Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Read online

  Sweet Victory

  By

  Beverley Watts

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2015 by Beverley Watts. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author.

  Cover Design Karen Ronan

  www.coversbykaren.com

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  It was just over a year since Hollywood had descended on the small yachting haven of Dartmouth and after all the excitement, things had very much returned to normal.

  In fact, as far as Admiral Charles Shackleford (Retired) was concerned, nothing had changed at all. Except for one thing …

  Ensconced on his favourite bar stool in the Ship Inn, he sighed irritably, and stared down into his pint. Where the bloody hell was Jimmy?

  Since the shenanigans in London, his best friend had had a right wendy on. In fact, though he would never admit it to a soul, the Admiral would almost have given away his beloved Admiralty to have things the way they used to be. He sighed again, this time bemoaning things lost. His former Master At Arms had got a taste of freedom and wasn’t likely to be put back in his box any time soon. Of course it was all down to that dragon Jimmy lived with, and nothing at all to do with a certain retired officer interfering in affairs that were none of his concern.

  Sighing for the third time, Charles Shackleford reflected on the ungratefulness of people. After all, it had all turned out toppers in the end.

  Except for the fact that nothing else had changed. Victory was still living at home – most of the time, when she wasn’t up to her elbows in builder’s dust up at Noah’s place. But the Yank still hadn’t popped the question. The Admiral frowned. He thought he could just move Tory out and Mabel in. Problem was, it wasn’t turning out to be quite so simple. Mabel wanted him to make an honest woman of her. Flatly refused to leave her cosy cottage for his “mausoleum” unless she had a ring on her finger.

  Now he wasn’t averse to marrying Mabel – she was a much better cook than Victory – but how could he possibly have a wedding before his own daughter?

  And that was the crux of the matter. Although it grieved him to admit it, he needed to ask Jimmy’s advice – except that his friend had gone decidedly lily livered since that slight hiccup with Victory and Noah last year.

  Suddenly the door to the Ship opened, bringing with it a blast of fresh air, and, much to the Admiral’s relief, the small figure of Jimmy – along with Pickles who had apparently been sitting patiently outside in the porch for the last twenty minutes.

  ‘Sorry I’m late Sir,’ Jimmy breathed, hurriedly divesting himself of his coat on the way to the bar. ‘Had a few things to do with Emily this morning.’

  Admiral Shackleford resisted the urge to ask exactly what could be more important than their Friday lunch time drink - mostly because he was actually worried that Jimmy might tell him. He contented himself with a frown and a slight sniff. At least his friend hadn’t gone completely AWOL, and still understood the importance of recognizing rank.

  Signalling to the barmaid to bring another pint for himself and one for Jimmy, the Admiral waited impatiently for the smaller man to climb onto his bar stool and get settled. In the end, his impatience got the better of him. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing Jimmy?’ he demanded irritably, as Jimmy continued to shuffle his bottom. ‘You look like a trained monkey.’

  Glancing up at his friend’s crotchety face, Jimmy nevertheless persisted with his fidgeting, until eventually, settled to his satisfaction, he leaned forward and picked his beer up from the bar. ‘Got the stool with the rip in,’ he finally responded mildly before taking a long draft of his pint.

  The Admiral had never wanted to turn the clock back more than at that particular moment. A year ago, such an offhand comment would have resulted in Jimmy doing four days dishwasher duty. That bloody woman he was married to had a lot to answer for. Taking a hasty swallow of his own beer, the Admiral stemmed his rising frustration, reminding himself that he needed his friend’s help.

  Placing his pint decisively back on the bar, the Admiral took a deep breath. ‘The thing is Jimmy lad, I’ve got a bit of a situation and, even though you’re usually as much use as tits on a bull, it has to be said that two brains focusing on the problem are much better than one.’

  Jimmy put his own drink back on the bar and turned towards the Admiral with a frown. What the hell had the silly bugger got himself involved in now? He was tempted to tell the conniving old shark exactly what he could do with his situation, but at the end of the day, old habits really do die hard, and, as much as he’d promised Emily that he wouldn’t get drawn into to any more of the Admiral’s harebrained schemes, he heard himself saying, ‘What can I do for you Sir?’

  ‘That’s the spirit Jimmy,’ the Admiral responded enthusiastically, causing Jimmy’s heart to plummet in alarm. ‘See, even though I was selflessly instrumental in bringing Noah and Victory together…’ Jimmy’s look of complete incredulity caused him to falter slightly, but after a short pause, he coughed and ploughed on determinedly, ‘…it occurred to me that they are not yet exactly together.’ He halted expectantly, waiting for Jimmy to acknowledge his superior observational skills. Instead he watched his friend go an interesting shade of purple while making peculiar strangling sounds.

  Just when as he was about to ask if the cat had got his tongue, the Admiral jumped as Jimmy leaped off the stool shouting, ‘Are you out of your mi...?’ only to be cut off as he landed straight on top of Pickles’ tail. The elderly Springer, who’d been dozing contentedly at their feet, took off like a sprightly two year old, leaving Jimmy pole axed at Charles Shackleford’s feet.

  Ignoring his dog who was now sitting shivering behind the bar, the Admiral stared down in astonishment at his friend lying stunned in front of him. ‘What the bollocking hell’s wrong with you today man, you’re acting like a lost fart in a haunted milk bottle. Have you been on the hard stuff?’

  Staring up at the red veined face directly above him, Jimmy opened his mouth but nothing came out. It had to be said, he actually felt a bit light headed – not surprising really as he’d cracked his head on the edge of the stool on his way down. Gingerly feeling around the back of his skull for a lump, he managed to sit up with absolutely no help from the Admiral who was still staring at him as though he were a particularly bizarre form of aquatic life.

  Finally staggering to his feet, Jimmy clambered shakily back onto his stool while trying to gather his scattered wits together. Charles Shackleford shook his head at his friend’s apparent clumsiness as he handed him his pint with a nod towards its amber contents. ‘Drink that lad, it’ll put you back on your feet. Can’t think what’s got into you today. Lucky the pub’s not full. PICKLES…’ The last was shouted at the top of his voice causing Jimmy to wince and close his eyes. Appearing round the corner of the bar looking sheepish but none the worse for wear, Pi
ckles gingerly returned to his earlier spot, keeping a wary eye out for any further falling limbs.

  ‘So Jimmy boy,’ the Admiral continued, completely dismissing his friend’s recent brush with possible death or at least the odd broken bone, ‘Bottom line is I want to marry Mabel but can’t do it while our Victory’s still not hitched. What do you think? I’m counting on you. In the words of Black Adder, we need to come up with a plan so cunning you could stick a tail on it and call it a fox…’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Hang on a minute Dotty, I’ll be with you in a couple of seconds, just don’t christen the fifteen thousand pound Persian rug in the meantime.’ Hurriedly I finish attaching the last hook onto the curtain rail and clamber down the step ladder to let the little dog out into the garden. Smiling, I watch her immediately dash off in a flurry of excited barking towards a particularly large crow sitting eyeing her disdainfully from the fence. Then, as she disappears from view, I turn back to survey my handiwork.

  Fourteen months, one week and three days after starting this project, Noah’s house is finally beginning to look like a home. I’ve just finished hanging the last of the curtains up to the enormous bi-fold doors leading out onto the newly constructed porch and terrace beyond, and, though I say so myself, the room really is beautiful. Decorated in soft pastel blues and greys so reminiscent of the British seaside, the drawing room seems to echo the ever changing moods of the ocean. It hardly resembles the one I sat in so many months ago while trying to convince Noah Westbrook, aka gorgeous Hollywood superstar, to let me be his decorator. Taking a chance on an unknown is typical of the enigma that is Noah. And, of course, falling in love with one is too.

  Sighing I pick up the step ladders and take them into the utility room. My arms are aching after holding heavy fabric in the air for so long and I rub them absently as I wander back into the bright shiny state of the art kitchen.

  The last year has been an amazing roller coaster. Working on the house in between travelling to see Noah on location as he finished filming The Bridegroom, dodging the paparazzi, and culminating in the premier in Leicester Square. The film has been a huge success, helping to cement Noah’s status as the most in demand actor in the world.

  The problem is, I don’t know where that leaves me. His house is practically finished. His house. I don’t need a ring, I really don’t, but it’s difficult loving someone who everyone wants a piece of, especially when I can in no way compete. I know I sound whiny, ungrateful, not to mention downright pathetic, and when Noah and I are together, everything is fine.

  It’s when we’re apart that the uncertainties rear their ugly heads, and right now, that’s most of the time. I haven’t actually seen Noah since the premier nearly six weeks ago. He’s off filming his latest blockbuster – a sci-fi thriller. Still, apparently they’re going to be on location in Ireland over the next few weeks, so at least we’ll only have the Irish sea separating us and hopefully we might grab some private time together.

  Dotty’s barking and scratching at the door pulls me out of my maudlin reverie and I make a concerted effort to pull myself together as I go to let her back in. Live for the present, I tell myself sternly and stop analyzing everything to the nth degree…

  As I open the door, my mobile phone rings, and looking down I smile as Kit’s name comes up on the screen. I haven’t seen my best friend for over a week as she’s been off on one of her buying trips for the gallery.

  ‘Hey Kitty Kat, how’s it going, you back?’ ask, closing the door as Dotty comes shooting in.

  ‘Yeah, home safe and sound,’ she responds, ‘I cut the trip short to get back into Dartmouth before the madness of Regatta week and no parking spaces within a ten mile radius.’ She pauses, then goes on carefully, ‘Will Noah be coming back for the Regatta?’

  ‘Doubtful,’ is my glum response.

  ‘Then we’ll just have to party without him.’ Kit’s tone as always pulls me out of my down in the dumps mood and I can’t help but picture the mischief we’ve got up to in previous regattas over the years.

  Dartmouth Royal Regatta Sailing week is arguably one the UK’s oldest sailing regattas. It’s definitely one of the most popular and the town is usually crammed throughout the week for the various on shore and off shore entertainment. Basically, a whole week of total chaos…

  Smiling, I ask if she’s crewing for Ben Sheppherd this year.

  ‘Don’t think so, haven’t seen him for a while. Not even sure he’s racing this year. Rumour has it he’s split up with his wife and taking it pretty bad.’

  ‘Wow, bummer. I thought they were really good together. He absolutely idolized her. If you see him, tell him how sorry I am.’ Then, determinedly changing the subject from couples splitting up, ‘So, how did the shopping go?’

  ‘Pretty successful, I managed to bag some nice goodies for the lead up to Christmas. Just don’t like thinking about it in August.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ I respond resolutely refusing to think about Christmas and exactly where Noah and I will be then.

  ‘You fancy exchanging your ivory palace in progress for the cosy delights of the Cherub and a bottle of wine?’ As usual Kit immediately senses my anxiety and takes the best possible steps to alleviate it. What on earth would I do without her?

  ‘Sounds good.’ I smile down the phone before glancing down at my watch and adding, ‘Early doors?’

  ‘Perfect, see you there at six. We’ll discuss our plans for the Regatta. It’s only two weeks away. Me thinks we might need some chips, you know, added brain power…’

  Laughing I put down the phone, my good humour restored. ‘Come on Dotspot, our shift’s over for the day.’ Dotty looks up from her frenzied back scratching on said fifteen thousand pound rug, before rolling over and doing a bit of enthusiastic digging. I can’t help but wince a little as I hurriedly pick her up. Good job Noah’s not too house proud.

  After checking everything’s okay, I set the alarm before heading out of the front door. As I walk towards my car parked a little way down the narrow road, I pause and turn back to view the small section of Noah’s house that’s visible from the road. It really is a hidden gem. To anyone passing, it appears to be a small bungalow set on the side of the road, but that impression is completely misleading. The vast majority of the house is completely concealed from the road and is set into the hillside with its garden stretching down towards the beautiful River Dart.

  Turning back to my car, I unlock the door and put Dotty on the back seat. As I make my way round to the driver’s side, her sudden excited barking makes me jump and I look up to see a familiar figure making his way from under some trees down the road.

  Sighing, I lean back against the driver’s door. ‘Hello Harry, how long have you been lurking in the bushes?’

  ‘Not long,’ comes the cheerful reply, ‘Only a couple of hours.’

  ‘You do know that Noah’s not here don’t you?’ Harry freelances for one of the more lurid tabloids, but unlike most of the paparazzi, he actually seems nice. We’ve had several in depth discussions about the sorry state of journalism today and most of the pictures he’s taken of me have actually been quite flattering – in fact I think he might even have airbrushed a couple...

  ‘I know. He’s on his way to Al Massira airport in Morocco as we speak,’ he responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. I shake my head ruefully in recognition that the small man knows more about my beloved’s whereabouts than I do. ‘It’s actually you I wanted to speak to.’ I frown at the unaccustomed seriousness in his voice and my heart thuds painfully in my chest.

  I resist the urge to jump in the car and drive away as something in his tone tells me I don’t really want to hear what he has to say. Instead I offer him a lift down into Kingswear, my heart beating faster as he nods his head solemnly and walks round to the passenger side without saying anything else.

  For the next few moments, the only sound in the car is me as I start the engine, and Dotty as she throws herself joyfully into H
arry’s lap. That’s another reason why I like him. Dotty’s a very good judge of character. As I wind my way carefully down the road towards Kingswear, I risk glancing over at him, just as he raises his head to look over at me. This time my heart lurches sickeningly as I witness the sympathy in his gaze.

  Not again, please, please, not again.

  I turn my eyes determinedly back to the road as I wait for him to tell me that Noah has been caught in a compromising position with one of the bevy of beautiful women that hover around him like bees round a honey pot. To my surprise, his first words aren’t about Noah at all. ‘Word on the streets is they’ve dug up some dirt on your old man.’ I pull a face as his words sink in. ‘What, like he was possibly the worst two star ever to grace the Royal Navy’s wall of fame? I think that’s common knowledge sunshine.’

  ‘Trust me Tory, it’s much worse than that. God knows how, but they’ve unearthed a retired Thai prostitute who says your father murdered her husband.

  I’m on my second glass of wine and I’m only now beginning to calm down. Harry didn’t know the full story, only that the incident allegedly happened when my father was a lowly Lieutenant.

  After dropping Harry off at the Passenger Ferry in Kingswear, I drove round to the Admiralty like I was auditioning for Brands Hatch, but there was no sign of my father, or Pickles for that matter. I tried his mobile phone but like always, it was switched off. In the end, I called Kit to tell her that I wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be coming over to the Cherub, poured myself a large glass of wine, and sat down in his study to wait. My mind is now racing. How on earth could my bluff, big hearted, irresponsible father possibly have murdered anybody? God knows I’ve been tempted to do him in myself a few times. Un-PC he might be, but a murderer, never. And what the hell was he doing getting involved with a Thai prostitute (well obviously I do know, but still…) And anyway wasn’t he with mum by the time he joined the Royal Navy… Oh God, I’m just going round in circles. I daren’t even think about how this is going to affect Noah.