Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Page 2
Suddenly my endless head chatter is interrupted by the sound of a door opening. I know it’s the Admiral because Dotty is beside herself with happiness (at seeing Pickles, not my father…) I stand nervously, gripping my half empty glass like a lifeline and wait for him to open the study door.
‘Victory,’ he shouts as he stomps across the hall, obviously nearly falling over Pickles in the process if the sudden crash and, ‘Bloody hell dog, you’ll have me arse over tit in a minute,’ is anything to go by. ‘Vict….’ He stutters to a halt as he throws open the study door and sees me standing there. It’s so unusual for him to find me in his personal sanctuary that for a couple of seconds he’s actually lost for words. Then, taking in my white face and stiff posture, he turns and closes the door before saying in an uncharacteristically mild tone, ‘Do I need a drop of the hard stuff before we start?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I can tell he thinks this is all about Noah. He has absolutely no idea of the bombshell I’m about to drop. I sit down and try to compose myself as he helps himself to a glass of port. Even Dotty and Pickles sense that something is wrong as they sit side by side on the rug and stare anxiously at us both.
‘Right then.’ His voice is matter of fact as he plonks himself in his chair opposite. ‘Come on girl, spit it out. Has the Yank dumped you or what?’
I shake my head, for once completely oblivious to his less than gentle method of questioning. ‘No, well, not yet anyway.’ I hold my hand up as he tries to interrupt, and continue breathlessly, ‘It’s not about Noah dad. It’s about you.’ At his frown, I take a large gulp of my wine and finish in a rush, ‘Dad they’re saying you killed a Thai prostitute, well not a prostitute exactly, but the husband of one. You didn’t did you? You couldn’t possibly have done something like that could you? I mean what were you doing in Thailand and why would you have anything to do with a prostitute, or the husband of one? Weren’t you and mum married by then?’ I splutter to a halt, the sick feeling intensifying in my stomach as I take in his stillness and sudden pallor.
The silence lengthens. ‘Dad?’ I whisper, fear clogging my throat at his failure to answer. ‘Please dad, you have to talk to me. It’s going to be all over the news by the weekend.’ For a few more seconds, I actually think he’s not going to answer and I have to resist the urge to get up and shake him. Then he sighs and closes his eyes briefly before swallowing his glass of port in one go.
Finally he looks across at me. ‘I didn’t kill anyone Victory, nobody did. It was an accident.’ And, despite my best efforts, he refuses to say another word.
Daylight is beginning to fade into dusk outside as dad and I continue to sit in silence. According to Harry, the story will break in the next couple of days, and I want to scream and shout at my father, beg him to come clean and tell the world what really happened, but I know how he works. Begging and pleading will get me nowhere. So instead I do nothing, simply stare into my now empty glass and wish I could drown my sorrows in the rest of the bottle.
‘I need to speak to Jimmy.’ His sudden announcement makes me jump and I look up as he stands to fish his mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘Why,’ I ask bluntly, ‘Is he involved in this mess too?’ My father’s answer is to raise his eyebrows and frown at me until sighing, I climb reluctantly out of my chair and turn on the lamps. I need to speak to Noah too, as soon as possible. Trouble is, I can’t bring myself to do it just yet. I have no idea what he’ll say. Leaving dad to his phone call, I head to the kitchen to sort out dog food and make some sandwiches - mostly as something solid to soak up the wine (the sandwiches that is, not the dog food…)
My mind stays blessedly numb as I focus determinedly on the mundane actions of spreading and cutting, and when my father pushes open the kitchen door ten minutes later, I’m surprised to note that I’ve used up nearly a whole loaf of bread. ‘Bollocking hell Victory, we might have a bit of a problem, but we’re not on the verge of a bloody famine.’ I stare down at the knife in my hand and grit my teeth. A bit of a problem? I’ll give him a bit of a problem…
Leaning down to grab one of the sandwiches, my father waves it at me before taking a large appreciative bite, completely oblivious to my murderous thoughts. ‘Everything’s going to be shipshape Victory, don’t you worry. Thing is, they can’t prove anything.’ The breadcrumbs spraying everywhere are the least of my worries as I stare incredulously at him. ‘Nobody was done in, it’s all just a big misunderstanding. All we need to do is lie low for a bit and it’ll all blow over, you’ll see.’
Obviously my completely deluded parent has recovered from his brief spell of vulnerability and is now firmly back in cloud cuckoo land. ‘Dad, they are going to hang you out to dry. Can’t you see that?’ My voice has risen to a shout and I take a deep breath in an effort to calm down. ‘The police will want to question you,’ I continue more evenly. ‘You won’t be able to lie low anywhere. You could even go to prison. We’re talking about a murder dad, not just a one day wonder of an ex-Admiral shagging a hooker forty years ago…’
He sighs, looking for all the world as though I’m the problem. ‘You don’t need to worry,’ he says again, slowly this time. ‘I’ll turn myself in, they’ll let me out on bail and then we’ll hole up somewhere quiet until it’s all sorted.’ I gawp at him in complete disbelief at his naivety. ‘So what exactly are you going to say happened dad? How are you going to explain it? You said it was an accident.’
‘Aye, it was,’ he responds firmly. ‘But I won’t be breathing a word of what happened to you or anyone else.’ Then he glares at me with uncharacteristic steel and, for the first time ever, I see a glimmer of the qualities that got him promoted to Admiral. ‘I’ll sort this bloody mess out Victory and I don’t want you involved. I mean it, you leave this to me. If you so much as stick your little toe into this mess, I will no longer call you my daughter. And with that he grabs another sandwich, calls to Pickles and disappears out of the door.
~*~
Most of the pub’s regulars had gone by the time the Admiral arrived at the Ship although there were still a few die hard tourists sitting outside making the most of the last of the sun’s rays in the deepening twilight. It had taken him exactly seventeen minutes to get here which he thought might actually be a record.
Pausing to get his breath back, he looked round the nearly empty bar and immediately spotted Jimmy nursing his beer in the corner. The smaller man was irritably wondering why the Admiral had insisted they meet for a drink just as CSI was about to start on the TV. He’d nearly refused to come, especially as Emily had only a minute ago brought out some cheese and pickles for supper, but something in the Admiral’s voice had made him hesitate, and, after assuring his wife that he’d only stay for a quick pint, he swallowed his sudden apprehension and hurried round the corner to The Ship.
‘So what’s this all about Sir?’ Jimmy asked brusquely once the Admiral had ordered a pint and settled himself in the seat opposite. ‘You’re surely not serious about meddling in Tory’s business again are you?’ The Admiral frowned at his friend’s choice of words – if he hadn’t “meddled” nearly forty years ago, things would be looking very different now and he’d a good mind to tell him so. Then he sighed. It wouldn’t do either of them any good to start throwing stones this late in the day. ‘I wish that’s all it was Jimmy lad, but our Victory’s love life is the least of our worries at the moment. In fact, I’m pretty certain she won’t even have one once everything comes out. No, I’m afraid this is about you and me Jim and what I’m about to tell you will be as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit.’
The Admiral paused, unable to continue as he watched the colour drain from his friend’s face. Stalling for time, he took a long draft of his pint, and decided that the only way to break the news of the impending disaster was to just come out with it.
Placing the glass carefully back on the table in front of him, he raised his eyes back to Jimmy’s stricken ones. His oldest friend knew what was coming.
‘T
he Hermes problem’s finally surfaced again,’ he said bluntly, finally, ‘and the cat is well and truly out of the bag this time.’
An hour later, the two men parted ways outside the pub. The Admiral stood for a second, watching his friend’s bent shoulders and slow steps with an unexpectedly heavy heart. He’d believed he’d give anything to have his relationship with Jimmy back to the way it used to be.
But not this, never this.
~*~
It’s eleven o’clock at night. My mobile phone keeps ringing. Noah and Kit. Both are probably worried sick about me by now. I text Kit, still keeping up the pretence of a sudden virus, promising I’ll call her tomorrow. She knows something fishy’s going on, but what exactly am I going to tell her? Will she believe my father’s capable of murder?
But whatever happens, I have to tell Noah. I owe him that much and dad knows it. Of course there’s no way we can be together after this. It could completely ruin his career. Although come to think of it, Hugh Grant got away with being involved with a lady of the night and it even enhanced his career – although it has to be said he didn’t actually murder either her or her any of her family, so I suppose it’s not quite the same.
I roll over and cuddle Dotty to me. She’s snoring happily, completely oblivious to the disaster looming – oh to be a dog…
I know I can’t put it off any longer. Sitting up I shuffle backwards until I’m leaning against the bed headboard and dial Noah’s number…
…Only to have it go straight to answer phone. I dial again and listen to Noah’s sexy voice telling me to leave a message. And again. And again. By now I’m getting completely frantic. How on earth can I tell him everything by answer phone? Why the bloody hell didn’t I just answer the phone when he called? In the end I ask him to ring me as soon as he gets my message. Then just as I disconnect the call, I see a red light flashing, indicating I have a message of my own. Almost crying with relief, I guess we’re playing answer phone ping pong and press the button to listen.
‘Hi babe, sorry I missed you, but wanted to let you know I’ll have no signal over the next couple days as we’re filming in the hills of Tenerife. Will try and get to a landline to call you when I can but as we’re well and truly roughing it, could be the weekend before I manage it. Missing you Tor, won’t be long until we’re together again, I promise. Take care gorgeous, love you loads.’
I feel sick.
Chapter Three
After the fifth time calling Tory’s number, Noah was forced to leave a message in case he lost the signal. A short time later, after checking again, it was gone. Sighing, he leant back against the seat of the luxury coach they were travelling in. It was already dark outside, twilight coming early and suddenly this near to the equator. Noah hated this kind of inactivity. Not speaking to Tory had left him on edge. He hoped she was ok. It had been tough the last few weeks and he knew the separation was getting to both of them. Tory wasn’t used to living in the limelight and hated the constant presence of the paparazzi, the speculation and bitchy, vindictive comments that appeared with unfailing regularity on the internet and in the entertainment magazines. He’d yet to take her over to California to meet his sister and her family which would have gone a long way to showing her just how normal his background was. Filming commitments had gotten in the way and he didn’t think they’d get time to visit with Kim and Ben until this movie was finished.
His musings were cut short by the arrival of his latest female co-star. Unlike Gaynor, there was no history between them – in fact they’d never met before the set of this movie. Laurel Price was a dark sultry beauty proclaiming her roots in the Middle East. However, despite her looks, she was British through and through, having grown up on a council estate in Leeds and declaring herself, ‘A proud Yorkshire lass right through to me knickers.’ Also unlike Gaynor, she had no airs and graces, no prima donna tendencies and considered herself just one of the crew. She’d done her time in British TV dramas and was now on the cusp of superstardom. Her first major movie role with Noah Westbrook was her agent’s wildest dream.
‘Did you manage to get through?’ she asked, seating herself next to him. Noah simply shook his head, not in the mood for an extended conversation. As likeable as Laurel was, he quickly realized she’d talk for England given half a chance.
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ Laurel went on, completely ignoring his disinclination to talk. She and Tory had met a couple of times during the course of filming and luckily got on like a house on fire, which was a real bonus considering the usual tabloid speculations about male and female leads extending their on screen chemistry off screen - especially after the craziness of The Bridegroom.
Noah knew she was probably right, but for some reason he was anxious. It didn’t help that he’d had a conversation with his own agent earlier who made no bones about the fact that he believed Tory was bad for his career.
‘Your fans want you single. They need to believe they’ve all got the same kinda chance as Tory. You’ve gotten everything you’re gonna get out of that relationship Noah, you need to bail.’
Noah had no intention of giving Tory up. She was the most important thing in his life right now, and, although he hadn’t yet said so to his agent, if it came to choosing between them, he would bail on his career before he let Victory go. However, this was a conversation he knew was coming and unbeknown to Tim, he’d already made discreet enquires about moving to a different agent – one who wasn’t quite so single mindedly ruthless.
The coach was going tortuously slow, winding its way around the hair-raisingly narrow road up into the foothills towards Mount Teide and the bizarre lunar landscape that made Tenerife so popular for makers of science fiction movies. For once Laurel seemed content to let the silence continue, and after giving her a quick grateful smile, Noah closed his eyes, smothered his unease and tried to get some sleep.
~*~
It’s six o’clock in the morning and I haven’t slept a wink all night. Despite endless scenarios playing themselves in full technicolour inside my head, I’m no closer to coming up with some kind of a solution to our “bit of a problem.” So far the only two things that I keep coming back to are…
1. I have to speak to Noah before someone else does
2. I have to pack my bags and get the hell out of Dartmouth before the shit completely hits the fan.
By six thirty, I give up trying to sleep and, much to Dotty’s disgust, I climb out of bed and throw open the curtains. It’s a beautiful day. How can it be a beautiful day when I’m about to become notorious – and for all the wrong reasons?
Heading downstairs in my dressing gown, I leave Dotty snoozing, knowing she’ll come down when her bladder’s unable to hang on any longer. There’s no sign of my father or Pickles, leaving me to assume he’s not had any sleep either. I put the kettle on and seat myself at the kitchen table while I wait for it to boil. My stomach roils queasily at the thought of eating anything, so I close my eyes and for a few seconds lose myself in the fantasy that it’s all a big mistake and my father is not about to become responsible for the biggest naval scandal since Admiral Nelson got involved with “that Hamilton woman”. I’m just getting to the part where Noah and I are laughing about the silliness of it all, when I’m brought back to reality by the sound of barking in the front garden. Recognizing Pickles, I jump up and open the door. Wagging his tail furiously, the elderly Springer dashes in and I leave the door open, knowing my father will appear at some point. Just as I finish the process of making tea – the English man’s choice of beverage in a crisis (and mine when it’s too early for a glass of wine), Dotty comes tearing into the kitchen, all thoughts of a lie-in forgotten with the arrival of her hero. I smile as I see them dance around each other before dashing back out into the garden. Picking up my cup, I take my tea and stand in the open doorway, watching them play.
It’s a truly beautiful day, so typical of early August. Sipping my tea, I stand and stare at the amazing panorama laid out before me. T
he sunlight is dancing on the River Dart and shimmering over the hills behind. All is silent apart from the muted noise of the car ferry, nearly empty at this time in the morning. The whole thing seems so surreal. My life is falling apart and yet everything looks exactly the same. I’m so scared that Noah will hear the sordid details before I have chance to speak to him, but then, does it really matter? Maybe it will actually work out better if he believes the worst from the off. It will make it much easier to walk away.
‘You keep telling yourself that Victory Shackleford.’ My inner voice is scathing, but luckily I’m saved from listening to it for long by the dulcet tones of my father yelling from the other side of the shiny new gates that protect us from the road behind the house. ‘Victory, the bloody mutt has locked me out again.’ The massive gates had come courtesy of The Bridegroom. Designed to protect us against anything from an influx of reporters to an avalanche, their only problem is a tendency to slam shut behind anyone, man or beast, who pushes them open too forcefully. I know my father has a habit of leaving them ajar when he goes out – mostly because he always forgets to take the remote control with him. Heading back into the kitchen to look for it, I reflect it’s one habit he’s definitely going to have to ditch or we’re likely to be overrun with paparazzi hiding in our flower beds.
Two minutes later he appears at the back door. He looks as though he’s slept in his clothes, but then I wonder if he’s actually been to bed. I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, but his next words stop me in my tracks.
‘Right then, get your bags packed Victory, we’re heading north.’ His tone is definitely not that of a man condemned and my heart lifts slightly as I wonder if he’s actually found a way to wriggle out of the mess we’re in.