Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5)

by Ruth Saberton

  “It’s true,” agreed Perry. “I’ve dated three sisters from the de Verney family. Terribly nice girls and big on shooting.”

  Mo ignored him. “Honestly, Sy, you’ll have a blast. She’s clever and funny and what have you got to lose? You can’t let Tess down. She’ll feel terrible. How would you like it?”

  “Fine, fine, anything for a quiet life,” said Symon. He’d have dinner with Tess because she was a nice girl and didn’t deserve to be messed about just because his sister wanted to matchmake. He’d tell her gently that Mo had set them up and explain he wasn’t looking for a relationship. That way honour would be satisfied and nobody would be hurt. There was nothing worse than hurt feelings. After having his own feelings well and truly shredded, Symon couldn’t bear to make anyone else unhappy.

  Mo punched the air. “Brilliant. You won’t regret it.”

  “What about me? Do I get a date?” Perry wanted to know. “Preferably a rich one who’d like to fix up the manor – or, even better, buy it.”

  “You’re selling?” Symon was shocked. Perry loved his home and felt a huge responsibility to keep it in the family.

  “I may have to. The bills are crippling and it’s falling down. I don’t suppose you’d like to run your restaurant from it?” he asked hopefully. “The kitchen’s huge. I think it’s Tudor.”

  The manor’s kitchen was indeed massive – and it also boasted a spit, an enormous chimney and a whole load of Tudor grime. Most likely it was still harbouring sixteenth-century pathogens as well. It certainly looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned since Shakespeare was in nappies.

  “I’m good thanks, mate,” said Symon and Perry sighed.

  “An heiress it is then. I’ll have to ask Ella St Milton if she fancies marrying me for the title.”

  Mo’s nose wrinkled. “God, things must be bad. Ella’s a nightmare – isn’t she, Sy? She drove you mad when you did the catering for the summer ball.”

  “She was quite demanding,” Symon said tactfully. He wasn’t going to badmouth Ella because firstly it wasn’t gentlemanly and secondly he wouldn’t mind more catering work at the hotel to help pay his increased rent. Ella had indeed been demanding – every detail had had to be a certain way – but then, like Symon, she was a perfectionist and cared about her business. He got that entirely. Still, in terms of romantic relationships, high-maintenance women like Ella St Milton were best avoided and the less Symon Tremaine had to do with them the better.

  All of a sudden the date with Tess didn’t seem quite so bad after all.

  Chapter 3

  The write-up about Symon Tremaine was good. Very good.

  Ella St Milton, sitting on the terrace of the Polwenna Bay Hotel and enjoying a few moments away from her desk, took a sip of black coffee and leaned back in her chair. The critic was clearly impressed with his experience at The Plump Seagull and having eaten there several times she understood why: Symon was a truly gifted chef. Granted, in real life he was monosyllabic and gauche, but put him in the kitchen and a magical transformation took place. He was passionate and driven, a perfectionist who demanded only the very best from his team. There was certainly another side to Symon, one that thrilled and intrigued her.

  Ella smoothed the page with a red-tipped index finger. Beneath her touch Symon smouldered up from the newsprint. She’d known him in a vague way for years and never seen him look at a woman with as much intensity as he looked at food, although to be fair Symon Tremaine never showed any interest in women – unlike his brothers, who’d worked their way through the female population of the village since their early teens. From what Ella could see Symon wasn’t interested in anyone or anything apart from cooking.

  He was straight, of that Ella was certain. Her gaydar was finely tuned – and even if it hadn’t been, Tom Elliot, her assistant manager at the hotel, was good at keeping her up to speed on such matters. The fact was, all Symon lived for was his restaurant. It was hardly surprising that he was building such a name for himself, given that work was all he seemed to do.

  She pushed the newspaper supplement aside and stared thoughtfully over the terrace and out to sea. The sun had popped its head above the clouds and the water was sparkling, no longer the grey sheet of minutes earlier but now blue and deceptively summery. There were a few guests on the terrace, seated beneath patio heaters and enjoying a leisurely lunch in the sunshine. She watched as they tucked into plates piled high with mussels, bowls of golden fries served with shavings of truffle, and crusty baguettes that shed crumbs on snowy linen. Delicious smells made her mouth water – and her stomach, which had been fed only its habitual low-carb breakfast of egg whites, grumbled. The hotel’s chef was a genius and it seemed one of life’s cruellest jokes that Ella spent all day thinking about menus and treats for her guests but never tasted more than a morsel herself. She didn’t dare. Maintaining her size-eight figure was a full-time job in itself. Ella stuck to her strict diet and gruelling fitness routine with the same dogged determination that had seen her transform a rather dated country house hotel into one of Cornwall’s most desirable locations.

  It was this kind of single-mindedness, the absolute commitment to a vision, that she recognised in Symon. The write-up about him in the newspaper might only be a short piece with a small accompanying image, but Ella instinctively understood that Symon had fought hard to make it this far. Maybe he was still battling, who knew? She certainly was.

  Few people in Polwenna Bay could imagine that there was anything about Ella St Milton’s life that might be described as a struggle. To others it must look as though she’d been born with an entire set of solid silver spoons in her mouth. She had a wealthy family, an adoring grandfather, cars, designer clothes and bags, a hotel, trips to beauty salons, a perfect figure, a string of gorgeous boyfriends… On and on the list went. If she thought about it for too long, Ella actually felt quite jealous of herself. She had it all, didn’t she?

  At least, she did on the surface…

  Ella bit her lip with frustration. Anyone walking across the terrace now and spotting her sitting at her table with the weekend papers spread out in front of her, next to the silver cafetière and bone-china cup, would see a glossy blonde oozing privilege. And she was privileged, Ella was the first to admit this. She’d never wanted for any material thing. Whatever she’d asked for had become hers, with an ease that had turned girls like Mo Tremaine (as she was then) and Summer Penhalligan pea-green with envy. She’d played on this too, taking pleasure in showing off all the wonderful things she had – and not just as a child either.

  She sighed. Ella wasn’t proud of it but not so long ago she’d sold a horse that she knew Mo had been desperate to keep at her yard. Ella had done this for no better reason than wanting to hit Mo where it would hurt most. For about three minutes Ella had gloated over her victory, before the annoying little voice of conscience that dwelt deep down inside had told her she was being a bitch. She’d tried to ignore it, but the inconvenient little voice had grown louder and louder until it had become impossible to ignore; in the end she’d cracked and tried to buy the horse back. This was when karma had really served her a double whammy, because it turned out that Ashley Carstairs, the sexy and rich Ross Poldark lookalike Ella had secretly had her eye on (if only to take her mind off Jake), had already bought the horse and placed it on livery with Mo again. The rest was history and now Mo and Ashley were blissfully married and parents to the most delicious plump bundle that was baby Isla – while Ella was in the wrong kind of relationship and, although she would rather die than admit it to a soul, starting to feel a little broody.

  Serves you right. That’s what you get for being a bitch, the little voice told her smugly. Ella couldn’t help agreeing with it. She had been a bitch. Come to that, she probably still was if you asked the hotel staff. If they thought she didn’t know they called her Evil Ella then they were sorely mistaken. Some days it was almost like playing a pantomime version of herself. Not wanting to ruin her image, Ella did her
best not to let them down.

  “Table three needs clearing,” she snapped at a waiter passing by with a laden tray. He jumped, crockery rattling, and looked stricken.

  “I’m really sorry, Miss St Milton, I’ll do it straight away.”

  “And there are empty glasses on the balustrade. Who’s supposed to be bussing tables?” Ella’s neat brows drew together in a scowl. Oh, that wasn’t good. The Botox must be wearing off. She’d have to go to Truro for a top-up before anyone noticed. Ella spent all day dealing with problems and irate guests and was convinced that without her faithful doses of botulism she’d look like she needed ironing.

  The waiter, on his toes now, delivered the drinks with great speed and was soon clearing up. When Ella said “jump” the staff always asked “how high?” and would probably have requested a springboard too if it were possible, just to impress her.

  Unfortunately for Ella, there was one exception to this rule – a tricky and impossible-to-ignore exception who went by the name of Charlie Barton and happened to be the hotel’s resident celebrity chef. Hiring him had been a major coup at the time because Charlie was both brilliant and broke, a potent combination which meant that he was only too happy to work for Ella. She’d agreed to pay his debts off (although she’d had to sell her Audi TT to do that, and think of a plausible explanation for its absence if her grandfather asked); in exchange, he’d lent his growing culinary reputation to the hotel. Ella had known that her chef’s name would be the key to their success. After all, celebrity was what put well-clad bums on expensive dining-room seats. It seemed to her that Rick Stein had figured this out years ago.

  When she’d taken the hotel over, Ella had set out to do her research and she’d done it with a thoroughness that was now paying dividends. She’d subscribed to all the Cornish and seaside-themed magazines, temporarily forgone her strict diet to eat her way around the area’s top restaurants, and kept a close eye on the local and national press. With an influx of second-home owners from London and a plethora of celebrity chefs choosing to holiday and set up restaurants in the county, Cornwall was rapidly becoming a Mecca for foodies. Its fine dining appeared regularly in all the major glossy magazines, and Ella had been keen to tap into this trend. Charlie had been heavily featured in the local press and enjoyed a regular slot on regional television too. With his mop of bronzed curls, wicked dark eyes and rugby player’s build he soon had the female viewers drooling as much over his raw masculinity as his delicious food. There was no doubt whatsoever that basing his restaurant in her hotel had brought in trade. This was great and Ella was thrilled. What was slightly less great was her subsequent discovery that Charlie made even the most famously difficult divas look low maintenance. In fact, if picking out green M&Ms or only bathing in champagne were all he demanded then life would have been simple.

  It would be simpler too if Ella wasn’t sleeping with him…

  She grimaced. Having a fun romance with Charlie was proving to be a big mistake. She supposed she’d have to sort it out sooner rather than later, preferably when he wasn’t halfway down a bottle of Scotch or putting the final touches to a wedding breakfast. For now, she was just enjoying a few rare minutes to herself before today’s wedding party arrived and she ended up rushed off her feet making sure that everything was perfect. Thanks to the efforts of Jules Mathieson, their local vicar, Polwenna Bay was becoming a popular spot to get married and Ella’s wedding-planning business was doing very nicely. Maybe there was a God?

  If there was, then Ella hoped He’d heard her prayers asking for Charlie to calm down. All too often the chef was being led astray by her annoying brother; it seemed they were on a bender in the village pubs almost every other night.

  Ella checked her watch and, seeing that she still had another five minutes left, poured a second cup of coffee. It was bitter on her tongue, rather like her frequent claims that things were “fine” and that life was “great”. The truth was, Ella’s own heart had been badly bruised when Jake Tremaine had chosen his childhood sweetheart over her. She’d never admit it to a soul, but Ella had fallen for Jake. She’d felt that way about him since they were teenagers, if she was honest with herself – and not so very long ago she’d allowed herself to hope that maybe there was a chance for them.

  With his thick blond hair, laughing blue eyes and strong muscular body, Jake was the full package looks-wise. He was great company too and they’d enjoyed some incredible nights together. Then Summer had returned to Polwenna Bay. Immediately, Ella had been transported back in time to their schooldays: once again she was watching the Tremaines from afar, a noisy squabbling happy rabble of a family, and wondering how she could be included. The answer was that she couldn’t. Now Jake was happy with Summer and Ella was on the outside looking in, just as she always had been.

  What must it be like to have a family like that? As a child, Ella had observed the Tremaines with a mixture of bewilderment and wonder. Henry and Alice had been hands-on grandparents, if strict at times, but they’d clearly loved the children. And Jimmy, if far from an ideal father, had spent a lot of time when they were younger playing with them and thinking up new adventures. Treasure hunts, picnics, ghost walks… His imagination knew no bounds. Even when Jimmy hadn’t been around, the family had always been up to something exciting, or at least it had looked that way from where Ella had stood. Her parents had split up and, busy with new partners and second families, had been more than happy to shunt Ella and her little brother Teddy from pillar to post. Living full time at the hotel with their grandfather had been something of a relief in the end – and if Ella had cried herself to sleep missing her parents then nobody except her teddy bear had ever known about it.

  Lord! How pitiful did she sound? Annoyed with herself for still feeling eleven years old deep down inside, Ella drained her coffee and gathered up the papers. The hotel didn’t run itself and she’d better get back to work. Her grandfather, Jonny, was old-fashioned and remained unconvinced that Ella should run the hotel when she had a brother who could do the job. It didn’t seem to bother him that Teddy was younger, spent money like it was going out of fashion and treated the hotel like a personal bank account: he had a willy and that seemed to make up for all these defects. It was grossly unfair but Ella knew she had to work twice as hard to prove herself.

  She’d do it too. The hotel and her growing wedding-planning business meant everything to her. In that respect, Ella entirely understood why Symon Tremaine was so antisocial. People only let you down in the end, whereas a successful business was there twenty-four hours of the day; it was a constant companion and proof that everything you did actually mattered. What was it her grandfather always said? There are no prizes for coming second. Well, Ella was determined to make the Polwenna Bay Hotel number one for everything.

  With this goal in mind, Ella was particularly pleased with her appointment of Tom Elliot as the assistant manager. He’d worked for her before on a temporary basis and impressed her then; when the permanent position had become available, Tom had seemed like the obvious choice. He was experienced and sharp-witted, and the hotel guests adored him because he always went the extra mile to make them feel valued and important. Ella couldn’t begin to imagine how many repeat bookings were down to Tom alone; there had to be hundreds. Conscientious and enthusiastic, Tom put in nearly as many hours as she did and was always full of good ideas. Sometimes these ideas weren’t quite as brilliant as Tom thought they were, admittedly. Take Christmas, for example, when he’d almost caused a disaster attempting to play cupid with some guests. Still, his heart was in the right place and he ran the hotel so beautifully that without him Ella would never have managed to get the wedding-planning business up and running.

  Not that she’d ever tell Tom any of this. In Ella’s opinion it didn’t do to let staff become too comfortable. It was far better to keep them on their toes and a little uncertain of her. That way they always worked as hard as possible, did what she asked and were keen to impress – which in turn
made the hotel a first-class establishment.

  It was a win-win situation and she only wished it worked with Charlie bloody Barton.

  A man’s never going to respect you once he’s seen you naked, hissed the smug little voice gleefully. He knows too much and he’s got too close now. You should have stayed away.

  The voice was right. She should have stayed away. It was much safer to be single and Ella vowed that she’d remember this in future. Once Charlie was dealt with she’d make such an effort to avoid love that she might as well become a nun.

  Her break was over. Holding her papers under one arm, Ella smoothed the creases from her trouser suit with her other hand and headed back through the lobby to her office. The smell of lilies and beeswax polish soothed her and she was pleased to see that the local florist had worked her magic: the various arrangements of cream blooms spilled from the windowsills, stood sentry either side of the big entrance and wound their way up the curling bannisters. A quick peek in the ballroom confirmed that all was perfect there too. Meanwhile, fingers crossed, Charlie was working wonders in the kitchen and behaving himself while his film crew was shooting. Tom, who was currently checking in a guest, gave Ella a nod to indicate that all was well. Since the wedding party wasn’t due for a while, she decided she had time to go through her emails.

  Ella’s office was a small room at the back of the hotel, overlooking the very glamorous recycling area. As she worked her way through the emails she watched a couple of seagulls attempting to rip open a refuse sack. It reminded her that spring was fast approaching and the usual seagull bin war was about to begin. There was so much to do before then that it made her feel quite dizzy. For one thing, she had her grandfather’s wedding to plan – if he ever set a date, that was. To be honest Ella hoped he didn’t because she couldn’t think of anything worse than being related to Mo Carstairs. In addition, Georgie Angel’s big day was looming on the horizon, as these six very urgent emails could testify.