Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5)
Page 22
Actually, years on Ella felt bad about that. She’d been so jealous of Mo and Summer and had wanted to goad them both. The odd thing was that when she’d achieved her aim, Ella hadn’t felt good about it at all. Quite the opposite. She’d felt horrible. Mo might have snapped and Ella had ended up with a bad haircut, but the fact that Mo had got into trouble for the incident hadn’t made Ella feel better. Summer and Mo still wouldn’t be her friends and now Ella had had a guilty conscience as well as envy to contend with.
Was Jonny’s preference for Teddy a punishment or just more evidence that she was unlikeable?
She was still mulling this over when Symon swung the car to the left and through a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with what might once have been majestic lions in full roar, but which were now sad mossy felines with crumbling ears and long-lost manes. Then the car dodged potholes for a good mile along a winding drive, edged with camellia bushes and guarded by thick rhododendrons. Ella wished she was wearing a sports bra and wished even more that she’d told Charlie Barton where to go, and kept her Range Rover. Whatever Symon’s car was, it didn’t come with state-of-the-art suspension or even the most basic kind.
“If this is where you bring women to cheer them up, then I hate to imagine what you do if you think they’re happy,” Ella remarked. “Is it meant to be some kind of sick and twisted metaphor for what’s become of my career? Or do you genuinely think visiting Perry Tregarrick’s vegetable plot will make everything better?”
“Have faith,” said Symon. “Just sit back and enjoy the whole medieval manor experience.”
The grounds must have been glorious once but were now overrun with weeds and creeping gorse. The views across the landscaped park to the coast were still astonishing though, and the ornamental lake would have been a perfect blue mirror if it hadn’t been choked with the type of weeds Ophelia might have been found floating in. No wonder Perry looked suicidal; spending his time here must be like living in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
“Why on earth are we here?” Ella wanted to know.
Symon didn’t answer but drove slowly towards the front of the manor. At some stage there would have been beautiful flower beds either side of the building’s sprawling wings, but these had been carved up into allotments or crammed full of slithering polytunnels and bright yellow hosepipes.
Ella winced. Looking at all this, she dreaded to think what Perry Tregarrick had done to the inside of the house.
Polwenna Manor was the real deal. Its thick stone walls, narrow mullioned windows and arched front door dated back centuries. Ivy smothered the façade and dog roses clung to the porch, peering into the windows as though curious and trailing languid stems over the sills. Woody lavenders had taken over what had once been neat herb gardens, the rosemary and thyme having eventually lost their battle for space. The gardens might be overgrown and the old house was falling down in places, but the building was timeless and romantic and everything that an ancient Cornish manor house should be. What potential it had and what a history!
In spite of everything that had happened today, Ella experienced a flicker of something deep inside that felt oddly like excitement.
“I’ve not been up here for years,” she said. “Didn’t Perry have a party when he was sixteen? I think the theme was Austin Powers? I seem to remember some hippies, anyway.”
“That’s right,” said Symon. “Although the hippies were actually his parents. You wore a green dress, didn’t you?”
“Wow! You have a good memory,” Ella said, impressed. Symon was spot on. She’d borrowed one of her grandmother’s old Biba outfits and teamed it with some knee-high boots. With a slick of heavy black eyeliner and her hair pulled back into a high ponytail, she’d thought she really rocked the sixties’ sex-kitten look. At the time she’d been crazy about Jake Tremaine, who’d predictably spent the whole night with eyes only for Summer, and Ella had gone home feeling dejected. She couldn’t remember seeing Symon there at all.
He laughed. “There were lots of pretty girls in knee boots and miniskirts! It was one of the highlights of my teenage life! In fact, maybe I should say of my entire life?”
They were passing back down the drive now, leaving the manor house slumbering in the sunshine. Perhaps it was dreaming of the past – maybe even of a teenager’s birthday party over a decade before? There must have been so many parties here and so many memories. Ella turned in her seat and looked back. It really was a beautiful setting. Perfect for a wedding or a film.
And totally wasted on Perry Tregarrick, who seemed intent on destroying the place…
“So, apart from a trip down memory lane, we’re here why exactly?” she asked again.
Symon slowed the car and parked it just off the rough driveway.
“I’ll show you,” he said, reaching over to the back seat and pulling out his rucksack. “Come on.”
He was shrugging the bag onto his back and striding across the parkland before Ella even had a chance to reply. Great. So she was going to have to follow him across tufty grass dotted with crap on some kind of wild goose chase. She wished she’d been left alone to be miserable in peace. Still, there was nothing for it now but to follow him. Just as well she’d worn Skechers today and not her Jimmy Choos.
By the time Ella caught up with Symon, he was sitting at the top of a bluebell-covered bank and pulling out a bottle of water from his backpack. This was followed by a hunk of French stick, a wedge of Brie and some olives.
“You’ve brought me on a picnic?”
Symon laughed. “Actually, this is my lunch but you’re more than welcome to share it.”
He patted the grass beside him and, casting a careful eye around for sheep droppings, Ella joined him. She waved away the bread but took a big gulp of the Evian.
“So, you’ve quit,” said Symon.
Ella sighed. “I didn’t have much choice. Jonny’s overruled me and appointed a total moron as head chef.”
“Ah, well, the St Miltons do that from time to time. They pay their chefs in Range Rovers, or so I’ve heard.”
“Very funny. Well, how about this for a real laugh? Grandpa’s also given Teddy carte blanche to run the place.”
“Christ. Teddy couldn’t run a bath,” muttered Symon, and Ella laughed bleakly.
“Tell that to my grandfather. He thinks Teddy’s baby Jesus and Richard Branson all rolled into one. He really can’t do any wrong.”
“The hotel will be run into the ground if Teddy’s in charge. It’ll be free drinks for all his friends until the cellar’s dry. What is Jonny thinking?”
“He’s thinking that Teddy’s a man and should be the heir to the family business.” Ella knew she sounded bitter but she was beyond caring. Besides, she was bitter. “So that’s why I’ve quit. I can’t stay and watch everything I’ve built up be destroyed. Tom’s good but he won’t stick around to bail them out.”
“Maybe I should poach him?” Symon said thoughtfully. “He’d be a wonderful host.”
“You’ll have to do a lot more filming to afford Tom,” Ella said. “I haven’t quite paid him in Range Rovers yet but it’s only a matter of time. I’ll have to catch him and make sure he picks up all my loose ends too. That won’t be much fun. I’ve got three potential weddings booked in and they’ll have to look elsewhere just when places are getting booked up. It’s a disaster.”
Symon didn’t say anything to this. He tore a chunk off the French stick, sliced some Brie with his penknife and bit in, chewing thoughtfully for a while. Ella drew her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, hugging them close. They sat like this for a while as the sun dipped in and out of the gathering clouds, sending golden light and silvery shadows dancing across the landscape. The manor sat in the middle of this, tranquil and unmoved by the passage of the elements and the years, and Ella thought it was one of the most beautiful spots she’d ever seen. If it was cleared, the lake would mirror the house perfectly; she could just picture the reflection trembling in
the water. She looked again at the house, with heavy-headed roses nodding above the glittering windows and all around it those woody lavender bushes. She imagined them thick with beaded blooms, scenting the air as she brushed past and trailed her fingers through them. In the dip of the hill behind the manor was the faint azure line of the sea, and as she gazed on it Ella felt again that delicious tingle of knowing that something special was hovering just out of reach. She’d felt it once before when she’d first been allowed to take over the hotel and she knew it meant something now. This place could be magical.
“Of course, there is a flip side to all of this,” Symon said, breaking into her thoughts. “Maybe quitting the hotel isn’t a disaster at all?”
“What do you mean? How can it be anything else?”
“Because without that safety net of family money and a family business you have no choice but to find out just what you’re really capable of.”
“You’re saying I’ve only got this far because of who I am?” Ella’s hackles were up at this. “I worked bloody hard to turn that hotel around in spite of my grandfather questioning every step I took and Ted using the place like his own personal bank!”
Symon held his hands up. “I’m not saying that at all. You’re an intelligent and resourceful woman. I might not have worked with you for long but I can see just how driven you are. How enormously talented. I also know how hard you’ve worked. But for all that, the hotel’s never really been yours. It’s always come with conditions, hasn’t it? No matter how kindly intentioned.”
This was true. Jonny had been so generous in many ways but had held her back in others. Her role as manager might have looked impressive from the outside but deep down Ella had always known it was all smoke and mirrors. This morning was the ultimate proof of just how little autonomy she really did possess.
“I understand how it feels as though you’re falling right now, Ella,” Symon continued, “but sometimes the ground has to be ripped away if you’re to really learn how to fly. God! That sounds like something Silver Starr would come out with – but it’s true.”
“You’re right about falling. It feels like I’ve lost everything,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “I can imagine it does, but what if this is just the start of something even better? You’re a smart woman and you know that you’d gone as far as you could in that role. Maybe it’s time to start over and find a blank canvas. It’s hard but it’s the best way to find out just what you can really achieve. The hurt is still there but it lessens and success is a great balm.”
Ella looked at him with interest.
“It sounds to me as though you know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe.” He turned to meet her gaze and there was a sadness in his eyes that took her breath away.
“Is that what happened to you?” Ella blurted. She couldn’t help herself; she had to know. There were all kinds of rumours in Polwenna Bay about Symon Tremaine, ranging from his business in Paris going bankrupt (which was possibly true) to him being gay (which, as Ella could vouch, was nonsense). “Why did you leave Paris?”
Symon stared at her long and hard. “That was a different life. I don’t talk about it.”
“Because you went bankrupt?”
“Ah! Is that what the rumour mill’s come up with? I thought it was because I was gay and my French lover broke up with me?”
“I haven’t heard that,” fibbed Ella.
He laughed. “You’re not a very good liar. You turn pink when you fib!”
“I do not!” Ella could feel her cheeks growing warmer. Then she laughed. “OK, maybe I do. But just for the record, I never believed that rumour.”
He reached forward and tenderly stroked her face. “I should hope not.”
She held her breath. His lips were just a kiss away. Was Symon Tremaine going to kiss her? And did she want him to?
“We’ve known each other a while now,” he said softly. “Maybe you should hear the real story? I’m afraid it’s not as exciting as anything the village gossips could come up with, though.”
Then, and Ella was shocked at just how disappointed she was by this, he pulled away and the moment was lost. Reaching into his rucksack he delved for his phone and passed it to her.
“You want me to call someone? Ask the audience? Fifty-fifty?” she quipped, puzzled.
“I’d say phone a friend but I don’t keep in touch with any of them,” he answered. “Google Papillion party chef and then find the YouTube link. I haven’t checked it’s still there, and I live in hope it’s been taken down, but probably not.”
Ella frowned but she took the phone and Googled the words he’d suggested. Minutes later she was scrolling through links until she saw the one he’d meant and then clicked on it.
“Oh!”
“Sounds like you’ve found the one,” Symon said.
The video footage was shot in a kitchen that had heavy copper pots suspended from the ceiling, swathes of garlic, onions and herbs pinned from beams and an array of boiling pans hissing and spitting away. Music was playing and the kitchen was filled with elegant people drinking wine, talking in French and gesticulating enthusiastically, while a beautiful woman with a chic black bob held court and laughed, throwing back her head and opening her bright red lips. It was some party. In the midst of all this a chef was hard at work flambéing over roaring burners and tossing handfuls of mushrooms and onions into a pan, as hellish leaping flames lit his face. Ella couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. Her gaze took in his bare chest, pumped pecs and swelling biceps. He was a vision of pure sex and raw passion, and with his wild hair caught back with a bandana, he looked as though he’d stepped straight off the cover of a racy novel. Her jaw dropped.
It was Symon.
As the clip continued the party grew more rowdy. Symon was now taking regular swigs of cognac straight from the bottle, all the while managing the pans with expert dexterity. Around him, the music blasted and the conversation rose and fell. At one point there was a scuffle and then Symon tossed the food onto plates, downed more brandy and pulled the dark-haired woman into his arms, planting a kiss on her cheek. He held her for only the briefest of seconds, but it was enough for Ella to notice the intensity of the look they exchanged. The electricity between the two of them made Ella’s fingers tingle against the edge of the handset. This was a couple who were having wild and passionate sex, there was no doubt about it. Ella was horrified to feel jealousy coil itself around her heart like a poisonous snake.
She was relieved when the clip ended abruptly.
“Some bash,” she said coolly, hoping her emotions didn’t show on her face.
“Yeah. Life was pretty much one long party,” Symon confessed, reaching across and reclaiming his phone. “Every night there was a crowd of us pushing on through to the small hours. I seem to remember that a fight broke out on the night you just saw. A food critic had written a snide piece and was arrogant enough to turn up for dinner and drinks. Jean-Luc, that was my boss, pulled a knife on him. I had to wrestle it away. They called the police.”
Ella was seeing Symon Tremaine in a whole new light. She didn’t know quite what to say. Five minutes ago she would have thought that his idea of a crazy night was having a half in The Ship. Then Ella recalled the way his mouth had felt against hers, the power and passion she’d sensed simmering beneath his quiet surface, and she shivered.
There was another side to Symon, just as there was another side to her.
“Polwenna Bay must seem a bit dull,” was all she could manage.
“Are you kidding? With all the drama about who said what in the village shop and Big Rog’s mystery boat?”
“I could probably live without it,” said Ella drily, and Symon chuckled.
“Yeah, me too. But actually there’s a lot to be said for coming back, especially when things don’t work out as you hoped and you’ve lost everything.”
He stared across the park and the expression on his face was bleak.
Symon shot her an amused look.
“Oh, I was, believe me. I worked hard and I partied even harder and we built a bloody good reputation. Everyone wanted to be seen at Papillon. I was the sous-chef at the hottest restaurant in Paris and my dishes were getting great write-ups. Jean-Luc, my head chef, taught me everything from when I arrived fresh from my initial training in London to the day I left. He was brilliant. Everyone thought I was mad when I quit but I didn’t have any choice – not when I was in love with his wife.”
“The woman with the black bob.” It wasn’t a question.
“How did you know?” Symon asked, looking surprised.
Ella shrugged. The way the woman was watching Symon as though she could gobble him up? The fact that all women recognised when another was staking her claim on a man? The fact that she’d behaved that way herself in the past?
“Women’s intuition.”
“God, I must make certain I never underestimate that! But you’re right. That’s Claudette. She was older than me by at least ten years and she was also my mentor’s wife – the last woman I should have become involved with,” Symon said quietly. “I was flattered, stupid, wrong, young… Call it whatever you like, but I fell for her and I fell hard. Claudette was the front of house and we were constantly together. You know how it is in a kitchen.”
Ella nodded. In that pressured environment temperatures and passions ran high. She imagined their affair had been heady and exciting and that Symon had found himself swept away on a tide of sensational sex and insatiable desire. Her stomach folded with an irrational jealousy.
“It was like I’d had a hit of the most addictive drug in the world and all I could think about was scoring more.” Symon shook his head. “Christ. I hated myself for betraying Jean-Luc but I couldn’t stop. I was in love with Claudette and I thought she felt the same way about me. Turns out I was wrong and I’d ruined everything. What a stupid idiot.”