Authors: Serena Mackesy
Simply Heaven
Chapter One: The Proverbial Thunderbolt
Chapter Seven: In at the Deep End
Chapter Eight: How’s it Going?
Chapter Eleven: Brave New World
Chapter Thirteen: Simply Heaven
Chapter Sixteen: The Painted Hussy
Chapter Eighteen: The Earth Moves
Chapter Nineteen: Meet the Family
Chapter Twenty: Welcome to Bourton Allhallows
Chapter Twenty-One: Up on the Roof
Chapter Twenty-Two: Papering Over the Cracks
Chapter Twenty-Three: Eavesdropping
Chapter Twenty-Six: Clompy Shoes
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Brief Encounter
Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Conversation
Chapter Thirty-One: In the Deep Woods
Chapter Thirty-Three: The Maven
Chapter Thirty-Four: Jesus Bloody Christ on a Bike
Chapter Thirty-Six: A Bit of a Rub-Down
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Barbara Cartland
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Mummydaddy
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Could Do with a Dusting
Chapter Forty-One: Crack in the Earth
Chapter Forty-Two: Dad’s Big Gesture
Chapter Forty-Three: Contains Sexual Content That Some Might Find Disturbing
Chapter Forty-Four: Happy Crimbo
Chapter Forty-Five: Beware of Greeks Bearing Gifts
Chapter Forty-Six: Dad of the Year
Chapter Forty-Seven: Mum’s Opinion
Chapter Forty-Eight: Daddy’s Girl
Chapter Fifty: The Immortal Stain
Chapter Fifty-One: The First Mrs Wattestone
Chapter Fifty-Two: Souvenirs of the Apocalypse
Chapter Fifty-Three: To Think of What We’ve Done for You
Chapter Fifty-Four: What Did You Do …?
Chapter Fifty-Five: And on Your Children’s Children
Chapter Fifty-Six: Sorry, Sorry, Sorry
Chapter Fifty-Eight: I’m Just Saying …
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Under the Doctor
Chapter Sixty: A Medical Opinion
Chapter Sixty-One: The Fall of the House of Wattestone
Chapter Sixty-Two: Selling off the Silver
Chapter Sixty-Three: Losing Rufus
Chapter Sixty-Four: False Spring
Chapter Sixty-Five: A Deciding Moment
Chapter Sixty-Six: I Kneel Before You
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Don’t You Ever Knock?
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Cataclysm
Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Unspeakable in Pursuit of the Uneatable
Chapter Seventy: Gone to Ground
Chapter Seventy-One: Priest Hole
Chapter Seventy-Three: What Happened in Between
Chapter Seventy-Five: Precious Life
Chapter Seventy-Six: The Polyester Angels
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Saved by the Cell
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Contact
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Two Can Play at that Game
Chapter Eighty-One: The Nearest Equivalent
Chapter Eighty-Two: The Last Heir
Chapter Eighty-Three: All For You
When Mel, an Australian abroad, falls in love with Rufus, the archetypal Englishman, she has no idea what she’s letting herself in for. But it is only when their azure Mediterranean courtship is transported to the green fields of England that Melody’s doubts set in. For Rufus is heir to the thousand-year-old Bourton Allhallows estate, and Melody is soon painfully aware that, in his family’s eyes, an antipodean backpacker is far from the ideal wife.
Trapped in a way of life she assumed had long vanished – awash in a stew of formal meals, unhampered snobbery, incomprehensible rules and crumbling masonry – Melody begins to fear for the future of her marriage. And when ancient and not-so-ancient secrets begin to emerge, she faces the disturbing realization that the stakes are far, far higher than she’d imagined . . .
Serena Mackesy
is a novelist, journalist and travel writer. Both her bestselling first novel,
The Temp
, and her second novel,
Virtue
, were published by Arrow to great critical acclaim. She lives in London.
Also by Serena Mackesy
The Temp
Virtue
Serena Mackesy
For Anne Shore. Thank you, sweetheart.
The period of writing this book hasn’t been the easiest time and has left me critically aware of just how much of a team effort both writing and life are. As ever, I am indebted to Jane Conway-Gordon, who has yet again gone way beyond the remit of an agent in terms of support, encouragement, friendship and patience in the face of rampant self-pity: I honestly don’t know what I’d do without her. As I am, too, to each individual at Century and Arrow who has contributed their knowledge, skill and professionalism to the final product and beyond, but particularly to Kate Elton, whose judgement is unerring even if my acceptance of that is sometimes grudging. And to Henry Wickham and Sakis Tsikas for their Greek translation services, ancient and modern. And to Antonia Willis, Steve Delia, and Joe and Janet Camilleri for showing me the joys of Malta and the ecstatic weirdness that is the Birzebuggia Festa. The kids on the Block – you are crucial, and brilliant: may the froth on your cappuccino be always dusted with chocolate. To the following people: Ali M, Anne S, Beverley L, Bottomley (M), Brian D, Cathy F, Charlie H, Charlie S, Chloe S, Chris M, Claire G, Daddy, Diana B, Dido P, James O’B, Jo J-S, Joce M, Jonny L, Lucy McD, Mum, Matt W, Nik D, Venetia P, Will M: thank you, each of you, from the bottom of my heart. Finally, to Evil Princess Fifi: boing!
The Proverbial Thunderbolt
People always ask us how we got together, and I suppose you
would
wonder, him being so conspicuously equipped with silver spoons and me your average ockerina – all thighs and vowels – and we always make a joke of it, say: ‘Oh, you know: I fished him out of the sea and he swept me off my feet.’ But you know? That was what actually happened. Only, you can’t describe that sudden rush of
knowing
in cocktail language. You can’t say to people: I was ripping my knees apart on this pockmarked limestone beach and I’d just given this guy mouth-to-mouth and, once he’d thrown up a couple of gallons of seawater, he touched me on the arm, just a gesture of gratitude, a simple touch, and it was like someone had attached electrodes to us and switched them on at the mains. It would have knocked me off my feet, for sure, if I’d been on them: I’ve never felt anything like it before, and I doubt I’ll ever feel it again. Not with anyone else, anyway.
It was the same for him. We leaped apart like scalded sea-monkeys and crouched – well, huddled in his case – five or six feet apart, trying to make sense of what had just happened. And after a bit, once he’d done with the panting and the looking lean and glisteny with his dark hair dripping down over his suntan, he said: ‘Jesus. What the hell was that?’
I said: ‘I think I just saved your life, mate?’ trying, you know, to make light of the situation, and he said: ‘No, I know. But what was
that
?’
And I was doing a bit of panting of my own, I’ll tell you, and I wasn’t concentrating too well, because I was getting a rush similar to the one you get when you’re hanging over the edge of an extremely high cliff without a safety rope, so I said: ‘I don’t know. It’s got
me
beat. You mean you …?’ And he said: ‘Yes.’
And then we looked a bit longer.
I saw a man somewhere around my age and maybe a couple of inches shorter, which is pretty tall for the male population. And he had these deep brown eyes flecked with gold, and fringed with heavy, wet lashes that were so long they brushed his full, black eyebrows as he looked up. And he had a beaky nose and sharp cheekbones and a mouth that – I don’t know – looked brave. Like he’d been hurt a lot, but wasn’t going to give up, you know?
Right now, those lips were slightly parted, revealing flashes of the even, not-so-white-you-don’t-believe-it teeth behind, the lower one starting to jut forward in the manner of one who wants to be kissed, and I knew it was an unconscious imitation of my own expression. I know. Crazy, isn’t it? But of course, I already had a pretty clear memory of what those lips felt like, having had my own pressed pretty firmly against them, and believe me, they’d felt pretty good. And, Jesus, the guy wasn’t even what you’d exactly call awake at the time, either.
Eventually, he spoke.
‘Shall we try it again?’ he asked.
‘OK,’ I said. I reckoned that if we set off some sort of spontaneous human combustion scenario, at least we had the Med to jump into. And besides, now I’d got over the surprise, that electrical thing was something I wanted to feel again. Possibly for ever.
‘OK,’ he said, and sat up. I was suddenly, painfully, aware of just how, well,
naked
we both were – me in a bikini (I’d thrown my sundress and hat off sometime between dropping my sketchpad and diving headlong into the briny) and him in those baggy shorts English guys think of as swimming gear – and how surprisingly
alone
we seemed to be. You’d have thought that, Gozo being an island twelve kilometres one way and six the other, that maybe
someone
would have been around to witness it, but the golden desert landscape remained empty. And we each reached out and grasped the other by the upper arm, and – kablamm! – it happened again.
Only, this time, we didn’t let go. The surge of electricity ran from his fingertips, up my arm – bang! – through my brain, down – wham! – through my torso, over the old Mappa Tassie, sizzled down my thighs and calves to the very ends of my toes and – zap! – straight back up and out through my fingers into him. And he was kneeling bolt upright, eyes half closed, and shaking as he felt it too. And I swear, each of us had developed those anti-gravity hairstyles you see on people walking past a supercomputer.
Eventually, he opened his eyes and reached forward with his spare hand and cupped my face –
crackle
– and the back of my neck, and pulled me towards him. And my skin fizzed with pleasure at the touch, and I swear, if you’d been there you’d have seen St Elmo’s fire dance up and down our spines when our mouths touched.
The next time I remember seeing beyond our bubble, the sun had dropped to almost the edge of the horizon, flushing the foreshore a thousand shades of scarlet, and the sea had turned to quicksilver. And there was the two of us, caked in sweat and salt and crumbled sandstone, each gazing with shock at the other and touching the other’s skin as though it was precious silk. This was way more than lust. I know about lust – I’m from Queensland, after all – and this was something else. The erotic charge of the near-death experience? Maybe. Or perhaps the proverbial thunderbolt.