The One That Got Away Read online

  First Published in Great Britain in 2022 by

  LOVE AFRICA PRESS

  103 Reaver House, 12 East Street, Epsom KT17 1HX

  www.loveafricapress.com

  Text copyright © Zee Monodee, 2022

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  The right of Zee Monodee to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Also available as paperback

  Island Girls: 3 sisters in Mauritius

  The One That Got Away

  How To Love An Ogre

  Falling For Her Bad Boy Boss

  Blurb

  Eldest sister of the Hemant sibling trio, Lara Reddy, returns to Mauritius as a divorcee and must contend with Indo-Mauritian society's outdated views about marriage and the modern woman. In the middle of this dumpster fire, she comes across Eric Marivaux, the white French-Mauritian man she loved as a teenager and gave up because their interracial, mixed cultural relationship would not stand a chance on this island. But here comes a second chance: Eric wants her back in his life, and he will stop at nothing to win her back. Will Lara be her own worst enemy and thus end up unhappy ever after?

  Chapter One

  Come on, Lara. You can do it.

  It’s only your mother.

  Thirty-two-year-old Lara Reddy gripped the steering wheel tighter as the thoughts raced in her mind. Her left foot itched to slam onto the clutch so she could reverse out of here before her mother realised she’d made it close to the family home in Curepipe, one of the biggest towns on the island of Mauritius.

  But she’d simply be delaying the inevitable.

  Why, oh why, hadn’t she thought of this before she’d left London? True, the lure of the job had been immense. The possibility of running her own state-of-the-art international conventions centre on the island. It had been nowhere close to her position as Events Manager at a renowned business hotel in London. For someone in her early thirties, life didn’t get much better than this, career-wise. If she’d stayed in the UK, she’d probably wave menopause goodbye without making it any higher up the corporate ladder.

  A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Not to mention that the company had head-hunted her.

  She’d jumped … without giving due thought that she’d be plunging into the deep end of the local pool where the sharks dwelled.

  No child of Mauritian origin who’d grown up in England or elsewhere in the world would choose to come back there to live. Too much gossip and drama. People poking and prodding into personal lives. Mauritius and its Indian-origin society reminded her of a fishbowl, where any foreigner was a goldfish. The locals ranged from piranhas to barracudas, in between which swam killer whales and every kind of shark. Proof of the pudding—her mother was one of the worst social predators ever.

  She gulped and tried to unclench her hands from the steering wheel.

  The urge to smoke hit her from nowhere. She’d given up cigarettes exactly three years, two months, one week, and five days earlier. Ever since that God-awful argument with Roy—

  Lara closed her eyes tight. No, she wouldn’t think of him. She’d ponder anything else.

  Like a smoke?

  She slapped the thought away and forced in a deep breath. Damn it, she hadn’t thought of smoking in weeks.

  Not true, sing-sang that little intruder again.

  She’d thought of it just that morning. In the no-smoking international airport, when she’d lifted her head because there’d been a prickling along her nape. Then, she’d seen him. The tall, big white man with the long, shaggy blond locks and shoulders that seemed wide enough to take on all the concerns of a woman’s world.

  A gasp escaped her once more.

  Eric.

  The boy she’d loved as a teenager, when she didn’t even know what the word love entailed.

  The one that got away.

  He left, remember? Without a word.

  Rooted on the spot, the air had hitched in her throat. She’d sent furtive glances around, looking for an equally blond and even more beautiful woman in his vicinity. His French wife. Pain had ripped her heart when she’d wondered if she’d also have to see their child—probably children, by now—as well.

  Her gaze had landed on the board announcing all the flights. The only other arrival besides her London Gatwick one had come from Johannesburg.

  Eric Marivaux lived in France—why would he return to Mauritius from South Africa?

  Her panic had alleviated then.

  It wasn’t him. Couldn’t be him. The Eric she’d known had been tall but not as imposing or brawny. He’d also hated having his hair longer than an inch. This man had locks any shampoo company would kill to feature in one of their adverts. Must be an Afrikaner who bore a striking resemblance to him.

  Still, with her hands clamped tight on the handle of her luggage trolley, she’d crept backwards until she’d tumbled out of the air-conditioned lobby through an automatic sliding door. The cloying, humid heat of the January summer had wrapped around her, crushing the breath inside her chest and further addling her brain.

  It wasn’t him, she told herself again now as she eased the car into first gear and crawled along the street she’d called home during the two and a half years she’d spent on the island.

  The air from the vehicle’s fan turned cooler. For once, rain wasn’t falling in a steady drizzle over Curepipe. When they’d first moved there, she and her sisters had marvelled at how much the climate in this spot at one of the highest altitudes on the island resembled British weather. Minus snow in winter, Curepipe was a perfect contender for dark, gloomy, and wet climes. Except on days when the sun shone, when everything looked sharp and crisp, bathed in a clear glow while the temperature soared to a pleasant, tolerable heat—like today.

  Massive houses with well-tended lawns and front gardens dotted both sides of the mile-long road into the quiet and affluent residential area. She remembered what the family home looked like, but she took her cue from the sight of the low, pruned tea bushes rounding Lees Street into a cul-de-sac. When the dark-green plantations came into view, she slowed the car before turning left into the open driveway of the Hemant residence.

  Gravel crunched under the tyres, the sound of chirping birds in the big, leafy maple tree in the front yard contributing to the blissful peace.

  Not for much longer.

  A whiff of hot cooking oil touched her nostrils. Her stomach rumbled upon registering the scent of frying bhadias, those little cakes made from a batter of gram flour and herbs. The distinctive blend of coriander and chillies floated on the edges of the aroma. She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock, meaning teatime, and why her mother was frying savoury cakes. And that also meant—

  She winced as she cut the engine and heard the strident sounds of feminine chatter coming from the opened kitchen window. Damn. Company.

  Please let it not be a cluster of aunties.

  A horse-like chortle screeched through the air. Lara closed her eyes in despair and let her forehead touch the steering wheel. Neighbourhood gossip and busybody Auntie Ruby was here. She’d bet her life the other member of the Terrible Three—as she and her sisters had dubbed their mother and her two best friends—would be here, too. Auntie Zubeida from next door. O
f course, her mother would have her two besties around. Didn’t Gayatri Hemant suffer from obsessive-compulsive talking disorder and the need for a permanent audience around her?

  She shouldn’t have come. The sound of her mother’s high-pitched voice crept over the din, asking if someone had heard a car stop in the driveway. They’d come out in the next minute.

  Picking up her courage and wishing it were the Dutch kind despite not being a drinker, she tore her fingers and head from the wheel and threw the door open. She then peeled herself out of the vehicle as a chorus of gasps resounded in the garden.

  All three older women were suddenly on her like a bad rash. Hugging her and kissing her cheeks, holding her face in their hands while they exclaimed how beautiful she had become. All of which were simply tactics to lull her into complacency before they’d really pounce on the meaty topic—her recent divorce.

  With their deceptively frail-looking hands on her shoulders, they pushed her towards the back door to the kitchen. A memory assaulted her—of being pushed towards the altar on her wedding day, a glittery gold and red veil over her eyes.

  She stopped in her tracks, the forgotten pain returning to slice through her heart. Because she’d believed in Roy, had offered him her heart on a platter that day. He’d thrown it back in her face ten years later …

  The biddies must not have noticed her stilling. They simply continued to steer her inside until she was seated at the table. A plate of towering hot bhadias appeared in front of her, along with a bowl of satini cotomili—the coriander, tomato, and chilli paste-like dip Mauritians ate with all their fried foods.

  Auntie Ruby, the resident gossipmonger, lived up to her reputation. She was the first to mention Lara’s failed marriage before they made it back into the house.

  The sound of the grating voice droned on. Lara chose to ignore it before her mother gave her a slight slap on her shoulder.

  “You wicked girl. You said you were coming on Monday, and here you are surprising us now.”

  A sigh escaped Lara. This was code for “how could you have kept this a secret and made me lose face in front of everyone when I told them you are coming on Monday?” Her mother lived for hearsay, and the general idea of “what will people say?” like most people in Mauritius. Whoever said the ton and its silly rules had died in the Regency era had not taken a trip to Mauritius in the year two-thousand-something.

  “But my poor little girl,” Auntie Ruby said in a cajoling tone, bringing nothing but danger to mind. “Of course, you wanted to come home earlier. Who wouldn’t? Look what that awful, awful man has done to you.”

  Translation: “And here’s your cue to air out the laundry, from the sheets to the knickers, you silly goose.”

  Other than saying they’d had irreconcilable differences—the same reason listed on their divorce papers—she’d kept mum about the whole business. Roy’s family had had a field day dirtying her name, but she hadn’t fallen to that level.

  The same couldn’t be said about her relatives, though.

  “Our hearts went out to you, dearest girl, you who are like a daughter to us,” Auntie Zubeida chimed in. “We never saw this coming. How could you not have told a soul you and that scoundrel were having problems? We would’ve spoken to him, set him right, showed him this is not how he is supposed to treat our daughter.”

  “Tsk-tsk. And what a beautiful couple you two made. How could anyone have thought you would break up?” Auntie Ruby added.

  Beautiful. She huffed. She and Roy had been pretty faces. Young, sexy, rich, with prosperous careers in London and a flat right next to Tower Bridge. No wonder they’d been the envy of everyone here. Maybe said envy had cast the Evil Eye on the couple they’d made.

  Lara shook her head. Silly of her to heed such notions as the Evil Eye. People made their own futures, and she and Roy had made their beds. She might not be at fault, but she’d had her hand in these irreconcilable differences. Maybe if she’d made an effort, if she’d changed. If Roy had given her time—

  “Tell us what happened, Lara beti. You cannot keep shouldering that burden alone!”

  Lara forced a small smile. As if they really cared about her, calling her the tender affectionate moniker for ‘daughter’ in Indian tongues.

  “I’m doing fine, Auntie,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

  All three women watched her with narrowed eyes. No way was she doing away with the Inquisition. She should’ve thought of that before coming.

  She should’ve ensconced herself in her newly-bought semi-detached in a gated community in Grand-Baie, the farthest northern tip of the island, content to while the days staring at the brilliant blue sea from the upstairs veranda.

  “How can you be fine?” Auntie Ruby screeched. “We have been so preoccupied with your plight. How on earth are you going to get along? How will your parents bear all this? To think they still have an unmarried daughter on their hands. Now, they are ending up with two daughters. Oh, what fate God has dealt them.”

  Lara bit her lip to keep from answering back. Right, the ton must’ve been more solicitous than this. The aunts were simply nosing for gossip. But then, that’s what Jane Austen wrote in her subtext, too. The concern was merely a polite way of enquiring about tattle in their society.

  When the coppery taste of blood registered on her taste buds, she took deep, calming breaths to keep her temper in check. The urge to suck on a lit cigarette gnawed at her insides. While smoking was not the answer, one inhale would be terrific stress relief right now.

  The relentless rambles picked up crescendo around her. Growing physically sick, she jumped to her feet.

  “For God’s sake, Auntie! We only got divorced. It’s not the end of the world.”

  Silence blanketed the room. The women stared back at her with eyes like saucers and utter disbelief etched on their features.

  At the transformation, laughter welled up in her throat. The three faces appeared so pinched that face-lifts couldn’t have stretched their skins so well. She choked down the chuckles before they erupted since she’d merely throw oil on the fire if she burst out laughing.

  However, her mother seemed to be choking on another emotion as her fair, wrinkle-free face went all red.

  Lara squirmed around from one foot to the other as a sinking feeling settled in her gut. She had asked for trouble with her outburst. However much she’d told herself she wouldn’t give in, she’d done it. Let her mouth run off. If there was one thing her mother disliked more than anything, it was being spoken back at, especially by her own children. When they’d been little, such behaviour had earned them a sharp backslap to the mouth.

  “What are you giggling about?” her mother asked as she stood and brought a hand onto her heart. “We are trying to make good lives for all of you. But our struggles and worries are not your concern, are they? How can they affect you so little? You just lost a husband.”

  Lara shut her eyes. Inwardly, she also closed her hearing. For goodness’ sake, it had been three years ago! Roy had even moved on—getting remarried, his wife expecting their first already. His mother, the sick witch, had proudly shown Lara all this back when she had still lived in London, in the family house she’d won in the proceedings.

  She’d lived on top of a gunpowder keg in the past few years with a fuse just waiting to be lit.

  Her mother had just lit said fuse.

  Lara’d had enough. Enough of the woman’s outdated views about marriage and the Indo-Mauritian woman. How much longer did she have to stay to avoid being impolite?

  She’d like to meet her sisters and her father, but her mother had her wanting to run for the hills before she’d seen anyone else.

  “Mum, please,” she said softly as she glanced at her parent. “Not now.”

  Her mother had the grace to appear contrite and shut up.

  “Of course. You must still love him, and—”

  “I don’t love Roy anymore.”

  Not after he’d betrayed her. No, he
hadn’t cheated, but he’d done worse. He’d wanted a bride with Indian origins yet a modern take on life and career. She’d been all that … until the day it became everything wrong with her.

  The women blinked.

  “Well, I say, if my husband had run off with another woman who doesn’t even have the decency to be fairer-skinned than I am, then I, too, wouldn’t love the dog anymore,” Auntie Zubeida said.

  And here we go again. It always had to come down to fairer looks in the Indian world.

  Auntie Ruby gasped. “That home-wrecker is darker than Lara? How could he? Men really have no taste, do they?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Auntie Zubeida asked in a hushed tone. “She’s the niece of Mrs Morea, the woman with the shop across from Spar. Her sister’s daughter. And we all know everyone from their family has skin as dark as burnt halwa.”

  “Shame on him. You poor thing, Lara. You must be seething. How could he have fallen so low?”

  Anyone listening would think Lara had skin as white as snow. Of course, she didn’t, having inherited her father’s nut-brown, olive-toned colour. But she’d been considered a good prospect, thanks to her family name and their fortune. Exactly like in the ton, with the added bonus of her perfect scores at school and the subsequent formidable career outlook.

  “He didn’t cheat on me, Auntie. We separated, and that’s when he met the girl he married.”

  When his mother paraded that girl in front of him. Once, she’d paraded Lara in front of him that same way.

  Her mother huffed. “It’s what he wants you to believe. How do you know he wasn’t doing the dirty with her behind your back?”

  She’d asked herself the same question, only to slam into a brick wall. Never a masochist, she had dropped the query. What would it change if he’d cheated? He’d hurt her way more by attacking her very soul.

  “You’re not even a woman, Lara. You’re a damn robot!”