A Home in the Sun

  A HOME IN THE SUN

  Sue Moorcroft

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Copyright © Sue Moorcroft 2021

  Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

  Cover illustration © Carrie May/Meiklejohn

  Sue Moorcroft 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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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.

  Source ISBN: 9780008430436

  Ebook Edition © August 2021 ISBN: 9780008430443

  Version: 2021-06-21

  Dedication

  To Michael,

  For never suggesting that I get an ordinary job.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: Giorgio and the House of Cards

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Two: The Road Gets Steep

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  By the same author

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  Giorgio and the House of Cards

  Prologue

  August 2000

  Judith was glad to her bones that she’d come to live in Malta. She was forty and it was early in a new millennium – the perfect time for change. Her marriage to Tom was over. Her uncle Richard had offered her the chance to buy into his estate agency on the island. Perfect.

  Now, in the beating summer heat, she was spending her lunch hour at Ghar id-Dud, strolling between the tourists on the broad promenade high above the rocky foreshore. Behind her lay the open-air cafés known as kiosks, a busy road and tall hotels; before her stood the stone skeleton of a derelict pier reaching out into the sparkling blue sea. The pier was probably thirty feet tall and four teenage boys and a girl were leaping from the top with blood-curdling shrieks, plummeting through the salty air to shatter the waves below. Leaning on the guardrail between promenade and the drop-off to the sea, Judith grinned as the teens resurfaced in circles of foam, whooping their exhilaration as they swam back to the ladder attached to the rock. Her stepson Kieran was at university in Sheffield. If he saw these teens on his next visit to Malta, he’d want to hurl himself off the pier, too.

  It did look inviting. If Kieran tried it then Judith knew she would too, jumping into thin air to slap down into the sea with leg-stinging force, waiting for gravity to stop bearing her down before kick, kick, kicking, ears aching, for the surface.

  A deep voice at her shoulder observed, ‘It’s a little crazy but nobody dies.’

  Judith turned in surprise. A man smiled at her. He looked Maltese, his shirt white against skin that was several shades more golden than hers. His eyes were as dark as damsons and his black hair well cut and neat. At the open neck of his shirt glinted a gold crucifix on a thick chain. He settled his elbows on the guardrail a foot away from hers. ‘This I have done.’ He gestured at the foolhardy teenagers clambering back to the upper level. He spoke good English as many Maltese did, it being one of the official languages of the island. He looked at least a decade younger than her.

  Judith returned his smile politely. ‘You’ve jumped off it?’

  His soft, husky laugh seemed to trickle across her skin. ‘When I was a stupid teenager. But it is unsafe for many years. You see there has been a fence to keep people off. It’s broken, and the children climb.’

  The teenagers’ howls of glee began again as they sprang joyously into nothingness and smashed down into the waiting blue waves.

  ‘It’s called The Chalet,’ he said, gesturing towards the ruined pier. ‘It used to have a dance floor and an open-air café on two levels, for celebrations, for dances. A balustrade ran all the way round and there was a grand entrance, here.’ He indicated a spot close to where they stood.

  Judith gazed at the skeletal structure, trying to envision such imposing flesh to what were now very bare bones. ‘What happened to it all? A bomb?’

  He smiled. ‘No. A storm, a grigal.’

  She glanced at him. ‘Grigal?’ She’d begun to learn a little Maltese but this was an unfamiliar word. ‘I’d assumed it happened in the war.’ World War II had been cruel to Malta and ruins, such as those of the Royal Opera House in Valletta, still dotted the island.

  ‘Storms on the north-easterly wind,’ the man explained. ‘They can bring enormous waves. You’ve seen the breakwater in the mouth of Grand Harbour? It is to keep the shipping protected from the grigal.’ He nodded towards The Chalet. ‘Now, the government wishes for this ruin to become something safe and new but there is nothing decided, I think.’

  Judith stared at the crumbling remains of balustrades supported by immense pillars planted on the base that ran out into the water. Richard had told her about the Maltese winters being mild compared to English, but that they brought violent storms. Judith, though she had an affinity with the sea, had difficulty imagining waves so monstrous they were capable of sucking masonry off such a big structure. Her Sunday scuba dives would certainly slow down in seas like that. If she was going to take an instructor qualification, she’d need to get on with it.

  ‘’Allo, Giorgio!’ a woman called from behind them, above the buffeting of the breeze.

  The man looked around and waved in acknowledgement. Turning back to Judith, he said, ‘I must work now.’

  Judith turned and saw a cream coach with a rainbow arcing over a big Z on the side. It waited, engine running, outside The Preluna Hotel, a popular pick-up point for tourist trips. ‘You work for Sliema Z Bus Tours?’

  He nodded. ‘I am Giorgio Zammit, a tour guide.’ He pulled a navy tie from his pocket, flipped up his collar and began to tie it as he hurried in the direction of the tour bus, tossing back a, ‘Ciao,’
over his shoulder to Judith.

  ‘Ciao,’ she returned, quite sorry to see him jumping aboard the idling bus, taking a clipboard from a female tour guide waiting on the steps. As the bus pulled away, he ducked to wave goodbye to Judith.

  Shyly, she waved back. Then she checked her watch and realised it was time for her to return to work, too. She crossed the promenade then turned left to follow Tower Road to the sea road and Richard Elliot Estate, where she had an appointment with a Scots couple who were looking for a holiday home. Selling apartments didn’t exactly make use of her qualifications as a surveyor but she was enjoying the change, as well as the chance to live in Malta.

  She met Giorgio on her lunchtime stroll several times, after that. He’d materialise beside her, either off duty or waiting for a one o’clock pick-up by a distinctive Sliema Z Bus. They’d spend a few minutes on a bench, sipping water or licking ice cream.

  One afternoon, he told Judith he was about to escort a trip to Ta’ Qali Handicrafts Village in the centre of the island. ‘It’s what remained of the RAF airfield where the famous Gloster Gladiator biplanes, Hope, Faith and Charity, flew against the Germans,’ he explained. ‘Craftworkers have moved into the old Nissen huts and created a thriving tourist attraction.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it. Do they sell Mdina glass there?’ she asked, thinking of the jewel-like colours of the glass she saw frequently about the island. ‘And filigree jewellery? I keep meaning to visit.’

  ‘Come today,’ he suggested, treating her to his boyish smile. He let his arm touch hers, his skin hot. It was common for Maltese men to wear short-sleeved shirts, even with a tie, and his tour-guide blazer was folded beside him on the bench.

  She laughed. ‘I haven’t booked.’

  His head shifted closer. ‘There is space.’

  Tempted, she glanced at her watch. She was responsible for her own schedule and had no meetings that afternoon. She withdrew her phone to call Richard. ‘I’ll pay my fare. You won’t get into trouble with your employer, will you?’

  ‘No.’ His eyes gleamed with amusement. It took her a month to discover that he was one of three partners in the business.

  ‘Richard,’ she said into her phone, when she’d dialled the office of Richard Elliot Estate. ‘I’m taking this afternoon off to join a trip to Ta’ Qali. There’s nothing in my diary.’

  ‘Have a good time,’ he answered comfortably. Richard was fantastic; she had such a great relationship with him. It was sometimes difficult to remember that he was her mother Wilma’s brother because he was much younger than her, not just in years, but in attitude. Whereas Wilma had lived in Northamptonshire all her life and had a ‘bootiful’ accent, Richard had married pretty Maltese Erminia and moved here in his twenties. The relaxed pace of Malta suited him and Judith couldn’t imagine him ever returning to the UK.

  The modern coach arrived, cream paintwork gleaming, a contrast to the island’s bright orange route buses, some of which had been trundling the island’s roads for fifty or sixty years. Judith felt almost shy as Giorgio took her hand to cross the promenade. They climbed aboard the modern vehicle and Giorgio introduced Judith to his colleagues. ‘This is Peter, our driver, and the other guide today, Victor.’

  Peter and Victor, in the same white shirt and navy tie as Giorgio, looked interestedly at Judith and smiled. Then Giorgio installed her in a front seat, grabbed a clipboard and began to work his way around his passengers, who looked relieved as the doors closed and they got the benefit of air conditioning.

  ‘Hallo, madam, I am Giorgio, and I am your guide today. Your name, please?’ His charm was effortless. It flowed from him, coaxing out smiles and laughs. Then the bus pushed its way out into the busy Maltese traffic, following the coast road past apartments and restaurants, palm trees, kiosks and the rocks beside the sea.

  Giorgio spent most of the journey on his feet beside the driver, facing the passengers and, via a microphone, providing a commentary about himself, the bus, the tour company, the areas through which they passed and Malta’s history, swaying easily with the bus’s motion, his smile flashing.

  After disembarking half an hour later at Ta’ Qali, he and Victor took a group of passengers each around the warren of curved, corrugated Nissen huts to watch the making of filigree jewellery or glass-blowing. Then he gave his group an hour to shop, pointed out their bus number, explained where to get an ice cream and reminded them not to neglect to drink. ‘The sun we give respect, in August.’ He conferred with Peter the driver, filled in a couple of boxes on a form, then jumped down beside Judith where she waited on the weed-strewn concrete. ‘Today is an easy job. Everybody will shop. Maybe they spend too much money, but that is OK.’

  She laughed and didn’t protest when he once again took her hand. It was pleasant to make a slow circuit of the huts, seeing the sunlight strike the jewel-like colours of the glassware and jewellery in display cases and admiring the intricacies of the Malta lace, bizzilla. And always she was conscious of Giorgio and the smile in his eyes.

  He was … unsettling. His eyes told her he desired her but she was cautious. She’d already discovered that Giorgio was a decade younger than her. Ex-husband, Tom, had succumbed to the temptation of Judith’s replacement, Liza, and he was ten years Judith’s senior.

  After the shopping hour was over and the passengers all safely back in their seats, Judith learned that the trip continued with a visit to the magnificent Mosta Dome and a folk evening in Qormi. Giorgio’s eyes laughed when she showed surprise. ‘I’ve tricked you into spending longer with me than you meant to,’ he murmured.

  His expression was so mischievous that she felt herself smile. ‘I could call a taxi.’

  ‘That,’ he replied gravely, ‘would make me very sad.’

  She stayed with the tour group for the visit to the famous dome, through which a bomb had dropped during the war but hadn’t exploded, followed by a visit to a restaurant for brogioli, which was beef wrapped around mincemeat, and steaks of the local fish, lampuki, with spinach and bitter olives. The guests wound down over deliciously moist cakes and cold wine and the majority of Giorgio’s duties had been discharged.

  He sat with Judith on wooden chairs in a dim corner of the courtyard, a table between them. She told him about her mum and older sister Molly in England, and about Kieran, who she still called her stepson, despite the divorce.

  He listened, smiling. Eventually, he said, ‘Did you enjoy yourself today?’ His voice was low, obliging her to lean closer to hear.

  She smiled into his dark eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I would like to meet you again. I would like very much.’ His voice was deep and intimate, his gaze intense.

  ‘OK,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll book on your trip to Gozo in three days.’

  He laughed. ‘That is not quite what is in my mind.’

  She sat back and reached for her glass of wine. ‘It’s enough for now.’

  The next day, she found Richard in the office before her, his light grey jacket hung up carefully behind him. He frowned when she told him about her outing, absently rubbing his balding head. ‘What do you know about him?’

  Surprised by the small frown that had gathered up the skin of his forehead, she shrugged. ‘His name’s Giorgio Zammit—’

  Richard rolled his chair closer to her desk, his eyebrows knitting. The office didn’t open until ten and though people hurried past the agency’s glass windows or gazed at properties for sale on the display, they were alone. Richard’s daughter Rosaire would be showing potential clients around a villa in Lija soon, but she hadn’t arrived yet. Judith’s other cousins, Raymond, Lino, were also out with clients. ‘Bus tours bloke?’ he demanded.

  She agreed warily, nettled by his tone. ‘Why?’

  He sighed, reaching out to place his hand over hers. ‘His wife Johanna lives in Sliema, too.’

  Her stomach dropped.

  Her uncle’s round face was solemn and sympathetic. He hesitated, choosing his words. ‘Some Maltese men
are attracted to British ladies because they’re brought up more liberally than many Maltese women.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s it,’ she protested, although she heard uncertainty in her own voice.

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘I think you’re just a trifle older than him?’

  She refused to voice the word yes. ‘I’m grateful, in other words?’

  He squeezed her hand again. ‘I think you’re wonderful and don’t deserve to be hurt again, like Tom hurt you with Liza.’

  All morning, Judith thought of Giorgio’s smile and the warmth in his dark eyes, the curve of his eyebrow and the way his cheekbones made her want to stroke his face.

  That lunchtime, she loitered on the promenade near The Chalet, taking sips from a water bottle and observing her surroundings from behind her sunglasses. When Giorgio arrived, hurrying towards her, eager smile blazing, she stopped him. ‘Giorgio, I don’t think you’re a single man.’

  Though he didn’t drop his gaze as he joined her at the guardrail, his answer was circumspect. ‘Why do you say this?’

  Her heart contracted. She’d hoped he’d burst out with a denial. ‘Someone told me you’re married. There’s no divorce here, I know that. So unless your wife’s dead, you’re still married.’

  He crossed himself at the mention of death. Then his fingertips tapped gently on the rail. ‘You are right,’ he said sombrely. ‘There is no divorce in our country. But some men live apart from their families. Many, many men. Shall we walk?’

  She agreed and they strolled along the broad paved promenade between the rumbling traffic and the drop to the rocky beach where children waded in the rock pools and the blue waves broke in white froth.

  Judith’s heart knocked uncomfortably in her chest but she wasn’t scared of the confrontation. She’d been the wife cheated on and it hurt. ‘So, you have a wife.’

  Gravely, he nodded. ‘Johanna. We married when we were very young – sixteen.’ He sent her a sheepish look. ‘Our daughter, Alexia, she was already to come, you understand?’

  ‘Ah. I see.’ A teenage Giorgio had got his girlfriend pregnant. She could imagine marriage being expected. Her aunt Erminia was Maltese and Judith was aware that the Maltese church held its members to certain standards.