The Summerhouse Girls

THE SUMMERHOUSE GIRLS M J HARDY Copyrighted Material Copyright © M J Hardy 2023 M J Hardy has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the Author of this work. This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only. This book uses UK spelling CONTENTS Foreword 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 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Epilogue More books & me FOREWORD ‘Jealousy is when you count someone else’s blessings instead of your own.’ THE SUMMERHOUSE GIRLS A friendship that took over thirty years to build and days to destroy. This is the last day of my life. I say that with certainty because of where I am now. When I was a child I wrote a diary. I never expected anyone would read it. Fanciful childish nonsense, at least that's what I hoped they'd think. Fast forward to the future and the last entry I made is the reason I'm standing at this grave, wondering if I'd still be here if I had never written that last damning paragraph. I'm almost certain the answer would be no. I thought I had friends. It turns out I was alone all the time. A tale of friendship, secrets, and lies. Betrayal and broken promises are the ingredients for the most delicious revenge. 1 CATHERINE Sometimes friends can be a blessing, often a curse, and I can’t decide which one applies to my current situation. I’m not even sure why I agree to this in the first place. I’m a wife and a mother with responsibilities. I’m no longer sweet sixteen with the world at my feet, eager to experience everything life throws at me, good things only, of course. Nobody wants the pain life sometimes dishes out like cold spaghetti and flat coke. A disappointment that is hard to take sometimes, like rain on the first day of your holiday, or a flat tyre at daybreak when any passer-by is almost certainly a murderer. The traffic on the way to the airport is interminable and the conversation predictable, but despite my gloom I plaster a fake smile on my face and act as if I am excited to leave the cold February climate of home. “It’s busy today.” The gruff tones of my taxi driver point out the obvious as we join a queue of traffic exiting the slip road to the airport and, once again, I steal a glance at my watch and wonder if I’ll have time to look around the duty free. I wonder why it’s always a cold grey morning when I leave the country and not much better when I return. Maybe one day I’ll leave in full sunshine, but in the past thirty years or so that’s never been the case. At least it feels that way. The fog has lifted, which is a plus, and I hope it doesn’t set our departure back at all. “Where did you say you were going again?” The driver says with interest, and I mumble, “Dubai.” “On your own?” “No, with friends.” “Are they meeting you there?” He enquires. “Yes, it was easier that way.” I’m not sure it was, but as we all live in different parts of the country, I suppose it was the best plan. “A girl’s trip?” I sigh, resigned to passing the time of day with the chatty driver. “We met at school, what must be close to forty years ago now.” “That’s impressive. I lost touch with my friends from school as soon as I left.” He chuckles as he cuts up a slow-moving motorist in front and as they sound their horn in anger, he shakes his head as if they were the one in the wrong. “More accidents are caused by drivers who don’t know how to drive a car. Take that last one, for instance. Twenty under the speed limit and braking at every bend. I’m surprised I didn’t hit the back of her.” “Her?” I smile to myself because that driver was definitely a man. “It’s always a woman. They are cautious, worried about speed, and too nervous.” “It sounds as if you just described me.” I laugh softly, and he grins in the rear-view mirror. “I disagree.” “Why?” “Because you’re travelling to a place most women would fear going to alone.” “I won’t be alone.” “Ah yes, your friends. What’s the occasion?” “One of us is the first one to reach fifty, so we thought we’d celebrate.” “What happens when the rest of you catch up?” “We reminisce about this trip over a glass of prosecco on a meal out one night.” “It sounds as if your friend is lucky to be the first. She gets the memory.” “She does. Then again, she always did.” Luckily, the traffic starts to move faster and ten minutes later we pull to a stop at the drop off area. It doesn’t take long to exit the cab, tip the driver and wheel my case towards the departure terminal. I shiver and pull my coat around me as the last icy fingers of air grasp at my skin. Maybe the fact it’s thirty degrees at our destination made my decision for me because it’s certainly