Here Come the Girls (50 page)
Read Here Come the Girls Online
Authors: Milly Johnson
‘Oh yes,’ said Nigel. His eyes were now fixed on hers. ‘Everything in my life has always been so . . . precise. And you are –’ he grinned a knicker-meltingly sexy grin ‘– a magnificent oasis of chaos. Would you allow me to kiss you, ma’am?’
‘Kiss
me
? Do you really want to?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ rang out Olive’s voice from behind the door. ‘Don’t bloody ask her, Nigel! Sometimes you can be too much of an officer and a gentleman.’
‘Oooh!’ Venice yelped with shocked delight as Nigel hooked his arm behind her legs and swooped her up. Then his soft mouth fell bull’s-eye, with no mistakes, precisely and fabulously onto her own.
Epilogue
The Bahamas, Boxing Day, fifteen months later
‘“Another shitty day in paradise”, as Royston used to say,’ sighed Frankie, stretching fully out on the sunbed, just as Roz flopped onto the next one.
‘Have you checked on the boys?’ asked Olive. ‘Are they happy?’
‘Well,’ began Roz, reaching over to steal some of Ven’s mineral water, ‘I’d say the word is more
merry
than happy. Salvatore is introducing Manus to the joys of getting pissed on grappa.’
‘Good old Dad,’ smiled Frankie. ‘Any excuse with him. So where’s my lovely groom?’
‘Vaughan, Freddy and Atho are on the ouzo,’ said Roz.
‘I don’t know, marry a bloke on Christmas Eve and two days later he’s deserted you to bond with the lads,’ tutted Frankie with mock exasperation.
‘Atho gets very frisky when he’s had a few ouzos. I’d brace yourself later, Frankie. Vaughan will be hot to trot.’ The six-months-pregnant Olive grinned. She was tanned and glowing and the picture of happiness. She was now Mrs Petrakis with a baby boy and baby girl twin Petrakises growing plump and beautiful inside her. She looked more Greek goddess than ex-Barnsley housewife with her white-blonde hair wet and her olive-green eyes lit with loved-up, contented joy.
Frankie smiled at her. ‘Do you ever think you did the wrong thing, leaving David?’ They all burst into laughter at that.
‘He’s doing all right, trust me,’ she said. ‘I hear Dolly Braithwaite does his downstairs at least twice a week.’ Which raised a chorus of ‘oohs’.
David had been terrified that Olive would claim half his chip-shop fortune, but had been pleasantly amazed that she had promised – as the deserting party – to walk away with nothing from him if he settled for a quickie divorce. David and Dolly would be happy with a comfortable passion-free life, content within the confines of weekends in Bridlington, and with fish suppers on permanent tap.
‘That’s a nice tankini, by the way, Ven,’ said Olive. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Primark,’ grinned Ven. ‘And I’ll tell you what, it doesn’t half do the proper job in keeping my boobs in place, unlike that expensive designer one I brought with me on that first cruise.’
‘You can take a bird out of Barnsley, but you can’t take Barnsley out of the bird,’ winked Roz.
‘Bet Nigel is gutted,’ said Frankie. ‘I think he liked the old cossy just fine.’
The money hadn’t changed them one iota. Not where it counted. Ven still liked to poke around ‘Primarni’ for her bargains, Roz was now working with Manus in his newly extended garage. She was now Mrs Howard, after Manus whisked her up to Gretna Green on Valentine’s Day. Olive had bought property in Cephalonia, which she had scrubbed till it shone, and land at the back of the villa on which to grow more olives. She and Atho had a lot of fun in their olive groves. As for Frankie, she and Vaughan lived totally stress-free in the most beautiful olde-worlde cottage. She now taught ‘baby Italian’ at the local school and Vaughan tinkered around rebuilding bikes and wearing his old leathers. They were, in Yorkshire terms, ‘happy as pigs in muck’.
‘My little honeymoon babies,’ sighed Olive fondly, her hand rubbing over her rounded tum. ‘Though I’m not sure about following your parents’ example, Ven, and calling them after the possible places of their conception.’
‘Which are what?’ asked Ven.
‘“Kitchen table” and “against an olive tree”.’
Venice laughed. ‘You minx! Well, choose carefully, my darling, because their names could change their lives one day.’ As she knew only too well. If she hadn’t been called Venice, she might never have booked that birthday cruise to go there and met the dashing Nigel O’Shaughnessy. Or been lifted up where she belonged into his uniformed arms on her own doorstep. Or travelled to the Fjords with him, and the Canaries, or been proposed to in a storm of fireworks in Madeira as the New Year blasted in, or married him in – well, Venice of course. Her three bridesmaids flew in with Jen and her family for the weekend and devoured twelve-million-calories’-worth of ice cream in Angelo’s. And she would never have had her interest in writing rejuvenated by Rik Knight-Jones enough to write a book about four friends on a ship, which was due to be published in the spring. It was part of a three-book deal – a series of stories about different people finding love on board.
And now the four of them were all married and Olive was having babies. And they were on the
Mermaidia
once again, but this time on a twenty-two-nighter, sailing around the Bahamas.
‘So how many cruises have you been on now?’ smirked Ven in a pompous tone. ‘I’ll have you know, this is my fifteenth on the
Mermaidia
. We did have to slum it for a little while on the new ship
Selina
. Absolute hell. Only five swimming pools.’
‘Cocky cow!’ laughed Frankie. ‘Have Eric and Irene been on recently?’
‘They were on the Saint Petersburg cruise. Royston and Stella went on the New Orleans one. He and his wardrobe are as loud as ever, I’m happy to report.’
‘Look at that cloud – it looks like a flamenco dancer,’ said Frankie.
Roz put on her sunglasses and looked up. ‘That’s a hell of an imagination you’ve got there, Frank. How in the name of cock does that look like a flamenco dancer?’
‘Look.’ Frankie drew into the air. ‘That’s her skirt and that’s her arm up and there’s that comb thing on her head.’
‘Mantequilla,’ clarified Ven.
‘Mantilla, you fart,’ laughed Frankie. ‘Mantequilla is Spanish for butter.’
‘Oy you, don’t you dare start flashing your language skills about on my husband’s ship!’ Ven shook her finger at her friend. ‘Do you know, it took Nigel over six months to ’fess up to me how you’d taught me to ask for directions in Venice.’
‘Whoops,’ laughed Frankie. ‘Still, I like to think it endeared you to him a little bit more. And I bet you’ve said it again to him since,’ she added with a wink.
‘You still dancing, Roz?’ asked Olive.
‘Yep: belly, bhangra and I’ve just started flamenco.’ She leaned forward to the others and whispered, ‘Manus likes the costumes, if you know what I mean. I only have to pick up my castanets and he’s got that look in his eye.’ But Roz didn’t seem to be complaining.
Ven could see the dancer in the sky along with Roz. But she had never seen Florence and Dennis Thompson again, however many times she had been up on the top deck at night. Not even a shimmer of sequins in the shadows. Maybe they really had just been there to show her a little taste of the heaven she was now certain existed.
‘Eeh, you can’t buy this, can you?’ said Olive, with a contented yawn. ‘Well, you can buy the big houses and the nice cars and the olive groves and the cruises, but you can’t buy the babies or the lovely men or friendships, can you? You can’t buy
us
.’
‘No,’ sighed Mrs Ocean Sea with smiley dimples as deep as the Adriatic sea and a grin that couldn’t be bought. Not even on worldwide eBay. Not even for a billion pounds. ‘No, Mrs Petrakis, you most definitely can’t.’
Acknowledgements
There is a host of fabulous people I have to wave thanks to for both inspiring and helping me to write this book.
Firstly the P & O Cruises posse: to my lovely friend the angelic Michele Andjel who introduced me to ice wine – just when I thought life couldn’t get any better. And to Lorraine Sadowski, who looked after me so beautifully on board the
Azura
. To Captain Paul Brown who answered all my daft questions with generous patience and Captain Hamish Reid who is quite simply unforgettable. And members of their wonderful crew: ‘Ice-cream Jonathan’, Pete Diaz, Neil Lopez, Marshall, Malone, the ‘supreme’ Frankie, the charming Vincent in ‘17’, Bombay Bertie, Jerry, George, Rebecca, Brooke, ‘John the Perfume’ and the fabulous Neil Oliver – the presence of these people makes going on ships such an added joy for my family and me.
And to all the lovely friends I’ve met and made on my travels abroad including: the generous and mad Baister family – Wayne, Liz and Elle, Ian and Liz Barry, David and Sylvia Williams, Pete and Jean McCormack, Brian and Catherine Stevenson, ‘The Royle Family’ – Olive and Don, Margaret and Paul Richards, Pat, Sam and Keith Richards (not ‘that one’ but he’s still a damned good musician!), Julie, John and Will Hopcroft, Terry and Dave Wigham and the press pack on my last ‘essential research’ holiday who were such fun to break bread with – Peter and Joan Charlton, Richard and Emma Gaisford, Gerard Greaves and Lisa Sewards. Keith and Eileen Hamilton, Gary Buchanan – and so many others who have been a joy to mingle with.
To the sublimely talented James Nash at www.james nash.co.uk. An amazing poet, a sweet man and my friend.
To the bellissima Franca Martella at BBC Radio Sheffield who sorts out my Italian, however embarrassing the task! To the adorable Carnevale family who lent me their magnificent name. And to the wonderful Restaurant Rex in Corfu for converting me to olives.
To my cruise-buddy – the fabulous Jill Mansell who wrote my header quote and with whom it will always be a pleasure to drink a glass of bubbly on the high seas.
To ‘my team’ – my gorgeous agent and amigo Lizzy Kremer and all at David Higham and to EVERYONE at my publishers who have been such a constant support and a dream to work with, especially the superlative Suzanne Baboneau, Libby Yevtushenko, Max Hitchcock, Amanda Shipp and Grainne Reidy. You are the BEST and I am blessed to have you.
Last but by no means least – the biggest, fattest thank-you imaginable to my publicist par excellence Nigel Stoneman. He knows what for.
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