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

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

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’
- a
gain. 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 beauties. 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.