So much for the mother-daughter chat. Maeve had always claimed that her reason for leaving was because she couldn’t go on living with ghosts. Never mind the ghosts, Harry wanted to say; what about the living? What about me?
This was her comfort, she realised, looking out across the water. She’d muddled on without a family this far, so she could carry on relying on herself. Below, to one side, the neat weatherboard buildings looked reassuringly black and solid against the pale dawn; and, ahead, the cluster of small boats out on the moorings turned as one as they caught the stirrings of the tide. Then she envisaged it with concrete terraces and wooden decking spilling to private moorings, and luxury motorboats waiting to disrupt the peace. Upmarket food driven in from a faraway Waitrose – or, if they were particularly intrepid, assembled with the help of a cocky TV chef’s latest food porn manual – would smoulder on barbecues. The younger children would scream their heads off, while the older ones mucked around in dinghies or sulked because there was nowhere to surf. Harry folded her arms as the cold air travelled over her bare legs. No, she wasn’t going to stand back and allow that to happen.
Rely on yourself. She hurried back inside and closed the door. That was the answer, that’s what she’d needed to do all along. Throwing a dressing gown round her shoulders, she grabbed her laptop and propped herself up in bed. The phone call to her mother had only highlighted what she’d already known; who was it who’d traipsed round after her mother had left, visiting suppliers, cajoling them into extending her credit? Who’d phoned up every yachtsman on Watling’s books, reassuring them that service at the boat yard would be even better than it was in the past? Who’d squashed the whispering campaign that a young girl simply wouldn’t be able to do the heavy work? Yep, that had been her. All by herself.
Harry scrolled through page after page, bookmarking sites for reference and making a list of numbers to ring. Initially she’d feared that, whilst she didn’t know what a panic attack felt like, there was a serious risk she was about to find out. Then she’d taken a couple of deep breaths and ploughed on, trying to disregard the eye-watering figures being bandied about.
Whether it was hyperventilation or exhilaration that was making her giddy, Harry wasn’t sure, but the zing of fighting back made her want to punch the air. For the next three months all the major yachting magazines would carry large ads for ‘Watling’s berthing and boat yard – where help is always at hand’. If George counted as help, that was. Harry continued going through the list. Sheltered berthing? Check. Storage ashore? Check. Package deals for fitting out? Check. Resprays, refits large and small, repairs and rigging. You bet. There wasn’t much she couldn’t turn her hand to, although some of the electronics could be a bit tedious. Who wouldn’t be interested in taking a second look?
Okay, it had cost more than she hoped, but if it brought in extra business it was worth it. The busier Watling’s looked, the less appealing it would be to the kind of second-homers Matthew was hoping to attract. If she had ever, in weaker moments, entertained thoughts of succumbing to Matthew’s offer, this would be the money-spinner that would chase such thoughts away. No going back – first strike to her.
Feeling more positive than she had in weeks, she lay back, closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Deep in the bowels of G Mag House, Corinne Akoley, a pretty black English graduate, noted an ad that had just been taken on Cruising Monthly. Not the most glamorous magazine in the G Mag stable and not, as Corinne joked, as much fun as the title suggested. Its main readership consisted of a dwindling supply of armchair sailors. Its editor, a ruddy-faced, wiry-haired man in his fifties, had just been ousted in favour of a frumpy but feisty thirty-something woman. A woman who, having exhausted every team challenge she could find on the high seas, had taken on the far riskier gamble of turning CM into a publication readers might want to buy. Of most interest to Corinne was the fact that she was also rumoured to be receptive to new ideas, especially anything that cocked a snook at the rather fusty gentlemen’s club of contributors she’d inherited from the previous editor.
Having perused the back copies of CM and finding no coverage of the sleepy backwater mentioned in the ad, Corinne composed a succinct email to her boss. She proposed an article on Little Spitmarsh, suggesting that it would be both an ideal stopover on an east coast cruise or an interesting place to explore in its own right, and telling the new boss why she’d be a good person to write the article. ‘Good one, Corinne,’ she told herself, and pressed send.
The summons came even faster than she’d imagined. Corinne had barely enough time to rush to Starbucks and grab a double espresso for mental agility and a chocolate muffin for a quick sugar rush. She’d just made it back to G Mag House, when a woman in a silver trench coat and leopard-print stilettos powered out of the revolving door straight into her.
‘Oh, you clumsy cow!’ the woman shrieked, staring at her coat in horror. ‘Do you know how much this cost?’
Corinne, who was certain that the lid was still firmly on her coffee, neither knew nor cared; but, with a coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other, she hadn’t been able to save the pages of notes she’d been studying whilst she’d been in the Starbucks queue. Crouching down to rescue them before they were scattered all over the West End, she balanced her coffee on the floor and stretched out a hand – just in time to see them speared by a leopard-print stiletto.
‘Just a minute,’ the woman said. ‘Let me see what you’ve got there.’
‘I’m only waiting for charts to arrive and then I’m going to sail up and see my daughter in Hull.’ It was a line Johnny MacManus trotted out regularly, as if he was trying to convince himself that he really was going to cast off one day and escape the backwaters. Standing there in a pair of once-white Y-fronts – which appeared to be the full extent of his summer wardrobe – he convinced no one, least of all George.
From the pontoon George looked down on the cockpit cluttered with dirty plates, battered saucepans, half-empty tins of beans and spent cans of strong lager. ‘Ah! Well, best those charts come soon then. Probably be a sight cheaper up there than down ’ere.’
‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ Johnny laughed, running his hands over his close-cropped grey hair and picking out something of interest. ‘Nowhere’s cheaper than here!’
George tapped the side of his nose. ‘You ’aven’t ’eard this, right. See that there clubhouse.’ With Johnny’s crossed eyes it was hard to tell whether he was looking at the clubhouse, or indeed whether he was sober enough to register it. ‘That is soon gonna be a restaurant ’eaving with yuppies.’
‘What?’
‘Folks with plenty of money.’ George squatted down, braving the sour smell of alcohol emanating from Johnny just to make sure he was still following his train of thought. ‘Them yuppies is desperate to find moorings for their yachts.’
‘So?’
‘Well, think about it, my friend. What would you do if you was Miss Harriet and there was folks with money burning ’oles in their pockets?’
Johnny’s mouth went slack.
‘That’s right, my friend. Come September when Miss Harriet starts looking at spaces here, she’s going to put ’er prices through the roof. Why not, when she can fill every mooring twice over? So if I was you, Johnny, I’d chase those charts up pretty smart. Do yerself a favour and get yerself up to yer daughter’s.’
As he walked away, George heard the pop of a ring pull as another can of strong lager was doomed to lie with the other fallen soldiers in the cockpit. Good, he thought. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Good riddance, too, to all the other assorted flotsam and jetsam that generally washed up at Watling’s at this time of year.
By putting the word out that essential maintenance was being carried out and space at the yard was severely limited, he hoped to deter many of the timewasters who contributed so little to Watling’s well-being. Once they’d cut out all the bad, he and Miss Harriet could fill the place with respectable c
ustomers. George knew exactly the sort he had in mind and they weren’t going to be lured all that way just to look at the scenery. Offer ’em a swanky new restaurant when they’d got fed up with being cold and miserable, and it would be a different story. They’d be queuing up to claim they’d been the first to discover the place!
Back in his shed, satisfied with a job well done, George made a strong cup of tea and selected a custard cream to dunk in it. As far as he was concerned, Matthew Corrigan was a bright young feller with sharp ideas who had been consistent in his concerns for the boat yard. Trouble was that, in Miss Harriet’s eyes, no one lived up to her father. Would she still be so devoted to his memory if she ever found out what had really gone on?
Feverishly restless and always looking for a challenge, Harry senior had been a great bear of a man, passionate, impatient and so full of energy it was almost as if he had an intuitive sense that time was running out. George’s eyes clouded with tears as he recalled the man who’d given him a chance when they were both at their lowest ebb, broken from past lives in the Far East. Harry, his fingers badly burnt after a business partnership had ended in acrimony, had seen past the man so mentally scarred by his war, and hired George to help at the boat yard he was creating, hoping to make a fresh start. When Harry senior set eyes on a pretty little twenty-year-old brunette who had fetched up at Watling’s with her boyfriend, George really believed that the hurt had healed. Maeve stayed, the boyfriend left alone, and if Miss Harriet had arrived with what some would call indecent haste, where was the harm in that?
George cursed as the soggy half of the custard cream suspended in his fingers broke off and splashed into his tea. If only he could make Miss Harriet see that Matthew Corrigan could be the solution to the boat yard’s problems. Her father hadn’t been able to let go of the past and it had destroyed him. How far would he have to go to ensure that nothing rose up to the surface that would bring Miss Harriet down too?
The problems were beginning to stack up, thought Matthew. Coming up with a name for the restaurant didn’t seem so clever when he still didn’t have a chef. Using the restaurant as the springboard for a much larger development wasn’t feasible unless Harry Watling rolled over, did the decent thing and gave up some land. Harry Watling wasn’t his only frustration; Gina’s ploy had obviously been to make him so jealous that he’d hotfoot it back to her. His libido might be all for it, but his ego wouldn’t let him. Until he had something positive about the development that he could wave under Gina’s nose so she could see how wrong her predictions of failure had been, he wouldn’t bother.
There had to be a way to make Harry listen to him, he thought, slamming the door of the Volvo and trudging towards his development. Well, there was no chance of charming her into submission, so he could rule that out. The look on her face, when he’d assured her that seducing owners into selling their land wasn’t one of his usual business methods, had been priceless! He tried to imagine what her hair would look like when she hadn’t been dragging a pair of goggles through it. Or what her soft mouth would do if it wasn’t pursed in anger. And maybe ear defenders didn’t make for the hottest of looks, certainly not with those habitual dungarees.
Mentally discarding the dungarees, Matthew reasoned that, given all that physical work, Harry was probably very fit; but the dungarees gave so little away he was having trouble filling in the gaps. Were her breasts cute and pert, or soft and succulent? Did she have a flat surfboard stomach for a hard, exhilarating ride, or a sweet, feminine softness? Wait a minute! No, I did not think that, Matthew told himself, rewinding fast. No, he was never going to find out what was going on beneath Harry Watling’s dungarees, because he was never going to take her to bed. In any case, she was far too likely to scowl and bend his ear half the night about his wanton desecration of Little Spitmarsh. Not so much of a guilty pleasure but rather a making-you-feel-guilty pleasure, and he was tired of being told what a terrible idea his redevelopment of the area was. Couldn’t Harry see that what was good for him would help her business, too?
The sight of his project stopped him in his tracks. From the outside, at least, the building was looking a whole lot more attractive than it had done in years. With a new roof and fresh timber cladding stained an ethereal silver grey, the neglected building was scrubbing up pretty well. Floor-to-ceiling windows, mirroring Campion’s Creek and flooding what would be the dining area with light, would complete the transformation. A chef would be useful too.
His boys had been just as thorough about the interior: asbestos cladding, old ceilings and clapped-out kitchen and bathroom fittings removed, to leave a bare shell that was even more promising than he’d anticipated. All the same, there was a lot of making good to do before the interior designer could get in. And, he thought, still some clutter. He eyed a clapped-out chest of drawers which, judging by the footprints in the plaster dust on the top, had doubled – quite illegally – as a ladder, and decided to jettison it before one of his workmen took a dive off the top and broke a collarbone. Peering in a drawer, Matthew remembered why he hadn’t thrown the thing out in the first place. The question was, if the Spitmarsh Yacht Club had done without their paperwork all this time, was there any point in returning it to them now? On balance he thought not, and was about to tip the entire contents in the pile destined for the skip, when a thicker piece of rolled paper caught his eye. He spread it out and bent over to look at it more closely – then whistled softly through his teeth.
This was more than just a piece of scrap paper he was holding; now he had Harry Watling in the palm of his hand, too.
Chapter Eight
There were worse ways to spend an evening than sitting at a bar downing champagne, but Matthew was starting to feel that during his brief visit to London he ought to be doing more than watching the bubbles rise in his glass. His solicitor Piers Scott apparently thought so too, as he eyed a cluster of sharply dressed women and smoothed down his fine blond hair in preparation for muscling in. Quite a contrast to his disapproving manner earlier in the day, when Matthew had made his appointment with only seconds to spare.
‘So this is a legal document, then?’ Matthew had asked, lifting his gaze from the parchment spread out before them. The whole thing seemed so far-fetched that he still expected to be told it was a hoax.
Piers silently adjusted a crested cufflink. ‘Absolutely. It was granted as a reward to one Percival Campion, innkeeper and purveyor of fine oysters. Apparently the king, having consumed a meal of his oysters, spent a night of passion at Campion’s establishment with an unnamed lady and felt moved to express his gratitude. Acts of Parliament ensured the ownership was passed on with the land.’
Piers had paused for what in anyone else Matthew would have called dramatic effect, then added, ‘I trust there will be an invitation for me when the restaurant opens?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Naturally. But I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed if you were hoping to test the effects of the local oysters. Unfortunately, they were seen off by pollution and disease at the beginning of the last century.’
Piers looked at him over his steepled hands. ‘A pity. Still, I can always put you in touch with a very good Scottish supplier. Perhaps you could drill for oil instead?’
Matthew grinned. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve just struck gold.’
Now, as he watched Piers charm his way into the group of women, he wondered if Gina was missing him – or was she too wrapped up in her latest boyfriend? He noticed Piers nod in his direction. One of the women looked round, smiled and swivelled in her chair to turn her body towards him.
Matthew smiled politely and turned away. If he caught a cab over to Gina’s, was there was any way he could pretend he was just passing? It was easy to overlook the rows and the fights as the memories of all the good things about their relationship came flooding back. He was so tempted to find an excuse to drop in on her that he could even smell the fruity, leathery smell of her distinctive Hermes perfume.
Suddenly, someo
ne covered his eyes with cool hands and a familiar voice whispered in his ear, ‘Are you real?’
Matthew’s stomach lurched as he turned and met the sultry, knowing gaze of the girl every man in the room was staring at. His eyes travelled down the black satin dress with God-knew-what delights underneath. He followed her endless legs down to towering gold sandals and then took the trip back up to the top.
He got to his feet. Piers, apparently remembering where he’d started the evening, was approaching fast.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Matthew said quickly and, taking Gina’s hand, spirited her out into the night.
Finding out that the astonishingly good-looking guy in Gina’s photos wasn’t her lover had done a lot to ease some tensions, even if it had provoked the usual weary plea to read the dross she produced. ‘If you had, then you’d know that the actress he’s been dating back home in Sydney isn’t at all happy about the succession of beautiful young women he’s been papped with.’ And the rest of the night had eased a lot more besides, but it hadn’t resolved everything. Come on, Matthew, he told himself sharply, they’d never made any commitment to each other, kept their lives and apartments pretty much separate. Last time they’d ostensibly split for good. Wasn’t that what he most admired about her? Her spirit? Her independence? That she never demanded any promises about the future from him? So why did it all seem so mechanical? Why did he sometimes wonder how it would feel to be in a more traditional relationship?
Matthew had just slipped an arm round her so that they could finally settle down for the night, when she pulled herself free and met his gaze, her dark blue eyes sparkling. ‘Of course it will take some organising, but I’ve had a brilliant idea. I want to do an article on illicit weekends for What’s Hot. I might as well make use of this restaurant you’re building. We’ll stage a party there, pick some good-looking models who look as if they can’t keep their hands off each other and create a little photo drama around them.’
Turning the Tide Page 7
