Love on the Rocks by Veronica Henry Page A

tears. But they never heeded the warning. He was utterly irresistible. For as long as his attentions lasted, his victims seemed to glow from within, radiating happiness, convinced that they would be the one to tame him, because at the time he made them seem so special, like the centre of his universe. But suddenly, without warning, his attention would wander, his eyes would fix on someone else, he would become infatuated. And then he would move on, leaving behind heartbreak and devastation. Yet he couldn’t be criticized, for he never made anyone any promises. He was totally hands up about his inability to maintain a relationship or stay faithful. So there was rarely any sympathy for his victims. They had repeated warnings, not least from Joe himself.
    The summer in question, nearly two years ago now, was glorious. The sea shimmered for weeks on end, its metallic surface almost too bright to look at with the naked eye. Mariscombe was a mini paradise, bathed in a permanent golden glow, a slight breeze keeping the temperature from being insufferable. The aura became sensual, sleepy, languid. The air hung heavy with the sweet scent of marijuana – the atmosphere was so chilled that people were smoking openly – and the sound of reggae. Skin turned gold, dark hair became streaked with blond, blond hair turned white. There was a gentle rhythm to the days. Rain seemed impossible: a distant memory from a far-off time.
    Joe held court outside the Jolly Roger, the pub just off the main drag in Mariscombe. The landlord had him as well as the sun to thank for his meteoric rise in profits, as legions of girls hung around buying Reef after Reef, waiting for Joe to appear with his surfboard, wetsuit unzipped to the waist. And although no other male stood a chance with Joe around, he was popular with the blokes. They didn’t seem to hold it against him; they were happy enough with his cast-offs. He reigned supreme, with no pretender to the throne.
    The only person immune to his charms was Bruno. Mariscombe was small. There was gossip. Rumours. Plenty of people ready to stir things up. It wasn’t long before Bruno was putting together a picture of his younger brother that he found disturbing. It seemed that he was something of a ringleader. There was a spate of impromptu raves on the beach, attracting an undesirable element – cars with booming bass zoomed up and down the hills, litter was left behind, there were camper vans in the car park overnight that disgorged unwashed, unkempt bodies who were off-putting to families pottering down to the beach. This was exactly what Mariscombe didn’t want to become – a playground for decadent youth. Joe seemed to be at the centre of it. And it was generally acknowledged that if you wanted a bit of skunk for the weekend, or a couple of Es, then he was the person to ask.
    To Bruno, Joe just seemed to cruise round oblivious to the chaos he left in his wake – the emotional fallout, the bad feeling. He seemed to have no regard for his parents’ feelings, or the reputation of the family, something which Bruno regarded very highly indeed. The Thornes were one of the few families left to have been born and bred in Mariscombe – they went back at least five generations. Bruno felt pride in that, but Joe seemed happy to blot the family escutcheon at every opportunity.
    Yet when Bruno confronted him, Joe was infuriatingly blasé.
    ‘I’m not entirely sure what you’re accusing me of. Seems to me you’ve been listening to local gossip.’
    ‘Come on, Joe. There’s no smoke without fire.’
    ‘There is when people are jealous.’
    ‘How do you think Mum feels, to know people are pointing their fingers at you?’
    ‘She’s got enough sense to know it’s just tittle-tattle.’
    ‘So why am I hearing these things about you?’
    Joe shrugged, pushing his long shaggy fringe to one side.
    ‘Dunno. I just want to work hard and play hard.’
    Teenage girls who had been dragged on a camping holiday