Turning the Tide (15 page)

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 invitation 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
−
n
ot 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 above 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.’

Harry felt a nice warm glow wash over her. It was bad enough Matthew laying claim to all the land in Little Spitmarsh without him exercising any privileges in respect of local maidens.

‘Besides, Matthew Corrigan wouldn’t look at a kid like Lola. Not when he’s got a real woman.’

Harry felt the nice warm glow turn cold. ‘What woman?’

‘The one I saw sneaking out his ’ouse first thing this morning. Now she was a cracker. You name it, she ’ad it; legs, hair …’ George’s voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words to describe this Venus among women.

‘Her own teeth?’

‘And a very nice silver car,’ he decided.

Nothing wrong with a white van, sniffed Harry to herself.

Chapter Thirteen

Matthew was elated when he discovered that the two police officers standing at his door were
not
there to tell him that Gina’s car had been found piled up on the motorway. Which meant it took a moment for the bad news they were trying to deliver to sink in. Even now, standing outside Samphire’s
kitchen door where the air was still acrid with the stink of melted plastic, and the charred cladding and blackened glass defaced his pristine building, he was still finding it hard to believe what his senses were telling him. It was when he thought of how many people could have been hurt that Matthew started to feel really ill. ‘There’s no way this could have been an accident?’

‘Not unless that petrol poured itself in there and set fire to itself deliberately.’

‘I see what you mean.’ It was terrifying to think that someone had been lying in wait; then, once there were no witnesses, had pushed the wheelie bin at the back of the premises towards the building and set fire to it. Most of the damage was to the exterior; although one of the kitchen windows had also been affected, which had set off the sprinkling systems. Water ran off every surface, but Matthew was just thankful it hadn’t been worse.

‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to cause damage to the premises, sir?’

Matthew shook his head. ‘No, of course not. Why would anyone want to? I mean, someone would have to really dislike me to intentionally do this.’ Someone who wanted to send a powerful signal that his presence was deeply unwelcome. Someone who was determined to put him out of business. Someone who was desperate enough to take drastic measures to save their own skin. No. Surely not?

By the time he got back to the cottage, Matthew was bone-weary. He could have done with Gina being there to give him a hug or listen to his troubles; but then Gina, he had to admit, wasn’t exactly the sort to fuss over him or coo. As for rolling up her sleeves and help
ing him to clear up
−
forget it. Her reaction would be one of relief that she’d managed to get her photos before some joker tried to burn Samphire down. It wasn’t, he tried to tell himself, that she didn’t care; it was just that she had different prioritie
s. She was ambitious, always hungry for the next opportunity, and she hated any attempts to tie her down. Sometimes he wondered if he could carry on the way they were. At least Harry understood what it was like to feel your back against the wall. But surely even Harry wouldn’t go that far to protect herself?