Sarah Bennett - Summer at Lavender Bay

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Sarah Bennett 2018

Sarah Bennett 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 © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008281335

Version: 2018-06-25

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Summer at Lavender Bay SARAH BENNETT

Copyright HQ An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Sarah Bennett 2018 Sarah Bennett 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 © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008281335 Version: 2018-06-25

Dedication It’s not the first love that counts – it’s the last. This one’s for M, my last and truest love

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

Extract

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by

Coming Soon

About the Publisher

It’s not the first love that counts – it’s the last. This one’s for M, my last and truest love

Welcome to Heathrow . Eliza’s stomach churned at the words emblazoned on the large silver sign dominating the roundabout. They were really going through with it. After weeks of debate, of ever-more outlandish promises from Martin about how relocating to the Middle East would be a fresh start for both of them, they’d finally reached the point of no return. She placed her hand on her uneasy middle, assuring herself it was merely butterflies of excitement rather than a sense of impending dread that had made it impossible to choke down more than a couple of mouthfuls of tea.

Once they’d checked in, they’d find somewhere for breakfast. Martin wanted a blowout—a full English with all the works—to say goodbye to the UK in style. The thought of all that grease did nothing to help her queasiness, but he was excited about their new adventure and she owed it to him to be supportive. She’d manage a plate of scrambled eggs on toast and hopefully something to eat would settle her down.

‘Here you go, mate.’ The taxi driver’s cheerful voice scattered her wayward thoughts. Blinking, she realised the car had drawn to a halt outside a huge glass and concrete building. ‘That’ll be twenty quid. Do you need a hand with your bags?’ The taxi driver half-turned to complete the transaction with Martin who began to fumble with his wallet.

From Eliza’s vantage point in the back seat, the contrast between the two men was marked. The driver was an older man, closer to her dad’s age than theirs. His tanned skin crinkled around his eyes, giving her the impression he laughed a lot. He’d been chatty during the journey and seemed genuinely interested to hear about their relocation to Abu Dhabi. She’d left it to Martin to carry the majority of the conversation, although she’d managed a smile and a few words of agreement whenever either of them had aimed a question or remark in her direction.

Eliza’s stomach started doing that unpleasant swirling thing again—like she was filled with water and someone had yanked out the plug, sending it spinning as the water drained away. It was the same feeling she had every time she thought, heard or saw the name of the country where they’d be living for at least the next three years.

‘I’d like a receipt please,’ Martin said as he handed over a crisp note fresh from the cashpoint machine. He looked pale, almost wan, next to the older man. The sallowness of his skin owed more to the hours he spent locked inside staring at his laptop rather than genetics. He’d catch the sun soon enough; he always did whenever they returned to their home town of Lavender Bay to visit their families. Not that she could persuade him to go there much these days. He was always too busy—although it was never clear to Eliza exactly what it was on his computer that took up so much of his spare time.

With the driver paid, there was no excuse for her to linger in the cab any longer, so she took a deep breath and forced her shaking hand to open the door. It was nerves, nothing more. Anyone taking such a big leap into the unknown was bound to be a little apprehensive, right?

The hem of the long, flowing skirt she was wearing caught on the low heel of her patent red shoes, and she had to pause to extricate it. She’d chosen muted colours, floaty layers over dark leggings and a thin, long-sleeved T-shirt, with a scarf around her neck which could be pulled up to cover her hair if needs be. Martin’s employer had provided them with suggestions of acceptable attire, and although it had been stressed to her the authorities were entirely reasonable in their approach to Western visitors, it was important to her to be respectful towards the culture of the country. The fact her milk-pale, freckled complexion could burn at the first hint of strong sunlight meant she was used to covering up. Her Dorothyesque red shoes had been the only indulgence when selecting her outfit, a splash of the rich colours she favoured; a touch of courage.

Feeling a bit useless, Eliza hovered out of the way whilst Martin and the driver wrestled their luggage out of the boot. With a smile, the driver placed a large and small suitcase in front of her then tugged the handles up and locked them in place. ‘Chin up, sweetheart, it might never happen.’