Hawaiian Affair (Part 1 of 4) (Hawaiian Affair - 30 days to sign the deal - and stay out of love) Read online

  Hawaiian Affair

  By Debbie Flint

  Text copyright © 2013 Debbie Flint

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by Flintproductions

  www.debbieflint.com

  @debbieflint

  Dedication: with the utmost gratitude and big hugs to all the lovely friends and relations and facebook contacts who helped me during this ‘first novel-writing journey’. From the initial concept and painful early versions back in 2010, through to the most recent, widely varied versions, all carefully considered by my patient readers group. To the many people who helped with my edit, endured the endless iterations, and generally supported me throughout this process! To the Ladies of Posara, my Tuscany writing group, where this book began. To the Debbie’s Readers group on facebook, without whom it might have been another three years before I finished this book, and particularly to Sharon Harvey, who runs the group, for being the most supportive pal anyone could hope for. And of course to my family and those closest to me, who have seen this achievement of a lifetime come finally to fruition, after decades of saying ‘when I’m a grown up I want to be a writer…’ . Which is still true, by the way.

  Thanks to you all. Enjoy! And to all my new readers, and those who have been regulars on my @qvcuk blog on www.qvcuk.com, I thank you all for taking the plunge and ordering this book. I await your feedback with anticipation!

  Keep in touch via twitter @debbieflint

  Facebook – DebbieFlintQVC

  And my webpage www.debbieflint.com where you can sign up for my regular newsletters keeping you informed when new stories become available, and for hints and tips about writing your own novel. It’s been a fun process, and I’ve loved – and hated – every minute! Let me know what you think! Best wishes, Debs x

  Amazing front cover illustration by Angela Oltman www.angieocreations.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  She nearly did it. In that split second, she nearly did it. After all, if throwing a mobile phone into the sea could magically take all her troubles away, Ms Sadie Turner (PhD) would instantly be a stone lighter, debt-free and not in the mood for killing somebody. Well, one body in particular – the one explaining light-heartedly that he couldn’t have the girls at the weekend – again. Because something had ‘cropped up’ - again. But this time, Sadie had a way out. This time, the deal of a lifetime was within reach, and this time, nothing could stand in her way - least of all the waste of space she used to call husband. Because tomorrow she was meeting a millionaire, and with his investment, everything could change.

  But she had just thirty days to make it happen.

  ‘Aw come on, Sweetie, let your mum have them for me. She did it for you last month when you went swanning off to play aloha half way round the world.’

  ‘She’s my mum. And that was business, Stuart,’ Sadie replied. Just then a ship sounded its horn off-shore, and Sadie jumped, as did a hundred sea birds who took off, filling the air with their cawing and flapping. Not quite the Mediterranean breeze she had in mind.

  ‘Anyway, where are you? On another cheapo jaunt for some European jolly?’ said the voice on speakerphone.

  ‘Don’t call me Sweetie,’ she replied. ‘It’s not a jolly. And they flew me here Club Class if you must know.’

  ‘Oo-ooo, sorry, Sugar-Lips,’

  ‘And don’t call me Sugar-Lips! Or Babe, or Cutie Pie, or anything - in fact, don’t call me at all when I’m away on business!’

  ‘Is it proper business?’

  ‘Yes of course it’s proper business!’ Sadie snapped - a little too loud for her glamorous surroundings. She heard a ‘tut’ from somewhere nearby and looked around but couldn’t see anyone, just a group of glamorous people a little further down the jetty, queuing to board one of the opulent yachts.

  She adjusted her jacket, lowered her voice, and banished her demons.

  ‘No more of your sob stories, Stuart. And I’ll tell you something - if you don’t take your daughters somewhere nice this weekend, then your latest ‘girlfriend’ – girl being the operative word - will be mysteriously twittered about how old you really are…’

  ‘It’s tweeted.’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s twatted, don’t let your children down again.’

  She made a mental note to tell her kids later about the latest heated debate with their dad – it would make them smile. He had stopped being their fourth musketeer six years ago, but it could be worse.

  He could be worse.

  ‘But there’s no way I can miss my…’ he began, but at that moment her call-waiting bleep sounded.

  ‘Hold on a sec,’ she said as she jabbed her phone sharply. ‘Good afternoon, Sadie Turner speaking?’

  It was an update on her lost luggage – it was still lost. A few more hours in the business suit then.

  Sadie swapped calls again, and let out a big sigh.

  ‘Was that one of your big sighs?’ her ex-husband asked.

  She rolled her eyes at the phone.

  ‘And I bet you’re rolling your eyes?’ Damn the man. ‘So I saw the local paper - who’d have thought it, my Sadie winning a marketing award and a freebie trip to Hawaii to pick up the trophy. All expenses paid I take it?’

  ‘Of course. And I’m not your Sadie. Not anymore.’

  ‘Something happen when you were out there?’ he continued ignoring her comment. ‘No sooner are you back than I get another foreign ring tone? Most unlike my workaholic Sadie. What’s that all about then? Have you met someone?’ he asked, an edge to his voice.

  She took a moment to compose, then mentally squeezed him out from under her skin like a great big spot. Satisfying.

  ‘That’s none of your concern, is it?’ she breathed, stretching her neck to left and right. ‘Not anymore. Got to go, Stuart - people to see, things to do. And don’t forget – be there on Saturday. It’s your turn. Bye.’

  She hung up before he could reply, then exhaled and closed her eyes. Things to do indeed. Like waiting for my suitcases to turn up.

  Lost luggage - today of all days.

  A long blonde tendril escaped in the breeze and blew onto her face, so she stopped to fix it. Her handbag was heavy. She’d brought the shiny glass trophy along so she could look at it every now and then - as a kind of a talisman, a good luck charm. And maybe if she rubbed it enough, her luck would continue. She’d need it – palpitations hit her chest like a freight train every time she thought about the make or break presentation tomorrow morning. Was it any wonder, with the challenge she was facing? Could she do it? Could anyone do it?

  Just thirty days to find an investor and sign the contract – certainly not your run of the mill business deal. But then Sadie Samantha Turner was ‘not your run of the mill business woman’. At least that’s what her fridge magnet said.

  She pulled a little tube of high protection sun cream from a jacket pocket - it smelled wonderfully exotic and felt soothing as she dabbed some onto her glowing cheeks. Then she shoved the wayward hair back into the once-smart ‘up-do’, that had become more ‘do’ than ‘up’.

  Picking up her weighty handbag, she set off again, carefully clip-clopping along the cobblestones as fast as her five inch stilettos would allow. Ouch – not so fast – she nearly twisted an ankle.

  She wasn’t expecting cobblestones. Why not a wooden jetty like any other self-respecting quay had? Didn’t they? Size of the boats they bring to Monaco, I guess… Goodness only knows how wealthy you had to be, to own one of these bea
uties. She remembered the conversations amongst the plane passengers on the way over, two of whom were having an in-depth debate about which stars were docked here for the Grand Prix. She’d been so fascinated by their conversations, and so clearly out of her depth in Club Class, they’d taken pity on her and made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Here,’ one of them had said, ‘take this ticket – if you don’t mind pretending you’re one of us. It’s for an Open Day for a yacht that’s for sale – not on our agenda, darling, but if you can keep a low profile, you are welcome to go instead of us. You’ve certainly got the shoes for it.’ She’d taken the ticket gladly, but once on the jetty, cold feet had set in. Maybe just seeing the outside of the ‘Nomusa’ – the massive blue yacht pictured on the ticket - would be enough. Maybe it’s best not to try to pass herself off as ‘one of them’ - considering her inappropriate business attire and dishevelled hair. But now only feet away from some of these amazing craft, it was hard to ignore the pull of curiosity to find out more. What would it be like… imagine the view from the deck…just to get one photo on board, to see the girls’ faces when they saw it… Sadie’s self-talk continued as she tottered down the jetty. But the nearer she got, the colder her feet got.

  No, it’s no good – I just don’t belong.

  She couldn’t do it. She’d just go and have a look from the outside. And maybe find some inside images later online. Ever the stickler for detail, she took out a tiny notebook and pen, and looked around her on the dock, jotting down one or two of the other yacht’s names to Google later. Two very glamorous people passed her by and looked at her quite strangely, so she smiled and quickly popped her notebook back in her bag. Then she walked off, head in the clouds, allowing herself a little daydream.

  Several feet above Sadie, on the deck of one of the biggest yachts in the marina, an amused seaman called Mac was distracted. Sadie’s just-a-little-too-loud phone conversation had caught his attention. Then her voluptuous curves had kept it. So who was this woman in the tight blue business skirt? No tourist dressed like that, plus she’d been taking notes. Maybe this was the harbour inspection the Captain had warned the crew about. But in those shoes…?! Hmmm… Mac stopped his chores, rested an elbow on the end of his mop-handle, and took in the sight of Sadie’s backside swaggering away up the jetty in her towering heels.

  ‘Who on earth can she be?…’ he said to himself, taking out a handkerchief – white-linen and monogrammed – to dab the sweat from his tanned forehead and chiselled face. Then the corners of his mouth quirked as, several yards away, Sadie tripped a tiny bit, and glanced around to check no-one saw.

  Smiling and shaking his head, he tucked the hanky away in the shortest of shorts, and kept one eye on Sadie whilst he went back to mopping the deck.

  Sadie was completely oblivious to being watched. She meandered down the jetty, approaching the queue of people near the Nomusa, and tried to pretend she belonged. She was, however, much better at sticking out like a sore thumb. She drew level with the group of supercilious fashionistas standing in line, all hoping for a spare invite – and Sadie’s heart pounded as she got nearer – knowing she had what they desired - the magic ticket was tucked tidily inside her bag. Could she…?

  Nope, no way am I going on there, she thought, as the glamorous group of girls nudged each other and glared at Sadie. She took a deep breath, and strutted straight by, sticking her chin in the air. Just then, several tresses of Sadie’s hair suddenly freed themselves and dramatically flopped onto her face - blocking Sadie’s view completely - and the group giggled. She simply tossed her head back, and continued walking by, peering out from underneath the hair at a funny angle, just till she passed the end of their queue. She cursed under her breath and stopped to rummage around in her bulging bag, removing things one by one.

  ‘Where’s that damn brush…?’ she muttered to herself. Ahh there it is - underneath everything else, naturally.

  Looking around she spotted a low post nearby and deposited her things on it, whilst she fixed her hair. In the bright sunshine, if she held the glass trophy at the right angle, she could just about see her reflection in it. Stupid hair-do. It might be newly blonde, but it’s definitely getting another cut when I get home. A business-bob, yes that would suit her new executive image.

  Absent-mindedly she started placing her things back in her bag, With an effort, she began to close the zip, then stopped. The last thing she’d stuffed into her bag was the colourful invite, with gold embossed lettering in French. She took it out again, and gazed at it, thoughtfully, completely unaware that a pushy French salesman, holding a clipboard, had spotted the invite and was coming her way. Suddenly a pair of very smart brogues were right in front of Sadie and she looked up, holding the ticket. The gaggle of yacht groupies behind her fell silent, and she felt their eyes piercing through her back.

  ‘Ah, the final latecomer,’ he said, with a strong French accent. Then he thrust a glossy brochure into her hand and took the ticket from her before she could say a word. ‘Do come on board – you are just in time. And I believe I know who you are,’ he said. Sadie’s heart began to pound as the man continued. ‘Mr Clooney said to look out for ze heels! Haha. Welcome to the tour, Miss…’

  ‘Turner,’ Sadie replied, ‘… and it’s Ms.’

  ‘Merzzz?’

  ‘Yes, Ms. As in not-Miss but not-Missus.’ The man merely raised an eyebrow then started looking down a list of names on his clipboard.

  ‘Oh but you won’t find me on any list of Mr Clooney’s,’ she said.

  ‘You won’t be the first woman to say that,’ he said, ‘or the last.’ Shaking his head slightly, he gave up looking at his list. With another glance at her heels, and at her, he shrugged, closed his clipboard and put away his pen. He took her ticket, then her elbow and guided her to the walkway.

  ‘We are about to commence. Straight up the gangplank there, but stay on the red carpet. Champagne awaits you at the top...’

  Sadie opened her mouth to explain, and then stopped, looked up at the plush, luxurious red carpet leading onto the yacht, and the buzzing hubbub going on on-deck. A massive, full-headlights beam spread right across her glowing face, as a mischievous idea crossed her mind, and she held her arm out graciously to accept his offer to help her onto the gangplank...

  Why not? Why the hell not! About time, lady luck… Before she knew it, she was on a tour of a very large vessel that apparently was having an open day for a certain Mr Clooney.

  Half an hour, a few nibbles and two small glasses of Cristal champagne later, Sadie was back on the jetty, having learned that Mr ‘Alistair’ Clooney was no relation to any film stars, and not at all partial to gate-crashers.

  But hey, she thought, fanning herself with the glossy brochure she’d been allowed to keep by the amused French salesman, it would make a nice little story to tell her girls when she got back. And she’d got the prized photo on her phone – which she began uploading to her cloud storage straight away, whilst she wandered distractedly back down the jetty once more. It had been worth it, pretending to be someone else, even if only so briefly. And no one would know, would they?

  Time to chase the luggage again. But there was still no news. She could only hope and pray it would turn up at her hotel by this evening, as her laptop and spare back-up were in there with everything for the meeting tomorrow. Oooo more palpitations. The meeting – tomorrow - everything depended upon it. Her little health food store back home in Guildford, the girls’ education – everything. This opportunity was what she’d been praying for – it simply had to be a success. And if it wasn’t…

  She shuddered at the alternatives, all too dismal to contemplate, each of them meaning she would still have to rely on pain-in-the-butt Stuart.

  Sadie took a moment to catch her breath and looked out at the amazing view on the other side of the jetty - the bluest sky she’d ever witnessed, and the most luxurious harbour. She felt like she was on one of those travel programmes. She sort of exp
ected Judith Chalmers to come creeping out from a yacht with a microphone… looking all orange and pristine. Sadie was old enough to remember Judith Chalmers’ travel shows. Another fact that bothered her slightly - she wasn’t getting any younger. She caught herself mid-thought. No! No negativity. Come on Sadie, think positive.

  One minute and some serious focus-work later, she was allowing herself to feel a little elation. After all, she - Sadie Samantha Turner - had made it this far. Who would have ‘thunk it’ as her girls were fond of saying.

  Not her critics, who kept telling her she’d never amount to anything - Stuart, his mother and his mother’s mother (strangely enough) being the core group.

  This time, they would see that this wasn’t ‘just another hare-brained scheme’ as her old boss had called it, when - post-divorce - the newly single Sadie had left the university research lab to strike out on her own in more ways than one.

  This time it was Sadie doing it by herself. And if she could only pull off this multi-million pound negotiation, the commission would be incredible. Then let’s see them laugh on the other sides of their faces.

  And in her ex-mother-in-law’s case, that would be at least two.

  The mobile phone in her bag rang and snapped Sadie out of her stupor. She squeaked in surprise. Retrieving it from her bag, she checked the screen and then straightened up and answered in her best voice.

  ‘Good afternoon, Sadie Turner speaking? …Oh thank God.’ She continued walking as she talked. ‘So, where did you find it? ... But how could one suitcase end up in Frankfurt and the other in Milan? … What time “later”? … Well it will have to do, won’t it. And I’ll just boil in my business suit till then… Yes, I know you’re doing your best. It’s not your fault, I’m just having a bad….’ She stopped.

  Don’t say it Sadie, think positive. Always think positive.