Turning the Tide Read online

  ‘Gina, the restaurant is nowhere near ready for business yet,’ he heard himself say weakly.

  ‘Well, darling, you don’t think I want real customers in there messing up the place, do you? They must all be inbred and deformed up there!’ She shuddered. ‘It’s better if the place isn’t open – we can just create the look we want for the photos. Oh, don’t look like that – we’ll be gone before you know it, it’ll hardly hold you up at all, and think of the publicity it will bring!’

  He should have been pleased that Gina’s opinion of Little Spitmarsh had shifted enough for her to come up with a pretext to look at Samphire. It was a start. But when he suggested that she might like to have regular weekends there, Gina had just laughed.

  ‘What? Stay in the place where they still work by feudal law?’ she’d yawned when he’d explained the reason for his visit to Piers. ‘Listen, this Harry guy deserves to lose his land cheaply if he’s too much of a peasant to know the value of what he’s sitting on.’

  Matthew decided not to try to correct either of Gina’s impressions. Once she saw the restaurant for herself, he was willing to bet she’d see the point of his plans for development. As for Harry, somehow he didn’t feel like admitting to Gina that a little slip of a girl had been standing in his way. It might have been easier all round if Harry had been some brutish great bloke trying to see him off at every opportunity; then he would have been delighted to pull the rug out from under his opponent.

  Really, he thought, back at the rented cottage in Little Spitmarsh, he ought to be thanking the lucky stars which had so conveniently placed right in his hands the means to spare himself time, money and further dealings with Harry Watling. Yet he couldn’t account for an unusual queasiness about delivering the coup de grâce. Harry Watling, edgy, determined and doomed to fail, had got to him in a way he didn’t like to look at too closely. Suddenly it felt like an unfair contest, as if she was competing against him with one hand tied behind her back. Neither could he shake off the feeling that choking off her business would leave a bad taste in his mouth.

  After a shower, which failed to leave him feeling any cleaner, he headed out to Campion’s Creek to consider the matter further. It seemed to Matthew, at a distance, that George was turning a boat away and he wondered if it was a trick of the light. It was a rather smart boat at that; a nice new motorboat which, if not very large, was, judging by the way every surface gleamed and sparkled, clearly its owner’s pride and joy.

  ‘Damn stinkboats,’ said George, who looked a bit caught out as Matthew came up next to him. ‘All that splash and noise.’

  ‘Can you afford to be that choosy?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Them’s the one who is choosy,’ George said vehemently. ‘And I can see a load of problems if they fetch up here. It’s all right for local mariners who know Watling’s, but strangers’ll be expecting a certain standard. All those complaints can give a place a bad name. Best they clear off to the marina rather than moan about what we ’aven’t got here.’

  Matthew trusted George to know what he was talking about and to recognise potential troublemakers, but he couldn’t really see why George had been so quick to dismiss an opportunity to pick up some berthing fees. Whatever else he could say about Harry’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge the fix she was in, Matthew couldn’t fault the way she presented Watling’s. Every outward detail, from the trim buildings to the brimming tubs of flowers, suggested an efficient and organised business. If she capitulated and accepted his terms, maybe he could offer her the chance to run a pared-down outfit; it would make a rather charming contrast to his new marine development, a bit like the blend of old and new at Portsmouth harbour.

  ‘So what do people new to the area expect to find?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

  George fished in his pocket and brought out a tobacco tin. ‘Where shall I start, Matthew? Power showers, hairdryers, a fancy shop where you can buy your Musto sailing gear, mugs with Captain and Galley Slave written on ’em and a stuffed ship’s cat.’

  Declining a roll-up that George had made earlier, Matthew grinned. ‘I can’t see Harry going down that route.’

  ‘If she doesn’t accept some changes she’s gonna go under,’ said George, lighting up and nearly taking off his own nose as the cigarette paper blazed away before catching the tobacco. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But Harry’s not going to change willingly, is she?’ Matthew pointed out. ‘Not when her father told her to keep fighting.’

  George’s watery eyes narrowed and he took a meditative first drag on his cigarette, which all but finished it off.

  ‘The boat yard’s Miss Harriet’s way of filling the space her father left, but I tell you something, Matthew, one day she’s going to have to accept that he really isn’t there. Until she deals with her loss she’ll always be haunted by the fear of everyone leaving her or taking something away from her.’

  Matthew gritted his teeth; he would not feel guilty.

  ‘That girl needs someone who won’t be scared off, someone with a bit of persistence to see the person inside.’ George sighed, staring accusingly at his dog end as if it had stolen the rest of his roll-up. ‘As it is, she’s afraid to trust anyone.’

  Matthew tried to prepare the ground. Maybe it was because of this old boy that he was wavering. In other circumstances he would have been glad to get to know him better and to listen to more stories about his life, but that wouldn’t be possible now. ‘It works both ways, George. How is anyone supposed to gain Harry’s trust when she thinks everyone’s out to get her? Look, I can understand her feelings for the boat yard, but she’s flatly opposed to any kind of progress. Hoping that Little Spitmarsh can thrive in a time warp is entirely misguided and when the tide turns against her, as it surely must, that’ll be one more burden added to all the baggage on her back. Surely her father wouldn’t have wanted that?’

  George looked at him sharply and Matthew wondered if he’d gone too far. George, after all, would go to hell and back for Harry.

  ‘Listen, that man was a good friend to me but he weren’t no saint. Who’s to say what he would or wouldn’t have wanted for Miss Harriet? No one ’ad the chance to find out, did they? The fact is that he’s not here and Miss Harriet’s the one dealing with all the mess,’ the old man said, grinding his cigarette butt into the earth and closing the subject. He eyed Matthew craftily. ‘’Course, if someone came along, someone with a bit of money put by, someone who might want to invest it in Watling’s, say, who could give it a bit of a facelift or summat, that would give Miss Harriet a bit of a breathing space.’

  Matthew didn’t mention that, thanks to his newly acquired manorial rights, no one in their right mind would want to invest in Watling’s now. ‘Look at it this way; there’s no point at all in making cosmetic alterations if there are no customers to appreciate them. Harry’s got to realise that Watling’s fate depends on the town; if that stagnates, so does the business.’

  That, at least, was true; he wasn’t about to invest in a swathe of land and build holiday homes on it to lose money, even if the rights he had just acquired meant he could secure the land at a rock-bottom price. But every instinct told him that Little Spitmarsh was ripening into a potential property hot spot and Harry had just lost her chance to take advantage of it. George was looking very glum and Matthew cursed himself for letting business get so personal. If Harry went under, what would happen to George? Matthew sighed; he wouldn’t think about that now.

  Having replaced the drum on the roller reefing she was busy repairing, Harry took a deep breath and prepared to hoist the sail. It was the perfect day to tackle the job, with sufficient breeze to stop the sail collapsing on the deck, but not enough to take her arm out of her socket. All the lovely endorphins the physical effort would send skipping round her body would do her far more good than sitting around worrying about Little Spitmarsh.

  Sooner or later everyone who was desperately hoping that some of the money generated by the resta
urant would make a difference to their lives would have to wake up to reality: the only people likely to be enjoying lobster on ice any time soon were Matthew’s customers. Without real people creating real jobs, it would still be mushy peas all the way for everyone else. After years of coping with economic marginalisation, the town, as Harry tried to point out, was putting too much trust in one man.

  Squinting against the sun, Harry turned her attention back to the task in hand. It was a fiddly job and past experience had shown her that George, who was not blessed with vast reserves of patience, would not be the ideal assistant. She’d probably complete it quicker without him. There were times when she longed for a crack team of fit young men round the place to do the heavy work. There were even some occasions when she had the tiniest pang of thinking that it might be nice, sometimes, to have someone to turn to. Taking on the business had put a stop to anything resembling a social life; the demands of the sea didn’t fit conveniently round theatre trips, dinner dates or weekends away. But Harry didn’t stop to think about what she might have missed – she was simply proud to have made it on her own.

  Hoping that the sail would set smoothly, Harry was irritated when it jammed at the top of the reefing. She gave it a couple of experimental tugs to see if that would free it and, when nothing happened, went for brute force – only to see the plastic swivel at the top shear cleanly in half.

  ‘Oh, fuck!’

  ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

  Harry groaned to herself and peered down over the edge of the sail to see who she might have offended. She was instantly intrigued: in his white shirt, skinny black tie and tight black trousers, the guy staring up at her didn’t look the type who was easily affronted. With floppy dark hair falling over dark glasses, a knowing smile and the sallow skin of someone with scant experience of fresh air, it was easy to imagine him on stage, strutting his stuff before a sea of fans. Harry shot back behind the sail and resisted the urge to punch the air; if her adverts had succeeded in attracting a wealthy rock star in search of a mooring for his luxury yacht, she ought not to jeopardise the proceedings by acting like an impressionable teenager.

  ‘Hang on!’ she sang out, in case he dematerialised. ‘I’m just coming down!’

  Chapter Nine

  From deck height he’d looked rather waif-like; but, having scuttled down the ladder, Harry was surprised to discover he was much taller than she’d expected and very toned. At closer quarters he crackled with energy; the fashionably thin look, she reckoned, was one that he worked at.

  ‘Hello! Have you come about the advert?’

  He frowned and took off his sunglasses, surprising her with mesmeric, slanting dark eyes, which added to his already striking appearance.

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was an advert. As far as I’m concerned, the position’s mine if I want it.’

  He sounded a bit petulant, like someone used to getting his own way, and seemed to find the suggestion that this might not be the case rather offensive.

  ‘Oh.’ Harry was more disappointed than curious. ‘You’re not enquiring about moorings then?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’ He gave a short laugh, apparently recovering his sense of humour. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not the only one who’s confused today!’ He gestured towards a black sports car stretched out next to her white van. ‘I turned in looking for directions. I assumed the old boy back there was the Harry Watling on the sign. He, er, put me right.’

  Oh, George would have done that all right, thought Harry, reflecting that on another day she might have had some fun trying to guess exactly what was said.

  ‘After that I had to come over to see what the real Harry Watling looked like.’

  American? Australian? It was hard to place his accent. ‘Yeah, well,’ she said, outwardly calm whilst her mind worked frantically to place him, ‘now you know.’

  ‘No offence,’ he smiled. ‘You’re not quite what I was expecting; I mean, you’re tiny and you’re a chick. And you’re getting your hands dirty.’

  Harry tried not to scowl at him. He wasn’t to know she’d spent her whole adult life watching eyebrows rise in dull surprise when she emerged from an engine bay.

  ‘How did you get stuck with a name like Harry?’

  ‘Using my full name would make it even harder for me to get some people in this business to take me seriously. Believe me, if they hear that Harriet’s on the phone they have a tendency to find other jobs to do. Harry gets a much quicker response and it was my dad’s name. To anyone who dealt with him, I guess I’m the son he never had.’

  There was a pause whilst he thought it over.

  ‘Right. So the old man’s put you in charge now, eh?’

  For a young man, his view of what he thought the natural order ought to be was pretty outdated, thought Harry, always acutely sensitive to any suggestion that she wasn’t up to running the business. ‘Actually,’ she corrected him, ‘I own the yard. Just me, with some help from George. I took on the place when Dad died.’

  ‘Quite a responsibility.’

  Harry got the impression his smile was a little forced and there was an undercurrent to his observation that was completely lost on her. Or maybe Matthew Corrigan had taught her to be suspicious even when there was no good reason. She managed to smile back despite her unease. ‘It can be,’ she acknowledged, trying not to give too much away.

  ‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’

  ‘There are plenty of people who would like to be their own boss, choosing their own working hours and having the freedom to enjoy this wonderful scenery. Look, am I missing something here? For someone who came in to look for directions you ask a lot of questions.’

  He laughed, showing white even teeth. ‘I haven’t got the hang of your British reserve yet. Yes, I was curious; you’re an unusual woman, Harry Watling. Takes some guts to hang on in a place like this, I bet most people in your position would have sold up. I mean, this is a pretty desirable location.’

  ‘I’m not most people,’ Harry told him, feeling that he’d taken up enough of her time. ‘Do you know where you’re going now?’

  ‘Good question.’ He studied her face before replacing his sunglasses. ‘As it happens, I’ve found what I was looking for.’ He pointed across to the old clubhouse. ‘I’ve come to talk to a man about his kitchen.’

  Harry tried not to sigh. For a little while, at least until it all fell flat, she would no doubt have to put up with a steady stream of exotic strangers in smart clothes and flashy cars invading Watling’s in their search for the old clubhouse. Matthew was hardly going to traipse down to the retail outlet to fit out his restaurant. Presumably he wouldn’t use anyone who wasn’t ostensibly at the top of their game, and the man standing in front of her certainly acted as if he was used to nothing less than complete adulation. He raised one eyebrow at her and Harry realised she’d been staring.

  ‘Oh, so you’re a kitchen designer?’ Bit rude to suggest he flogged them; he didn’t look the sort to appreciate being called a salesman, even if he was very good at it.

  He looked as if he was struggling to contain his amusement. ‘Not quite, I work in them. I’m a chef, my name’s Jimi Tan.’

  His voice lifted at the end of the sentence. Harry couldn’t decide whether it was a peculiarity of his accent or if he was trying to tell her something. Maybe she should have heard of him, but she had better things to do than flick through celebrity magazines. On the other hand there was something about him that seemed faintly familiar. Eventually she gave up.

  ‘Should I know who you are? Because I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry.’

  The smile flickered briefly. ‘No need to apologise, Harry, it’s not your fault.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. Best not to keep the man waiting too long, eh? Good to meet you, Harry. Maybe I’ll see you around?’

  Unlikely, she thought. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, good luck with your meeting.’

  He nodded and went to walk off before seeming to remember somethin
g. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about your dad, Harry. I know how you feel.’

  Matthew stood in the middle of the clubhouse and laid out his vision for his palace of light and glass, whilst the other man listened impassively. With his ruthlessly efficient project management skills, Matthew would take an unpromising beginning and achieve a sleek conversion − or what the interior designer called ‘A clean modern look with a reassuring sense of permanence’. Sunshine would suffuse the room, bouncing off the subtly placed mirrors and shimmering along the bar, which would appear to float on slender glass pillars. Concealed lighting and the palest-gold walls would make the room warm and welcoming at night against the bleak black windows. There would be huge, specially commissioned abstract paintings on the walls, but centre stage, as he had planned, would go to Campion’s Creek in all its moods.

  Matthew stopped talking to let the lonely skyscape, mysterious backwaters and the benign bowl of the creek do the rest of the work for him, but he guessed he wouldn’t have to try too hard. According to Gina, and he wanted to believe her, Jimi had been the one pressing to meet him.

  With his back turned, Jimi had implied that several offers were on the table; he’d hinted at collaboration with Marco and a possible deal with Jamie. Matthew hadn’t missed the hunger in his voice even though Jimi hid it well. For a moment, he’d been sorely tempted to ask him why, if there was such a demand for his services, he’d bothered to come all this way. He was on the point of inviting Jimi to pick up the phone and go right ahead and accept one those tempting offers, just to show him that he knew he was talking bollocks, when Jimi swivelled to face him.

  ‘If we create a top-class restaurant here, high-spending couples will make the journey. Add accommodation and they’ll stay. What’s stopping you developing the rest of the waterfront?’

  Matthew laughed. ‘I like your thinking. But let’s start with the restaurant. Are you on board?’