by Daisy James
Emilie turned to look at Matt, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Had she misheard or had he just said she was gorgeous? She felt her cheeks glow and a tingle of something pleasant spread out to her fingertips. But Matt didn’t seem to have noticed the effect his off-the-cuff comment had had on her.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind coming back for me?’
‘Not at all. The pub is only in the next village, and I can hardly refuse as I’m driving around in your bedroom. Make sure you give me a call before the clock strikes midnight and you turn into a pumpkin. Have fun!’
They had come to a halt at a flight of worn stone steps leading to the front terrace and a huge carved oak door. She stepped onto the gravel, rueing the fact that it wasn’t the most salubrious way to arrive to a glittery dinner party – from the front seat of an orange camper van when she saw the motionless snake of identical black Mercedes interrupted by a scarlet Porsche Boxster, which she assumed must be Grant’s.
‘Bye,’ she whispered.
A tsunami of anxiety replaced the previously pleasurable feeling that had coursed through her veins. She climbed the steps and stood on the terrace, too scared to ring the bell, watching the little camper van disappear down the driveway. What if Marcus had got this wrong and she had been invited to serve the cocktails, or even do the washing up? Belatedly, she realised that she was still clutching her camera in her clammy hands, but it was too late to call Matt back. She tried to shove it into her beaded bag but its lens stuck out at a jaunty angle. Sadly, elegance had never been one of her dominant traits.
‘Oh, hello. You must be Miss Roberts, the shoot’s photographer. I’m Grant Carlton-Rose, Lucinda’s husband. Welcome, come in, come in.’
Emilie tried to disguise her double-take. The man on the threshold, his muscular build framed by the impressive entranceway, was surely George Clooney’s younger brother. His hair was the same espresso brown, his lips drawn in a perfect Cupid’s bow, but it was his eyes that drew her to him. They held a warmth and gentleness she hadn’t expected and she instantly relaxed, knowing she was going to enjoy the evening.
‘Erm, yes, yes. Please, call me Emilie.’
She offered him her hand to shake but he touched her fingertips and pulled her towards him to deposit a kiss on each cheek. His lemony aftershave tickled at her nostrils and she almost swooned like a teenager at a boy band concert as it reminded her of Matt.
Grant led her through the impressive hallway, complete with split mahogany staircase and polished banister that was screaming for her to slide down. Her stilettos clacked on the parquet flooring as he showed her into the drawing room on their left.
‘Can I fix you a drink?’ Grant smiled, displaying a perfect set of teeth, confirming her impression of the movie star’s doppelgänger.
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘Champagne okay?’
‘Perfect, thanks.’
‘Be right back. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?’
Grant left the room and the lights seemed to dim in his absence. Still, it was a stunning room and he clearly wasn’t treating her as the hired help, which made her feel better. She sauntered over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the grounds. Twilight had sung its last verse and darkness had descended.
She turned to check out the décor. Smooth, shot-silk curtains the colour of Indian gold hung at both windows and adorned the plump matching window seats. The theme of navy blue and gilt continued throughout the room, from the picture frames to the mirror above the fireplace, creating an air of opulence and comfort. The overstuffed, midnight-blue sofas crowded around the hearth. They were separated by an exquisite Persian rug. Emilie could envisage its owners snuggling up on the silk pile whilst a fire crackled in the grate to warm their toes on a cold winter’s night.
Lucinda’s arrival brought an abrupt end to Emilie’s daydream. She looked every inch a celebrity in her full-length emerald sheath dress and matching earrings the size of marbles. Her chestnut curls glistened with strands of gold in the overhead chandelier and, for a change, her nails shimmered with jade green varnish instead of her signature crimson.
‘Ah, Millie, you’re here. Good. Grant darling, will you hurry the others along, please? I don’t want to keep Millie waiting and I’d like a few drinks before we sit down for dinner.’
‘It’s Emilie, dear,’ corrected Grant, rolling his eyes at Emilie behind his wife’s back, causing her to giggle until she saw the look on Lucinda’s face. ‘Here you are, Emilie, one glass of English champagne. Although to be honest, I did try to suggest to Lucinda that we partake in a few glasses of the local Scrumpy.’
Grant smiled as he handed the crystal flute to her before leaving the room again to do as bid. Emilie cringed at the prospect of having to make small talk with Lucinda but she was saved from the social ritual when only a few seconds later two couples appeared in the doorway.
‘Tom, Olivia! Oh, gorgeous gown, Olivia. Dior? Right, you can be first,’ declared Lucinda, sweeping over to the magnificent stone fireplace. ‘I want one of each couple here, and then a group one over there by the window. Shouldn’t take too long and our photographer can be on her way.’
Emilie felt her jaw slacken and for some reason her feet were rooted to the spot as the full implication of her error hit her square in the solar plexus, whipping the breath from her lungs. How could she have been so stupid? She hadn’t been invited to join Lucinda for dinner with her celebrity friends. How presumptuous she had been! She was there to photograph them, like the minion she was; on permanent standby to cater to her famous employer’s every whim – tonight’s to record the evening for posterity for her VIP guests.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment but she wound in her jaw and managed to swallow down the acidic taste of humiliation whilst Lucinda’s back was turned. Unfortunately, Grant had appeared at the door. In an instant he realised what had happened and took pity on her.
‘Come on. Let’s do this quickly so Emilie can get back to her friends. She really is very generous to give up her time like this when surely it’s off brief, Lucinda?’
Emilie flashed him a grateful look. In the following ten minutes she drew heavily on her experience with difficult clients to complete several full-length and close-up photographs of Lucinda and Grant’s dinner guests before finding herself deposited unceremoniously back on the front doorstep. She was anxious to make as swift a getaway as possible.
‘Are you sure I can’t call you a cab?’ asked Grant, his chocolate brown eyes crinkling at the corners in sympathy.
‘Oh, no, no thank you. My friend is waiting for me at the pub in the village. He’s already on his way,’ she lied.
‘Okay, well, it was good to meet you, Emilie. I’m looking forward to seeing the proofs and, please, make sure you invoice Lucinda for your time this evening.’
‘I will. Thank you.’
Emilie cantered down the stone steps, feeling more than a little foolish in her stilettos and ankle-length dress for a twenty-minute photography session, her dream of spending an evening in the company of celebrities in tatters. Not one of the other guests had spoken to her or acknowledged her existence in any way except for Grant. But it was all her own fault, and maybe a little of Marcus’s.
Lucinda hadn’t said she was inviting her to dinner and if she thought about it sensibly, why would she? Emilie hardly knew her, had never met her husband until that night and Lucinda was entertaining close friends whilst her husband was down from the City for the weekend. Why on earth would she want to invite the shoot’s photographer to join them and not Marcus, her PA? It was too ludicrous for words.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Grant had closed the door, then hitched up her skirt and tucked it into the top of her knickers, slid off her shoes and broke into a sprint until she exited the gates. She grabbed her phone from her bag and texted Matt to come and get her, not wanting to verbalise her embarrassment until she had come to terms with what a
fool she had made of herself.
Her phone buzzed back immediately. ‘On my way.’
Emilie was so relieved to read the words that tears smarted at her lower lashes for the first time. She resolved to never, ever take an invitation at face value again. Whilst she was certain Grant had sussed the situation, she was grateful for his subsequent discretion in not divulging her mistake to Lucinda. That little nugget of mortification would have made the culinary trip even more like a scenario from a Mr Bean movie.
Chapter Nine
‘What happened? I hadn’t even had the chance to order my meal when I got your text,’ Matt complained as they hurtled away from the scene of her humiliation towards The White Horse where he had left his pint on the bar.
Emilie glanced across at him, his forehead creased in confusion and genuine concern, but this only made her feel more embarrassed for misinterpreting Lucinda’s invitation. However, the sooner she confessed to being a presumptuous idiot the better.
‘Seems that I was needed at The Risings in a professional capacity; to take on the role of one-woman photo shoot coordinator for Lucinda’s VIP guests. I fulfilled my surprise assignment and left as quickly as possible with my tail firmly clasped between my legs.’
Matt slowed down for the sharp right-hand bend into the pub car park. ‘Sorry? You were invited to take photographs of her guests? That’s a little insulting, don’t you think? Was it part of the contract between her management and your agency that you should be on call for whenever Lucinda decides she wants a record of her social engagements?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, you should have refused.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s done. And I did get to meet Grant Carlton-Rose. He’s actually very nice. As well as being incredibly handsome, he was generous and courteous. I think he realised what had happened but he didn’t make an issue about it. And he told me to send Lucinda an invoice for my time.’
‘I’m sorry that had to happen, Emilie. Okay then, I now intend to make it my mission to rescue your evening. Come on. It’s about time you sampled a pint of Cornish Scrumpy, which is made from the apples that inspired today’s recipes.’
‘Oh, Matt, I’d rather…’
‘Won’t take no for an answer,’ he called over his shoulder as he made his way into the pub.
‘What exactly is Scrumpy, anyway?’
‘It’s a strong farmhouse cider. “Scrump” actually means small or withered apple. It’s not like its more commercially produced cousin, but cloudy in appearance and a great deal more potent, so be warned. Here, try it.’
‘Mmm, you can really taste the apples. Actually, I think I could get to like it!’ Emilie glugged down half the glass in one go. She licked her lips in appreciation as the alcohol tingled through her veins.
‘Hey, take it slowly. Like I said, it’s strong stuff.’
‘It’s delicious,’ she declared as she finished off the pint. ‘I’ll have another and maybe we can order one of those Ploughman’s Platters to go with it?’ She indicated a huge plate of local cheeses, home-made bread and pickles being tackled by a couple at a nearby table.
‘Given up on the coffee and crisps diet, eh?’
She went to find a seat whilst Matt waited at the bar to order their food.
They settled companionably on the leather banquette next to the fireplace, sipping their drinks whilst they waited for their food to appear. She realised her camera was still in her bag and removed it to take a few quick snaps of the Scrumpy against the backdrop of the country pub. When he returned, she showed them to Matt who grinned.
‘You are really talented, you know. You should definitely go freelance. You’ll have clients queuing up for your services.’
Never one to accept compliments easily, and emboldened by the effect of the Scrumpy, she decided there was no better time to spin the tables on Matt and find out a little more about his past and his ambitions for the future: business and personal.
‘Do you have someone special waiting for you in Northumberland?’
Matt smiled at the directness of the question that he knew she would never have asked without the alcohol muting her social niceties app. ‘Not at the moment. There was someone before I came down to Cornwall, but it wasn’t anything serious, and my mum text me last month to tell me that Marcie has just got engaged. There was also a short maternal sermon on the negative effects of leading an itinerant lifestyle, which I know she will expand on when I get back home.’
‘God, that’s just what my mum is like too. Do you know, I still haven’t found the courage to tell my parents that Brad and I have split up for good? I just don’t want to worry them.’ She didn’t want to waste her time talking about Brad so she swiftly changed the subject. ‘So, tell me about your microbrewery in Northumberland. Why did you give it up for the life of a surfing nomad?’
Matt fiddled with his glass for a few seconds, his body language suddenly tense, his jaw clenched as he drew up the drawbridge on his emotions. But then his shoulders dropped and he let out a long ragged sigh.
‘Owning and running a brewery was a long-standing dream of mine, and my brother Jamie’s. We were always experimenting with different beverages. If it could be made into a drink we’d try it, always adding an unusual twist. Once we added a whole jar of pickled ginger to a vat of elderberry wine. It was disgusting, but Mum and Dad made a fuss about it and we were encouraged to keep at it. We graduated to home-brew kits – some more successful than others, some more akin to liquid yeast than beer, and others with such a lethal level of alcohol that my mum forbade us to even sample it. Don’t tell her, but we still did!’
Emilie laughed but said nothing so as not to interrupt the flow of Matt’s story. From the expression on his face she could tell that he was wrestling with a kaleidoscope of feelings – joy at recalling his teenage escapades but tinged with the ever-present sadness that she had noticed the first time she met him and didn’t seem able to eradicate.
‘We’d bottle the good stuff and sell it at the local village fair in aid of one of Mum’s WI charities. It was great to know that people were actually paying to drink our home-made stuff. And once we saw the colour of their money that only spurred us on further. When I was in the sixth form we rented a barn from a local farmer in return for a couple of crates of beer as rent and carried on experimenting.’
‘It sounds like you and your brother had lots of fun.’
‘We did, but Dad insisted I went to university. He’d never had the opportunity to go and when I got four A’s in my A levels he counselled me not to miss out. I took his advice but when I finished my law degree I couldn’t face the prospect of toiling away in an office for the rest of my working life. Jamie had just completed a catering course at the college and we decided to go for it with Dad’s blessing. He and Mum loaned us a couple of grand, we applied for a local enterprise grant, and we worked our butts off to make the microbrewery a success.’
‘So how did Jamie feel about being left to manage the brewery whilst you gallivanted around the country seeking out the best surf?’ She laughed, swallowing another gulp of the sweet nectar, oblivious to the effect it was having on her ability to think straight.
‘Erm, well…’
Emilie saw a spasm of pain streak across Matt’s handsome features and realised there was an epilogue to his story. ‘Oh, ignore me. I’m famous for poking my nose into other people’s business. Just ask Alice.’
With impeccable timing their meal arrived and they dug in, devouring every morsel. Emilie was grateful they’d ordered something substantial to eat as she was beginning to feel decidedly fuzzy-headed, yet she had only consumed two pints. She made a concerted effort to restart their conversation on neutral ground.
‘I loved the Cornish Mine Punch you made for the beach party. Perhaps you can let me have the recipe to try out on Alice? She’s usually a vodka martini girl, but I’m sure she can be persuaded to diversify.’
Matt smiled gratefully. ‘Actually I can do better than that. Whilst I’ve been down here this summer I’ve written a few articles for a drinks magazine. Next month’s centre spread is by Yours Truly and features the origins, the recipes and some decidedly dodgy photographs of a few of Cornwall’s more tantalising local brews, including the very same Cornish Mine Punch you sampled at the barbeque. I’ll email you a copy if you like.’
‘I’d love that!’
‘I didn’t want to say anything in case you thought I had an ulterior motive for getting involved in this tour, but one of my ambitions is to publish a book on Great British Beverages. There are so many artisans producing quality products on a small scale in this country that their expertise and dedication to their craft deserves to be celebrated. Hugo’s already agreed to be featured and has even offered some sponsorship, as well as a contact who makes pastis up in Wadebridge. There’s also the whisky distillery over in Falmouth I mentioned earlier. You never know, I might just be the first client to engage your services for photography if you decide to go freelance in the future. Not sure I could afford your London agency’s prices.’
Matt smiled at her and her heart melted, although she suspected that had an awful lot to do with the alcohol that was surging through her body. As she stood to make her way to the bathroom, her legs inexplicably crumpled beneath her and she had to clutch the edge of the table for support before returning to her seat with an undignified bump and a ripple of laughter.
‘Come on.’ Matt smirked, tossing his hair behind his ears before he slotted his arm around her waist and guided her towards the door. ‘I told you to take it easy with the Scrumpy. It’s lethal stuff if you’re not used to it. Totally different to its mass-produced counterpart.’
She focused every molecule of her attention on putting one foot in front of the other, determined not to embarrass herself any further that day. But when they got outside, the cool night air slapped her in the face like a wet fish and she lost her composure. She slumped heavily against Matt’s sturdy body, forcing him to half-carry, half-drag her towards the camper van. He let go of her arm briefly so he could grab the handle and slide back the door. Emilie stumbled against him, but he managed to catch her before she hit the ground, wrapping both his arms around her body to hold her upright.
