Читать книгу Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer - Samantha Tonge - Страница 10

CHAPTER 4

‘Wow,’ I mumbled, as we drove into White Rocks resort.

‘Looks great, doesn’t it?’ said Izzy and shot me a sideways smile from the driving seat.

I loved her Beetle car, with a bobbing pink rubber flower stuck to the keyboard. Katy Perry blared out from the CD player and a sherbet-scented air freshener swung in time, dangling from the driving mirror.

I smiled back. ‘Can you tell it’s a while since I’ve been on holiday? These bags under my eyes are because I couldn’t get to sleep last night for imagining coastal walks, pasties and ice creams. Talking of bags, what on earth have you packed? I’ve brought one black Speedo swimsuit, compared to your three fluorescent bikinis. Plus a few pairs of pedal pushers and—’

‘No one calls them that any more!’

I chuckled. ‘OK, three-quarter length trousers, plus some T-shirts and a couple of dresses—how many have you brought?’

Her cheeks tinged pink. ‘Almost as many as my different pairs of sunglasses.’

We both laughed and I gazed around the resort. A girlie break in the sunny South-west? Bring it on … Cute lodges. Greenery. A spa signposted in the distance. So far this holiday park was living up to the brochure, except … I peered closer at one accommodation as we drove by. It could have done with a lick of paint. The decking at the front was worn and the surrounding grass needed a mow. Not that it bothered me—I was just grateful for the vacation—but it surprised me, seeing as White Rocks marketed itself as de luxe. And the cars parked outside each lodge weren’t the BMWs and Audis I’d been expecting, but old family saloons and budget hatchbacks.

We parked up outside reception and a group of parents and young screaming kids bustled past, carrying inflatables and towels.

‘I thought this place was for adults only?’ I said.

Izzy switched off the ignition and gave a big yawn. ‘I know. Weird. It was advertised as luxury online, although I did think the price was a bit low.’ She pulled the brochure out of the glove compartment, turned to the right page and squinted at some small print. ‘Ah.’

‘What is it?’

She shrugged. ‘Something about the possibility of the park being at the beginning of a rebranding period.’

‘Who cares—it’s a holiday, right?’

‘Absolutely! As long as we still have a hot tub.’

We jumped out of the car and both stretched as if we were about to compete in the Olympics. Izzy headed off to the reception to check in, whilst I decided to take a look around. She entered a huge white building, with the spa and pool signposted in its right-hand side wing. The left of it housed a restaurant called … I squinted at a sign: ‘Fisherman’s Delight’. Swatting away a fly, I headed up a path, with lodges either side, and eventually came to a nine-hole golf course—at least that’s what the sign said. It should have said rabbit sanctuary, as the sweetest fudge-coloured bunnies hopped around. You could hardly see the putting greens as the grass everywhere was so long it sashayed in the breeze. I gazed into the distance, at dipping and rising hills. A group of swallows swept across, near a flag, and I walked forward to get a closer look.

‘’Ey,’ said a loud voice. ‘That area is out of bounds, r-right.’

Ooh. A strong, sexy Cornish accent. Rolled ‘r’s made me break out in a sweat. And if the loud assistant at the petrol station was anything to go by, Cornish men thought most people were deaf.

I turned. Out of the bushes appeared a frowning man, around my age, wearing beige chinos and a tight red shirt. Gosh. I swallowed. For some reason his appearance made an impact. Was it the toned arms that held a pair of garden shears as he walked up to me? Perhaps he’d used them on his head, I thought, as his fawn brown hair was shaved shorter than the hair on my legs. Cheeks hot, I forced my arms to stay vertical, as I experienced a sudden desire to run a hand over his short hair and around the back of his neck. My eyes scoured his solid frame, which looked kind of reliable. Something about his stance, the line of his jaw, shouted that he’d be there for you, in an emergency. And those leaf-green eyes … once I met them I found it impossible to turn away.

We stared at each other, with intense eye contact. It wasn’t awkward nor embarrassing. And the oddest sensation washed over me. As if I knew this person. Or understood him. Or, somehow had a deep connection.

I know. Stupid. And, at the sight of me, his expressionless face didn’t look fazed.

‘Apologies,’ I said and smiled, finally managing to avert my gaze. I pointed to the sky. ‘I just wanted a closer look at the swallows.’

‘Not swallows,’ he said. ‘Try ’ouse martins. Their forked tails are shorter.’

‘Ah … and there’s me thinking you only found albatrosses and eagles on golf courses,’ I said, quite proud of my sporting pun and loving the way he dropped that ‘h’.

Still expressionless, he walked forward and pointed to a sign: ‘Golf course out-of-bounds due to ongoing renovation work’. ‘Those party shoes of yours would cause divets, or dents at least, in the turf. You’ll do better ’ere if you keep to sensible footwear.’

My cheeks flushed. Party wear? Um, no, these were just my favourite platform sandals of the moment to give my legs a bit of height. I gazed at him, in his soily slim-legged trousers and walkers’ boots, then down at my strappy shoes and baggy patterned harem pants. Our style couldn’t have been more different.

‘It just needs a good mow from what I can tell,’ I said, accidentally thinking out loud. I read his name badge: Tremain Maddock.

‘And you be an expert on all things ’orticultural?’

Oh. What a shame. His rudeness quickly overrode his curious wow factor.

‘I own indoor plants,’ I said airily. ‘And you don’t need a degree in biology to know how to keep a lawn short. Rabbits alone won’t do the job.’

‘Really? And there’s me coming over all Snow White, thinking that birds and critters would do my work.’

His mouth twitched and I couldn’t decide if that was sarcasm or a joke.

‘No. Above all you need time,’ he continued. ‘And that costs money when you’ve lodges to keep clean and entrance ways to keep smart.’ He pointed to a crisp packet on the ground. ‘That yours?’

‘Excuse me, I’m no litterbug,’ I said and folded my arms.

He raised an eyebrow.

‘And I resent you—’

‘Please. Don’t,’ he muttered, as if … he was already the most resented person in the world.

He broke eye contact and picked up the packet, before heading back in the direction of the reception building. I had to force myself to stay rooted to the spot, in order to fight an overwhelming urge to rush over and wrap my arms around those broad shoulders.

I shook myself. Well, I couldn’t see what damage it would do, just to have a tiny walk forwards and look at those sweeping, beautiful birds. Plus, I thought I saw one of the bunnies limping and my soft centre would allow me to leave until I’d checked that it was OK.

‘Oi!’ called that voice again, as I took a step in the forbidden direction. I turned around.

‘I told you. Keep off that grass.’

‘Look, I just want to check on one rabbit. It looked as if it had sprained its foot.’

‘And if it ’ad, what would you do? Catch it? Impossible. So scare the lot for the sake of a pointless mission? Plus, they’d all look the same once they scattered.’

‘Cold or what?’ I muttered under my breath.

He flinched. ‘No. Just practical. Sometimes you have to act for the good of the majority, even if that means sacrificing an individual.’

I should have felt like laughing at such a dramatic statement, but the way his top lip quivered made me stop. Within seconds, his deadpan face returned.

‘Anyway, what’s the big deal?’ My mouth upturned, more and more curious about him and therefore determined to get a reaction. ‘Management will never know.’

‘I am management,’ he muttered.

‘In that get-up?’ I gazed at his grass-stained top. ‘Don’t get me wrong—I couldn’t care less what anyone wears, what I do care about is people lying.’

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shook his head and stalked off.

‘Jeez! No wonder this place is struggling with that level of customer service,’ I said to Izzy later, in our gold lodge. And worth its weight in gold it was, to me, with the pine furnishings, lush green view and cute floral curtains. OK, so the kitchen worktops were chipped and the sofa was just a bit too squishy, but it was a little bit of heaven for someone, like me, whose last holiday had been a weekend in Blackpool three years ago, in a creaky caravan, with an elder sister and three adorable but super-active small nieces.

‘And what sort of name is Tremain?’ I said as I lay across the sofa. Izzy was in the kitchen area, putting away the last of the food. I’d carried our suitcases into the rooms and hung up Johnny’s heart wind spinner above my bed. From the first moment I’d met him, Johnny had been nothing but polite and attentive. Not qualities I was used to after my bustling childhood. One-to-ones were rare with anyone I loved. The most time I had with Mum was when she took me to the dentist. I smiled. Yet, truth be told, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Oh, I loved my independence now but my memory bank was stocked full with happy images, of Christmases full of hugs and laughter.

Yet Mum always drilled into me one thing: never rely on anyone else. Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. What a great lesson, which had steered my way through life—until Johnny, my one and only serious boyfriend. I’d come to depend on him for that sparkle in life. And then he left one night, to fetch me a takeaway, and fate decided he should never come back. I gazed at the wind spinner. Oh, Johnny. I miss you. I’d sacrifice anything to feel your warm breath against my neck, one more time. I gave a wry smile. Hardly romantic was it, that my last words to him were ‘make mine a large portion of chicken tikka’.

Forcing my attention to switch, I flicked through the information pack, mentally noting the opening times of the pool and spa. I sat more upright, scanning lots of handy details about fishing villages in the area.

‘Tremain?’ said Izzy. ‘It’s Cornish. He must be the son. This is a family-run place. His mum, Kensa Maddock, handed me the keys.’

My cheeks burned. So, he was management. ‘What about the dad?’ I said.

‘Dunno. Wasn’t mentioned. Perhaps he up and left.’

‘Why?’

Izzy came over and sat on a nearby armchair, smoothing down her banana-milkshake yellow skirt. ‘The stress? Kensa apologised for the rundown appearance of the resort—said that’s why the price was lower than usual. Apparently the place’s bookings have really plummeted in the last few years, with people either struggling financially and choosing cheaper holidays, or doing all right and going abroad. She said White Rocks seemed to fail to bridge the gap. They have one year to turn things around.’ Izzy shook her head. ‘You should see her—such deep rings under her eyes and as thin as a cocktail stick. She said they are trying to appeal to the budget family market and next week, with August arriving, they’ll have their first full-paying guests with children. The ones here at the moment won a competition, to stay here for free but give feedback.’

‘But that’s mad—it still looks like a couples’ site to me. Where is the fun cafeteria, or ball-play area, or crazy golf site?’ I’d spent enough holidays on cheap caravan sites as a child to know what was needed for a fab family break when money was tight. Who needed foreign sun if the resort had children’s entertainment, a fun pool and plenty of drinks?

Izzy took off her pumps and rubbed her feet. ‘Apparently her accountant and the bank dropped the bombshell only a few weeks ago—that things were so bad.’ Izzy smiled. ‘I really liked Kensa. She seems honest. Upfront. Hoped we’d enjoy our stay, despite any building work going on or noisier, younger guests.’

‘Yes, well, you make sure you do take a break, Izzy. I really appreciate this holiday. Leave the cooking to me. I’ll drive us everywhere if you want. Do any washing …’

‘Me? Take it easy?’

I grinned. ‘’True. Mission impossible.’

‘It’s enough to have your company,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you can return the favour when you’re a famous singer—I’m thinking a cruise in the Bahamas or shopping in LA.’

‘Dream on!’ I gazed back at the laminated information pack. ‘It says in there that the park belonged to her parents. That must make the place harder to give up. Still, we all have stresses. There’s no need for her son to be quite so rude.’ I glanced out of the window, as a random cloud offered a brief respite from the sun. The plan was to unpack and then head to the resort’s restaurant, as a treat after our long, sticky, journey south. My shout, of course. Perhaps we’d enjoy a couple of cool beers. Much as I loved cocktails, it was nice sometimes to drink something simpler. Although I’m not sure whether alcohol went with an all-day breakfast, the meal Izzy was obsessing about since the receptionist mentioned it. Apparently, the resort’s cooked breakfast was legendary and making it available all day was the chef’s first baby step towards tweaking his highfalutin menu to give it a broader appeal.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled and I tapped away on the laptop, planning tomorrow’s trip to Port Penny, the first fishing village on my list to check out for any signs of a local Poldark. Gulls squawked outside. We’d left the lodge’s door open to catch the evening breeze. I yawned. How did fresh salty air always manage to act like a tranquilliser?

‘His only redeeming feature was the sexiest Southwest accent,’ I said in a loud voice to Izzy, who’d disappeared into her bedroom. ‘Even if he used it to accuse me of dropping litter.’

I jumped as someone knocked on the open door and stuck their head inside our lodge. My mouth desiccated and I begged the universe to create a sinkhole under my bottom.

‘’Ousekeeping said the washing-machine door is jammed,’ he said in a loud voice and looked me straight in the eye.

‘Um, yes. I rang. I didn’t think … I mean, cheers. Come in,’ I rambled.

Izzy came in and I saw her note the name Tremain on the badge pinned onto his shirt.

Whilst he crouched down to examine the machine’s barrel, she glanced at me, eyes a-twinkle. I glared at her not to speak. She put her fist in her mouth. Oh God. Please don’t let her explode with laughter. At least I hadn’t talked within his earshot about his nice bum in those chinos. Annoying, isn’t it, when irritating people also have appealing qualities? And even more annoying that such an abrupt man could be the first to produce a thought like that since Johnny. My face kind of scrunched for a second.

Tremain stood up, rummaged through a drawer and retrieved a leaflet. He skimmed a couple of pages before pressing a button on the machine and, hey presto, the door flew open.

‘Try reading the instructions before you call us out, next time,’ he muttered.

‘Of course. Silly me,’ I said. ‘Thanks for calling by.’

‘You’re Kensa’s son?’ said Izzy and smiled. ‘Lovely place, you’ve got. We are very much looking forward to our holiday.’

He acknowledged her words with a tilt of the head.

‘Have you always worked here?’ I asked.

‘No.’

Clearly small talk didn’t form part of his customer relations.

‘How’s the rebranding going?’ said Izzy in her business voice. I often teased her about how she changed her accent. It went kind of cockney when speaking to suppliers and bordered on received pronunciation when dealing with an unhappy customer.

‘It’s going,’ he said, tilted his head again and strode out of the cabin.

Izzy chuckled. ‘I see what you mean by his attitude, although what he lacks in charm he makes up for in … in …’

‘I know. There is something attractive … a sense of …’

‘Capability? Decisiveness?’

She’d felt it too. But I wasn’t fourteen any more. Looks, first impressions, of course caught my eye but it was personality that really held my attention. Not that I was going to worry about the character of my much-needed plus-one. He could have bad breath or talk about nothing but the complex rules of cricket or his latest computer game, as long as he smouldered and made Saffron realise I was no longer the girl in the corner.

‘Right, let’s go. I’m starving,’ she said. ‘And itching to try that all-day breakfast.’

‘Apart from the kippers …’ I pulled a face.

Izzy grinned. ‘We are in Cornwall. A coastal county. It’s time you tried some delicacies from the sea.’

‘You’re not getting me to try anything that lives in a shell or breathes through gills,’ I protested. ‘Unless it is covered in batter and served with chips or in a yummy sauce, like the pie I tried with Marcus.’

The two of us strolled towards the restaurant, Fisherman’s Delight, and, as we approached, my stomach rumbled again. That was the other thing about sea air—it gave you a great appetite. In fact, in Guvnah’s last letter she’d talked of having put on a few kilos. My chest glowed. I’d arranged to visit her tomorrow. Her village wasn’t far from Port Penny and Izzy said she’d drop me there in the afternoon, following us having lunch out at a café she’d found that had a great reputation for Cornish fare—she was hoping to be inspired. Guvnah had a bicycle I could borrow if I fancied cycling back to White Rocks.

We headed into the reception building and the restaurant to the left. It had a long bar, stretching across the back. At the rear, on the right, was the kitchen with an open serving hatch. Fisherman’s Delight boasted a classy decor, albeit a little worn—think uncluttered magnolia tables and walls covered with arty black and white photos of local beauty spots. Yet the clientele—a couple of families—were your average holiday crowd, in shorts and T-shirts, with wet, chlorine-fragranced hair. Kids sat eating chips and playing on their Nintendos. In one corner, a baby in a high chair screamed, its face covered in bright orange purée. Talk about a mismatch. Two waiters were dressed in formal black trousers and a waistcoat.

‘Ooh, he’s nice,’ said Izzy and gazed at the younger waiter, who had baby-smooth skin and highlighted, gelled back hair. She gazed at his name badge. ‘And his name is Greg!’

I grinned. Izzy was obsessed with the presenter Gregg Wallace from the programme MasterChef.

‘Nah. He’s too well groomed for me. I wouldn’t dare forget to wax or floss my teeth if he and I went out.’

‘I bet his chest is as smooth as a baby’s bottom,’ she said and pulled a face. ‘I really do not get the modern woman’s obsession with Poldark and his chest hair. I mean, imagine licking whipped cream off it. Ew. You’d probably get your teeth caught.’

‘Izzy!’

We giggled.

‘So full-paying families arrive next week?’ I said in a low voice.

‘Yes. These competition winners leave tomorrow, which gives Kensa and Tremain five days to do some last-minute thinking before the proper launch next Monday. The resort will effectively be shut down apart from a few guests like us who booked, regardless of the rebranding phase.’ She blushed. ‘Or rather idiots like me who didn’t read the small print. It does warn that only a skeleton staff will be working over the next few days. This restaurant, for example, will be open but only in a casual way, while the staff do last-minute retraining for next week.’

I shrugged. ‘Idiot or rather genius—means you got a cheap booking and who wants to eat in all the time anyway? We’ll be out and about.’

The older waiter, George, came over and showed us to seats, a couple of tables away from the screaming baby.

‘Should be a bit quieter for you here, ladies,’ he said and jerked his head towards the young guests before wrinkling his nose.

‘He’ll have to change that attitude before next week,’ I said to Izzy, once we’d ordered two beers and all-day breakfasts. I covered my eyes with my hands and then suddenly pulled them away—cue a minute or so of playing peekaboo with the baby. And cue silence. The mum shot me a grateful glance, as her small one returned to playing with his spoon.

I squinted into the kitchen. Raven curls flashed by now and again. I wondered how many chefs they had. The more I saw of the place it was obviously run on a tight budget. Not that that seemed to affect the quality of the food. All I can say is, wow, when our breakfasts finally arrived. An invitingly brown sausage lay glistening, next to a buttercup yellow egg, its plump yolk just waiting to be burst. I eyed a crispy rasher of bacon and aromatic fried mushrooms. I forked up a mouthful of shiny baked beans and couldn’t wait to cut into the square hash browns, which promised a satisfying carb kick. Plus on the side was fried bread—I hadn’t enjoyed that since my childhood. Two thirds of the way through, I felt Christmas-dinner-full, but kept on eating—it would have been a travesty not to, with all the different flavours and textures satisfying my taste buds.

The baby screeched as loudly as a fishing boat’s horn, because his beaker fell on the floor. A tut headed its way from the waiter called George.

‘Is there a problem?’ said the mum and straightened her halter-neck floral top, as he shot her a disdainful look.

I tried peekaboo faces again, but this time they didn’t work. George pursed his lips, while shouting came from the kitchen. Black curls flashed again across the back of the hatch.

Izzy studied the menu and shook her head. ‘I can’t see any evidence of rebranding so far. How on earth is this menu going to appeal to kids?’

I glanced down my menu and looked at the breakfast section—eggs Benedict, granola with yogurt, fried kippers, Welsh rarebit … Where were the cereals, toast, muffins and chocolate croissants? Breakfast. Mmm. Best meal of the day. Particularly in those budget hotels that served a morning buffet for ten quid. I’d have a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a full English fry-up, then help myself to bottomless cups of coffee and anything baked. Muffins were the best—so soft and crumbly—although flaky croissants always hit the spot.

As if she had heard us talking, the mother of the baby called the waiter over. ‘Eggs Benedict,’ she said, brow furrowing, ‘is that hard-boiled ones covered with Hollandaise sauce?’

The waiter wrinkled his nose again as if he’d never been asked that question before.

‘We’d be grateful if the kitchen just did us scrambled eggs instead, mate, if we come here tomorrow morning after a swim, just before we leave,’ said her husband, who wore a football top to match his son’s.

The waiter straightened up. ‘I don’t believe he would. Chef is quite firm about sticking to the menu.’

The husband glanced sideways at his little boy, who scribbled with crayons on a pad of paper. ‘Surely he’ll bend those rules for a child?’

Lips pursed, George folded his arms.

Shifting awkwardly in her seat, the mother sighed. ‘Leave it, Phil love. Clearly rules is rules here. Come on, darling, this place is a disaster. It won’t be getting a great write-up. We can make do with cheese on toast tonight, back at the lodge.’

I glanced at Izzy, before we both looked at the waiter, expecting him to do his best to make the family happy, like we did when—rare occurrence—a customer complained about a cocktail or doughnut. Instead, he just bowed and stood to the side. Unfortunate position as just at that moment the baby lost control of its spoon. A blob of orange purée flew through the air and landed on George’s left cheek.

‘Can’t you control that child,’ he muttered and threw his hands in the air. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face, muttering something about too liberal parenting.

Phil stood up. ‘What did you say?’

George put down the napkin, face expressionless. The mum shot me a worried look. The little boy stopped crayoning and his bottom lip wobbled.

I stood up and shook off Izzy’s arm before standing in between them. Being one of many siblings, I was used to breaking up disagreements. Mum always called me the diplomat as I preferred to keep my fists to myself and fight with my tongue. ‘I’m sure there’s no need to worry over a simple splat of purée.’

‘Exactly,’ said Phil. ‘Honestly. This resort is useless. The restaurant isn’t geared up for anyone under eighteen and the swimming pool is a joke—there is no slide, music or inflatables for kids and too many adult-only sessions. And, as for the evening entertainment …’ He shook his head. ‘Last night was some operatic girl singing Katherine Jenkins. Great for me and the wife but where is the bingo or puppet show for the kids?’

‘I guess it is early days,’ said Izzy, now on her feet.

‘There’s no reason why any normal family can’t enjoy this place, just the way it is,’ muttered George, and Phil turned purple in the face.

Oh dear. Now tears hung in the little boy’s eyes, while the baby grinned and smeared purée around its mouth, apparently enjoying the sideshow.

I glared at the three adults and jerked my head towards the boy. ‘Perhaps you could discuss this somewhere else?’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll look after the children if—’

‘Don’t bother. We’re leaving,’ said Phil and grabbed his son’s orange juice to knock back. Except the glass must have been wet and, as he lifted it into the air, Phil lost his grip for a second. Liquid gushed southwards and yes, you’ve guessed it, right onto short me.

‘Urgh!’ I wiped my cheek and breathed in sticky citrus smells.

‘Christ,’ said Phil. ‘Huge apologies. I didn’t mean that to happen.’

George rolled his eyes.

‘It was an accident.’ Phil glared at a smug George.

‘Attention, everyone!’ snapped a voice. Formal Cornish tones, already recognisable to me. Within seconds, Tremain stood by my side as I spat out the citrus liquid. I turned around, slipped on spilt liquid and fell to the floor. My cheekbone hit the table on the way down and I winced. Immediately, strong arms pulled me to my feet. I flinched as Tremain touched my skin, just under the left eye.

‘Keep still,’ he ordered and held up his hand as Izzy approached. With a handkerchief, he carefully wiped the juice from my face. He tilted my head to the light and my heart raced as he trailed a finger across my eye socket. Must have been the shock of the argument, that’s all.

‘No real damage done. You might have a bruise for a few days. You’re lucky you didn’t hit the table corner. That could have gone in your eye.’

‘Lucky?’ I stuttered and wondered why his proximity made me not trust myself. Up close, I noticed a small scar above his top lip. How many women had tried to kiss it better? Urgh! Where had that thought come from? Perhaps I was dazed from the fall. Yes. I mean nothing could persuade me to press my lips against the lips of a man who was so arrogant. Even if his leaf-green eyes, for one second, appeared full of concern. Even if, up, close and personal, with his broad chest, firm arms and direct stare, he looked like a man who would single-handedly fight a whole army for you, if he’d decided you were his one.

Tremain turned to Phil and George. ‘It takes a five foot woman to try to settle your argument?’

‘Five foot two,’ I muttered, ‘and that’s sexist.’

Tremain flashed me a look. Blimey. Was that almost a hint of humour in his eyes? I couldn’t tell, because it disappeared more quickly than the orange juice had flown.

‘This is a holiday resort not a war zone,’ Tremain continued.

Phil rubbed his forehead while their baby looked on, absolutely delighted. No doubt this was even better than its favourite slapstick kids TV show. ‘Your waiter was rude, Mr Maddock,’ he said and briefly explained what had happened, despite George’s indignant interjections.

‘I see.’ Tremain glanced back at me and something stirred in my stomach as he scanned me from head to toe. ‘Good thing that washing machine is working in your chalet—and that the drink wasn’t red wine,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Sir … Madam.’ He half smiled at Phil and his wife. ‘I appreciate your disappointment in our site, so I do, and apologies—we are going through a transition period, thrown upon us unexpectedly, and are doing our best. That’s why you weren’t charged for this week—so that you could provide useful feedback. Please.’ Tremain called over Greg. ‘I’m sure Chef will be happy to cook something that meets your needs.’ Tremain raised an eyebrow. ‘George?’ He jerked his head and the two of them headed into the kitchen.

Around twenty minutes later, after Greg had taken the family’s order and Izzy and I had finished our food, the kitchen’s doors swung open. George stormed out and pulled off his name badge. He threw it onto one of the tables and then hurried past us, before leaving the building. Tremain appeared a few seconds later.

‘All sorted?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ muttered Tremain and shook his head. ‘George seems to have reacted to a flying splat of carrot purée, as if it were a hand grenade that might threaten your life.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, my apologies for this incident. I’ve dealt with it.’

‘Perhaps he just needs time—to adjust?’ Izzy said.

Tremain shrugged. ‘Mother and I have made it quite clear to the staff what is expected of them now. Fortunately, so far, most of our team have proved able to cope with the rebranding. But the change in clientele has brought new challenges.’ Looking suddenly tired, Tremain gently took my arm and steered me towards outside, whilst Izzy sat talking to the young waiter. In the evening light, Tremain took another look at my face.

‘The bruise is blackening now. I’d get back to your lodge if I was you, and soak those clothes.’

‘Thanks … um … Shame about George. You wouldn’t think he was such a snob, just to look at him. He seems like an ordinary guy—a granddad type, who loves kids.’

‘Then lesson learnt—never judge a person by their appearance.’

I shifted from foot to foot. ‘Yes, about that, you see, with the soil on your clothes, I assumed …’ Urgh, rambling now.

‘I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty and I’d say the best managers get down with the lower ranks,’ he said and walked off.

Ranks? He made his staff sound like an army regiment. I followed him. OK, I wasn’t perfect, but I never found it hard to apologise when I was in the wrong.

‘Wait a minute. Look, I’m sorry.’

Tremain turned around. ‘Whatever. Makes no difference to me. Gardener, handyman, management …’ His eyes flickered. ‘There are worse jobs a man can do.’

My heart squeezed as in that brief second his eyes revealed a degree of … damage. Once again I felt that urge to wrap my arms around his solid frame. What was that all about? Maybe, just maybe, there was a human being below that tough, uncompromising, robotic surface.