Turning the Tide

by Christine Stovell

  Despite strict instructions from her brain to the contrary, she still got the same quivery feeling of excitement in her stomach at the sight of Matthew, sexy in a pink shirt and faded jeans. Before Matthew, she’d been queen of her inherited domain, ruling like a benevolent despot, giving praise when it was due and coming down faster than one of George’s loads on anyone who transgressed. From their first meeting, when she’d found he’d invaded her favourite sanctuary, Matthew had challenged her view of the world, and in the process had turned it upside down. Now here he was again, with his back set against her; only this time there was no chance that he would turn to her and smile.

  Maybe she could slip unnoticed into the crowd? She’d never seen the room so full; there were smartly dressed couples, young people who looked like students from Great Spitmarsh, ordinary families on holiday or a day trip, all enjoying the preliminaries to the film festival and having fun. Smells of chorizo, garlic and bread drifted towards her in the warm air and glasses clinked toasts to new friendships.

  Harry swayed from foot to foot, planning a course of action before someone noticed her standing there like a spare part. But nobody looked up. Nobody noticed her. Nobody gave her any kind of cue to come on stage. She was firmly on the outside and the more she thought about crossing the threshold, the more difficult it was to imagine joining the happy, lively throng inside. Whilst she’d been manning the barricades against Matthew, a new Little Spitmarsh had emerged; warm, friendly, bustling with people, the kind of town she’d hoped it could be, but a place she no longer felt part of. Those who knew her wouldn’t be particularly pleased to see her, and those who didn’t know her wouldn’t care.

  As much as she yearned to talk to George and join in, it was beyond Harry to face the thought of so many cold shoulders. As for the tears spilling down her cheeks, they were completely wasteful, a pointless gesture, when no one was there to see or care. Harry found a crumpled tissue and blew her nose and told herself to stop feeling so bloody sorry for herself. She was hardly a cocktail party girl, was she? It wasn’t as if she normally gave up her afternoons to swan around in bars? But something good had come out of her trip; she had seen George, he was well. That was the best outcome she could have hoped for. With Matthew doing a much better job of looking after him than she had, she could at least take some comfort from the fact that George was in the right place.

  When George looked up, the street was empty; but for a moment he thought he’d caught a glimpse of a small figure standing quite alone outside. He shifted uncomfortably. Maybe it was his guilty conscience playing tricks on him? He felt wretched about how he’d let her down and was still trying to pluck up the courage to go and see how she was doing. She was such a brittle little thing; the only security she’d ever had was in the black-timbered building hugging the creek and that small cluster of moorings – and George had done his best to jeopardise that for her.

  Miss Harriet could quite justifiably sack him for some of the strokes he had pulled, and now he was wondering how to put things right. He’d wanted to confess to Matthew and hand the whole burden over to him; but, thanks to the blasted chest infection, Matthew had shut him up every time he’d tried to broach the subject, telling him to concentrate on getting better. Trouble was, now Matthew had so high an opinion of him that George dreaded losing it. It was a mess and no mistake.

  George corrected himself as his fingers wandered off key. Truth was, hardly anyone could hear him now over the din. Not that it mattered. Everyone was enjoying themselves and he was certain that, if Miss Harriet could see the difference Matthew had made to the town, she would be more accepting of the changes. George shook his head. Lying there, in his caravan, drenched in sweat and weak as a kitten, he had cursed himself over and over again for succumbing to his inner demons. What if he’d gone toes up? What would Miss Harriet have done then? Instead of helping Miss Harriet, he’d only made life worse for her. What if the same was true of everything else he’d tried to protect her from? It was a horrible thought. Now all he had to do was find the courage to put things right.

  Harry stumbled away straight into the next person heading for the party. Jimi caught her by the shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘What’s up, kid?’

  In return, Harry managed a weak smile. Without Jimi dropping by to see if she was making any progress on the legal front, she wouldn’t have spoken to anyone for days. Somehow he always managed a few moments, even though he was so tied up with the preparations for the film festival and with Samphire’s forthcoming opening.

  Harry shook her head. ‘I came to try and think of a way to see George, but I don’t fancy going in there.’

  Jimi peered inside and frowned. ‘Yeah, I see what you mean. Matthew’s keeping a very close eye on George. I’d like to see how he’s doing myself, let him know you’re thinking of him, but with Matthew there all the time …’

  Harry hung her head. It was awkward for Jimi; she was grateful for his concern and touched that he was taking such an interest in George. ‘Look, I can’t criticise Matthew for what he’s done for George, I suppose I shouldn’t really blame him for encouraging him to have a drink in the first place.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She looked up to find Jimi watching her closely.

  ‘Well, given George’s history … and Matthew has been marvellous the way he’s taken care of him.’

  Jimi snorted. ‘Hasn’t it crossed your mind that it’s in Matthew’s interest to have George on his side? Suppose George has got something that would stop his claim across your land? Have you thought of that?’

  Harry brushed a hand across her face. ‘I’m almost too tired to think of anything. It’s not very likely, is it?’

  ‘George must know more about what’s gone on here than anybody.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘The trouble is, he’s what’s known as an unreliable witness. Most of the time George was so tanked up he wouldn’t have been able to separate truth from fiction. Besides, it’s almost too late. Unless my solicitor strikes gold − and I’m certainly sweating blood to pay him − it’s over. Matthew Corrigan’s got me right where he wants me and I can kiss goodbye to everything I’ve worked for.’

  ‘And you’re just going to throw away your legacy? Everything that was sacrificed for you? Come on, Harry! How do you think that makes me feel? I got nothing – you’ve had a head start.’

  So now she was fighting for Jimi, and everything he hadn’t had, as well as herself? Harry sighed and tried to suppress the tiniest flicker of impatience before Jimi sensed it. Everyone had their own problems, but she was beginning to get tired of hearing what a raw deal Jimi thought he’d had. Given the way the tide was turning against her, no doubt that would prove to be her fault too.

  ‘All right, George? You look a bit pale, time to give it a break, don’t you think?’

  Matthew thought the old man was looking quite peaky as he accepted a glass of water.

  ‘Ain’t no gin in this, is there?’

  ‘No, George,’ Matthew assured him, pointing to a table a couple had just vacated.

  ‘Pity,’ the old man said, winking, as he got to his feet, trailing Phil, who seemed to have adopted him, in his wake.

  ‘I take it Ms Watling hasn’t got in touch to see how you’re doing?’ said Matthew, as they sat down.

  ‘I’m not so sure I didn’t catch sight of her just now,’ said George. ‘Standing outside.’

  Matthew had to bite his tongue. The poor old sod even now was so loyal that he’d spin any line rather than fuel criticism of Harry. ‘If it was her, then surely she would have come in and spoken to you?’

  George gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘That’s not Miss Harriet’s way.’

  Matthew gulped his beer. ‘What? Behaving like a decent human being?’ Then, seeing George’s face darken, he added, ‘Come on George, if she saw you she had no excuse not to see how you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s not her way,’ George repeated. ‘She’s too s
hy.’

  Matthew thought of her wrapped up in Jimi’s arms for anyone to see, and laughed out loud.

  ‘With respect, Matthew, you don’t know her like I do. Away from the yard she’s like a fish out of water. That’s her world, over there, waking up to the waves breaking on the shore, watching the weather in all its moods, preferring the isolation of her work to the company of strangers. You don’t know how uncomfortable she’d be in a place like this.’

  Matthew took a quick look round the room at bright blonde highlights, glossy brunettes, girls in tight tops with flat stomachs, others − not so toned − revealing tanned rolls of midriff adorned with belly bars. He tried to imagine Harry in her dungarees, crashing in and scowling at everyone. But then he was willing to bet that none of them, even the young cocky blokes with their artfully tousled hair and slim chains round their necks, would be up to the job of going out night after night, whatever the weather, on a precarious stretch of water.

  Tough as old boots, that was Harry. And then he thought about the other Harry, the part she kept hidden, but which he sometimes glimpsed. Harry, tearful and unsettled. Harry in her home, watchful and wary. Harry’s overworked small hands, with their clipped and broken nails, in his. Matthew sighed. Then he remembered the caravan and Harry’s point-blank refusal to visit the old man – and his heart hardened.

  His gaze returned to George’s sad, apologetic face. There was no point in upsetting him even more. No point in telling George that it was Harry’s callous treatment of her loyal odd-job man that had finally made him stop putting sentiment before business. No point in letting George know that, since Harry had cast the old man off without a second thought and he was effectively in his care, Matthew was no longer troubled by qualms about what would happen to him if Harry went out of business. No point in saying that he’d had a bellyful of Harry, and Little Spitmarsh too.

  Move in, make a killing and move on. That’s what he should have done all along. Gina was right. Harry Watling had not only run out of chances, she’d also run out of luck.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘What do you mean, it’s not convenient?’ Gina had her Snow Queen voice on and Matthew could see why so many of her subjects at G Mag were regularly frozen into submission. When he’d rolled over in bed to answer the phone, his irritation at being woken up in the middle of a dream – just when things were about to get interesting – quickly dissipated. Never mind Kylie, this was beyond fantasy; here was Gina, telling him they should catch up and was it all right if she came and stayed for a few days? Matthew had been so surprised it had taken him several minutes to realise that, actually, with George in the next room the idea was rapidly losing its initial appeal.

  He ran his hands through his hair and groaned. Now Harry Watling was ruining his sex life! It must have cost Gina to admit that she wanted to see him; he knew how much she hated to show her feelings and would have dearly loved to see her face on the other end of the phone. No wonder she wasn’t happy to be turned away.

  ‘This Harry Watling character is really becoming quite a pest, isn’t he?’ she complained, less than impressed with Matthew’s rather skimpy explanation of why he had a visitor. ‘Isn’t it about time you drove a steamroller over his miserable little boat yard?’

  It probably wasn’t the best time to tell Gina that Harry was of the female variety; Matthew didn’t think it would add anything to the debate.

  ‘That would work, I grant you, but I think there are laws against it.’ He stared at the empty space beside him, a space that wouldn’t be filled any time soon. Across the landing, George flung his bedroom door open. Matthew heard him clump to the bathroom, lift the loo seat and pee like a horse.

  ‘I promise you that having George listening in whilst we’re making love isn’t my idea of a good time.’ He shuddered. ‘Maybe I could book you into Walton House and pop over for conjugal rights?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Matthew,’ Gina said, still frosty. ‘I can stay in a hotel any time; it’s not really what I was hoping for.’

  The glacial silence was almost certainly down to poor reception, but was it Gina or a bad signal causing it? Matthew walked towards the window to try to hear more clearly as the shower gurgled into life next door. George must have had the window open too, because a prolonged and horribly frothy bout of coughing split the air before being brought to a full stop by an angry-sounding fart.

  Gina gave an irritated sigh. ‘Not much of a lady, whoever she is, darling.’

  At Rose & Son’s, the estate agents, Sandra was beginning to wonder if her eyes had been closed when all the flying pigs went past. When the scruffily sexy guy had walked into the office all those weeks ago and taken out a six-month rental on Sea Shanty, she’d never expected it to be the start of a trend. No one could have predicted such a dramatic change in Little Spitmarsh’s fortunes, certainly not Mr Rose who had been forced to pay her an unprecedented bonus. To be fair to him, the hurdle hadn’t been very high and almost any viewings, not to mention a steady increase in sales, had meant she’d easily exceeded her targets. Either Mr Rose simply couldn’t believe that the boom would continue or he’d been in such a state of shock that it had slipped his mind, but one way or another he’d forgotten to review her targets and Sandra had every intention of ensuring a similarly good pay day this month.

  Small houses that had been on the market for years were starting to sell, evidence of a small but significant wave of second-homers, with their seaside-coloured makeovers, pebble gardens and touches such as copper weathervanes in the shape of schooners appearing on newly tiled roofs. Sandra pressed herself against the window to stick up a ‘Similar Properties Wanted’ notice above a selection of neglected old cottages which, to her amazement, had sold or gone under offer. Looking across the street, she thought with satisfaction of the new highlights and de luxe pampering package she had promised herself when her next bonus came in. In the meantime, she was looking forward to being very well-beehived at tonight’s film screening, and unleashing her inner sixties siren with big hair, big eyelashes and a foxy little frock.

  Since the salon had been redecorated, her mother had been in a permanently good mood, thought Lola, watching Carmen display an endearingly childlike delight in the new mirrors and the imported sleek Italian furniture. Lola was still finding it hard to believe that her parents had listened when she’d informed them that the business was in dire need of a facelift. It had taken a huge row, following the photo shoot at Samphire, for them to clear the air. Even then Lola had had to bite her lip to refrain from adding that what was true for the salon also applied to most of the existing clients. Hopefully, the shiny modern makeover would take care of that as well.

  Lola blew out a breath. The night of the photo shoot had proved to be quite a watershed. Having watched the woman who looked like a liquorice stick with a bob slink off with Matthew Corrigan, she’d had to admit to herself that he was never going to be her very own handsome prince, but there was a sense in which he had woken her out of her reverie. It wasn’t good enough to hang around waiting for something to turn up any more. Nor could she sit back and allow her parents to dictate the course of her life. Watching all those glamorous models allow the Liquorice Stick and a photographer to tell them what to do had given her a glimpse of another life.

  The funny thing was – as soon as she’d broken the news about her plans and told Matthew that he’d be a waitress down, she’d been able to meet his mesmeric hazel eyes without a blush. Looking closer, she’d noticed fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the first scattering of grey just beginning to peep through the dishevelled tawny curls. He looked good from a distance, but close up he was really quite crusty. Well, too crusty for her anyway. What a narrow escape! If she’d pinned her hopes on Matthew, she might have ended up like her mother; although, now that she and Carmen had spent some time talking to each other, Lola understood the reasons why her mother kept her family so close.

  ‘So, a foundation course in Business S
tudies, eh?’ Matthew had said. ‘Good for you. How are your mum and dad? Are they all right about it?’

  ‘They’ve been great.’ Lola couldn’t resist a last flirty smile. ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘How come?’ Matthew frowned, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘Well, if you hadn’t bought the old clubhouse I’d still be sitting on the houseboat wondering what to do. It’s not surprising that Mum and Dad treated me like a kid. I was certainly behaving like one. You made us all see each other in a new light.’

  She hadn’t seen his face when she walked away, but she knew – just knew – that for once she’d got his full attention, so she couldn’t resist adding a bit of oomph to her seductive sway.

  It had been a golden summer and now, thanks to a bit of give and take on both sides, even her parents supported her. Poor Carmen. Five miscarriages before Lola had arrived. No wonder they were protective of her.

  Whilst Little Spitmarsh was on the up, property prices were comparatively low and rental accommodation plentiful. They’d had no trouble attracting a couple of good young hairdressers and, to Carmen’s immense satisfaction, a manicurist with her own nail bar. She watched the woman juggle several hands’ worth of nail extensions and French manicures, whilst another satisfied customer waved scarlet-tipped toes separated by squashy pink foam under a heat lamp to dry.

  There were enough regular clients still requesting perms to keep Carmen happy and, whilst there was no doubt about the demand for good quality modern cuts in the newly awakened town, today had seen a call for big barnets that vindicated Carmen’s insistence on retaining a couple of the hideous hood driers. The other fixture Carmen had refused to budge on was the salon’s name, ignoring Lola’s pleas to rechristen it something fresh and upmarket. Crimps it remained; fortunately, a different font meant you’d have to really try to mistake it for Chimps.