“I need a man, Symon, not a boy. This has been fun, but leave Jean-Luc for you? Maybe when you have your own restaurant, with a Michelin star. Perhaps then.”
When he’d fled his Parisian life and returned to Polwenna Bay, a huge part of him had been determined to prove to Claudette that he was the man she needed. He could run his own critically acclaimed restaurant, he could have the write-ups in the press and he could win the coveted Michelin stars too. Then she would see. Then she would want him.
But somewhere along the way this had stopped being about her.
“I owe a lot to you and to Jean-Luc,” he said evenly.
“Of course. We both knew you were talented,” Claudette agreed. She wiggled her way back to him until she was standing so close that he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck. The flawlessly made-up face looked up at him and he felt hypnotised as her dark eyes held his.
“You always had extra talents, Symon. I have missed them. I missed you.”
He’d missed her too, but his lonely hours spent longing for Claudette had shortened and thoughts of her had grown fewer as The Plump Seagull had taken on a life of its own. Polwenna Bay had filled the void. She was from another life.
She was so close now that he could have held her in his arms, crushed her mouth with his and taken her right there and then against the wall if he’d wanted to. The glitter in her eyes and the arch of her brows seemed to be daring him to do it.
Then, abruptly, she undid her dress and let it fall to the floor. She was naked except for the skimpiest thong and sheer black stockings.
What the hell!
Unfortunately for his visitor, this reveal had the opposite effect to the one she’d intended. Symon leapt backwards, knocking the whiskey tumbler flying and showering them both with amber droplets.
“Jesus, Claudette! Cover yourself up!” he gasped, glancing around in panic in case Granny Alice or, God forbid, Sheila Keverne should trundle by. “What the hell are you thinking?”
But Claudette didn’t seem at all perturbed to be standing topless in his restaurant and in broad daylight.
“So English now! You didn’t always used to be such a prude!”
She reached to grab his shirt to pull him closer, but her fingers grasped only air as Symon backed even further away, feeling like one of Mo’s horses cornered by the vet. Claudette might be stunning and have a figure that women half her age would kill for, but as she stood before him, wearing only wisps of black lace and Chanel Number Five, Symon thought the situation couldn’t be less sexy. She’d come to see him just so that she could flash her underwear without any warning? Seriously?
It was a terrible, contrived cliché and suddenly it struck Symon as being funny. She might just as well have turned up in a trench coat like some dodgy strippergram. Symon couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh and once he started he simply couldn’t stop.
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a de si drôle?” snapped Claudette, snatching up her dress and wrapping it around herself. Her dark eyes flashed with fury. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“Not at you! At this situation!” Symon gasped, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “Oh, come on Claudette! You must see how ridiculous it is. We haven’t seen each other for years and suddenly you’re down to your underwear. This is Cornwall in April! You’re lucky not to catch your death of cold!”
Claudette stared at him for a minute and then she too started to laugh. Symon had always loved her laughter. It was low and rasping, husky from years of smoking and drinking, and it brought back memories of red wine, Gauloises and talking until the sun rose.
“I’ll make us a coffee,” said Symon tactfully. “Then we can catch up.”
Once they were sitting at a table, Claudette in her dress again and looking awkward, Symon poured them both a strong black coffee. Now they were merely two old acquaintances catching up.
He hoped.
“Is Jean-Luc well?”
She shrugged. “I think so. We have, how you say? We have smashed up.”
“Broken up?” Symon’s brain was whirling. Not so long ago he would have been turning cartwheels to think she was free; now he just felt weary. “That’s a shame, Claudette. In spite of everything I always thought you were a great couple.”
“Oui.” She stared into the coffee and when she looked up her expression was mournful. “It’s very sad but now I think is a good time for you and I to begin a new life, don’t you agree? We were always good together.”
But Symon shook his head. “We weren’t. It was an affair that should never have happened. We betrayed Jean-Luc.”
“Pah! Jean-Luc doesn’t care what I do! Do you not think he has other women? Do you think he has been a saint?”
“So why not leave him before? Why not come with me when I asked you to?”
Claudette looked at Symon as though he was being an idiot. “Because you had nothing to offer me. No future. Papillon was my life.”
He nodded. At the time he hadn’t understood – but now that he had The Plump Seagull, Symon had more insight into how passionately she must have felt about her restaurant business. Look how hard he was fighting for his. He’d even sold his soul to the Food and Drink Channel.
Hold on…
Was this the key to her return?
“Did you see me on the television?” Symon demanded as suspicion took hold. Of course. It made perfect sense. When he’d been destitute and heartbroken, Claudette hadn’t been interested in him, the real him, but now that he had a Michelin star and it looked as though a successful television career beckoned she was declaring her love and leaving her husband?
“Of course,” said Claudette, as though this was obvious. “I read the papers too. I have been watching your career for a long time, waiting for the perfect moment when we can be together. This is it. So I have come.”
The woman sitting opposite was still beautiful and sexy and, if she’d paid this visit a few months ago, Symon suspected he’d have been jumping for joy and planning a triumphant return to Paris. He certainly wouldn’t be wasting time drinking coffee when Claudette was wearing stockings and heels. Part of him, the hurt and angry part still smarting from Ella’s betrayal, was sorely tempted to take Claudette upstairs anyway, but he knew this would be a mistake. Claudette might have held his heart for a long time but she was calculating and opportunistic and had no loyalty to anyone except herself; he could see this so clearly now and knew beyond all doubt that whatever hold she’d once had over him was well and truly broken now.
The truth was that Symon Tremaine had stopped yearning for Claudette a long time ago – and from the moment Ella St Milton had first kissed him, it was Ella who had haunted his dreams instead.
“You need to go back home and talk to Jean-Luc,” he said gently.
She frowned. “Why? We are both free and you have your career now. Come back to Paris with me. We can start a Fat Bird there. It will be magnificent!”
He laughed. “There aren’t any fat birds in Paris! Or plump seagulls, rather. Besides, my life is here. I don’t want to go to Paris.” He took a deep breath. This was hard but he had to be honest. “It’s over, Claudette. I don’t want to be with you. I don’t love you.”
She stared at him. Incomprehension was written across her beautiful face.
“You are telling me it’s finished?”
“It’s been finished since the day I left,” he said, and he knew this was true. He didn’t love this woman. He didn’t want to start a new restaurant with her, or stay up all night making plans for their future. He didn’t want to hold Claudette or kiss her or make love to her or talk to her until the sun faded. It was over.
“You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you?” hissed Claudette. “Don’t deny it. You would never have said ‘no’ to me otherwise.”
“What?”
“You are in love with another woman.” Claudette stood up, tugging at the belt of her dress and smoothing her hair. “I can see it in your eyes, chéri; you do
n’t need to pretend. There is someone else.”
Symon laughed in astonishment. “What on earth makes you say that?”
“A woman can tell these things, Symon. I can see it is too late for me. I have my pride. I will not beg.”
“I wouldn’t want you to,” he said.
Claudette leaned across the table and dropped a kiss onto his cheek.
“She’s a very lucky girl, whoever she is. You must love her a great deal. Be happy.”
Symon remained seated at the table staring into space long after the door had clicked shut behind Claudette and the tapping of her heels on the cobbles had faded away. His hands were shaking, but not from the shock of his ex-lover’s unexpected visit. No. That was nothing but the ending of a long story, the last sentence of a book he had once loved to read.
Symon was trembling because he knew Claudette was right. He was in love with Ella. Charlie Barton and all the other misunderstandings didn’t matter one bit in comparison to how he felt about this spiky, determined and utterly incredible woman.
He loved her and he had done since that first fleeting kiss.
Symon loved Ella St Milton and he had absolutely no idea what to do about this – but he did know someone who might. He reached for his phone. It was time to give Tom Elliot a call.
Chapter 29
“Vicar! Vicar!”
Sheila Keverne scuttled across the street to catch Jules, her wicker trolley bumping behind her over the cobbles and her breath coming in sharp gasps. Jules knew this look well: Sheila had a juicy morsel of top-quality gossip and she was dying to share it. Now she had Jules in her sight there would be no escape. Greyhounds were more likely to ignore rabbits.
Jules sighed inwardly. She’d been hoping to catch Danny at the marina for a quiet few moments. They hadn’t seen each other for a couple of days and tonight he was going to visit Emerald with Symon and Nick, so their usual Wednesday evening together was on hold. Tomorrow was Maundy Thursday, the start of the Easter celebrations, and Jules would be flat out with services and special events. There would be hardly a minute to spend together. When would they ever get a moment to talk about his job and their future? Even Danny seemed to be avoiding the issue.
As Sheila bore down on her Jules contemplated ducking into a doorway or diving down one of the narrow side streets – but would Jesus have done this? If He’d hidden from his followers rather than caring for them, Christianity wouldn’t have had quite the same impact on the world. Still, Jules suspected that even Jesus would have had to call on all his reserves of love and patience to deal with Sheila Keverne on a mission. Sending up a quick prayer for even more patience today, Jules girded her loins and waved back.
“Hello, Sheila! How can I help you? Is it about the Easter Egg Hunt?”
Jules really hoped not. The Polwenna Bay Easter Egg Hunt was fast becoming the bane of her life. For bickering among her flock, it was right up there with the infamous Polwenna Bay naked calendar. Danny, who had kindly agreed to take charge of the event, was close to strangling Sheila. So far she’d taken exception to chocolate as prizes (“It’s bad for the kiddies’ teeth, Vicar!”), decided that cardboard eggs filled with a mini prize were too expensive and done her best to change the date too (“Our Lord rose on a Sunday, Vicar, as you well know!). Jules was sorely tempted to cancel the whole deal. She had enough to contend with on Easter Sunday without twenty children turning St Wenn’s upside down! Having the hunt on the Saturday made much better sense. In any case, Sheila was too late. In a desperate bid to avoid any more squabbles, Jules had collected the eggs from Seaspray and already given them to the Pollards with strict instructions to hide them in the churchyard. Danny had quite enough on his plate with Emerald’s injury and looking after Alice, so Jules had decided to take some of the burden. He’d already done the hard work of organising the banners and the eggs, so now it was her turn to help him. Sometimes a girl had to take the bull by the horns, or in this case the Easter bunny by the tail!
“Oh no, no,” panted Sheila, hand on her heart as she recovered from her sprint down the street. “It’s much more important than that!” She paused for emphasis. “Vicar, you’ll never believe this but it was Teddy St Milton who knocked down that poor girl!”
“What?” Jules wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.
“That hooligan Teddy St Milton! He was the one who ran young Emerald over and left her for dead. I’m not at all surprised. He drives way too fast, doesn’t he? I said so only the other day to Betty Jago! That boy will kill us all, I said!”
“Sheila, you can’t go about saying things like that without any proof,” admonished Jules. Sometimes she really did feel as though all her hard-written sermons on the evils of gossip were in vain. Would it make any difference if rather than slaving over them she just watched EastEnders instead and downloaded a ready-made homily? She was beginning to wonder.
But Sheila was shaking her head. “It’s true, Vicar. Meg Trewiddy told me. Her daughter is a chambermaid at the hotel and she heard it from Tom Elliot. All the staff have been told. Teddy St Milton’s gone to the police station to make a statement.”
Jules couldn’t believe it. Teddy was reckless and drove like a moron; all the same, she’d never have dreamed he was the kind who could leave a girl for dead. He was an idiot but she’d never thought he was bad.
“Why didn’t he stop and help her?” she wondered. It broke her heart to think of poor Emerald hurt and alone in the dark.
“According to Meg he thought he’d hit a deer. His sister saw the damage to the car and she guessed what had happened,” Sheila continued, loving every dramatic minute of telling this story. “She confronted him and that was when Teddy realised what he’d done. Apparently their grandfather’s devastated.”
Jules could only imagine. Poor Jonny. Teddy was the light of his life.
“It was very brave of Ella to do that,” she said. Ella St Milton was a tricky customer but Jules had long suspected there was more to her than met the eye. She also had a feeling that Symon thought so too…
“Anyway, I just thought I’d let you know. Better be on my way. I can’t stand here talking to you all day,” Sheila said, her eyes lighting up when she spotted Kursa Penwarren stepping out of her front door. “Yoo hoo! Kursa! Wait a moment!”
And she was off again, the wicker trolley bounding behind her and her raincoat billowing like Superman’s cape. Gossip Woman, thought Jules fondly. Sheila meant well but speaking to her did feel a bit like being in the middle of a force-nine gale.
Goodness, this was a lot to take in. Did Alice know, or any of the others? Jules imagined that Jonny would have called her; her heart went out to him because that wouldn’t be an easy conversation. He and Alice had been bickering about their marriage for weeks now. Would this be the final straw for their relationship?
Jules hoped not. They adored each other and deserved this late chance of happiness. With a heavy heart she headed to the marina to find Danny. He would know best what to do and how to help heal his family. All she could do was be there, for the Tremaines and for the St Miltons.
If Ella had stopped to think about it she would never have confronted Teddy while there was a chance that their grandfather might overhear. The shock was far too much for him and as he sat slumped at the desk, with his head in his hands and his face a ghastly shade of grey, she was truly frightened for him. After Teddy had stormed out of the room, presumably to drive into the next town and report the accident to the local police, Jonny had called Alice Tremaine and broken the news. Ella had tactfully removed herself to the window, where she’d watched the seagulls attacking today’s rubbish and had contemplated how much everything had changed since she’d last watched their squabbles.
“I’m so sorry, Ella.”
Her grandfather’s voice, as dry as rustling autumn leaves, broke into her musings.
“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she told him.
Jonny removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily
. When he replaced his spectacles, Ella was shocked to see that his eyes were red. Her grandfather never cried.
“I have everything to be sorry for,” he said. “I didn’t listen to you when you warned me that Teddy was spending too much money and behaving wildly. I turned a blind eye and I indulged him. I have to take my share of the blame.”
Ella didn’t know what to say. It was true.
“You love him,” she said helplessly.
“Yes, yes,” Jonny waved his hand. He hated talking about emotion. “I love you both, damn it, but Alice is right. I’m a silly old fool. I let old-fashioned values and the idea of a family name blind me to all Teddy’s faults and I overlooked you, Ella. I know that now.”
Ella was a little embarrassed by his admission. “I always understood why. You only wanted to do the right thing.”
Jonny leaned forward. “That’s as maybe but I made a mistake, Ella. I don’t know if you can forgive me for the things I said to you and the way I behaved?”
For a moment Ella was tempted to tell him that she wasn’t sure. He’d hurt her. Let her down. Betrayed her. She could berate him now and say her piece. She could let him know just how much it had hurt to see the business she loved so much snatched away from her, to be made to feel that she was worthless and forced to move out of her flat. These words were poised on her tongue like divers on the edge of a springboard and all she had to do was let them leap.
But how could she? Jonny was old and tired and he had made a mistake. What good would it do now for her to make him feel even worse? Would it change the past? Make her feel any better? Mend Emerald’s injuries? Jonny wasn’t a fool. He knew that his judgement had been in error. With this thought, all the bitterness and anger she’d been nursing vanished. Besides, by snatching the hotel away from her Jonny had actually done something rather marvellous, Ella now realised. He had forced her to rethink her game plan, evaluate her skills and look about her for opportunities that could be grasped with both hands and made to work. Without the loss of the business would she have ever thought of Polwenna Manor as a venue or seen the potential of working with Perry and Symon?
Recipe for Love: A gorgeous Cornish romance (Polwenna Bay Book 5) Page 28