by Prue Leith
‘Sure, and the stuff Bob ordered is made of recycled and recyclable materials. But that’s not the point. Even if Caroline is right, she should never countermand one of her manager’s instructions without telling him, and land him with two bills which will make a hole in his budget and screw his relationship with his supplier.’
The other aggrieved executive had been the farm manager. Caroline had lost her temper when she’d found his tractor left running while he went into his house to fetch something. She’d banged on the front door and bawled him out in front of his wife and children and he was furious.
Joanna had promised Alasdair to have it out with Caroline, but she doubted it would do much good.
Her relationship with Caroline had never been great and it was getting worse. It was not just Caroline’s tactless handling of senior staff that worried Joanna. She found herself having to badger Caroline over the factory reduction which was not progressing at all, and the issue was becoming a battleground. And Joanna did not want to tell Stewart any of this because she knew he’d defend his daughter, and besides she thought she should manage it herself.
The agreement with Stewart that they would give Caroline six months to prove herself was up: she should now be insisting on Caroline’s departure. But – stupidly, unprofessionally but also magically – she’d fallen in love with Stewart, and had not done so.
She must return to it. But not now.
The other obstacle to a Yorkshire life was Pencarrick. It was beginning to get under her skin.
She came back to Stewart’s charge. ‘The thing is, I like my yo-yo existence, the variety of it – you and Greenfarms up north, singing and my little house in London. And this hotel.’
‘But, when you’ve done the job – got the Pencarrick business on track – then you could just take assignments in London, couldn’t you?You could be home with me almost every night.’
‘Or you could join me in the choir and stay in London. And, who knows, you might just fall for Cornwall.’ She sensed him about to give her reasons why not, so she flashed him a quick smile and said, ‘C’mon, darling. Neither of us really knows what we want yet …’
‘I do. I want you with me.’
‘And I want you with me. But where? That’s the point.’
Stewart dutifully admired the scenery as they meandered south and was fascinated by the quaint efficiency of King Harry Ferry which took them across the Fal by an old-fashioned pulley system hauling the ferry across the river.
As they drove into Pencarrick, she tried to see it with Stewart’s eyes. He must be impressed: the house looked a little shabby, yes, and the rhododendrons and azaleas, now over, were at their worst, but the expanse of sweeping lawn was emerald green, the pine trees dark against the brilliant sky, and the sea looked like a child’s picture book, dotted with little white yachts.
‘Wow,’ he said, climbing out of the car. ‘Great location.’
They walked round to the side terrace where Lucy was holding her cookery-writing workshop. The students were writing diligently and Lucy came round to meet them. She wore no make-up, was barefoot and in faded cotton cut-offs and a loose man’s shirt. Her spectacles were on the top of her head. She looked great.
‘So this is the famous Lucy!’ Stewart said. Joanna was glad to see approval in Lucy’s eyes. How could she not approve? Stewart was at his friendly, confident, charismatic best.
That evening the sea was calm but with just enough wind for a gentle evening sail. Joanna, who had sailed as a child in Australia, had taken it up again at Pencarrick. She’d had the chef pack some sandwiches, and at about six o’clock she and Stewart took the single-handed catamaran and headed round the point and up the Fal. They tacked gently up the wide estuary. After a blistering day it was wonderful to be on the water, with enough breeze to be pleasantly cool but no need for waterproofs or windcheaters. Stewart had been persuaded into a pair of jeans belonging to the sailing club tutor, and was lying, bare-chested except for a life vest, on the flat expanse of deck between the two hulls.
The tide was coming in and it was easy going. When they’d been on the water for an hour, Joanna sailed to the edge of the river, where the water was almost completely calm, and let the sail flap impotently. She crawled over Stewart’s outstretched legs to drop the anchor overboard, and, as she hoped he would, he put his hand up her shirt and captured her in a hug.
She wriggled out of his embrace. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you deal with this.’ She pushed the drinks carrier to him, while she investigated the coolbox. There were hefty Cornish pasties and sandwiches of Cornish goat’s cheese and tomato layered with basil leaves. Joanna opted for the sandwiches but Stewart said, ‘I’m starving. All this sea air and inspecting every loo and broom cupboard at Pencarrick, justifies a pasty.’
Joanna noticed how good he looked. At Greenfarms he often seemed impatient or worried. Now he took a large bite of his pasty and reached for his beer.
‘Well, my Joanna, this is certainly the life, isn’t it?’
‘Are you happy?’
‘You know I am, daft woman. This is wonderful.’ His face became serious. ‘But I am not sure you’re on quite the right track with the business.’
‘No?’ She could feel resentment trying to get in. I am the company doctor, she thought, I hope he is not going to tell me what I should be doing.
‘Well, are Innovest ever going to get the huge returns they’ll want? The place is charming, but it is not Champney’s or Chiva Som, is it? And if you are going to pay five hundred pounds a night or whatever, you’re going to want something grander than a workshop on a terrace with a barefoot writer, aren’t you?
‘Darling be fair! There’s a heatwave on! And writers are allowed to be eccentric. I agree, Pencarrick cannot work as it is now, no, but with an upmarket refurbishment and a really good spa, and lots more courses, why not? You said yourself that the location is terrific.’
She told him of her outline plans and how good it was going to be having Lucy down for the whole summer and Rebecca with them for six weeks. ‘I’ve hired a lot of the tutors from the old regime who were popular with the students last year. And I’ve got Nelson coming to try out singing classes in August.’
‘Blues?’
‘Anything he likes really. I’ve advertised the courses as Sing Your Heart Out (which is Nelson’s website name) without being specific.’
‘Who is doing the cooking? I’d come if someone would teach me to make a Cornish pasty this good.’
Joanna laughed. ‘Well you could be in luck, because up to now classes have been informal affairs with the chef and the students cooking supper together. Eventually we will have to have more celebrity course leaders I guess, though they will cost an arm and a leg – they’re hardly going to do it for a free stay in sunny Cornwall.’
‘Can I eat your pasty too?’ Stewart asked as the wake of a passing motorboat rocked the catamaran.
Joanna held her glass up to prevent it spilling. ‘Sure, go ahead.’
She told him that Orlando Black was doing a star turn and was surprised when he shook his head.
‘I’m not sure about the celebrity thing. I think if I wanted to learn to sail, say, I wouldn’t want to be taught by an Olympic yachtsman. I’d want a good teacher for beginners from a local sailing club, who knew the sea round here and who did it for a living.’
‘Good point. But how do you stop the place feeling like a hippy community? We need to be able to charge zillions to justify the investment.’
He refilled her wine glass and they talked on, chewing over the merits of informality and companionship against those of luxury and pampering. Joanna was surprised by Stewart’s preference for the simple life. Most of their time together had been in upmarket hotels, he had a chalet in St Moritz. She’d have thought he’d be for the upmarket option. Must be Caroline’s influence.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘we have the summer to investigate. And Rebecca will be spending her time thinking about interior des
igns. It will be fun, if nothing else.’
Stewart put his hand on her bare thigh and stroked it gently, almost absentmindedly. It made listening to him a little difficult. He said, ‘Darling, don’t be too disappointed if you are forced to conclude Innovest Five Star luxury won’t wash. There is no sentiment in backers, as you know. I’d hate you to suffer the agonies that Greenfarms has been through.’
‘Stewart,’ she said, ‘you’re forgetting. Pencarrick isn’t mine. I represent those hard-nosed backers here. If it doesn’t look good, no sweat, we’ll just sell it.’
But as she said it, she thought, I’m lying, it would hurt like hell.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rebecca drew the curtains of her bedroom at Pencarrick against the August sun. She’d have preferred to be topping up her tan on the terrace but then she wouldn’t be able to see her laptop screen properly.
She was entirely happy. Pencarrick, she thought, is the most beautiful old house, with charm and character and great-shaped rooms. Not a poky bedroom in the place and the huge sash windows seemed to let the light and seascape of Cornwall invade every room.
And you had to hand it to Joanna – she knew how to manage a business. The hotel ran on WD40, the food was delicious and the staff – Rebecca assumed they were from Poland or Lithuania or somewhere – worked like crazy and smiled all the time. And the participants (Joanna objected if she called them students) and teachers (oops, ‘course directors’) all loved it.
She was longing to start on the decor, which was boring and fusty beyond belief, but she was only allowed to plan, not do. She’d taken digital photos of all the rooms and was using the Make It Over software to change all the furnishings.
Joanna came in as she was playing round with an all-purple and black gothic theme.
‘God, Rebecca, that’s just awful!’ Joanna’s appalled face looked from computer screen to Rebecca in horror.
‘I know,’ grinned Rebecca. ‘Don’t worry, I’m just arsing about. It’s fun. Look, we could put skulls on the bookshelves and have a coffin for a coffee table … What do you think?’ A few more clicks and there was a great baroque crucifix on the wall.
‘Stop, stop,’ said Joanna, pulling a face. ‘How far are you with the real thing?’
‘Oh, Joanna, I’m so excited. Look, here comes Pencarrick as I hope and pray it will be.’
She hit a few keys and brought up a cool summer bedroom design, cream linen curtains; cream cotton bed linen; old lace on the pillows – not too many pillows or too much lace which would put off the male guests; stone and brown jute carpets and the existing antique furniture, mostly dark mahogany. No colour apart from one big burgundy vase on the floor full of purple cornus stems and a modern-gothic chandelier with burgundy glass beads threaded through the shabby-tat painted frame.
‘Oh, that’s just perfect. Beautiful,’ says Joanna, ‘but won’t it cost a fortune?’
‘No,’ replied Rebecca, looking a little smug. ‘The furniture is here already, the fabrics all come wholesale from the Far East, and the vase and chandelier are more Ikea than Conran.’
She clicked her way through the navy and oatmeal plunge-pool room, the deep green and red dining room, the brown and oxblood study and the rich burnt-orange drawing room with the existing family portraits cleaned and relit. The chintz curtains would be replaced with peach Thai silk bordered in brown.
Joanna was delighted. The designs were far better than she had imagined they would be, and were everything she’d hoped for: classy, understated, but somehow luxurious and imaginative. She’d not known exactly what she wanted but she did not want anything looking skimped, or overstuffed, or boring – or too formal, or shabby, or kitsch. Rebecca’s plans were none of these.
She hugged Rebecca and told her she was brilliant. Rebecca suppressed the desire to say she knew but it was nice to be told, and said a modest ‘Thanks’ instead.
Joanna would produce this year’s figures at the end of September and the board would decide if the money for a refurb would be forthcoming. I’ve just got to do a knock-socks-off presentation, with great pictures of every room, thought Rebecca, and hope that Joanna will convince them of the business case for the investment.
Rebecca resolved that if she got the job, she’d make damn sure the interiors got covered by all the glossies. That would put her on the map, and, she thought, would give her famous decorator ex a well-deserved jolt. He didn’t think she was brilliant, the mean bugger – only good enough to answer the phone and ring up the curtain makers.
She smiled at the thought that he hadn’t a clue she’d helped herself to his software and his colour swatches. He knew she was advising Joanna – probably thought she was selecting a few new curtains or chair covers for a B and B. He’d no idea of the size of the hotel or of the budget. Or that she was doing a job he’d kill for.
Rebecca sighed deeply, thinking that this might even beat shopping. As she gathered up her swatches and pattern books, planning to stop work, have a glass of Chardonnay on the terrace and then go down to the beach, an email popped into her box. It was from Angelica:
Hi Mum,
Hope all’s going well with the decor schemes. Had supper with Dad last night. Said he was worried you’d need help and not ask for it. But I told him you’d manage just fine.
Anyway, the reason for this email is to tell you that one of your male friends is now my mate too. Nelson. We went to a Smith’s Square concert together —you know, where they have the music in the church above a restaurant in the crypt underneath. He was just great. So interesting and kind. He bought me supper and two CDs – they are Haydn symphonies with Neville Marriner, the guy whose orchestra plays on old instruments, viols and harpsichords etc. And he’s taking me to a rehearsal at the Royal Festival Hall (Mozart and Stravinsky) and maybe I’ll meet some of the orchestra.
Nelson wanted me to join your choir for the Messiah. He gave me a little audition in the car! I’d love to, but I can’t skip uni so would only be able to come in September, which is stupid. Anyway, Mum, I know he’s at Pencarrick so can you tell him to get in touch – I haven’t got his email address and 1 don’t think there can be any reception at that place of yours because he doesn’t reply to texts or phone messages. Anyway, please tell him to email me or ring on a landline or something. I want to explain why I can’t do it. And see if he really meant it about the Royal Festival Hall.
Lots love, A
Rebecca read this through twice before she could sort out her reaction. On reading the first paragraph, it had been gratifying to find her daughter on her side in the long-running bicker of her parents, and the first few lines about Nelson had pleased her: for once Angelica was all approval, and also she was happy that Nelson had been in touch. She thought for a second that perhaps he was making an attempt at reconciliation through contact with her daughter.
And then, as she read on, her heart contracted in dismay and hurt. Nelson was getting at her by hitting on her daughter. It was revenge. He was trying to make her jealous. How could he?
She sat there, wanting both to cry and scream. Nelson had arrived at Pencarrick yesterday morning, and surely, if his motives were innocent, he’d have mentioned the concert. Angelica was only twenty-one: what did he think he was doing, a man of nearly fifty?
At one o’clock, calm now after her glass – well, two glasses – of wine, Rebecca climbed down the huge rock steps to the beach, treading awkwardly in her platforms. She was still angry with Nelson, but determined not to show it. First of all, she had to admit he had not done anything criminal, and secondly, now she considered it coolly, there had been little time for him to tell her anything. She had been out last night, dining in St Mawes with Orlando, and Nelson had been with his singing class yesterday afternoon and this morning.
Today the guests were having a barbecue lunch, with the cookery students cooking the fish and seafood they had bought at dawn on the quayside. Both Orlando and Nelson were on the beach.
Rebecca wave
d to Orlando who was grilling fish on the barbecue. Nelson was lying on his back, sunning his beautiful black body, eyes closed, and did not notice her. Having both Orlando and Nelson here together would normally have been a pleasant embarrassment of riches, full of opportunity and possibility. But she was upset with Nelson and glad she could ignore him.
She lay down on her towel, close enough to Orlando to call to him.
Orlando darling, can you do my back?’
Orlando turned over the wire-mesh fish-holder thing to cook the second side, and instructed one of his students to take over. He came to kneel by Rebecca. Lying on her stomach she undid her bikini top to bare her back. Orlando smoothed the cream efficiently and evenly, slipping the tips of his fingers under the waist band of her bikini bottoms to make sure there were no gaps, and oiling her neck with delicious massaging strokes. Rebecca shut her eyes and concentrated on his touch. Then she lifted her arms so that he could do her sides, hoping he would include the exposed sides of her breasts bulging out a little under her weight. He did, and it felt wonderful. When he’d done he asked,
‘How’s that?’
‘Pure heaven,’ said Rebecca. ‘You wouldn’t like to do my legs too, I suppose?’
Orlando obediently complied and went on stroking her legs long after every bit of sun cream was absorbed, but of course she did not stop him. Why would she? It felt so good she wanted to purr like a cat.
When the fish smelled decidedly cooked and Orlando finally stood up, Rebecca sat up and took her time to re-fasten her bikini top, telling herself that Cornwall was full of nudist beaches and there was nothing not to like about the look of her breasts.
Nelson, she noticed with satisfaction, got up, flicked his towel over his shoulder and left the beach without saying a word of goodbye to anyone, not even Joanna. Good, thought Rebecca, I bet he’s jealous, serve him right. She watched his strong legs and muscly back as he climbed the huge rock steps without a pause or a backward glance.
Within minutes, more of the cookery students appeared with classy salads and desserts they’d spent the morning on, and hampers of wine, ice, crockery etc. Lunch turned into a really good party, and they ended up playing hopscotch like kids. Rebecca even managed to get everyone following her in an aerobics class, done to a full-volume blast of Girls Aloud from her ghetto blaster. She knew she looked pretty good in her bikini: her tummy was flat and she was religious about the bottle-tan. She noticed Lucy’s slightly wobbly arms and pale dimpled legs and thought maybe the gym fees were worth it after all. She kept them all going to the beat, doing the routine with energy and precision and enjoying everyone’s eyes on her. And, she thought, I’m moving too fast for anyone to notice the wrinkly bits at the top of my arms.
