The Sweet Spot | Next Chapter

Mar 12

Mar 12 The Sweet Spot

Book excerpt

Prologue

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and muttered, “Don’t screw it up, don’t screw it up, for Christ’s sake, don’t let him screw it up.”

The tension was unbearable. All around her, thousands of men, women and children held their breath as they watched him contemplate his next move. They were tightly packed into grandstands, a sea of eager faces anticipating a much- longed-for victory - it was so close they could almost touch it.

On the ground, spectators jostled for position in crowds ten-deep, surging forward time and time again to get a better view of the man poised to deliver long-awaited glory.

The weight of expectation on him was palpable, the air thick with shared desire. Yet he remained oblivious, his concentration unbreakable.

She marvelled at his absolute focus, seemingly devoid of all emotion as he stood on the threshold of greatness.

Every move he made was deliberate, unhurried; he was seeking perfection. To the crowds watching, he was painstakingly slow. She could hardly bear to watch as he made his final preparations, and found herself clutching the arm of an equally enthralled stranger.

He paused and looked into the crowd, his eyes scanning faces, searching for hers. A fleeting look of panic crossed his face when he couldn’t find her. She stepped forward, conscious of his need for reassurance at this most crucial moment and, as their eyes locked, she smiled in encouragement.

Moments later, the crowd erupted. Rapturous applause and cries of delight rang out. They were chanting his name, on their feet, friends and strangers, hugging each other in triumph.

She was surrounded by television cameras and photographers, shoving and elbowing each other in their desperation to get closer to her. Unaware of the media frenzy, her eyes were fixed on him. He looked over to where she was standing. They held each other’s gaze. For a brief moment in time, it was like no one else on earth existed.

Chapter 1

Olivia swore blue murder as she was nearly taken out by an oncoming battered Ford Fiesta speeding down the middle of the winding country lane. “What do you think you’re driving? A bloody Routemaster bus?” she screamed at the passing car, only to be rewarded with the middle finger and a bundle of profanities from its elderly gentleman driver. She shook her head in frustration and pulled off the road into a lay-by overlooking the village of Appleton Vale, her new home.

She was unprepared for the simple beauty of the village nestling in the valley. Of course, it helped that she had arrived on an unusually lovely October day, the sun at its very finest angle, hanging low in a motionless, brilliant-blue sky.

As she breathed in the heavenly countryside air, she briefly recalled the conversation she’d had with her editor, Stella, when she’d asked for a sabbatical.

“Are you completely stark raving mad? You’ll hate it in the sticks and I need you here,” Stella said, astounded.

“Don’t stand in my way,” pleaded Olivia. “I’ve got to get out of London, it’s suffocating and I need time and space to sort my head out. I almost died,” she reminded her boss.

“And writing a book for a known misogynist is going to help?” was Stella’s disbelieving riposte. “I’ve heard he’s got a foul temper.”

“Really, you’re using that to force my hand?” Olivia shot back. “I’ll be fine. Besides, there’s no way any man is ever laying a hand on me again, well not the way Saul did.”

Olivia winced as she remembered the violent battering she’d received from her ex-boyfriend. She’d spent a week in hospital and several more licking her wounds. During those dark first days, she’d swung so dramatically from one emotion to another that she’d given herself mental whiplash.

But by the time her body had healed and the bruises had faded into obscurity, Olivia had hatched a plan to get her life back on track. Offered the chance to ghostwrite Sebastian Bloom’s autobiography, she’d jumped at the chance to do it and leave London at the same time. Hopefully, getting her teeth into a new and all-consuming project would help her forget her recent past.

And now here she was, about to enter the unknown world of quintessential English village life, and she was terrified. She hadn’t even seen the cottage she had rented yet, let alone visited the village that would be home for the next twelve months.

She took in a second deep breath of fresh, sweet-smelling, country air and surveyed the scene sweeping down the valley before her. Chocolate-box cottages surrounded a pristine village green. Squinting slightly, she could make out a riverside pub and a moss-covered church with a giant oak tree casting a protective shadow over its tiny graveyard.

Jumping back into the car, she pulled away from the roadside and wound her way down the hill, through the meadows and rolling fields of Appleton Vale, turning into the village and her new life.

Chapter 2

Sebastian slumped, head in hands, on a bench in the far reaches of the locker room, regretting his ill fortune for a second day in a row. After shooting a hideous eighty-six earlier, following an equally shocking eighty-four in the first round, he was contemplating his future as a professional golfer.

Standing over him, a hand reassuringly on his shoulder, was his friend and colleague José de Silva – who’d also had an appalling week of golf in Seville.

“You’ve got to pull yourself out of this my friend,” José said softly. “This path for you is no good, yes?”

Sebastian was in turmoil. His life had unravelled spectacularly over the last two years and he was nearing rock bottom. He’d lost almost everything dear to him through a chain of events for which he blamed himself. Over time, his pain had turned to an anger that threatened to consume him fully.

Unable to temper the rage building inside, he lashed out at José. “Fuck off José,” Sebastian snarled. “Seriously, just fuck off home to your perfect wife and perfect kids and leave me alone.”

José didn’t flinch, well aware that his friend’s tragic loss was the cause of his anger. They’d been living in each other’s pockets for almost two decades, firstly as amateur players and then on Tour, and knew each other inside out. They were as close as brothers, and it had been José whom Sebastian had called in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy that had wrecked his life.

“There’s a car outside and the plane is waiting. Go home,” José said with gentle encouragement. “This has gone on too long, no? You need rest, to find yourself again, my friend.”

Sebastian looked up at José, his face contorted with pain. “Find myself?” he snorted. “Fucked if I can do that, wouldn’t even know where to start. You saw me out there, I’m a fucking shambles.”

“You make it worse for yourself with all the women and the drinking like the fishes. The press loves you, but now they write about sex and not golf, yes?” said his Brazilian friend.

A ghost of a smile crossed Sebastian’s tortured face and he looked up. “Drink like a fish José, not fishes.” Standing up, he grabbed his gear and stalked towards the exit with José hot on his heels.

Less than forty-five minutes later, after dropping José at the hotel, he climbed on board the plane and was instantly grateful for the sanctuary of the private jet.

“Can I get you anything Mr Bloom?” asked the pretty hostess as soon as he’d taken his seat.

“Scotch please, and you might as well leave the bottle,” he replied grimly. He knew drinking himself into oblivion wasn’t the answer to his problems, but he craved the temporary respite it gave him from thinking about the role he’d played in his own downfall.

He looked straight through the hostess as she handed him his drink in a gleaming crystal tumbler, not noticing how pretty she was, or her attempts to flirt with him. He swirled the ice around the glass and knocked it back, pouring another almost immediately. Staring out of the window as the sleek jet cut a swathe through the thickening cloud, he tried to turn his dark thoughts to happier ones, to a time when he was truly content.

How has it come to this? Sebastian asked himself as the plane reached its cruising altitude. Being a selfish, arrogant, stupid prick, that’s how.

Sebastian Bloom came from what country folk might have called good stock: a wealthy family, and a sprawling country pile he had inherited at the age of seventeen. The passing of his adored and glorious mother, Sabrina Bloom, two years’ previously from breast cancer, had been the catalyst for his father’s destructive, grief-stricken drinking. He’d descended a dark road, then climbed back into recovery, searching for his inner self. That’s when his father, William, had signed Appleton Manor over to Sebastian and then promptly disappeared off in search of spirituality. Sebastian’s younger sister, Georgiana, had taken the death of her mother and the desertion by her father very hard, and he’d done his best to put his own grief aside and care for her.

Privately educated and given every opportunity to excel, Sebastian had known from a young age that golf would be his career. He had grasped it quickly and naturally when his father had first taken him to the local country club at the tender age of three. Encouraged by William, and coached by up-and-coming club professional, Hugh McLauchlin, Sebastian’s game developed rapidly. By the age of ten, he was comfortably capturing the scalps of most of the senior club members on a weekly basis.

He was fast-tracked into the West Chesterton County team at the age of twelve and spent the next five years winning every junior competition going, much to the envy of his peers. Single-minded and ambitious, filled with the unerring confidence of a teenager who had lived a secure and idyllic childhood, Sebastian always focused on being the best and playing every shot like it was the one that clinched The Open Championship title.

At seventeen, Sebastian became the youngest amateur golfer ever to play in the Walker Cup, a team competition between Great Britain & Ireland and the USA. He won every one of his matches, his national side clinched the cup for the first time in a decade, and Sebastian was on his way to stardom.

It all seemed so easy then, Sebastian thought as he poured himself another scotch. How did I get it so wrong?

Just two years ago he had been at the pinnacle of his career, world number one with three Major titles to his name and countless other tournament wins around the globe. He was the golden boy of British sport, the media loved him, his peers respected and envied him in equal measure, and the public adored him. He had been living a charmed life and he knew it. His game was always linked to his emotions, he played best when he was happy and, up until two years ago, he had always had Ellie by his side…loving him, encouraging him to be the best he could be.

But she’s dead, they both are, and I’m finished, he muttered under his breath, as if speaking it aloud would make it more real to him. How did I get her so wrong?

Ellie had been the love of his life, or so he had thought. They had met by chance in a swanky new bar in London and he had been immediately captivated by her. She was stunning, with a long, lean, gazelle-like body that fascinated him. The instant they locked eyes he was hooked. The chemistry was undeniable, and within an hour he had abandoned his friends and taken Ellie into the bed in his luxurious waterfront apartment in Chelsea. Fast work, even by his standards, but he was fully consumed by the raw sex appeal that had oozed from her pores like nectar.