‘What if you could get your hands on that boat yard?’ Jimi persisted.
‘Well, for a start it belongs to someone who’s pretty determined to hang on to it.’
‘Harry Watling? Yeah, I met her.’
Matthew inclined his head. ‘She didn’t chew you up and spit you out then? Congratulations.’
Jimi shrugged. ‘She didn’t look like much of a problem to me. The land she’s sitting on must be worth a fortune.’
‘Ah well, don’t tell her that now, will you?’ Matthew grinned. ‘I still want to come out of this with a profit. Although Harry Watling says it isn’t about the money.’
‘It’s always about the money! Is the business doing so well that she can afford to turn you down?’
Somewhere along the line, Jimi Tan had known how it felt to go without, Matthew noted, watching him closely. He was willing to bet that Jimi’s carefully cultivated show of success was only a veneer, but it didn’t bother him. Speculate to accumulate. Okay, the guy was young and on fire with ambition, but it would be good to harness that energy for his own use.
‘Harry Watling doesn’t see the boat yard as a business; she thinks it’s her vocation. Why are you so interested?’
It was hard to read the younger man’s face: the slanting dark eyes were downcast, his lips pursed, and he seemed to be wrestling with some inner battle. Finally he met Matthew’s gaze.
‘All right, I’ll level with you. Look, things didn’t go quite the way I hoped in the last place I worked; the guy was a complete tosser. I didn’t get what I’d been promised so I walked out. Feels good at the time, but it’s not so clever afterwards, especially when your credit card bill turns up.’
‘I’m glad you told me now. It would save me having to sack you later.’
‘Yeah, well, you’d be the one with regrets. I can always find work, but it’ll be a long time before you find a chef as sensational as me. You asked why I’m interested in the boat yard? Listen, I like what you’ve got here, but the way I see it you could take it so much further. Still, if you’ve had second thoughts, I’ll spare you my ideas.’
Got you! thought Matthew as Jimi tried to give him the hard stare. Not very far beneath the surface was a kid with no friends; the fat boy, perhaps, who got laughed at, the kid with the wrong clothes or thick glasses – now he was setting out to show the world how badly it had misjudged him.
‘Just don’t fuck me about,’ Matthew said, and held out his hand.
Elation flickered in Jimi’s eyes and a broad smile reached his lips. ‘I won’t let you down. I’d like to take this place all the way; great place to eat, great place to stay. Hey! Maybe I’ll even get Harry Watling on board?’
Matthew thought of all the women Jimi had been photographed with; try as he might, he couldn’t imagine him being caught by the paparazzi with Harry tucked under his arm – although he wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when Jimi tried his chat-up line. ‘Oh no,’ he said quickly. ‘You’re worth more to me alive. Besides, Harry Watling won’t be putting up a fight for much longer.’
Jimi turned a curious face towards him, but Matthew decided to remain silent.
Harry had expected George to appear as soon as the black car had reversed out of Watling’s, but clearly he was still sulking. After searching the yard, she trailed round to his shed and hesitantly knocked on the door. George emerged looking out of sorts, his blanched hair stringy and dishevelled, his purple-veined face tinged with grey. She half expected the telltale sign of strong mints on his breath, then felt ashamed of herself for suspecting him of sneaking off for a drink. He was an old man, after all, and entitled to get tired from time to time.
‘Everything all right, George?’
He looked around warily and closed the door behind him, catching his breath as he did.
‘Chest is playing up today, that’s all, Miss Harriet. Nothing to worry about.’
Perhaps she was asking him to do too much? And he had been chasing up some outstanding accounts. Maybe it was unfair to involve him in matters that might make him fret, quite unnecessarily, about his future?
‘Do you want me to drive you round to the doctor’s?’
He waved her concerns away. ‘No, I don’t, Miss Harriet. You must think I’m going soft or something. Stop fussing around like I was some old man, will you?’
She turned away to hide her smile. That was more like George. ‘So what did you think of our visitor?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Can’t say I really noticed, Miss Harriet.’
‘Bloody hell, George!’ Harry laughed. ‘Did you speak to him with your eyes shut or something? You must have noticed he was a bit different from the kind of people we usually get here. I hear he mistook you for Dad?’
‘Damn fool,’ he snapped. ‘Arrogant too, with ’is “So, where’s ’Arry Watling then?” Looking at me as if I was something on his shoes. “Miss Harriet,” I told ’im, “is fixing a sail.”’
‘Oh.’ Perhaps she’d just got the wrong impression. If all Jimi Tan wanted was a simple answer to a straightforward question, why would he have deliberately sought her out? ‘Well, he told me he’s a chef so I hope he hasn’t spun me a line. I hope he’s not a surveyor or someone sizing up the yard for Matthew Corrigan to build on.’
‘What? In that get-up?’ George spat.
‘No, you’re right. There you are, I keep seeing problems where there are none. I’m sure Jimi Tan’s a really nice guy.’
George gave a strangled cough and Harry tried not to laugh. He was so transparent in his likes and dislikes; he wouldn’t have liked Jimi’s smooth style at all. Matthew’s scruffily casual approach fitted his idea of a certain work ethic nicely. She decided to annoy him a bit more. ‘Maybe Matthew’s restaurant isn’t such a bad thing after all, if it means we see more of Jimi Tan at the boat yard.’
She threw him a quick sideways glance and was alarmed to see the old man looking even paler. ‘George! Are you okay?’
Bending to pick up the post, Harry found that her legs were shaking. George had frightened the life out of her. Only the fear of doing anything to risk upsetting him even more had stopped her from calling an ambulance. When she was quite convinced he wasn’t about to die on her, she’d driven him round to his caravan, where he gave his reluctant consent for her to make him a cup of tea. Quite soon, his colour was back to normal.
‘Is there anything else I can do for you, George?’ she asked, still frightened.
‘Yes, Miss Harriet,’ he said quite firmly. ‘You can bloody go away.’
Back home, as she sank gratefully into one of her own carefully chosen sofas, she was struck by the contrast between her place and George’s meagre caravan. She decided it was high time she changed his mind about where he lived. It was George, after all, who had pointed out the need to do something about the shortfall in her own accommodation.
A few years ago, Harry had been doing little more than camp out in the disused boatshed she was supposed to be refurbishing. But when, during a lunch break, a force-ten gale whipping through the wooden slats nearly blew the soup out of her mug, George had insisted that something more permanent needed to be done.
How they’d coped between them still made Harry wonder. There were several moments during the refurbishment when George became terrified they’d never finish. He even came up with the bright idea of filming the project, so they could send the video diary to a TV makeover programme – with the hope of scraping together some additional funding. As George could barely tell one end of a camera from the other, Harry had at least felt secure that she wouldn’t be starring on Freeview television any time soon. True, there was some strange stuff on the high numbers of satellite viewing, but neither she nor George was up for ‘Naked Builders on the Job’.
With its lofty proportions and stunning views across the water, Harry’s house might have surprised anyone who had seen her running round the boat yard in all weathers and thought she was indifferent to her surroundings. White tones
kept it simple, with just a few splashes of aqua and ripples of blue to reflect the sky, the water and clear soft light. Far from being cold, the tranquil colours framed the waterscape and boats beyond, whilst the personal touches made it a comfortable, relaxing home.
Yes, Harry decided, George might not like the idea of it, but she’d get him out of the caravan if it was the last thing she did. Mind made up, she picked up the thick ivory envelope that had come in today’s post. Hmm, quality paper. She paused for a moment, trying to guess the contents. Perhaps an unknown benefactor had left her all his money? Or maybe a shipping magnate wanted to enquire about leaving a fleet of yachts at Watling’s? Smiling happily, she smoothed out the paper and began reading.
Chapter Ten
Wouldn’t it be nice, thought Harry as she hopped around her bedroom in her knickers, if she had something smart to wear? And, as a scrunched-up piece of paper with a half-price makeover offer fell out of the pocket of her discarded dungarees, wouldn’t it be nice if worrying about her appearance was something she did have time for? Even better if it was her only worry, she thought a bit later, tearing down what passed for a high street. What would it be like to spend spare hours getting various bits and pieces plucked or dyed, instead of having to face the constant fear of trying to keep body and soul together? Marvelling at the thought that there were women out there whose idea of a tough decision was choosing the next season’s handbag, she forgot to keep a low profile as she shot past Crimps. Completely absorbed in her thoughts, she failed to notice the significance of the absence of humming driers or the cries of startled clients. Carmen was on her before Harry could take avoiding action.
‘Hey, Harry, when you come to see me?’
As piercing brown eyes bored into her like a chocolate laser, Harry wondered how you said, ‘Never in a million years,’ politely. All right, so her usual work-stained clothing and personal style could make the term ‘low maintenance’ seem excessively demanding. It was a look built for speed and practicality so that she could get up at a moment’s notice without having to fuss over her hair, and run the boat yard in all weathers without mascara melting down her face. Just as well, too, given that she couldn’t afford to do anything else.
The intense brown gaze softened a little. ‘Soon you get your nails done too, yes? French polish? Gel nails? Nail art?’ Carmen clapped her hands. ‘My Lola, she is learning all this! Already she is getting experience in a bar!’
Is that what they called it now? Harry thought, wondering how long it would be before Carmen realised that she too was a victim of Matthew’s avarice. Harry had seen Lola once or twice sliding into Matthew’s car beside him and hadn’t missed the look on her face. It was an even bet Carmen didn’t know that Matthew had personally escorted Lola to her training. Lola was certainly learning something, but Harry doubted that it had much to do with nails.
‘Well, maybe I’ll wait until Lola’s completed her course, then I can have the works,’ said Harry, trying to imagine what George would say if she turned up to mend an engine sporting inch-long, painted talons. At least she’d got Carmen off her back, she thought, watching her trot away proudly; although hopefully Matthew would find himself being waxed in all kinds of painful places once she found out what he was up to with Lola. And, if the letter she had in her pocket turned out to be a real threat, she would be only too happy to volunteer to help Carmen.
‘It’s all right, Trev, she’s not stopping.’
Trevor emerged from the back of the shop where he’d been trying to hide his big frame in the shadows and edged forward until he was standing just behind Frankie.
‘What am I, Trev, a human shield? She’s gone. Look! I wonder where she’s off to in such a hurry?’
Together they watched as Harry disappeared up the road.
‘I’m just glad it’s not here. I couldn’t face her today, Frankie. I’m nervous enough about whether or not this is the right direction for the business, without a cross-examination from Harry.’
Frankie sighed. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Trev?’
Trevor lifted his stubbled chin. ‘I can’t say I’m not worried, Frankie.’
‘What are you worrying about, Trev? Not what Harry Watling thinks, surely?’ said Frankie, feeling mutinous. ‘You know my theory about that. What Harry Watling needs is a right good −’
‘Frankie!’
‘Oh, all right, Trev. Stop being so sensitive. I’m not asking you to do it. Anyone can see who she’s got the hots for. That’s what this fuss about the restaurant really boils down to. Harry’s just found out that you can’t choose who you fall in lust with and she doesn’t like it. Any normal guy walking into that place after a stream of round-Britain sailors would make an impression,’ − he shuddered − ‘but someone like Matthew would have really woken her up.’
Frankie turned to get a better look at his partner. ‘Look, Trev, we don’t need Harry’s approval to do some work for him or to revamp the business. I mean, by anyone’s standards the place is due for an overhaul, but if all you want to do is give the shop a lick of paint we might as well not bother. Let’s think big and not make excuses for it.’
Trevor drew back. ‘I’m not, but …’
‘I know,’ Frankie said gently. ‘I understand that this is about more than Harry’s opinion. I know what you’re scared of, but really, Trev, isn’t it about time we started living truthfully? It’s the deception that’s breaking you down, not what Harry thinks or doesn’t think about how we decorate the shop. I like Harry, she’s always been good to us, but if she expects everyone to live in the past like her, she’s wrong. If that restaurant brings in half the customers it’s expected to, we’ve got to be prepared to use it to our advantage.’
‘I just feel for her, Frankie. You know she’s not half as tough as she makes out; it’s worrying about what’s going to happen to the boat yard that’s making her so snappy.’
Frankie rubbed his head. ‘Yeah, I know. But Harry’s got to let go like the rest of us. It’s about time Little Spitmarsh had its day, so let’s be part of it. Let’s enjoy it and deal with any problems that come along the way we always have – together.’
Big old softie, he thought, as Trevor struggled to control his emotions.
‘Well, then,’ said Trevor. ‘How about soft pinks with amber, a little turquoise and a touch of chartreuse green?’
‘Lovely, Trevor, if you want it to look like a teenage girl’s idea of a tart’s boudoir.’
‘Look, Frankie, I’ve had it up to here with calm and neutral. What is the point of a “robust buff” colour anyway?’
Frankie slapped his hand to his forehead. ‘Now I remember the real reason why we’ve never managed to decorate the shop; it’s because we have to overcome the problem of your execrable taste.’
Trevor looked at him beadily. ‘You said it.’
‘Right, that’s it.’ Frankie clicked his fingers and summoned Phil towards him. ‘Phil and I are going for a walk,’ he said, fastening the dog’s lead. ‘We may even catch up with Harry, and I might just let it slip that you’ve insisted on a huge, flamboyant makeover for the shop to attract all Matthew’s high-spending customers.’
Hmm. Now who had a touch of chartreuse green about him?
Harry wasn’t sure what Little Spitmarsh had done to merit having a solicitor like Andrew Lawrence; well over six foot, in his early forties, with the hooked nose of a natural predator and glittering black eyes, he oozed equal quantities of Aramis, charm and virility. There was talk of a rather lurid sexual harassment case in a previous life, which had forced him to lie low in Little Spitmarsh until the dust settled; but Harry had no doubt that, given a couple of years, he’d be back in the race for world domination.
At least he took the trouble to pull out a chair for Harry, rather than, as she’d feared, inviting her to sit on his lap.
‘Now, please tell me this is a joke,’ Harry began.
Andrew Lawrence beamed back at her. That had to be a
good sign, surely?
‘Manorial rights.’ He smacked his lips as if he was preparing to take a bite out of her. ‘Very interesting! It goes without saying, I suppose, that you had no idea, when you assumed ownership of the business, that the area referred to in this document was subject to such rights? No mention on the Land Registry?’
Clearly he knew she didn’t, Harry thought helplessly; he just enjoyed watching her squirm whilst he prolonged the agony. After a pause while he waited, presumably, for beads of fear to appear on her upper lip, he tore his eyes away from her to give a soft chuckle at the paperwork laid out before him.
Harry couldn’t wait to join in the fun. ‘My father could be impulsive, but he wasn’t reckless. He would never have chosen that location for the boat yard if he thought someone else owned the access. If this is a genuine claim, don’t you think we would have known about it sooner?’ she asked nicely.
Andrew Lawrence ignored her. ‘It makes fascinating reading; the title was originally bestowed on Percival Campion, “Innkeeper and purveyor of fine oysters”. The story goes that the king granted the honour after being Percy’s guest. Percy provided the king with a feast of his oysters, and the king decided to put their renowned aphrodisiac qualities to the test. It must have been quite a night, or quite a lady. Who knows? It might even have been Percy’s own wife, in which case he was definitely owed a favour,’ he observed, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head to give her a blood-curdling smile.
‘But surely,’ Harry began, then had to clear her throat so that she could continue on a stronger sounding note, ‘surely feudal law has nothing to do with a twenty-first-century legal system?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ said Andrew Lawrence, leaning across the desk as if trying to smell her. ‘But as it stands manorial rights are categorised as overriding interests, so you as a landowner are subject to them even if they are not mentioned in the register.’
She shook her head. ‘That can’t be right. If it was, land disputes would be breaking out all over the place.’
Turning the Tide Page 9