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Voice of the Heart first published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1983 ‘Happy Birthday to You’, words and music by Mildred J. Jill and Patty S. Hill. Copyright © 1935 Birch Tree Group Ltd, Princeton, N.J. Used by permission.
Act of Will first published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1986
Dangerous to Know first published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 1995
The Women in His Life first published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1990 ‘There’ll Always Be an England’ (Parker/Charles) Copyright © 1939, Dash Music Co. Ltd, 8–9 Frith Street, London, W1V 5TZ Used by permission. All rights reserved. ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ (Kent/Burton) Copyright © 1941, Shapiro Bernstein & Co. Inc., USA Reproduced by permission of B. Feldman & Co. Ltd, London WC2H 0EA. ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ (Fain/Kahal) Copyright © 1938, Marlo Music Corp., USA Reproduced by permission of Francis Day and Hunter Ltd, London WC2H 0EA. Extract from Rich: The Life of Richard Burton by Melvyn Bragg is reprinted by kind permission of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1983, 1986, 1990, 1995
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Barbara Taylor Bradford 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.
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Source ISBN: 9780007395583, 9780007363728, 9780007330829, 9780007401550
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007536245
Version: 2017-10-25
I came back because I wanted to, of my own free will. No one forced me to return. But now that I am here I want to take flight, to hide again in obscurity, to put this vast ocean between myself and this place. It bodes me no good.
As these thoughts finally took shape, assumed troubling proportions and jostled for prominence in her mind, the woman’s fine hands, lying inertly in her lap, came together in a clench so forceful that the knuckles protruded sharply through the transparent skin. But there was no other outward display of emotion. She sat as rigid as stone on the seat. Her face, pale and somewhat drawn in the murky morning light, was impassive as a mask and her gaze was fixed with unwavering intensity on the Pacific.
The sea was implacable and the colour of chalcedony on this bleak and sunless day, one that was unnaturally chilly for Southern California, even though it was December when the weather was so often inclement. The woman shivered. The dampness was beginning to seep through her trench-coat into her bones. She felt icy, and yet there was a light film of moisture on her forehead and neck and between her breasts. On an impulse she rose from the seat, her movements abrupt, and with her head bent against the wind and her hands pushed deep into her pockets she walked the length of the Santa Monica pier, which was now so entirely deserted it looked desolate, even forbidding, in its emptiness.