Turning the Tide (14 page)

Having first checked to make certain she was really missing and not lurking in the Ladies with stage fright, Matthew hissed through his teeth and dragged out his car keys. Slamming the door, he started the engine and screeched away, sending pebbles flying. What really stuck in his throat was that Lola had the audacity to let him down. Lola Moult could take the piss out of everyone else but she wasn’t going to do it to him.

Striding up
Bella Vista
’s gangplank with enough force to cause the deck to shake, Matthew thought grimly that it wouldn’t exactly come as a shock for Lola to find him at the door. It was no surprise, therefore, that she had sent her father to receive him instead. Interesting that the houseboat was built from a decommissioned torpedo boat, because Matthew sensed a battle ahead.

‘She ain’t coming, mate,’ Roy sneered.

For a second, Matthew admired the Brylcreemed quiff shining fixed and proud on Roy’s skull; but then his anger got the better of him. ‘Let her come and tell me herself, then.’

‘Hey! Are you deaf? She’s not coming, right?’ Roy said, jabbing his finger at Matthew. ‘And you’ve got a bloody cheek turning up here. After what you’ve been doing with our girl behind our backs, you’re lucky not to get a right hook, mate.’

‘And I thought you were a decent boy!’ accused Carmen, squeezing through.

Matthew wouldn’t have thought there was room for Carmen and her twins in the doorway as well as Roy. As it was, he thought, eyeing Carmen’s heaving sequinned cleavage warily, the twins seemed to be making a bid for escape.

‘Mr Corrigan! I’m here. They won’t let me go!’ said a voice at the back.

Great, he was supposed to be taking the lead at his restaurant – not playing a bit part in an episode of
The Sopranos
. ‘Right’, he said, taking the plunge into a mountain of Moult flesh. ‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’

Harry had been unable to resist George’s invitation to take a look at what was happening over at the restaurant, now proudly displaying its name on a fashionably understated sign. She adjusted the outboard engine and followed the meandering current along Campion’s Creek. In any other circumstances it would have been a beautiful evening. Thin white clouds like ostrich feathers fanned the duck-egg sky and the warm air rang with the piping calls of wading birds, but she was too conscious of Matthew’s restaurant rising above the water before her to enjoy it. How long would it be before these unspoilt and simple pleasures were eclipsed by the tinny ringing of mobile phones and the hooting of Up-From-Londoners?

What a pity George had gone to ground, or else she could have told him exactly where his advice had got her. Harry had phoned her mother, not for financial assistance, but to see if she could shed any light on the likely whereabouts of any old paperwork.

‘Harry,’ Maeve sighed, shutting down as she always did when Harry tried to talk about her father. ‘I didn’t need any physical mementos of the past. My memories of the good times are what’s important to me.’

No one could accuse Maeve of being sentimental. She’d redistributed her husband’s belongings shortly after his death. His clothes went to charity shops, his weightier books to the local library and George inherited the lighter reads and travel yarns. As for his daughter and his business, Maeve had abandoned those as soon as possible. Little wonder she didn’t hang on to paperwork. Oh, Maeve had been good at decluttering all right.

‘Why the sudden interest anyway, Harry? Just what are you hoping to find?’

Harry thought fast. It didn’t help that she was afraid to be too explicit about the legal stranglehold Matthew could have over her. There was too much of a risk of it getting back to George and the less George knew of what was at stake the better. Silly old sod that he was at times, he’d been looking very fragile lately. Harry didn’t need him troubled by something that, with a bit of diligence and a lot of luck, he would never need to know about.

For some reason Jimi Tan sprang to mind. ‘No reason, really. Just that a guy turned up at the boat yard recently who thought Dad still owned the place. It reminded me that it was about time I did something about putting all the paperwork in one place.’

It sounded a bit flimsy. Maeve apparently thought so too.

‘Your dad? What did he want to know about him? Everyone in Little Spitmarsh knows the history of the business.’

‘Oh, he wasn’t local. He was a young guy, a couple of years older than me. Something to do with the restaurant. Quite nice-looking actually, a really stunning combination of Asian and European features. Hey? Maybe he’s got designs on my assets?’

Maeve didn’t seem to think it likely from her silence. For a moment Harry thought she’d lost the connection and, when Maeve spoke again, there was an urgency in her voice that suggested she had something more important to do.

‘Harry, have you thought any more about selling some land to that property developer?’

Ah, same old Maeve, get rid of the problem.

‘Perhaps redevelopment is the answer if you’re determined to keep the yard. You could clear the debts and have the satisfaction of owning the place outright. If you’re struggling with legal fees, Don and I can probably help you out. Why don’t you approach the developer and see if you can come to an arrangement that will suit both of you?’

No point in telling her mother that it was far too late for that. Harry was feeling too disappointed to prolong the conversation, but at least one possible source of evidence had been eliminated; Maeve certainly wasn’t sitting on any documents from the past. Maeve’s offhand dismissal of her previous life could be really painful, Harry thought, before reminding herself that she was trying to take her mind off her problems, not add to them.

Having illegally crossed Matthew’s land to check the moorings, she went to secure one of the lines. A bruised fingertip later, and sprayed with slime in the process of stripping mucilaginous threads of seaweed, she found it easy to pretend that the changes on her doorstep weren’t really happening.

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 onc
e 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 th
ing.