Turning the Tide (10 page)

His boys had been just as thorough about the interior: asbestos cladding, old ceilings and clapped-out kitchen and bathroom fittings removed, to leave a bare shell that was even more promising than he’d anticipated. All the same, there was a lot of making good to do before the interior designer could get in. And, he thought, still some clutter. He eyed a clapped-out chest of drawers which, judging by the footprints in the plaster dust on the top, had doubled – quite illegally – as a ladder, and decided to jettison it before one of his workmen took a dive off the top and broke a collarbone. Peering in a drawer, Matthew remembered why he hadn’t thrown the thing out in the first place. The question was, if the Spitmarsh Yacht Club had done without their paperwork all this time, was there any point in returning it to them now? On balance he thought not, and was about to tip the entire contents in the pile destined for the skip, when a thicker piece of rolled paper caught his eye. He spread it out and bent over to look at it more closely – then whistled softly through his teeth.

This was more than just a piece of scrap paper he was holding; now he had Harry Watling in the palm of his hand, too.

Chapter Eight

There were worse ways to spend an evening than sitting at a bar downing champagne, but Matthew was starting to feel that during his brief visit to London he ought to be doing more than watching the bubbles rise in his glass. His solicitor Piers Scott apparently thought so too, as he eyed a cluster of sharply dressed women and smoothed down his fine blond hair in preparation for muscling in. Quite a contrast to his disapproving manner earlier in the day, when Matthew had made his appointment with only seconds to spare.

‘So this is a legal document, then?’ Matthew had asked, lifting his gaze from the parchment spread out before them. The whole thing seemed so far-fetched that he still expected to be told it was a hoax.

Piers silently adjusted a crested cufflink. ‘Absolutely. It was granted as a reward to one Percival Campion, innkeeper and purveyor of fine oysters. Apparently the king, having consumed a meal of his oysters, spent a night of passion at Campion’s establishment with an unnamed lady and felt moved to express his gratitude. Acts of Parliament ensured the ownership was passed on with the land.’

Piers had paused for what in anyone else Matthew would have called dramatic effect, then added, ‘I trust there will be an invitation for me when the restaurant opens?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Naturally. But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed if you were hoping to test the effects of the local oysters. Unfortunately, they were seen off by pollution and disease at the beginning of the last century.’

Piers looked at him over his steepled hands. ‘A pity. Still, I can always put you in touch with a very good Scottish supplier. Perhaps you could drill for oil instead?’

Matthew grinned. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve just struck gold.’

Now, as he watched Piers charm his way into the group of women, he wondered if Gina was missing him – or was she too wrapped up in her latest boyfriend? He noticed Piers nod in his direction. One of the women looked round, smiled and swivelled in her chair to turn her body towards him.

Matthew smiled politely and turned away. If he caught a cab over to Gina’s, was there was any way he could pretend he was just passing? It was easy to overlook the rows and the fights as the memories of all the good things about their relationship came flooding back. He was so tempted to find an excuse to drop in on her that he could even smell the fruity, leathery smell of her distinctive Hermes perfume.

Suddenly, someone covered his eyes with cool hands and a familiar voice whispered in his ear, ‘Are you real?’

Matthew’s stomach lurched as he turned and met the sultry, knowing gaze of the girl every man in the room was staring at. His eyes travelled down the black satin dress with God-knew-what delights underneath. He followed her endless legs down to towering gold sandals and then took the trip back up to the top.

He got to his feet. Piers, apparently remembering where he’d started the evening, was approaching fast.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Matthew said quickly and, taking Gina’s hand, spirited her out into the night.

Finding out that the astonishingly good-looking guy in Gina’s photos wasn’t her lover had done a lot to ease some tensions, even if it had provoked the usual weary plea to read the dross she produced. ‘If you had, then you’d know that the actress he’s been dating back home in Sydney isn’t at all happy about the succession of beautiful young women he’s been papped with.’ And the rest of the night had eased a lot more besides, but it hadn’t resolved everything. Come on, Matthew, he told himself sharply, they’d never made any commitment to each other, kept their lives and apartments pretty much separate. Last time they’d ostensibly split for good. Wasn’t that what he most admired about her? Her spirit? Her independence? That she never demanded any promises about the future from him? So why did it all seem so mechanical? Why did he sometimes wonder how it would feel to be in a more traditional relationship?

Matthew had just slipped an arm round her so that they could finally settle down for the night, when she pulled herself free and met his gaze, her dark blue eyes sparkling. ‘Of course it will take some organising, but I’ve had a brilliant idea. I want to do an article on illicit weekends for
What’s Hot
. I might as well make use of this restaurant you’re building. We’ll stage a party there, pick some good-looking models who look as if they can’t keep their hands off each other and create a little photo drama around them.’

‘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.