“Now, if you don’t mind leaving us to it, we’ve got a wedding feast to plan,” he’d said.
Ella was so taken aback by this new authoritative version of Symon Tremaine that she’d done exactly what he’d said. The next couple of days had been a blur of preparations and their paths had barely crossed, but on the several occasions when she had managed to poke her head into the kitchen, everything had been a hive of activity. Pots were boiling, chefs were chopping and at one point even Patsy Penhalligan was there, with her sleeves rolled up and wearing one of Symon’s bandanas as she kneaded pastry with grim determination.
Oh God. What was he going to serve the guests? Ella had fretted as she’d tossed and turned in bed that night. Pasties? Saffron buns? Cheese and baked-bean slices? What on earth was he up to?
Ella’s fears hadn’t been allayed the next day either, when she’d spotted that gormless idiot Perry Tregarrick’s ancient Mercedes lumbering up the hotel drive. Perry grew organic vegetables, but as far as Ella knew this was a hit-and-miss affair. At one point he’d been delivering veg boxes; however, the enterprise had come to an abrupt end when he’d mentioned in the pub that he was thinking about installing a compost toilet at the manor, to help produce more fertiliser. Ella supposed this was yet another of Perry’s hare-brained schemes that had never actually been implemented, but you never quite knew for sure.
Then Chris the Cod had pulled up in his clapped-out van and proceeded to unload what looked like a tonne of spuds onto the spotless front steps of the hotel.
Pasty and chips? Poopy vegetables? Ella had started to pick at her acrylic nails, which was always a bad sign. She’d persuaded herself to have a massage in the spa to relax, but on the way back to her office the sight of Nick Tremaine lugging fish boxes through the hotel lobby immediately raised her blood pressure again. Dirty footprints on the polished oak floor aside, Ella was now terrified that the wedding guests would be eating mackerel pasties served with chips and a garnish grown in aristocratic waste.
She couldn’t stay away from the kitchen a moment longer: Ella had to know what was going on.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have trust issues?” was Symon’s response when she cornered him and demanded to see the menu.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re way too secretive?” Ella countered.
A shadow flickered across his face. “I prefer to call it private.”
Private was one way of putting it. On each occasion when Ella had tried to see what was going on in the kitchen, she’d been politely but firmly told to jog on. Well, not this time. Ella was the hotel manager and she was pulling rank. Symon Tremaine was working for her, not the other way around.
“Private’s one thing but you’re creating a menu – you haven’t signed the Official Secrets Act.”
He laughed at this, and Ella thought how much she liked the warm sound and the way the serious mask seemed to slip, revealing a mischievous twinkle in those blue eyes that reminded her of his siblings. Symon didn’t laugh very often and she wondered why that was. There was something there that held him back from sharing his thoughts with other people; Ella recognised it, because she exercised the same restraint. Don’t get close. Stay at the edges. Never let anyone see the real you. These were all mottos that had worked for her, and she suspected her new chef lived by them too.
“So you want me to tell you what I’ve come up with just in case I’m about to serve seaweed porridge or seagull goujons?” he teased.
“Very Heston Blumenthal,” Ella said. “Actually, that sounds like the sort of thing these guests would rave about. But seriously, the last time I chose not to check in with my head chef it didn’t end so well, so I’m feeling a bit nervous.”
Symon nodded. “That’s fair enough, although I wouldn’t beat myself up too much about it if I were you. Charlie Barton doesn’t strike me as the most organised character. He’s got by on account of his flair and with a fair bit of good luck too.”
And by charming his way into his boss’s knickers, Ella thought bitterly. She didn’t kid herself that she was the first woman he’d worked for who had fallen for Charlie’s good looks – and she probably wouldn’t be the last. She’d learned her lesson though; Ella was steering clear of chefs for the next few thousand years.
“I guess I have been keeping things under wraps a little,” Symon admitted. “First of all I didn’t want to panic anyone or alert the press by revealing just how much there was to do, and secondly I wanted to really impress you with a final reveal. I wanted you to be happy with what I’d come up with and I wasn’t going to show you any half measures.” He shook his russet head ruefully. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s been a hell of a job pulling this together at such short notice and I’ve had to call in some very big favours. I wanted to be sure I’ve delivered the goods before I showed you.”
Ella was touched. She was used to people wanting to impress her only because they were scared, so it made a nice change that Symon genuinely hadn’t wanted to let her down.
“And there was a lot to do?”
He grimaced. “Just a bit. You can imagine how much we needed to buy in, and it hasn’t been easy at short notice. Luckily for me Perry has the best produce for miles around and it’s organic too. Chris the Cod had potatoes going and Patsy’s a genius with pastry. Nick and the Penhalligan boys have given me the pick of their catch as well. With all that, we’ve pulled it off. There was just about enough there to create a Cornish-themed wedding breakfast.”
Ella’s heart lurched. Pasties and chips it was. Oh God.
“Don’t look so worried! I’m not feeding them pasties and scones,” Symon said. Mind-reading skills as well as cooking were clearly in his repertoire. “Well, not in the traditional sense anyway. Come on. I’ll show you. I’ve just finished doing some samples. You’ll need to have the menus printed tonight in any case.”
He held the door for her and Ella stepped into the hotel kitchen for the first time in almost three days. The change in the place took her breath away. Gone was the tense atmosphere that could have been sliced with one of the filleting knives. Instead there was a sense of industry and purpose. Each member of the kitchen staff was busy attending to a task, while the waiters bustled in and out. The whole operation was running like clockwork; every surface gleamed and the food being plated up onto chunky white ceramic platters looked divine. Even Ella, who as far as possible tried to avoid eating, felt her mouth start to water.
“Klaus has been brilliant at keeping the restaurant ticking over,” Symon said warmly. “That freed me and some of the others to concentrate on putting together something really special with whatever I could get my hands on at short notice.” He looked shy all of a sudden. “I think it’s time you had a look at my Cornish-themed creations.”
Ella followed him across the kitchen and leaned against the farthest counter while Symon and another chef fetched several domed dishes, which Symon arranged in front of Ella.
“Et voilà! The starters!”
He whipped the first lid off and beamed at Ella, who was speechless. Every single item on the platter looked amazing.
“Pollock cakes with beet-and-apple salsa, creamy wild mushrooms with crumbled Cornish blue cheese, smoked mackerel crostini with mixed baby-leaf salad, and mini leek and Yarg pasties,” Symon said proudly. “Do you want to have a taste?”
Ella didn’t need asking twice. She picked up one of the mackerel crostini and bit in. “Oh my goodness! That’s amazing!” she groaned. It truly was to die for.
Next she reached for one of the fish cakes, which she devoured with almost indecent speed. “That pollock is fantastic,” Ella gasped, needing every inch of self-control to hold back from grabbing another. The food was fresh and the flavours were incredible. The guests would go crazy for this.
“Fresh off the boat last night. See, Nick does have some uses,” Symon said. “Try the pasties. Patsy’s magic touch is in the pastry but the rest was down to me.”
Again, Ella gladly obeyed. Her stomach, denied a good calorie fest for so long, was in utter heaven. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last had a pasty but it had been worth the wait. The Cornish Yarg and leek were a winning combination, and the light and buttery pastry melted in her mouth.
“Main courses now. We’ve got roasted haddock, creamy sweetcorn chowder and spring-onion scones here. Then there’s the roasted butternut squash and Cornish Blue wellington with sage drizzle and balsamic beets. We’ve also got bass fillet with lemon mash, basil oil and Mediterranean vegetables.”
Each of these creations was more delicious than the last, and by the time she’d tasted a little bit of everything Ella felt ready to explode. Goodness only knew how many workouts it would take to burn this lot off, but it would be worth every aching, pain-filled rep!
“Puddings?” Symon asked once he’d cleared the main courses away. “Can I tempt you with apple pie and clotted Cornish cream? Or vanilla and saffron mascarpone with poached pears?”
Ella placed her hands on her stomach and shook her head. “I’d love to but I can’t eat another mouthful. That was incredible!”
He flushed with pleasure. “Then it looks as though my work here is done.”
It was more than done. Ella knew that the food Symon had produced was far superior to anything Charlie might have come up with. Her previous chef’s dishes were designed to win him maximum attention and column inches, which they generally did, but Charlie’s cooking didn’t have the authentic Cornish twist that Symon had nailed so beautifully.
And neither did it have that sprinkling of magic. There was something special about Symon Tremaine. He seemed still and quiet on the surface but underneath she was sure that deeper passions swirled, as dangerous and as enticing as the eddies around the Shindeep rocks. The driven energy in him, the single-mindedness, was channelled into his cooking – but what would he be like as a lover? How would it feel to be the focus of that intensity? The sole target of his undivided passion?
“What is it?” Symon asked. “You’re staring at me, Ella.”
She was? Whipped back to the present and horrified by her thoughts, it was Ella’s turn to blush.
“I was just thinking that you’re very gifted,” she said swiftly. “You really are, Symon. You should be out there with the television shows and the big restaurant, not tucked away in Polwenna Bay.”
He shuddered. “I can’t think of anything worse than being a celebrity. I’m more than happy to leave the showing off to Zak.”
“But you’re truly talented and you’ve worked miracles with this wedding, you really have.”
Symon shrugged. “I’m glad you approve. I can’t take all the credit though. It helps to have a great team and a few local contacts who can help.”
They hadn’t just helped, Ella thought. Perry, Nick, Patsy and her own kitchen staff had all gone the extra mile for Symon. There was something about him that inspired confidence and made you want to give your best. While Symon cleared away, she mused over what it was that could have brought him back from Paris to a backwater like Polwenna Bay. Hadn’t he worked in a renowned restaurant? With his talent, he could have gone straight to the top – and unlike others she could mention, he didn’t need to screw or bribe his way there either. What had happened?
“Didn’t you train in Paris?” Ella ventured when Symon returned.
“I did.” He shut the fridge with a thud, as though informing her that the topic was closed too, but Ella ignored the signal. She was intrigued by this enigmatic member of the Tremaine clan.
“So why come back here?”
“Life,” said Symon shortly, “and I’d rather not discuss my private business with all and sundry.”
Well, that told her. Yet again rebuffed by a Tremaine. This was nothing new and Ella, dismayed to find that her chin was wobbling from the sharpness of his tone, quickly arranged her face into her best haughty expression.
“Get over yourself,” she said coldly. “I was only making conversation, not asking you to bare your soul.”
An awkward silence fell. Then Symon gave a weary sigh, breaking the tension.
“We all have secrets and a past, Ella. I expect there are things in your life that you’re not proud of? Things you’d rather never think about again?”
The image of Charlie, naked and swaggering through her office, darted across her mind’s eye. Oh yes. There were lots of things she regretted. Jake Tremaine was another.
“So my life is no different. Paris was fun but it didn’t work out the way I hoped it would, and I came home again,” Symon continued. “End of story.”
Ella very much doubted this. To her it sounded like the start of the story. Nevertheless, the shuttered look on Symon’s face and the swiftness with which the easy atmosphere of their food tasting had vanished kept her silent.
“I’ve left that part of my life behind and I don’t want to dredge it up just to make conversation,” he said, untying his apron and tugging off the bandana before raking a hand through his thick mane of sunset hair. “It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. There’s the wedding tomorrow, and I also need to make sure The Plump Seagull is surviving without me and prep there. So forgive me, but the last thing I’m in the mood for is an interrogation.”
“Understood,” Ella said tightly. “From now on I’ll restrict our conversation to food and the weather.”
Symon stared at her for a moment, as though battling internally, and then pulled a face.
“God, I can be a pompous arse,” he said, relenting. “Look, the truth is I fell in love with the wrong person and I couldn’t bear to stay. It hurt too much and I ran back here. There’s not much more to it than that but I’d rather it wasn’t common knowledge. My gran would want to know every detail and I’d never hear the end of it from Mo. Besides, I think they have enough to deal with now that Emerald’s arrived, without my woes adding to the mix.”
Of course. The new sister. This had been the talk of the town.
“I understand,” Ella replied. If she could have left Polwenna Bay when Jake had told her that he was in love with Summer, Ella would have done so in a heartbeat. Running from pain made perfect sense. She held out her hand. “I swear I won’t say a word.”
Symon took it and they shook. They were so close that Ella could feel his breath fluting against her cheeks, and she was shocked to feel a ripple of longing as his fingers closed over hers. Surprised and confused, she pulled her hand away sharply.
“I’ll catch you tomorrow,” she said, and Symon nodded.
“Until then,” he answered.
Ella had beaten a hasty retreat from the kitchen back to her office, and the rest of the evening had passed in a blur of phone calls and logistics. Keeping busy was the key to dismissing the weird pull of desire she’d felt for Symon; by the time she’d fallen into bed, Ella had put this down to either a strange allergic reaction to all the unaccustomed calories or sheer exhaustion. Once the wedding was over she’d treat herself to a couple of days off. Tom was more than capable of covering, and if she paid Symon a bit extra maybe he would run the kitchen until she managed to appoint a new head chef.
Oh Lord. Here he was in her head again, Symon flipping Tremaine. This was evidence, if ever she needed it, that it was time for a rest.
Anyway, Ella reflected now, the wedding had gone smoothly so far, the paps had been kept at bay and although she hadn’t seen much of Symon the guests had been very appreciative of the results of his labours. The bride and groom were being showered with compliments about discovering a talented Cornish chef and disaster had been averted. It was enough to make Ella seek out Jules Mathieson and tell her she now believed in God.
It was that stage of the reception where the food had been eaten, the speeches were over and there was a lull in the proceedings while everyone took a breather before the evening celebrations. The guests had wandered outside, where they flitted across the terrace like designer butterflies, their cigarettes glowing like s
mall red eyes in the darkness and their chatter rising and falling with the breeze. Lambswool clouds were stitched across the darkening sky and a small slice of moon was peeping through them. Inside the ballroom, all was still save the gentle chink of cutlery against bone china as the hotel staff cleared the tables, rudely interrupted every now and then by the screech of feedback from the amps as a famous re-formed band warmed up. Ella had solved a minor crisis or two and even helped unpin Tabitha’s heavy train so that the bride could mingle more easily with her guests.
Maybe it was time to grab a quick coffee, while she had the chance.
“Excuse me, are you in charge here?”
A rail-thin woman with a sharp blonde bob was looking at Ella questioningly. She didn’t look upset but you could never tell. That coffee would have to wait.
“I am,” Ella said pleasantly. “How may I help you?”
“I’ll get straight to the point because I’m sure you’re busy, but I was wondering who did the catering today? The food was wonderful! I loved that Cornish artisan and city fusion theme you had going on.”
Ella had no idea what she was on about but if this guest was happy she could call the food whatever she wished.
“I’m delighted you enjoyed it—”
“I more than enjoyed it!” The woman didn’t seem in the mood to chat. She was much too busy rummaging in her designer clutch bag. “Look, here’s my card. I’m a producer for the Food and Drink Channel. You’ve heard of us, I’m sure.”
Of course Ella had heard of the Food and Drink Channel, or F&D as it was known. It was a showcase for some of Britain’s most famous chefs and had become a launch pad for many household names. Charlie Barton had been gagging to find a way in; he’d even been prepared to lower himself for a stint on game shows like Get! Set! Bake! in his shameless quest for exposure.
Ella took the card and turned it over.
Sara Hopkiss, Producer, F&D
“I’m a friend of Tabitha’s father,” Sara Hopkiss explained. “Our families go back years. But look, never mind all that. The point is, I’ve been searching for a genuine Cornish chef to front a couple of features for us. This county’s where everyone wants to be right now. Do you think your guy would be any good in front of a camera?”
Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5) Page 17
