by Daisy James
‘Thank you for agreeing to our visit at such short notice. This is Emilie Roberts. Do you mind if she takes a few photographs?’
‘Not at all. Let me show you around.’
Inside the distillery the star of the show was most certainly the flame-fired copper pot still, which had been buffed to shining and was almost the same colour as Emilie’s hair!
‘Wow! I love that!’ exclaimed Emilie, raising her camera to take a quick snap.
‘This is the engine room of our business. We use what is known as the one-shot distillation process. That means we don’t blend with pre-made concentrate, which in turn means every batch we make is unique in flavour and taste. To celebrate that fact each bottle has a batch number and my own personal tasting notes on the side.
‘It’s really important to me that the whole process from distillation to bottling to packaging and labelling is undertaken here at the distillery. It means I can retain complete quality control. We do everything by hand – using traditional, non-mechanised methods – and collect only the heart of the run for bottling, discarding the heads and tails. And we use only the very best ingredients.’
Emilie recognised the same enthusiasm in Tarquin’s expression as she had seen in Matt’s when he talked about his passion. This was more than a business to them, it was artistry; these men were craftsmen who loved what they did and wanted the world to enjoy the fruits of their labour.
‘Which ingredients are used in making your Cornish pastis, Tarquin?’ asked Emilie, as she examined one of the attractive green bottles with the gold label and cream waxed topper.
‘There are several, but every one is essential to the final product. We use star anise, green aniseed, liquorice root and sweet fennel seeds for the distinctive flavour of pastis. We also add fresh fruit zest – never dried – from oranges, lemons and grapefruits. We source from all over the world but also from the clifftops of north Cornwall, such as these gorse flowers. And we use what is probably some of the freshest, sweetest water in England.’
They had reached the end of their tour and Tarquin reached for a bottle of his Cornish pastis, poured them each a shot and added a generous slug of water. ‘What do you think?’
She took a tentative sip and felt the raw edges of the day smoothed over by the silky infusion of aniseed and fennel. It was fresh, invigorating and entirely unique. ‘It’s absolutely delicious and I adore the branding. Could I take a couple of bottles? My dad would love some of this for his Christmas present!’
‘Yet another convert, Tarquin!’ Matt laughed. ‘I love what you’re doing here.’
They thanked Tarquin for his time and headed back to the Satsuma Splittie laden with not only the Cornish pastis, but also a couple of bottles of Tarquin’s premium gin for Emilie’s mother to try. She glanced across at Matt’s profile and her heart clenched with a sudden zap of desire mingled with a twist of apprehension. There were just two shoots left to go. The next day Lucinda would be showcasing the culinary delights of Bodmin Moor at a country manor hotel, then they only had the Eden Project near St Austell and the whole Great British Baking Voyage would be over.
What would happen when Matt’s services as a driver were no longer required? Would she be happy to simply hop on the next train to Paddington and never set eyes on him again?
‘There’s that serious face again. What’s up, Hinny, as they say in Northumberland?’
She forced a smile onto her lips. She knew that she should be concentrating on enjoying the time she was spending with Matt instead of worrying about what was going to happen in the future, something she had no real control over. So she leaned over to deposit a kiss on his cheek.
‘Sorry for being an unsociable idiot on this leg. I promise to “buck up”!’
They stopped at a village pub on the edge of Bodmin Moor and ordered dinner. Matt chose to indulge in the local favourite, Stargazy Pie, which she was heartily relieved not to have ordered due to the numerous fish heads protruding from the pastry crust. However, she did dive into a plate of beef and ale casserole and relished every fragrant mouthful.
Her spirits lifted. It was true what people said – sharing food with a companion did make you happy and she was even happier that her current companion was Matt. Why had she shunned the whole array of delicious cuisines the world had to offer for the banality of instant coffee and a bag of crisps? She made a silent resolution that when the trip was over she would expand her culinary skills to trying out some of Lucinda’s recipes. Maybe she would even take in a cookery course at the local high school or enrol a wine-tasting course.
And it wasn’t only the food-and-drink epiphany she had Matt to thank for. She had enjoyed every minute of the shoot since Matt had joined her. Due to the fact that he possessed an unshakeable confidence in her talents, and had consistently told her she was capable of fabulous styling ideas – even helping her to achieve them – her self-belief had blossomed. She now recognised what a negative impact being with Brad, a fellow photographer and competitor for the plum assignments, had had on not only her mental state but also her career – but hadn’t that been Brad’s intention?
Emilie and Matt left the pub holding hands. The cold night air wrapped its icy blanket around her shoulders and Matt dragged her into his arms to share the warmth of his body. She looked into his eyes. Bluish wisps of vapour from their breath hung in the air between them and she lost herself in the pleasure of being kissed. Whenever she was in Matt’s company she experienced an inexplicable affinity with him. An overwhelming sense of contentment, which made her believe that with Matt by her side anything was possible. Still, the meteorological gods had other ideas and after only a few minutes she began to shiver as the temperature plunged.
‘Come on. It’s late and I need to set up camp for the night.’
‘Why don’t you sleep in the camper van tonight? It’ll be freezing in the tent.’
Matt stared at her, searching her eyes, uncertainty in his expression.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
He grabbed her arm and together they sprinted to the Satsuma Splittie where they fell giggling onto the bunks, their arms wrapped around each other. Her body moulded perfectly against Matt’s and her heart ballooned at her good fortune to be in the company of this gorgeous man she had been lucky enough to spend the last two weeks of her life with.
Was she falling for Matt Ashby? And if she was, was she crazy? What if he turned out to be like Brad – attentive and solicitous to begin with, then performing a radical character change so that she lost all her self-confidence and questioned whether she could continue on her own without someone by her side? Should she really be putting her trust in someone so soon? And what did she know about Matt’s past? Enough to know that he was hiding something important. What was it? Why had his business failed? It could have been anything: bad luck, financial problems, even a criminal act for all she knew.
She berated herself as soon as the last thought entered her head. Matt was not like Brad. Whilst he was passionate about his interest in drinks, he wasn’t in competition with her like Brad had been. Matt had treated her with nothing but kindness.
As she responded to his kisses, spasms of desire flooded her veins and swirled insistently around her body. It might be cold outside but inside their orange-tinged wonderland their mounting passion heated the air and caused the windows to steam up. At that precise moment there was no way she wanted to be anywhere else – and certainly not Venice.
Chapter Eighteen
‘So, it’s the Bodmin Moor shoot tomorrow morning. One of my favourite places in the world – after the Cheviots of course. And I’ve just checked the schedule – it’s going to be an early start because the chef Lucinda is working with is flying out to New York in the afternoon to join a cruise ship where he’s judging a sort of Floating Chef competition. But the flip side is that we get the afternoon to ourselves before we have to leave for the last shoot at the Eden Pro
ject. So, as a treat, I’m taking you up Rough Tor, which is the second highest point in Cornwall. It’s an easy hike up and the view from the summit is breathtaking.’
Emilie smiled at the enthusiasm Matt seemed to apply to every aspect of his life. Nothing fazed him and he threw every ounce of his energy behind each endeavour he put his mind to. As Matt looped and swerved around the narrow, hedge-bordered lanes, they chatted about a myriad of subjects with ease. The more she learned about Matt, the more she found they had in common and the more her heart melted to his quirky sense of humour and his craving to be free of the trappings of commercialism.
As twilight began to cast indigo and ivory flares over the horizon, they arrived at Craiglea Manor House, a luxury boutique hotel where Lucinda would prepare her penultimate trio of Cornish desserts the next morning. They passed through the twin stone pillars that guarded the entrance of the impressive granite-grey house, which was topped with Cornish slate. They made their way along the winding driveway to the cobbled courtyard ringed with a necklace of old-style lamp posts that cast a rose-tinted aura over the car park.
Matt slung his rucksack over his shoulder and Emilie grabbed her wheelie suitcase from the back of the van. She struggled to drag the wheels through the deep gravel to the steps, their stone treads worn in the middle by the passage of time. They went through the grand entrance to check-in.
Emilie couldn’t believe she had been allocated a suite until the po-faced receptionist informed her that all the rooms at Craiglea Manor were suites, each one named after a famous literary figure with connections to the area. She smiled when she read that her key allowed her access to the Rosamunde Pilcher suite. She was determined to enjoy every minute of the unexpected luxury, a treat paid for by Lucinda’s management for all those who had stuck with the road trip from the beginning.
The suite was everything Emilie had dreamed it would be, from the crisp white cotton sheets, the fluffy towels and Jo Malone toiletries in the bathroom, to the stunning landscape of the hotel grounds and Bodmin Moor beyond. But she wasn’t there to enjoy the view or to keep a maternal eye on the Satsuma Splittie, which nestled just below the window, wreathed in a halo of amber light. It sat alongside the more sombre presence of the sleek black limousine Lucinda had hired for the duration of the trip. She smiled when she saw Marcus’s scarlet Mini crunch through the gravel and pull up next to the camper van. She knew he would adore the Manor – perhaps he would be allocated the John le Carré suite.
She turned away from the window. Matt was waiting for her at the door of the en suite bathroom. ‘I’ve ran a bath. Fancy joining me?’
‘Just try stopping me!’
They stayed beneath the bubbles until the water turned cold, then wrapped themselves up in the thick towelling robes and ordered room service. Whilst they waited for their food to arrive, they lounged on the super-king-sized bed, flicking languidly through the movie channels. Emilie hoped there would be nothing of interest so they could dive into bed early.
They hoovered up a delicious meal of home-made cheese and onion quiche and twice-cooked chips made from the potatoes grown in the hotel’s vegetable plot, and then Emilie snuggled into the cruck of Matt’s arm. She experienced a feeling of total peace and well-being, and of the certain knowledge that at last she could ask Matt anything and not be rebuffed.
‘After the Perranporth shoot I would never have believed I would say this but I’ll be sad when this trip is over,’ Emilie began, sending up a prayer to her guardian angel that Matt would agree with her.
‘Mmm, me too.’
‘Are you looking forward to seeing your family? How long is it since you left?’
‘I came down here in April.’
‘They must miss you.’
Matt removed his arm from around her shoulder so he could look her directly in the eyes. His expression became strained and serious, his body language tense, in complete contradiction to his usually laid-back demeanour. For a moment he didn’t move a muscle, clearly engaged in an internal struggle as to whether he should confide in Emilie.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…’
‘No, no it’s okay. You have nothing to apologise for. It’s my fault.’ He took her hands in his and inhaled a deep ragged breath filled with anguish. But his face spoke of determination, of a resolve to be open with her so that their relationship could move from superficial friendship and camaraderie to something far deeper and more meaningful. ‘I’m sorry I’ve avoided telling you about my past, Emilie. You deserve to know, especially when being with you has taught me that I still can be passionate about something even though it causes me immense pain. It’s just that I struggle to talk about what happened to Jamie.’
It was a few moments before Matt continued. His throat strangled around the words that he clearly found difficult to deliver.
‘You don’t have to…’
‘I do. I want to tell you about him. Jamie was the best brother anyone could wish for and I need to keep his memory alive by talking about him. He was more than just my brother; he was my best friend. He was a great sportsman – cricket, rugby, golf, even archery. He was a fabulously talented chef too. Jamie would invite all his college mates round to Mum and Dad’s and he’d cook up a storm. And he was a superb brewer, better than I am. We had a great business in the making. Orders were increasing every month, we had just secured a lucrative contract with an international distributor and we were even planning to offer tours and tastings just like Hugo. Everyone loved Jamie.’
Matt paused again to gather his courage to deliver what were obviously painful words for him to utter. Emilie’s heart squeezed in sympathy as she waited until he was ready.
‘Jamie died two years ago. He was working late at the brewery, catching up on the dreaded paperwork. We didn’t find him until the next morning, by which time it was too late.’
‘Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry. That’s just awful.’ She touched his arm to show her support but she knew it wasn’t enough.
‘The doctors told us it was a heart attack. Could have happened anywhere, any time. It was too much to comprehend. He’d just celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday. Mum and Dad were devastated, we all were, and I knew I couldn’t continue to run the brewery without Jamie by my side. If only I had offered to do the accounts that night or had phoned him to check on his progress, perhaps I could have done something…anything… I can’t seem to shift the continual spiral of questions that start with “what if”.’
‘Oh, Matt…’
‘I know that I’ve been running away from what happened, living an itinerant lifestyle so I don’t have to face up to my grief and my responsibilities with the business on a daily basis. I suppose I have to accept that I’m a coward. But I also carry an intense burden of guilt that no matter what I do I can’t eradicate.’
‘But, Matt, what happened to Jamie wasn’t your fault. You said the doctors told you that it could have happened at any time. You have to stop punishing yourself for something that was totally out of your control,’ she said gently.
‘That’s almost exactly, word for word what my mother has said to me every time we speak on the phone. Trouble is my brain accepts that she’s right, but my heart refuses to play the game. I loved that guy. You know, it was Jamie’s dream to publish the book on Great British Beverages, something he came up with when he was at catering college. He decided that he would source the products and I would do the writing bit. He would have loved you, Emilie, and I’m certain he would have asked you to do the photography. Perhaps it isn’t such a pipe dream after all!’
Emilie prayed that Matt’s last sentence was evidence that a chink had opened up in the armour of the pain and self-recrimination Matt had surrounded himself with since his brother’s premature death. That at last he was starting to look to the future.
‘What a fantastic way to honour your brother’s memory, Matt. Maybe you should think about reopening the brewery, too? You could even brew a special cr
aft beer and name it after him.’
‘Maybe,’ Matt muttered, pulling her back into his arms and placing his chin on her head, clearly spent from the heartbreaking revelations.
Emilie waited for her heartbeat to calm before saying anything further, but she drifted off into a dream-filled slumber. She awoke with a start and turned to curl up against Matt’s warm body but found his side of the bed empty. She sat up and looked around the room but there was no light coming from the bathroom. She got up and peeked through the door but he wasn’t there. In fact, he wasn’t anywhere in the suite. A sharp pang of anxiety clutched at her chest. Where was he?
She squinted at her watch. Two a.m. Could he have gone outside for some fresh air to clear his mind after what he had told her?
She padded across to the window, cracking open the chintzy curtains, and peered down over the illuminated car park. There was the camper van, sleeping peacefully under the glint of the full moon. She let out a sigh of relief that Matt hadn’t decided to take the opportunity to make a quick getaway but the breath caught in her throat when, as she turned back to the bedroom, she noticed a flicker of movement through the windscreen. As she watched, Matt emerged for the back of the Satsuma Splittie and plonked himself down in the driver’s seat.
What on earth was he doing?
She saw the bluish tinge of a computer screen appear. Was that her laptop he was using? She pressed her nose against the window as she tried to fathom out what was going on. Her heart sank as she realised that whatever Matt was doing he clearly didn’t want her to know about it or he would have asked her if he could borrow her laptop the next morning. His subterfuge put into question everything that had happened between them and even whether he’d had an ulterior motive for romancing her over the last few days.
Was Matt so different from Brad? Had he been using her too?
She watched as the light was extinguished and he clambered into the back seat. She had truly thought Matt was different – not at all interested in playing games – open, honest, a free spirit, but clearly she had been wrong. He was just like everyone else and she had been a fool to believe otherwise. Her world crumbled around her and her heart shrivelled as her thoughts twisted through a labyrinth of confusion. She chastised herself for trusting her instincts, and for falling, once again, for a man who only had his own interests at heart.