by Maria Ling
"I know exactly what you mean," Matthew said. "It's why I never like to cook for myself. Everyone needs some time off now and then. Speaking of which, when are you planning to do the refurbishment?"
"I'm not sure," Janine said.
"Sooner would be better," Matthew told her. "For a start, I've only got two weeks to prove myself to you."
Janine grinned.
"You've already done that," she said. "Your food is great. If your other ideas work as well, I suppose I'll have to keep admitting I was wrong."
"You don't need to," Matthew said. "But thanks anyway."
"The problem," Janine went on, "is that we'd have to close for a couple of days at least. I don't like that."
"Monday is a given, since we're closed then anyway. I'd suggest taking the Tuesday to follow, and have that as our day off from then on. A lot of tourists come for a long weekend, and some of them stay through Monday, so we might be losing a fair bit of business. I'd say make it Monday-Tuesday next week, open as usual on Wednesday, and then take it from there."
"It's awfully soon," Janine said uncomfortably.
"You'll have to move fast in any case. Get it over and done with, and when you see how much difference it makes, you'll never look back. Trust me."
"I suppose so," Janine admitted. In her heart, she was seriously reluctant to follow through on this. But Matthew had proved himself in the kitchen, and maybe he was right about the front of house as well.
"If you really hate it," Matthew pointed out, "you can always change it back again. After takings improve."
"If they improve, it wouldn't be very logical to change back."
"It's not very logical to put off doing the one thing that might save the restaurant, either. I don't think you're a very logical person."
Janine drew in breath for an angry retort, then subsided. He did have a point.
"Not when it comes to this, perhaps," she conceded. "Nan meant a lot to me."
"I understand that," Matthew said. "But you'd be doing more to keep faith with her, and your memories of her, by saving the restaurant than by putting off making the changes that are necessary."
"All right, all right." Janine swept both hands away from her in a gesture of irritation. "You win. Like always. We'll do it next week."
CHAPTER 4
Matthew watched Janine as she listened with the patience of an angel to his mother's endless litany of complaints. She ought to wear a robe and halo, he reflected, rather than tracksuit bottoms and a woolly jumper. Though she did look cosy in them, snuggled up on the worn old sofa, clutching a mug of hot tea in her hands. He could see the shape of her breasts, softly rounded under the maroon knitted yarn. Her lithe legs, taut with trim muscles, lay folded underneath her.
She was surprisingly fit. He'd noticed that already, from watching her at work in the restaurant. She could stay on her feet for hours without complaint, her figure upright and without trace of a slouch, a warm smile in her eyes and usually on her lips. Not always, though the smile seemed quicker and more frequent than when he met her first. She was probably tired then -- though given how hard she had worked since, she ought to be dog-tired now. He certainly was. But there was no stooping, no sighing, no indication that anything was amiss. She seemed almost inhuman.
And he'd never known anyone bear up so patiently under one of mother's rants. He certainly couldn't. If it had been just the two of them in here, he'd be shouting by now. Stella rarely raised her voice, but she'd have flounced off to the kitchen in a sharp temper, and only replied to direct demands -- and then only in her most sarcastic voice.
But Janine just sat there, nodding sympathetically, saying almost nothing. She simply let Mum talk, and to his surprise Matthew realised Mum wasn't just repeating the same old stories and phrases he'd heard since he was a child. She was talking about something new -- new to him, in any case, though it had happened decades ago, before he was even born.
"Of course the wind was up, and the waves were terrible high. But I was used to that, I never thought anything of it. And then I climbed down the slipway to look for them mussels, and the little one climbed down after me. He was such a good little boy, he always followed his Mum. And the next thing I knew, this great wave came towards us. I turned and grabbed him, but I couldn't hold on. His jumper just slipped out of my hands. He went down and banged his head on the rocks, and then I didn't see him. I was falling myself by then, and the water just crashed over me. I thought we'd drown together. The water pushed me down and scraped me over the mussel-beds. I was scrambling with my hands and feet, trying to get up again, trying to find him. But the water drained back and I couldn't see him anywhere. And then I spotted him -- right far out he was, tucked down on the sand. I just ran and crawled over to him and got him into my arms, and somehow I got us ashore before the next wave came. His little face was all battered and bleeding where the rocks had scraped the skin off him. But he wasn't crying -- never made another sound."
Matthew swallowed. He'd never heard Mum's voice like this: bleak and raw as a winter gale. He'd never seen her face like this either: the skin pale and pinched into a myriad wrinkles, the eyes staring into a dark abyss of grief.
"We took him to the hospital," Mum said. "But there wasn't anything they could do for him there. He didn't live more than two hours after."
"I'm so sorry." Janine's voice was gentle and kind, not intrusive at all. But it made Matthew stir and look at her again, and it made Mum do the same.
"You shouldn't be." Mum sounded herself again, shrewd and together. "You weren't there -- weren't even born." She looked straight at Matthew, and she reached out to pat his hand. "It took a long while before I wanted any more children. But I did in the end, and I'm glad. I have a fine boy and a lovely girl, and what mother could ask for more? These things happen. Ask around. You won't meet anyone here who's never lost family or friends to the sea. That's life."
"Not any more," Matthew said. "Things change."
"Some things, maybe. I'm old enough to think they mostly stay the same. Be off with you." She waved a hand at them tolerantly. "Go and do whatever young people do nowadays, and don't waste time listening to a bitter old woman."
"I don't think you ought to be alone," Janine said. Her voice was gentle but with a firm edge to it. Matthew imagined that this was how she spoke to her patients.
"I'll phone Stella later. Now I want to be by myself for a while. Go on, be off with you."
***
"I've never seen her like that," Matthew said. They sat in Janine's kitchen, the two of them huddled close over the table, keeping their voices low so as not to carry through to next door. "I've never heard her talk about the accident either. Not to anyone."
"You didn't know?" Janine's face was a pale, frozen mask.
"Of course I knew. This place is too small for something like that to stay a secret. Everyone knew. But I didn't know all the details -- that Mum was there when it happened, that she saw it happen. And the point is, I've never heard her speak of it. Ever. I'd heard Dad talk about it sometimes, when he was tired or drunk. Not often. Maybe five or six times in all the years I knew him. But at least he mentioned it, and I'm fairly certain I first heard the story from him. I don't remember now -- it was so long ago. Maybe it was my Nan who told me. But Mum has never said a word about it, at least not in my hearing. Not until today."
"Then she needs to talk about it more," Janine said decisively. "As often as she can manage, in as much detail as she can bear. I'd like to contact her GP and suggest a referral to a therapist. It would do her good to really work through all her feelings about what happened. It's a horrific thing for any parent to go through, and by the sounds of it she's never really had the chance to process these memories and emotions. I think it's vital that she does."
"Do as you think best," Matthew said. He hated to let her take the lead -- it made him feel exposed and vulnerable -- but he had to admit to himself that on this subject, Janine knew more than he did. "I'm not sure M
um will like the idea, though."
"Probably not," Janine conceded. "But she's a sensible woman, underneath all that officious posturing, and I think she understands that her health and happiness may depend on it. Anyway, I'll have a word with her when I can. In the end, the decision whether to accept help and support has to rest with her. No form of treatment, whether it's therapy or anything else, can do her any good unless she agrees to it and sticks with it by herself."
Matthew took her hand. It lay smooth and slender in his own. He had a sudden disturbing sense of how it might feel caressing him.
"Thanks for all you've done for her," he said. His voice came out low and warm, more intimate than he intended. But at this moment, emotion swayed him more than propriety. "Thanks for caring so much. Not many people do."
"I like her," Janine said. "In spite of everything."
She looked gorgeously dishevelled, her blonde hair tumbling out of its habitual strict ponytail. He could love her like this, Matthew thought, and then winced. He wasn't the type to make a pass at his boss. And a better man would be thinking about Mum at this moment, not about how attractive the woman near him was.
He forced his mind back into a more suitable channel, but still noticed that Janine hadn't withdrawn her hand.
***
"Are you sure you don't want me to do that?" Matthew peered up at Janine, who was leaning over the top of the ladder to reach an awkward spot on the ceiling. Spatters of cream paint adorned her T-shirt and jeans and freckled her skin.
"No, I'm fine." She leaned over a little further, making the lightweight aluminium ladder wobble dangerously.
"I'm taller than you," Matthew said.
"Not by much. Anyway, I thought you said you'd do the skirting boards."
Matthew conceded. He'd never seen a woman so intent on taking control.
She was doing a good job, though. The poky old place was getting a much-needed facelift. Already the room felt brighter, less gloomy, despite the stubborn drizzle outside. He'd suggested a local firm he knew for the job of redecorating. They were good: he'd worked with them before, and knew them to be both meticulous and fast. But Janine wanted to save money, so she was doing it herself. With Matthew helping her, of course.
"You don't like taking orders, do you?" he teased her as he began the painstaking work of glossing the skirting-boards.
"Look who's talking."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Matthew glanced up at her. She made a fine figure up there on her ladder. Lithe and trim, with taut buttocks under worn jeans.
"I don't think you're all that keen on playing second fiddle either, are you?" She grinned down at him. A loose strand of blonde hair slithered across her face. She brushed it aside with an impatient sweep of her wrist.
"You've got paint in your hair now," Matthew said with smug satisfaction. "Told you I should have done that job. It's man's work."
"Oh, hell." Janine studied her paint-flecked fingers. "Never mind, I'll trim it out. And there's no such thing as man's work."
"I was only teasing you."
"I know," Janine said. "But you do want to be in charge, from what I've seen."
"I'm a head chef," Matthew said. "I need to be in charge of my own kitchen. I don't like having people tell me what to do. That's all I got at the last place, and that's why I quit."
"I can relate to that, I suppose." Janine slid her roller over the surface of the ceiling, each stroke long and even. It really was a pleasure to watch her, Matthew thought.
"The best chefs are always like that," he said. "Of course, some bad ones are, too. But you don't get far as a chef unless you're driven, and people who are like to be in charge. Of themselves, their lives, their work."
"And are you?" She peered down at him, looking genuinely interested in his answer.
"Not really," Matthew admitted. "I do have a temper, and I tend to fly off the handle. Like I did at the Brasserie. Not that I regret it, mind you. I'm a lot happier here. But I suppose I'm not as much in control of myself as I ought to be. Not like you."
"Me?" Janine actually started. "What do you mean?"
"You're always so composed. I don't think you've ever lost your temper in your life -- you just don't seem to be the type."
"It has happened." She gave him a rueful smile. "But not often."
"Whereas with me it happens every day. And people get upset. Sometimes I don't care either way, but other times I do. Maybe I should try being a bit more controlled."
"That's up to you," Janine said. "I wouldn't advocate changing who you are. And I'm not always calm and composed, believe me. Actually, I almost never am. I've just got good at pretending."
"Why?"
"I don't know, really." Janine looked thoughtful. "My parents aren't very demonstrative people. They didn't like me acting up, as they called it, when I was little. So I suppose I just learned to keep it all in."
"That doesn't sound very healthy."
"It's probably not." She climbed down the ladder, tucked the roller into its tray, and sat down next to him on the floor. "In some ways, I might be better off trying to be more like you. Expressive. Passionate."
Matthew was taken aback. He'd had no idea that was how she saw him.
"We should pool our resources," he said.
Janine laughed. She had a delicious, bubbling laugh that made a chuckle grow at the back of his own throat.
"We should," she said. "I suppose that's exactly what we're doing, when you think about it."
She was amazingly attractive, Matthew thought. He loved the sparkle in her eyes, the way she held her head, the way she looked straight at him as if she saw exactly who he was deep down in his soul, underneath the layers of arrogance and conceit.
He knew his own faults. They had been his only protection in the years of living with grief. He'd learned to project an image of unshakeable confidence, and by now it was second nature. But when he met Janine's honest gaze, he felt as if she saw him, not who he pretended to be.
"You're an unusual woman," he said.
"So I've been told." She didn't seem either pleased or annoyed, just stating a fact. "And you're a pretty unusual man."
"Am I?"
"You're passionate about food, you work harder than anyone I've ever seen, and you're still meticulous about every little detail. It's amazing. I've never come across anyone quite like you."
"Well, thank you." Matthew sketched a bow as well as he could from his position on the floor. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It was." She sat down next to him.
Her body was close to his -- too close, too tempting. He could see the throb of her pulse at the side of her throat, just below the jawline.
On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her. Her lips were full and warm under his own. For a moment they parted, and he had the dizzying sense of falling headlong into some new and thunderous realm. Then she put her hand against his chest and pushed him away.
"That was out of order," she said crisply. She tucked her hair behind her ears and pretended not to see him.
"It was nice, though," Matthew said.
The muscles around her mouth twitched. Then she gave in, looked him straight in the eye, and laughed.
"Yes, it was," she said. "But I think we should keep it for after hours. We still have a lot of painting to do."
***
Janine concentrated on keeping her movements smooth and steady. She brought the roller back and forth, back and forth, in even strokes across the ceiling. She was acutely conscious of Matthew's presence. He sprawled on the floor, concentrating hard in order to get the line along the top of the skirting-board absolutely perfect.
She didn't dare show him the way she trembled at the memory of that kiss. So unexpected, so delicious, so shiver-scary. In an instant, she'd lost all her poise and self-control, all the ease of manner she'd been so careful to maintain up until now.
She'd manage to regain some level of self-control afterwards. Enough, she hoped, that he
didn't realise how deeply that single kiss affected her.
It would be awful if he knew. That she could crumble so easily, dissolve into schoolgirl breathlessness at the merest touch. It was embarrassing. Humiliating. It had taken all her strength to laugh it off, to stay confident, to restrain herself from pursuing the kiss.
But she'd done it. She was proud of herself.
All she needed to do now was try to get her mind off the fact that he was still near her.
She glanced down. His hair was tousled, fair in the gloomy light. A strong but sensitive hand guided the brush along the wall. She shivered anew with delicious ecstasy at the thought of him touching her in that way.
Janine swallowed. This wouldn't do at all.
"Are you hungry?" Her voice quavered. She cleared her throat, and forced herself to speak more strongly. "I could get us a sandwich."
"Why not?" He glanced up at her, his eyes lighting with that intense fire that made her feel weak all over.
Janine clambered down the ladder. She took each step carefully, deliberately, striving to conceal the fact that her hands were shaking and her knees wanted to give way underneath her. She knelt beside Matthew and put aside her roller.
"I'll go to the baker's at the corner," she said, striving to keep a light and carefree tone. "What do you want?"
You. The thought was so strong in her mind that it was almost audible. For a moment she actually thought she could hear the word echo between the bare walls. She flushed in embarrassment, and her heart stopped with fear. She was only imagining things, wasn't she? Surely she hadn't actually spoken. But Matthew was looking at her, gazing deep into her eyes. She could smell his skin under the jumper, a warm musky scent under the wool.
"I'm not sure." Matthew laid his brush aside, too. They watched each other steadily, he leaning on his elbow, she kneeling down beside him.
He was so close, Janine thought dizzily. So close. She could touch him easily.
"I haven't told you," he said now, "how much this means to me. All of this. I couldn't save Mum and Dad's business, but I can save this one. I know I can. And it means so much to me that you've given me the chance. Thank you." His voice was low. She could read deep emotion in his eyes.