Turning the Tide (11 page)

Sooner or later everyone who was desperately hoping that some of the money generated by the restaurant 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 something. ‘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?’

‘What if you could get your hands on that boat yard?’ Jimi persisted.

‘Well, for a start it belongs to someone who’s pretty determined to hang on to it.’

‘Harry Watling? Yeah, I met her.’

Matthew inclined his head. ‘She didn’t chew you up and spit you out then? Congratulations.’

Jimi shrugged. ‘She didn’t look like much of a problem to me. The land she’s sitting on must be worth a fortune.’

‘Ah well, don’t tell her that now, will you?’ Matthew grinned. ‘I still want to come out of this with a profit. Although Harry Watling says it isn’t about the money.’

‘It’s
always
about the money! Is the business doing so well that she can afford to turn you down?’

Somewhere along the line, Jimi Tan had known how it felt to go without, Matthew noted, watching him closely. He was willing to bet that Jimi’s carefully cultivated show of success was only a veneer, but it didn’t bother him. Speculate to accumulate. Okay, the guy was young and on fire with ambition, but it would be good to harness that energy for his own use.

‘Harry Watling doesn’t see the boat yard as a business; she thinks it’s her vocation. Why are you so interested?’

It was hard to read the younger man’s face: the slanting dark eyes were downcast, his lips pursed, and he seemed to be wrestling with some inner battle. Finally he met Matthew’s gaze.

‘All right, I’ll level with you. Look, things didn’t go quite the way I hoped in the last place I worked; the guy was a complete tosser. I didn’t get what I’d been promised so I walked out. Feels good at the time, but it’s not so clever afterwards, especially when your credit card bill turns up.’

‘I’m glad you told me now. It would save me having to sack you later.’

‘Yeah, well, you’d be the one with regrets. I can always find work, but it’ll be a long time before you find a chef as sensational as me. You asked why I’m interested in the boat yard? Listen, I like what you’ve got here, but the way I see it you could take it so much further. Still, if you’ve had second thoughts, I’ll spare you my ideas.’

Got you!
thought Matthew as Jimi tried to give him the hard stare. Not very far beneath the surface was a kid with no friends; the fat boy, perhaps, who got laughed at, the kid with the wrong clothes or thick glasses – now he was setting out to show the world how badly it had misjudged him.

‘Just don’t fuck
me
about,’ Matthew said, and held out his hand.

Elation flickered in Jimi’s eyes and a broad smile reached his lips. ‘I won’t let you down. I’d like to take this place all the way; great place to eat, great place to stay. Hey! Maybe I’ll even get Harry Watling on board?’

Matthew thought of all the women Jimi had been photographed with; try as he might, he couldn’t imagine him being caught by the paparazzi with Harry tucked under his arm – although he wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when Jimi tried his chat-up line. ‘Oh no,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re worth more to me alive. Besides, Harry Watling won’t be putting up a fight for much longer.’

Jimi turned a curious face towards him, but Matthew decided to remain silent.