One Secret Summer
‘Packed with glamour, power and revenge – 4 stars’
Heat
‘Success, glamour and love … the action sweeps from London to Zimbabwe … tragic and sophisticated’
Daily Mirror
‘A delicious tale of power, revenge and true friendship’
Daily Express
‘A very 21st-century blockbuster … Much more than a coming-of-age tale, this creates a glamorous and exciting world that is
so contemporary and convincing you’ll feel like a special fifth member of their group’
Cosmopolitan
‘A sassy novel … sex, money and evil intent – the perfect mix for a summer blockbuster’
Bella
‘Ticks all the boxes: wealth, privilege, power, revenge, ambition and intrigue’
Sunday Herald
‘This is everything you’d expect of a blockbuster – glamorous locations, ambitious female protagonists and a singing, gliding
narrative’
Glamour
‘A novel where Glamour with a capital ‘‘G’’ is the entire raison d’être … refreshingly, wonderfully unpretentious … Lokko
has the skill to make you care about what happens to the characters … this is her first novel. I’m looking forward to her
next one already’
Sunday Express
‘Exciting from start to finish. It’s well-written, engaging and fast-paced, with a plot you’ll be gripped by … I couldn’t
put it down’
Daily Mail
After various careers from cocktail waitress to kibbutz worker, Lesley Lokko trained as an architect, but always dreamt of
writing. Five novels later, Lesley now splits her time between Johannesburg and London. Find out more at
www.lesleylokko.com
.
Sundowners
Saffron Skies
Bitter Chocolate
Rich Girl, Poor Girl
One Secret Summer
One Secret
Summer
Lesley Lokko
In memory of Charles
Grateful thanks are due to a number of people whom I never actually met during the writing of this novel but whose works were
both inspiring and insightful. Chief among those is the award-winning journalist and reporter Rageh Omaar, for his autobiography,
Only Half of Me: British and Muslim; the Conflict Within
(Penguin: 2006); John Burnett, for his book,
Where Soldiers Fear to Tread
(Heinemann: 2005) and Scott Peterson, for his account of war in
Me Against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan and Rwanda
(Routledge: 2001). For once, this novel
wasn’t
written in a remote cottage in the Scottish hills but in Accra, Johannesburg and Houston during the final phase of the US
presidential race, which in itself was a war of a different sort. Big thanks to Kevin and Carol McNulty for their warmth and
hospitality (and far too many great dinners!). I would also like to thank Nicola Trott, Lihua Li, Tim Soutphommasane and the
Praefectus of Balliol College, Professor Diego Zancani, for their immense generosity and time in showing me around Holywell
Manor and Balliol College, Oxford. Thanks too to Poppy Miller and Janice Acquah for their help in understanding the torment
and joy of drama. In Accra, thanks go to the GNO team – Wild Lizzie, Nana Amu, Natasha, Poem and Vera – as well as all the
usual suspects, Vic, Patrick, Sean, Elkin, Joe, Delta Kilo and Irene; the glorious guys at Chain Gang, especially Raila, and
Sunshine, and finally, in Biriwa, Carsten, Marcel and Rudi. In Jo’burg, Kate, Paloma and Paris have made me a very special
home in all senses of the word, a huge thank you to them – and the same goes to the Jozi ‘new crew’ – Trev T, Veronica, Caroline,
Eva, Rootie, Moky, Jutta, Chiluba, Denise and
Krisen. Kay Preston (yet
again
) and Margie Wilson continue to show me the light; Kate Mills, Lisa Milton, Susan Lamb, Gaby Young and the whole Orion team
are, as always, wonderful. A big thank you to my sister, Debbie (and especially to those wonderful people at Skype); to Megs,
Lois, Nick, Paul and Mae-Ling, and finally to my father and stepmother, whose unequivocal love and support this year has been
the most significant of my life.
PART ONE
Prologue
Mougins, France, June 1969
The dull, mechanical sound of metal hitting the earth came to the young woman as if from far, far away. She watched in silence,
arms wrapped tightly around her waist, as the two men scooped out a small, shallow hole in the ground, pausing only to wipe
their faces or mark out the limits of the dig. An owl whooshed past, his gentle enquiring call puncturing the balmy night
air. The smell of olive and pine trees drifted up to her from the valley below; she knew already the scent would be with her
for the rest of her life.
Finally it was done. One of the men called out something softly in their own language to the other. She watched as the small
bundle was passed carefully to him, already wrapped in the white muslin sheet that was their custom, and placed into the ground.
A tiny stifled sound escaped from her throat but was swallowed up in the soft ‘thwack’ of earth as they quickly began covering
the hole up again. It took them almost no time at all. The ground was patted flat, the flagstones replaced, stamped over,
made new. In the morning they would begin the work of resurfacing the driveway … in a few days, no one would ever know what
lay beneath. Buried, disposed of, forgotten. She would never see the men again. That was part of the deal. Neither looked
at her as they walked past; that, too, was part of the deal. She turned and watched them as they put away the shovels in the
small lean-to at the top of the drive, and then they were gone. She waited for a few moments and then walked slowly back into
the house and bolted the door behind her. Her teeth were chattering. She poured herself a
brandy and took it into the living room. She couldn’t bear to go upstairs.
She curled herself up beside the empty fireplace where she’d slept for the past six nights, clutching her drink. It took her
almost the entire glass to stop shivering. She forced herself to think of what would happen next. Alongside the new driveway,
in the morning something else would be delivered. Something that would put an end to the nightmare that had begun a week ago
and make everything all right. Everything. Nothing would have changed; it would never have happened. No one would ever know.
She took one last swallow of brandy, willing herself desperately to believe it. No one
could
ever know. If it ever came out, she would be finished. They would all be finished. There was simply no other way, no other
choice. This was how it would be. Always.
JOSH
Mougins, France, July 1973
The ground underfoot was hot in that delicious, beginning-of-the-summer-holidays way; air electric with the sound of insects
pulsing thickly with banked-up warmth. Overhead the intense blue sky yawned endlessly towards the horizon. Josh Keeler, four
years old and marching along the path with all the determination of a seasoned jungle explorer, could scarcely contain his
excitement. Ahead of him, his two older brothers, Rafe and Aaron, danced their way around the reassuringly solid shape of
Harvey, their father. Trailing behind, in a pretty flowery dress of the sort she only ever wore on holiday, Diana, their mother,
brought up the rear, humming to herself in a way that she never did in London.
The pink oleanders that lined the path to the pool swatted his face as he hurried after them, anxious to keep up. His whole
body was suffused with anticipatory joy. This year he was going to learn how to swim. His brothers were already strong swimmers;
they’d had lessons at school. Josh was just about to begin. It was hard being the youngest, especially when Rafe and Aaron
took no more notice of him than they did of Buster, the family dog. He longed to be like them; for them to like him. He couldn’t
understand why they didn’t.
It was almost as warm inside the silky envelope of the pool as it was outside. He felt the gentle pressure of his father’s
hand cupping his chin and tried to remember what he’d been told about frogging his legs to keep his body level with the surface
of the water. Rafe and Aaron were clowning around confidently
at the far end of the pool, scrambling in and out of the water and diving in off the side. It would be years before he could
do any of that, he thought to himself miserably as he struggled to stay afloat. A few seconds later, he heard Rafe shouting.
He felt his father’s attention leave; his fleshy, breathing presence momentarily disengaging itself as he turned towards Rafe.
The water pushed away from him as Harvey lunged out. There was a sudden lull, as if he were falling, and then everything seemed
to happen at once. Water rushed up at him, covering his mouth and nose. He panicked, swinging his arms wildly above his head
as his legs dropped and the water closed over his face again. He burst through the surface, clawing at the air, but there
was nothing to hold on to. He opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of Aaron staring calmly at him before he went under again.
No one moved, no hands came out to hold him. It was quiet there in the swirling depths; his lungs were almost bursting with
the desire to breathe. He was afraid to open his eyes. The taste of chlorinated water filled his mouth, bubbling upwards painfully
through his nose. He felt the hot smarting of tears behind his eyes; shame flooded over him like a stain. It wouldn’t do to
cry in front of Aaron. Or Rafe, for that matter. It simply wouldn’t do.