Lured by a Mango Daiquiri , livre ebook

Austin Macauley Publishers - Rachel Montana

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28 pages

English

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Lured by a Mango Daiquiri is a humorous account of a young woman who, whilst working in the London fashion industry, decides, after a late night out and sequence of events, to apply for a job in Sri Lanka.On securing the position, she changes continents and embarks on an adventure of a lifetime.This book is about adapting to change both inside and out - a quantum leap when one's foot is in mid-air, propelled forward by courage and intuition.

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Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

Humour

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	30 novembre 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528997768
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Lured by a Mango Daiquiri
A witty tale of fashion and adventure
Rachel Montana
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-11-30
Lured by a Mango Daiquiri About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
About the Author
Born in the UK and having studied at the London College of Fashion and Technology, Rachel moved to Australia where she worked as a fashion buyer.
After living globally for 40 years and pursuing her Jewish roots whilst in Hong Kong, she eventually made her home in Jerusalem.
Rachel currently works from home; writing, teaching Business English and practicing reflexology.
As exciting as this may be, her most rewarding role is that of a mother.
Dedication
For my daughter Sarah-Lucia, whose innate sense of intuition is beyond nature.
Copyright Information ©
Rachel Montana (2020)
The right of Rachel Montana to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528997751 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528997768 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgment
Thank you to my dear friend and editor, Kate Daniel, whose input and constant support are invaluable.
To Lea Gorman, for whom I have the utmost respect.
My deep gratitude to Sara Tova Wexler and Sarit Shaer who each, with their incredible talents, brought me to the stage of publication.
Lastly, thank you to my children, who encourage me in everything that I do, with their boundless enthusiasm.
Chapter 1
It happened on a Sunday. Depending on where you live, it could be at the end of the week or in the beginning, not that it really matters, but, in this instance, it was at the end of the week. Come to think of it, maybe if it was in the beginning, it would have been different.
We were walking in the park when a huge black cat jumped out of the rubbish bin. I almost fainted. We’d been talking about things that go bump in the night, and, having a nocturnal fear since childhood, I was already imagining vivid pictures of the supernatural. The cat had an uneaten chicken leg in its mouth, with the rest of the body having been demolished. It wasn’t a pretty picture. My companion Jeremy on the other hand had indicated that my fear was entirely unfathomable and was about to prove his theory, when out jumped the cat. He screamed louder than I thought was humanly possible. The cat dropped the chicken leg and ran for its life. Passers-by looked on; some scurrying by not wanting to acknowledge anything out of the ordinary, while others enquiring if I needed an escort or if the police should be called. It was only a cat, an imagination and a reversed sceptic. After this acutely embarrassing situation, we dropped into the local for a beer. Three vodkas later, I was not only speaking to Jeremy, but he even started to appear somewhat appealing. We sat peering at our drinks, until, out of nowhere, an old school chum of his came rushing up like a puppy that had been left home alone all day. The salivating mouth completed the picture. Jeremy went pink and mumbled something pathetic. I rolled my eyes, headed for the door and without any attempt at an excuse, made an exit straight back into the street.
I was suddenly so ravenous that I could have even shared that chicken leg. Thinking better of it, I managed to make it home without any awkward episodes and even got my key in the door the first time. Using the last ounce of self-control, I resisted on-line media and opted for the autobiography by my bed. It didn’t matter whose, just the fact that they had written one and had it published; it counted for something. I read the mandatory half page and passed out.
Alarm, coffee, clothes and a cab, where was I going? What was my phone trying to inform me? Oh no, a meeting with a manufacturer. It wouldn’t normally be a problem, except, this particular one was unreasonably good looking, single, owned the company and whose credentials rendered him over accomplished. Quick check; nails – polish not quite chipped; hair – could look better and shoes – definitely cool; maybe if I keep tapping my feet… Was I forgetting anything? Yes! I am the buyer. He’s the one that needs to be obsequious and have the latest haircut, manicured nails and polished shoes. With five minutes to spare, I pay the cab, get a receipt, close my bag and bolt up the stairs; don’t pant and say with a deep breath: “I am the buyer.” Say it three times and the mantra is complete. Well, that wasn’t too painful. It might have helped, had I put my phone on silent, or if it hadn’t had the theme song of ‘The Waltons’ as a ringtone. What was I thinking? Some vague recollection of a sisterly bet.
Upwards and onwards, the next plan for today, a ‘brinner’; far too late for brunch. Who’s good company that can meet me in less than ten? Jeremy! He owes me one, big time. After a few negotiation messages, he consented and arrived at the restaurant looking utterly dishevelled. Wish I hadn’t ordered the Pad Thai; Jeremey was an art-directed version of one. So selfish, he could have at least had the decency to wear something vaguely resembling clothing. After all, I am supposed to be a fashion icon of sort. And if a pregnant journalist from Italian Vogue just happened to be visiting the UK with an uncontrollable craving for Thai food, it could be one of my worst ‘what if’ actualising memoirs on record. “So, Jeremy, who was the slob from last night?” I said. Before he had time to answer, the waiter came with a list of unpronounceable specials. Jeremy ordered the coconut chicken with basil and a couple of beers. Well, at least if he spilled most of it, one would be none the wiser.
“The slob, my dear Jemma, is the boy next door. We were neighbours in Surrey for 20 years, until his family moved to Majorca; they finally discovered sun for the first time in their lives and added beach to their somewhat limited vocabulary. Slob/snob,” Jeremey answered.
“Cheers. So, what was he doing in town?”
“He came to see his publisher; he’s writing a book on fungi.”
“Fascinating; I’ve got some on my toes; maybe I should be a case study?”
“Fungi, not fungus!”
“Whatever. Quick, duck!”
“What the…”
“Jeremy, please hide under the table; fast!”
Too late; my life is over. Chalk up the most embarrassing moment of my fascinating urban life. In walks Mr Right with Mrs Oh So Wrong on his arm, pulling the latest ‘fits-under-the-seat-in-front’ Hammacher Schlemmer travel bag and a fake Air France tag on the handle. She looks as French as my Pad Thai. “Jemma, be nice,” rambled Jeremy. “Who cares…?” Well I did, but now I’m over it.

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