Anna turned back. ‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Out of the five bookings we’ve got this week – including for the other house – four of them asked about the Fishergirl’s Luck.’
‘Wow. Guess I’d better be prepared then.’
Pat finished sweeping, and Anna could see how weary she was. It worried her, a nebulous fear. She was suddenly acutely aware how important the people she knew here had become to her.
But you’re not staying, said a voice in her head. Especially not now. Not with the baby on the way. How would that work, in the Fishergirl’s Luck?
‘Why don’t you and Frank come to me for dinner later?’ she said. ‘It’ll save you having to think about it if you spend all day sorting out the rental.’
Later, Anna used the antibiotics excuse as a reason for not taking a glass of red with their spaghetti bolognese, glad and guilty in equal measure that neither of her friends questioned it any more than they had her excuse of having a bad back. She didn’t like lying to Pat and Frank any more than she had liked lying to Rhona, and wondered how long she could hold out before telling her friends the true reason for her abstinence.
For the next two weeks she saw neither Liam Harper nor either of the MacKenzies, partly by design and partly because she was so genuinely busy. Anna happily sunk herself into work. The demand for lunch at the Fishergirl’s Luck was so great that for the first week she ended up opening the bench on Thursday as well as Friday and Saturday, and on the second she added Wednesday as well.
‘I’ve honestly never seen the village so busy, love,’ Frank told her. ‘It’s obviously not a coincidence. You’d think we were Pennan, the number of people wandering about and taking photographs!’
By the time the second week came around, queues for the bench were already forming by 11.30 a.m., and by 11.50 the space Anna had available was full.
‘You should add another bench,’ said one frustrated customer. ‘This is the third day we’ve tried to get a seat.’
‘There’s still the Inn, you know,’ Phil reminded her, as he was passing and saw her in action as she was serving the mains on Saturday afternoon. ‘I think it’s clear now that you’d be more than capable of taking on the challenge and making it work.’
The thought was a pleasant one, and Anna realized that cooking at the Fishergirl’s Luck had given her a new level of confidence in her own abilities. It made her wonder what she could have achieved in her life already if she hadn’t been under Geoff’s thumb for so long.
‘Do you know who owns the Inn?’ she asked Frank a few days later. ‘Is there someone I could talk to about it, do you think?’
Frank’s face, which had seemed to Anna to have taken on a greyish pall since the last storm, brightened. ‘That sounds as if you’re thinking of ways to stay here permanently!’
‘Not seriously,’ she said, keen to nip any gossip in the bud. ‘Don’t mention it to anyone, please.’
But when Frank tracked down a name and number for the owner, the conversation wasn’t encouraging. They wanted to sell, not to rent, and the figure quoted to Anna, though modest by most standards, was far beyond what she could afford.
When she wasn’t working, Anna slept like the dead. She’d clean down and all but crawl up the stairs to her bedroom, asleep before her head even touched the pillow. The nausea of her earliest weeks of pregnancy had eased off, much to her relief, but the exhaustion seemed permanent. She couldn’t imagine pulling a full shift in a busy kitchen in this state.
The TripAdvisor reviews, meanwhile, racked up and up, never less than four stars and more usually five. They often mentioned more than the Fishergirl’s Luck too, talking favourably about the places nearby that there were to stay, and other eateries along the coast.
‘You should be so proud of yourself,’ Cathy said, over the phone. ‘I’m almost tempted to print all of these out and post them to Geoff. Imagine the look on his smug face!’
‘Oh God, please don’t even joke about that,’ Anna shuddered. She could imagine the look all too well, and the fury that would replace it soon enough. ‘He’d do something to sabotage me, I know he would.’
‘You’re a tiny place at the other end of the country,’ Cathy said. ‘Surely he can’t be so insecure that he’d begrudge you your small measure of success?’ There was a pause, and then her friend answered her own question. ‘Actually, don’t bother to answer that. God, that man is a dick. Still, at least we have the consolation that ratings are down for this new show of his.’
‘Really?’ Anna was genuinely surprised.
‘Yup. Maybe the public is finally getting wise to Geoff Rowcliffe’s brand of smug arrogance and seeing that it’s neither an act, nor warranted.’
Anna sucked air over her bottom lip. ‘Well then, I really do hope he never finds out about this place,’ she said. ‘He’d be sure to take it out on me if he did.’
Twenty-Four
July rolled on, and so did the storms. It seemed to Anna that not a week went by without at least one night where she was woken by the wind raging like an old drunk outside her window. It was after another rocky night of wind and rain that Douglas McKean resurfaced in Anna’s life. Opening her door on Saturday morning to see how the flower tubs had fared overnight, she saw Frank leaving the Weaver’s Nook with a plate sealed over with tinfoil.
‘Frank?’ she said. ‘Where are you going?’
He turned to look at her, and she was struck by how old he looked. Perhaps he’d been kept awake by the storm and hadn’t slept, she thought. He and Pat had been busy with the B&B at full capacity for weeks now, and the pace was obviously taking its toll.
‘Morning, love. I’m running breakfast around for Dougie. His kitchen – well, what he calls a kitchen – is still out of commission.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘That slip a few weeks back,’ said her neighbour. ‘He won’t let anyone but Old Robbie in to fix it, and the poor lad has got enough on his plate as it is. Pat and I said we’d make sure he’s fed until it’s sorted.’
Anna frowned. ‘Oh, Frank – you and Pat have got enough of your own to do.’
Frank lifted one shoulder in a shrug and smiled. ‘It’s what neighbours do, love. Otherwise it’d be Old Robbie having to run over here umpteen times a week. Can’t let the old man starve now, can we?’
Anna let him go but the conversation lingered as she prepped for lunchtime service. She served black cod on sticky rice with samphire and a sauce influenced by Japanese flavours, followed by a sorbet shot through with sea purslane and apple alongside a twist of caramel brittle and a shortbread crumble. It was an idea that had lingered in her mind since the night she’d looked after Young Robbie, and she tried not to think of him or his father as she made it.
‘This is truly inspired,’ said one of her guests, whose face was vaguely familiar though Anna couldn’t quite place it. ‘I’ve loved this. A lot of chefs talk about taking food to another level but I think this is the first time I’ve actually thought a chef has achieved it. Ironic, since I’ve not heard you say such a thing at all.’
Anna thanked the woman as she took her empty dessert plate. ‘I’m using what I have, that’s all,’ she said. ‘My dishes are pretty simple, really. It’s a lot about the setting, I think.’
‘As all the best chefs do,’ the woman replied. ‘As all the best meals are.’
Her takings, which were always fair, seemed to be far higher than usual that day.
Later, as Anna cleaned down, she looked at the ingredients she hadn’t used and realized that there was enough for another small meal. She went over and knocked on Pat’s door, following her friend into the kitchen when she answered.
‘I can do Douglas McKean’s dinner tonight,’ Anna said. ‘In fact, why don’t we say I’ll do it every night that I’m running lunches. Take some of the pressure off you.’
Pat looked surprised. ‘Oh, you don’t have to do that.’
‘I know I don’t, but I want to. I’m
doing it for you and Frank, mind, not for that old troublemaker. And someone else will have to take it down there, I don’t think I could bear to.’
Pat smiled, but it was a tired expression. ‘Frank can do that. Thank you. If you’re really sure, that would be a great help.’
Anna leaned forward and gave the older woman a hug. ‘Of course I’m sure. Can’t guarantee he won’t find something to complain about in my food, though. Probably best not to tell him who cooked it.’
Later that evening her phone rang. Anna answered it expecting it to be Cathy, but it wasn’t.
‘It’s Robert. Robert MacKenzie. Hi.’
‘Hi.’ For some reason her throat constricted. ‘I— hi. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve spoken to Frank and he’s told me what you’re doing for Dougie. I wanted to thank you, Anna. It’s a very kind thing, especially considering how he’s treated you.’
Anna found herself scrubbing her thumbnail against a non-existent mark on her worktop. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing,’ he said softly.
Anna cleared her throat, wishing she didn’t like the sound of his voice quite so much. ‘How’s Robbie? I didn’t hear how the bake sale went.’
‘That was my fault, sorry. That you didn’t hear, I mean.’
‘Oh?’
There was a pause. ‘He wanted to come and see you the next day to tell you all about it, but I got the impression that I’d overstepped the mark that night, by asking you to look after him. I thought it’d be better to take a step back.’
‘No,’ Anna said, ‘No, I—’ She stopped, unsure what to say. ‘It wasn’t that.’
‘It was the beetroot, wasn’t it?’ Robert went on, in the same tone of voice. ‘He told me you’d found it.’
‘No – yes.’ She sighed. ‘I mean – it wasn’t only the beetroot. It was – it was all a bit overwhelming, that’s all. And I know that sounds weird, when all I was doing was baking in your kitchen with your son, but I’ve got stuff going on myself at the moment and it…’ she trailed off, wondering why she couldn’t be more articulate, wondering why it had all become such a big deal.
‘No, I get it,’ Robert said. ‘I do. And I’m sorry, I really am.’
‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me.’
‘It’s really not,’ he said. ‘I told you before, didn’t I? Other people’s grief is hard to deal with.’
‘It wasn’t—’ Anna stopped herself. It wasn’t the grief, she thought. It was the love.
‘I’ve stopped buying it,’ he said. ‘The beetroot, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, Robbie told me that, too.’
There was another silence. ‘Well, I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Thanks again. I’ll see you around?’
‘Yeah,’ Anna said. ‘I’m sure.’
She held the phone in her hand for a long time after he’d hung up. Outside, the wind had dropped to barely a whisper.
* * *
Anna had been true to her word to Rhona, and had been trying to interest her friends in the industry in her pottery. It was a tricky proposition: chef-patrons were notoriously picky about what they chose to serve their food on, especially when setting up a new venture. In Anna’s experience the process was a long one and required extensive testing, usually at the premises involved and alongside other pieces for comparative purposes. Rhona’s style would also only fit a particular type of establishment. Still, Anna had faith in her friend’s work and knew several chefs who were in various stages of opening or refurbishing eateries, so it couldn’t hurt to encourage them to include Rhona’s work in the mix.
Late on the Sunday morning following Anna’s decision to help keep Douglas McKean fed, she was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich, wondering whether Glynn and David were going to come by, when the phone rang. She assumed it would be Cathy – they usually chatted at some point on a Sunday – and was surprised to hear a voice she recognized only vaguely.
‘Anna?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Brigitte March. You emailed me a few weeks ago about your friend’s handmade flatware?’
Anna sat up straighter, putting her bacon sandwich down on the table and licking grease from her fingers. She’d met Brigitte at the filming of ‘A Chef’s Table’ for MasterChef a few years before – Geoff had been one of the chefs, of course, and Anna had been invited along because the producers wanted more women’s faces in the room. She and March – an up-and-coming head chef at that time – had been seated next to each other and the two women had chatted easily. When Anna had been contacting chefs on Rhona’s behalf, Brigitte had been one of the first on Anna’s list. When they had met Brigitte didn’t have her own restaurant, but Anna had seen that it was surely only a matter of time.
‘Brigitte! I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.’
Brigitte laughed. ‘There’s no reason you should. Look, I don’t want to bother you for long – and I must apologize that it’s taken so long for me to answer. The thing is that when I saw the review this morning – congratulations, by the way – it all came rushing back. And seeing Rhona’s plates in action in the photograph made me realize that they’re exactly what I’ve been trying to find for my new place.’
‘Review?’ Anna said. ‘Do you mean on TripAdvisor? Did someone post a photo?’
There was a pause. ‘You mean you haven’t seen it? The Fishergirl’s Luck has got a splash review in the Observer today. It’s a great one, Anna – five stars and a wonderful write-up.’
Anna’s mind went blank. Then something clicked into place. ‘Adrienne Gail.’
‘Yeah, she’s the critic. Absolutely loves you.’ Brigitte laughed again. ‘If she raves about my place the way she did about yours when we finally open, I’ll be on cloud nine.’
Anna remembered the woman at the bench the day before and kicked herself for not recognizing one of the UK’s foremost food critics.
‘I didn’t recognize her,’ Anna said. ‘I’ve never met her in person myself, she always dealt with Geoff. I’ve only seen her in photos and on screen. Oh, God.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that – she probably prefers it when restaurateurs are clueless about who she is,’ Brigitte said.
‘But it’s only a bench in my garden! I’m not a real restaurant. I’m not even planning to run beyond the summer!’
‘Well, whatever you’re doing, you’re doing it right. Good for you. I’d love to come and visit myself, but it’s going to be months until I have time. But listen – could you put me in touch with this potter friend of yours? I’d really like to talk to her about custom flatware for this place.’
She and Brigitte talked for another few minutes before hanging up, but Anna was no longer really concentrating on the conversation. A review in the Observer – she had to know what it said. The minute she’d put the phone down she was opening her iPad to find the article online.
THE FISHERGIRL’S LUCK, ran the header, in huge bold type. Below it the standfirst read: ‘A Tiny Hidden Jewel on the Wild Scottish Coast.’
It was, as Brigitte had said, a rave review. Adrienne Gail had apparently loved everything about her experience of eating at the Fishergirl’s Luck, from the unconventional entrance into the village itself, which for her apparently constituted a perfect transition into the experience – ‘I have never in my life before had to hike down a cliff to get to an eatery, and it is only now I see what a tragedy that is’ – to having to queue with her five fellow guests. The food she called, among other rapturous descriptions, ‘an inspired fusion of idea with practicality, skill with passion’ that ‘sat perfectly in its lonely, ocean-front setting’.
Anna read the whole thing twice and still struggled to take it in. There were far more experienced chefs than she who had never had a review like this from such a respected critic. An entire career could turn on this kind of attention. People with influence kept an eye on re
views like this, and new establishments deemed worthy of the column inches inevitably became talking points between other chefs, not to mention destinations for minted foodies who prided themselves on not being outdone by others of like mind. She wondered quite how this was going to affect her. After all, it had only taken a small write-up in a local freesheet to fill her table every time she opened it. Now Adrienne Gail had sent her national.
The review and all its implications were still rattling around Anna’s head when a knock sounded at her door. Anna opened it to find Liam Harper hunched over against the brisk wind, his eyes dark beneath his thick wool hat.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I probably should have called first. Sorry.’
‘Come in,’ Anna said, holding the door open wider for him. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’
Liam was quiet as she boiled the kettle, sitting on the sofa and contemplating something in the middle distance. Anna glanced at him from the kitchen, remembering the first night he had spent here, which seemed both years ago and yesterday. If she’d known then what she knew now, would she have let him stay that night, or any other? Anna didn’t know.
‘Here,’ she said, once she’d poured the tea, holding out the mug. Liam took it with a faint smile. Anna sat opposite and sipped at her drink, waiting him out.
‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry that I haven’t checked on you since that night that you came to tell me. It… it was a lot to take in.’
‘I know. It’s all right.’
Liam gave a half-shrug. ‘It’s not all right. You’re the one with the hard bit to do. I’m nothing but a bystander at this point.’
Anna raised a smile at that.
‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘I mean, you and…’ he nodded at her, eyes on her stomach.
‘Far as I know,’ she said. ‘I feel fine. Scan’s not for another three weeks.’
He looked bereft. ‘That’s not long before I’m booked to go home.’
The House Beneath the Cliffs Page 18