I jumped as someone knocked on the open door and stuck their head inside our lodge. My mouth desiccated and I begged the universe to create a sinkhole under my bottom.
‘’Ousekeeping said the washing-machine door is jammed,’ he said in a loud voice and looked me straight in the eye.
‘Um, yes. I rang. I didn’t think … I mean, cheers. Come in,’ I rambled.
Izzy came in and I saw her note the name Tremain on the badge pinned onto his shirt.
Whilst he crouched down to examine the machine’s barrel, she glanced at me, eyes a-twinkle. I glared at her not to speak. She put her fist in her mouth. Oh God. Please don’t let her explode with laughter. At least I hadn’t talked within his earshot about his nice bum in those chinos. Annoying, isn’t it, when irritating people also have appealing qualities? And even more annoying that such an abrupt man could be the first to produce a thought like that since Johnny. My face kind of scrunched for a second.
Tremain stood up, rummaged through a drawer and retrieved a leaflet. He skimmed a couple of pages before pressing a button on the machine and, hey presto, the door flew open.
‘Try reading the instructions before you call us out, next time,’ he muttered.
‘Of course. Silly me,’ I said. ‘Thanks for calling by.’
‘You’re Kensa’s son?’ said Izzy and smiled. ‘Lovely place, you’ve got. We are very much looking forward to our holiday.’
He acknowledged her words with a tilt of the head.
‘Have you always worked here?’ I asked.
‘No.’
Clearly small talk didn’t form part of his customer relations.
‘How’s the rebranding going?’ said Izzy in her business voice. I often teased her about how she changed her accent. It went kind of cockney when speaking to suppliers and bordered on received pronunciation when dealing with an unhappy customer.
‘It’s going,’ he said, tilted his head again and strode out of the cabin.
Izzy chuckled. ‘I see what you mean by his attitude, although what he lacks in charm he makes up for in … in …’
‘I know. There is something attractive … a sense of …’
‘Capability? Decisiveness?’
She’d felt it too. But I wasn’t fourteen any more. Looks, first impressions, of course caught my eye but it was personality that really held my attention. Not that I was going to worry about the character of my much-needed plus-one. He could have bad breath or talk about nothing but the complex rules of cricket or his latest computer game, as long as he smouldered and made Saffron realise I was no longer in girl in the corner.
‘Right, let’s go. I’m starving,’ she said. ‘And itching to try that all-day breakfast.’
‘Apart from the kippers …’ I pulled a face.
Izzy grinned. ‘We are in Cornwall. A coastal county. It’s time you tried some delicacies from the sea.’
‘You’re not getting me to try anything that lives in a shell or breathes through gills,’ I protested. ‘Unless it is covered in batter and served with chips or in a yummy sauce, like the pie I tried with Marcus.’
The two of us strolled towards the restaurant, Fisherman’s Delight, and, as we approached, my stomach rumbled again. That was the other thing about sea air—it gave you a great appetite. In fact, in Guvnah’s last letter she’d talked of having put on a few kilos. My chest glowed. I’d arranged to visit her tomorrow. Her village wasn’t far from Port Penny and Izzy said she’d drop me there in the afternoon, following us having lunch out at a café she’d found that had a great reputation for Cornish fare—she was hoping to be inspired. Guvnah had a bicycle I could borrow if I fancied cycling back to White Rocks.
We headed into the reception building and the restaurant to the left. It had a long bar, stretching across the back. At the rear, on the right, was the kitchen with an open serving hatch. Fisherman’s Delight boasted a classy decor, albeit a little worn—think uncluttered magnolia tables and walls covered with arty black and white photos of local beauty spots. Yet the clientele—a couple of families—were your average holiday crowd, in shorts and T-shirts, with wet, chlorine-fragranced hair. Kids sat eating chips and playing on their Nintendos. In one corner, a baby in a high chair screamed, its face covered in bright orange purée. Talk about a mismatch. Two waiters were dressed in formal black trousers and a waistcoat.
‘Ooh, he’s nice,’ said Izzy and gazed at the younger waiter, who had baby-smooth skin and highlighted, gelled back hair. She gazed at his name badge. ‘And his name is Greg!’
I grinned. Izzy was obsessed with the presenter Gregg Wallace from the programme MasterChef.
‘Nah. He’s too well groomed for me. I wouldn’t dare forget to wax or floss my teeth if he and I went out.’
‘I bet his chest is as smooth as a baby’s bottom,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I really do not get the modern woman’s obsession with Poldark and his chest hair. I mean, imagine licking whipped cream off it. Ew. You’d probably get your teeth caught.’
‘Izzy!’
We giggled.
‘So full-paying families arrive next week?’ I said in a low voice.
‘Yes. These competition winners leave tomorrow, which gives Kensa and Tremain five days to do some last-minute thinking before the proper launch next Monday. The resort will effectively be shut down apart from a few guests like us who booked, regardless of the rebranding phase.’ She blushed. ‘Or rather idiots like me who didn’t read the small print. It does warn that only a skeleton staff will be working over the next few days. This restaurant, for example, will be open but only in a casual way, while the staff do last-minute retraining for next week.’
I shrugged. ‘Idiot or rather genius—means you got a cheap booking and who wants to eat in all the time anyway? We’ll be out and about.’
The older waiter, George, came over and showed us to seats, a couple of tables away from the screaming baby.
‘Should be a bit quieter for you here, ladies,’ he said and jerked his head towards the young guests before wrinkling his nose.
‘He’ll have to change that attitude before next week,’ I said to Izzy, once we’d ordered two beers and all-day breakfasts. I covered my eyes with my hands and then suddenly pulled them away—cue a minute or so of playing peekaboo with the baby. And cue silence. The mum shot me a grateful glance, as her small one returned to playing with his spoon.
I squinted into the kitchen. Raven curls flashed by now and again. I wondered how many chefs they had. The more I saw of the place it was obviously run on a tight budget. Not that that seemed to affect the quality of the food. All I can say is, wow, when our breakfasts finally arrived. An invitingly brown sausage lay glistening, next to a buttercup yellow egg, its plump yolk just waiting to be burst. I eyed a crispy rasher of bacon and aromatic fried mushrooms. I forked up a mouthful of shiny baked beans and couldn’t wait to cut into the square hash browns, which promised a satisfying carb kick. Plus on the side was fried bread—I hadn’t enjoyed that since my childhood. Two thirds of the way through, I felt Christmas-dinner-full, but kept on eating—it would have been a travesty not to, with all the different flavours and textures satisfying my taste buds.
The baby screeched as loudly as a fishing boat’s horn, because his beaker fell on the floor. A tut headed its way from the waiter called George.
‘Is there a problem?’ said the mum and straightened her halter-neck floral top, as he shot her a disdainful look.
I tried peekaboo faces again, but this time they didn’t work. George pursed his lips, while shouting came from the kitchen. Black curls flashed again across the back of the hatch.
Izzy studied the menu and shook her head. ‘I can’t see any evidence of rebranding so far. How on earth is this menu going to appeal to kids?’
I glanced down my menu and looked at the breakfast section—eggs Benedict, granola with yogurt, fried kippers, Welsh rarebit … Where were the cereals, toast, muffins and chocolate croissants? Breakfast. Mmm. Best mea
l of the day. Particularly in those budget hotels that served a morning buffet for ten quid. I’d have a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a full English fry-up, then help myself to bottomless cups of coffee and anything baked. Muffins were the best—so soft and crumbly—although flaky croissants always hit the spot.
As if she had heard us talking, the mother of the baby called the waiter over. ‘Eggs Benedict,’ she said, brow furrowing, ‘is that hard-boiled ones covered with Hollandaise sauce?’
The waiter wrinkled his nose again as if he’d never been asked that question before.
‘We’d be grateful if the kitchen just did us scrambled eggs instead, mate, if we come here tomorrow morning after a swim, just before we leave,’ said her husband, who wore a football top to match his son’s.
The waiter straightened up. ‘I don’t believe he would. Chef is quite firm about sticking to the menu.’
The husband glanced sideways at his little boy, who scribbled with crayons on a pad of paper. ‘Surely he’ll bend those rules for a child?’
Lips pursed, George folded his arms.
Shifting awkwardly in her seat, the mother sighed. ‘Leave it, Phil love. Clearly rules is rules here. Come on, darling, this place is a disaster. It won’t be getting a great write-up. We can make do with cheese on toast tonight, back at the lodge.’
I glanced at Izzy, before we both looked at the waiter, expecting him to do his best to make the family happy, like we did when—rare occurrence—a customer complained about a cocktail or doughnut. Instead, he just bowed and stood to the side. Unfortunate position as just at that moment the baby lost control of its spoon. A blob of orange purée flew through the air and landed on George’s left cheek.
‘Can’t you control that child,’ he muttered and threw his hands in the air. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face, muttering something about too liberal parenting.
Phil stood up. ‘What did you say?’
George put down the napkin, face expressionless. The mum shot me a worried look. The little boy stopped crayoning and his bottom lip wobbled.
I stood up and shook off Izzy’s arm before standing in between them. Being one of many siblings, I was used to breaking up disagreements. Mum always called me the diplomat as I preferred to keep my fists to myself and fight with my tongue. ‘I’m sure there’s no need to worry over a simple splat of purée.’
‘Exactly,’ said Phil. ‘Honestly. This resort is useless. The restaurant isn’t geared up for anyone under eighteen and the swimming pool is a joke—there is no slide, music or inflatables for kids and too many adult-only sessions. And, as for the evening entertainment …’ He shook his head. ‘Last night was some operatic girl singing Katherine Jenkins. Great for me and the wife but where is the bingo or puppet show for the kids?’
‘I guess it is early days,’ said Izzy, now on her feet.
‘There’s no reason why any normal family can’t enjoy this place, just the way it is,’ muttered George, and Phil turned purple in the face.
Oh dear. Now tears hung in the little boy’s eyes, while the baby grinned and smeared purée around its mouth, apparently enjoying the sideshow.
I glared at the three adults and jerked my head towards the boy. ‘Perhaps you could discuss this somewhere else?’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll look after the children if—’
‘Don’t bother. We’re leaving,’ said Phil and grabbed his son’s orange juice to knock back. Except the glass must have been wet and, as he lifted it into the air, Phil lost his grip for a second. Liquid gushed southwards and yes, you’ve guessed it, right onto short me.
‘Urgh!’ I wiped my cheek and breathed in sticky citrus smells.
‘Christ,’ said Phil. ‘Huge apologies. I didn’t mean that to happen.’
George rolled his eyes.
‘It was an accident.’ Phil glared at a smug George.
‘Attention, everyone!’ snapped a voice. Formal Cornish tones, already recognisable to me. Within seconds, Tremain stood by my side as I spat out the citrus liquid. I turned around, slipped on spilt liquid and fell to the floor. My cheekbone hit the table on the way down and I winced. Immediately, strong arms pulled me to my feet. I flinched as Tremain touched my skin, just under the left eye.
‘Keep still,’ he ordered and held up his hand as Izzy approached. With a handkerchief, he carefully wiped the juice from my face. He tilted my head to the light and my heart raced as he trailed a finger across my eye socket. Must have been the shock of the argument, that’s all.
‘No real damage done. You might have a bruise for a few days. You’re lucky you didn’t hit the table corner. That could have gone in your eye.’
‘Lucky?’ I stuttered and wondered why his proximity made me not trust myself. Up close, I noticed a small scar above his top lip. How many women had tried to kiss it better? Urgh! Where had that thought come from? Perhaps I was dazed from the fall. Yes. I mean nothing could persuade me to press my lips against the lips of a man who was so arrogant. Even if his leaf-green eyes, for one second, appeared full of concern. Even if, up, close and personal, with his broad chest, firm arms and direct stare, he looked like a man who would single-handedly fight a whole army for you, if he’d decided you were his one.
Tremain turned to Phil and George. ‘It takes a five foot woman to try to settle your argument?’
‘Five foot two,’ I muttered, ‘and that’s sexist.’
Tremain flashed me a look. Blimey. Was that almost a hint of humour in his eyes? I couldn’t tell, because it disappeared more quickly than the orange juice had flown.
‘This is a holiday resort not a war zone,’ Tremain continued.
Phil rubbed his forehead while their baby looked on, absolutely delighted. No doubt this was even better than its favourite slapstick kids TV show. ‘Your waiter was rude, Mr Maddock,’ he said and briefly explained what had happened, despite George’s indignant interjections.
‘I see.’ Tremain glanced back at me and something stirred in my stomach as he scanned me from head to toe. ‘Good thing that washing machine is working in your chalet—and that the drink wasn’t red wine,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Sir … Madam.’ He half smiled at Phil and his wife. ‘I appreciate your disappointment in our site, so I do, and apologies—we are going through a transition period, thrown upon us unexpectedly, and are doing our best. That’s why you weren’t charged for this week—so that you could provide useful feedback. Please.’ Tremain called over Greg. ‘I’m sure Chef will be happy to cook something that meets your needs.’ Tremain raised an eyebrow. ‘George?’ He jerked his head and the two of them headed into the kitchen.
Around twenty minutes later, after Greg had taken the family’s order and Izzy and I had finished our food, the kitchen’s doors swung open. George stormed out and pulled off his name badge. He threw it onto one of the tables and then hurried past us, before leaving the building. Tremain appeared a few seconds later.
‘All sorted?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ muttered Tremain and shook his head. ‘George seems to have reacted to a flying splat of carrot purée, as if it were a hand grenade that might threaten your life.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, my apologies for this incident. I’ve dealt with it.’
‘Perhaps he just needs time—to adjust?’ Izzy said.
Tremain shrugged. ‘Mother and I have made it quite clear to the staff what is expected of them now. Fortunately, so far, most of our team have proved able to cope with the rebranding. But the change in clientele has brought new challenges.’ Looking suddenly tired, Tremain gently took my arm and steered me towards outside, whilst Izzy sat talking to the young waiter. In the evening light, Tremain took another look at my face.
‘The bruise is blackening now. I’d get back to your lodge if I was you, and soak those clothes.’
‘Thanks … um … Shame about George. You wouldn’t think he was such a snob, just to look at him. He seems like an ordinary guy—a granddad type, who loves kids.’
‘Then lesson lea
rnt—never judge a person by their appearance.’
I shifted from foot to foot. ‘Yes, about that, you see, with the soil on your clothes, I assumed …’ Urgh, rambling now.
‘I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty and I’d say the best managers get down with the lower ranks,’ he said and walked off.
Ranks? He made his staff sound like an army regiment. I followed him. OK, I wasn’t perfect, but I never found it hard to apologise when I was in the wrong.
‘Wait a minute. Look, I’m sorry.’
Tremain turned around. ‘Whatever. Makes no difference to me. Gardener, handyman, management …’ His eyes flickered. ‘There are worse jobs a man can do.’
My heart squeezed as in that brief second his eyes revealed a degree of … damage. Once again I felt that urge to wrap my arms around his solid frame. What was that all about? Maybe, just maybe, there was a human being below that tough, uncompromising, robotic surface.
CHAPTER 5
‘We go together, like ramma ramma lamma, dippety dooby dooby, sha na na …’
‘Kate! You just murdered that chorus.’
‘Don’t be cheeky.’ I grinned and glanced sideways at Izzy as she drove along the coastal road. Or rather chugged—the volume of tourist traffic was high, but that didn’t matter as it meant we could enjoy the sea views. I never could remember the exact words to that brill song from Grease and turned down the volume of the CD player as Izzy pulled into a car park. On the journey yesterday, we’d played the soundtracks to all our favourite girls-night-in films—Bridget Jones, Love Actually, Pretty Woman, Bridesmaids … I might like historical series, but even I sometimes needed a chick flick accompanied by, yes, what else, doughnuts and cocktails.
Cars already lined every inch of the car park on top of the cliff, just as you got into Port Penny—no surprises there, due to the eggshell blue sky and picturesque sights. So we drove down into the town and finally we found a spot in a quiet cul-de-sac, up above Port Penny fishing town on the other side.
Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Page 5
