bed. “Goodness,” she had said in surprise. “That looks like a long trip.”
“I’m leaving,” had been his response. She still hadn’t grasped it. “Leaving when?” she had wondered. He had turned from the packing and looked at her, not, she noticed, quite meeting her eyes. “I’m leaving you,” he had stated quite baldly. She remembered walking to the chair and almost collapsing on it. Had she heard correctly? He was leaving her…she felt a thrumming in her ears. She mustn’t faint – she was made of sterner stuff, but she couldn’t take it in, believe even what was happening in front of her eyes. He had closed the case and pulled it off the bed. “Just tell me why,” she asked. Even now she could feel the physical pain his answer had given her. He was leaving her for Miranda. That had not been the worst. Miranda, his secretary. The secretary she had always thought so sweet, so caring, so efficient too she was always being told by Steve. The secretary who was now expecting a child. His. Steve’s child. Once again, the pain seemed to cut into the very heart of her like a knife. She could hardly believe it, and he seemed happy, pleased even. She had wanted to shout and scream. Why Steve? Why her? Why not our baby? Something held her back, she managed somehow to keep her dignity, to remember she was an O’Malley. She could almost hear her father’s voice in that soft brogue. “Remember Elizabeth, O’Malleys are not quitters.”
She had stood up, walked back to the studio and quietly locked the door. It was only when she saw him from the window walking to his car that, knowing she was alone in the house, she could cry, but she didn’t. Instead, she sat in front of the computer, turned it back on and started to write.
The divorce, uncontested of cou