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Wish You Were Here
Victoria Connelly
Sun, sea and secrets…A week on the sunny Greek island of Kethos is just what Alice Archer needs, even if she has to put up with her difficult sister. Stella’s tantrums and diva-like demands are a fair price to pay for crystal-clear waters, blue skies and white clifftop villas.When Alice meets Milo, a handsome gardener at the Villa Argenti, for the first time she suddenly feels beautiful, alluring and confident. But is it just holiday magic or will the irresistible pull between Alice and Milo survive against all odds?For fans of Katie Fforde and Alexandra Potter, this heartwarming, romantic novel is the perfect escapist read.
VICTORIA CONNELLY
Wish You Were Here
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2013
Copyright © Victoria Connelly 2013
Cover photographs © Getty Images & Trevillion
Cover design © Lucy Stephens 2013
Victoria Connelly asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847562838
Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007443239
Version 2018-07-23
To Bob and Anne with love
Contents
Cover (#udddd4a49-45c9-5ed4-8c5d-43ac130018cf)
Title page (#u26ebe4e6-feec-5f78-a484-a8e42fe36c2f)
Copyright (#ubaa18679-6624-51fa-ad46-417069f0c28f)
Dedication (#u82c4d261-7638-5a33-a2f8-04ad54c1d122)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
One Year Later
Acknowledgements
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About the Author
Also by Victoria Connelly
About the Publisher
Prologue (#u781a25e4-d418-5948-8b5c-602cd1ef986a)
On a tiny Greek island in the heart of the Mediterranean Sea sits the Villa Argenti, clinging precariously to a cliff that plummets into the aquamarine waters far below. It’s a strange, rambling, tumbling sort of a building. Parts of it date back to the fourteenth century and it’s been added to and extended by successive generations which have included one Italian prince, two Greek tycoons and three rock stars. There are towers and turrets, great wooden doors, and windows that would look more at home gracing a Venetian palace. The overall effect is slightly bemusing but very pleasing.
But it isn’t the villa people come to see but the gardens. It is said that they are the most beautiful in the whole of the Mediterranean. Perhaps it’s because they are so unexpected. They don’t scream and shout their presence like some tourist destinations – rather, they whisper enticingly and people find them through serendipity or word of mouth.
Have you seen the gardens at the Villa Argenti? You haven’t? Then you must. You really must!
There are long, shady avenues, sun-drenched terraces and lush green lawns. There are stone temples and urns spilling over with bright flowers, and fountains which cool the air in a musical mist. But it is most famous for the Goddess Garden where beautiful statues are placed at respectful intervals, enticing the visitor to walk amongst them in venerable silence. There, beside a cypress tree, stands Artemis, goddess of the hunt, with two faithful hounds by her feet. Overlooking a pond is Demeter, goddess of the harvest, carrying a sheaf of wheat. And there are Athena, Hera and Iris too.
But it isn’t until you reach the end of the garden that you find the most popular of the goddesses. In full sunlight, surrounded by roses, is Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty.
There is something special about this statue – something that marks it out from the thousands of other statues of Aphrodite that can be found all over Greece. It’s hard to spot at first because she looks very like the others with her curls tumbling down her back and the finest of silken garments only just covering her curves as her arms reach up to lift her hair away from her face. She holds the attention. She’s mesmeric and, some even say, magical. Her eyes might be sightless but she seems to see so much and she appears to be smiling as if she can see into the future and knows what’s going to happen.
Perhaps she does.
Chapter 1 (#u781a25e4-d418-5948-8b5c-602cd1ef986a)
Alice Archer would be the first to admit that she wasn’t beautiful. Sweet, perhaps. But never beautiful. Beauty was a word far more at home describing somebody like her sister, Stella, with her blonde hair, sharp cheekbones and hourglass figure. Next to her sister, Alice faded away into the background. She was Alice the Gooseberry. Second-fiddle Alice. Alice – sister of Stella. She’d never been Alice in her own right. Not that she was complaining. She’d never really wanted to be the centre of attention. She was far happier just to watch life happen to other people.
So that’s what makes what happened to her so hard to understand.
It all began on a perfectly ordinary day in February. Well, it was an ordinary day for Alice – Valentine’s Day always was. She awoke in her tiny terraced cottage, shivering because the boiler had broken yet again, and got ready for work.
I will not look on the doormat, she told herself as she walked through to the kitchen for breakfast. There won’t be any Valentine’s cards there and I will not let it bother me.
Still, she couldn’t help a sly little spy and, sure enough, the mat lay bare of all declarations of secret admiration and unrequited love.
It’s wasn’t that Alice didn’t get to meet many men because she did. In fact, she was surrounded by men. But it was the kind of men she was surrounded by that was the problem and she couldn’t help thinking about this as she left the house and saw Wilfred the postman ambling up the driveway as if he had all the time in the world and posting his letters was the last thing on his mind. He was in his mid-fifties and had the hairiest face Alice had ever seen, with great thick sideburns giving him a furry quality. He always reminded her of a half-metamorphosed werewolf.
‘Morning, Wilfred,’ Alice said with the brightest smile she could muster on a Monday.
‘Morning, Alice. Just bills today,’ he said. ‘Gas and credit card.’
‘Great,’ she said. She didn’t really mind that Wilfred knew all about her private business. If she was a postman, she’d probably make it her business to know too. It was one of the perks of the job, wasn’t it?
‘No Valentine’s cards for you then?’ he said.
‘Well, I wasn’t really expecting any.’
‘Third year in a row now, isn’t it?’
Alice sighed. Wilfred’s memory was far too sharp sometimes. He stopped on the pavement for a moment, blocking Alice’s way, and she knew she was in trouble.
‘That cough of mine’s back,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Alice said, knowing all about Wilfred’s cough.
‘Went to the doctor’s again. Complete waste of time.’
‘Oh, dear.’
Wilfred coughed loudly. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘That rattle?’
