The Summer Seaside Kitchen

by Jenny Colgan

  But nobody could conceivably fancy someone who didn’t like dogs. Best not to risk it. Plus: unprofessional, even though nobody from Mure ever went anywhere without their dog. She shooed Bramble out of the car.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ollie the vet passed her with a brief nod of the head as she parked up at the little harbour. Honestly. Why did everyone still treat her like a snooty southern mainlander who’d abandoned her homeland?

  Joel was waiting for her outside the hotel. Flora had wondered if there was any chance he might have changed out of his suit – you could sometimes get a real shock when you saw someone in their civvies, she knew. A bloke could look fantastic in his work clothes, then you’d see him at something casually and he’d be wearing some gruesome three-quarter-length trousers that were meant for overgrown toddlers, and something nuts like a hoody or an earring or sandals over hairy toes, and suddenly everything that had previously been appealing about him would vanish completely. She’d hoped this would happen with Joel.

  He was, however, still wearing his beautifully cut suit, although Flora noticed – she couldn’t not; she felt like she was exquisitely attuned to everything he did – that he’d changed his shirt. He nodded to her brusquely then went back to his phone. He was very careful to get in the right side of the Land Rover. Flora wondered if she should have been more careful to brush the dog hairs off the seat.

  ‘Sorry about the dog hairs,’ she said, thinking she might be able to get to the bottom of the dog thing sooner rather than later, but he simply shrugged.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, leafing through the paperwork she’d prepared. ‘Now to find out what the hell I’ve come four thousand miles for.’

  Flora turned along the narrow track that led up to the north side of the island. At the top was the vast estate that belonged to Colton Rogers. People did wonder, as the winds swept down from the Arctic, why on earth, if you were an American multibillionaire, you would choose to come to this tiny outpost at the end of the world for your holidays rather than the Bahamas, the Canaries, Barbados, Miami or literally, some days, absolutely anywhere else. Of course, they said this to one another; if anyone not from Mure had said it, they’d have been shouted down in a chorus of nationalistic pride in five seconds flat.

  ‘I mean,’ Joel said. ‘Nobody here really cares what people do on the islands, right? It’s not like you don’t have enough sea to look out on.’

  Flora shrugged.

  ‘Are you kidding? And they don’t like change. And they’re a bit suspicious of outsiders.’

  Joel gave her a look.

  ‘You make it sound like the Wicker Man.’

  ‘Wouldn’t say things like that around here.’

  He sniffed and lapsed into silence.

  ‘It’s a nice place to grow up, though.’ Flora realised she was babbling to fill the silence. ‘Where did you grow up?’

  He looked at her crossly, as if she’d stepped over a line.

  ‘Here and there,’ he said shortly, going back to his papers.

  A lone strand of sunlight pierced the cloud at the top of the glen, and Flora looked up at Macbeth’s sheep, shorn for the summer, who were starting to wander down the hill, towards the shed. She could see young Macbeth now: Paul, who’d been in her class at school, a funny, lazy boy who was going to become a shepherd simply because he couldn’t think of anything better in life than looking after sheep, going to the pub in the evening with his da and all their mates, and marrying the prettiest girl he could meet at the monthly ceilidh, all of which he’d done in short order. Flora watched him striding from rock to rock, on the same earth his family had farmed for generations, his stride long and relaxed; doing something he was born to do, that he understood instinctively.

  Her eyes were still on the hillside as she pulled the car to a halt at the large metal gates, then got out and pressed the intercom. A camera buzzed and whirred and looked down on her, and Flora realised, having never really thought about it, that she was quite excited to see inside Colton’s place. Nobody was ever invited there; there was a ghillie who looked after the land, but he was a taciturn type who didn’t mix, so there was no gossip to be had there either. There were rumours of celebrities and sports stars, but again, nothing had ever been confirmed.

  The huge iron gates gradually began to pull apart. There was a long gravel driveway ahead that wound up through perfectly manicured trees. It didn’t really look like Mure at all; immaculate flower beds lined the road, and the grass looked like it was trimmed with nail scissors.

  The house had once been a great grey manse; a huge, forbidding place that had been built originally for the local vicar, who came from money. But the vicar hadn’t been able to hack the long, dark winters, and his successor had been a bachelor who had much preferred the original lodgings next to the church, dark and chilly as they were; and now the vicar lived on the mainland and commuted, and the local doctor had the church quarters. And Colton Rogers had bought the manse, and was restoring the Rock on its land.

  The house looked nothing like Flora remembered it from her childhood, when they’d peered at it through the gates and some of the braver boys had scampered up to explore it, or at least implied that they had. Then, it had been dark and forbidding. Now it looked like it had been peeled back to the bones. The windows, while still traditional, were brand new, no longer rotting in their sills, but gleaming. The stone had been sand-blasted and was a light, soft grey that fitted in beautifully with the soft environs of the garden. The gravel was pink and immaculately tidy; the huge front door a glossy black, while miniature topiary hedges lined the windowsills. It was one of the most beautiful houses Flora had ever seen.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. Joel looked unimpressed. Maybe it wasn’t all that great to him.

  Behind the house were outbuildings, including a huge, incredibly tempting swimming pool complex with a roof that could be pulled back on sunny days (Flora wondered if it was ever pulled back), and a vast number of fancy cars, including several Range Rovers, all polished to a shine. There didn’t appear to be any dogs; probably dogs would make the perfect gardens untidy.

  It was the strangest thing: everything looked like a large traditional house, but so much tidier and nicer. There were artfully displayed baskets of lavender, and an old stone well with a gleaming bucket. It felt like a Disney version of Mure – but here they were, on the island all right, with faintly ominous clouds swirling above them to back this up.

  A little maid, who sounded foreign, and was actually wearing a black-and-white costume, answered the door. Flora was astounded – she’d never seen a maid on the island – but once again Joel didn’t react. This must be, she figured, how rich people lived in America, never noticing this kind of thing happening, and completely okay with it. Well, perhaps it was okay, she thought, breathing in the warm, expensive, candle-scented air as they stepped into the spotless boot room, which had rows of green Hunter wellies in every conceivable size, right down to a baby’s. Flora squinted at them, fascinated.

  ‘Hi, hi!’

  Out of the confines of the London office, Colton Rogers was still tall and rangy; he looked a little intimidating. He still had the air of the professional sportsman he’d once been, before taking his sports earnings and investing them in a bunch of start-ups in Silicon Valley, at least two of which had become wildly successful.

  ‘Hey, Binder, good to see you again. I’d say thanks for coming all this way, but I don’t think visiting Mure is ever a hardship, is it?’

  Joel made a non-committal noise. Flora wondered what his room at the Harbour’s Rest was like. The nicest one was directly above the bar, which got increasingly noisy as the night drew on. She hoped he liked fiddle music. And very, very long songs about people who came from the sea.

  ‘Flora, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Wanna take a look around?’

  Flora almost said, ‘Sure,’ then remembered just in time that it wasn’t up to her.

&
nbsp; ‘We’ve got business to get to,’ said Joel.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but I’m paying for this, right? I’m always paying for you fancy-schmancy lawyers. So I might as well enjoy myself while you bill me up the yazoo, am I right? Come on, I’ll give you the tour,’ said Colton.

  He strode out past them into his yard full of shining vehicles, then chose, of all things, a quad bike.

  ‘This is the way to get around,’ he said. ‘Right? Beats that awful London traffic.’

  Flora perched on the back, holding her skirt down against the wind, and they set off around the property. Again, everywhere she found herself amazed by the amount of energy and work that had gone into – that was going into – taming the beautiful nature of Mure, and turning it into a neater, more precise version of itself. There was a hand-built trout stream, where they had widened the original burn, made it wend round the prettiest trees, added artificial waterfalls to help the salmon spawn, and stocked it with trout and salmon for fly fishermen to come and pick out of the glittering waters. It was beautfiul, but it felt a little to Flora like cheating.

  ‘I get more business done over a bit of fishing than I do in three days of stuffy meetings in air-conditioned offices,’ said Colton. ‘I hate New York, don’t you?’

  This question was asked of both of them. Joel shrugged non-committally. Flora didn’t know what to say; she’d never been there.

  ‘Those scorching summers! Unbelievable. You can’t breathe out there. Nobody can. I don’t know why on earth you’d stay. And those winters! Freeze the breath out of you. Face it: the weather in New York is always terrible. Always.’

  ‘And here’s better?’ said Joel mildly.

  ‘Here! It’s perfect! Never too hot! Breathe that air. Just breathe it.’

  Obediently they breathed, Joel thinking crossly about money, Flora enjoying the fresh air but wondering why Colton appeared to think it all belonged to him.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Shoreditch,’ said Joel. Flora tried not to roll her eyes.

  ‘I was talking to her,’ said Colton.

  ‘MacKenzie Farm,’ said Flora.

  ‘Which one is that?’

  ‘The one that goes down to the beach.’

  ‘Oh yes. I know it. It’s a beautiful spot.’

  ‘Are you opening the Rock?’

  ‘Trying.’ Colton wrinkled his nose. ‘I can’t… My people don’t want to work here. And getting stuff brought in… I’m not sure it’s worth it.’

  ‘Why can’t local people work here?’

  ‘Because you all move away,’ said Colton, eyeing her coldly. ‘You don’t really live on Mackenzie Farm, do you?’

  Flora flushed, and shook her head.

  ‘How’s it doing? Making a living?’

  Flora thought uncomfortably back to what Innes had said about the books.

  ‘But there’s great produce here,’ she offered.

  ‘I don’t see much of it. Most of your fish goes straight out the door. Turnips, if you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘People do, done right,’ said Flora. ‘And there’s seaweed. And cheese…’

  ‘Cheese? Where?’

  Flora bit her lip.

  ‘And there are some great bakers on the island.’

  Colton shrugged. ‘Huh. Well, we were meant to be ready… I’ll maybe give them a push.’

  The quad bike bumped over several large open areas of wilderness, broken up by new forests. The young trees were host to hordes of deer, more than Flora had ever seen in one place. There were family groups, the little bobbing tails of the fawns, newly born in the spring, dancing up and down; and larger stags crashing through the undergrowth behind.

  It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  ‘You can hunt stag here?’ said Joel, sounding genuinely interested for once.

  ‘Stag. Grouse. Pheasant. Just keep away from the golden eagles.’

  ‘You have eagles?’

  ‘Yeah, and if I shoot one I get ceremonially burned to death, then arrested, then put in prison for a hundred years, then hung, drawn and quartered,’ said Colton. He saw Flora’s face. ‘I don’t want to catch an eagle, Jeez. Just joking. Have to be careful, that’s all.’

  ‘So you’ll bring your clients over here?’

  Flora could swear she saw dollar signs in Joel’s eyes. He’d probably learn Gaelic if it would get him access to Colton’s colleagues.

  ‘I’ll bring anyone over here,’ said Colton. ‘Anyone I like. No one who’s going to ask me where the nearest Gucci store is.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Where is it?’ said Flora, interested. She hadn’t expected to like Colton but was finding out that she did. And she’d hoped to like Joel but was finding out that she wasn’t sure about that.

  ‘Reykjavik,’ said Colton. ‘See, no distance at all if you take the jet, don’t know what people moan about.’

  They turned down a perfect sandy path – seriously, was someone up here raking it every morning? Flora supposed that when you were as rich as Colton, it was no hassle to have someone doing that. Where did all his staff come from, though? Did he keep them hermetically sealed in his basement? It was very odd.

  And there it was.

  Colton raised his arm.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘Look at this. Nothing. Not a thing. Not a telegraph pole. Not a television aerial. Not a house or a skyscraper or a metro system or a bus stop or a power station or an advertising billboard. Not a sidewalk, not a rubbish bin. Nothing man-made at all. In every single direction.’

  Except for the Rock.

  It was undeniably beautiful. Flora knew it wasn’t finished, and wasn’t expecting much of an improvement on the little ruined croft that used to sit here. But as she stepped off the quad bike, she realised immediately that this was a long distance on from that.

  She was genuinely amazed. She’d got used, she realised, to that swanky metropolitan outlook that there was really no point in going outside of London for anything, and that anyone north of the Watford Gap probably couldn’t make you a cappuccino that wasn’t out of a packet.

  But this…

  There was a little jetty at the front, lined with lanterns that would be lit up when the dark months came. An actual red carpet led up a rocky path. They moved round to the front of the building, and walked up a flight of stone steps so clean they appeared to have been hoovered.

  The hotel itself was low, built of grey stone, the same colour as the landscape, as if designed to look like part of the earth. There were pale grey wooden doors and window frames, and gentle lighting at each window, even during the day, that made it look like the most welcoming place ever.

  There were circling coos from birds, but apart from that the only sound was the light tinkling of gentle music. Flora raised her eyebrows.

  ‘We can pick guests up from the harbour, see?’ said Colton. ‘Then nobody has to come past my house to get here. Plus you get to arrive by boat, which is, like, awesome and cool.’

  To the side was a beautiful Japanese knot garden, with succulent plants that could survive the winter onslaughts while still giving off a heady scent. Next to it was a large herb garden with rows of lavender and mint. Flora found herself wishing she’d brought along a pair of nail scissors for clipping. And along the back was a walled vegetable garden, where she could just glimpse rows of cabbages and potatoes – she guessed everything grown there would be used in the hotel restaurant. Colton certainly had high ambitions.

  The entire edifice was on the edge of a perfectly white beach, the sand bleached startlingly pale, like bone. It went on for what seemed like miles. Behind them were low gorse bushes leading back into the dunes. Ahead of them was nothing but sea, all the way to the North Pole. It seemed to Flora there was complete emptiness ahead of them; complete tranquility all around. She thought briefly how much Bramble would like it.

  ‘Apart from the Rock itself, there is nothing man-made here at all,’ continued Colton gravely, as if
he was narrating a film trailer. ‘Nothing at all. Do you have any idea how rare this is? How unlikely it is? Especially in this itty-bitty little country. But anywhere now. There are mobile phone masts in the desert. There are plastic bags strewn over the endless jungles of Africa. There are ads everywhere. All over the world. And this little piece of it – with the freshest air and the best water – this is mine, and I’m paying a lot to keep it this way. Perfect. Pristine. I’m not developing the Rock to get rich – I am rich. I’m developing it to be wonderful, and beautiful, and after I’m dead, I want to leave it to the people of Scotland… and this is why you had to see it.’

  Flora blinked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, just as we’re ready to open it, they want to stick a big wind farm right out there. Whirring away. Right across the eyeline of anyone who comes here. Spoiling my view, but most importantly, spoiling everything that makes this place special.’

  As if on cue, two sandpipers marched past, chittering to each other with their long pointed orange beaks, as if making an arrangement to have lunch, which perhaps they were.

  ‘The uniqueness of this place, what makes it special – what will make it special to anyone who comes here – all gone, to fulfil some stupid targets on renewables. Which, by the way, don’t even work; by the time you’ve used the fuel to make them and, Jesus Christ, to transport them out into the sea and put them down, that’s like half an oil field right there. But if they must – if they absolutely must do it, to line some guy’s pockets in Brussels or whatever – then they can take them a little further. Or round the headland. Or, hell, opposite your damn farm; it’s hardly a beauty spot.’