by Ella Hayes
CHAPTER FIVE
‘ERRIS! WAIT! PLEASE!’
Erris twisted round and then his hand went up. ‘Emilie!’
Her heart leapt. It wasn’t too late! She hurried along the jetty towards the motor launch, dress flying around her calves. Its silky caress felt nice. Feminine! It was how she wanted to feel. Chef’s whites were practical, but they didn’t fall far short of prison duds and today she wanted to feel like a woman: a free, independent, strong woman.
As she drew level with the boat, Erris met her with a bewildered smile. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was hoping for a lift.’ She planted her hand on the rail, catching her breath. ‘I want to go to Road Town. Not for provisions, just to...’ escape from Joel Larsson ‘...to look around!’ She switched on a bright smile. ‘I feel like a nice long wander.’
Erris’s eyebrows flickered. ‘What about Mr Larsson’s breakfast?’
She felt her senses swimming and gripped the rail tighter. It was wearing thin, the dizzy rush she felt every time she thought about Joel. The problem was, she couldn’t stop thinking about him... His smiling, upside-down face after she’d fallen backwards into his arms... Pulling off the buff, laughing helplessly... The way he’d looked at her... And when she’d tripped and fallen against him, she’d felt—oh, God!—she’d felt such an overwhelming desire to stay there, to press closer, to lose herself in his deep warmth.
It was all because of that stupid blindfold! What had possessed her? It was supposed to have been a little surprise chocolate cake picnic, to get his opinion on the test bakes, but then she’d noticed her buff in her bag after the unquestionably fake insect incident—an incident she still needed to unpack—and she’d got the idea. It was only meant to have been a fun trust game to follow on from his, because they’d been laughing and everything had felt so easy and sparkly, but somehow, things had spiralled.
From the moment she’d slipped the blindfold over his eyes her little game had taken on an energy of its own, an electricity that had skewed everything. Later, when she’d been serving Joel dinner, he’d been warm and friendly. He’d kept catching her eye, trapping her in his gaze, and every time, she’d felt her insides trembling and had had to turn away, busying herself with some small pointless task. It was physical attraction, undeniably, but there was something else too, gathering momentum, muddling her thoughts, muddying her vision...
‘Emilie...?’
Erris’s face snapped back into focus. ‘Sorry.’ She blinked. ‘You were asking about breakfast for Mr Larsson...’ Erris wasn’t on leave like Melinda, but he’d been back and forth so much since Ben’s birth that she hadn’t had a chance to bring him up to speed. ‘It’s fine. He gets his own breakfasts.’
Erris’s brow furrowed. ‘That’s not—’
‘I know, but he insists. He likes to get off early, sailing.’ She pictured the glistening fruits she’d arranged on silver platters for the previous guests, the eggs Benedict, the smoked mackerel mousses, the blinis and the delicately skewered cherry tomatoes, then she pictured the neatly stacked debris Joel left behind: the crusty remnants of scrambled egg around the non-stick wok, the plate littered with toast crumbs, the jammy knife, and the coffee mug with its milky dregs. She shrugged. ‘I don’t think Mr Larsson’s a breakfast buffet sort of person.’
Erris seemed to be weighing it up, then he smiled. ‘Okay then, come on. We’d better get going or I’ll be late for the girls.’
On board, with the boat sliding away from the jetty, she felt her pulse steadying. Catching Erris on his outward crossing to fetch the cleaners from Tortola had been a good idea. All night long details from the beach had shimmered in and out of focus: the buff going over Joel’s eyes...her fingertips brushing his forehead and his cheeks... Deliberately? Tiny lines around his mouth...his lips...listening for his breath to hitch... Listening? By first light, she’d had enough, knew that she absolutely couldn’t see him until she’d straightened her head out, so she’d flung on her dress and made a dash for the jetty.
She unzipped her tote, hunting for her sunglasses. She’d given Joel a second chance because she liked him and because she’d felt sorry for him, but his trust game had done something to her. Caught in his arms, she’d felt bright and alive for the first time in for ever. She’d lost herself inside his deep gaze full of warm light because she was a moth, hopeless around light. He’d made her feel happy, and a little bold, so she’d played her game, but it had gone too far, thrown her off course, so that now, even with her badly singed wings, she was rising again, clamouring for...what?
She felt a lump thickening in her throat. Intimacy? Love? She swallowed hard. After Tom, how could she even be thinking of it and, as for Joel, he was still struggling to gather up his thoughts about his ex. Neither of them was in any kind of shape for romance. She bit her lips together. The most they could ever share would be a holiday fling and that wasn’t her style.
She found her sunglasses and slipped them on. Thinking it through calmly, it was simple enough. She was lonely and Joel was hot! Yes, she wanted to run her fingers down the inky line on his inner arm. She wanted to kiss his mouth and that dimple that creased his left cheek when he smiled, but it was just fantasy. Joel was a friend—barely that—and that’s the way things had to stay. Loose ties!
She drew in a lungful of air, looking out across the glittering turquoise sea. There was Café Hygge to think about... She could see it in her mind’s eye, but that wasn’t to say that she’d thought of everything. According to Melinda, there were lots of cafés and bistros in Road Town. There were bound to be ideas, touches of inspiration that she could borrow. She felt her veins thrumming. Having a mission for the day was good!
She got up, joining Erris at the wheel, raising her voice above the sound of the engine. ‘So, how’s your grandson?’
‘Very little and very loud!’ He beamed, his eyes widening. ‘Melinda’s got her hands full, but she’s loving every minute, no matter what she says.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s already planning a party.’
‘A party?’
‘Just family and friends...but there’s a whole lotta those so it’s going to be quite a carnival. She’s set on a beach party at Boulder Cay so that Anton can put on a bit of a show with his crew. We’ve not quite settled on the day yet, but—’ he smiled ‘—you’re invited.’
‘That’s so kind.’ She felt stupidly teary. It was so nice of them to include her. She had to give something back, offer something in return. She bit her lip. ‘Maybe I could help with the food...?’
Erris gave her the side eye. ‘No! You spend your life catering. Everyone’ll be bringing something: it’s how we do it.’ He grinned. ‘Sharing the work leaves more time for celebrating.’
‘Then I’ll bring something too...’ Ideas were already unspooling in her head. A cake! An island cake, with a beach...sugar palm trees...and sea... A blue crib with a sugar baby and...sugar stilt walkers in colourful costumes! She put her hand on Erris’s shoulder. ‘How about a cake—a nice big one!’
He beamed. ‘Sounds good to me, although Melinda specifically said you weren’t to do anything.’
She felt a little glow of mischief. ‘We won’t tell Melinda then.’ She smiled. ‘It’ll be a surprise!’
* * *
She stood at Road Town’s main junction for a moment, considering. The three streets in front of her were narrow, the tarmac cracked and broken, especially along the gutters. This was early April, edging towards the end of the dry season, but it was easy to imagine the streets running with water and the palms bowing and thrashing in hurricane winds. Here and there, dotted between the low, brightly painted clapboard properties and the tall, white houses with their ornate balconies, were palm trees bearing the scars of old storms, tatty brown leaves dangling like the broken wings of birds. A little below the level of the tallest palms, fat telegraph poles spat out wires in all directions. Not quit
e picture postcard!
She picked the middle street, walking slowly. When her father had called to tell her that one of his oil industry colleagues needed a temporary chef for a private island residence he owned in the British Virgin Islands—a place he let out—and that the job was hers if she wanted it, she hadn’t hesitated for a second.
Between booking flights and packing, she’d pored over online pictures of perfect beaches, leaning palm trees and pristine yachts anchored in turquoise water, losing herself in the fantasy of it, but those wires lacing the streets together were a reminder that fantasy was just a manipulation of the truth. In real life, whichever street you took, there were always telegraph poles spoiling the view, or inside, little disturbances of the spirit spoiling a mood, like the guilt that was clawing at her belly for leaving the island without checking first to see if Joel’s catamaran had still been on the beach.
She drew an irritable breath. Why was she worrying? He’d probably taken off early as usual and, even if he hadn’t, he was used to getting his own breakfast. She’d agreed to be his friend; she hadn’t agreed to stay on Buck Island twenty-four-seven! She yanked up the shoulder strap of her tote and stepped out. She needed this day to herself, needed space and a change of scene! And it was nice, wasn’t it, not to be shopping for provisions. It was good having time to look around.
She took out her phone and photographed a cute-looking restaurant with a red wooden sign and then took more pictures of houses with roofs and walls and window shutters painted in rainbow shades, to show Grandma.
She drifted through a craft market, catching smiles from hopeful vendors, fingering textiles and jewellery, but she couldn’t decide on anything so she moved on, going into a cool, airy art gallery so hushed that she felt guilty for even moving because every time she did, the pale wooden floors creaked. If she’d have been with someone, it would have been something to laugh about, but on her own... She headed for the gift shop and bought some postcards.
Outside, the heat hit her hard. On Buck Island, the heat blew through on a breeze that never stopped, but here, it seemed to bounce off the buildings and off the pavements. She felt light-headed, felt her palms sweating, and then she remembered that she’d been in such a hurry to catch Erris that morning that she’d left without breakfast. No wonder she was dizzy! She needed something to eat and a nice cool drink.
She cut through a walkway to the middle street, retracing her steps until she came to the restaurant she’d photographed earlier. It was the red wooden sign that had caught her eye, the neat edges of the cream painted script which said: The Roost. She’d always had a thing about signage. It had to be inviting and this ticked all the boxes. She pushed the door open.
Inside, it seemed a little gloomy at first, but there was a ceiling fan going, wafting cool air around which felt like heaven. She stuffed her sunglasses into her tote and looked around, eyes adjusting. It was a narrow, whitewashed space, with exposed eaves and white beams which made it feel airy. In front of her was a long wooden counter and above it, on the wall behind, was a wide blackboard listing favourites and specials: chicken with rice; goat stew; flying fish sandwich; roast pork and plantains; spinach callaloo. Authentic! Tasty and filling. She felt her stomach rumbling.
‘Hello.’ A sweet-faced girl in a white blouse and red canvas apron was smiling at her. ‘Are you sitting in, or taking away?’
‘Sitting in, please.’
The girl picked up a menu from the counter. ‘Okay. Please come.’
She followed the girl through a pair of doors and felt a thrill of happiness. In front of her was a charming outdoor dining area set out with glass-topped rattan tables shaded by cream canvas umbrellas. There were high blue walls all around and stone planters dotted here and there, bursting with lush greenery. It was completely lovely.
When she was seated, the girl handed her a tall slim menu, then poured her a glass of water from a jug clinking with ice cubes. ‘Can I get you a cocktail, or a beer?’
‘No, thanks. Water’s fine.’ She fanned her face with the menu. ‘I’m feeling the heat!’
The girl was nodding. ‘It sure is hot today, so you just take your time... I’ll come back in a few minutes.’
She sipped her water, watching the girl threading her way back through the tables, then she looked down at the menu. There was an appealing etching of a chicken coop on the front of it, but the vibe here was colonial-slash-tropical, not remotely hygge. She sipped again, felt her spirits plummeting. Café Hygge was a dream, but could she make it a reality? Tom had agreed to buy her out of the bistro, but when would that be? He’d moved into a new place with Rachel—a bigger flat at a much higher rent—and of course Rachel would have to give up working soon...
Her breath caught on a shard of bright clear pain. Why was Rachel the one having a baby and not her? She’d been with Tom since she was seventeen. They’d trained together, lived and worked together, opened a restaurant together, but...they’d never talked about having a family. Why? She pressed her glass to her forehead, rolling its coolness back and forth. It was her. She’d always been a slave to work, chasing perfection, chasing glory, because...she squeezed her eyes shut, felt the blood pounding in her temples...because of Sunday morning rolls buttered with smiles, because making nice food was how she’d got her parents to notice her.
Food and love, love and food, simmering for years, reducing, thickening, congealing, until in her mind they were the same thing. Food had always been her ticket, but not with Tom. She’d thought he loved her for herself, thought that once they’d ironed out the wrinkles with the bistro, there’d be time for a life beyond the kitchen, but he’d betrayed her and her best friend had stolen the life that should have been hers.
She felt tears thickening in her throat, seeping from between her lashes. She wanted a baby...or two...maybe three and she wanted a home that was more than the crash pad she and Tom had shared. She wanted a home like Grandma’s, a home filled with laughter and love, and the smell of fresh bread... But she was behind the curve now. Twenty-nine years old with nothing to show for it. All she had was a fantasy café.
She put her glass down, shuddering a little breath. If Café Hygge was going to be her baby, then it was going to be a difficult birth. She couldn’t see herself forcing Tom to sell the bistro so that she could get her half of the money back. That would mean talking to him! It would mean being cool and business-like. She wasn’t up to that, not yet, but she’d have to change, somehow. Find a way!
She looked up. The waitress was coming. She wiped her eyes quickly, scanning the menu. Chicken and rice. That would be filling and comforting, not as comforting as having someone to talk to, but she didn’t want to trouble Melinda and Grandma would only worry. As for Joel...no. Just, no!
* * *
Joel sipped his water, staring at the chink of sunlight dancing on the table. He hadn’t needed a menu. He’d been to The Roost often enough to know that the goat stew was his favourite. He liked the thick, rich gravy flavoured with cloves and the pile of potatoes and greens and fried plantains that came with it. Usually he’d have been ravenous by now even if he’d had breakfast, but although he could feel his belly churning, his hunger felt distant and unimportant. He took another sip from his glass, felt its ice chill burning his throat. Everything seemed to be going...what had Emilie called it... Pete Tong?
Emilie! He’d wanted to see her that morning, to make good on his promise that she could trust him. He’d wanted to show her that he was her friend, so instead of taking off early he’d stayed in his room, catching up with emails, then he’d showered and gone down, but in the kitchen he’d found two young women in blue tabards chattering away, wiping the counters.
They’d told him that Emilie was on Tortola, that she’d got off the boat as they’d been getting on and that she’d looked ‘very pretty’, as if she was going on a date. As soon as they’d said it, he’d felt a snap of disappointmen
t, then something gnawing away at him, a miserable cocktail of hurt and anger. He’d tried taking it out on the power boat, throttling it hard, tearing up the ocean, but it was only when he’d been tying up at The Moorings Marina that he’d realised what the ugly, alien feeling was: jealousy!
He slugged back another mouthful of water. When Astrid had told him she was falling for Johan, he’d felt a flash of something like it, pain like a lion’s roar—deep and loud and rumbling—but it had fizzled out quickly and nothing had flooded in to fill the void. But this feeling was twitching on and on inside him like a flame in a draught and it was just as useless: not bright enough to throw any light, not hot enough to burn off the mist swirling in his head. Had Emilie met someone here...? She hadn’t given him that impression, but then what did he know?
He put his glass down, harder than he’d meant to. He barely knew Emilie, but she’d put in him a tangle just the same. How was that even possible? He was supposed to be too wounded to walk, too broken to even think about...what? What was he thinking about? He closed his eyes, massaging his forehead. Her lips...on his, his on hers, warm, urgent...kissing.
When she’d stumbled against him on the beach, he’d wanted to pull her right in and kiss her and he’d seen something gathering in her eyes too, but then it had faded and she’d stepped back, flushed and flustered, static crackling awkwardly around them. Maybe that was why she’d called back that she was sorry, unless she’d been apologising for the blindfold, and the teasing way she’d touched him.
A tingle raced along his spine. Her warm fingertips, her voice, the way she’d stretched out all the little moments—it had felt deliberate—naughty—but he’d started it, hadn’t he, by choosing a trust game that involved physical contact. Truth was, he’d wanted to hold her, to feel her falling into his arms. Kristus! From the moment he’d set eyes on her he’d wanted her, wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone before.