The Love Island: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you have to read this summer
“Funny, warm and beautifully written – I loved it.” MILLY JOHNSONCan one woman’s marriage survive her best friend’s divorce? Veronica Henry meets Erica James in this gorgeous summer read.Previously published as The Island EscapeOctavia Shelton thought she’d have a different life. One where she travelled the world with an exotic husband and free-spirited children in tow.Instead she’s married to safe, reliable Jonathan, and her life now consists of packed lunches, school runs and mountains of dirty washing. She’s not unhappy. It’s just that she can barely recognise herself.So as Octavia watches her best friend’s marriage break up, it gets her thinking. What if life could be different? What if she could escape and rediscover the person she used to be? Escape back to the island she visited years ago? And what if the man she used to love was there waiting for her?
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Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published as The Island Escape in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2018
Copyright © Kerry Fisher 2015
Cover design © Alison Groom
Cover images © Shutterstock
Kerry Fisher 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 e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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.
Ebook Edition © May 2015
ISBN: 978-0-00-757026-3
Source ISBN: 978-0-00-757025-6
Version 2018-07-03
For Steve, Cameron, Michaela and Poppy
Table of Contents
I was wearing the wrong bra for sitting in a police cell.
It was sod’s law that I’d chosen today to try out my early Christmas present from Scott. But I hadn’t dressed thinking the police would confiscate my blouse as ‘evidence’. I’d dressed thinking that sexy underwear might put my husband into a more festive frame of mind.
When we arrived at the police station, the officer who’d arrested me, PC Julie Pikestaff, led me into the custody suite. I was more used to suites containing champagne and roses.
PC Pikestaff quickly explained why I’d been brought in to the custody officer behind the counter, sighing as though if it weren’t for me, she’d be stretched out on a sun lounger in St Lucia. ‘She’ll have to take her shirt off. We need to bag it up.’
The custody officer ferreted around under the desk and handed Pikestaff a white boiler suit, saying, ‘She can put this on once you’ve booked her in. Take her cuffs off.’
The creak in my shoulder blades as I brought my arms in front of me reminded me that I needed to go back to Pilates. The stunned disbelief that had enveloped me on the journey to the police station was starting to evaporate. That boiler suit epitomised how low I’d sunk.
I tried to find the voice I used at parents’ evenings when teachers were evading my questions, but I could only manage a croak of despair.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t wear that.’
People like me only came to police stations to report stolen iPads or missing Siamese cats. I was already trying to salvage any scrap of pride I had left. Rustling around in that wretched space suit might finish me off completely.
Pikestaff waved dismissively. ‘Look, it’s just something to cover you up while your blouse is examined for forensics. No big deal.’
Before she could say anything else, two policemen burst through the door, struggling to restrain a couple of girls in their mid-twenties. One had dyed black hair, thigh-length boots and the tiniest red miniskirt. The other was in a neon-pink body stocking. The Lycra had given up trying to contain her rolls of fat, her boobs spilling out like boxing gloves. The girls snarled and flailed as much as their handcuffs would allow, straining to get at each other in a torrent of abuse.
I glanced at Pikestaff. She looked bored rather than shocked. Another run-of-the-mill Thursday night.
Except for me.
These two women made Scott’s outbursts look like tea and scones with my mother’s patchwork club. The woman in Lycra spat at the policeman, saliva splattering onto his jacket. The other one was trying to stab anyone she could reach with her stiletto boots. No wonder Pikestaff was unperturbed that a middle-aged woman like me was having a wardrobe crisis.
She shuffled me over to the end of the counter, while I tried not to gawp round at the rumpus behind us. I prayed she’d keep that pair of devil women well away from me. With my Home Counties accent and aversion to miniskirts, the only common denominator uniting us was an unfortunate choice of meeting venue. The F-word didn’t trip off my tongue either, though Scott was no stranger to it.
