by Liz Fielding
‘It’s wonderful. Very warming.’ Janice collected the steaks, muttering beneath her breath. Quiet descended. Fizz took another mouthful of wine.
‘Now what would you like me to cook for you? Medallions of lamb? Or I’ve some fresh halibut.’
‘Nothing. Really. I’m not hungry. Come and talk to me, John.’
‘It can wait, it’s not urgent.’
‘Tell me the worst, John.’
He fetched another chair, poured wine into another glass and savoured it for a moment. Then he said, ‘An uncle gave me a case of this last week.’
Uncles. She was heartily sick of uncles. ‘I congratulate you on your excellent taste in relations.’
‘He’s a wine merchant. My mother told him that he should call in and let me look at his list. He was so surprised by the place that I have the feeling he thought I was serving burgers and chips with the occasional can of lager on the side.’ Fizz took another sip of John’s uncle’s wine. It really was very good. ‘He stayed for lunch. On the house, of course. In return for the wine.’
‘Of course. I hope he was thoroughly impressed.’
‘Oh, yes. In fact he was so impressed with my cooking that he came back yesterday. He’s offered to put up the money for me to open a restaurant of my own.’ He made a little gesture that might have been apology, or constrained triumph. ‘I expect to be able to buy him out over five years.’
‘You signed a contract for the season, John,’ she reminded him.
‘Would you keep me to it?’
She considered the damage a disgruntled chef could do and shook her head. ‘That really wouldn’t be very wise, would it? When will you go?’
‘As soon as we can find the right premises.’
‘Then you have my very best wishes.’ He said nothing. ‘I knew you wouldn’t stay more than a couple of years, of course. You’re far too ambitious to work for somebody else.’
‘To be honest I didn’t expect an opportunity like this to come up so soon.’
‘Where are you going to look for premises?’
‘I hadn’t given it much thought. I don’t suppose you’ll want me too close to the Pavilion.’
Fizz picked up the bottle of John’s special reserve. ‘Have another glass of wine.’
*****
The wine, combined with two sleepless nights, were not the best preparation for a meeting but Fizz took her place at the table in the boardroom promptly at two and managed to look reasonably alert as various matters were discussed.
Michael had been chairman, but her father had taken on the role and was looking extremely pleased with himself, Fizz thought, as the meeting progressed. A bit like a cat that has swallowed a canary and not been found out.
‘Now,’ he said, as they reached the item concerning a new board member. ‘You all know the circumstances that resulted in the resignation of Michael Harries from this board and I know we are all agreed that he will be very much missed for his enthusiasm and help since the inception of the Trust.’ There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘I believe it would be appropriate if the Trust were to present him with a token of our appreciation and if you agree I will elicit ideas as to an appropriate gift after the meeting.’
Agreement having been sought and obtained, they moved on to the question of who should be invited to join the Board in his place. Edward smiled benignly around the table.
‘I’m glad to be able to report that one of our members has been thinking on her feet in this regard.’
There were only two ladies present and as Lady Stockley, the wife of the local MP shrugged in a manner that disassociated herself from anything as dangerous as thinking, Fizz suddenly found herself the centre of attention.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Fizz has apparently had the quick wit to suggest to the new owner of Harries Industries that he take up where Michael left off.’
‘Oh, excellent.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘Will he do it?’
As the murmur of excitement flowed around the table Fizz went first pink, then white.
Edward Beaumont beamed. ‘I take it everyone is in agreement? Can I have a proposer?’
‘Oughtn’t we to discuss it?’ Fizz said, quickly. ‘I mean we don’t really know anything about him.’ She was being stared at. ‘I did mention it to him, but he didn’t seem very keen. He has business interests all over the world, I’m not sure that he has any long term plans to stay in Broomhill.’
‘My dear girl,’ Lady Stockley said with a smile she normally reserved for election night successes, ‘you obviously don’t listen to your own radio station.’
‘Not twenty-four hours day,’ she agreed and turned to her father for help.
‘Jim interviewed Luke on the lunchtime news programme. Apparently there was a bit of bother over the weekend and he wanted everyone to know that Harries was safe, that there’ll be no compulsory redundancies and that he’ll be investing in plant and machinery.’
‘And he’s approached the local authority about acquiring some adjoining land. He wants to expand the Enterprise Park. It seems he’s decided to make Broomhill his headquarters.’
‘No,’ she said, rather loudly. The room fell silent and waited for her to continue. She wanted to say that he was sucking them all in. That he was bad news. But she couldn’t. He had sucked her in. He was her bad news. ‘No, I didn’t hear the radio broadcast.’
There was a general expulsion of held breath and laughter as relief rippled around the room.
‘Then perhaps you would like to propose the motion, Fizz?’ her father invited. No one waited for the formal proposition, which was probably just as well. The motion was seconded. Edward looked around. ‘I take it the vote is unanimous? Excellent. Fizz, I think you should have the honour of inviting Mr Devlin to join us. He’s waiting in the Green Room.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WHILE he waited for the board of the Broomhill Bay Pier Trust to make their decision, Luke Devlin slowly traversed the four walls of the Green Room, absorbed by the dozens of photographs that lined it.
Most were of Edward Beaumont and Elaine French in roles they had famously played, individually and as the theatrical world’s favourite leading twosome. More recent photographs included Claudia, alone and with her father. He had seen them in A Merchant of Venice when they had toured Australia.
Not his first choice for entertainment, but Melanie had asked him if he could get tickets and on an impulse he had telephoned and asked his sister if she would like to come. Such a small thing to touch so many lives.
He moved on. Not all the photographs were theatrical stills. A few were more personal, family groups. The Beaumonts had put on their make-up and performed for their loving audience it seemed not just on the stage but in their personal lives.
It was possible that their joint roles as the perfect couple and most loving parents had been Edward and Elaine’s greatest triumph. No one had ever questioned it, probably because most people wanted the illusion to be true.
Even now people still thought of them as the ideal couple and Edward Beaumont, a good looking man with charisma thick enough to spread on toast and the kind of temptations to philander that would turn the head of a saint, was apparently immune to the usual newspaper tittle-tattle.
He stopped to look more closely at one photograph, Fizz and Claudia, little girls, building a snowman with their parents. It looked so natural, so perfect. Only a hardened cynic would notice that Elaine French was perfectly made up, that her fur coat was worn casually open to display her perfect figure rather than bundled up for warmth, that the lighting had been used to flatter and enhance her beauty.
The door behind him opened and he turned.
Fizz Beaumont, framed in the doorway, looked white, even her lips had lost their colour. She looked, he thought, as if she was just about to faint and instinctively he moved towards her, a hand outstretched.
She stepped back so quickly that she stumbled and had to grab the door frame
to stop herself from falling, her eyes for a moment daring him to touch her. Then the heat died away and without any expression in her voice she said, ‘I’ve been asked to invite you to join us in the boardroom. Will you follow me?’
She didn’t wait for his answer, but turned and walked around the ornate and theatrically gilded curve of the gallery to the board room.
She had the kind of walk that men have dreams about; from the hip, slow and unconscious in its sensuality. Everything about her moved with natural grace, from the elegant black, knee-high boots, the gentle swirl of a bias-cut skirt in heavy black wool to the soft downy sweater with an enormous cowl neck in a colour reminiscent of a ripe peach that draped itself so enticingly over her body.
He had been absolutely clear in his mind why he had telephoned Edward Beaumont this morning after his meeting with Patrick March and offered to take Michael Harries’ place on the board of the Trust. He knew they would fall over themselves to accept. They had been taking money from Michael hand over fist for years and they thought they would be able to take it from him.
They were wrong of course, but he was demonstrating to Fizz Beaumont that he could take the initiative, seize power in her little world and that she could do nothing about it.
But that awful lurch deep inside him as he had turned and seen her had been unexpected; the hot flood of desire, the urgent longing to pull her into his arms, hold her, take back every dreadful word he had said to her, was shattering.
Well, he would deal with that. She had set him alight and she would put out the fire. If she didn’t have a heart to break, there were other ways.
She paused in the boardroom doorway and looked back at him. She looked so utterly alone that for a moment his determination faltered. Then he gathered himself and followed her. The board members were all standing to welcome him. Edward Beaumont briefly introduced each of them, made a gracious little speech of welcome and then suggested they should all have a glass of something to mark the occasion.
‘Actually, the meeting hasn’t been adjourned.’ Everyone turned to look at Fizz. She was still white, dark smudges beneath her eyes betraying a lack of sleep. He slammed the lid down hard on the longing to hold her, cradle her, tell her it would be all right, that he would make it better. He hadn’t slept either.
Edward glanced at the Agenda. ‘Quite right. Keeping us on our toes today, Fizz.’ He looked around. ‘Is there any other business?’ he asked, clearly expecting no response. ‘If not, I think we can -’
‘I have a proposal to put to the board. I’m afraid it won’t wait.’
She had made a mistake, Luke thought. Everyone had mentally abandoned the meeting and didn’t appreciate being jerked out of their celebratory mood and brought back to business. He took the seat that Susie found for him and watched with interest.
Edward Beaumont, impatient with her for taking the buzz out of the atmosphere, for destroying his scene, was not encouraging. ‘Well, what is it, Fizz?’
‘I have been approached by John Moore about the possibility of putting some kind of fast food outlet outside on the pier. Some of you may know that we had an invasion of teenagers a day or two ago and they would certainly have welcomed the opportunity to buy a warm drink and something like a hot dog.’
‘It isn’t likely to happen again, is it?’ Lady Stockley asked, with every appearance of concern.
‘Not quite on that scale, although in the summer -’
‘We have the restaurant for the summer visitors.’
‘The restaurant is a year round enterprise,’ Fizz replied, clearly making a point. For the board, or for his benefit, Luke wondered, but continued to doodle absently on the pad that had appeared along with the chair.
The secretary, if not the chairman, had anticipated the meeting might continue, but then Susie was in Fizz’s confidence. He caught Susie’s eye and smiled. She smiled back. Fizz continued.
‘In the summer it is possible that the presence of Melanie Brett will attract more youngsters to the pier. Paying customers. They have to be catered for and I can’t see many of them wanting to come into the restaurant, sit down and have a proper meal. I doubt if we could accommodate them if they did. But they won’t be very happy if they have to go back into the town for a snack or drink.’
‘There’ll be problem with rubbish. Paper cups and cans will be thrown into the sea and washed up on the beach.’
‘The beach is swept early every morning in the season,’ she said, calmly. ‘And I have yet to be convinced that youngsters are worse offenders with litter than anyone else.’
Edward frowned. ‘I thought you sold cold drinks at the shop, Fizz.’
‘We do, but there isn’t the space to expand present sales and frankly I would be happier if they could be moved outside altogether.’
‘Is there room for competition?’
It was an interesting discussion, but no one was addressing the real issue, Luke decided. He stirred, asked of no one in particular, ‘Who is John Moore?’
‘He’s the chef at the Pavilion Restaurant,’ Edward informed him, before returning to Fizz. ‘You can only sell so much -’
‘Then it won’t be competition.’
Edward abandoned his argument and gave Luke his full attention. ‘What do you mean? Of course it will be competition for the shop.’
‘The radio station runs the shop?’ Edward nodded. ‘The radio station owns the restaurant?’
‘Yes, but -’
‘The radio station apparently assumes it has the right to run the hot dog stall as well.’ He flickered a glance at Fizz. She was staring down at the pad in front of her. It was blank. ‘Three outlets, all controlled by the same organisation would appear to be a monopoly. Or is that the way the Trust is run?’ The room fell silent. ‘Perhaps a little genuine competition would be good thing. It would keep the prices down. And would surely be beneficial to the Trust.’
‘In what way?’ Edward asked.
‘In every way. Mr Devlin is absolutely right,’ Fizz said, rising to her feet and Luke, about to explain that fast food vendors would pay a great deal of money for such a valuable site found himself listening instead. ‘When John asked me to approach you about a fast food outlet, explained how valuable it would be, I realised that it was something that you, as Trustees, should consider on a wider basis. The income would be most welcome, but if you are prepared to pursue this idea I know you will want to balance the needs of the pier with the demands of the vendor.’
‘You don’t think we should just accept the highest bid for the site?’ Luke asked.
Fizz turned to him. ‘I think…’ - she indicated the others seated around the table - ‘…we have always taken the view, that it is important to retain a special atmosphere on the pier.’ There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘But perhaps you would like to give us your own thoughts on that?’ Luke watched the betraying rise and fall of her breasts beneath the soft sweater. Everyone else was watching too, holding their collective breath, sensing something rather more than a run-of-the-mill tussle over finances. ‘After all none of us have quite your experience of the business world.’
She made it sound like an insult.
He smiled directly at her and she blushed. Definitely an insult.
‘I think,’ he said, weighing his words carefully, ‘that the pier is a museum piece rather than an attraction. Broomhill pier was the liveliest and sauciest entertainment venue on the south coast in its day. Everything from “what the butler saw” machines and performing fleas, to firework displays and a bandstand. It brought in over a million visitors a year. According to the local guidebook.’
‘And all without the bother of Health and Safety Regulations,’ she replied.
‘Does the HSR have rules to cover performing fleas?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘You’ve only seen the pier in winter, Luke,’ Edward interrupted, before things got quite out of hand. ‘In the summer we have live entertainers, jugglers, mime, that sort o
f thing. And the bandstand is in use most days. It really is very lively.’
‘And the income from a fast food vendor would enable us to increase that entertainment,’ Fizz continued, smoothly. ‘I would like to suggest that we invite local traders to put forward their ideas along with a tender for the space. And since the season will so soon be upon us we do not have the luxury of time if the Trust is to benefit from the additional income this year, which is why the matter has to be discussed today.’
Then she turned and looked straight at him and he saw with a slight shock the hint of defiance, even of triumph, that had brought the colour flooding back into her cheeks.
Well, well. He would give a good deal to know whether she was genuine, or whether she had realised she wasn’t going to get away with pushing her plans through on the nod and had bluffed her way out of a sticky corner. Either way, it was an impressive performance.
It was extraordinary the way he continued to under-estimate her. He would never have made the same mistake with a man.
He would not normally have made the mistake with a woman but he hadn’t looked beyond the image of a failed actress with a sinecure job in the family firm.
Now he was certain that it was an image she had created herself. That it was what she wanted people to believe. Why? There had to be an answer. And Patrick March hadn’t provided it. But then maybe he hadn’t been telling the entire truth.
Suddenly all the trustees had something urgent to say on the question of renting space to a fast food outlet. Only Luke and Fizz remained silent, each a small oasis of thought as the debate rolled over them.
A decision was made to invite tenders, the meeting was adjourned and Edward invited everyone to join him in his office for a glass of sherry. Fizz, Luke noticed, took the opportunity to escape. His own presence claimed by Edward, he let her go. For the moment.
Fizz was consumed with anger, shock, waves of them leaving her shaking and weak. How dare he! How bloody dare he! He knew that her throwaway line about joining the pier trustees had been a joke and he’d left her in no doubt at the time that it was a bad one.
