Come Away With Me
Maddie Please

Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Maddie Please 2018

Cover design © D Meacham Design 2018

Cover image © Shutterstock.com

Maddie Please asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008305208

Version: 2018-07-23

For Arthur

For Henry

With much love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Maddie Please

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Aggravation

Scotch Whisky, Coffee Liqueur, Single Cream, Sugar Syrup

So, it was Friday night. Six-thirty. I’d got in at half past seven that morning and was still working. Everyone else was entitled to a social life, but not me, apparently. India had left at five on the dot as usual, trilling happily about some party she and Jerry had been invited to. Something that necessitated an extended lunch hour so she could get her nails done. Wouldn’t that be nice? No such excitement awaited me when I got home.

I started to clear up; Tim was always very good but India thought she had staff. She’d left a half-eaten prawn sandwich on her desk that was curling gently as I swept it into the black bin liner. Mercifully it looked too revolting to eat, otherwise I would probably have been tempted. I had no willpower. As I went round the office, emptying the bins and wiping crumbs off India’s desk, I reminded myself of things I had to do.

I was supposed to be losing weight for India’s wedding in December.

I was supposed to be organising her hen weekend.

I was supposed to be looking forward to being her bridesmaid.

*

Don’t get me wrong; usually I loved my job. But I loved it a lot more before my sister started working there.

Dad took over our grandfather’s estate agency in 1998 and it was in a glorious old building in the middle of the high street, next door to the baker’s, perfect for foot traffic and the odd tourist to wander in and enquire after a little place in the country. Actually, thinking about it, we’d had quite a few of those recently.

In my teens I used to help Dad out in the office at weekends and in the school holidays, learning how to answer the phone (smile, Alexa, smile), draw up floor plans and conduct viewings. It was in my blood. The thrill of waiting for an offer to be accepted, of being able to look around gorgeous houses I couldn’t afford, pointing out exciting things, like underfloor heating, ten-inch attic insulation or garden water features, never left me.

It was almost perfect, if only Dad had stopped harking back to the glory times of property when you used to be able to buy a flat in London for buttons and sell it for millions a few years later. Even when we were small he would bang on about getting on the property ladder. It wasn’t as though he’d done badly in recent years, despite the property crash in 2008, but he was only too keen to tell stories of the good old days. Perhaps it was because I was three years older than India, but I paid attention and found something I really loved doing.

I started working with Dad straight out of school, never considering doing anything else. Pretty soon, Dad was happy to leave me to run the office while he and Mum took more and more holidays.

India floated off to a polytechnic to do media studies. Heaven only knew what she actually did there. Having never been to uni myself, it seemed her three years away were punctuated with rancid arguments with flatmates, complaints about everything and tearful phone calls for money. The vacations were worse. India spent all her time lounging about the house, eating all the biscuits and having long telephone calls with her friends, which seemed to consist of little more than India saying: ‘Yes, no, no. Did he? What did she say? No! No! Honestly?’

India seemed good fun in those days, maybe because she wasn’t my responsibility. She knew loads of people, introduced me to her friends and was an unending source of fabulous gossip. I can remember us enjoying girls’ nights in, face packs, pizzas, terrible movies and bottles of wine pinched from Dad’s collection. We once watched Mamma Mia! while necking back some vintage Dom Pérignon champagne. We got a lot of grief for doing that but at least India took the blame.

I had just accustomed myself to perhaps taking over entirely at the office and reorganising it after Dad retired when India finished uni. She’d failed to get a degree of any sort. This was breezily explained as being down to a ‘glitch’ in the examinations department that would be sorted out ‘eventually’.

She somehow managed to get away with things I never would have – from convincing Mum and Dad that her lack of a degree was the fault of the polytechnic, to having men swanning after her despite showing little to no interest in them.

When India was told in no uncertain terms that she had to get a job, she tried with a very ill grace, which would have been hilarious if only I hadn’t been forced to pick up the pieces. There was an internship at the local radio station, which failed because India didn’t quite believe there was such a time as seven-thirty in the morning, and if there was it had nothing to do with her. Then came the beauty tester position for the local paper, which unfortunately didn’t pan out, as the paper wanted more than ‘this stuff is crap’ or ‘this smells like a farmyard’ from her.

Much as I enjoyed my sister’s company and hearing about her hilarious escapades, my role in her life gradually changed. Except when she needed cheering up with a good bottle of wine when she was down. Or picking up when her car ran out of petrol.

I’d worked for years learning how to be a good estate agent, getting my qualifications, doing a thorough job and making myself indispensable. But India skimmed the surface of life, getting away with everything, so when she arrived at the office with Dad one Monday morning and flopped down at the desk opposite mine asking for coffee, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Dad patted me on the back and said, ‘Look after India, will you, Alexa? Show her the ropes, get her some experience. Mum said you’d be okay with it.’

I didn’t quite believe it … but now, now … well, to say I was irritated didn’t do the word justice. Particularly after Laura’s party, when India had apparently been cosying up to my boyfriend. I still hadn’t forgiven her for that. Or found out exactly what she was up to.

And then it got worse, because not only did India not do any work, refuse to turn up on time, leave early and expect me to sort out all of her mistakes, she also met Jerry, fell in love and got engaged. Suddenly my younger sister, who, irritating though she was, had probably been my closest friend in the last few years, became a complete nightmare.

From the moment India said yes to Jerry, her phone was filled with Pinterest pictures of wedding place settings, colour schemes, bouquets and sparkly shoes. These days India couldn’t be in a room for longer than five minutes without saying, ‘Of course, when I’m married …’ And I was struggling to handle being around her when all she talked about was her wedding day, or Jerry, or both.

Because, like the gilded child she’d always been, India was the one with the wedding coming up and the respectable fiancé and the trendy lifestyle in the cool, loft-style apartment near the river. Conversely, my attempts at independence had failed so spectacularly that when my flatmate had an early midlife crisis and decided to go travelling for a year, I couldn’t afford to live on my own any longer. I had to move back home to the end of my parents’ garden to ‘stay’ in their granny annexe. It was supposed to be a short-term thing. So far it’d been over six months.

As I dumped the rubbish into the bin I got a text from Mum.

‘India wants pale blue for the tablecloths and pink for the bridesmaid’s dress. Do you think you could get into a size twelve by December? The one she especially likes is on sale right now but there’s limited stock. And the big sizes have sold out.’

The wedding. Again. I didn’t bother replying (They’d changed the colour scheme and dress colour at least three times in the last week. Big sizes? Bloody cheek.) and decided to throw the towel in. It was time for a long bath and a big glass of wine. And maybe an hour without being asked about the stupid wedding … Was that too much to ask?

*

‘Do you know we’re known as SKI-ers?’ Dad said proudly over Sunday lunch that weekend. ‘I read about it in The Oldie. We are Spending our Kids’ Inheritance – get it?’

‘Yes, we get it,’ India said, opening the drinks cabinet and pulling out a new bottle of Sipsmith gin. ‘Can I take this?’

India and Jerry were visiting for Sunday lunch and we had all enjoyed one of my mother’s justly famous roast dinners, but I knew it was only a matter of time before India started raiding the fridge. Old habits are hard to break.

Mum sighed. ‘Well, yes, India, but why don’t you just buy your own gin?’

Good question.

‘I keep getting ID’d,’ India said with a pout that fooled no one.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous – you’re twenty-six,’ Mum said, before her butterfly mind darted off to a more enjoyable subject. ‘And getting married in four months!’

‘Seventeen weeks yesterday,’ India said, beaming from ear to ear.

Next they’d be back on the colour scheme and place settings.

India sent a fond smile across to where her fiancé, Jerry, was sitting happily working his way through a slab of brie.

He looked up and winked. ‘Well, I for one can’t wait!’

‘Poor deluded fool,’ Dad said, noticing India trying to slip a bottle of Angostura bitters in her bag. ‘India, are you going to leave us any alcohol, or are you planning on stealing all of it?’

India went and dropped a kiss on top of his bald head.

‘Oh, Daddy, you can always restock in duty free,’ she said, ‘when you go to Australia.’

‘That’s not for a while,’ he said, taking the Angostura bitters back.

‘So how are the August figures looking, Alexa?’ Mum said.

Right. That just about summed up my life at the moment.

My younger sister had infuriated me all week with her untidiness, her inability to use spellchecker and her cavalier attitude to the appointment book, and now here she was again, dominating the occasion, raiding the drinks cabinet and probably the freezer. We’d spend the rest of the day discussing her wedding dress fitting, the flowers, the cake, the bloody flower girls; but I got asked about the sales figures for the family business.

I felt a noble pang of self-pity. Mum had to talk to me about something, I suppose, and at the moment it certainly wasn’t going to be my boyfriend or dazzling social life. I had neither. I had loads of friends but in the last few years they’d all been getting engaged or married; now they were busy having children.

‘Oh, you know, okay,’ I said, feeling a little proud despite myself. ‘The three properties on the Bainbridge estate have gone and there’s an asking price offer in on Walton House.’

‘Excellent, well done, it’s been a good year despite all the doom-mongers. I was talking to John Thingy at the golf club yesterday. You know, the tall, thin chap from Countryside Property, and he said they’re doing awfully well. He was asking after you. Don’t you think you could fancy him just a bit?’ Mum said airily. ‘You don’t want to be living at the end of our garden for ever, do you?’

I thought of John Foster with his damp hands and the irritating way he wound his legs around like pipe cleaners when he sat down.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Well, it’s a shame. India will be off in no time,’ she said, ‘and then who will introduce you to people?’

I couldn’t remember the last time India had introduced me to anyone significant.

‘I’m quite able to look after myself, you know,’ I said, ‘and I don’t need to be palmed off on John Foster just to tidy things up.’

‘No, I suppose not. What about that nice Ben with the curly hair? You don’t think he might do? Oh well.’ Evidently the subject had begun to bore her and she waved a hand at my father to attract his attention. ‘Do you know, Simon, I think I fancy a cherry brandy with my cheese.’

‘They make a liqueur in Australia from liquorice and chocolate,’ Dad said as he went to find some clean glasses. ‘I was reading about it earlier.’

‘Sounds vile,’ Mum said. ‘We must try it.’

A mobile phone rang somewhere and we all patted our pockets and looked under things on the dining table to find out whose it was.

‘Oooh, it’s me,’ Mum said and prodded at her phone, standing up to take the call and get away from the noise we were all making. ‘Really? Really? Well, that’s fantastic! When? When? Really?’

She wandered off through the patio doors into the garden, still talking, and we went back to the cheeseboard on the table. India wrestled the biscuits away from Jerry and loaded one up with a pyramid of Boursin, which she then pushed on to his nose. Honestly, they were like a couple of babies.

I tutted and rolled my eyes at Dad but he was busy reading the Angostura bitters label and didn’t notice.

‘There’s a flat coming up on the Park you would like,’ I said to my father. He might have nearly retired from the estate agency but he still liked to keep a finger on the pulse.

Dad looked blank. ‘I’m not thinking of moving. Am I?’

‘You could always downsize, have a nice simple place to look after,’ I said. ‘Less housework for Mum.’

Not that she seemed to do any; the kitchen floor was really sticky. But then who was I to talk? I hadn’t looked at a cleaning product since moving into the garden flat.

Down the other end of the long table, India and Jerry were squabbling over the box of chocolates I had brought for my parents as a gift, ripping off the cellophane with glee, India’s dark curls slipping out of the messy chignon she had recently adopted and falling over her face. She had some idea that it might be nice for me to do the same thing when she got married, but my hair – while the same colour as hers – was straight as a poker and unlikely to co-operate.

They looked up as Mum came back in from the garden, her face bright with shock.

She took her cherry brandy and downed it in one.

‘You’ll never guess,’ she said. ‘That was someone called Stephen McKenzie about the raffle.’

We all looked at her blankly, waiting for more details. On these occasions Mum was inclined to spin things out as long as possible.

I cracked first. ‘What raffle?’

‘He had some news; I mean some really unbelievable news that I think is going to make life a bit difficult. I’ll have to check my dates.’

‘God, Manda, you’re not pregnant, are you?’ Dad said, a hazelnut whirl halfway to his mouth.

India pulled a face at me across the table.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Simon. I mean our holiday dates,’ Mum said. ‘I’ll get my diary.’

Dad grabbed her arm. ‘Later. Tell me what’s going on first.’

‘Well, do you remember the golf club dinner we went to in January? The Founders Day Dinner Dance and Fundraising Extravaganza? Bel Goodwin was doing the tombola and you won a bottle of Liebfraumilch?’

‘It was corked,’ Dad said.

‘Yes, but do you remember Jeff Bosbury-Wallace was selling raffle tickets in aid of Cancer Research? It was a nationwide thing, not just for the golf club. Ten quid each or a book of ten for a hundred?’

‘No,’ Dad said, pulling the chocolates towards him as his attention waned. ‘I don’t remember and I hate to break it to you but that’s still ten quid each, by the way.’

‘Well, I bought a book.’

‘What? A hundred quid! You spent a hundred quid on raffle tickets? It’s not as though that club fundraiser doesn’t cost me an arm and a leg already! Jeff Bosbury-Wallace is a bloody bandit! They should have given them to us for nothing.’

‘Have you won something?’ Jerry said, being the perfect potential son-in-law and breaking the tension.

‘I have!’ Mum said triumphantly, sitting back in her chair and sending him a fond look.

Behind her I saw India wander up to the wine cabinet and pick out a couple of bottles. Things like this had started to annoy me over the last few months. I mean, why did she still have to behave like a pigging student? Jerry earned a packet and Dad paid India almost as much as I got. Which was so grossly unfair it was almost litigious.

‘So? Well? Are you going to tell us? For God’s sake, please tell me it’s not more disgusting wine?’ Dad said.

‘It’s not!’ Mum said.

We sat in confused silence for a moment until Dad gave her a wide-eyed look.

‘So? For the love of God, what?’

‘A holiday!’ Mum said. ‘We’ve won a holiday.’

‘Have we? How marvellous!’

‘The first prize was a trip to see Santa in Finland with up to four children. Thank God we didn’t win that. Second prize was probably a trip to see Santa in Finland with eight children. Now I’ll go and find my diary.’

I think India and I drifted off at this point; our parents went on holiday so frequently that it was no longer of any interest to us. We had even been named for holidays they had particularly enjoyed in their youth: Alexandria and India. They were due to take a month-long trip to Australia soon to visit relatives who lived on the east coast in a place that sounded like Boomerang. Mum had shown us pictures of her cousin and his family, red-faced and cheerful, having a barbeque on the beach and probably in imminent danger of skin cancer.

India came out of the kitchen with a supermarket carrier bag filled with swag. Bloody hell, the place would be stripped bare by the time they left! She did this every time.

‘Hey you, that’s a 10p Bag for Life, I’ll have you know,’ Dad said, outraged, not apparently noticing the bacon, tins of baked beans and the dozen eggs.

Mum came back, riffling through the pages of her diary and frowning.

‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

‘What?’

‘Well, we can’t go. We’ll be in Australia.’

‘When we’re married, Jerry and I are going to go to Australia,’ India said, never one to miss an opportunity. ‘We might go for our first anniversary.’

Dad ignored her. ‘Well, can’t we swap the dates of the prize holiday?’

‘No, it’s September 23rd or not at all. Non-transferable, that’s what it says.’

‘Well, how unreasonable – that’s no time at all. Surely we could go a week or so later?’

Mum looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘I know you’re a persuasive character, Simon, but I don’t think you could persuade the ship to wait for us.’

His face fell. ‘Ship? Oh, don’t tell me I’m going to miss out on a cruise!’

Dad loved cruising even more than Mum did. They’d been on over thirty.

By now India had collected up an unopened pack of paper napkins, some dishwasher tablets and a new bottle of loo cleaner. If this carried on they’d have to borrow Dad’s trailer so they could get all the stuff back to their flat. And it wasn’t as though they didn’t already have their own Toilet Duck. It was just an ingrained habit with her.

Mum and Dad huffed and argued over the prize holiday dates, and Dad was seriously trying to work out if it would be possible to catch up with the ship halfway through their Australia trip until Mum described the sort of jet lag and expense he would be incurring and he thought again.

I went upstairs to see if there was any shampoo I could take down the garden to my place before India nabbed it. I justified this by telling myself I’d been too busy with showings and keeping the family business in the black to make it to the shops. I could hear my parents still rabbiting on, trying to work out a way for them to take two holidays at the same time, a logistical challenge unheard of even for them. I came back down with some of my mother’s overpriced conditioner and a couple of loo rolls. Through the open front door I could see India loading up the boot of Jerry’s car with some barbeque charcoal and a box of firelighters. They have a barbeque on their cool roof terrace. Of course they do.

In the dining room Mum was pushing down the cafetière plunger and looking pensive.

‘I suppose someone could go,’ she said.

‘What? You mean I go to Australia and you go on the cruise?’ Dad said. ‘Well, it’s a thought.’

‘No, you twit, I mean if we can’t go …’ She paused and raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

‘Oh, I see. Well, yes, I suppose so. We might be able to keep some food in the house for longer than a week too.’

‘Simon, come into the garden for a moment,’ she said. ‘Bring your coffee.’

I had another chocolate and looked at my watch; it was half past four and Jerry and India would be leaving soon, God willing. I watched my sister and her fiancé trying to guess the flavours of the chocolates with their eyes closed and making the other one promise not to trick them with the coffee one.

Jerry would drive them home in his groovy car, to their hip, blonde-wood apartment, and unload their ill-gotten gains before India went to have a long soak in the bath, surrounded by Diptyque candles, and he spent the evening playing on his Xbox. You wouldn’t think a hotshot barrister would waste his time doing that, would you? Not that Jerry looked like a hotshot barrister; he was tall, thin and pale, with leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket. I wondered what India could possibly see in him at first, but I had to admit he was extremely funny, very successful, and besotted with her in a way that resulted in extravagant presents and compliments. Who wouldn’t like that?

When they got engaged last year they’d started out wanting a small, cute wedding with a few friends and family. Now it had grown into something Prince Harry might have envied, in a country house hotel with a complete year’s flower produce from The Netherlands, gauze bags of almonds and embossed scrolls. God knew what it was costing.

I hadn’t a clue what I was going to do for the hen weekend. India wouldn’t co-operate and I was sick of thinking about it. I was a bit off that sort of thing at the moment anyway, thanks to Ryan. Bouquets for the mothers, the honeymoon wardrobe, four or five tiers for the cake? Not to mention the three flower girls I was supposed to keep under control while necking back as much champagne as possible. And before you ask, no, I wasn’t planning to cop off with the best man. The best man was Jerry’s cousin Mark, who was delightful, gay, and would probably have done a better job of styling the event than any wedding planner ever could.

‘So that’s settled then,’ Mum said.

We all looked up as they came back in from the garden and India took the opportunity to wedge a chocolate into Jerry’s mouth. He spluttered in disgust and spat it into a paper napkin with a plaintive cry of ‘Bunny, you promised!’

Bunny?

‘What’s settled?’

Mum sat down and tapped on her coffee cup with a spoon.

‘Dad and I have come up with a solution to this holiday problem. We’re going to let you go instead.’

Mum sat back beaming, waiting for our reaction.

‘Jerry and me? To Australia?’ India said, her eyes widening with excitement.

Over my dead body.

‘No, the other one,’ Dad said.

‘Well, I’m not going to Australia with Jerry,’ I said.

Mum tutted. ‘You girls can be dense sometimes. You and India can go on the cruise.’

I had a moment’s wild excitement at the prospect of a break from what I had been doing for the last few months: sulking in the granny annexe at the end of my parents’ garden after that nightmare weekend when my boyfriend, Ryan, and I had broken up and my flatmate, Karen, decided it was the perfect time to go off and find herself in Sri Lanka.

But then work had been so busy recently and showed no signs of easing up, what with showing builders round dilapidated renovation projects or cajoling fussy metropolitan couples who, without exception, thought they wanted country kitchens, wood burners and gardens big enough to keep chickens. They didn’t. I mean, have you smelled a chicken house?

I hadn’t had a holiday for ages. You honestly couldn’t count that trip to Paris last year, when it rained every day and Ryan and I spent the whole time arguing about where to go. Recently I’d been spending most of my time at the office, so this could be the perfect chance for a break, sunshine and perhaps a few cocktails.

This idea was then replaced by the mental image of a boat filled with elderly people, shuffling around a wave-lashed deck on their Zimmer frames.

And finally I registered the utter horror that would be going on holiday with my sister.

Since the engagement we hadn’t been particularly good friends, despite what India thought – she seemed pretty oblivious to everything these days. I suppose somewhere deep down I still had affection for her, but nothing I could dredge up on a day-to-day basis.

India looked at Jerry and then at me. From her expression she seemed to be thinking much the same.

‘You’ll love it. And who knows, Alexa might find herself a nice chap to bring to the wedding. You can treat it as your hen weekend, although it’s longer than a weekend, obviously. A hen holiday,’ Mum announced proudly, seeming to think it was all settled. She’d been doing this a lot recently – every time she heard us squabbling she would produce a plan to reconcile us and consider it a job well done. Not this time … I wasn’t five any more.

‘How long?’

‘Twelve days.’

‘What! We can’t both take twelve days off!’ I said.

India’s gaze flicked hopefully between Dad and me. ‘Can’t we?’

Considering it was only August and India had already taken two days out of next year’s holiday allowance, I thought it was pretty unlikely.

But Dad had it all worked out. ‘I’ll get Charlie Smith-Rivers from the Exeter office to pop in.’

‘But twelve days?’ I said, thinking how much I hated Charlie Smith-Rivers, who always swanned around pretending he knew more than everyone else in the room. And nothing was ever in the right place when he left.

Twelve consecutive days with India. I hadn’t spent much time with her outside of work for ages and I was barely managing to get through this lunch as it was.

‘Well, that’s how long the cruise is.’

‘Where are we going?’ India said.

‘You fly in to New York. Then board the Reine de France, sail up the East Coast to Halifax and then back to Southampton across the Atlantic.’ Mum read out the itinerary from her phone.

‘Wow,’ India breathed, her blue eyes wide.

The mental image of the elderly Zimmer walkers faded and was replaced by one of glamorous, fur-swathed Hollywood stars, politicians and Princess Margaret complete with cigarette holder. It was quite possible, too, that Noël Coward would be playing the piano in one of the cocktail lounges. I didn’t know why but I seemed to have slipped back several decades.

‘That’s really generous,’ I said, trying to concentrate on something other than absolute panic at being on board a ship, in the middle of the ocean, with my sister. Think of the shoes, I told myself, the evening dresses (I’d have to buy some new ones), gala dinners and sparkly things. Really, given the chance, I could be pathetically shallow.

India leapt up and wrapped her arms around Mum’s shoulders.

‘Mum, can I borrow your turquoise evening bag, the one with the beads?’ she wheedled.

You see? She was no better. I was about to ask the same thing. Perhaps we still had something in common after all?

Chapter Two
The Wet Spot

Dry Gin, Apricot Brandy, Elderflower Liqueur, Apple Juice, Lemon Juice

Dad took us to Heathrow very early on September 23rd.

By then I had parked all my reservations and prejudices about joining a boat full of old crocks with my wedding-obsessed sister, especially after Mum gave me a pretty stern talking-to about being the bigger person, making allowances, blah blah blah. Yes, Mum, okay. So I did my best to think positively. I was firing on all cylinders and ready to go. I mean, if nothing else, we were going to spend a few hours in an airport lounge, complete with free champagne and magazines, before flying to New York. As far as holidays went, this was a result.

After a tearful farewell dinner with Jerry the previous night, India, burdened with a hangover, had spent most of the car journey convincing herself our flight would crash into the Queen Mother Reservoir shortly after take-off, or – failing that – into the Atlantic, where our remains would never be discovered. She’d always been a bit dramatic when it came to air travel. No idea where she got it from, what with our parents spending more time in the air than on the ground these days.

Dad eventually reassured her by promising that if anything happened he and Mum would throw a wreath over the probable crash site and give Jerry the insurance money. There had then been a mild argument about whether Jerry should get my insurance payout too. Once we had agreed Mum and Dad would get my bit and put it towards a world cruise, India calmed down and got into the spirit of things, which was good as we were just coming up to departures and I couldn’t wait to get out of the car. Surprisingly, the subject of the wedding hadn’t come up once so far. I was just hoping it would stay that way …

Dad hated lengthy farewells at airports because they tended to make him sentimental, or maybe just jealous? I couldn’t think why because, in two days’ time, he was due to get on board a massive Emirates plane to fly first class to Australia. Anyway, we pulled up at the doors of Terminal 5 in good time and he practically chucked us out of the car, slinging our luggage on to a trolley before driving off with a jolly wave through the sunroof.

India and I stared at each other for a moment, unused to being left alone together and, to be honest, rather uncomfortable.

‘Let’s drop our bags and check in first and then head to the lounge?’ I said, not sure I sounded as excited as I should have, but determined to make an effort.

India nodded and we went to get rid of our bags. Heathrow was always busy at this time of year, everyone jetting off for last-minute sunshine, so we had to weave around a lot of luggage racks and pushchairs parked in awkward spots, not to mention massive suitcases wrapped in clingfilm. Then India spotted two very elegant representatives from the Voyage Premiere cruise line waiting behind a help desk and we dragged our cases gratefully over.

They were glamour personified with those slight French accents that always make people sound sexy and interesting, even if they are discussing the Guatemalan economy or washing-up liquid. In short, tight red suits and dinky little hats like saucers, all set off with silk scarves with nautical flags sprinkled all over them and tied in that careless, impossibly chic, way French women probably learn at primary school.

‘Welcome, Miss Fisher and Miss Fisher. Hmm, India and Alexandria; beautiful names. We are delighted to welcome you on the first stage of your exciting journey.’

I watched her fabulously manicured nails typing our details into her computer and waited, as I always did, for her to frown and say I couldn’t go because my passport photograph wasn’t attractive enough or something. However, all that happened was that she produced some glorious red stickers for our cases marked Voyage Premiere. And then she directed us to our private lounge where, as we had hoped, there was free champagne and comfortable chairs where India could nurse her hangover, flick through Vogue and text Jerry, and I could watch planes taking off and not crashing at all.

India had already been on a strenuous diet and exercise regime since setting the wedding date and I had fully intended to do the same thing, but it hadn’t quite worked out. But I had been on a diet and exercise regime for the last three days, which I thought was better than nothing. Although there hadn’t actually been much exercise, if I was honest, other than lugging my cases on and off the bed and repacking them. And not much diet either, other than not having some toast and marmalade yesterday morning because I was too excited. Oh well, we couldn’t all be a size ten like India, could we?

I had looked at the Voyage Premiere website on several occasions, of course, so I knew what to expect. The photographs of our ship, the Reine de France, showed a selection of exceptionally elegant couples with marvellous teeth who were always laughing and happy, whether they were tasting wine, eating exquisitely fine-tuned canapés in front of a perfect sunset or relaxing in the Jacuzzi while drinking cocktails. Was that even allowed? Alcohol in a Jacuzzi? Perhaps the clientele of the Reine de France were so classy and sophisticated that they didn’t get drunk and force each other’s heads underwater as most of the people I knew would have done.

In the private lounge we looked around, wondering which of the other people were going to be on the ship with us. None seemed quite glossy or elegant enough to fit in on board, but then, as India pointed out, in our jeans and T-shirts, neither did we.

‘That man over there,’ she hissed. ‘He looks the sort.’

The man in question was tall, quite good-looking and had a swoop of grey hair that made him look rather distinguished. He was with a two-dimensional woman in black who looked far too bad-tempered for the Reine de France. I couldn’t imagine her frolicking in a Jacuzzi with a Gin Sling.

Then there were a couple of exotic-looking women who were rocking the big eyebrows, white trousers and perma-tan look. They seemed to have cornered the market in gold jewellery and had six unruly children with them who had taken full advantage of the free refreshments and were busy building a tower with their empty cola bottles. Would they be taking six children on a cruise? Wouldn’t they prefer a fortnight on a beach? Or was I being mean?

Anyway, shortly after that one of the women noticed that the flight to Miami was boarding and they began rounding up the children and their numerous backpacks with a great deal of arguing and a couple of well-placed slaps. I guessed they were off to Disneyland and I was glad for them. Twelve days on a cruise ship with a load of old couples on Prozac and intravenous alcohol was no place for a kid in my opinion.

I commandeered their empty table, which overlooked the departure runway. India went to get us some champagne while I logged into my laptop and surreptitiously looked around to see if I could spot any more potential travellers heading for a cruise. An exceptionally nice-looking man was sitting on his own at the table next to us, typing rapidly into a laptop and occasionally staring vacantly into space. He was wearing a black polo shirt and chinos. Could he be coming on the ship with us? Did he have a thin, pretty wife with him who was perhaps having a manicure somewhere in one of the side rooms? Or maybe his girlfriend was running wild in duty free, buying some last-minute handbags and gold-tipped cruise wear?

Unexpectedly he looked up and caught my eye and I gave one of those eyebrow-raised, tight-lipped smiles you do when you have nothing sensible to say but don’t want to appear unfriendly. Instead I think I probably seemed a bit of a prat and he frowned and looked away. Oh well.

Luckily, at that moment India came back with some bubbly and a bowl of pretzels.

‘Well, here’s to it!’ she said and we clinked glasses.

Fabulous. There’s nothing quite like chilled champagne at ten-thirty in the morning.

‘I hope Jerry’s all right,’ she said after a few minutes, the corners of her mouth turning down. ‘We’ve never been apart this long before.’

Any minute now we would be on to the wedding and things had been going so well. For the first time in ages it seemed we’d been getting along – perhaps it was the holiday spirit? Or maybe it was the champagne?

‘Of course he is,’ I said, trying to damp down my exasperation and empathise with how India felt. That’s what Mum said – try and see it from your sister’s perspective. ‘He’ll either be in work, being clever and demolishing someone’s alibi, or he’ll be smashing up concrete bunkers and shooting aliens on his Xbox. It will make him realise how much he depends on you. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ India said gloomily, ‘and there’s loads of stuff to do for the wedding. D’you know …’

I interrupted her before we could get on to the table settings, Dad’s speech or the flower girls’ shoes.

‘Too late now, we’re here. Buck up, we have pretzels …’ I picked up the bowl in one hand. ‘We have champagne!’ I waved my glass in the air with the other.

Unfortunately, at that moment, one of the rowdy children came back and crashed into the back of my chair before scrabbling about under the table for some random plastic animal she had left there. My champagne flew out in a graceful parabola and dowsed the man sitting at the next table.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I gasped.

Grabbing a handful of paper napkins I began dabbing at him, but of course they aren’t much use for anything except wrapping cutlery, and trying to rub the back of someone’s shirt is definitely invading their personal space with knobs on. He did smell rather gorgeous though, some woody-green sort of aftershave. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t looking for another man in my life – I’d only just got over the last one.

‘It’s fine, perfectly fine,’ he said in a tone of voice that said the exact opposite. He had unusual grey eyes and at that moment they were fixed on me; very cold and unfriendly. Like ice chips. His voice was deep and attractive with a very slight American twang. I felt quite fluttery and flustered for a moment and stood on one leg looking stupid while he shook some of my pretzels off his laptop, which mercifully appeared undamaged.

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just …’

I waved my glass in an explanatory way and he flinched.

‘It’s okay, it’s empty.’

‘I know,’ he said coldly, ‘but don’t do it again, will you? Should I move perhaps?’

‘No, of course not. I will. Sorry.’

I crept back to my seat and ducked my head into my shoulders.

‘You idiot! What did he say?’ India hissed, pulling me down into my chair.

‘Nothing much.’

‘He must have said something.’

‘He said you are so much prettier than your sister and then he asked for my mobile number.’

‘I bet he didn’t. Did he?’ India could be very gullible sometimes.

‘No, India. He told me to go away and stop being a nuisance.’

‘Hmmm. Well, do you want to go and get some more champagne? Seeing as you chucked your last one over him.’

‘I didn’t chuck it over him; it was an accident,’ I whispered urgently, feeling my face flushing with embarrassment.

‘Well, you could have chatted him up. He’s quite nice-looking.’ India twirled her hair round her fingers and looked at him from under her lashes.

I nudged her, stifling a giggle. ‘For heaven’s sake, India, stop it. You’re on your hen holiday and you’re flirting with strangers? Really?’

‘I wasn’t flirting, I was just looking. Watch and learn.’

This was so typical of my sister; she couldn’t pass up any opportunity. She’d even been known to flirt with Tim in work and I was pretty sure she scared him to death. He had to have the day off after the last works Christmas party.

‘Look, let’s swap seats? I’d feel better and I’m sure he would too.’

I went to get some refills and some more pretzels and moved into her chair. I was aware Mr Grumpy was still typing at high speed into his laptop but also watching me out of the corner of his eye. That’s quite a skill too, isn’t it? Perhaps he was a spy?

After a few minutes Mr Grumpy stood up and packed his laptop away, pulling his damp shirt away from his back and sending me another look.

He called a waitress over.

‘Is there somewhere I can get a shower?’ he said. ‘I need to change my shirt.’

The waitress fluttered a bit and took him away and I tried to put the image of him doing the aforementioned activities out of my mind. I was thinking he’d look rather marvellous though. Sort of big and rather chunky and … Oh, shut up, Alexa.

Still, I watched him go with a tinge of sadness. He walked with long strides but an unhurried grace and was the best-looking man to notice me in a very long time. Actually he was the first man to notice me for a very long time. It was just a shame it was for the wrong reasons. Though there was still no sign of the wife/girlfriend/significant other, so things could be looking up.

I wondered where he was going. He had missed the flight to Miami by now and also flights to Dubai, Rome, Sydney and loads of other places. I knew this because I had a special app on my laptop. I liked to fantasise about where I would go on holiday … if I ever had time to go on holiday, which I hadn’t for the last four years. As I’ve said, a weekend in Paris in November in the rain does not count as a proper holiday.

Perhaps he was a businessman travelling alone to some vital financial conference where he would address the World Bank about foreign aid? Or perhaps he was going to present a proposal to a board of shifty-looking venture capitalists for some huge office tower block in downtown Manhattan? Either way he was gone.

India wandered about looking out of the windows and fidgeting while I sat eating pretzels and sipping champagne. I tried to relax and look cool and not like someone who was in the habit of slinging drinks around.

‘Can we go to duty free now?’ she said at last. ‘It’s still over an hour till our flight. I want to find a lipstick to wear at the wedding.’

I resisted the temptation to groan and we gathered up our bags and made our way into consumer paradise, avoiding the huge bears, remote-control helicopters and iPad covers, and heading straight for the make-up. I didn’t really mind although I wouldn’t have admitted it to my sister. To be honest I’m especially keen on those dinky little palettes of eyeshadows and blushers with the tag ‘Airport Exclusive’. There’s just something about ‘travel-size’ products I can’t get enough of. Within seconds India found a male assistant to help her. I was just having an enjoyable few minutes playing with a battery-operated pig when she found me.

‘Don’t wander off like that,’ she said furiously. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after me. Mum said.’

I gritted my teeth. The phrase ‘Mum said’ had haunted me down the years for as long as I could remember. It didn’t hold the same power now though; after all, India was twenty-six and more than capable of looking after herself.

Luckily we heard our flight being called and scurried off to the right gate, oohing and aahing as we saw the bulk of our plane just outside the window. We were on our way.

*

We found our seats, had a slight argument about who would sit next to the window (India won; as she kept reminding me, this was ‘her’ holiday after all); we pressed all the buttons on the entertainment system; we read the menu card. The plane took off without crashing into the Queen Mother Reservoir so we drank gin to celebrate. Then we had dinner and some wine. Then India started moaning about how much she was missing Jerry so I stuck my earphones in and watched a film about a detective who would have got the case solved far quicker if he had stopped smoking quite so much. When it was obvious I wasn’t going to agree how marvellous Jerry was or discuss the colour of the sugared almonds, India curled up on her seat like a cat and had a nap.

I had another little gin and flicked over to the screen showing us where we were. That was a bit unnerving as we were south of Greenland, about as far from land as we could be. I took my mind off it by watching a film about a man rescuing his wife from some unnamed organisation. It involved a lot of explosions and dangling off collapsing bridges; I love that sort of thing. He must have had the upper body strength of Superman and the wife did the whole thing in stilettos and never once smudged her lipstick. Then India woke up and we had some odd cakes and an even odder cup of tea, and then we were descending through the cloudbank to JFK Airport.

I leaned across my sister to look out of the window, hoping for some of those interesting little glimpses into people’s backyards you get when you’re coming in to land. There were crowded twelve-lane highways and massive houses and the occasional swimming pool and then car parks and industrial yards full of trucks. I tightened my seatbelt and clung on to the seat arms as if trying to keep the plane in the air for a few more seconds, but suddenly there was a runway and we were down with that terrible back thrust of the engines that makes you think the wings are going to fall off. When we landed I realised I hadn’t thought once about work or what Charlie was doing with my in-tray or whether the Masons would complete on Stafford House. This had to be a record. I should have timed it.

The woman in front of us was disobeying the keep seatbelts fastened sign and was already scrabbling in the overhead locker for her hand luggage. Not that it would get her off the plane any quicker, just earn her a dirty look from the flight attendant on the way out.

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