by Katie Ginger
She wondered how he’d fared over the last six months. Had he moved on or was he still hurting too? Was his confidence hiding any remaining pain, or was he really fine? Under his intoxicating gaze she pulled her mind back to business. ‘I’m going to start some awards too. Taste of the Bay awards. Knowing your skill, you’d probably win. So, do you want a pitch?’ She still wasn’t sure what response she’d prefer. A yes would be a big draw for the locals; a no would be easier for her emotionally. As the business side of her brain kicked in, she found herself trying to convince him. ‘There’ll be a lot of people going.’ I hope, she added internally. ‘You could make a lot of money, and you know how trade drops in the winter.’
‘Not for me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m busier than I can handle anyway. And all year round too.’ It was annoyingly true. His bread was so good that even in the depths of winter when the high street was dead, people came to his shop.
‘But still, we think it’s going to be very successful. Even if your business is doing well, it’ll be worth you getting involved,’ said John, trying to help in convincing him. Hetty admired the thought but was also surprised that he’d taken it upon himself.
‘Maybe,’ Ben answered with a slightly dismissive tone she knew to be teasing but probably hadn’t come across that way to John. Ben turned to Hetty, inclining his head towards her and speaking in a low murmur. From the corner of her eye, she saw John bristle at being shut out of the conversation. ‘Do you want me there?’ His tone had that familiar teasing edge again and it felt like he was asking about a lot more than just the food festival.
Hetty suddenly realised the possibilities. If she said yes, she was planting the seed that they might get back together. There was clearly still an attraction between them. But could he give her what she wanted? The commitment she wanted? A tingle ran down her spine. ‘You’d be a great draw, as you know.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ He folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.
Damn, his easy confidence still had a magnetic effect that was hard to resist, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. She had other things on her mind, like the mountainous to-do list she needed to get through. Plus, she could feel deep down there was a danger of falling back in love with him if she stayed too long. John folded his arms over his chest and gave a heavy sigh; clearly Ben and his confident, cheeky manner was getting on his nerves. ‘Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve got my number. If you decide you want a pitch, call me, but they’re selling out fast.’ And with that she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the shop.
Hetty and John made their way back towards the promenade. As she made her way there, she took a moment to enjoy the salty sea air and let it cool her cheeks. Seeing Ben had been far more intense than she’d expected it to be. Having a real conversation with him and one in which she valued his opinion, had reminded her of all the conversations they’d had when they were together, both building up their fledgling businesses, and the evenings cuddled on the sofa, the Friday nights at the pub and holidays in Rome and Venice. It reminded her of all the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. And having John looking over her shoulder, stern and disapproving, hadn’t helped either.
‘He’s quite full of himself, isn’t he?’ John said, thrusting his hands into his pockets as they strolled along.
‘Not really,’ she replied, defensive on Ben’s behalf. ‘Anyway, he kind of has a right to be. Everything he said was true. His is one of the best businesses in Swallowtail Bay and he is the best baker in the town, if not the county.’
‘Right,’ was all John said before training his eyes on the horizon.
At the promenade, she took a moment to watch a sandwich tern resting on the water’s edge, its messy black head down as it gently hopped along. Before John could say anything more about Ben, her mobile rang in her pocket. It was her mum, Daisy. ‘Sorry, John, I just need to take this.’ Wandering a little away, Hetty took a deep breath, put on her cheerful voice, and answered. ‘Hi, Mum, what’s up?’
‘Ugh, it’s your dad again.’
Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘What’s he done now?’
There was a time, a year ago, when her mum would have answered with a smile and fondness in her voice, but her parents had made what had proved to be a catastrophic mistake by retiring at exactly the same time. The first few months had been fine, they’d loved being together and having days out here and there, but over the six months that followed they’d grown increasingly intolerant of each other to the point where they now irritated the other daily with their breathing, chewing and general existence.
‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.’ Hetty immediately picked up on the strange tone to her mum’s voice. ‘Just what he’s done every day for the last few months. He’s gone golfing with Tony Dean.’
John had wandered towards the pebbles and was absent-mindedly nudging them off the promenade and back onto the beach with his foot.
‘Isn’t that a good thing? It means he’s out from under your feet. You can chill out by yourself. Grab a coffee, read a book in the garden.’
‘He’s always out these days, Hetty. I can’t remember the last time we had a day together. But the worst thing is …’ Daisy was quickly finding her stride … ‘he comes home and does nothing but talk about bloody golf. I’m sick of the subject. Absolutely sick of it. If he tells me again what his handicap is and what Tony’s putting is like, I’m going to scream – right in his face – and then—’
‘All right, Mum,’ Hetty interrupted, gazing out over the calm, clear water of the sea, trying to absorb some of its serenity. The breeze was dying again, and the water resembled a giant silver-blue jelly gently wobbling a little here and there. Hetty matched her breathing to the faint sound of the tide nudging the shingle back and forth. ‘Do try and calm down, Mum. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’
‘At least it would put me out of my misery as far as your dad is concerned, and then he might actually appreciate me. If he’s not golfing or talking about golf, he’s in his shed doing goodness knows what. I’m starting to wish I’d never blimmin’ well retired.’
‘You could start volunteering or something?’ Hetty offered, hoping it might stem the flow of her mum’s vitriol.
‘Volunteer to murder your dad and bury him under the patio, maybe.’ Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘Come for lunch on Sunday.’
It was a demand, not a question. Hetty had a lot to do and as soon as possible, but she was getting more and more concerned as to where this new family dynamic was heading. ‘All right then,’ she agreed. ‘Will you make trifle?’
For the first time in ages her mum chuckled. ‘Just for you. Traditional or chocolate?’
‘Umm … hard question. Traditional, I think.’ Hearing the smile in her mum’s voice was worth losing a day’s work anytime. ‘About one?’
‘Yes. We’ll eat at two.’
‘Okay. See you then. Love you. Try not to kill Dad in the meantime.’
‘I’ll try but I’m not making any promises. Anyway, love you too, darling. Bye bye.’
As lovely as the prospect of a trifle was, Hetty couldn’t help frowning. The way her mum had said goodbye in a despondent, unhappy tone was worrying. Was a life of leisure with her dad really that bad?
‘Everything all right?’ John asked.
‘Yes fine. We’ve got just enough time to talk tactics before we meet with the festival committee. Don’t look like that,’ she said upon seeing his grumpy expression. ‘Trust me, we need a plan.’
***
John sat down opposite the festival committee hoping the terror he felt inside wasn’t visible on his face. He’d never before encountered six more frightening people. Hetty had described a lady called Gwen before they’d arrived. Their main opposition apparently, and he’d clocked her immediately. She sat scowling at him like he was something on the bottom of her shoe. This was precisely why his
family didn’t come into town unless they absolutely had to. The five other people looked equally terrifying but had slightly less aggressive eyes. The room was stuffy where the windows had been closed all day and he felt tiny beads of sweat form on his forehead. He shouldn’t have been here today really. He should have been trying to find a piece for a client, and the old radiator in the kitchen had started coming off the wall. He had to fix that when he got back.
Hetty sat beside him, quietly composed in the face of her opposition. She was so serene. The complete opposite of him. His quiet world had been spun on its axis by this crazy whirlwind of a woman. It was like she’d walked into his silent, book-lined study, shattering the peace, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him till his teeth rattled. He’d never known anyone like her. And now he was doing something for her he never envisioned doing for anyone – sitting opposite terrifying older ladies and one kind-looking older gentleman. But he was doing this for himself too, he remembered. One of the older ladies sipped a cup of tea and attempted to smile at him.
‘That’s Mary,’ Hetty whispered. ‘She’s already on our side, I think. I’ve tried to scope out the others, but they could go either way. Don’t forget, stick to the plan.’
The plan, hatched after they’d come out of The Bake House, was for John to remain silent in a speak-only-when-spoken-to fashion. He’d agreed, given that he didn’t know any of these people and trusted Hetty’s judgement, but she’d been different after visiting that last place. Her calm exterior seemed as if it had been tested and he wasn’t surprised; the guy running the place was a bit too full of himself for his liking and very flirty with Hetty. That in itself hadn’t surprised him; Hetty was a very pretty lady.
‘So,’ said Gwen, clasping her hands in front of her, enjoying this moment of power. ‘Hetty, you’ve come to try and convince us to hand over the strawberry festival to you.’
‘Yes,’ she replied confidently. ‘As I said at the business forum, this is just the opportunity I’ve been looking for and now I’m pleased to say that Mr Thornhill has agreed to us hosting the event at Thornhill Hall and in fact, to us using four of his fields.’
‘Four?’ Gwen almost shouted across the table. She had one of those piercing voices that carried. The remaining committee members looked on in surprise. ‘What on earth do you need four fields for?’
Hetty calmly outlined the number of people who’d already agreed to have a stall, and all the additional things they’d discussed that morning.
‘It doesn’t sound like you’re running a food festival anymore, you’re running a – a – I don’t know what.’ Gwen was beginning to redden. ‘But it doesn’t sound like something the committee should be supporting.’
To John’s horror, some of the heads nodded.
‘I’ll admit,’ said Hetty, ‘my original idea has grown—’
‘It sounds like it’s grown to more than just you and your assistant can handle.’
The older gentleman on the committee piped up. ‘Ambition is to be applauded, but we don’t want it to turn into an embarrassment. The strawberry festival we currently have might be small but it’s manageable.’
More nodding of heads and John bit back the retort that it was more of an embarrassment as it presently was. Seeing the support she had, Gwen was back on the attack.
‘And Thornhill Hall is famously anti the townsfolk going anywhere near the place. Do you think people will suddenly be brave enough to visit when you’ve made it clear you don’t want us normal people anywhere near your house?’
A flash of apprehension and annoyance passed over Hetty’s features and John decided it was time for him to speak. His own annoyance was mounting like steam inside a pressure cooker and needed to be released before it erupted into a response he might regret. A response that might cause Hetty even more problems.
‘I understand your reticence,’ he said calmly, rising out of his seat. ‘I was resistant to the idea myself. But I’ve come to realise that this is a fabulous idea and I have every confidence Hetty can not only organise this, but that it will be a great success as well.’ Gwen glanced at the other committee members and her mouth formed a tight angry line as their faces began to change, swaying away from her. ‘As for people coming to Thornhill Hall …’ He paused. ‘It’s true that we don’t open up the house and the grounds for public viewing. There are a number of reasons for that which, quite frankly, are nobody’s business but our own.’
Hetty’s eyes had been following him and the corners tensed as he said this.
‘But we’re ready now to welcome anyone and everyone to the food festival. I’m happy to allow Hetty to use our land to organise what will undoubtedly be a fabulous event over one of the busiest summer weekends, so that everyone can capitalise on it and enjoy the financial benefits.’
As John sat down, he saw the look of confusion and approval on Hetty’s face. She couldn’t have thought that he’d speak so enthusiastically on her behalf. He found himself glad that he’d both surprised and impressed her.
‘Right,’ said Mary, speaking up for the first time. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m tired of organising an event everyone laughs at and only comes along to out of a sense of duty. If Hetty is happy to organise this amazing-sounding food festival, I think we should let her. Show of hands, please. All in favour?’
Four hands raised. Gwen and the older gentleman’s arms stayed firmly by their sides, but it didn’t matter because the motion was carried. The first Swallowtail Bay Food Festival was to be held on the August bank holiday weekend in just under four weeks’ time.
As much as she’d impressed him, John really hoped Hetty and her assistant could pull it all off in time. His family didn’t need any more egg on their faces. They had a whole omelette there already.
Chapter 8
Hetty pulled up outside her mum and dad’s house and unclipped her seatbelt. The three-bedroom pebbledashed semi had been her home until she was 20 when she’d moved out to her own slightly grotty flat in a nearby town. She’d quickly found that being inland and away from the sea wasn’t for her and had moved back to the bay as soon as possible. Walking along the shore had been a way of relieving stress and anxiety since she was little when they’d gone out as a family. Unbreakable habits had been formed in her childhood and Hetty hated not feeling the strong sea breeze on her face or seeing the constant ebb and flow of the tide. In times of trouble, it reminded her that life went on no matter what else had occurred.
There hadn’t been any point in going to university and lumbering herself with a ton of debt for an education that couldn’t provide the real-life skills required to run her own events management business – something she’d wanted since she was old enough to go to parties.
While all the other kids enjoyed running around like lunatics and stressed-out mums appeared with candle-covered birthday cakes, Hetty had loved helping out, giving out party bags, handing out balloons – making someone feel like the most important person in the whole entire world. It was still a feeling that gave her a buzz. The weird thing about the food festival was that when she thought about whom that special moment was for, she couldn’t decide if it was herself or the town.
Eyeing the upstairs right-hand window, the window to what had been her room, Hetty thought back to all she had achieved and all she was now risking with the food festival. Nerves crashed together in her stomach, jostling around for space. She’d started the business at just 25 years old. Hetty was incredibly good at her job, as she always believed she would be. Not because she was big headed or more talented than anyone else, but because she put the work in. She slogged away, growing her business, seeking out new opportunities. She met Ben three years later at the grand old age of 28, and that was that.
He’d looked good when she’d seen him on Tuesday. And that cheeky grin still had the power to stir something inside her, but she pushed those feelings out of her mind. She had this lunch to get through first and hoped her mum’s mood ha
d brightened since their conversation on Tuesday.
Hetty strolled to the front door and placed her spare key in the lock, giving a knock to signal her arrival as she pushed it open. From the numerous phone calls she’d received recently, she’d expected to hear arguing, but instead the house was quiet. No voices sounded out, only Phil Collins singing from the ancient CD player her mum still used, his voice carrying towards her on the roast-beef-scented air. Her stomach was beginning to rumble and after shouting hello, Hetty walked down the hall towards the kitchen. The blue carpet, which had been in place since she was a teenager, was still immaculate and mirrored the pale-blue flowers of the wallpaper. The back door closed and Hetty heard her mum enter the kitchen with a huff and saw her begin to chop carrots.
‘Hi, Mum,’ Hetty said, placing an arm around her mum’s shoulders. Being a good deal taller, she rested her head on top of Daisy’s. Her mum’s once-blonde hair, a darker blonde than Hetty’s, was almost entirely grey and silver now, but it was still soft and pretty, and Hetty pressed her cheek against it, enjoying the familiar smell of her mum’s perfume.
‘Hello, darling. You okay?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Been busy?’
Hetty thought about telling her about the food festival now but wanted to tell her mum and dad together. ‘Yes, I have. I’ll tell you about it in a bit.’ From the large window they were in front of, Hetty could see her dad on his knees in the back garden, fiddling with a red flower. Hetty wasn’t very good with flowers or gardening. She’d developed her mum’s love of organisation and order, rather than her dad’s laid-back attitude and green fingers. ‘How’re you, Mum?’ She nicked a bit of raw carrot and popped it in her mouth as Daisy tutted.
