Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5)

by Ruth Saberton

  “What do you need a few hundred grand for?” Danny asked Symon quietly.

  “Just a figure of speech,” Symon said.

  “He wants a sports car so he can keep up with Charlie,” Tom grinned. “Rumour has it he’s just had another pay rise too. You should be a celebrity chef, Sy. It’s where the money is.”

  Symon shuddered. The money would be nice but all the press and exposure and people prying into your private life? Especially people prying into your private life. No thanks. It had been wonderful to have the glowing review in the national newspaper, of course, but that was as far as his interest in being famous went. There were some things that were better left hidden in the past. Time to leave this conversation and see what was going on with lunch. Maybe Ashley would like a hand? Symon knew from experience that there was nothing like cooking to take his mind off everything else.

  Money worries, a broken heart, family matters; all these things melted away when he was focused on preparing food. Symon was determined to keep it that way.

  Chapter 15

  “You want three hundred orange gerberas? And three hundred purple dahlias? For next Saturday?”

  Ella could hardly believe what she was hearing. With the big wedding under a week away the bride-to-be was calling now to tell her that she wanted to change the entire colour scheme and flower arrangement? Was Tabitha insane?

  “I think the white lilies you chose are classic and beautiful,” she said through gritted teeth, hoping that her irritation wasn’t crackling down the lines. If it was, Tabitha Melton, ditzy star of Born in Mayfair, was too busy explaining her sudden change of heart to notice.

  “I thought so too, Ella, but then I saw a psychic last week, that one off the telly. What’s her name? Sally somebody or other? She’s the real deal, everyone says so! Apparently she told Katie Price she was going to get married again, and she did! How awesome is that?”

  Ella’s new acrylic nails beat a tattoo on her desk as she fought to keep her cool. The customer was always right, she reminded herself sharply, even when they were a lunatic.

  “Very awesome,” she said, but Tabitha wasn’t listening.

  “And so Sparkly – you know Sparkly, right? She’s on the show and she’s dating that fit guy from TOWIE? Anyway, she said I should see that psychic too before I got married and OMG! She only told me orange is my wealth and prosperity colour and purple is my lucky colour. So I have to have those colours instead, because white is really unlucky for me. I was really freaked out for a bit but then Georgie said to call you and get you to sort it. He says that’s your job. So thanks!”

  It was at times like this that Ella wondered why she even bothered. Not only was she fighting Teddy, her grandfather and her head chef, but now even her clients were determined to make life as difficult as possible. She could walk away from all this, catch the first flight out to see her mother in Palm Beach and spend the next five years getting her nails done, going for lunch and dating billionaires. Why was she killing herself trying to prove to Jonny that she was the right person to run the hotel?

  But Ella already knew the answer: this was who she was. Her mother was a trophy wife and Ella knew that twenty minutes of that existence would be enough to drive her insane. People around here might think she was a spoilt bitch who’d just walked into the family business, but they didn’t see the whole story. They had no idea how long her days were or how much she’d given up to do this – and they would never find out either.

  If she could take on her grandfather and survive knowing that most people in Polwenna Bay couldn’t stand her, she could certainly sort out some flowers. Woman up, Ella told herself as she ended the call and promised Tabitha she’d deal with it. After all, girl power hadn’t ended with the Spice Girls.

  Ella replaced the phone in its cradle and massaged her temples. Right. Deep breath and then she’d break the news to the florist. The hotel would probably have to cover the costs of replacing the original order, which would eat into any profit, but she guessed she’d just have to suck it up. Ella was viewing this wedding as something of a loss-leader anyway. With luck, it would generate so much publicity that she’d be booked solid for months, if not years, ahead. She’d have to chalk up several thousand pounds spent on lilies as an advertising cost. It was fortunate that lilies were classic and classy; Ella would use them around the hotel anyway.

  Ella was just writing call florist on her list of things to do when the office door flew open and Charlie Barton swaggered in – fully clothed today, thank goodness, but still wearing the same arrogant smirk. How did I ever find Charlie attractive? Ella wondered. Just the sight of him now was enough to make her teeth itch.

  “What can I do for you, Charlie?” she asked evenly. Her face might have retained an impassive expression but inside she was frantically trying to pre-empt his next demand. It couldn’t be a car, because she’d done that, and he’d already had a shockingly big pay rise. When it came to worldly goods Ella was almost cleared out, so she wasn’t sure quite what else she could offer. Her first-born son perhaps, when (or if) the time came?

  “Absolutely nothing,” Charlie said. He stepped forward and placed an envelope on her desk. “Here. This is for you.”

  Ella’s brows drew together. What was he writing to her for? And, more importantly, why was he dressed in jeans, a shirt and a leather jacket rather than his chef’s uniform? It was lunchtime and all systems go in the hotel kitchen.

  “What’s this?” she asked, suddenly fearful.

  “It’s a letter,” said Charlie. His eyes were bright with malice and he gave the envelope a shove in her direction with a stubby forefinger.

  “I can see that,” said Ella. She didn’t pick it up. She had the sensation that it would burn her fingers, as acid might.

  He looked at her expectantly. “Open it then.”

  “Why write to me? I’m right here,” said Ella. “Whatever it is you need to say, just say it. I know things between us have become a little complicated lately but that shouldn’t affect our working relationship. We’re professionals.” She paused. “This is about work?”

  “It’s not a love letter if that’s what’s worrying you,” Charlie retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Quite the opposite, actually. It’s my resignation.”

  Panic bloomed in Ella like black mould.

  “Your resignation?” she echoed, with a note of panic. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m leaving.” He folded his arms across his chest, the leather jacket creaking as he did so. “I’m quitting. I’m out of here like last week.”

  “You can’t resign. You’re under contract.”

  Charlie laughed mirthlessly. “So sue me. It won’t make any difference. I’m leaving. I’ve had enough of your airs and graces and superior attitude.”

  He was angry because she wouldn’t sleep with him and Ella could have kicked herself for getting involved in the first place. He’d seemed fun and she was lonely, but in reality Charlie was a prima donna; men like that had fragile egos. She should have been gentler with him, carried on their relationship even, at least until the big wedding was over. She couldn’t lose her celebrity chef right now. Georgie Angel would flip. He might even cancel the wedding.

  Orange and purple flowers no longer seemed such a big deal…

  “I’m sorry you see it like that or if I’ve given you that impression,” she said slowly, trying her best to placate him and buy some time. “You’re a wonderful chef.”

  Her voice didn’t tremble and Ella hoped her expression remained neutral. She’d been cultivating her ice-maiden persona for occasions such as this, when to show one tiny flicker of fear would be admitting weakness. Characters like Charlie loved nothing more than feeling powerful and Ella would rather face an angry Georgie Angel than give Charlie the satisfaction of knowing he had the upper hand.

  “You’re not sorry at all. You just don’t want to lose me from your precious hotel,” said Charlie. “Well, hard cheese. I’m goi
ng. I’ve been offered a head chef job in Rock for twice the money you pay and half the crap.”

  Ella stared at him.

  “But what about Georgie Angel’s wedding? He and Tabitha are so excited about you doing the food,” she said, attempting to appeal to his better nature. This was pointless, of course, since Charlie didn’t have one.

  “They’ll get over it,” answered Charlie. “See you, Ella. And good luck. You’ll need it.”

  And with this parting shot he was gone, sauntering out of her office without so much as a backwards look.

  Now the panic really did set in. Ella didn’t think Georgie and Tabitha would get over it. Charlie Barton was one of the main reasons they’d booked the Polwenna Bay Hotel in the first place. For the first time in her life Ella had no idea what to do or how to sort this problem out. Her head was spinning.

  A drink. She needed a drink. Once she had a whiskey in her hand and her heartbeat had slowed she could try to make a plan and get ahead of the game once more – but right now she just needed some time out.

  Five minutes later she was sitting on a stool at the hotel bar with one empty glass being swiftly replaced by another. Alcohol burned a trail of fire into her belly and as she sipped her next drink Ella was seriously tempted to throw caution to the wind and just get blindingly drunk. How blissful would it be to slide into oblivion and let somebody else deal with this mess? If only there was somebody she could turn to, someone who would put his arm around her and tell her everything would be just fine. But women like her didn’t have that luxury, did they? Summer Penhalligan and Mo Carstairs did. Even the vicar had Danny on side. Tears prickled Ella’s eyelids. She was so, so tired of always carrying the load.

  Was this what defeat felt like?

  “Are you OK?”

  It was Tom Elliot. Clad in his suit and with his spiky red hair gelled and styled to within an inch of its life, her assistant manager was looking alarmed. Ella didn’t blame him. In all their months of working together, Tom had never seen her hit the booze.

  “Ella?” He leaned closer and his eyes widened when he sniffed her drink. “Is that whiskey? Drinking on shift is strictly frowned on at the Polwenna Bay Hotel, you know. What if our boss finds out?”

  “Go away, Tom,” said Ella. Was it really too much to have just a few moments out?

  “Is this because of Charlie walking out?” Tom was asking, hopping up onto the stool next to her and gently unpeeling her fingers from the glass and placing it out of reach. “Don’t let that tosser drive you to drink.”

  Ella groaned. If Tom knew then so did the rest of the staff. There went any vague hopes she might have had of keeping Charlie’s absence a secret until the wedding was over. “You all know about that?”

  He nodded. “Afraid so. Charlie couldn’t wait to gloat about it. He always was an utter, utter dick.”

  “An utter dick who’s a genius chef and who’s supposed to be catering for Georgie Angel’s wedding.” Ella reached for her drink. “Give that back, Tom. As your boss I’m ordering you.”

  “And as your very responsible assistant manager I am not letting my senior manager get plastered when we have a crisis on our hands. Anyway, this isn’t the disaster you think it is.”

  It wasn’t?

  “Have you been drinking? Tom, this is as bad as it gets. Our celebrity chef has just walked out days before the biggest wedding we’ve ever had.”

  “He’s overrated anyway,” Tom said airily. “We all know Klaus does the work while Charlie poses for the cameras and flirts with the waitresses. We’ll cope without him. You’ll see.”

  “But Klaus isn’t a top chef,” Ella pointed out. “He’s good and he does work hard but Charlie has that dash of genius. Yes, we all know it borders on megalomania, but when he’s on it, he’s fantastic. That’s what Georgie Angel is expecting and Klaus just won’t cut it. We need a top chef.”

  Tom nodded. He got it. “So what’s the plan now?” he asked. “Apart from getting drunk, obviously.”

  Ella stared thoughtfully into the mirror opposite. Her fragmented reflection danced among the bottles and optics. “I need a top chef and I need one by the weekend,” she said. “So unless you can find me one I think getting drunk may well be our best option.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments before Tom whooped and clapped his hands so loudly Ella nearly toppled off her stool.

  “Not for the first time do I amaze myself. I really am your fairy godmother!” cried Tom. “I know exactly where you can find a brilliant chef by the weekend. Even better, he’s only minutes away and I know he needs the cash! You can hire him this afternoon!”

  Ella fixed Tom with one of her killer stares. “What on earth are you talking about now?”

  “Not what, who! Symon Tremaine, of course! He’s an incredible chef, a zillion times better than Charlie by name Charlie up his nose Barton! Ella, it’s a perfect solution! I’m a bloody genius. You should have given me the Range Rover and the pay rise.”

  “Symon Tremaine? You have to be kidding.”

  “I’m deadly serious. He’s a brilliant chef, he’s local, he’s catered here before, he’s practically family, he trained in Paris,” Tom was checking all these attributes off on his fingers and looking more excited by the second. Ella wished she shared his enthusiasm.

  “Why on earth would Symon want to help me? The Tremaines loathe the St Miltons.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the time for petty squabbles. Besides, Symon doesn’t hate you. He’s not like that. He doesn’t hate anyone. He’s a really nice guy.”

  This was probably true. Ella had never heard anyone say a bad word about Symon (except perhaps Big Rog Pollard, who’d moaned that there hadn’t been enough food on his plate at The Plump Seagull). Unlike Mo and Issie, Symon had always been polite to Ella – and he hadn’t broken her heart like Jake had, either.

  Maybe he would help? Since top chefs weren’t exactly queuing at the door it had to be worth a try.

  Reaching across for her drink, Ella downed it, slammed the glass onto the bar and hopped off her stool.

  “Where are you going?” Tom asked, startled.

  “To see Symon,” Ella replied.

  After all, what did she have to lose? Except the hotel’s good name of course. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to ask him; Symon Tremaine might just surprise her.

  Chapter 16

  March was a quiet, in-between kind of month in Polwenna Bay and on a weekday trade at The Plump Seagull tended to be fairly slow. Symon, standing in the kitchen doorway, could count his customers on one hand. The initial buzz following the write-up in the newspaper seemed to have died down somewhat.

  The window seat was taken by a forty-something couple sharing a bucket of moules and some crusty bread. A bottle of sparkling water, a bowl of fries and some complimentary onion tartlets were laid out before them, but Symon knew from experience that this would be the full extent of their order. There would be no ice buckets of champagne; nor would there be any caviar or expensive cheese courses making their way to this table. Judging by their sturdy footwear and the anoraks that Tara had placed in the cloakroom, these two were walkers stopping off to refuel before continuing on their way to the next bay. They wouldn’t want anything too heavy.

  The only other diner today was Richard Penwarren, the local GP and Tara’s partner, who’d popped in to see his girlfriend and grab a bite to eat. He was sitting in a corner tucking into a bread bowl of chowder. Symon knew that Richard would order a coffee after this before dashing back to the surgery – again, no wine or desserts for him.

  Better not order the Ferrari yet.

  It was a sparkling and crisp day, the kind that showed Cornwall in its best light. The window boxes were exploding with primroses and crocuses and the beach was basking in lemon-hued sunshine. Much as Symon loved the spring weather, he’d been quietly hoping for a drizzly grey week – not wet enough to keep the day trippers and early visitors inside museums or holiday cottages, but j
ust damp enough to make them long for hot soup and comfort food inside a cosy restaurant. On sunny days like this they were far more likely to grab something from Patsy’s Pasties and eat on the quay, or even brave The Ship’s beer garden.

  Usually Symon popped into the dining area and chatted with his customers, asking them about their food or telling them a little bit about the village, but today he didn’t have the energy. Or maybe even more than that, he didn’t have the heart. The couple were enjoy being together and Richard was engrossed in a book propped up against his bread bowl. It was almost quarter to two and since there was no sign of anyone else arriving Symon was better off prepping for tonight. That would keep him busy and stop him worrying about the day’s low takings and the increasingly pressing question of what to do when the lease on the premises expired. Past experience had taught Symon that chopping, slicing, filleting and marinating emptied the mind and kept all other problems at bay. It had saved him before when he’d thought he was broken beyond repair, and it would save him now from spiralling into a rapidly deepening chasm of debt and despair.

  He turned his attention back to the kitchen. The longer he could put off facing reality the better.

  “Shall I make a start on the monkfish, Chef?” Tony was asking, his round face bright with enthusiasm. He was a talented local chef and the thought of letting him down made Symon feel ill. The same for Kelly who, although she drove him mad, was gradually becoming something of a sommelier. If he could only afford to train her properly or send her to Paris to spend a week with Claudette… Unbidden, the image of dark eyes smiling at him over a glass of blood-red wine flickered through his memory and Symon’s heart turned over.

  “Chef? Shall I start?”

  Shaken by the memory, Symon nodded hastily. “Yes, good idea. I’m going to think about what can go with it.”

  “I can help with that!” This was Perry, staggering through the back door and laden with a huge crate. All but collapsing onto the floor with it, he announced proudly, “The celeriac’s looking amazing, if I say so myself.”