The Love Boat

by Kate Lace

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Love is in the air... and on the water in this fabulous new romance from Kate Lace Working as a chef on a luxurious holiday yacht, Poppy's come a long way from her parents' pub in Cornwall and enjoys a tranquil existence sailing around the Greek islands. Until the Garvie family show up that is. When their boisterous behaviour forces Poppy to pay a visit to a super-yacht docked nearby, she meets handsome deckhand Charlie and everything gets a lot more exciting. She wouldn't mind getting cosy in her cabin with him! But why does Jake, the brooding skipper, keep rocking the boat? When it comes to falling in love, Poppy may be in danger of going overboard...

Release date: July 7, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 324

Sample

Poppy Sanders waved her piece of A4, with the name Garvie clearly printed in thick marker pen, at the passengers who poured out of Arrivals into the main airport concourse. Despite the air-conditioning, which functioned reasonably well for a provincial Greek airport, they all looked warm and weary as they lugged their cases and herded small children. She smiled expectantly at any of them who gave her notice a cursory glance. Dressed in her navy and white WorldFleet shore uniform she looked cool and efficient and, she hoped, welcoming. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, she thought as she scanned passing faces, to get another group like the one she’d said goodbye to that morning? But having seen the manifest she knew this was unlikely; she could tell by the names and ages that this was a family group with the parents allowing each of the teenaged children to bring along a friend for company. Knowing their usual clients she imagined a merchant banker and his wife and their well-spoken, public-school-educated offspring and their cultured friends.

A family group erupted through the sliding doors from immigration, baggage reclaim and customs. They were led by a large, buxom bottle-blonde in stilettos and a mauve velour tracksuit who bore a passing resemblance to Barbara Windsor. Behind her came a gaggle of teenagers all shouting each other down. They seemed to be arguing over the relative merits of Millwall and Crystal Palace and feelings were obviously running high judging by the fruity language. Poppy watched them for a few seconds, thinking that whichever tour operator they were booked with was going to have their hands full with that lot; lots of energy, totally boisterous, up for a good time and going to have it come what may. Smiling, she looked back at the sliding doors.

‘Oi!’

Poppy snapped back to the real world and turned her attention to the owner of the voice.

‘Yeah, you!’

Oh my God. Barbara Windsor was addressing her. Her heart plummeted and her smile lapsed. ‘Mrs Garvie?’

‘That’s righ’.’

Poppy swallowed. Shit. The boisterous bunch were hers. The Garvies were not quiet merchant bankers seeking an idle holiday vegging out after the cut and thrust of City life, and she was the lucky rep whose work was going to be cut out keeping this lot from wreaking too much mayhem around the Med for a fortnight. Great. But Poppy was nothing if not a pro, and it was her job to give her charges a fantastic holiday. She wasn’t employed by WorldFleet to enjoy herself but to make sure the clients did. So she smiled broadly, extended her hand and said, ‘Welcome. I’m delighted to meet you.’

The vision sniffed. ‘Likewise.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Veronica, but everyone calls me Ronnie.’

‘Poppy,’ Poppy reciprocated, shaking it, and clocking the extravagant nail extensions as she did so. She didn’t think Ronnie Garvie was going to be doing much hands-on sailing over the next fortnight. Not that she had to; the yacht came with a perfectly able skipper as well as Poppy herself, who was mainly the cook/cleaner but also helped out on deck when necessary. ‘Is all your party here?’

Ronnie glanced over her shoulder and did a quick head count. The argument was raging just as fiercely, although there was now a distraction caused by someone’s mention of Arsenal, considered a poofs’ club by one of the others, an opinion which wasn’t going down well. Despite the racket, however, the argument was still good-natured. The language and the shouting got more intense. Other family groups with younger children were looking worriedly at the scene of the altercation, presumably concerned at the vocabulary their offspring were likely to pick up.

‘Shut it, you lot,’ yelled Ronnie, over the din. ‘There’s kids around what don’t need to hear your foul language.’ Silence fell instantly. The other parents looked relieved.

Impressive, thought Poppy. In the quiet that followed Poppy made a quick assessment of the group. Apart from being noisy and boisterous and totally inappropriately dressed, she didn’t think any of them looked as if they were really cut out for the sort of holiday Mr and Mrs Garvie had booked. The kind of sailing holiday that WorldFleet offered generally appealed to clients who had a genuine wish to do a bit of hands-on sailing around some of the most beautiful islands Greece had to offer, in between eating gourmet food and enjoying the cultural delights of the cradle of civilisation. The group of teenagers and young adults in front of her had the appearance of people who would have been much more at home on a large cruise ship with wall-to-wall entertainment, eat-as-much-as-you-like buffets, discos, bars and the company of other youngsters. She hoped they wouldn’t be bored to sobs by the yacht. It wouldn’t be much fun for the six kids if they were, and given the money that had been shelled out it would be a rotten shame.

Ronnie turned back to Poppy. ‘Just Mick to come. We’d better wait for ’im. ’E’s the one wiv the cash. But more cash than dash as ’e’s last.’ She laughed raucously at her own joke. At that moment a rotund bloke sloped out of the doors, chugging at a can of lager, with a grin as wide as the Thames estuary plastered across his face.

‘Ahoy, me hearties,’ he hollered across the width of the concourse as he caught sight of the rest of his group and ambled over to join them.

‘Come on, Mick, we’re all waiting for you.’

He increased his pace a bit.

‘’Ere ’e ’is. Righ’, let’s go. Let’s not waste any more time. We’ve got an ’oliday to enjoy.’

‘Good,’ said Poppy, already wondering how she was going to keep up with the energy of this family. It was shaping up to be a long fortnight.

She led the way out of the little airport into the shimmering heat of a Greek afternoon. In her wake came her eight new guests dragging their mountains of inappropriate luggage. The brochure asked guests to bring soft bags that could be easily stowed; obviously this lot either didn’t think such a request applied to them or hadn’t bothered to read the small print. Poppy sighed as she wondered where the hell they were going to put it all.

The minibus, also in smart WorldFleet livery, was parked close by, and as soon as the driver saw Poppy coming he leapt forward and relieved two of the female guests of their cases. The others began to stack theirs near the rear door.

‘An’ ’ere’s mine, mate.’ Mr Garvie dropped his bag on to the pavement and in so doing slopped some of his lager, splashing the driver’s shoes.

The bus driver took one look at Mr Garvie and his can of drink and told Poppy in rapid Greek that either the can went or the minibus would – without its complement of passengers. He wasn’t having his precious vehicle made sticky with beer. He stopped stowing the rafts of rip-off designer suitcases in the back and glared at Mick.

‘Mr Garvie,’ began Poppy politely.

‘Call me Mick,’ he said, stifling a belch.

‘Mick,’ began Poppy again. ‘I’m afraid the company has a strict rule about food and drink on this vehicle. So could I ask you to finish that,’ she nodded at the Carlsberg can, ‘before you get on board?’ She smiled sweetly.

Mick inclined his head towards the driver and said conspiratorially, ‘Come on. ’E’s cross I didn’t offer ’im one, isn’t ’e?’

‘We don’t allow our employees or anyone associated with this company to drink alcohol on duty,’ said Poppy carefully.

Mick looked at her and shook his head. ‘Well you’re goin’ to be a righ’ larf.’

Poppy very nearly shot back that she was the cook, not the comedy turn, but managed to restrain herself. They were here on holiday and they had every right to expect to enjoy themselves, and she had to make sure they did. So she smiled warmly and suggested that if he was hot he’d be cooler on the bus, especially if it got going so the air-con could kick in. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘there’s a complimentary bar on board with loads of cold beers waiting for you.’

Mick nodded. It sounded good to him. He drained his beer, tossed the tin into a nearly litter bin and shuffled on to the bus. Poppy followed.

‘This is nice, innit? Classy,’ said Ronnie, running her fingers over the soft grey leather of the executive minibus seats.

Poppy nodded. Maybe her first impressions were wrong. Maybe this family could and did appreciate the finer things in life and this was exactly the sort of holiday they wanted. Maybe they’d done something similar before. She hoped so, because she didn’t want the yacht and what she and Jake had to offer to be a disappointment to them. That would be such a shocking waste.

She thought about her last group: four middle-aged, polite, urbane and charming couples who took a delight in the scenery, their surroundings, the food she’d cooked and the itinerary the skipper had planned. They’d been so easy to please and so laid back, their fortnight had flown past and she and Jake had really enjoyed looking after them. It had almost been like entertaining friends. But Poppy didn’t think this trip would be quite such a doddle. No way.

She gave her standard introductory spiel about the length of the journey to the little port they were heading for where the yacht was berthed, the area they were passing through and some information about the weather conditions they might expect for the next few days. She smiled at her guests as she finished and noticed that the girls were plugged into their iPods, the boys had their eyes shut and the parents were staring vacantly out of the window, completely ignoring her.

‘Any questions?’ she ended brightly.

‘Yeah,’ said one of the teenagers, opening his eyes. ‘Is there any beer on board your boat or do we need to stop at an offy before we get there?’ He obviously hadn’t caught Poppy’s comment to Mick a few minutes earlier.

‘There’s a fully stocked bar on the yacht, which you are welcome to use. Of course, if there’s a particular drink or brand not provided I’ll be delighted to try to obtain it at the first opportunity, although I think you’ll find we’ve got most things.’

‘You got cream de menf?’ said Ronnie.

Poppy nodded.

‘And what abou’ chocolate milk to go wiv it?’

Poppy’s eyes widened involuntarily and her eyebrows shot up her forehead. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, forcing a bubble of startled laughter back down her throat. ‘I can get some. I expect one of the supermarkets in the village will stock it. Or I’ll be able to chill some drinking chocolate for you.’

‘Good,’ said Ronnie. ‘And you’ll ’ave to try it. It’s ever so yummy. Just like drinkin’ After Eights.’

Poppy thought she’d rather fry her own eyes but, hey, each to their own.

There were no more questions so she settled down in her seat to watch the familiar villages and sights pass by. Last year she’d lost count of the number of times she did this trip and it hadn’t palled, but the Garvies seemed utterly uninterested in it. A shame really as there was always something interesting to see: a tortoise ambling along the edge of the road, a herd of goats standing on their hind legs to get at the lower leaves of an olive grove, or some stunning butterflies flitting round the tubs of flowers that the tavernas used to brighten up their stretches of pavement.

Poppy loved the journey; it was all so different from her native Cornwall, and even after fifteen months she still couldn’t believe her luck at landing this job.

If she hadn’t been tidying the yachting magazines at the minuscule sailing club where she worked she’d never have seen the ad for hostesses for a company specialising in flotilla and yacht charter holidays. It had not previously occurred to her that she could turn her hobby into a means of earning a living, but suddenly it had seemed possible. She scanned the advertisement, then ripped out the page and stuffed it in her pocket before putting the magazine at the bottom of the pile in the hope that the club commodore wouldn’t notice the small act of vandalism. He got bees in his bonnet about anything and everything, and Poppy was certain that he’d make a fuss if he found out.

With the clubhouse bar ready for the weekend crowd to pitch up, as they did every Saturday, for their gin and tonics, gossip and fish and chip lunches, Poppy took herself off to the privacy of the stock room to read the ad properly. Well, she concluded, the pay was pants but everything else was perfect. Besides, if she was housed and fed and provided with a uniform, what on earth would she have to spend money on?

For a few minutes she wondered how her parents would take it. She knew that they relied on her to help out in their pub in the high season, but she also knew that she’d suffocate if she didn’t do something with her life before long. She loved the village, she loved the sailing club and most of all she loved her parents, but there was a whole world east of the Tamar. Hell, she’d never even been to Plymouth, let alone London, while most kids of her age seemed to have swanned round the world on gap years. And where had she been? The Isles of Scilly. She snorted and made her mind up; it was time for Poppy Sanders to see the world.

That had been Easter the previous year and look at her now: at home in the village where their shore base was situated, on first name terms with more taverna owners than there were Greek islands, fully conversant with a large section of the Mediterranean coastline and reasonably fluent in the local lingo. Okay, she still had to conquer the rest of the world, but Greece was a start.

Another argument started up at the back of the minibus, this time about cabins. Poppy sighed deeply. Let joy be unconfined. She took her mobile out of her bag and began to text Jake back on the Earth Star.

‘Brace urself 4 this crowd,’ she tapped. ‘Not quite like the last lot.’ She pressed send. She hoped that the message might make Jake lighten up a bit. He was always so darned serious; polite, great skipper, planned wonderful itineraries with the guests, but always utterly distant. Her character analysis was suddenly interrupted.

‘Can you stop the van?’ said Ronnie. ‘I fink our Jade’s goin’ to hurl. She’s a martyr to …’

The sound of noisy vomiting interrupted her.

‘… motion sickness.’

And they’ve booked a yachting holiday? thought Poppy. Great. Just wonderful. As the cleaner as well as the cook, she knew what she’d be doing for the next fortnight.



Jake, the Earth Star’s skipper, watched the minibus draw up on the quayside. Poppy’s text had left him wondering just exactly what this group would be like if they weren’t ‘like the last lot’. Not that it mattered; it was his job to be completely professional with whoever had chartered the yacht. He was there to sail the vessel and Poppy was there to feed and look after them. She seemed to think it was important to be friends with the guests too, but Jake wasn’t interested in socialising beyond what he was expected to do as a host.

He saw Poppy climb out looking weary. That wasn’t like her: she was always so upbeat. Her buoyant good humour was one of the things that made her a good workmate. That and her fantastic cooking, although she wouldn’t have got this job without that talent. Being able to cook was more important than being able to sail. He supposed that being brought up in a pub had a lot to do with it, because although there were others in the company who could knock up equally delicious meals she always seemed to do it faster and cheaper and more efficiently. One day she’d make some man a wonderful wife. But not him, not with his track record with women. Much better he kept the whole species, including Poppy, at an emotional arm’s length. He put his thoughts from his mind and prepared to greet the new holidaymakers.

‘Hello,’ he called. He turned on some charm for the new guests. ‘Good transfer?’

Poppy’s eyes rolled and she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Spiros, the driver, got out of the minibus and launched into a full account of the journey, sparing no details about the bout of travel sickness, and ending with ‘and I’m not taking them back to the airport!’ before he stamped off to find a raki to calm himself with before he set about cleaning up his precious vehicle. Jake, whose Greek was only adequate, got the gist. So that explained Poppy’s mood. He glanced at the girl Spiros had fingered as the one who had ‘ruined’ his van.

The girl, still very pasty, leant weakly against the side of the minibus. She’d cleaned herself up and changed into a fresh top, but a faint whiff of vomit still hung around her so no one was inclined to approach too closely, least of all Jake who had a man’s aversion to all bodily functions that weren’t his own.

Poppy introduced Jake to his new guests, while the Garvies and their friends stared open-mouthed at the huge sailing vessel that was to be their home for a fortnight.

‘And this is the Earth Star,’ said Poppy, waving a hand at the boat. ‘Now I know you’re all anxious to get on board and explore, and maybe to freshen up after your long journey, but before you do I’m afraid I have to ask all the ladies to take off their high-heeled shoes. We don’t allow them to be worn on board as they damage the decks. I’m sure you all packed lots of deck shoes and flip-flops so if I could ask you to wear those instead for the duration of the holiday …’ She smiled hopefully.

Ronnie shrieked. ‘Wot? No ’eels? My legs look fat wivout me stilettos.’

Jake glanced at her velour-clad tree trunks and bit back the observation that her legs looked fat because they were. Poppy turned away and Jake was annoyed to see that she was shaking with laughter. Very unprofessional. He ignored Ronnie’s protestations and Poppy’s lack of self-control and suggested that once they had removed their shoes they might like to follow him on board for a cold drink and a quick briefing about life on a yacht before he brought their luggage down to their cabins.

‘Oh, drink,’ said Ronnie, toeing her stilettos off in an instant and beetling up the gangplank. Her family went after her in an unseemly rush, leaving a pile of abandoned shoes on the quay. Jake and Poppy were just about to follow the group when shrieks and squeals of delight cannoned out of the saloon. The cries of ‘Bling!’ and ‘Lush!’ seemed to indicate that the inside of the yacht was meeting with as much approval as the outside had.

‘They like the boat, then,’ said Poppy with a grin.

‘As well they might.’

When Poppy and Jake arrived down in the saloon, their new guests, with the exception of the travel-sick daughter now sitting alone and pale at the table, were already opening cupboards, nosing round the cabins and generally exploring their new living quarters. Jake restored order with charm, persistence and by dint of opening the bar and offering drinks: cold beer or his lethal welcome punch. The poorly girl was still on her own so he nobly sat next to her. She smiled wanly at him, but despite obviously still feeling a little queasy she didn’t refuse the proffered punch and began to gulp it down.

Jake cleared his throat and tapped the table. Once he had the family’s attention he got Ronnie to introduce everyone to him.

‘This is Lynette and ’er fiancé Kyle.’ Ronnie pointed out the oldest of the three girls and the tallest of the lads. Lynette flashed her engagement ring at Poppy and Jake and they both dutifully admired it before she snuggled up to Kyle proprietorially. Obviously she didn’t want Poppy making a move on her bloke, although Jake thought that Lynette might be overestimating Kyle’s attractiveness to other women.

‘And that’s Jade and this is ’er friend Raquel, an’ last here’s my Darren and ’is friend Wayne. An’ this is Micky – me old man.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Jake warmly. ‘And now we all know each other I’m sure we’ll all get along like a house on fire for the next two weeks. Now, before we do anything else I’d just like to run through a couple of rules to make sure both you and this beautiful boat stay safe. First,’ he looked round at his audience, ‘I need to have a word about the heads.’

The two younger boys snickered and nudged each other over the distantly smutty connotation of the word head. Luke ignored them – it wasn’t the first time and it was bound not to be the last.

‘The heads are what we call the loos on a boat. However, because whatever goes down them mostly ends up in the sea we have to ask you to be very careful in their use. So nothing goes into them unless you’ve eaten it first.’

Judging by the looks on the Garvies’ faces this was a difficult concept. Jake sighed and prepared to spell it out. ‘You can’t put paper, tissues or anything else down the loo. Girls, this especially applies to your sanitary waste.’

Jade gave a cry of horror. ‘You mean … !’

‘Exactly. You will find a bin by each head for anything that isn’t entirely natural. Now I know you may find this distasteful at first …’

‘I should cocoa,’ said Ronnie. ‘It ain’t distasteful, it’s disgustin’. We ’aven’t paid all this bleedin’ money for this boat for us not to be able to use the toilets like normal decent folk.’

‘But this is exactly what normal decent folk do on boats of this size,’ said Jake firmly. ‘When you go snorkelling you don’t want to be splashing around with, well …’ He let the implication hang in the air. ‘Sorry, folks, but that’s the way it is.’

Ronnie sighed heavily. ‘If you say so. Well, we’ll do as you ask, but I can’t say I’m ’appy.’

‘Good. Honestly, you’ll get used to it. And Poppy here would just like to check that none of you is vegetarian.’ Jake looked around the faces of their guests and it seemed from their blank looks of amazement that vegetarianism was almost as much of an alien concept as the use of the heads. ‘And now we’ve got that cleared up, I suggest that Poppy and I fetch your luggage while you choose your cabins.’

‘Oi,’ said Ronnie. She pointed at the two youngest boys.. . .