The Christmas Escape by Sarah Morgan

2

Joanna

Joanna Whitman learned of her ex-husband’s death while she was eating breakfast. She was on her second cup of strong espresso when his face popped up on her TV screen. She grabbed the remote, intending to do what she always did these days when he appeared in her life—turn him off—when she realized that behind that standard head-and-shoulders shot wasn’t a sea of adoring fans, or one of his exclusive restaurants, but the wreckage of a car in a ravine.

She saw the words Breaking News appear on the screen and turned up the sound in time to hear the newsreader telling the world that celebrity chef Cliff Whitman had been killed in an accident and that they would be giving more information as they had it. Currently all they knew was that his car had gone off the road. He’d been pronounced dead at the scene. His passenger, a young woman as yet unnamed, had been flown to hospital, her condition unknown.

A young woman.

Joanna tightened her fingers on the remote. Of course she’d be young. Cliff had a pattern, and that pattern hadn’t changed as he’d aged. He was the most competitive person she’d ever met, driven by an insecurity that went bone-deep. He wanted the highest TV ratings, the biggest crowds for his public appearances, the longest waiting lists for his restaurants. When it came to women he wanted them younger and thinner, choosing them as carefully as he chose the ingredients he used in his kitchens.

Fresh and seasonal.

On most days Joanna felt like someone past her sell-by date. She was forty. Were you supposed to feel like this at forty?

She stared at the TV, her gaze fixed on the smoking wreckage. She’d always said his libido would be the death of him, and it seemed she’d been right.

Her phone rang. A friend offering support?

She checked the screen.

Not a friend—did she have any true friends? It was something she often wondered about… Rita. Cliff’s personal assistant and his lover for the past six months.

Joanna didn’t want to talk to Rita. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She knew from painful experience that anything she said would find its way into the media and be used to construct an image of her as a pathetic creature, worthy of the nation’s pity. Whatever Cliff did, she somehow became the story. And no matter how much she told herself that it didn’t matter, because the woman they wrote about wasn’t really her, she still found it distressing. Not just the intrusion—and the stories were intrusive—but the inaccuracies.

She wanted to correct their mistakes. She wanted to stand up and yell That’s not me!But she didn’t because no one was interested in the truth. For years she’d been outraged by the injustice of it—which was surprising, because she’d always known the world was an unjust place. She’d grown up in a small town, the focus of gossip and scrutiny, but even that uncomfortable experience hadn’t prepared her for life in the spotlight. Every time Cliff had an affair, people judged her. Unfair, but that was how it was.

She rejected the call, muted the sound on the TV, but continued to stare at the words scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

Celebrity chef Cliff Whitman killed in car accident. Dead at the scene.

Well, damn.

She’d spent the last few years wanting to kill him herself, and she didn’t know whether to feel elated or cheated. After everything he’d done, everything he’d put her through, it seemed unfair of the universe to have deprived her of the chance to play at least a small part in his demise.

A hysterical laugh burst from her and she slapped her hand over her mouth, shocked. Had she really just thought that? What was wrong with her? She was a compassionate human being. She valued kindness above almost all other qualities—possibly because her encounters with it had been rare. And yet here she was, thinking that if she’d seen his car hovering on the edge of a ravine she might have given it a hard push.

What did that say about her?

Her legs were shaking. Why were her legs shaking?

She sat down hard on the kitchen stool.

Her journey with Cliff had been bumpy, but she’d known him for half her life. She should be sad, shouldn’t she? She should feel something? Yes, Cliff Whitman had been a liar and a cheat who had almost broken her, but he had still been a person. And there had been a time when they’d loved each other, even if that love had been complicated. There had been good parts. At the beginning of their marriage he’d brought her breakfast in bed on Sunday mornings—flaky, buttery croissants that he’d baked himself and juice freshly squeezed from the citrus fruit that grew in their home orchard. He’d listened to her. He’d made her laugh. She’d organized his chaotic life, leaving him free to play the part he enjoyed most. Being Cliff. He’d said they were a perfect team.

She stood up abruptly and fetched a glass of iced water. She drank it quickly, trying to cool the hot burn of emotion.

Whatever had happened between them, death was always a tragedy.

Was it? Was she being hypocritical?

She should probably cry—if not for him then for the woman who’d made the bad decision to get into the car with him. Joanna sympathized. She was never one to judge the bad decisions of another. When it came to Cliff, she’d made so many bad decisions she could no longer count them.

She thought about Rita. Would she be shocked to discover she hadn’t been the only woman in Cliff’s life? Why was it that a woman so rarely believed that a serial cheater would cheat on her? They all thought they were different. That they were special. That they would be the one to tame him. When he’d said, “You’re the one,” they’d believed him.

Once, a long time ago, Joanna had believed that, too.

She’d wanted so badly to be special to someone. To have someone whose love she could rely on.

Putting the empty glass down, she took a deep breath and forced herself to think. She and Cliff were no longer married, but they still shared the business. Cliff’s was a brand, but now its figurehead was gone. What did that mean for the company they’d built together? She’d invested twenty years of her life into its growth and success, which was why she hadn’t walked away from it at the same time as leaving her marriage. That, and the fact that she had no idea what else she would do. Cliff’s was one of the few things she’d done right in her life—although the media didn’t understand that, of course. They didn’t understand how she could still work alongside a man who had humiliated her so completely.

She closed her eyes. Forget that. Don’t think about that.

Right now the worst part was that there would be a funeral—and she hated funerals. No matter whose funeral it was, it was always her father’s funeral. Again and again. Like some kind of cruel time travel trick. And she was always ten years old, shivering as the cool Californian rain blended with her tears. This was different, of course. She’d adored her father, and her father had adored her back. He was the only man whose love she’d been sure of. And then he’d left her…swept out to sea by a riptide, his body recovered a week later.

And now there would be Cliff’s funeral. Did she have to go? Yes, of course she did. Everyone would expect it. Divorce or no divorce, it would be the respectful thing to do. People would be watching. Everyone would want to know how she felt.

How did she feel?

She heard sounds in the distance, and then the insistent buzz of her gate’s intercom. Without thinking, she stepped to the window and looked down the curving sweep of the drive to the large iron gates that protected her from the outside world.

A camera flashed and she gasped and quickly closed the shutters.

No!

Unlike Cliff, she’d never sought fame or celebrity, but she’d been caught in his spotlight anyway. It was one of the reasons she’d moved to a different neighborhood after the divorce. She’d hoped to be able to slide away from the dazzling beam of attention that always landed on him. She’d chosen to live in a small discreet community, rather than up among the flashy mansions in Bel Air, where Cliff entertained lavishly on his verdant terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean. They’d found her, of course, because the media could find anyone. But she’d hoped that by living a quiet, low-key, non-newsworthy, Cliff-free life she’d become less interesting to them.

She’d been wrong. It seemed she’d never be free of Cliff. She was anchored by the past, unable to sail away, her secrets played out in public for all to enjoy. They knew about her father’s death. They knew she was estranged from her stepmother. They’d managed to track her down in the little house up the coast where she now lived. Predictably, she’d been only too happy to voice her opinion. “She’s no daughter of mine. Always was a difficult child.”

Her phone rang, dragging her back from a downward spiral into the past. This time it was her assistant, Nessa.

Joanna answered it. “Hi.”

“Let me in! I’m outside the garden room. I came via the back entrance.”

“I don’t have a back entrance.”

“I took a secret route. Could you just let me in, boss? We’ll talk tactics later.”

Joanna walked to the back of the house, mystified and a little alarmed.

She’d chosen the house precisely because it was so secure. When she’d first viewed it, instead of admiring the kitchen appliances and ceiling height, she’d been checking areas of vulnerability. The fact that the house backed onto dense woodland had been a plus. And this was an unfashionable area. There was no road, and no running trails. Her property was protected by a high wall and tall, mature trees that concealed the house from view.

It had been a carefully considered purchase, but when she walked through the door she never once thought I love this house, or even I’m home. She didn’t think of it as home. Home was a place where you felt safe and able to relax. Neither of those things could happen when you were an object of public interest.

She walked through the garden room and saw Nessa standing on the deck, glancing furtively over her shoulder. Normally impeccably groomed, she had twigs stuck in her hair and her shoes were muddy and scuffed.

Shaken by the fact her home wasn’t as secure as she’d thought, Joanna opened the door and Nessa virtually fell inside.

“What is wrong with people? I tried coming in the conventional way—actually through the front door, you know, like a normal person? But there are a million people with cameras and two TV vans—which, frankly, I don’t get. Because why are you news? You’re not the one who was trying to have sex in a moving vehicle. I mean, I’m all for multitasking, but it depends on the task, doesn’t it? Sex and driving—call me boring, but those two things do not go together.”

“Nessa, breathe.”

“So, I’ve been thinking about this…” Nessa shrugged off her backpack and toed off her shoes. “I’ve ruined my shoes, by the way. I was thinking maybe we can charge them to Cliff as expenses, as this is all his fault. Do you have any antiseptic? I scratched myself coming through the woods. I don’t want to die of some vile disease, because you need me right now.”

Joanna’s head was spinning. “You—you came through the woods at the back of the house?”

“Yes. I remembered you telling me that’s why you picked this place. They can’t get to you from the back, only the front. That’s what you said. You only have to watch one direction. So I thought, Right, I’ll get to her from the back. But it’s not pedestrian-friendly. Do I have mud on my cheek? I bet I do.” She scrubbed randomly at her face. “I am not cut out for wilderness adventures. Give me California sunshine and beaches and I’m there. But a dark forest full of spiders, snakes, bears, coyotes and mass murderers… That’s me out. Can you check me for spiders?”

She turned and showed her back to Joanna, who dutifully checked.

“You’re spider-free. But even if you made it through the woods, how did you get over the wall?”

“I climbed. Don’t ask for details.” Nessa tugged at a twig that was tangled in her curls. “I grew up with two brothers. I have skills that would make your eyes pop. And don’t worry—no one followed me. No one is that stupid. Also, there were no humans in that wood. At least no live ones. Willing to bet there are a few dead ones, though. Bodies undiscovered…” She shuddered. “That place is scary.”

“Nessa.” Joanna brushed a leaf from Nessa’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m your assistant, and I figured you’d need assistance.”

“I—I’m not really thinking about work right now.”

“Of course you’re not. I’m here for more than work. I’m your right-hand woman. The dragon at your gate.” Nessa adjusted her glasses. “When you employed me, you said I had to be there for you in both calm and crisis—so here I am. I assume this is the crisis part? We’re in this together. Bring it on.”

Together.

Joanna felt pressure in her chest. Someone had thought of her. Someone wanted to help her. She wasn’t going to think about the fact that Nessa worked for her. She still didn’t have to be here.

“You don’t want to be exposed to this circus.”

Nessa tilted her head. “You are.”

“I have no choice. You do.”

“Well, I choose being here with you, so that’s decided.”

The strange feeling in Joanna’s chest spread to her throat. People generally distanced themselves from her, afraid of being tainted by association. They didn’t want to find themselves in that spotlight.

“Have you really thought this through?”

“What is there to think through? We’re a team. In my interview, you said I’d need to be versatile. I hope you’ll remember the whole climbing the wall thing when you give me a reference—not that I’m planning on leaving you anytime soon, because this is my dream job and you’re my dream boss. Now, what can I do? We can make a statement. Or I can call the cops and get them to move on that mob with cameras at the end of your drive.”

Joanna looked at her assistant’s flushed, earnest face and suddenly didn’t feel quite so alone.

She wasn’t alone. She had Nessa.

Hiring Nessa as her assistant two years earlier had been one of the better decisions she’d made in her life. Her team had lined up a selection of experienced candidates for her to interview, but then Nessa had bounced into the room, fresh out of college, vibrating with energy and enthusiasm. Ignoring the disapproval of her colleagues, Joanna had given her the job and never regretted that decision. Nessa had proved herself to be discreet, reliable, and as sharp as the business end of a razor blade.

Not all my decisions are bad, Joanna thought as she locked the back door.

“I’m glad you’re here, but I don’t want you to do anything about the cameras. Leave them.”

“Nothing?” Nessa gaped at her and then looked guilty. “I’m so thoughtless. Here am I, worrying about spiders and press statements, and you’ve just lost the man you were married to for two decades. I know you were divorced, and that he wasn’t exactly…” Her voice trailed off as she studied Joanna’s face. “I mean, twenty years is a long time, even if he was a—” She swallowed and gave a helpless shrug. “Give me some clues, here. I want to say the right thing, but I don’t know what that is. How do you feel? Are you sad or mad? Do I get you tissues or a punch bag?”

Joanna’s laugh was closer to hysteria than humor. “I don’t know how I feel. I feel…strange.”

“Yeah, well, ‘strange’ about covers it. Can I grab a glass of water? Turns out covert operations in dense woodland is thirsty work. Then I’ll brush my hair, work magic with some makeup and get to work.”

“Go through to the kitchen. Help yourself. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Joanna went through the whole of the ground floor at the front of the house, making sure all the blinds were closed before returning to the kitchen. They could all stay there with their cameras, but she’d give them nothing to photograph. And if someone was brazen enough to breach her gates they wouldn’t be rewarded for it.

Nessa had settled herself at the kitchen island. She had a glass of water in one hand and her phone in the other. She was scrolling through social media. “We’re trending—no surprise there. Interesting hashtags… Lots of speculation about what they were doing when the car went off the road…” She sent Joanna a sideways glance. “Sorry. This is awkward.”

“It’s fine.”

“Some people are saying it’s a shame, because it was his recipe for lemon chicken that made them realize good food wasn’t just for restaurants.”

He created that recipe for me, Joanna thought. He was trying to teach me to cook. I ruined the chicken. He laughed. We ended up in bed.

“Others are saying he was a sleaze, and good riddance… yada yada…” Nessa continued scrolling. “They’ve managed to get a comment from two of the women he— What? No way…” She stared at the screen.

“Read it out.”

“No. You don’t want to know. If you want my advice, you’ll delete all your personal social media accounts.”

“I don’t have any social media accounts.”

“Good decision.” Nessa carried on scrolling, her expression alternating between disgust and surprise.

Joanna sighed. “That bad?”

Nessa hesitated. “There are a few decent people out there. People saying a death is always sad. And some of the comments are pretty neutral, wondering who the woman was…” She sneaked a look at Joanna.

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? You’re divorced from him. Whoever she is, I bet she’s wishing now she’d got into a car with a different guy. I mean, we’ve all had bad dates, but that—” Nessa shrugged, took a gulp of water and continued scrolling. “Some people are wondering if this will mean the end of the business. Will it?” She glanced up. “The business is called Cliff’s. And Chef Cliff is—” She stopped.

Joanna sat down opposite her. “Dead.”

Chef Cliff was dead.

But Nessa was right. It would affect the business. The business they’d built together. She’d given up on their marriage, but she hadn’t given up on that. It was their baby. She’d nurtured it and watched it grow.

She felt a pang, thinking of the actual baby she’d lost. Would her priorities have been different if she’d had a child? Her life? Her marriage? She used to think it might have been. She used to blame herself for everything that was wrong between them. But that was before.

Her phone rang again and Nessa glanced at her.

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“No.”

“It might be a friend.”

If she said I don’t have any real friends Nessa would feel sorry for her, and Joanna didn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her. She wanted to protect the last fragile strands of her pride.

“If it is, then I’ll call them back.”

“It’s probably a reporter.”

“Yes, and I’m not talking to them.”

Her heart rate increased. Of all the bad things about being married to Cliff—and there had been many—the media attention had been the worst. Cliff himself had been emotionally bulletproof. Whatever the media had accused him of he’d laugh, wink, give them a “No comment” or a “Let’s focus on what happens in the kitchen, not the bedroom.” And for some reason Joanna had never understood, his bad behavior had increased his appeal. He’d been shocking, but supremely watchable. His TV ratings had risen. He’d been unapologetic about his colorful personal life, so sure that his charm would ultimately guarantee him forgiveness for all his misdeeds that it had been impossible to shame or embarrass him.

Joanna, however, had been continually shamed and embarrassed. It was an irony that she’d escaped life in a small town, where her every action had been scrutinized and criticized, only to find the situation magnified a thousand times here.

She’d always loathed being the subject of attention and gossip, whereas Cliff had hungered for the limelight—and not only because it had been essential to building his brand. If attention had been a large pie, he would have greedily devoured the whole thing without offering her a sliver.

How did she feel about his latest affair?

Why didn’t she leave?

Had she no self-respect?

She’d become a fascinating case study in humiliation. She’d been photographed from every angle. They’d commented on the weight she’d lost, how haggard she looked. Their speculation had been cruel and deeply personal. They hadn’t judged Cliff—they’d judged her.

If he cheats, it must be her fault.

They’d speculated on whether in marrying a man fourteen years her senior she’d somehow been trying to replace her father. That suggestion had offended her more than any of them. Cliff had been nothing like her father. Hearing the two of them mentioned in the same breath had made her want to lash out.

The buzzer rang again. She ignored it.

Nessa frowned. “They’re like hyenas…ready to chomp down on a carcass. And you’re the carcass.”

Joanna gave a faint smile. “Yes.”

“The stuff they say about you is all total crap. Aren’t you ever tempted to give your side of things? I guess today they need to milk the story, and to do that they have to talk to someone. Cliff’s dead, so he’s not going to be saying anything, that girl is in the hospital—that just leaves you. They’ll want your reaction.”

What was her reaction? What did she feel?

“Dead.” She said the word aloud again, trying to make it real. Testing herself. Pressing, to see if it hurt.

Nessa eyed her. “Can I pour you a drink? A real drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Her thoughts were complicated enough without clouding them with alcohol. Untangling her emotions was complicated. Was she feeling humiliated? Cliff’s behavior had continually embarrassed her, even after they were divorced. Was she prostrate with grief? Angry at the impact his actions might have on the business and the people they employed?

Joanna finished her coffee, ignoring the fact it was cold. She felt oddly detached. She felt grief, yes. But was it grief for Cliff or grief for the life she’d wanted that had never turned out the way she’d hoped?

She wasn’t sure what she felt. It couldn’t be relief, because that would make her hard-hearted.

Would it? Or would it make her human?

The buzzer sounded again. Annoying. Persistent.

Nessa slid off the stool and refilled her glass. “I’ll tell people in the office you won’t be in for a few days.”

“I won’t hide.”

“You’re not hiding—you’re avoiding intrusive questions. Also, if we’re being practical, you’re trapped.” Nessa added ice to the glass, splashing droplets of water onto the tiled floor. “Unless you’re going to wear a disguise and shimmy over the wall like I did, your only way out of this place is through the front entrance. You can drive over the photographers, but then you’d be arrested, and I don’t have enough money in my account to bail you out. You could ignore them, but they’ll follow you. I suppose you could just make a statement and hope they’ll go away.”

“They won’t go away.”

She knew how this worked. There would be endless gossip. In the past she’d even been the subject of a women’s daytime chat show: Successful women who stay with men who cheat.

Joanna had watched it, appalled, not recognizing the woman they were describing. Apparently she was a doormat, a coward, a disgrace to women. Where was her strength? Her dignity?

To them she wasn’t a person, she was a story. She was ratings, sales, a commercial opportunity, a talking point. They weren’t interested in the truth. They focused on one angle and one alone.

They didn’t know anything about her relationship. They didn’t know anything about her life before she’d met Cliff. They weren’t interested in the fact that she’d had her own ambitions. They didn’t know that although Cliff had been the face of the business, it had been her hard work that had made him famous. Now there was a popular TV show, a chain of expensive restaurants, branded cookware, cookery books… The franchise had grown like a monster.

“Please, Joanna, I can’t do this without you.”

He was the face of the company, but she was the engine.

She kept everything going, and he knew it.

Had known it, she reminded herself. It was in the past tense now. There was no more Cliff.

Why did you crash, Cliff? Were you driving too fast?

Nessa put a glass of water in front of her. “It’s a crappy situation, boss, no doubt about that. But, as my mom always says, no matter how bad things get there’s always someone worse off than you. I hate it when she says that. Super-annoying, actually. But I have to admit that mostly she’s right. And although it’s true that right now I wouldn’t want to be you—”

“Thank you, Nessa.”

“Do you know who I definitely wouldn’t want to be?” She tilted her head and gave Joanna a knowing look. “That girl in the car. Don’t know who she is, or what she was doing, but I would not want her life.”

The girl in the car.

Joanna didn’t know who she was or what she’d been doing, either.

The one thing she did know was that, even though he was dead, Cliff Whitman had still managed to ruin her day.

If you enjoyed reading this exclusive extract from Sarah Morgan’s upcoming summer book, Beach House Summer, then pre-order your copy now!