Page 2 of One Bed

Her parents couldn’t have been more different, and despite racking her brain, Bea failed to comprehend how polar opposites had come together to produce a child. Lou, her mum, was loud, vain, narcissistic, selfish and ambitious. Her dad had been, up until his death fifteen years ago, spineless, ineffectual, a classic victim who believed the world was against him.

They’d never married, nor lived together, and Bea only saw Lou a few times a year. Her father, a twig on some aristocratic branch, had lived off a family trust and royalties and was, on paper, her primary parent.

Like Bea, he’d been a children’s author, but also an illustrator. He’d had little time for children, though, and hated being bothered by them. It was lucky for her – was it luck or a means of survival? – that she’d been the adult-iest child ever. Bea couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t feel like he was the child and she the person holding it all together. She always felt grown up, loved being praised for being a mature and responsible child and she withered under criticism.

At ten, she’d cooked their meals, at twelve she’d paid the household bills and kept an eye on her dad’s finances. And the more she did for him, the more he relied on her. She’d been addicted to his infrequent validation, and all her wheels fell off when he criticised her. To avoid any censure, Bea did everything in her power to avoid making a mistake. Two decades later, she still never went anywhere without doing a week’s worth of research, and never argued a point unless she had salient facts to back her up.

In her early twenties, Bea had met Gerry, and within weeks she was living with the aspiring musician and immediately became his caregiver and solver of his problems. It took her five years, numerous infidelities on his part, and the threat of physical violence for her to realise she was reliving her childhood, prepared to move mountains because he’d occasionally, usually when he wanted something, told her he loved her.

When Golly sold herUrban Explorersseries, Bea’s constant second-guessing of herself – oh, and her mum’s public hook-up with Gerry, but that was another story – led her to publish under a pseudonym, hiding her true identity and avoiding the vulnerability of public criticism and scrutiny.

And yes, she knew she’d recreated her missed childhood through her books, she’d figured that much out! And yes, Parker Kane was her alter-ego, but she was someone who lived outside of her,apartfrom her. Parker was someone that Bea – who spent far too many hours on her arse mainlining coffee, and the bulk of her time alone, who constantly second-guessed herself – wasn’t.

Bea rolled her shoulders, frustrated by what she was – scared, uncertain, a little lonely – and what she wasn’t – brave, outspoken, confident.

She turned up the volume to maximum, hoping to drown out her thoughts. She’d start thinking about herself and her future when her two-week working holiday was over.

But she’d probs find another excuse not to confront the PK question – revisions, deadlines, plotting her next series – when she got back to London. It wasn’t something she could put off forever.

Next week. She’d think about her future as Parker Kane, a future without Golly steering her, next week. Or maybe the week after.

Blup, blup, blup…

The steering wheel started to vibrate under her hands and Bea noticed the flashing light on the dashboard. She steered the car off the road into a lay-by and switched off the engine, placing her forehead on the steering wheel as spiteful trolls excavated her brain with pickaxes. Since hearing Golly’s retirement news four weeks ago, her headache was her most faithful companion, the result of far too much stress and way too little sleep.

She’d asked Golly if she’d continue to represent just her, selling it as a way for Golly to keep her hand in, to stay connected to the world of publishing. Golly’d immediately seen through her ruse, told her she was a manipulative baggage, and refused. Golly wanted to be free, to not have to worry about anyone or anything book-related, and that ‘includes, Bea-darling, you!’.

Golly’d made up her mind and there was no changing it. She was determined to enjoy the golden years of her life, vowing to fly into old age with a huge smile on her face, yelling like a banshee.

Nuts. She was nuts. Batshit crazy.

But, God, Bea loved her.

There’ll be lots of drinking and lots of dancing at my party, Bea-darling! We can let our hair down and have some fun, in bed and out.

She’d rather not think about Golly’s bed-based antics, and Bea wasn’t a one-night-stand type of girl. Truthfully, she was more of a got-my-heart-smashed-and-now-I’m-done type of girl. She’d only had two lovers before she met Gerry, and, unfortunately, sex with her ex wasn’t anything like romance novels described – it had been messy, quick and a little boring. Genuinely, she did not understand why sex sold. But it did, and many authors made gang cash by writing dark, sexy romances and erotica.

She pushed her sunglasses up into her thick, dark brown hair—Golly called it walnut brown, Bea called it boring–and opened the door to step out onto the gravel area of the lay-by. To her left was Oia, with its distinct blue-domed churches and blindingly white buildings. She had a one-eighty view of the entire caldera, the lava islands at its centre, the island of Thirasia in the distance and the sea a shade of blue she called Santorini Stunning. On the other side of the island were the famous beaches, Red Beach and Kamari, as well as her favourite, Baxedes Beach, popular amongst locals because of its seclusion, white sand and shallow waters. She hoped to have time to visit them this trip, but she had the next book to plot and a spin-off series to plan. She wanted to get that down before the revisions came in for book nine, but she was expecting, hoping, they would be light.

She also had to make sure Golly’s party would be a classy success.

She’d learnt the hard way that if she didn’t keep an eye on her godmother, there was every possibility this coming weekend would turn into a bacchanalian feast.

Bea placed her hands on her hips and scowled at her car. She couldn’t see any steam or smoke drifting out from underneath the bonnet, so that was a plus. Maybe. She walked around the car, the hem of her brown-and-white patterned dress swirling around her calves. She kicked the back left tyre with the toe of her flat sandal, it looked fine. But the front left tyre was not. It sagged into the gravel, looking sad and sorry for itself. Damn, she’d picked up a puncture…

And changing a tyre wasn’t a life skill Bea possessed. She was a writer, someone who used words, and her arms were day-old noodles strong. Now Pip, the enterprising and practical twelve-year-old ringleader of the motley bunch of underprivileged miscreants who were the stars of Bea’s books, would whip out tools and would know where to find the spare wheel.

It’s in the boot, dummy…

It was the first time she’d heard his voice in a while, and she smiled. Was he back for good? God, she hoped so. ‘Pipe down, squirt.’

So what was she going to do? There was nobody at the villa who could help her, so she’d have to call the rental company or get a mechanic out from Fira. Bea was about to reach for her phone, when she heard the low-pitched rumble of a deep-throated engine. Over the roof of her car, she watched a roof-and-doorless Jeep pull up to a stop behind her. A big man with aviator glasses and windblown hair sat behind the wheel. A bright blue canoe rested on the passenger seat behind him.

She watched as he climbed out of the Jeep and her eyebrows shot up when the unfamiliar hum of attraction vibrated up and down her spine. So …wow. He was tall, he had the best part of a foot on her five-four and he was, holy hell, ripped. Instead of helping her to change the flat tyre, Bea was pretty sure he could just pick up her car and walk it to Golly’s villa.

His loose, long-legged stride quickly covered the space between them. The breeze coming off the ocean played with his wavy hair skimming the collar of his shirt, a deep, rich shade of old gold.

His nose was long and a little hooked, and his face was all angles and planes.

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