Turning the Tide Page 11

  When she had finally run out of the dirty and difficult work she’d drummed up as an excuse to see what was going on, Harry navigated from the deep-water channel to the shallower basin where the smaller boats were moored. Certain that her hair was adorned with dried seaweed and her dungarees caked with mud and oil, she drew closer to the foot of the restaurant feeling horribly conspicuous. What if Matthew and his smart London friends were looking down on her as she chugged past? Too bad if they were, she told herself; she still had the best part of six weeks to do what the hell she liked. Nevertheless, a morbid need to dismiss her fears as stupid and completely groundless compelled her to glance up at the restaurant.

  Harry gasped. Instead of presenting a black eyeless gaze to the waterway, Samphire glittered and twinkled in the twilight, its huge glass windows affording her a spectacular view of everything that was going on inside. She cruised past feeling shocked. Matthew had achieved everything he’d promised her he would do. Visually, the restaurant was a resounding success, with a simple and understated interior, and subtle lighting turning every table into an intimate venue where glasses and cutlery gleamed invitingly. If the quality of the food lived up to the standard the setting appeared to promise, visiting Samphire would be a memorable dining experience.

  Of course, delivering the restaurant was only half the story. It might look superb but, unless there was a further reason for the customers to return, the odds were that Samphire would close in a matter of months. Was Matthew’s claim over her land as secure as he hoped, or was he just bluffing to make her cave in quickly? Since no one was taking any notice of what was happening outside, and certainly not of her, Harry turned the outboard down lower and eased the dinghy round for a second look.

  Frankie and Trevor, mysteriously wearing black tee shirts with Black Narcissus in white lettering across them, seemed to be putting the final touches to spectacular table centerpieces: purple orchids and deep burgundy dahlias arranged in low vases filled with polished pebbles. Flashes of light indicated there was at least one photographer about, whilst a scary-looking woman – wearing the kind of clothes that could get you arrested in Little Spitmarsh – appeared to be delivering last-minute instructions to a bevy of beautiful couples.

  Harry felt completely insignificant, a forlorn piece of flotsam floating past; she shivered as her wet feet grew cold in the evening breeze. When Matthew told her he would create the restaurant that would put Little Spitmarsh on the map, it had been easy to dismiss it as an empty threat. But what if she was wrong? Perhaps she was alone in her fears for what might happen to the area? Frankie and Trevor seemed delighted with the changing face of Little Spitmarsh, but Harry had deep concerns about the effects of Matthew’s particular form of cosmetic surgery on her flawed and dearly loved old town.

  As a car crunched to a halt to swell the growing number in the car park, she couldn’t even console herself that no one was going to turn up. Doors slammed and two figures rushed towards Samphire. Someone was keen, but not Harry. She’d seen enough.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nothing he could ever do would make Harry Watling change her mind, Matthew thought, shoving Lola Moult into the cloakroom to get ready in double-quick time. But if anyone thought he acted only out of self-interest, he’d just proved them wrong.

  It was a relief that he didn’t have to sing castrato after the bollocking Roy Moult had given him. Matthew pushed his hands through his already untidy curls and smoothed his jacket. Why hadn’t Lola just come clean about the fact that she’d been working for him, instead of inventing some cock and bull story about nail bars? It had added a good ten minutes to the frantic explanations, cutting it very fine to get back to Samphire in time.

  Lola pulled a face as she emerged from the door in front of him. ‘You’d think I was being forced to work in a massage parlour rather than a restaurant.’

  ‘They just want the best for you, that’s all,’ Matthew said, thinking at the same time how much the photographer would love Lola in her sexy fitted white shirt and black trousers. Now he remembered why he’d gone out on a limb to offer her a job.

  ‘Hairdressing? Yeah, that’s really good.’ She sniffed.

  Matthew, who had long since given up trying to explain why women happily parted with huge sums of money to lose a few millimetres of hair, felt that stubbornness was making her miss the point. ‘It’s your mum’s business – and a successful one. Of course they want you to be part of it.’

  She looked mutinous. ‘In other words they won’t be happy until I’m in the salon doing old ladies’ roots all day and waxing their chins.’

  Yep, that sounded like Little Spitmarsh. He could see why she wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect. Had he been foolishly optimistic to hope that he’d given her the opportunity to learn all sorts of transferable skills when, in reality, her choices were being confined to the salon, or visiting care homes to look after Little Spitmarsh’s ageing population? Or perhaps she’d find work in a bigger town further away, then there’d be even fewer young people around.

  ‘Go on, you’re late,’ he said pushing her towards the dining room and depressing thoughts from his mind. ‘Get in there and find out what the fuck you’re supposed to be doing.’

  ‘Love the way you treat your staff, darling. Perhaps we should have a little game of French maid and master later.’

  Gina was wearing long boots, black vinyl leggings and a military-style jacket. She raised her eyebrows as Lola sashayed out of sight.

  ‘Not quite the dough-faced chubby teenager I was expecting, darling. We might be able to do something with her.’

  Matthew went quite hot, wondering what she was suggesting; but then he noticed her gaze drift past him and light up as someone else came through the door.

  ‘Oh good, you made it!’ She turned back to Matthew, eyes full of mischief, daring him to protest. ‘I thought we’d get Jimi in some of the photos, darling. It’ll be good publicity for when the place opens.’

  ‘Great idea,’ said Matthew, through gritted teeth. With final inspections to be carried out before the restaurant officially opened, he’d set Jimi the task of forging ahead where he could, creating menus and sourcing food. Clearly he hadn’t kept him busy enough. ‘Have you got somewhere to stay tonight, Jimi?’

  ‘A place called The Admiral?’

  An establishment entirely unrecognised by the tourist board, Egon Ronay or Michelin. A night there was guaranteed to take the spring out of anyone’s footsteps, spent cheek by jowl with the next room, hearing non-stop sport on their TV, followed by a queue for the communal bathroom down a draughty hall and breakfast at eight. Perfect, thought Matthew, thinking it would do nicely and shaking Jimi’s hand with more warmth than he’d intended. ‘There’s champagne through there, help yourself.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me where I was staying,’ Gina teased.

  Matthew grabbed her perfectly cut bob and pulled her towards him. ‘You’re lucky; there’s space for you in my bed.’

  Right now Matthew was feeling like a spare part. Whilst Gina directed, bullied and charmed − and it hadn’t escaped his attention that Jimi always got the charm – Matthew had no involvement in the proceedings. Whatever Gina had promised him once everyone had gone home, it would have been nice if she’d shared her thoughts or sought his opinion. She was quick to run to Jimi − ‘He’s got such good taste!’ − as if Matthew was some heavy-handed oaf; he was beginning to feel he was only good for one thing.

  Looking round the room, his room, as he consoled himself, everyone else seemed to be having a good time. The place was buzzing, the women were beautiful and the guys were lusting after the waitresses − even though Lola returned their compliments with scathing looks.

  He’d overheard Jimi apparently trying to negotiate his own TV series. Even Roy Moult and Carmen, who Matthew had sweet-talked into popping along to see for themselves that Lola wasn’t in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah, seemed reluctant to leave, and were keen to take up the invitatio
n to be his guests when the restaurant officially opened.

  Pausing only to smile for the misguided individual who − clearly unaware he was a nobody here − wanted to take his photograph, Matthew headed for the door and some fresh air. If he’d expected anything to spoil this evening, it was concern that Gina would criticise or belittle some aspect of his development − not that she would fail to notice his work altogether.

  Outside, with the hubbub behind him, it was refreshingly quiet. The night was cool, with a clear sky and only the susurration of the waves against the shore to break the stillness. From being someone who’d once baulked at the peace of the countryside, he’d come a long way. He liked to lie in bed now, and watch the slow spread of the rising sun through the open curtains as it bathed the fields in soft rosy light. Or, at night, to pick out the constellations in the silent starry skies unbroken by the distress calls of the city.

  Given enough time, would this neglected and forgotten part of the world work its magic on Gina too? She was a woman whose heart beat to the rhythm of the capital; waves of tourists parted for her, closed doors opened for her, fully booked restaurants found a table for her and sold-out gigs came up with a VIP pass. Would she give any of it up for this?

  Although he made a great deal of money, Matthew had lost count of the number of hours he’d spent ankle-deep in mud, waiting for contractors and battling with budgets. Gina’s ephemeral, shifting and superficial world had been a novelty for him at first, but now he needed something to bridge the gulf between them before it tore them apart.

  Across the creek, the swoosh of a heavy door sliding open made him look up. A single lamp in the room behind backlit the figure standing on the balcony. To anyone else Harry, dressed in a short white robe tied at the waist, would have looked small and defenceless in the dark. But Matthew knew better; even though he had a document in his possession which would give him such an advantage over her, he knew he could expect a fight. Yes, Harry Watling could take care of herself. Proud, principled and capable: in a funny sort of way Harry had many of the qualities he admired. She stood for several minutes staring out over the water and, when at last she went back in, Matthew was suddenly aware that he could almost hear the pounding of his heart.

  Shaken, he turned to cross the threshold and return to the crazy world behind him, then heard footsteps on the gravel as a woman walked out of the shadows towards him.

  ‘Penny for them?’ A flicker of light showed him that Gina was much too curious.

  ‘Just taking a breather,’ Matthew said.

  Gina ran a hand up his thigh. ‘Who was the girl on the balcony?’

  ‘No one special,’ he lied. ‘Come on, let’s go in.’

  She blocked his path. ‘I could probably get away for a while, if you like?’

  What was wrong with him? Most blokes wouldn’t have needed a second invitation. ‘How much longer is this going to take, Gina? This is not supposed to be a party. I don’t want to be closed down before I’ve even opened for business.’

  ‘Small town. Small thinking, Matthew,’ she said, and he could see the expression on her face. ‘I’ll get it wrapped up.’

  Oh, what the hell? He couldn’t feel any worse, could he? Maybe Gina was what he needed. He reached out, cupped her head in his hand and kissed her roughly. ‘Be patient. Duty first, pleasure after.’

  Gina’s laugh was soft and enticing in the dark and Matthew told himself that soon he’d feel much better.

  Frankie was singing as he ambled along the silent town’s streets, with Trevor beside him wondering tipsily where on earth he was. Ah bless, thought Frankie, Trevor was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Although he could understand his confusion: it was difficult to reconcile the glittering images from the evening with the drab and neglected town. He really wanted to believe that this was the birth of a new modern identity for Little Spitmarsh. He and Trevor had received terrific feedback about their work. The table centrepieces had been photographed and praised, journalists had taken phone numbers and potential customers had taken business cards. It all looked really exciting, but they would just have to wait and hope that Matthew’s castle wasn’t built on shifting sand.

  As they rounded the corner, The Flowerpot Men’s decrepit and weathered shop front seemed symptomatic of everything that was backward looking and sleazy about the town. The sooner both were dragged into the present the better. To complete the picture of decay, Bitsa, the dishevelled fleabag of a dog who everyone in the town seemed to know but no one owned, was pressing his great ugly nose against the window.

  ‘Away, you dirty mongrel,’ Frankie said, waving his hand.

  ‘But I live here!’ Trevor protested.

  ‘Not you, you fool,’ Frankie giggled.

  Once they were both busy trying to find the right combination of key and lock, Bitsa lifted his leg and generously sprayed the peeling paintwork before bounding up the road looking pleased with himself.

  Only one more set of stairs to negotiate, Frankie thought with relief, having successfully manoeuvred Trevor into the bathroom, and then they could get to their pristine attic bedroom and have sweet dreams about the evening.

  ‘Oh, Phil, you fool, have you missed us?’ he said to the little dog who was madly dancing round the room. ‘Calm down, then you can have a cuddle.’ He patted his lap, but Phil refused to settle; instead, he kept jumping up and down the first three steps to the bedroom. When he started yapping, Frankie had had enough. He got up and made a grab for Phil, who scampered up another step out of reach − until eventually they arrived upstairs and Frankie finally saw what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Trevor, have you finished in the loo?’ he called. ‘You might want to come and have a look at this.’

  Gina had been pretty scathing about the faded country style of his rented cottage, with its vintage floral curtains at the windows and the whimsical collections of old wicker baskets and mismatched china. Given that he hadn’t brought her back to admire the decor, Matthew was a little disappointed that she’d noticed. He thought about trying to explain to her that even Little Spitmarsh had its share of British Summer Timers, families with enough time and money to decamp to the coast for the summer. Except that the BSTs in this case had decided that Little Spitmarsh was every bit as dreary as its first appearance suggested and, unable to face returning even to collect their belongings, they’d at least struck lucky with a lucrative let. In the circumstances, Matthew decided to save his breath. There were better things to do.

  Sometime in the small hours, as his hands travelled across the crumpled bed linen in vain, Matthew opened his eyes to find that Gina had taken her beautiful body and upped and left him. Whilst he’d been vaguely aware of her muttering something about heading back to G Mag House, he still felt dreadfully let down. She’d used and consumed him without even hanging around long enough for them to have breakfast together. Well, never mind, he thought, rolling onto his back, the feeling was entirely mutual; if that’s what she was offering, that’s what he’d take. All the same, it would have been nice if she could at least have bothered to wake him up to say goodbye. Staring at the ceiling, Matthew felt hollowed out and worn. As he reoriented himself, he slowly began to appreciate that the pounding that had disturbed him was not just going on inside his head; someone was at the front door.

  Berating himself for being so quick to think the worst of her, Matthew threw back the covers and grabbed his boxers. Whilst Gina would be more than happy for him to open the door stark naked, he didn’t especially want to flash any early morning passers-by.

  ‘All right, I’m coming!’ he bellowed, happily anticipating what delights she’d brought back with her. Hey! Cooked breakfast – now that was a thought, not that he could recall Gina ever keeping anything but champagne in her own fridge. Running through a mental checklist of what he had in store, Matthew opened the door.

  ‘Mr Corrigan?’ asked the police officer, whilst his female colleague, after a sly downwards peep, kept her eyes abov
e his waist. Matthew stared from one to the other, his heart racing. Oh God! Gina! She couldn’t even have been fit to drive when she left. If only he’d woken up, he might have stopped her leaving.

  Harry went out to buy a paper, hoping that those who had gone to romp at Samphire were bearing the bumps of their rude encounter with the realities of Little Spitmarsh the next day. A maniac woman in a top-of-the-range silver Mercedes nearly sent her flying on the pedestrian crossing, which didn’t make her look any more favourably on the strangers in town. She tried consoling herself with the thought that the karma police would be waiting round the corner with a breathalyser. The Flowerpot Men was firmly closed, as Frankie and Trevor’s mouths had been on the subject of Samphire, therefore confirming that Bill and Ben had indeed gone out to play as she suspected. Coming back along the creek, she also noticed that Bella Vista was missing its usual washing line of oversized kinky underwear, which made her wonder if Roy and Carmen had had a late night waiting for Lola to return.

  At least George, contentedly sipping his tea, was unaffected by the previous evening. Harry waited until he was sufficiently distracted by a shortbread finger not to notice the thrust of her question.

  ‘You know Roy Moult, don’t you, George? How does he feel about Lola going out with Matthew?’

  Hopefully the answer would be that they’d skinned Matthew alive, then she wouldn’t have to worry about him being her feudal lord. George spat out biscuit crumbs and laughed. ‘Lola Moult? No one’s good enough for Lola Moult, not even Matthew Corrigan!’

  Privately Harry felt she had evidence to the contrary, but George had more to say. ‘Nah, she works for him. Going to be doin’ a bit of waitressing up at Samphire. Mind you, the Commodore’s right put out. Got his mate at the Frigate ’otel up at Great Spitmarsh to train her up, and now she reckons she’s too good to work at the new yacht club.’