Mischief in Madeira

By Marina Oliver

Rivalry in the golfing world leads to desperate measures, and romance. When Dominic Thorn's business selling golf equipment is threatened by former golfer Keith Livermore he enlists the help of various friends in Madeira. There is Catherine, divorced wife of golfing star Justin O'Brien, her father the Major, concerned when an old army buddy turns up who knows of the Major's fling with Jackie, Livermore's mother. Then flamboyant Jackie arrives to complicate matters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781947812611

Marina Oliver

Most writers can't help themselves! It's a compulsion. Getting published, though, is something really special, and having been so fortunate myself I now try to help aspiring writers by handing on tips it took me years to work out. I've published over 60 titles, including four in the How To Books' Successful Writing Series, and Writing Historical Fiction for Studymates.I have judged short story competitions, been a final judge for the Harry Bowling Prize and was an adviser to the 3rd edition of Twentieth Century Romance and Historical Writers 1994. If you want to find out more about your favourite authors, consult this book. I once wrote an article on writing romantic fiction for the BBC's web page, for Valentine's day.I have given talks and workshops for the Arts Council and at most of the major Writing Conferences, and helped establish the Romantic Novelists' Association's annual conference. I was Chairman of the RNA 1991-3, ran their New Writers' Scheme and edited their newsletter. I am now a Vice-President.As well as writing I have edited books for Transita, featuring women 'of a certain age', and for Choc Lit where gorgeous heros are the norm.I was asked to write A Century of Achievement, a 290 page history of my old school, Queen Mary's High School, Walsall, and commissioned to write a book on Castles and Corvedale to accompany a new circular walk in the area.Most of my Regencies written under the pseudonym Sally James are now published in ebook format as well as many others of my out of print novels which my husband is putting into ebook format. Our daughter Debbie is helping with designing the covers. For details of all my books and my many pseudonyms see my website.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Catherine O'Brien held the receiver away from her ear. Justin's voice, deep and musical when he wished, one of the things she had fallen for when she was eighteen, became harsh when he was shouting across a golf course, or, these days, at her. It had a penetrating quality which was enhanced when he was angry. And he was very angry. That was obvious even across thousands of miles.

'You had no right to take Fiona out of England. That was part of the divorce settlement when you were given custody. Why didn't you ask me? I don't like your parents trying to influence her against me.'

'Don't be silly, they don't.'

'Oh yes they do, constantly criticising me. I've heard them.'

She sighed. This was a perennial accusation he made to her, though he was careful never to say it directly to her parents. Could it possibly be that he was intimidated by her father, a former army Major? She'd like to think so.

'You're imagining things, as usual.'

'We're straying from the point. You should have consulted me.'

This, like most of his accusations, was unfair, and she was thoroughly tired of listening to them. 'I tried, several times, but you were never there, and your mobile was always switched off. She spoke with more than the usual anger in her voice. For Fiona's sake she usually did her best to keep relations calm.

'How can I answer a phone when I'm playing? You know what it's like, I have to concentrate all the time. It's bad enough having all those wretched spectators around.'

'Those wretched spectators pay your appearance fees, whether you win or not.'

That, she thought, would hurt, for he seemed to have lost his form lately, and hadn't won many tournaments. He spluttered angrily as he began to point out the various reasons why he had not been winning a great deal.

'I left messages everywhere, and as usual you ignored them until it was convenient for you!' Catherine managed to get in when he paused for breath.

He changed his attack.

'You could have taken her to my house in Florida. That would be a better climate than Madeira, and my housekeeper could have looked after you.'

'Your full-time housekeeper who used to look after her left, if you recall, and all you have now is a daily cleaner. There's no one there all the time, and you're not there half the time either. She'd be on her own, and I'm not permitting that. Nor would the court accept those arrangements. I'd have to come too.'

'Besides, I would have been able to come and see her occasionally,' he went on, ignoring her, his tone aggrieved.

Catherine stared at the receiver, then gently laid it down on top of the walnut table and walked away. Justin never listened to her, he hated even the possibility of being defeated in an argument, but now she needn't listen to him. She was in Madeira, and short of complaining about it to the divorce court there was nothing he could do. She shuddered at the notion of his dropping in to see Fiona in Florida, when no doubt they'd have resumed arguing. He liked the sound of his own voice, and he could rant now as long as he chose. He enjoyed dramatics. He might not even realise she was no longer there if he slammed the receiver down on some magnificent peroration, as he was prone to do.

She was still standing by the window, open to catch the slight breeze, idly stroking the arum lilies she had put there that morning, and admiring Funchal bay, where she could see a gigantic cruise ship moored in the harbour, and the glistening sea bathed in golden sunlight. She trusted his schedule didn't permit time for him to fly here. When she returned to replace the handset it was blessedly silent. She doubted whether he would bother to ring again. He only cared about his daughter when there was something he could blame her mother for. He'd even tried to blame her for Fiona's cold that winter developing into pleurisy. She was getting better, and the warmer climate in Madeira was helping. By the time she had to go back to school in September she would, Catherine

hoped, be completely cured.

'I thought it would be hotter here,' Fiona complained, twisting round to inspect her bare back. She heaved a disgruntled sigh. Even in May it wasn't hot enough to produce a swift sun tan. All it did was make her skin a blotchy red.

'Patience, my child,' Charlotte Dawson muttered, her mouth full of paint brushes.

'I haven't seen anything of the island yet, either! Just Funchal and the cruise ships,' Fiona grumbled, running a hand through her short, spiky hair, naturally dark. She glared at the ocean which sparkled a long way beneath. 'Why couldn't my grandparents retire to somewhere lively like Italy or France?'

'You've only been here for three days. What do you expect? You've months to enjoy it,' Selina, the third woman, said lazily, sprawling face down on a sun lounger, a pad of paper in front of her.

Fiona eyed her despondently. Selina Simkins was naturally blonde, tall and shapely, evenly tanned all over, beautiful, elegant, and supremely self-confident. She usually wore exceedingly brief bikinis. Today it was a very dark blue, almost black, and made her skin look even more tanned. This was just how Fiona imagined she was herself in her more optimistic moods. Today she was gloomily realistic, knowing she was short and fat, had spots, was too young to be taken seriously, and lamentably lacking in confidence. Her mother tried to cheer her up by saying she would soon lose that puppy fat, and the spots if she ate fewer cakes, but that was too great a sacrifice, Fiona thought.

Fiona sighed and Charlotte cast her an amused glance. Selina ignored her, staring down at the paper she'd been writing on.

'God, Charlie, how on earth am I to get them into bed? It's a lot more tricky than I expected. I can't just make them leap in. And I thought it would be the easiest part when I started.'

Charlotte grinned, standing up to view her painting from further back. She was shorter and darker than Selina, with a snub nose and wide, ugly mouth, and tended to wear shapeless clothes that were usually spattered with drops of paint, but somehow everyone was instantly aware of her. She sported huge round spectacles, and much of her face was hidden under a mop of tightly curling hair. She was by no means a classical beauty, but Fiona had already noticed that male heads turned as much for her as they did for her sister.

'Chuck it, Selina!' she advised now. 'You'll never compete with Bernie. Why not just live on his gigantic royalty cheques and enjoy the sun and good company? I would, in your diamond-studded bikini.'

Selina rolled off the lounger and tore a couple of pages from her pad.

'I want to write, and anyway, Bernie hasn't been getting so many commissions lately, so the cheques are getting smaller. I'll finish this novel if it kills me, and those I've read look so easy, but it's much more difficult than I expected.' She tossed the scrunched-up sheets into a huge empty flower pot. 'Charlie, you're five years younger than I am, and already a well known painter! I always meant to be a writer, but all I've had published is a couple of silly short stories in a small magazine that folded the week after my stories appeared.'

Charlotte laughed. 'I don't think you can blame your stories. They weren't that bad. I've had enough for today.' She put her brushes in a pot of water. 'I'll clean these later. Orange juice, everybody? This jug's still cold but I'll get some more ice.'

'I'd rather have Madeira,' Fiona replied swiftly. 'What's the use of being where the stuff's produced by the gallon and drinking orange juice?'

'They grow oranges here, too,' Selina said, grinning. 'You, my child, are too young for the real stuff. And aren't you going to some sort of party this evening? You wouldn't want to be rolling all over the place, would you?'

Fiona groaned. 'I suppose I'll have to be the dutiful granddaughter, but everyone who's likely to go is so old!'

'Thanks, my child,' Charlotte said, coming out of the kitchen. 'I wasn't aware you regarded us as ancients.'

'Oops! Sorry! Of course I didn't mean you.'

Charlotte grinned. 'Here, drink your orange juice like a good girl. It'll make you grow, if that's what you want.'

Fiona sighed but began to sip.

'It's so boring, being treated like a child all the time. Do you know, I haven't met a presentable man under thirty yet, and most of them are twice that age. The Brits here are all doddering pensioners like my grandparents.'

'There are a few younger men around, and you don't need a man, you're too young,' Charlotte said, laughing.

'I'm sixteen! Well, almost. I will be in August. I'm not proposing to go in for orgies, I'd just like someone nearer my age to talk to.'

Selina laughed. 'I don't think there are many orgies here. Madeira is too staid for that. What you need is a tough older man to keep you in order. Like my damned heroines, outwardly sophisticated and self-reliant, inwardly just pining to be swept off their tiny feet by a tall, dark handsome stranger!'

'That's ancient stuff!' Fiona complained in disgust.

'You may scoff, but that stuff earns multi-dollars! Or so I'm told. I'm beginning to think the writers deserve their mega-bucks, especially when they can write several books a year! I've been doing this one for six months, and I'm only up to Chapter four.'

'Keep on, my love. Perhaps you'll get them into bed in Chapter five.'

Selina frowned at Charlotte.

'If I can think how. According to the latest market research readers want brilliantly successful women made of marshmallow inside, with a hard lacquered surface only the hero can melt. Can you melt lacquer?'

'You chip it, or penetrate it,' Charlie suggested. 'Any heat might cook the marshmallow. Would that turn it into toffee, all gooey and clingy?'

Fiona giggled. Selina threw her pencil at her.

'Don't mock! Lord, no, these heroines never cling even to a raft in a shipwreck. Not till the final page, anyway. And penetration's too soon. I keep telling you I haven't got them anywhere near bed yet.'

'Get them drunk, not sure which is their own bedroom,' Charlotte suggested.

'Then they'd be incapable.'

'By morning, or even half way through the night, perhaps they'd be sufficiently recovered. Let's see, it's still dark, and they both think they are with their own partners. Then the sex is so incredible they can't believe it.'

'They are not supposed to have sex with anyone else. Or that was what that writer whose talk I went to said.'

'Perhaps things have changed. She was pretty ancient from what you told me.'

'Whatever. I only wish I could write the stuff convincingly. I used to believe it was rubbish, as easy to write as it is to read, but I think I'd be better off writing some incredibly abstruse and boring thing no one can understand.'

'And therefore couldn't criticise. More orange juice, Fiona?'

Fiona looked in some surprise at her empty glass, then rose reluctantly to her feet. 'No thanks, Charlie. Mum thinks I'm doing my prescribed three hours a day on the French Revolution, so I'd best sneak back into the Bastille before she notices I escaped. See you this evening.'

'Unless you get the chop. My regards to Madame Guillotine! Bye.'

Fiona gave her a puzzled look, then grinned, pulled on her t-shirt, and wrapped her long black cotton skirt round her. She picked up a large, and so far pristine notebook and went jauntily down the steps from the terrace, but as she crossed the road and went further down the steep slope she took care to stay behind whatever cover was available until she could slide unobtrusively through a gateway into a lushly overgrown garden. From there she scrambled over a low windowsill into her bedroom.

She was only just in time. Scarcely had she arranged herself at the small table, a dozen ostentatiously open books scattered on it, the bed beside her, and the floor, when her mother came in. Fiona reflected that no one would believe this was her mother. Catherine was taller than Fiona, slender and elegant, with naturally curling brown hair and an amazingly youthful, smooth pretty face. Her brown eyes tilted ever so slightly at the corners, giving her the faintest oriental look, at once vulnerable and inscrutable. Of course, she'd been able to spend Dad's money how she liked, as well as what she made from her dressmaking business, and pamper herself with clothes and good hairdos and health farms. She'd had no worries and ought to look good.

'Fiona, time for lunch. We're having it on the terrace. How did you get on this morning? On schedule?'

Fiona frowned. 'It's boring, we'd already covered most of the syllabus before I got ill, and all I can do is revise on my own,' she said. 'I've missed so much school, a whole term, I'll have to repeat the year anyway.'

'Not necessarily. They sent you the work you've missed. You can do the assignments, and take the exams here, it's all arranged, and if you pass you can still go into the sixth form in September. So it's worth revising. You'd hate to have to repeat the year, when all your friends had moved on.'

Fiona knew her mother was right, but it was still boring. She sat silently, picking at her food, as Catherine and her parents talked over lunch, and refused coffee, retreating to her room and reluctantly picking up a book.

As she left Catherine grimaced.

'That child's impossible! Sorry, Mum. I'll find an apartment to move to. She's making life so unpleasant for you.'

'She's been ill, darling, and she's a teenager. You were no angel at her age. We must make allowances. You mustn't leave, Catherine dear.' Margaret Fraser looked concerned. 'We were looking forward to having you both stay for a nice long time.'

'It's a lot of extra work for you. Besides, if I decide I can run the business from Madeira I'll need my own place. I couldn't live here with you.'

'But how could you?' Major Hamish Fraser asked. 'Live in Madeira, I mean? What about Fiona and her schooling?'

'We've talked about her becoming a boarder. She says she'd like that, and she could come out for holidays, when she doesn't go to Justin's. It's probably her illness, but she's being unusually difficult at the moment. I wish there were some younger people around to keep her company.'

'We'll have to see if we can find some. But don't worry too much. All girls are difficult at fifteen. You were yourself, and I was no angel!'

Catherine laughed. 'I don't believe that. I can't imagine you as anything but the mainstay of the regiment wives!'

It had been her own rebellion against the rigours of living in an army environment, as well as her father's rigid moralising and penchant for organising everyone else's life that had sent her, at eighteen, backpacking round Europe, finding casual jobs picking fruit and harvesting grapes. When winter closed in she and Felicity had become waitresses