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

Copyright

AVON

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London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Kat French 2017

Cover design and lettering: www.emma-rogers.com 2017

Kat French asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008236755

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008236762

Version: 2018-05-02

Dedication

This book is informed by and written for my beloved life-long best buddies Debbie and Jane.

This isn’t our story, but it is absolutely inspired by our friendship – there’s a little bit of all of each of us in each of them.

I thank my lucky stars for you both.

Cheers to us, ladies, love you! xxx

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

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.

‘That would be me.’ She stepped forward and held out her hand, smiling uncertainly at Ajax. ‘And this is Frankie and Stella.’ She glanced behind him at the B&B. ‘Are we too early to check in?’

He laughed good-naturedly. ‘I make exception for three beautiful ladies. Come.’

He collected each of their weekend bags from where they’d dropped them in the sand and then turned and strode away towards the villa, leaving the three women to exchange speculative glances and then break into a trot to keep up behind him.

Ajax led them through the little beach bar, all whitewashed chairs and driftwood tables set with jam-jars of fuchsia-pink wildflowers. The bleached, sand-covered crazy-paved terrace lay warm and smooth beneath Winnie’s feet, changing to cool stone flags as they entered Villa Valentina’s shady, deserted reception. There was an air of faded splendour to the old mansion house, as if it might once have been home to Greek glitterati and had fallen on hard times. The peeling paint was sort of shabby chic and sort of just shabby, but the high ceilings and grand proportions kind of made up for it and let the villa get away with it. Just.

Ajax slid behind the wooden desk, reached for a huge red diary and leafed through it to today’s date. He was quick, but not fast enough for Winnie to miss the fact that the pages he flicked past were emptier than you might expect for a bookings diary.

‘OK, so it’s your lucky day!’ he announced. ‘You’ve been allocated the most splendid rooms up on the top floor.’ He tapped his pen against the page. ‘Best views in the house.’

‘Fantastic,’ Frankie said, fanning herself with her pink hat. ‘Are they ready, or do you need us to wait?’

Ajax looked slightly wrong-footed before his expression cleared to sunshine again. ‘No need to wait. Our cleaners come to work very early to make your rooms ready especially for you.’

‘Well, that’s very kind,’ Winnie said, smiling, grateful for their forethought. Already there was something about Villa Valentina that felt magical; the weight on her shoulders was a little lighter, the melancholy in her heart a little less oppressive. Even though the effects would most likely wear off as soon as they touched down back in the UK, she’d be stronger and tougher for a couple of days off from feeling like a fool.

The three women trooped up the grand central staircase behind Ajax, who skipped his way up the winding flights of steps even though he’d insisted on carrying all of their weekend bags slung over one shoulder. On the top landing he made a ceremony of studying each of them in silence for a few contemplative moments before handing out three ornate keys, as if first deciding which of the rooms best suited each of the women.

‘For you, the Seaview Suite,’ he said, pressing a key into Stella’s palm. ‘Because it is grand and has the finest view.’

He moved along the line to Frankie. ‘For you,’ he said, handing her her key. ‘The Cleopatra Rooms, because the bathtub is the deepest. You have the face of a lady who needs to relax.’

Frankie looked almost as if she might burst into tears; it had been a long time since a man had taken the time to notice how worn down she was.

Ajax stepped sideways to look at Winnie. ‘And for you, Winifred, I think the Bohemian Suite.’ He passed her an old, blackened key. ‘Many artists have chosen to stay in here over the years because of the light. I think you will especially like the paintings.’

Winnie took the key, wide-eyed, wondering if Ajax had sneakily researched them all on Google because he seemed to have taken one look at them and seen right into their hearts. He couldn’t have, not really; they’d only booked the break two days ago on a last-minute whim and none of them were prolific enough for Google to provide much in the way of interesting gossip. He must just be one of those rare beasts, a genuinely thoughtful, empathetic man. Winnie recognised that her worldview on men was more than a little off-kilter just now, but she genuinely wasn’t sure if her heart would recover enough to think more charitably about the other half of the human race. For now though, for the sake of sisterhood, she was prepared to give Ajax the benefit of the doubt.

‘Please, call me Winnie. Everyone does.’

He smiled widely, as if truly honoured. ‘Then because we’re friends now, you should come down to the bar when you have settled and I make special cocktails for special ladies. I mix just the right one to make you carefree.’

He gave them one of his little bows and then set off down the stairs two at a time, leaving them all staring at the fancy cast-iron keys in their hands.

‘Does anyone else feel a bit like Alice about to tumble down the rabbit hole?’ Frankie asked, turning the key to the Cleopatra Rooms over in her hand.

‘This is what happens when you book a last-minute break to an island you’ve never heard of,’ Stella said.

Winnie looked at her, surprised. ‘What, you end up in a mystical pink B&B with a guy who seems able to read minds?’

Stella plucked at the bottom of her Breton-stripe vest, flapping it away from her body to cool herself down. ‘You end up on the top floor of a place with no lifts. There better be a decent shower in there, I’m bloody melting.’

‘Well, I might go and take a bubble bath,’ Frankie said with a grin. ‘Seeing as I have the best one and all.’

‘And you should probably go and, er, gaze at the paintings on your walls, Win,’ Stella said, wafting her hand towards Winnie’s door.

Winnie shrugged, undeterred. ‘I love that he thinks I’m bohemian.’

‘Must have been your tattoo,’ Frankie said, slotting her key into her door.

‘Or your plaits.’ Stella pushed her key into place too as Winnie frowned at her ankle tattoo and wound one of her shoulder-length honey-blonde plaits around her finger.

‘What’s wrong with my plaits?’

‘Nothing,’ Stella laughed. ‘If you’re a Swedish milkmaid.’

‘You’re only jealous,’ Winnie sniffed, flicking her plaits over her shoulders. But she enjoyed her friends’ ribbing all the same, because, God, it felt good to relax and laugh about stupid things. Fitting her key into the lock of the Bohemian Suite, she turned, shiny-eyed, to look at the others.

‘Three, two …’ she counted down, and, on one, they all turned their keys.

Bohemian turned out to be Winnie’s idea of perfect. The stripped oak floorboards were warm beneath her feet, and the room seemed vast and airy thanks to the tall, ornate French doors, which had been opened to allow the hint of a cooling breeze to flutter the gauzy white muslin curtains. The walls had been painted deep oxblood, a rich, evocative colour that, coupled with the huge cast-iron bed, certainly conjured up bohemian. An eclectic mix of jewel-coloured cushions topped the crisp white cotton bed linen, and a huge emerald-green velvet chaise longue sat in front of ceiling-high bookcases stuffed with hundreds of books in all sizes and colours. Two glass chandeliers hung overhead, adding opulence to the already dramatic room; it was clearly a space designed for reclining, relaxing and recharging. Winnie had no clue what the other girls’ rooms were like, but she knew instinctively that this was the right one for her. Stripes of sunlight streamed through the doors and windows, and when she stepped out of the French doors, she found herself on a wide balcony set with a tiny table and chairs for two beside a 60s-style wicker hanging-egg chair to take in the glittering view over the Med.

‘Are you feeling all arty-farty yet?’

She turned and found Stella peering at her from her wraparound balcony at the far end of the villa. She’d already changed into a halter-neck polka-dot bikini top and teeny black denim shorts, and pulled her long red-gold waves back into a swishy ponytail.

Winnie laughed, delighted. ‘I think I am! How’s the Seaview Suite?’

‘I’ve really no idea why they call it that.’ Stella shrugged and rolled her eyes, flopping blissfully down onto the padded wooden steamer chair on her balcony. ‘I mean, come on.’ Ajax had been right about the view from Stella’s room; she had an uninterrupted, picture-postcard-perfect vista out over the gorgeous sugar sand and crystal sea.

Between them, Frankie wandered out onto her balcony, cool as a cucumber in a black linen shift and big Jackie O sunglasses perched on top of her bleached pixie cut.

‘Bath’s running,’ she said. ‘It might take a while, it’s practically a swimming pool.’

A peaceful, easy feeling washed over Winnie’s shoulders, warmer even than the Greek summer sunshine. Frankie would be a while yet, and Stella looked set for some serious sun-worshipping.

‘I might just test my bed out for five minutes,’ she said, lifting her hand to wave to her friends. Frankie did a tiny, crazy, happy dance out of pure contentment, and Stella lifted her hand above the balcony balustrade with an indistinct moan of happiness. Wandering back inside, Winnie momentarily paused to wonder how you might climb up onto a mattress higher than your belly button, then taking a bit of a running jump, she threw herself face-down on the bed and spontaneously laughed for the first time in months.

Ajax placed a tray of three tall, fine-stemmed fishbowl glasses on the beach-bar table in front of them an hour or so later.

‘You’ve built our expectations sky-high now, you know that, right?’ Frankie said, lifting her eyebrows at him. ‘If these cocktails don’t make us feel a million dollars we’re going to want our money back.’

‘Your first drink is always on the house anyways,’ Ajax said grandly. ‘Villa Valentina house secret mix, guaranteed to make you happy.’

‘Free drinks always make me happy,’ Stella sighed. ‘People used to give me free drinks all over town. Stella! Come in, have a glass of champagne! And another!’

‘Ah, get over yourself, superstar. This one’s still free and looks amazing.’ Frankie reached for one of the glasses and handed it to Stella.

‘What is it?’ Winnie lifted her sunnies and squinted up at Ajax hovering close by for their verdict.

He shrugged. ‘Gin and tonic.’

It wasn’t like any gin and tonic Winnie had ever seen before. Peering into the glass as she slid it towards her, she could see rich shades of honeyed nectarine red sparkling with ice and slices of rose-pink grapefruit.

‘Is this rosemary?’ Frankie asked, plucking a herb from her glass and sniffing it.

Ajax preened. ‘I grow it myself in the garden at the back of the villa.’

Frankie dunked it back into her cocktail, using it to swirl the ice cubes. All three women looked up as the guy they’d spotted earlier with Ajax wandered over and placed a platter of glistening halved figs scattered with walnuts down on their table.

‘Oh. My. God.’ Winnie groaned. ‘How good does that look? They’re the fattest figs I’ve ever seen in my life.’

‘Best in the world. I grow them myself in the garden behind the villa.’

‘I’m sensing a theme,’ Stella murmured, then took a sip of her drink and gasped. ‘Bloody hell! That’s amazing. You have to tell me how to make this before I leave.’

Ajax ignored the request, choosing instead to make introductions.

‘Ladies, this is my husband, Nikolas.’

Nikolas stuck out his hand. ‘Nik, please.’

‘Well, thank you, Nik, for this. It looks wonderful,’ Winnie said, nodding towards the plate. ‘I’m Winnie.’

The others jumped up in turn and shook his hand, and he just nodded politely and excused himself.

‘He likes actions, not words,’ Ajax sighed, watching his lover wistfully until he’d disappeared back into the villa.

‘My kind of man,’ Stella laughed, making Ajax scowl theatrically.

‘What is it that you English like to say?’ he said. ‘Not on your nelly.’

He winked and blew them a kiss before threading his way through the tables in the direction of his husband.

‘Happy couples make me want to vom right now,’ Winnie said, taking a good gulp of her drink and then almost choking on the rosemary stem.

Stella grabbed for the glass. ‘Christ, Winnie, it’s too good to splutter all over the floor!’

Frankie lifted her drink so that the sunlight shone through the liquid, bouncing pink crystal shimmers all around them.

‘Everything about this place is special,’ she said. ‘The villa, Ajax, the cocktails, that view … it’s all blissful.’