Chrissie Manby is the author of seventeen romantic comedy novels and a guide for aspiring writers,
Writing for Love
. She was nominated for the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance in 2011 for
Getting Over Mr Right
.

Raised in Gloucester, Chrissie now lives in London.

You can follow her on Twitter
www.twitter.com/chrissiemanby

or visit her website to find out more
www.chrissiemanby.com
.

A PROPER FAMILY HOLIDAY

Chrissie Manby

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

The right of Chrissie Manby to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN 978 1 444 74273 2

eBook ISBN 978 1 444 74274 9

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

338 Euston Road

London NW1 3BH

www.hodder.co.uk

For Penelope Alice Susan Hazel

Prologue

Of the many family photographs that graced the shelves in Jacqui Benson’s living room, there were three of which she was particularly fond. The first, taken in the mid nineteen-eighties, was a photograph of an apple-cheeked baby girl, her younger daughter Chelsea, smiling in toothless delight as her grandfather Bill held her for her first paddle in the shallows of the sea. Chelsea’s big sister Ronnie, just two, stood alongside, gripping their father Dave’s hand for balance. Ronnie’s smile was big and proud as she waved a plastic spade at her mother behind the camera. That photograph was taken at Littlehampton, on a rare bright day in a fortnight of rain. They were staying in a borrowed caravan that smelled of Benson and Hedges and wet dog but didn’t they have a great time?

The second photograph had been taken four years later. Same resort. Different caravan. Chelsea was five by now and Ronnie was six and a half. This time, neither sister needed an adult for support as they dashed in and out of the sea. Together with Granddad Bill, they had built a sandcastle and were filling the moat bucket by bucket. It was a thankless task; they spent the entire afternoon going backwards and forwards, spilling more than they managed to tip into the channel and finding it soaked away altogether before they got back with another load. In the photograph, the sun was shining, though Jacqui remembered it as another wet fortnight. Stormy even. Wasn’t that the holiday where the caravan’s awning blew away in the middle of the night? All the same, they had a laugh.

The third photograph was taken in the late nineteen-nineties. Littlehampton again. Granddad Bill liked the old-fashioned seaside town so much he’d bought a static van on a proper full service campsite when he retired. It was a great idea – free holidays for all the family when money was especially tight. In this photograph, the girls were on the beach once more but they were too old for paddling and sandcastles now. They’d spent the morning – a brief respite of sunshine in a fortnight of near monsoon conditions – stretched out on their beach-towels, listening to music, playing it super-cool whenever a good-looking boy walked by and dissolving into giggles once he was past them. They sat up for the photograph, taken by their father. Ronnie had slung her arm round her sister Chelsea’s shoulders. Chelsea’s expression, eyes rolling even as she tried not to laugh, suggested their dad had just told one of his ‘jokes’. This photograph was especially precious to Jacqui. It was the last photograph she had of her daughters together, great friends as well as sisters, enjoying each other’s company on a family holiday.

Sixteen years later, Jacqui had decided that it was time to recreate that togetherness again. Only this time with more reliable weather.

Chapter One

Chelsea

Five thirty-seven. The alarm clock on Chelsea Benson’s bedside table had been going off for five whole minutes. Chelsea remained in a deep slumber, flat on her back, legs and arms spread wide like a starfish, and snoring so hard that her breath actually stirred the panels of the Japanese paper lampshade hanging above her bed.

Six twenty-three. The alarm had been sounding for fifty-one minutes. Chelsea snored on. She was finally woken by the sound of hammering on the front door of her flat and staggered to answer it, still half asleep. Her next-door neighbour, Pete, stood on the doorstep, in his pyjamas.

‘You’re in. I told myself she can’t be in. I told myself it would stop automatically. Or the batteries would run out. Or … or …’

With a good portion of her brain still stuck in the Land of Nod, Chelsea looked at Pete in confusion.

‘Your alarm clock!’ Pete spluttered. ‘I can hear it through the walls.’

‘Be-be-beep, be-be-beep, be-be-beep …’ The little clock had not given up.

As if hearing the alarm for the very first time, Chelsea turned back towards her bedroom.

‘No!’ She was suddenly very wide-awake indeed. ‘What time is it?’

‘It’s twenty-five past six on a Saturday morning!’

‘Sorry, Pete. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.’

She closed the door as quickly as she could without causing offence, then raced for her bedroom, turning off the alarm clock with a slam to its button while simultaneously working out her next move. Her brand-new wheelie case, still empty and bearing its shop tags, was on the floor by the wardrobe. The pile of holiday ironing she had meant to tackle the previous night was still resolutely wrinkled. No time to fix that. Her passport was … Where on earth was her passport?

Now Chelsea’s mobile phone was vibrating on the dressing table.

I hope U R on yr way 2 Gatwick.

It was a message from her sister, Ronnie, who, together with her partner, Mark, and their two children, Jack and Sophie, was already well on her way from her home in Coventry to Birmingham Airport. There was no time to respond.

Chelsea chewed on her electric toothbrush as she threw clothes in the general direction of the suitcase. She hopped into the dress she’d been wearing the previous evening and dragged a wide-toothed comb through her wavy brown hair. The undeniably gorgeous dress at least made her look a little more put together, and looking more put-together always made her
feel
more put-together, which was useful. Despite the hurry, Chelsea paused for a moment and looked more carefully at the clothes she was planning to pack. Her favourite Chloé tunic? Check. Hepburn-style capris by Michael Kors? Check. Three new designer kaftans that were very Talitha Getty circa 1965? Check. Chelsea wasn’t sure it was the perfect holiday capsule wardrobe, but it was certainly getting there.

‘Passport?’ Chelsea muttered.

She spotted her passport on the table by the front door with her keys. Of course. She’d put it there so she wouldn’t forget it. Six forty-five. She could still do this. She could still be on time and looking pretty stylish too, she thought, as she glanced in the mirror. The beautiful dress was made perfect for travelling with ballet flats and a fitted denim jacket. She stuck her bug-eyed Oliver Peoples sunglasses in her hair and gave herself a quick pout. Yes. Looking all right, considering.

It was only as she got to the tube station at Stockwell that Chelsea realised her passport was still in the very place she had put it to make certain it was not left behind.

‘Aaaaaaagh!’

Seven fifteen. Chelsea was back at the tube station with her passport.

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