They strolled back to the vicarage, narrowly avoiding being flattened by Teddy St Milton in his latest sports car, and by the time Jules had brewed tea and dug out the chocolate biscuits, she knew all about Emerald’s hippy-chick mother, love of literature and passion for castles. The thing about castles made Jules feel guilty because she and Danny had promised to take Emerald to St Michael’s Mount and then forgotten all about it. The proposal-that-never-was, followed by the news of Danny’s potential move to London, had totally driven it from her mind.
“We’ll drive you to St Michael’s Mount as soon as we have a sunny day,” Jules assured her. “It’s magical. The first time I saw it I could hardly believe it was real.”
“You don’t have to,” answered Emerald. “I don’t think I’ll be here much longer anyways.”
“Are you due back? I thought you were here for a while?” Jules said.
Emerald looked down at the table. “Yeah, me too, but I don’t think it’s working out. I’m just upsetting everyone by being here and I never wanted that to happen. I thought they’d all be pleased to meet me. Jules, I would never have just come here if I thought nobody knew about me. Jimmy said he’d told you all.”
Some days Jules could swing for Jimmy Tremaine. She prayed hard for patience with him but it was a close thing at times.
“But you and Jimmy have sorted that now and everyone’s pleased to be getting to know you. Alice thinks the more the merrier!”
“I broke her and the old guy up.”
“You most certainly didn’t. Jonny and Alice are old enough to make their own choices and this postponement is about them deciding what’s right for their future. If your arrival’s made them think even more carefully, then that’s a good thing. Marriage isn’t to be undertaken lightly,” Jules said firmly. Nobody knew this better than her, both personally and professionally.
Emerald looked slightly more cheerful, and to seal the deal Jules passed her a chocolate digestive.
“Dunk it in your tea,” she suggested, doing so with her own.
“Dunking. Cool. That’s another British tradition, right?”
Jules chuckled. “It’s right up there with afternoon tea and the Changing of the Guard.”
They dunked and munched thoughtfully for a moment as Emerald considered what Jules had said. Jules noticed that the teenager was looking much happier now – proof that there was nothing tea and biscuits couldn’t make a little better.
“As for the others,” Jules continued, her voice thick with biscuit, “I know Danny and Jake think you’re great and Nick does too. He’s always boasting about you.”
Emerald rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but only ’cos he thinks I might know some Playboy Bunnies!”
Jules couldn’t help smiling. “That sounds like Nick. I’m sure Zak and Issie will be fine when you eventually meet them. And Symon’s pretty relaxed about life in general.”
Actually, Jules wasn’t so sure about Symon lately. He certainly wasn’t his usual even-keel self whenever Ella St Milton was mentioned – which was interesting, especially if Saffy Jago’s story contained even a half a grain of truth.
“So that just leaves Mo, and you get on brilliantly with her,” Jules concluded.
Emerald groaned. “I’ve caused a fight between her and Ashley. Jules, I’m a bad-luck curse.”
“Nonsense,” Jules answered. She wasn’t having this. “They fight a lot. They only met in the first place because Mo was fighting Ashley’s plans for the house. It’s how they are. Mo’s pretty fiery and he’s certainly no pushover. I think they enjoy it.”
“But this really was my fault.”
Jules glanced at the younger girl, unsure how she’d come to this conclusion. “I really don’t think that could be the case.”
“It is!” Emerald insisted. In her agitation, she’d reduced the remainder of her biscuit to crumbs. “Mo wants to go eventing because I’m looking after the horses, which gives her time. But Ashley said he’d rather I didn’t help at all if she does that. He says competing’s too dangerous.” Her eyes, that deep Tremaine blue that Jules loved so dearly, were wide with distress. “If Mo hurts herself it’ll be my fault.”
“Oh, Emerald, of course it wouldn’t be your fault. Mo’s a fantastic rider and she knows the risks. So does Ashley. I think he even bought her a couple of horses. Eventing’s what Mo’s always done and I suspect what she’ll always do. Whether you’re helping out or not won’t stop her. She’s stubborn – but then all of you are.”
There was a ghost of a smile. “Mom said I was stubborn coming here. She thought I should wait.”
“Typical Tremaine,” Jules sighed. “You guys are hard work but we all love you.”
The younger girl bit her lip. “Ashley said he can’t lose Mo and she said she felt the same about him. He said Isla needs her too much.”
“There you go, you see. They’re fine. Bonkers but fine. You haven’t broken them up, if that’s what you were worried about.”
Emerald looked relieved and took a sip of her tea, her nose wrinkling. “What’s Nurofen?”
Taken aback, Jules spluttered into her drink. “What?”
“Mo said Ashley was taking a lot of Nurofen. Is it a drug?”
Horror pulsed through Jules’s heart. Oh Lord, not again. No wonder Ashley didn’t want Mo risking her neck and leaving Isla all alone if… if…
Jules slammed her mental brakes on. Hard. Don’t go there.
“It’s a painkiller, like Advil,” was all she said. Tonight she would pray very hard.
Unlike Jules, Emerald appeared reassured by this. After another cup of tea and several more biscuits, all talk of returning to the USA had stopped. By the time she left for the caravan, Emerald seemed much more upbeat and was looking forward to her day out at St Michael’s Mount.
Jules shut the vicarage door and leaned on it, her eyes closed and her heart heavy. Sometimes this job was difficult to bear. Her thoughts whirled so fast she felt dizzy: Danny, London, marriage, Symon, Alice, Jonny, Emerald, Summer, Mo, Ashley…
So many people to think about. So many burdens to bear. Suddenly Jules needed to talk too and she needed comfort. There was only one place to go and one person she needed to hear her. She would spend a quiet hour talking things over with her Boss in the peace and holiness of St Wenn’s Church.
Chapter 21
The next two weeks passed in a blur for Symon. His days were spent filming at the hotel, shopping for new clothes with the F&D stylist and having his hair cut and artfully arranged with gel before giving interviews to endless journalists and food bloggers. The hours were long and gruelling in the restaurant trade, but they were nothing compared to this. When he was cooking in The Plump Seagull, time always seemed to have wings; although he often felt stressed and might not stop for hours, Symon loved every challenging and creative minute.
It had been the same at Papillon. When they’d started out, the restaurant had been little more than a bistro, tucked away in a side street and frequented by artists and musicians. They’d spent as much time partying after hours as they had cooking, and Symon had lost count of how many nights and days had been cognac-fuelled. As word had spread, the restaurant had gained a reputation for being the place to eat late and party even later – and Symon and Claudette had been more than happy to oblige. Understanding that their flamboyance was equally important to developing the brand, Jean-Luc had encouraged this and they’d worked together as a team.
And they had continued to do so until Symon had screwed things up…
He shook his head as though trying to shake away the memories. That was another life and that version of himself felt like another man altogether. Symon hardly recognised who he used to be. Nobody in Polwenna would believe that there was once a time when his capacity for partying and drinking had made Nick and Zak look like choirboys.
The producer was the one shaking her head now, and frowning.
“Cut! Can we take that again? The lighting needs adjusting and can
we have make-up over here? Now? And somebody take that pan off the gas, for God’s sake!”
Before Symon had a chance to protest that the hollandaise sauce was at a crucial point, a runner had taken the saucepan away. Now it would curdle. Great. Just bloody great. This was the fifth time now and he was starting to lose the will to live. This television work might be well paid but Symon really wasn’t enjoying it. Some chefs might be happy to act like performing seals whenever there was a camera trained on them, but he wasn’t one of them.
Symon tried to arrange his features into a neutral expression as the make-up girl swathed him in a robe and the stylist adjusted the jade bandana they’d decided was just perfect for his colouring. Meanwhile, his thoughts were engaged in a fierce mental debate as to whether the pros of filming outweighed the cons. Financially it was a no-brainer, of course. But there were more important things in life – like integrity for one, and giving his full attention to his own business for another. Already there was talk of a series and a tour to drum up publicity, and Symon knew exactly where this could lead.
What was wrong with him? Most people would be thrilled with the opportunity for fame and fortune, so why was his stomach folding over with dread?
Because, said a small voice deep down, he didn’t want to be famous. He just wanted to live peacefully here in Cornwall. He loved the village with its quirky characters and dramatic coastline; he loved running The Plump Seagull and seeing his family; and he loved sailing his boat across the bay. These things were true riches. What more did he need?
The money to buy the premises, said the small voice, and Symon exhaled, causing clouds of face powder to rise and the make-up girl to tut. He would have apologised, but she was applying a subtle lipstick and he didn’t want to make more work for her or hold up filming. She’d probably have sighed if she’d been in his position though. That morning Symon’s landlord had called to break the news that he was putting the restaurant on the market at the end of the summer.
“I need to realise some capital,” he’d said. “You know how things are at the moment, son. These are tough times. You’ve got first refusal, of course.”
He’d then gone on to name a figure so high that Symon had laughed in sheer disbelief. “This is Cornwall! Not Chelsea!”
There was no way he could afford the price Peter Marten was asking, and Symon didn’t imagine that the banks would be in a rush to lend him such an enormous amount either. In any case, he was too proud to ask for help – and this was his business and Symon wanted to run it his way. He supposed he could sell his soul to the TV company, but this would come at a price too: it would cost him the time he could be putting into his own business instead. In the food business reputations were slow to build and fast to ruin.
“OK,” said the make-up girl, whipping off the robe and standing back to appraise him through narrowed eyes. “You’re good for the next half an hour.”
And that was when Symon knew he couldn’t do this. He’d honour his commitment to Ella and F&D, but after that there would be no more filming. The likes of Charlie Barton could keep it. Symon just wanted to return to his own kitchen. He’d find another way to save the restaurant, or even a new place that would be even better and where he could expand, but he wouldn’t be selling out or neglecting his business. He’d only been filming for a few weeks but already there was an impact on his usual routine. By the time the producers were satisfied, it was generally so late that the restaurant was closed and the village was fast asleep. When he returned home, the only light guiding him downhill was from the stars or from the orange glow of the streetlamps. Symon would let himself in to the deserted restaurant, where – without Tony or Kelly to chat to – he’d climb the stairs and fall into bed until his alarm dragged him out of sleep. Then it was up, shower and get into the car they sent for him to do it all over again.
Hamsters running on wheels probably had more fun. He was thankful for this opportunity but the more time he spent on filming and doing publicity, the more he knew that this wasn’t for him. He missed the adrenaline rush of having to produce twenty or thirty covers at once and the challenge of ensuring that each meal, from the simple fishcakes to his signature lobster ravioli, was as perfect as it was possible to make it. Most of all though, he missed the camaraderie of working with his team. Drinking coffee with Tara first thing in the morning, bantering with Perry as they unpacked the fruit and veg, teaching Tony the skills that would take him from being a good chef to a superb one; Symon loved all these things just as much as he loved creating his new dishes.
It was the sense of being part of a team and working together towards a shared goal that drove him, Symon realised. The great reputation, the Michelin star and the write-ups in the food press were just the icing on the cake, but it was the teamwork that really mattered. After all, it had been one of the things he’d loved the most about working at Papillon. They’d been a tight unit, him, Jean-Luc and Claudette, and they’d worked hard together and played even harder. It had been the best time of his life.
Until he’d ruined everything by falling in love…
Whenever he thought about Claudette, Symon still felt a jolt of desire, which was always followed swiftly by shame. He hadn’t seen her since he’d left the restaurant but this didn’t stop him thinking about her and wanting her. She’d made the world vibrant and colourful and every second he’d spent with her had felt like being plugged in to the mains. He fizzed, he crackled, he was wired. It was crazy and stupid and he’d been an idiot because it had meant nothing to her.
Women like Claudette were not to be trusted. For ages Symon had hated her, but not nearly as much as he hated himself. He’d promised himself that he would stay away from women. They were nothing but trouble. It had been a successful policy – until recently, when Ella St Milton had somehow managed to slip under his guard.
Symon was at a loss to understand how this had happened. Was it through working together on the wedding? The intensity of filming? Seeing in Ella the same determination to succeed on her own merits that he saw in himself? Or was it because he couldn’t put their kiss out of his mind? That kiss had been incredible, so delicious and so full of promise, but what had it actually meant? Nothing or everything? Was she, like Claudette, playing games?
As he looked into the camera now, smiling and chatting about hollandaise sauce, Symon’s emotions were a mess. He simply couldn’t concentrate.
“Cut! Cut!”
Jolted from his thoughts, Symon realised that the sauce was burning. Instantly several crew stepped forward to relieve him of the scorched attempt and a fresh pan had materialised.
“Let’s take that from the top,” suggested the director. “Symon, if you could go back to the bit where you say how easy it is to make your own hollandaise?”
“I think I’ve already proven that’s a fib,” said Symon. His head was aching and he knew from experience that any further attempts would be a disaster in this frame of mind. He also knew that he didn’t have any real option but to press on. He’d signed a contract and the money was already in his bank account. He’d be extremely relieved when this was over. Thank God they were stopping at lunchtime.
Or they would be, if this bloody sauce was ever made…
He sighed and then forced himself to smile brightly into the camera.
“Shall we try again?” he said.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. May I have a quick word?” Jonny St Milton asked his granddaughter.
Ella looked up, her heart sinking. Since Jonny and Alice had put their engagement on hold her grandfather had been at a loose end, which meant he was distracting himself by interfering with running the hotel.
Err, she meant getting involved with running the hotel. She must be patient.
“Can it wait for a just a little bit? I’ve just got to go through these job applications.”
Ella was working her way through the pile of impressive CVs from the applicants for Charlie’s job. Her aim was to shortlist three and the
n persuade Symon Tremaine to help her interview them – if he ever spoke to her again, that was. Things between them had been awkward since their meeting in the coffee shop and he’d been so with busy filming that Ella hadn’t found a moment when he was free. In some ways this was quite a relief. After all, what could she say? That she temporarily lost her senses and couldn’t help kissing him? The memory of that kiss alone was enough to send a longing flickering through her like flames. For a moment she lost herself, imagining what it might be like to take that kiss further and feel his skin against hers…
“No, that’s exactly what I wanted to talk about,” said Jonny. He shuffled forward and sank onto a chair with a grunt. He looked his age today and Ella was reminded that however difficult he could be, her grandfather was an old man. She took a deep breath. Patience, she told herself. Be kind.
Be kind? Where did that come from? It sounded like something Symon Tremaine might say. It certainly wasn’t the way her Evil Ella alter ego would think!
“These are the chefs I’ve longlisted,” Ella said, pushing the CVs across the desk to him. She was pleased with the selection so far. “They’re all extremely well qualified and I think they could bring a lot to the party. I’m just about to make the final cut.”
Jonny peered at the documents for a second, before pushing them aside. “I’m sure they’re all very impressive, my dear, but you needn’t carry on. I’ve already found a head chef.”
Ella did her best to remain calm at this bombshell. Jonny was given to these kinds of strange decisions and generally she was able to talk him out of them. Count to ten, she told herself. Don’t react or show your emotional side because he’ll only see that as feminine weakness.
“Right,” Ella said slowly. “I’ll add him to the shortlist, shall I?”
“No need. I’ve already told him the job’s his.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me like that. This is going to be great. You know him anyway, Ella. It’s Ricky Mellington-Smyth, Jane and Edmund’s boy? Teddy’s friend from school? Apparently he’s had a bit of fun running a pop-up restaurant in Somerset, at a festival, and he’s very keen to be a chef. Ted’s sure he’s the guy for the job and I’m willing to give him a chance.”
Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5) Page 20
