Turning the Tide (26 page)

‘I promise you that having George listening in whilst we’re making love isn’t my idea of a good time.’ He shuddered. ‘Maybe I could book you into Walton House and pop over for conjugal rights?’

‘I don’t think so, Matthew,’ Gina said, still frosty. ‘I can stay in a hotel any time; it’s not really what I was hoping for.’

The glacial silence was almost certainly down to poor reception, but was it Gina or a bad signal causing it? Matthew walked towards the window to try to hear more clearly as the shower gurgled into life next door. George must have had the window open too, because a prolonged and horribly frothy bout of coughing split the air before being brought to a full stop by an angry-sounding fart.

Gina gave an irritated sigh. ‘Not much of a lady, whoever she is, darling.’

At Rose & Son’s, the estate agents, Sandra was beginning to wonder if her eyes had been closed when all the flying pigs went past. When the scruffily sexy guy had walked into the office all those weeks ago and taken out a six-month rental on Sea Shanty, she’d never expected it to be the start of a trend. No one could have predicted such a dramatic change in Little Spitmarsh’s fortunes, certainly not Mr Rose who had been forced to pay her an unprecedented bonus. To be fair to him, the hurdle hadn’t been very high and almost any viewings, not to mention a steady increase in sales, had meant she’d easily exceeded her targets. Either Mr Rose simply couldn’t believe that the boom would continue or he’d been in such a state of shock that it had slipped his mind, but one way or another he’d forgotten to review her targets and Sandra had every intention of ensuring a similarly good pay day this month.

Small houses that had been on the market for years were starting to sell, evidence of a small but significant wave of second-homers, with their seaside-coloured makeovers, pebble gardens and touches such as copper weathervanes in the shape of schooners appearing on newly tiled roofs. Sandra pressed herself against the window to stick up a ‘Similar Properties Wanted’ notice above a selection of neglected old cottages which, to her amazement, had sold or gone under offer. Looking across the street, she thought with satisfaction of the new highlights and de luxe pampering package she had promised herself when her next bonus came in. In the meantime, she was looking forward to being very well-beehived at tonight’s film screening, and unleashing her inner sixties siren with big hair, big eyelashes and a foxy little frock.

Since the salon had been redecorated, her mother had been in a permanently good mood, thought Lola, watching Carmen display an endearingly childlike delight in the new mirrors and the imported sleek Italian furniture. Lola was still finding it hard to believe that her parents had listened when she’d informed them that the business was in dire need of a facelift. It had taken a huge row, following the photo shoot at Samphire
,
for them to clear the air. Even then Lola had had to bite her lip to refrain from adding that what was true for the salon also applied to most of the existing clients. Hopefully, the shiny modern makeover would take care of that as well.

Lola blew out a breath. The night of the photo shoot had proved to be quite a watershed. Having watched the woman who looked like a liquorice stick with a bob slink off with Matthew Corrigan, she’d had to admit to herself that he was never going to be her very own handsome prince, but there was a sense in which he had woken her out of her reverie. It wasn’t good enough to hang around waiting for something to turn up any more. Nor could she sit back and allow her parents to dictate the course of her life. Watching all those glamorous models allow the Liquorice Stick and a photographer to tell them what to do had given her a glimpse of another life.

The funny thing was – as soon as she’d broken the news about her plans and told Matthew that he’d be a waitress down, she’d been able to meet his mesmeric hazel eyes without a blush. Looking closer, she’d noticed fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the first scattering of grey just beginning to peep through the dishevelled tawny curls. He looked good from a distance, but close up he was really quite crusty. Well, too crusty for her anyway. What a narrow escape! If she’d pinned her hopes on Matthew, she might have ended up like her mother; although, now that she and Carmen had spent some time talking to each other, Lola understood the reasons why her mother kept her family so close.

‘So, a foundation course in Business Studies, eh?’ Matthew had said. ‘Good for you. How are your mum and dad? Are they all right about it?’

‘They’ve been great.’ Lola couldn’t resist a last flirty smile. ‘Thanks to you.’

‘How come?’ Matthew frowned, wondering what was coming next.

‘Well, if you hadn’t bought the old clubhouse I’d still be sitting on the houseboat wondering what to do. It’s not surprising that Mum and Dad treated me like a kid. I was certainly behaving like one. You made us all see each other in a new light.’

She hadn’t seen his face when she walked away, but she knew – just knew – that for once she’d got his full attention, so she couldn’t resist adding a bit of oomph to her seductive sway.

It had been a golden summer and now, thanks to a bit of give and take on both sides, even her parents supported her. Poor Carmen. Five miscarriages before Lola had arrived. No wonder they were protective of her.

Whilst Little Spitmarsh was on the up, property prices were comparatively low and rental accommodation plentiful. They’d had no trouble attracting a couple of good young hairdressers and, to Carmen’s immense satisfaction, a manicurist with her own nail bar. She watched the woman juggle several hands’ worth of nail extensions and French manicures, whilst another satisfied customer waved scarlet-tipped toes separated by squashy pink foam under a heat lamp to dry.

There were enough regular clients still requesting perms to keep Carmen happy and, whilst there was no doubt about the demand for good quality modern cuts in the newly awakened town, today had seen a call for big barnets that vindicated Carmen’s insistence on retaining a couple of the hideous hood driers. The other fixture Carmen had refused to budge on was the salon’s name, ignoring Lola’s pleas to rechristen it something fresh and upmarket. Crimps it remained; fortunately, a different font meant you’d have to really try to mistake it for Chimps.

No one was being made a monkey of today; but a surprising number of decidedly sixties hairdos were being welded into place, in honour of the film festival’s next screening. Looking round the salon now, it seemed that everyone was getting in the mood for a lot of audience participation at the Palace on the Pier tonight. What a sentimental bunch they were, Lola thought, shaking her head.
Dirty Dancing
indeed; she only hoped that both the pier and Roy’s back were prepared for the moment when Carmen started shaking her booty.

Suddenly a blast of cold air was blown down her neck.

‘Hey, slacker!’ said Carmen, brandishing a hairdryer. ‘Get back to work or I give you a poodle perm!’

Lola looked at her mother and smiled. Yes, she
was certainly pleased that Matthew had come along. The outcome wasn’t exactly what she’d anticipated
−
it was better. First Crimps, then college, then a second salon and then even a chain. With the Moult family using their knowledge and experience as a te
am, who knew what lay ahead for them?

‘Ooh, we’re well out of it tonight, Trev,’ said Frankie, adding some lime-green foliage as a last-minute touch to the huge arrangements of blood-red roses and orange Asiatic lilies that stood either side of the stage. ‘I don’t feel safe with some of those women out there.’

‘Oh, I think they’ll leave us alone,’ Trevor replied confidently, stepping back to run a critical eye over the flowers.

‘Look! A stripper!’ came the cry from one of the over-excited audience. ‘Get your kit off!’

Scuttling back into the wings to yells of ‘Off! Off! Off!’, Frankie and Trevor ran into a nervous-looking George.

‘What did you do to them?’ Frankie asked, casting an eye over his shoulder to make sure everyone was still seated.

‘I was s’posed to get everyone in the mood with a few songs,’ George explained, mopping his brow with a hankerchief. ‘But halfway through “She’s Like the Wind” these ’it me in the face.’ He pulled a pink thong complete with tiny diamanté heart out of his top pocket. ‘An’ I decided to cut me set short.’

‘Very wise,’ Frankie agreed. ‘Matthew will be lucky to escape. They’ll want to eat him alive. And you can take that look off your face right now, Trevor.’

‘’Ark at that lot!’ George said, nodding towards the auditorium.

Frankie decided to risk another peep. The Palace on the Pier was proving to be wildly successful as a venue for
Dirty Dancing
, though it had to be said that guys were thin on the ground. Roy Moult could probably look after himself, but Carmen would frighten off anyone who might, God forbid, be tempted to take liberties with him.

‘It’s the ultimate chick flick, isn’t it?’ said Trevor.

‘Or hen porn,’ Frankie observed, ducking back behind cover. ‘There aren’t too many spring chickens out there. Oh God, here comes Matthew. Get ready to wade in if they decide to pounce.’

A great roar went up as Matthew, pressed into the role of compère whilst Jimi was on food duties, introduced the film accompanied by wolf whistles and foot stomping.

‘I suppose when you think about it, it is the perfect film,’ Frankie whispered. ‘I mean it’s about being young and waiting for romance to happen, being on holiday, when you might fall for someone you’d never normally meet; the kind of situation everyone can reminisce about and identify with.’

Just under two hours later there was pandemonium. Tables were pushed back and the women of Little Spitmarsh and beyond rushed to the floor to relive the youth they wished they’d had.

‘I ’ad a girl in every port when I was at sea,’ George confided. ‘Best place for ’em, on the other side of the ocean. This lot are a bit too close for comfort.’

As George retreated to the piano, Trevor was torn from Frankie’s side by Sandra from Rose & Son.

‘I do love a man with a hairy chest!’ Frankie heard her exclaim, whilst Trevor hastily buttoned up his shirt. But the laughter died in Frankie’s throat at the sight of the boot-faced waitress from the Paradise Café bearing down on him. Finding Lola Moult on his other side, Frankie grabbed her hand and rushed towards the nearest space, but not before he caught sight of Matthew’s raised eyebrows and amused glance.

‘I’m sorry, I can only dance the man’s steps,’ said Lola, as they launched into a jive. ‘We didn’t have enough boys in my class.’

‘That’s all right,’ Frankie assured her, ‘I’m quite happy being a girl.’

As beehives collapsed in the heat and false eyelashes rained to the floor like dead earwigs, Matthew sidled out of a fire exit to cool off. The film festival had been even more successful than he’d hoped. They would have to pull out all the stops for the finale at Samphire if it wasn’t to prove an anticlimax after the fun everyone had had tonight. Matthew looked around with satisfaction; there was a lot of charm about the little town and, with the neon lights blazing behind him, it was even possible to pretend the sea slapping up against the pier wasn’t dirty grey. No wonder Harry had been so protective of the place.

A hint of breeze lifted his curls as Matthew leaned against the rails and tried to see the stars. Harry, it seemed, would do anything to prevent change, but wouldn’t lift a finger to help George. Somewhere along the line she’d got her wires very crossed. If only she’d unbent a little, what would she have made of this evening, all the laughter, the fun, people enjoying themselves, George dashing through his set for fear of being lynched? What would he have done if she’d made up with George and turned up tonight? For a second, Matthew contemplated a parallel universe where he’d walk across the dance floor, pull Harry to her feet and make her smile.

He shook his head; he still couldn’t see the stars, there was too much light pollution where he was standing. As for seeing Harry smile? That was never going to happen; she was about to get what she deserved, so why did it make him feel so bad?

Matthew shuffled further along the rail. It was hard to believe there were so many people close by. The noise from the Palace was muted and lost in the sound of the sea and, through the gaps between the wooden boards, he could see the black water sucking eerily at the pier.

‘Are you lonesome tonight?’

The lyric sounded faintly from the shadows, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’d heard the rumours, but couldn’t think why the ghost of Elvis would want to visit Little Spitmarsh. Unless, like all the best ghosts, it had come to rebuke him for the harm he was about to cause Harry. Surely there were more pressing cases for Elvis to deal with?

A headlight lit the gloomy walls of the Palace and Matthew jumped as a familiar silhouette detached itself from the building, black hair swept up into a quiff, white shirt glowing in the artificial light and a medallion gleaming on his silvery skin.

‘Aw right, mate?’

‘Roy!’ Matthew gibbered.

‘Just come out for a smoke, mate,’ said Roy, swivelling his hips. ‘I think the missus has done me back in.’

Declining Roy’s offer of a cigarette, as he always did, Matthew decided that the long hours had got to him
.
It occurred to him that, whilst he’d been worrying about Harry Watling, he hadn’t given Gina a second thought. ‘Houston,’ he muttered guiltily under his breath, ‘we have a problem.’