One Secret Summer Read online

  Praise for Lesley Lokko

  ‘Packed with glamour, power and revenge – 4 stars’ Heat

  ‘Success, glamour and love … the action sweeps from London to Zimbabwe … tragic and sophisticated’

  Daily Mirror

  ‘A delicious tale of power, revenge and true friendship’

  Daily Express

  ‘A very 21st-century blockbuster … Much more than a coming-of-age tale, this creates a glamorous and exciting world that is so contemporary and convincing you’ll feel like a special fifth member of their group’

  Cosmopolitan

  ‘A sassy novel … sex, money and evil intent – the perfect mix for a summer blockbuster’

  Bella

  ‘Ticks all the boxes: wealth, privilege, power, revenge, ambition and intrigue’

  Sunday Herald

  ‘This is everything you’d expect of a blockbuster – glamorous locations, ambitious female protagonists and a singing, gliding narrative’

  Glamour

  ‘A novel where Glamour with a capital ‘‘G’’ is the entire raison d’être … refreshingly, wonderfully unpretentious … Lokko has the skill to make you care about what happens to the characters … this is her first novel. I’m looking forward to her next one already’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Exciting from start to finish. It’s well-written, engaging and fast-paced, with a plot you’ll be gripped by … I couldn’t put it down’

  Daily Mail

  After various careers from cocktail waitress to kibbutz worker, Lesley Lokko trained as an architect, but always dreamt of writing. Five novels later, Lesley now splits her time between Johannesburg and London. Find out more at www.lesleylokko.com.

  By Lesley Lokko

  Sundowners

  Saffron Skies

  Bitter Chocolate

  Rich Girl, Poor Girl

  One Secret Summer

  One Secret

  Summer

  Lesley Lokko

  In memory of Charles

  Acknowledgements

  Grateful thanks are due to a number of people whom I never actually met during the writing of this novel but whose works were both inspiring and insightful. Chief among those is the award-winning journalist and reporter Rageh Omaar, for his autobiography, Only Half of Me: British and Muslim; the Conflict Within (Penguin: 2006); John Burnett, for his book, Where Soldiers Fear to Tread (Heinemann: 2005) and Scott Peterson, for his account of war in Me Against My Brother: At War in Somalia, Sudan and Rwanda (Routledge: 2001). For once, this novel wasn’t written in a remote cottage in the Scottish hills but in Accra, Johannesburg and Houston during the final phase of the US presidential race, which in itself was a war of a different sort. Big thanks to Kevin and Carol McNulty for their warmth and hospitality (and far too many great dinners!). I would also like to thank Nicola Trott, Lihua Li, Tim Soutphommasane and the Praefectus of Balliol College, Professor Diego Zancani, for their immense generosity and time in showing me around Holywell Manor and Balliol College, Oxford. Thanks too to Poppy Miller and Janice Acquah for their help in understanding the torment and joy of drama. In Accra, thanks go to the GNO team – Wild Lizzie, Nana Amu, Natasha, Poem and Vera – as well as all the usual suspects, Vic, Patrick, Sean, Elkin, Joe, Delta Kilo and Irene; the glorious guys at Chain Gang, especially Raila, and Sunshine, and finally, in Biriwa, Carsten, Marcel and Rudi. In Jo’burg, Kate, Paloma and Paris have made me a very special home in all senses of the word, a huge thank you to them – and the same goes to the Jozi ‘new crew’ – Trev T, Veronica, Caroline, Eva, Rootie, Moky, Jutta, Chiluba, Denise and Krisen. Kay Preston (yet again) and Margie Wilson continue to show me the light; Kate Mills, Lisa Milton, Susan Lamb, Gaby Young and the whole Orion team are, as always, wonderful. A big thank you to my sister, Debbie (and especially to those wonderful people at Skype); to Megs, Lois, Nick, Paul and Mae-Ling, and finally to my father and stepmother, whose unequivocal love and support this year has been the most significant of my life.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Lesley Lokko

  By Lesley Lokko

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  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

  Part Two

  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

  Part Three

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Part Four

  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

  Chapter 44

  Part Five

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Part Six

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Part Seven

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Part Eight

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  Mougins, France, June 1969

  The dull, mechanical sound of metal hitting the earth came to the young woman as if from far, far away. She watched in silence, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, as the two men scooped out a small, shallow hole in the ground, pausing only to wipe their faces or mark out the limits of the dig. An owl whooshed past, his gentle enquiring call puncturing the balmy night air. The smell of olive and pine trees drifted up to her from the valley below; she knew already the scent would be with her for the rest of her life.r />
  Finally it was done. One of the men called out something softly in their own language to the other. She watched as the small bundle was passed carefully to him, already wrapped in the white muslin sheet that was their custom, and placed into the ground. A tiny stifled sound escaped from her throat but was swallowed up in the soft ‘thwack’ of earth as they quickly began covering the hole up again. It took them almost no time at all. The ground was patted flat, the flagstones replaced, stamped over, made new. In the morning they would begin the work of resurfacing the driveway … in a few days, no one would ever know what lay beneath. Buried, disposed of, forgotten. She would never see the men again. That was part of the deal. Neither looked at her as they walked past; that, too, was part of the deal. She turned and watched them as they put away the shovels in the small lean-to at the top of the drive, and then they were gone. She waited for a few moments and then walked slowly back into the house and bolted the door behind her. Her teeth were chattering. She poured herself a brandy and took it into the living room. She couldn’t bear to go upstairs.

  She curled herself up beside the empty fireplace where she’d slept for the past six nights, clutching her drink. It took her almost the entire glass to stop shivering. She forced herself to think of what would happen next. Alongside the new driveway, in the morning something else would be delivered. Something that would put an end to the nightmare that had begun a week ago and make everything all right. Everything. Nothing would have changed; it would never have happened. No one would ever know. She took one last swallow of brandy, willing herself desperately to believe it. No one could ever know. If it ever came out, she would be finished. They would all be finished. There was simply no other way, no other choice. This was how it would be. Always.

  1

  JOSH

  Mougins, France, July 1973

  The ground underfoot was hot in that delicious, beginning-of-the-summer-holidays way; air electric with the sound of insects pulsing thickly with banked-up warmth. Overhead the intense blue sky yawned endlessly towards the horizon. Josh Keeler, four years old and marching along the path with all the determination of a seasoned jungle explorer, could scarcely contain his excitement. Ahead of him, his two older brothers, Rafe and Aaron, danced their way around the reassuringly solid shape of Harvey, their father. Trailing behind, in a pretty flowery dress of the sort she only ever wore on holiday, Diana, their mother, brought up the rear, humming to herself in a way that she never did in London.

  The pink oleanders that lined the path to the pool swatted his face as he hurried after them, anxious to keep up. His whole body was suffused with anticipatory joy. This year he was going to learn how to swim. His brothers were already strong swimmers; they’d had lessons at school. Josh was just about to begin. It was hard being the youngest, especially when Rafe and Aaron took no more notice of him than they did of Buster, the family dog. He longed to be like them; for them to like him. He couldn’t understand why they didn’t.

  It was almost as warm inside the silky envelope of the pool as it was outside. He felt the gentle pressure of his father’s hand cupping his chin and tried to remember what he’d been told about frogging his legs to keep his body level with the surface of the water. Rafe and Aaron were clowning around confidently at the far end of the pool, scrambling in and out of the water and diving in off the side. It would be years before he could do any of that, he thought to himself miserably as he struggled to stay afloat. A few seconds later, he heard Rafe shouting. He felt his father’s attention leave; his fleshy, breathing presence momentarily disengaging itself as he turned towards Rafe. The water pushed away from him as Harvey lunged out. There was a sudden lull, as if he were falling, and then everything seemed to happen at once. Water rushed up at him, covering his mouth and nose. He panicked, swinging his arms wildly above his head as his legs dropped and the water closed over his face again. He burst through the surface, clawing at the air, but there was nothing to hold on to. He opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of Aaron staring calmly at him before he went under again. No one moved, no hands came out to hold him. It was quiet there in the swirling depths; his lungs were almost bursting with the desire to breathe. He was afraid to open his eyes. The taste of chlorinated water filled his mouth, bubbling upwards painfully through his nose. He felt the hot smarting of tears behind his eyes; shame flooded over him like a stain. It wouldn’t do to cry in front of Aaron. Or Rafe, for that matter. It simply wouldn’t do.

  2

  MADDY

  New York, September 1991

  The Greyhound bus slowly lurched its way into the Midtown Bus Terminal just before dawn. Amongst the thirty-odd passengers gathering their possessions and preparing to disembark was a young woman who was still fast asleep. She lay curled up in her seat, swathed in her black overcoat, only a fiery mass of red curls visible, tumbling halfway down her back. The woman who’d been sitting next to her for the past sixteen hours paused in the task of pulling her bag from the overhead locker and looked down at her. She smiled indulgently and touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Wake up, honey,’ she murmured, bending down. ‘We’re here.’

  The girl’s eyes flew open. For a brief, incomprehensible second, she struggled to remember where she was. She looked around her in bewilderment at the darkened, ghostly interior of the bus, passengers pulling their suitcases and bags from the overhead lockers, a child whimpering somewhere near the front. Where the hell was she? A sudden lurch in the pit of her stomach brought it all rushing back. New York. New York City! She’d finally arrived! She struggled upright and hurriedly pushed her hands through her hair, pulling it into a ponytail, furious with herself. She couldn’t believe it! She’d been awake for almost the entire journey, taut with anticipation, every nerve in her body waiting for that moment when she’d look out of the window and see Manhattan emerging out of the early morning mist, right there in front of her – and she’d missed it. She clambered out of her seat, grabbed her coat and bag, still brushing the sleep from her eyes.

  ‘You know where you’re going?’ Shirley, a plump, recently divorced woman who’d boarded the bus in Franklin, the next stop after Marshalltown, smiled down at her. Shirley was in her early fifties and on her way to stay with her eldest daughter in New Jersey. She was full of advice about New York City, most of it incomprehensible to eighteen-year-old Maddy Stiller, who’d never been further than Chicago and only once at that.

  Maddy nodded, hoping she looked and sounded more certain than she felt. ‘I … I have the address right here,’ she said, patting her bag. ‘My mom said to take a cab.’

  ‘You do that, honey. Best thing to do. There’ll be plenty of them across the road. Just give the driver the address and make sure he’s got a NYC sticker in the window. You never know,’ she added darkly. ‘Well, I hope everything works out for you. I’ll be looking to see your name in lights one of these days. You take care, now, Maddy. Everything’ll turn out fine, you’ll see.’

  ‘Th … thank you,’ Maddy mumbled, cheeks red with embarrassment. She watched Shirley pick up her suitcase and navigate her way confidently through the crowd. She felt a sudden wave of loneliness. As recent an acquaintance as Shirley was, she was the only person she’d spoken to since leaving home. Although she’d have been quite happy to ride the thousand-odd miles from Iowa to New York in silence, Shirley, it was soon clear, wasn’t. Shirley was what Martha, Maddy’s mother, would have called a ‘talker-stalker’ – the kind who wouldn’t shut up until she’d wormed every last piece of information out of you. She wasn’t unkind – just persistent. By the time they reached Des Moines, she’d established that Maddy Stiller had gone to Meskawi High School in Marshalltown, that she was the only daughter of Frank and Martha Stiller and that Frank had disappeared one Sunday afternoon when Maddy was fourteen. Just disappeared. He’d got up early as usual, went out to feed the cows and then came back into the kitchen and announced he was going into Des Moines. He’d driven the white pick-up truck down the road, turned left instead o
f right and gone all the way to Chicago. He’d left the pick-up truck in the parking lot at O’Hare International Airport with instructions on the wind-screen to call Mrs Martha Stiller of Dewey Farm, Marshall County, Iowa. Martha had driven out with Ron, their neighbour from across the way, in tight-lipped silence. A few weeks later a letter arrived for Martha and a postcard for Maddy. From San Francisco. Maddy read the few lines and then burned it. Apparently there was someone else ‘involved’. Maddy didn’t know what that meant. Poor Martha, everyone said. No one ever said ‘poor Maddy’. ‘Oh, we heard all about it, honey. Your poor mother. Just goes to show, doesn’t it? You can just never tell about people, can you?’ Maddy looked down at her hands. When people brought up the topic of her father’s disappearance, which they usually did as soon as they heard her surname, she never knew what to say. Along the long, flat tongue of Interstate 88, Shirley managed to worm out of her that she’d won a four-year scholarship to study drama and that, aside from her school trip to Chicago, it was the first time she’d ever left Iowa. ‘Oh, my,’ Shirley breathed, clearly impressed. ‘You must be very talented.’ Maddy’s stomach lurched again and again. Talented? No, she wasn’t talented. She just wanted to get out of Iowa, that was all. She still couldn’t get over it all. Less than three months after she’d made the application to Tisch, here she was. It felt like a dream.

  ‘These yours?’ The brusque voice of the driver interrupted her thoughts. He pointed to the two rather battered suitcases left standing in the hold.

  ‘Yes, those are mine,’ Maddy nodded hurriedly.

  ‘Here …’ He tossed them unceremoniously towards her. ‘Ain’t got all day,’ he said, slamming the hold doors shut. ‘Let’s get this show on the road!’ He slapped the side of the bus and stalked off.

  Maddy struggled awkwardly to get them out of the way. She stood on the edge of the sidewalk, clutching her handbag tightly to her chest, trying to ignore the burning sensation of fear in the pit of her stomach, looking around her for a sign – any sign – of where to go and what to do next. People were streaming in and out of the subway station across the street. The sound was deafening. It was nearly 7 a.m. and the entire city seemed to be on the move. People thundered in and out of the narrow hole in the ground, no one speaking, not looking at one another, no eye contact … nothing. Bodies rushed past one another, a tangled, indistinguishable mass of people in which unfamiliar details jumped out at her – a skullcap here, a long flowing white robe there; the pitch-black face of a young boy wearing a baseball cap turned backwards, stopping to grab a paper-wrapped bagel; two women in diaphanous black tents, only the slits of their eyes showing, large woven shopping baskets visible through the sheer black material – she’d never seen anything like it. She stood there on the other side of the road, too stunned to do anything other than stare. She thought of her last glimpse of Martha, standing bravely beside the bus stop, waving at the Greyhound as it lurched around the corner, and the tug of tears crept into her throat once more. She’d turned her head to wave but the corner was already made and Martha was no longer there. Her stomach lurched again, dangerously. She had to get a cab, find the address of the Tisch halls of residence and phone her mother. And find a bathroom. Her stomach, always the most precise register of her nerves, was dangerously close to revolt.