The Unexpected Consequences of Love (3 page)

Lying on her back, Sophie closed her eyes and reveled in the blissful sensation of the sun on her eyelids. She really should do this more often. Somehow, spending a whole day on the beach always felt like a luxury she couldn't afford to indulge in; building up the business invariably took priority. If Tula hadn't come down today, she would have kept herself busy with work.

But she was glad she hadn't. Taking a few hours off made a nice change. Resting her arms behind her head, she trailed her fingers through the dry, fine sand and listened to the sounds of the waves breaking onto the beach, the seagulls swooping and wheeling overhead. The smell of sunscreen hung in the air and a light breeze was coming in off the ocean.

Sophie stretched, satiated. As well as the blackberry ice creams, they'd had fish and chips and malt ball candies. And Diet Coke. It had been a lovely day, spent gossiping, swimming, then later joining in with a game of volleyball on the beach. Now they were enjoying the last couple hours of sunshine and listening to the chatter and snippets of conversation going on around them. Children were engaged in building sand castles and digging moats, couples were idly bickering and the group of posh girls directly behind them were eyeing up the talent and providing a running commentary on their various attributes.

“The one in the yellow board shorts? He's pretty fit.”

“Not bad. I'd rather have the blond one with the tan. Nice abs.”

“But he's got one of those noses. There's big and there's too big.”

“Oh, come on, it's only a nose. That can be fixed! See the guy with the long, dark hair? He's good-looking but his body's too long for his legs… Now that's something you're never going to be able to sort out.”

Cue giggles. Sophie opened her eyes and tilted her head to the left to see what Tula was doing. True to form, she was propped up on her elbows, surveying the view. Which included, naturally, the men in question.

Of course it did. Tula would never miss an opportunity to ogle.

Following her line of gaze, Sophie saw Josh Strachan emerging from the sea with his surfboard. He shook water from his hair and glanced over in their direction, prompting a flurry of interest among the posh girls.

“Now that's
much
better. That's what I call a body,” the loudest of them said in admiration. “How did we manage to miss him before?”

The answer to this was quite simple: for the last hour or so, Josh had been busy surfing, and it was presumably the first time he'd left the water. Sophie, who'd spotted him earlier, watched as he made his way over to the café.

“Unzip your wet suit, unzip your wet suit,” one of the other girls chanted quietly. “Come on now, let's see your chest.”

“Ooh, spoilsport,” said the loud one as Josh disappeared from view with his wet suit still zipped. “I may have to go over there and get myself a drink. Show him what he's missing.”

“Hang on, here he is again, and he's got a dog with him now! Ooh, look at that,
sooooo
cute…
”

Because that was the thing about Griff: he did have the knack, when he wasn't being a mud-spattering, havoc-causing holy devil, of looking ridiculously cute. Sophie, plugging her earphones back into her ears, turned the volume on her iPod up to maximum to block out the chatter of the girls behind them, and closed her eyes once more.

Less than a minute later, someone was licking her toes.

Or, more accurately,
something
. Having done a shuddery, whole-body twitch, Sophie jackknifed into a sitting position and saw that it was Griff at her feet, tongue lolling and tail wagging away happily.

At the other end of his leash was Josh.

“Sorry.” He grinned down at her, evidently not meaning it. “Thought it was you earlier. Hello again.”

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been upright, wearing jeans and a top, and her hair had been loose. Today she was prone in a bikini with her hair tied back and dark glasses half covering her face. Lifting the glasses, she said, “You've been in the sea the whole time. I've been here. How could you know it was me from that far away?”

It had all gone quiet behind her. Josh Strachan looked briefly surprised. At last he replied mildly, “I recognized your bag.”

Oh. Right. Sophie glanced over at the oversized holdall she carried with her everywhere. Made of bright turquoise leather and studded all over with nuggets of silver that reflected the sun and glittered like camera flashes, it probably was quite…standoutish.

Fair enough.

“And how about you?” Josh's tone altered. “How are you feeling now?”

What? What was
that
supposed to mean? Opening her mouth to ask, Sophie belatedly realized he was addressing Tula.

Which made even less sense.

Tula, clearly thinking the same, said, “Excuse me?”

“I saw you swimming earlier. And playing volleyball. Seems like a pretty miraculous recovery.” He paused, tilting his head to indicate the shopping bag at her side, containing all the empty drinks cartons and food wrappers. “After last night's questionable prawn curry.”

Last night? What was he
on
about? “You've got the wrong person,” Sophie protested. “Tula wasn't even here last night.”

Josh smiled and replied pleasantly, “I didn't say she was.”

If it were possible to have an awkward silence on a noisy, crowded beach, this was it. Even more bizarrely, Tula had gone bright red. The girls behind them were doubtless agog.

With all the finesse of a five-year-old, Tula shook her head and said, “I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.”

She never had been able to tell a convincing lie.

“Don't you?” Josh Strachan was evidently finding the situation entertaining. “So the girl I saw sitting on the grounds of our hotel earlier, the one talking to someone on her phone about how incredibly ill she was, thanks to a prawn curry…that wasn't you?”

“Fine,” Tula blurted out. “Great, brilliant, thanks a lot. The whole point of doing it up there rather than down here, believe it or not, was because I was trying to be discreet.”

“Okay. Sorry,” said Josh, although he clearly wasn't. “Anyway, looks like you're feeling much better now. So that's good, isn't it?”

“Josh! You off?” Another surfer arrived, greeting him with a slap on the back. “Are we going to see you at the party tonight?” Flashing a dazzling white smile at…well, pretty much every girl in the vicinity, he added cheerily, “Hello, ladies!”

Behind Sophie and Tula, evidently entranced by the sight of two attractive men in wet suits, the posh girls chorused, “Hello!”

Sophie hid a smile, because that was Riley Bryant for you: the ultimate charmer in a “hello, ladies” kind of way. With his long, sun-bleached hair, caramel perma-tan, and sea-green eyes, he was Joey from
Friends
personified, only blonder and thinner and with a trace of a Newcastle accent. He loved women, any women, flirted incessantly, and his vanity knew no bounds.

What saved Riley from being insufferable was his talent for self-mockery. Outrageously and unapologetically hedonistic, he lived a life designed to suit only himself. Since holding down a proper job didn't appeal, he survived instead on the proceeds of a trust fund set up by his doting aunt. Any criticism of his choices simply rolled off his back; he had the ability to laugh at himself and didn't take offense. He spent his days surfing, traveling the world, partying like there was no tomorrow, and sleeping with girls. If they had the choice, he argued, who in their right mind wouldn't want to do that?

Basically he'd be every parent's nightmare son-in-law. But if you regarded him simply as harmless entertainment, he was always good value and amusing company to have around.

One of the posh girls, evidently coming to the same conclusion, seized her chance and said, “Actually, you look like the right person to ask. We're just down for the weekend, wondering where's the best place around here to go for the evening. Is there anywhere fun you can recommend?”

Riley raised a playful eyebrow. “Fun?”

“And lively,” her friend chimed in. “Some place we can let our hair down.”

Glancing at them over her shoulder, Sophie noted that they did indeed all have plenty of hair, the gleaming, swishy kind. And teeny-tiny bikinis. They were also wearing the full complement of jewelry, fake tan, and makeup. Which wasn't something you saw that often down here on the beach.

“Well, we're going to the Mermaid.” Riley turned and pointed in the general direction. “It's at the far end of the esplanade. A friend's celebrating his birthday there… It'll be lively, I can guarantee that.”

“And he wouldn't mind us turning up?”

“Are you kidding? More the merrier, wouldn't you say?” Riley turned to Sophie for confirmation. “You know what CJ's like. Hardly going to complain, is he, about a bunch of gorgeous girls showing up at his party?”

Sophie shrugged and shook her head, because this was undoubtedly true.

The posh girl in the teeniest pink and white polka-dotted bikini said, “Awesome!”

“So what do you reckon?”

Sophie said, “About what?”

It was nine o'clock in the evening. They'd left the beach at six, showered and changed back at the flat, and had had their first couple drinks at a wine bar called La Petite Bouteille.

“Where shall we go next?” Tula was twirling the stem of her empty wineglass and doing her best to look innocent, as if it were a completely spur-of-the-moment question.

She was rubbish at it.

Since two could play at that game, Sophie said, “Ooh, it's quiz night at the Mariner's Arms. Let's go there!”

“Quiz night?” Tula looked horrified.

“It's a really friendly pub. Loads of lovely old fishermen. We'd have a great time.”

“I was thinking, why don't we try somewhere more…buzzy?”

“Okay. Well, are you hungry? There's a new Mexican restaurant with singing waiters. That's buzzy.” Her smile bright, Sophie added, “We could have chimichangas!”

“Or maybe”—Tula cast around for inspiration—“how about giving that other place a go? You know…thingy…the Mermaid?”

Sooo
predictable.

“I think Riley was inviting the other girls.”

“No he wasn't. It was all of us. Definitely.” Tula nodded earnestly.

“And you want to go there because you fancy him? Trust me,” said Sophie, “you don't want to get involved.”

“I wouldn't! Apart from anything else, I live two hundred miles away. Anyway, I'm not stupid,” Tula protested. “I can see what he's like.”

Sophie raised a playful eyebrow. “And when has that ever stopped you before?”

“Look, I just think we'd have more fun at the Mermaid than doing some boring quiz with a bunch of smelly old fishermen. Plus, the other one'll be there too.” As if this was the clincher, she said, “Thingy with the cute dog.”

“Josh.”

“That's it.”

“You mean the one who overheard you on the phone and caught you out, big time.”

“It's the first sickie I've ever pulled. You have no idea how desperate I was for a break, a weekend away. And it's never going to happen again,” Tula wheedled. “Oh, don't look at me like that. Anyway, do you find him attractive?”

“Who, Josh? No.” Sophie shook her head; this was the way she'd trained herself to react. She hadn't mentioned to Tula that he'd asked her out.

“Yay, brilliant! So you don't mind if I have a go at him?”

A
go
? Slightly taken aback, Sophie said, “I thought you lived two hundred miles away.”

“Come on, he's gorgeous. All dark and carved and glinty eyed.” Tula jumped down from her bar stool and flashed an optimistic grin. “Not to mention masterful. I can give it my best shot, can't I? Some men are worth the commute.”

“Spoken like a true romantic.”

“But I
am
romantic. If I met the right man, it wouldn't matter to me if he was rich or poor. Although rich would be better, obviously. And if Josh half owns that hotel, he must be doing all right.”

Sophie smiled at this, realizing there was something else Tula didn't yet know about Dot Strachan's grandson. “He's not too strapped for cash,” she admitted. “He used to manage Go Destry.”

“Are you serious?” Tula's eyes widened in disbelief. “
Go
Destry?
You mean…he's the one who discovered them? Bloody hell, why didn't you tell me this
before
?”

Sophie shrugged. Hollywood gossip simply didn't loom large on her radar. Or even small, come to that. “Sorry. I didn't know.”

***

Every so often, fate and luck conspire together to create synchronicity, and a kind of magic results. It had happened to Josh Strachan three years ago when he'd been making his way through an LA park and had passed a group of teenagers singing and dancing along to a backing track. Their voices were good but not outstanding, their dance moves were by no means perfect, and the music was frankly dire, but there was just something about them that made him want to stop, watch, and listen.

Somewhere deep down had stirred the realization that these kids possessed the kind of indefinable charisma that couldn't be manufactured. You either had it or you didn't. And if it was nurtured properly…well, then the sky was the limit.

A mixture of restless curiosity, adventure, and world-class surfing beaches had brought Josh out to LA years earlier. Through friends and contacts he'd managed to land a decent job working for a small independent record label. After asking the teenagers a few questions and handing them his card, he'd suggested they come into the office the next day.

When they did, however, nerves had gotten the better of them in a major way and the easy camaraderie that had piqued Josh's interest was lost. The assembled codirectors of the company unanimously declined the opportunity to sign the band, who at the time called themselves—horrendously—Four Ov Uz. Josh did his best to argue their case but was flatly overruled. Setting up another meeting outside working hours, he spoke to the band again and listened to a very average song one of the boys had written for them. He then offered to become their manager, detected what was missing from the song, rejigged it himself, and financed the trip to the recording studio.

A month later, he handed in his notice and walked away from the record company in order to manage the band full-time. He worked day and night to crystallize their image; Dizzy, Jem, Bonnie, and Cal were two boys and two girls with quirky good looks, complementary personalities, and bags of likability factor. All in their late teens, they were witty, intriguing, and exuded joie de vivre. The plan was that female fans would fancy the boys and want to be best friends with the girls, and for the males to pretend not to find any of them attractive but grudgingly admit that their music was okay.

The band's name had to go, obviously. After brainstorming for hours without success, Josh went for a drink in a bar and saw a bunch of men watching horse racing on TV, yelling at the tops of their voices for the horse they'd put their money on. The horse had ended up winning magnificently by half a length, and Josh named the band after the words the men had been bellowing: Go Destry.

The next six months weren't easy; only Josh's unswerving belief in the band kept them going. Performing in clubs failed to attract audiences. Each new attempt to get them noticed was unsuccessful. Everyone was growing disheartened, running out of enthusiasm for what felt like an insurmountable task. Josh, having taken on the biggest financial gamble of his life, was rapidly running out of cash.

Then somehow, incredibly, it all began to change. A couple shows went well, clips were posted on YouTube, and people finally began to watch them and take notice. A week or so later, the superstar rapper EnjaySeven—known for his own eclectic tastes in music and fashion—became an unlikely supporter, retweeting one of their YouTube links on Twitter and publicly predicting that Go Destry were destined to be massive. This prompted a deluge of attention, with everyone racing to agree with him. The next gig sold out, iTunes sales skyrocketed, and the band found themselves being greeted at every turn by fans chanting, “Go Destry! Go Destry! GO GO GO Destry!”

It all went bananas after that. Josh's phone never stopped ringing; the band was booked to appear on all the major TV shows. The whole of America fell in love with them, charmed by their winning ways, impish humor, and capacity for mischief, as well as by the insanely catchy debut single “Come Back to Me.”

Over the course of the next year, what had initially been on par with a cottage industry became an unstoppable juggernaut. A huge record deal was struck and top songwriters were hastily drafted to create an album that would live up to all the hype. A stadium tour was put together. There were advertising deals. A TV series. Movie proposals were thrown at them.

Basically, the world had gone crazy; it was all happening too fast. Realizing this, Josh began turning offers down but his protégés found out and objected: how
dare
he decide what they could and couldn't do?

This turned out to be the beginning of the end. As the months went by, being part of an unstoppable juggernaut stopped being thrilling and fun. Like overtired toddlers refusing to give in to their exhaustion and go to bed, the members of Go Destry morphed from cheerful teenagers bursting with gratitude and enthusiasm into irritable twentysomethings with huge egos, short tempers, and a massively inflated sense of their own invulnerability. They became snide, careless, and decidedly lacking in the manners department. Despite Josh's best efforts, a couple of them also started dabbling enthusiastically in drugs.

It became harder and harder for him to keep everyone on track. Allegiances were endlessly shifting within the group and rivalries didn't contribute to a calm atmosphere. There were several poor reviews in the press, and the band's popularity showed the first signs of sliding into a decline. Outraged, Dizzy and Cal made their displeasure known and were promptly approached by another management company promising to give them the extra boost they needed to get back on top. Within forty-eight hours, summoned to a meeting with his protégés, Josh found himself peremptorily informed that unless he got his act together, he was out on his ear.

He responded calmly with a comment along the lines of maybe, since they were the act in question, he wasn't the one needing to get them together. He then announced that if this was how they felt about everything he'd done for them, they should sever their business relationship forthwith.

And that was it; after three tempestuous years, the adventure was over. The split caused a storm of speculation, and several other bands approached Josh, desperate to be taken on by him. But he turned them all down; he'd had enough of the entertainment industry in general and spoiled brat pop singers in particular. He'd built up a fortune and frequently worked twenty-hour days in the process. His own social life, due to pressure of work and all the traveling involved, had become pretty much nonexistent. He was ready to get out now; there was nothing to keep him in LA any longer and there was definitely more to life and better ways to earn a living than by half killing yourself looking after people who were happy to sell you down the river.

Furthermore, Dot was a marvel for her age, but even she had let slip once or twice that running the hotel single-handedly might soon start to become too much for her.

Josh had made up his mind: it was time to go home to the UK. To Cornwall. To St. Carys.