Symon nodded, pushing a lock of his deep red hair out of his eyes and treating her to a rare smile. “Very, apart from the photo. The way I’m searing those scallops makes me look like a serial killer!”
“Rubbish,” said Tara. “Anyway, those scallops had it coming!”
He laughed. “I still think it would have been a better image without me in the shot. The focus should be on the food, not the chef.”
“Err, hello? You do know it’s the twenty-first century? We’re in the celebrity age now. Everyone wants a face linked to a brand and it’s all about your Instagram and Twitter streams. Just ask your nephew if you don’t believe me.”
Tara had tasked her young son Morgan, a budding photographer, with the job of collecting images for The Plump Seagull’s online presence. Armed with his camera and a determined attitude, Morgan had soon taken hundreds of pictures. He’d also helped his mum build a simple website and patiently explained to her what Pinterest was. Tara now fed the restaurant’s social media as frequently as Symon fed its diners. Symon scooted around this virtual world from time to time but it made him feel ancient and rather confused. When Morgan started telling him he should vlog and become a YouTuber in order to grow his reputation around the world, Symon had taken fright and bolted back to the safety of his kitchen. All he wanted to do was cook and live a quiet life. The last thing he wanted was to be visible or, God forbid, famous.
If that happened, Claudette might find him and Symon didn’t want that. No way.
“I don’t like my picture being taken,” was all he said, knowing he couldn’t possibly tell Tara the real reason for his reluctance to be an online presence. It was much better that his former sister-in-law thought he was a shy technophobe.
“You look great,” Tara assured him. “With your fit body, those Tremaine cheekbones and that intense and moody expression you’re exactly what a serious Michelin-starred chef should look like. Think less Jamie and more Marco. Honestly, Sy, trust me. People are going to love this! I bet we’ll be inundated with requests for interviews. That will be brilliant, won’t it?”
“Hmm,” said Symon, unconvinced. The less attention on him and the more on his food the better as far as he was concerned. Unlike his brother Zak, an up-and-coming musician and an expert show-off since childhood, Symon far preferred the shadows to the limelight. With any luck this fuss would soon die down and they could just enjoy some extra business. Still, Tara had a point: it was a great write-up. Scanning it again, Symon’s heart filled with pride. He’d come a long way in the years since he’d returned home with only recipes, a rucksack and broken dreams to show for his time in Paris. Starting up his restaurant in a dilapidated cottage had been Symon’s only reason to keep going in those bleak early days, so to have a Michelin star and a glowing review in the national press was quite an achievement. It almost made up for what he had lost.
Almost.
Not wanting to think about this for a second longer than he needed to, Symon returned his attention to the article. Breathe in and breathe out, he told himself. In and out. Long, deep breaths would steady the pulse and slow the blood currently galloping around his veins like one of Mo’s horses. He needed to think about the restaurant, not Claudette Marsaud.
He never, ever wanted to think about her. The days when she’d filled his every waking thought and all his dreams were long gone.
Aware that Tara was looking at him askance, Symon pointed to a section of text highlighted by an eye-catching box. “He says he’s still dreaming of how delightful the food was, even now. I think we can safely say he enjoyed the meal!”
“The phone’s been ringing off the hook,” said Tara. “We’ll be booked solid until September at this rate.”
“We need to be.” Symon put the newspaper supplement down on the counter and picked up a brown envelope he’d opened earlier. The sight of it alone was enough to make a headache beat at his temples.
Tara paled. “Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it’s a letter from my landlord telling me that he’s doubling the rent because that’s what he’d get for a holiday let, and informing me that I can either pay up or terminate my lease, then it’s exactly what you think it is.”
They stared at one another and Symon saw his own dread reflected in Tara’s horrified expression. This latest letter from his up-country landlord, Peter Marten, hadn’t come as much of a surprise. All the same, Symon had been hoping it would have arrived a little later in the year. Property prices in Cornwall had rocketed in the last eighteen months and all over the village cottages were being painted up; invariably their window frames were given a slick of sage gloss and they were given new names like Crab Pot or Fisherman’s Rest. It was no mystery how the Pollards had managed to trade in their tatty white van for a VW Transporter. A holiday let could bring in four times the income of an ordinary rental, and as more and more houses in Polwenna Bay became second homes it was becoming harder to find premises to rent or an affordable property to buy.
When Symon had taken on the building that was now The Plump Seagull, it had been rather run down, having been occupied by the same tenant for over three decades. The elderly man who’d lived there had been making do with broken electrical sockets, lights that flickered and wiring that sizzled alarmingly. The walls were speckled with black mould, there were rotten floorboards and most of the surfaces were yellowed from nicotine. Nobody else had wanted to touch the place and Symon had been able to rent it at a reasonable cost and persuade the landlord to apply for change of use. Symon had carried out all the renovations himself and the project had been a true labour of love. The long days and even longer nights he’d spent there painting or sawing had been his salvation during those raw early days and he’d poured his heart, soul and savings into the place. Now the bright and cheery restaurant was barely recognisable as the dingy and neglected cottage he’d started with. With its low beams, its quirky uneven flooring upstairs and that glimpse of harbour view from Symon’s attic bedroom, it was the archetypal dream Cornish cottage. Symon supposed it was hardly a surprise the owner had decided it could make far more money as a holiday let.
“What will you do?” Tara was asking.
“What can I do? I’ll have to pay it or move out – and I can’t do that until the season is over.” Symon had spent several sleepless nights trying to think of a solution and, so far, winning the lottery was all he could come up with. That or selling a kidney.
“What about asking Ashley?” Tara suggested, adding swiftly when she saw his look of horror: “I know asking for help goes against everything you Tremaines stand for but he is part of the family now and he’s got the cash too. Maybe he could be a partner and buy into the business?”
“Absolutely not. This is my business and I run it alone and my way.” Symon was adamant on this score. There would be no partners for him, in business or in love. He’d seen first-hand how easily people could betray one another, family or not. Besides, he was far too proud to go cap in hand to his sister’s wealthy husband. Claudette might have done her utmost to break Symon but at least he’d kept his dignity. He’d rather fry fish for Chris the Cod than lose that.
Tara sighed. She’d known the Tremaines long enough to realise exactly how determined and stubborn they could be.
“So if the worst comes to the worst and the rent is too high, will you look for another premises in the village?”
Symon grimaced. “I can’t imagine where I’d find somewhere that works as well as this or that I can afford. I’ll have to think outside the box if or when it comes to that.”
“Well, it’s not going to. Not with this fantastic review and the amount of extra bookings already,” Tara said staunchly. “I’m going to update everything online and then see if I can drum up some more publicity. And no moaning!” she added sternly as Symon opened his mouth to protest. “If you want to make this work you’ll have to give up being Polwenna’s answer to Greta Garbo and work the brooding, sexy chef angle.”
“I’m speaking as your marketing manager. As your ex sister-in-law and slave-driven employee I know you’re just a miserable git with all the worst Tremaine family traits. Thank God I’m with Richard now,” Tara shot back with a grin as she set the newspaper supplement aside. “You never know, I might even have to put some adverts out for extra staff as well soon. We might be needing another pot washer and a waitress, if we get as busy as I think we will.”
Symon was still smiling when she’d gone. Tara was much nicer since she’d divorced his brother, Danny. It just went to show that sometimes people could be totally wrong for one another. Claudette had sworn that was the case for her and Jean-Luc, but then she’d—
What was the matter with him today? He hadn’t thought about Claudette Marsaud for ages and now it was impossible to get her out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock. Almost noon. Maybe he should have a cognac to steady his nerves?
Or maybe not. Alcohol was a slippery slope and one he’d teetered on for a while. It was too easy to make an excuse for having a drink in this village. Meeting a friend in The Ship. Having a sunset cider in the beach café. A bottle of wine in the restaurant. Take your pick of venues to visit and then throw the holiday atmosphere into the mix, and there it was: the perfect recipe for a swift and booze-soaked decline.
He tucked the letter deep into the pocket of his checked chef’s trousers. It was one to worry about another time and right now he’d be better off preparing some fillets of hake for the evening’s menu. Besides, Perry would arrive any minute with the pink oyster mushrooms and the rest of the organic veg delivery. The last thing Symon needed was to be hitting the bottle when his old friend arrived.
Perry Tregarrick could drink for England (plus Scotland, Wales and Ireland for good measure), and if he saw Symon with a brandy they’d be on a pub crawl around the village before you could say wasted. They’d been leading each other astray since childhood, when Perry – full name Lord Peregrine Aldous Melville Tregarrick – had always returned home to Cornwall for the school holidays and had become an honorary member of the Tremaine clan. Perry claimed that downing vast amounts of alcohol was a family talent. It was one that could scarcely be argued with, since Perry’s father had drunk away the family fortune with amazing efficiency. All that remained now of the Tregarrick family’s once vast estate was Polwenna Manor, a mouldering medieval pile collapsing under the combined weight of a rotting roof and a tonne of debts.
Like Symon, Perry was also struggling to pay the bills. Death duties had walloped him hard. A gentle and rather eccentric dreamer, he’d been happy growing organic vegetables, pottering around the house with his pack of dogs and painting big splashy pictures that he truly believed would become masterpieces, until his father had died and the entire burden of the family name and estate had landed on his slight shoulders. Nice as the splashy paintings were, the galleries of St Ives had yet to call – and so it was the vegetables that paid the bills, or rather the interest on the bills. These days poor Perry looked as though he was in the same ready-to-crumble condition as his stately home.
Yep, Symon reflected as he pulled the hake out of the fridge, things could always be worse. At least he wasn’t Perry.
“Hey, Sy!”
Here was Perry now, letting himself in through the back door and, bent almost double under the weight of his delivery, staggering across the kitchen. Replacing the fish quickly, Symon went to rescue him.
“Cheers,” panted Perry, leaning against the counter while Symon rummaged through the vegetables. “I thought I was going to drop the lot or get a hernia.”
“You could have made two trips,” Symon suggested.
Perry looked stunned at the thought. “Gosh, I never thought of that. You’re right. Maybe next time I will?”
Symon knew he wouldn’t. Perry would have forgotten this conversation by the time he was back inside his battered Mercedes estate car. His head was too full of the latest splashy painting to find room for anything else. He had that familiar faraway look in his pale blue eyes and his sweater, on inside out, was daubed with streaks of crimson and blue. His fingers were smeared with jade and his burgundy cords were dotted with ochre. Even his scuffed brogues and frayed cuffs were speckled with paint. He’d either forgotten to put his smock on or couldn’t afford a new canvas.
“Help yourself to a cold drink while I unpack,” Symon said, running his hands over the produce and marvelling at just how wonderful it was. Perry had green fingers, that was for sure – both literally and metaphorically today. The oyster mushrooms were huge, with delicate pink gills the same hue as horses’ noses, and the strawberries were plump and red. Symon hoped the manor’s orangery would continue to hold out; Perry’s produce was one of the key ingredients to the restaurant’s success.
While Perry gulped back a Diet Coke, Symon unpacked the boxes. The systematic ritual of putting things in their allotted places was almost meditative and by the time the last mushroom was in the fridge he felt much calmer. The rent issue would be sorted and his thoughts of Claudette were just a blip and meant nothing at all because he was completely over her. All would be well.
Unfortunately for Symon, his sister Morwenna arrived just as he was starting to relax. Judging by her determined and slightly manic expression, any hopes he might have had for equilibrium were about to be dashed. Mo existed on a dizzying cocktail of enthusiasm and adrenaline, which made her a force to be reckoned with (especially when she was on horseback at one of her events) but left Symon feeling exhausted.
“There you are!” she said, bowling into the kitchen and hugging him.
“I’m normally here,” Symon pointed out as he hugged her back.
“But you’re not normally plastered all over the press! My little brother is famous!”
Mo loved hyperbole and Symon rolled his eyes.
“Hardly, Mo. It was a tiny column,” he said, but his sister flapped his protests away with a dismissive hand.
“You’re a celebrity now, Symon Tremaine. Watch out Padstow! Polwenna Bay’s coming for you. And I bet Jamie’s quaking over at Fifteen Cornwall in Watergate!”
“What’s all this?” Perry asked.
“Oh hi, Perry. I didn’t see you there,” said Mo. Quite how she’d missed six feet of lanky paint-splattered aristocrat was a mystery, although Symon suspected her mind was on something else. His Morwenna madness antennae were on full alert. His sister was up to something.
“What’s this about the press?” Perry repeated.
“Symon was in the national papers!” said Mo.
“Only one of them, in the food section,” Symon explained.
“Didn’t you see it?” demanded Mo, rounding on him.
Perry, trapped between Morwenna and the sink, looked quite scared. “Err, no. Sorry, Mo. Was it a good piece?”
“It was a great write-up about the restaurant and my brilliant, wonderful, kind brother,” Mo replied proudly.
“OK, you can stop laying it on with a trowel,” said Symon, very suspicious now. “Whatever you want, the answer’s ‘no’.”
“Charming,” huffed his sister. “What a thing to say. Can’t I just be nice?”
Symon folded his arms and gave her a hard stare. “Don’t give me that. I know you, remember? Spill. Or do I have to sit on you and—”
Mo shrieked in horror. “Anything but that! God, brothers are so gross! OK, then, this is it and you can’t say no because I’ve already told her you’ll go and it’s all arranged and everything. Promise you won’t go mad, Sy, but I’ve arranged for you to have dinner with a friend of mine.”
Symon gaped at her. “What do you mean? Dinner?”
“It’s a meal usually eaten in the evening,” deadpanned Mo, but Symon wasn’t in the mood for humour.
“You’ve set me up on a blind date? Seriously?”
“It’s not blind exactly, because you know her. It’s Tess.”
> “Tess Hamilton? The teacher?” Symon couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Lucky you. She’s gorgeous,” said Perry wistfully.
Symon wasn’t denying this. Tess certainly was gorgeous, but nevertheless he wasn’t interested in her. It wasn’t anything personal. He wasn’t interested in anyone.
“No way,” he told his sister. “You can tell Tess I’m busy.”
Mo folded her arms and jutted out her chin. “I can’t. I told her you were really keen. Besides, it’ll do you good to get out. Tony will cover. I’ve already asked him.”
Tony was Symon’s second in command.
“You’ve been talking to my staff about this?”
“Just helping,” Mo said. “They all think you need a night off too.”
“Well you can help me even more by telling Tess it’s not happening.”
“I’ll go if you don’t want to,” offered Perry. “You may have to lend me some funds though.”
“It’s Symon’s date, Perry, and he isn’t going to let Tess down,” Mo said. “That would be unkind and cruel. She’s really looking forward to this, Sy, and you’ll absolutely devastate her if you don’t show up.”
“Why are you crossing your fingers behind your back?” Perry asked, and Mo flicked him a V.
“Ignore him. Come on, Sy. Please? Just one date? So she isn’t stood up? So she doesn’t feel like a total loser? So she doesn’t cry herself to sleep?”
Great. Mo always did know what buttons to press. Symon was hopeless at coping with guilt. If only he hadn’t been, he could have stayed in France.
“But Tess dated Nick,” he said. It was the only excuse he could think of, but Mo wasn’t having this.
“Who can just about read the back of a cereal packet and had nothing in common with her! They went out about twice and you’re not Henry the Eighth so what does it matter if she dated your brother? This is Polwenna; everyone dates everyone.”
Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5) Page 2
