About the Author

KATIE GINGER lives by the sea in the south-east of England, and apart from holidays to very hot places where you can sit by a pool and drink cocktails as big as your head, she wouldn’t really want to be anywhere else. Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay is her fifth novel. She is also the author of Spring Tides at Swallowtail Bay, Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage and the Seafront series – The Little Theatre on the Seafront, shortlisted for the Katie Fforde Debut Novel of the Year award, and Summer Season on the Seafront.

When she’s not writing, Katie spends her time drinking gin, or with her husband, trying to keep alive her two children: Ellie, who believes everything in life should be performed like a musical number from a West End show; and Sam, who is basically a monkey with a boy’s face. And there’s also their adorable King Charles spaniel, Wotsit (yes, he is named after the crisps!)

For more about Katie, you can visit her website: www.keginger.com, find her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/KatieGAuthor, or follow her on Twitter: @KatieGAuthor.

Everyone LOVES Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay!

‘So beautifully written. It made me want to move house right now and set up by the sea!’

Tilly Tenant

‘Simply delicious – summer escapes don’t come any more tasty!’

Jane Linfoot

‘Seaside, strawberries and a sexy hero – what’s not to love?’

Mandy Baggot

‘A hilarious romantic comedy that left me with a big smile on my face and longing for the seaside’

Holly Martin

‘A delightful and delicious read for hopeful romantics everywhere’

Sandy Barker

‘Sheer delightful escapist fun’

NetGalley reviewer

‘I wish I could give this book more than five stars, this is definitely my favourite of Katie’s books to date’

NetGalley reviewer

‘Hetty is a dynamo! I enjoyed having a heroine who knew her goals, set them, and goes after them. She doesn’t let barriers stand in her way’

NetGalley reviewer

‘An absolute pleasure to read, I loved delving into these pages and was smiling as I reached the end.’

NetGalley reviewer

Also by Katie Ginger

The Little Theatre on the Seafront

Summer Season on the Seafront

Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage

Spring Tides at Swallowtail Bay

Winter Wishes at Swallowtail Bay

Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay
KATIE GINGER

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Katie Ginger

Katie Ginger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008380557

Version: 2020-06-12

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Everyone LOVES Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay!

Also by Katie Ginger

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author Letter

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To the best (and craziest) sisters-in-law

I could ever have hoped for,

Carla and BB!

Chapter 1

A small child charged passed Hetty, wielding fake green fists and shouting at his twin brother that he was going to smash him good just as soon as he got his hands on him. The twin brother replied by turning around and pretending to shoot him with something imaginary coming from the palms of his hands. Hetty smiled at them both, happy they were enjoying their birthday party.

Approximately two minutes before, the garden had been wonderfully silent and still, the quiet punctuated by an occasional buzzing of a bee as it flew from flower to flower, or the chirrup of a bird hiding in the mature trees. You could even hear the gentle murmur of the sea just a few streets away and the air carried a slight salty sting if you inhaled deeply enough. Now though, the children’s party was well and truly underway and Hetty stood back to enjoy the fruits of her labour.

‘Oh, Hetty,’ the birthday boys’ mother said. ‘You’ve done such a fantastic job. I can’t believe you managed to do all this in just a week. It’s amazing.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m here for,’ Hetty replied, with a grin. Mrs Silverman had come to her last Saturday in a complete panic because she’d left it too late to organise her twin boys’ birthday party and had no idea where to even start. As a local event planner with a multitude of contacts, and seeing as Mrs Silverman lived down the road, Hetty had been only too happy to step in. After a couple of hours, she’d had everything sorted and in place for a superhero birthday party.

Hetty brushed a hand through her short blonde hair and shoved her hands into the pockets of her favourite dungarees. ‘The boys seem happy,’ she said, as Hector, wearing the green fists, began pummelling his brother who he’d pinned to the ground and was now sat on.

‘They’re absolute terrors,’ Mrs Silverman said fondly. ‘Hector, Lucas, come here and say thank you to Hetty for your party.’

The boys ran over.

‘Is that what you want to be when you grow up?’ Hetty asked, pointing to their Hulk and Spiderman costumes. ‘Superheroes?’

Hector shook his head. ‘I want to be an arse-ologist—’

‘Archaeologist, dear,’ Mrs Silverman cut in quickly. ‘Like his father.’

‘What about you, Lucas?’ Hetty asked the other twin, enjoying this conversation immensely.

‘I want to be an arsonist too.’

Hetty bit back the laugh that was forcing its way out. ‘Sounds fabulous. I hope you enjoy your party.’

The boys ran away as more of their friends arrived, shepherded in by Mr Silverman who already looked in desperate need of a drink.

The huge back garden had been decorated with brightly coloured bunting, balloons were hung everywhere and several garden tables had been laid together and covered in a red chequered cloth to hold the party food. Naively, Mrs Silverman had requested celery sticks and rice cakes, but Hetty applauded the effort nonetheless. You never knew, she might get lucky and some child would eat one by mistake.

The strong midday sun beat down into the garden, warming them all and casting shadows as it dappled through the leafy branches of the trees. It had been one of the best summers on record, so when Mrs Silverman turned up on Hetty’s doorstep, distraught and virtually hyperventilating, it had seemed the easiest solution to hold the party in their back garden. Hetty’s own back garden was much smaller as she lived in one of the smaller fisherman’s cottages, rather than the larger houses that made up the conservation area of Swallowtail Bay. It was only just big enough for a little table and the two chairs she and Macie, her assistant, often sat at when they were planning.

From across the table, a slightly muffled voice said, ‘These sausage rolls are lush.’ Hetty looked up to see Macie stuffing two into her mouth at once.

‘Try and leave some for the kids, won’t you? But don’t worry, I’ve already snaffled us a little treat tray. And Mrs Silverman’s promised us a piece of cake too. I know how you love birthday cake.’

‘Kids’ birthday cake is the best,’ Macie replied. ‘It’s pretty much one hundred per cent sugar with a bit of buttercream added for good measure. And jam. I love jam.’ Her long, cinnamon-coloured hair hung down in a plait, and the freckles on her nose disappeared as it crinkled from her mischievous grin.

A little girl came and tugged on Macie’s arm. She’d been crying and Hetty was suddenly on high alert. Macie knelt down to ensure she was eye-level with the girl. ‘Hey, poppet, what’s wrong?’

The little one mumbled something but neither of them caught it, and Macie asked her again as the girl’s mum came over.

‘Don’t worry, she’s not upset with the party. She’s got the hump with me.’

‘Oh no, why’s that?’ asked Hetty.

‘I got her costume wrong. She wanted to come as a parrot, but I thought she said carrot, so that’s what I ordered online and by the time it came it was too late to send it back.’ The little girl, complete with bright orange carrot costume and a little green hat with sticky out bits, wiped her eyes and stared sullenly at her mother.

‘I think you look smashing,’ said Hetty. ‘Here, why don’t you come and have one of my extra special sweets?’ The little girl immediately brightened, even though the sweet Hetty gave her was the same as all the ones on the table. The girl’s mum mouthed a thank-you as, cheered, the little girl ran off to join her friends.

So far, things were going well for a kids’ party. There was always some disaster or other. The key was how you handled it. As an event organiser, Hetty was incredibly experienced, having run every sort of event you could imagine. Yet, for a while now, she had hoped to extend the reach of her business beyond the borders of her sweet hometown of Swallowtail Bay. With its pebbly beach and boutique shops it was a wonderful place to live – peaceful, beautiful – but she desperately wanted to attract clientele from the wider area and the bigger towns nearby. Pulling her mind back to the task at hand, she checked her watch. ‘Ten minutes and the entertainment will be here.’

‘I can’t believe you managed to get them at such short notice,’ Macie said. ‘They’re normally booked up months in advance.’

‘They owed me a favour.’

‘Miss,’ a little girl dressed as a Disney princess said, ‘Tommy was just sick behind a bush.’

Hetty smiled, knowing this would happen at some point. ‘Whereabouts, darling? Can you show me?’ As the girl led her by the hand to a disgruntled hydrangea, Hetty called over her shoulder to Macie. ‘Can you bring the cat litter please, Macie?’ Though sawdust was traditional in these circumstances, after years of hosting kids’ parties, Hetty had found that cat litter was much better at dealing with these sorts of incidents. Moving some branches out of the way, she was slightly surprised to find a pirate hidden behind it, weeing. ‘Do you think you could do that in the toilet, please, sweetheart? I don’t think hydrangeas respond very well to that sort of watering.’

As soon as she’d sorted that, the entertainment arrived. The boys had requested Superman and Batman attend their birthday party and fight to the death. While she couldn’t promise that exactly, she had managed to get two trained karate masters who ran a sideline in dressing-up as superheroes and play-fighting at kid’s parties. They had another booking straight after but had squeezed in Hector and Lucas as a special favour to Hetty.

‘They’ve got bulges in all the right places,’ Macie commented. To which Hetty gave an I’m-too-grown-up-to-comment eye-roll but let her grin show that she hadn’t missed that observation either.

The kids adored them and cheered as the battle played out. All was going swimmingly until near the end of their set when Superman threw out a foot rather too enthusiastically and hit Batman square in the privates. Poor Batman quickly lost his superhero status as he crumpled to the ground holding the damaged area and taking deep breaths.

‘Ouch,’ commented Macie. ‘I don’t think his manly bulge is going to be quite so bulgy now.’

Hetty leapt into the fray. ‘Time for some food, everyone! I bet I can beat you to the cupcakes.’

As expected, the kids left Batman and Superman to recuperate and charged at the food table. Watching them eat was like watching monkeys in a zoo. Food was suddenly everywhere, drinks were knocked over as arms went flailing around for sausage rolls, jam sandwiches and chocolate biscuits, but the smiles and the giggles made it all worthwhile.

Once the food was eaten, Hetty signalled to Mrs Silverman to bring out the cake and kept everyone seated and quiet, ready to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Mr Silverman, who still looked like he needed a shot of whisky, circled with his phone, desperately trying to catch every moment as the candles were blown out.

Content with how everything was going, the remaining hour flew by for Hetty, with only minor hiccups. A toilet roll was discovered and used as a streamer, another had been stuffed down the loo, and overwrought with the whole affair, the birthday boys collapsed into sobs when Mrs Silverman told them they couldn’t have a fourth slice of cake. Overall though, it had been one of the less traumatic children’s parties she’d organised and Hetty was thankful when the children left and the clear-up began.

She and Macie had it down to a fine art by now and were sorted within half an hour. Hetty put the last black sack into the bin as Mrs Silverman came over with an envelope and a bottle of wine. ‘Here,’ she said to Hetty.

‘What’s this?’

‘For you and Macie. You’ve been absolutely brilliant, and I can’t thank you enough. I was going completely mental and you took all the stress off me. I don’t know how you do this for a living. It would kill me.’

Hetty graciously accepted the gifts and after splitting the generous tip with Macie, they were on their way.

‘Well, that went well,’ Macie said, stretching her arms above her head and bashing the roof of Myrtle, Hetty’s Mini.

‘It did, didn’t it.’ Hetty circled her neck, easing her shoulders, but it didn’t alleviate the feeling that lingered more and more with each passing day. A fidgety feeling. A feeling of expectancy and restlessness. ‘I love doing the kids’ parties – and all the other things we do – but I really want to try something different.’

‘Like what?’ Macie asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Hetty searched for the right word but was unable to fix on anything specific. ‘Just something bigger – something more challenging.’

As much as she loved the bay, she felt somewhat limited by the repetitive nature of her job which mainly involved birthday, anniversary or retirement parties, and the odd funeral. ‘I just feel like there’s a lot more we could be doing and we’re not. It’s always the same old, same old. I’d like something meatier to get my teeth into.’

‘Don’t say meatier, you’re making me hungry.’

Hetty glanced over. ‘How can you possibly be hungry? You ate a gazillion sausage rolls and all that cake.’

‘I was chasing around after twenty 7-year-olds, it works up quite an appetite you know.’ Macie grinned. ‘I don’t know about you, but my feet are killing me. If something more challenging means more ache in my feet, I might have to resign.’

‘No, you won’t, you love this job too much.’ But it was true, the soles of Hetty’s feet were throbbing too. ‘Do you want me to drop you home or do you fancy sharing this bottle of wine in my back garden with our feet up?’

‘Will Stanley be there?’ Stanley was the limpy seagull Hetty had adopted and fed regularly from a special little plate. They’d both grown very fond of him as they imagined his deformed foot meant all the other seagulls teased him and wouldn’t let him join their gangs.

‘He will.’

‘In that case, it’s a definite yes. I think I’ve got a spare sausage roll somewhere about my person,’ said Macie with a chuckle, feeling her pockets to locate it. ‘He’ll like that.’

Hetty grinned too. ‘As long as it’s not in your bra. If it is, I might have to stage an intervention.’ Pushing her restless feelings back down, she turned up the air-con. ‘Right, mine it is, then.’

Chapter 2

The monthly meeting of the Swallowtail Bay business forum was about to get underway. Glancing down at her favourite crimson silk shirt, Hetty saw that the stick-on label with her name on it was already peeling off in the dense summer heat and she wondered if it would last through what was bound to be a lengthy, hot meeting.

Hetty smiled politely at the lithe and toned woman in front of her merrily chatting away about the weight-loss benefits of detox teas and waving a pain au chocolat in the air. Considering that Hetty’s figure was curvy – a fact that she was entirely comfortable with now she’d reached her late thirties – and that Hetty herself was brandishing a half-eaten mini croissant, it seemed an odd conversation to be having. But then the local business forum often ended up in odd conversations. Last time, Hetty had talked to a woman who made bath soap with avocado milk and spent the following day wondering how on earth one milked an avocado.

‘Shall we begin?’ asked Bob, the chairman of the forum, a man in his fifties with grey hair that fluffed out over his temples.

The woman in front of her paused mid-sentence at the words ‘ginkgo biloba’ – which for some reason made Hetty laugh – and excitedly went to sit down.

Hetty tactically chose a seat that would remain in the shade as it was already getting stuffy and the windows were cast wide open to let in as much air as possible. The tiniest of breezes fluttered the blue blinds sending dust motes into the air. Hetty watched them float lazily in the sun’s rays, landing unseen on people’s shoulders.

The forum was attended by many of the businesses in Swallowtail Bay and Hetty enjoyed the monthly get-together, finding out about upcoming events and promotion opportunities.

‘Right,’ said Bob, ‘you’ve all had time to network, now down to business.’

Despite the forum not having yielded any tangible results so far, Hetty believed it was time well spent. Running her own business, Simply Fantastic Events, had taught her you have to seek out new opportunities rather than just wait for them to land in your lap. People had to know who you were – especially as an event organiser. Waiting for opportunities to magically appear meant missed mortgage payments, worry lines and stress. All of which Hetty had enough of already.

‘Now,’ said Bob, ‘you all know that a new bakery has opened in town.’ He checked his notes. ‘Fairy Cakes, down the other end of the high street. The new owner’s assured me she’ll be here next time, so that’s another member of the forum. Good news all round, I’d say.’

Another baker’s? Hetty wondered if they’d prove a rival to The Bake House. But Hetty refused to let her thoughts linger on that subject.

‘Our first order of business for today is the strawberry festival—’

‘What strawberry festival?’ asked Stella, a new resident of Swallowtail Bay and owner of Old Herbert’s Shop. She’d moved in earlier in the year and had worked hard to turn around the fortunes of the strange old shop that had sold such a random assortment of goods no one was quite sure what to call it.

‘Oh, it used to be brilliant,’ said Lexi, who worked at Raina’s Café and was here to represent her. Lexi always wore vintage clothes and had attended today’s meeting in an amazing spaghetti-strapped Fifties-style dress that flared out at the waist. Hetty couldn’t wear anything with spaghetti straps. She usually had to wear a bra with straps as wide as scaffolding planks. ‘Swallowtail Bay used to be the strawberry-growing capital of Britain and we’d have a festival every year to celebrate. Stalls lined every single street up and down the high street and sold every type of strawberry thing you can think of. There were jams, scones, wines, soaps – anything and everything. Do you remember it, Hetty?’ Her bright green eyes – with a slick of thick black liner – turned to Hetty full of excitement.

‘I do. It really used to be something.’ Underneath the soft sleeves of her shirt, the hairs on Hetty’s arms stood on end.

Gwen, owner of Snip-It, the hairdresser’s, scoffed. ‘It used to be a festival many moons ago, but now it’s nothing more than a church jumble sale.’

‘There aren’t many venues available anymore,’ answered Mary, who alongside Gwen was part of the festival committee. No one really knew why Gwen was so depressed about the whole thing. They just assumed it was part of her normal approach to life, or maybe she resented doing any work for it when no one turned out. ‘And no one wants to take part. As everyone has lost interest it’s shrunk, and we’ve had to find smaller venues that don’t charge. We’re very lucky to use St John’s Church Hall. And we all still do our best.’

Reluctantly, Hetty had to admit that miserable Gwen’s statement was true. The strawberry festival had, at one time, when she was little, been a huge event. There’d been the stalls that Lexi mentioned, plus games, puppet shows, street entertainers – so much to grab your attention, no matter what your taste. It had been the highlight of the summer holidays when bunting lined the streets and everyone came together. When Hetty thought back to the bank holiday weekends spent there, all she could remember was laughter and a strange buzz in the air. The reminiscence brought a smile to her face. But these days the strawberry festival was held in a small church hall and comprised a few tables set out with a handful of homemade cakes, bric-a-brac and a tombola. Not a strawberry in sight. And outside, in the church car park, second-hand clothes would be piled up on wobbly tables. It really was such a shame it had died. It had been a great Swallowtail Bay tradition.

‘We used to have awards for the best strawberry product,’ Mary continued. ‘A strawberry trail to find a big stuffed strawberry toy, and a strawberry-eating competition. Oh, it was so lovely.’

‘Yes, well …’ Bob tried to bring them to order but the two older ladies were off.

‘People used to come from everywhere,’ Gwen agreed. ‘All the neighbouring towns turned out.’ Hetty cocked her head, listening with interest. ‘Now it’s an embarrassment to the word festival.’ Poor Mary blushed at Gwen’s harsh words, but she carried on regardless. ‘We used to have to squeeze the stalls in wherever we could – it was so popular. Now we’re lucky if we make twenty pounds from donations.’

‘It is a bit of a shame it’s not as popular anymore,’ said Bob. ‘But it’s still a great opportunity for us all to promote our businesses. I was thinking we could have a stand of leaflets or something like that.’

Sparks began to fire in Hetty’s brain and intuition tied a knot in her stomach. Her body was telling her something. And if there was one thing Hetty Colman always did, it was listen to her intuition. Her brain quickly made a list of pros and cons, tallied costs against potential profit, calculated the work involved and went through a million and one other things, then she opened her mouth to speak.

‘I’ve a suggestion about the strawberry festival, actually.’ All eyes turned to her. ‘You all know how I’ve been looking for opportunities to expand my business, well, I’ve a gut feeling this is just the chance I’ve been looking for.’

‘Go on,’ said Bob with genuine interest. Gwen and Mary had gone quiet and everyone else waited for her to speak.

‘I think we should revamp the strawberry festival and bring it back to its former glory.’ Eyes widened a little but with Lexi and Stella’s encouraging expressions, Hetty confidently continued. ‘I think we should turn it into a giant food festival that lasts the whole of the bank holiday weekend.’

‘What?’ asked Gwen, the scornful tone returning to her voice. ‘You? Run a great big food festival? It’s a lot more complicated than a kid’s birthday party or ordering sandwiches for a wake.’

Hetty simply smiled in response. She didn’t take Gwen’s remarks personally, she was always like this. It was a wonder Gwen had any customers left with her gloomy, glass-half-empty attitude. And Hetty was incredibly thick-skinned. ‘As I said,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘this is just the challenge I’m looking for to boost my business. Strawberries would remain a focus, but I think if it’s expanded to other things too, we could have a really big food festival attracting regional, maybe even national attention. And we all know how business slows in the winter without the tourists. This would give us a final boost before the drop.’

Nell, the owner of a boutique bed and breakfast, Holly Lodge, nodded along. ‘I could definitely do with the boost, so anything that brings in the visitors is good with me.’

‘Still held in the town?’ asked Bob. ‘It’s in four weeks, though, Hetty. If you plan to keep it to the bank holiday weekend, I’m not sure we’d get permission from the council by then.’

It was true that time was short, but even though she was excited, Hetty’s logical and practical mind had, in the few minutes available, already mulled over several possibilities for locations. Bob was quite right that getting permission from the council to close roads, divert traffic and all that faff for the August bank holiday weekend was most likely not going to happen in the time she had available. To attract stalls and entertainment on the scale she was thinking of, she needed a firm location before approaching vendors, so the town was definitely out. That left two other options as far as she could see: the first was a large sports field on the east side of the bay, but it was owned and operated by a private leisure facility and they’d be unlikely to give permission at such short notice. The other was a difficult option too but more likely to succeed, and one that could turn out to be beneficial to both parties, if local rumours were anything to go by.

‘I was actually thinking of Thornhill Hall,’ Hetty said confidently.

The full tables surrounding her erupted into low mumbles and the incredulous shaking of heads. When they fell silent, Hetty again watched the dust motes dance down the shafts of light.

‘Thornhill Hall?’ asked Gwen, returning to her sarcastic tone. ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? There’s absolutely no way John Thornhill will let you use his family’s land for a food festival. The Thornhills keep themselves to themselves these days.’

‘If rumour is to be believed,’ said Hetty, adopting her best don’t-mess-with-me voice and tucking her blonde pixie-cropped hair behind her ear, ‘he needs the money. If I offer him a share of the profits in exchange for use of his land, what has he got to lose? He hasn’t got to do anything. I’m going to do all the organising.’

‘And what about the costs?’ countered Gwen. ‘Who’s going to stump up for all this? As much as we love Swallowtail Bay, we can’t all volunteer, or pay for pitches. Or move our businesses to a different location for the day, hiring extra staff so we can have one of those pop-up shop type things. Then there are stewards and all that what-not.’

A few people nodded support then regarded Hetty with apologetic expressions. The meeting room suddenly seemed stuffy under everyone’s gaze and Hetty felt an uncharacteristic moment of self-doubt. Adjusting her glasses, she pushed it down; it was a moment’s nerves, that was all. And nerves were a good thing. They kept you focused.

While Hetty’s dislike for Gwen was growing by the second, she had to concede that, again, Gwen had a valid point. With safety and security to think about, and stewards and equipment hire, there were going to be a lot of expenses, but grumpy Gwen had underestimated her. Hetty relaxed. To make this work she was going to have to use the capital from her own business, and as scary as that was, it was an investment in her future. One that she was more than willing to make. Hetty didn’t normally commit to things without a lot of forethought but something about this opportunity felt right deep down in her bones. She knew this was the right thing to do, the right step for her career. It was a cliché, but sometimes you really did have to speculate to accumulate.

‘Well?’ said Gwen again. ‘Who do you propose will pay for it all? You haven’t got time to find sponsors, have you?’

Matching Gwen’s gaze, with a carefree shrug Hetty answered. ‘I will.’

‘Are you sure, Hetty?’ asked Lexi, her forehead creasing in concern.

‘Absolutely. I really think this could be a great way for Swallowtail Bay to get back on the map. After all, we have some of the best food around. We have artisan bakers, cheese makers, vineyards, not to mention the best fish and chips in the land. By turning the food festival into a big weekend event, we could really get people coming back to Swallowtail Bay.’

‘It’ll be a lot of work,’ said Bob. ‘Especially with such a tight timescale.’

‘I think it’s a fabulous idea,’ said Lexi.

Stella nodded too. ‘I’d definitely be interested in having a stall.’

Hetty couldn’t help feeling like she was in a job interview under everyone’s expectant gaze. ‘I know this seems like a big deal, and it is. But I’m ready for the challenge. More than ready.’ Adrenalin was already pumping through her veins and she had a sudden urge to leave the meeting, grab a new notebook and get started. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Mary, the member who’d spoken earlier and was on the festival committee. Her head was bowed, but Hetty couldn’t quite make out her expression. Realising she may have overstepped the mark by getting too carried away, she said, ‘Mary, do you think the committee would agree to this? I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or make any enemies. I just thought it would be a solution that worked for everyone.’

Mary’s head lifted and Hetty saw her face suddenly relax into a smile. ‘Thank you for asking, Hetty. While I’m sure they’d be relieved to have it off their hands, I think you’d better talk to the festival committee when we’re all together. I can’t agree to it on my own.’

‘Okay, Mary. Perhaps we can get something set up over the next few days?’

Gwen snorted. ‘Don’t jump the gun, Hetty. You still need to get John Thornhill on board first and there’s about as much chance of him agreeing to this as there is of me winning Miss World.’

Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out, Hetty hid the feeling of dread that was creeping up her spine with a confident beam. There was only one thing for it. Straight after the meeting Hetty would make a trip to Thornhill Hall and face the scary – and scarily handsome – lord of the manor. She had to convince him to agree.

***

Filled with excitement, Hetty didn’t waste any time after the forum finished, pausing only to steal a couple more mini croissants on her way out. Once outside, she swapped her glasses for sunglasses, jumped into Myrtle and drove to Thornhill Hall.

John Thornhill very rarely came into town but from the few visits he’d made he had gathered quite a reputation for himself. Insanely handsome, with green-blue eyes and thick dark hair, but with a rather too entitled and forbidding attitude, Mr Thornhill was known for being rude, irascible and a complete stick-in-the mud who also happened to be stuck in the past, obsessed with his ancestral home. Unlike a lot of country houses that were open to the public for at least a few days a year, the Thornhills kept themselves locked away and rarely mixed with the local riffraff. It hadn’t gone down well with the residents of Swallowtail Bay.

The slightest of sea breezes blew through the open window as Hetty drove the long road that ran along the seafront. Once she’d left the town centre and the boutique shops that lined the front, the bay opened up onto a wonderful pebbly beach. A long green ran parallel with the road and weather-beaten and well-used fishing boats sat between small white beach huts. At this time of year the huts were well used and doors hung open while children ran in and out.

When finally the pebble beach curved away to the left and the road she was on took her to the right, Hetty drove until she reached the outskirts of town to be surrounded by fields and winding country lanes. Though the salt air faded, overtaken by the strong aroma of manure, if she looked in the rear-view mirror, she could see the bright blue of the sea on the horizon. Hetty watched as the fields rolled by, dotted here and there with enormous circular hay bales. Closing the window but cranking up the air-con, Hetty swung Myrtle past a tractor and down the road to Thornhill Hall. Though it was such a large country house, it nestled amid such sprawling acres of land that made it seem small by comparison.

According to the town gossips, John’s father, Rupert, had expensive tastes which had lost most of the family fortune and now the place was falling into disrepair. As excited as she was to get the festival planning underway in earnest, Hetty was also keen to see if any of the rumours were true. No one got to see Thornhill Hall up close, only sighting its beautiful columned façade from gaps in the hedges lining the roads.

As a child she’d imagined what it would be like to live there, running its lengthy halls like an orphan in a Victorian gothic novel. There’d be butlers, cooks, maids and governesses – a house full of staff serving the masters of the house. At one point, before she started grammar school, Hetty had decided that one day she’d live in a house like this. The thought made her chuckle now as she adjusted the sun visor. Obviously, that hadn’t happened, but she loved the small cottage by the sea she’d ended up in, with its rickety front gate and tiny kitchen. From the seat in her bay window she could sit and watch the tide – strong and fierce in the winter and serene and calm in summer.

Finally reaching the boundary of the grand estate, Hetty pulled off the single-track country lane into the drive, surprised to see the large wrought-iron gates had been left open. Her rickety front gate paled in comparison to the eight-foot tall, dark black metal with gold patterning at the top. The long gravel drive lay before her, lined on either side with mature trees whose verdant haws offered only a little shade on this hot, cloudless day. The light shone through onto her windscreen and she drove slowly, following the winding path towards the house. About halfway down the drive, the mature trees were replaced with formal gardens. High, unkept privet hedges now lined the driveway but what lay behind them, Hetty couldn’t see.

Behind her owl-like sunglasses, Hetty felt her eyes widen at the enormity of the house as it finally came into view. She slowed the car. She’d always imagined seeing Thornhill Hall up close for the first time as something akin to the moment Elizabeth Bennett first sees Pemberley. But somehow, up close, it managed to be even grander than she had thought. The great grey Palladian façade was a mass of windows, covered in wisteria. Though not a gardener, wisteria was one plant Hetty knew the name of. Even in winter it made a house look enchanting and magical. The pale brown vines reached out over the front of Thornhill Hall in long winding fingers, and a few spring blooms dotted the front, hanging down here and there like lilac lanterns. She wasn’t exactly boned-up on architectural design, but Hetty supposed the house would be called Neo-classical in style. The two recessed wings on either side of the main building housed six windows each and the front door, which was in fact enormous, appeared small nestled behind four columns on top of which stood a large vaulted gable. Behind the house, great swathes of fields spread out and the sea became a vista of hazy lines of blue.

The drive ended in a turning circle, in the middle of which was a massive stone vase overflowing with flowers. Hetty parked just down from the front door. As she climbed out of the car her eyes remained fixed on the house. It was utterly beautiful and perfectly situated in the middle of the overgrown ornate topiary that formed the formal gardens. They clearly weren’t paying a gardener right now.

Being of a practical nature, Hetty could well see that as lovely as the place was, the heating bills alone would be astronomical. Would it really be wonderful to live somewhere like this, she thought, or more trouble than it was worth? Before her mind could answer, she spied the name sticker from the business forum just about holding on to her shirt and pulled it off, screwing it into a ball and stuffing it in her jeans pocket. Hetty suddenly wished she’d worn a skirt or shorts as the sun beat down on the backs of her legs. Though June had been a bit patchy, the sun had shone relentlessly since the beginning of July, causing hot, sticky days and long, frustratingly sleepless nights. Taking a deep breath and swapping her sunglasses back to normal glasses, Hetty rolled her shoulders and readied herself to face John Thornhill.

The deep stone steps that led to the front door were of the same grey as the house and seemed smooth, almost soft, worn by time and the feet that had trodden them over the years. A sense of history imparted with every step and Hetty was curious to know how long the Thornhills had owned the house. Picking up the heavy iron knocker on the large wooden door, a sudden rush of nerves swamped her normally confident demeanour. It was too late to go back now though, she thought, glancing back at the car. She’d committed herself at the forum and here she was on John Thornhill’s doorstep. Hetty reminded herself that her business needed this boost, and as steely determination rose up, she tapped three times, hearing the deep bass note resonate around her.

Chapter 3

John sighed with relief when he heard the loud knock echo through the hall; the delivery was finally here. At least one thing was going right this morning. So far today he’d had another final demand, a row with his brother, Felix, over the best way to raise funds for the roof repairs, his mother was almost packing her bags, so utterly terrified of losing her home, and his dad – well, his dad had been pruning in the garden since 6 a.m. A completely unhelpful task and one he was performing with increasing regularity as a way of avoiding the mess he’d got the family into.

John ran a hand through his short dark hair, then down his chin, feeling the neat, trimmed beard beneath his fingertips. As the silent house filled with the echo of the knock, he made his way from the study to the front door in time to see Jaz, his PA, running down the stairs faster than a whippet to get there before him. Her black hair was tied in a tight high ponytail and bobbed as she descended. When he’d been her age, he’d had energy too.

‘You beat me to it,’ he said with a grin, his deep voice echoing almost as loud as the heavy lion-shaped knocker on the front door. She returned his smile with one of her own.

‘I’m surprised you left the study. I thought you’d be waiting for that call from Christie’s. Do you want me to ring them for you and chase them once I’ve dealt with this? Oh, and don’t forget you’ve got Mr Stevens ringing at ten about that Ming vase. It might be best if I ring Christie’s so you don’t get stuck on another call.’

John was struck by his assistant’s bright eyes and impressive organisation skills. He couldn’t remember now how he’d managed to run his antiques business on his own. As it had grown, he’d found the admin side too much to handle but had resisted needing an assistant. He found it hard to delegate and give up control. Considering how reticent he’d originally been to hire someone, particularly someone so young, Jaz Simmons had more than proved herself capable. She’d been 24 when he’d hired her. Now, two years later, he had no idea what he’d do without her. ‘If you could, that’d be great. I’ve still got fifteen minutes before Stevens though, which should be enough time to deal with this delivery.’ Jaz took a step back, leaving John to answer.

Turning the handle, he pulled open the heavy oak door, beautifully weathered by time. At moments like this, the magnificence and history of the house would grab him, and he’d feel the hard work was all worthwhile. He shouldn’t ever forget how much that meant to his family even though it was often the case that his ideas and the hours of work all came to nothing.

Expecting to see a middle-aged man in overalls delivering a large wooden crate, John was surprised to be faced with an attractive woman wearing a dark red shirt tucked into tight jeans and with pink ballet pumps on her small feet. Her pale blonde hair was cut short, which suited her gamine face which was made all the more attractive by a cute pair of spectacles. Momentarily lost for words – not a state of affairs he was used to and one that put him on his guard – he barked, ‘How did you get in?’

However, the beautiful woman before him didn’t seem in the least bit offended as she brushed her hair over her ear. ‘The gates were open, Mr Thornhill. I was quite surprised myself; I know you usually keep them shut, but I’m taking it as a sign.’

The gates were normally kept firmly shut so people didn’t just randomly decide to visit the house. They used to be left unlocked all the time but then visitors would come and knock on the front door, asking to look around like their home was in some kind of estate agent’s open-house session. His mother used to be terrified and over the years had become increasingly jumpy at the sound of a rat-a-tat-tat and would run upstairs like a frightened rabbit. Still, he didn’t welcome this interruption to his day. ‘A sign of what?’

Smiling, she replied confidently, ‘You’ll find out if you let me inside.’

A light warmth rose in him that he put down to the heat of the day. This woman probably just wanted a donation to some local charity event or other and they had nothing to give, even if they wanted to. The do-gooders they normally met were little old ladies with grey hair, not attractive self-assured women. He glanced around hoping to be saved by his delivery driver and the sun shone on his face making him hot. ‘Listen, you can’t just drive onto private land, this is trespassing.’

‘Oh, hush, don’t be so dramatic,’ she said, laughing. ‘I’m not doing anything of the kind. I’ve come to speak to you, Mr Thornhill.’

Taken aback, John tried to regain control of the conversation. ‘How exactly can I help you?’

‘Let’s start again, shall we?’ The woman thrust out a hand. ‘Good morning, Mr Thornhill. My name’s Hetty Colman and I have a business proposition for you.’

‘Really?’ Slightly amused but also conscious of the time and the calls he was expecting, not to mention the chaotic morning he’d endured so far, he scowled. He didn’t have time for a ‘proposition’ that would inevitably be for a charity bake sale or some such local event. ‘I don’t have time right now, but if you’d like to make an appointment with my assistant, I’d be happy to speak to you another time.’

Disappointment and annoyance flashed over her features, but Miss Colman, it seemed, was not to be deterred. Her hand dropped back down to her side and he realised in his flustered state he hadn’t taken it. A wave of embarrassment hit him. ‘I’m afraid time is of the essence, Mr Thornhill and I’ll only take a moment of your day.’ She edged a little closer to the door, which irritated him even though the sparkling confidence in her eyes made him hesitate.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss Colman.’ He really didn’t have time for this now. ‘Another time.’ John backed away from the door, leaving Jaz to speak to her, but the woman didn’t move. Normally he’d consider it an admirable quality, but not today.

‘What I’m proposing,’ Hetty called out to him, ‘could be of great financial benefit to you, just as much as me, Mr Thornhill. And I’ve heard that’s something you require right now. I really would prefer to speak to you, rather than your assistant, if that’s at all possible.’

The words ‘great financial benefit’ and ‘heard’ stopped him in his tracks and he turned, feeling his hackles rise. Had the town been gossiping about his family and their situation again? It was true that thanks to his father’s obsession with French vineyards, the family fortune had been lost and, as a result, most of the paintings and anything made of precious metal had been sold to try to claw back some much-needed funds. Where they’d been removed from walls leaving squares of bright wallpaper, the rooms now looked bereft and sorry. Damp was creeping in everywhere, creating corners full of black mould and a general smell of dust. Now the roof of the east wing needed repairing, and some of the tapestries were in danger of being lost forever because they couldn’t afford a conservator. The place was already re-mortgaged to the hilt and the chance of repaying anything other than a token amount that wouldn’t even touch the interest was remote.

At 44, and with his own business going well, he should have been enjoying life. Maybe finding time for love and having a family, like Felix. Instead, half his time was spent researching possible income streams to raise money for the house, but with his mother against opening to the general public, and Felix always suggesting some outlandish scheme or other, it was proving virtually impossible.

Jaz was attempting to mollify the bossy woman, who from her polite, but dogged expression, wasn’t having any of it, and he only had twelve minutes now until his ten o’clock call. Jaz’s voice was harsh. ‘Miss Colman, I assure you, as Mr Thornhill’s assistant I’m quite capable of dealing with anything to do with his affairs.’ Jaz flicked her ponytail over her shoulder, something she did, he’d noticed, when she was asserting her authority.

‘I’m sure you can, Miss …?’

‘Simmons.’

‘Miss Simmons.’ Miss Colman’s voice was warm and friendly, not patronising, he noticed, just assured. ‘But I really would prefer to speak to Mr Thornhill directly.’

‘As Mr Thornhill has already explained, he has business to attend to this morning. But I can help you. Or we can arrange a more convenient time.’

‘Miss Simmons—’

Jaz’s voice took on a steely edge and for a second this battle of wills was far too close to call. ‘Miss Colman, as I’ve already explained Mr Thornhill—’

‘Mr Thornhill hasn’t actually gone anywhere, Miss Simmons. I can see him quite clearly hiding in the hallway over there.’ The woman pointed to him and met his gaze. ‘So I can only assume he is in fact, still interested in what I have to say. Aren’t you, Mr Thornhill?’ She tipped her head slightly as she said his name and John turned away, hiding the smile that was pulling up the corner of his mouth.

He checked his watch and without quite knowing why, found himself saying, ‘I can give you five minutes. Follow me into the study.’

From the set of Jaz’s shoulders, she was a little cross that he’d given in, but she stood aside to let Miss Hetty Colman enter Thornhill Hall. Jaz’s eyes followed her as she walked into the house, the soles of her shoes tapping lightly on the tiled floor.

John stepped back and motioned for Hetty to go through to the study. It was, he felt, the grandest and least tatty room in the house these days. And for some reason, he didn’t want Hetty Colman thinking badly of him or his home. Hetty peered around, taking in the décor, and John followed her gaze, appraising his own home once more.

Three of the four walls were lined with books: great old-fashioned tomes with green, brown and red leather bindings, half of which he’d never even touched let alone read. The fourth wall had a large window with a view out towards the front of the house and the grand driveway. As he glanced out of it now, he could just see, through the mass of wisteria vines (a pretty, yet invasive and costly plant), the bonnet of Hetty’s car parked at the furthest end of the turning circle. Sitting down at his antique mahogany desk, he quickly brushed aside the large pile of unpaid bills and final demands taking centre stage and ran his fingers over the worn green leather inlay. He gestured for her to take the seat opposite, which she did, with a mesmerising grace he tried to ignore. For some reason, Jaz had followed them in.

‘Thanks, Jaz. If Stevens calls early, can you come and get me please?’ Not only was this an instruction for Jaz to leave but also a tactful reminder to this woman that she was only getting the five minutes he’d promised. However, Jaz didn’t take the hint as she lingered and directed a sideways glance at Hetty. Hetty didn’t seem to notice as she was still busy looking around. After a second of silence Jaz got the message and left.

‘So, Miss Colman, you’ve managed to get your five minutes. What is it you want? What is this proposition that’s going to be of great financial benefit to me?’

She smiled. ‘I’ve come to talk to you about the Swallowtail Bay strawberry festival.’

He leaned forwards, his elbows resting on the desk. ‘Hardly a festival, Miss Colman—’

‘Yes, I know,’ she replied, with a small shake of her head. ‘More of a church jumble sale these days, but I’m happy to say, I plan to change all that.’

‘Oh, you do, do you?’ He sat back, amused at her confidence and the twinkle in her icy blue eyes.

Every so often a charity bod would come along full of new ideas that were going to raise millions to do this, that and the other, but it never happened. If she was looking to revamp the strawberry festival – an event he’d enjoyed as a child – it was going to take a lot of hard work. And he was sure she wouldn’t have thought of half the things that needed to be considered with only four weeks to go. ‘Whatever it is, you don’t have much time.’ Hetty raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Oh, yes, I know when it is. Despite what people think, we do know what’s happening in the town. And what’s being said.’ The bitterness he felt had crept out again, but she didn’t comment and he moved the conversation along. ‘So, what is it you’re planning on doing, Miss Colman?’

‘I’m a local event organiser and I plan to turn our current boring boot-fair type afternoon into a huge food festival, lasting the whole of the bank holiday weekend. I was hoping we could hold it in the grounds of Thornhill Hall.’

Now that was a surprise. John felt his mouth open slightly but didn’t speak, wanting to consider his response. He needn’t have worried as Hetty continued.

‘Obviously I don’t expect you to let us use your land for free, we’d either sell pitches for a flat rate or get a percentage of profits that you and I would then split. The more pitches, the more profit.’

So, she wasn’t quite a charity do-gooder but a small-timer trying the big leagues. While John admired the spirit, his family had learned from bitter experience that these ventures rarely ended well. ‘Unless it’s a failure and no one comes.’

The instant he said it he felt a stab of regret. John knew his manner took some getting used to. A boarding school education had formed his direct way of speaking and even when he tried to soften it, it didn’t come naturally. Constant concentration on not sounding like a sergeant major barking out orders gave him a headache and he’d long ago given up trying to correct it. The woman in front of him didn’t seem to mind it as she gave a polite smile and adjusted her glasses.

‘A, I don’t think that’s likely, and B, even if that is the case, as you haven’t had to shell out any money upfront it won’t be a problem, will it?’

Her confidence was astounding. The only person he’d met with confidence like it was Jaz, but that had grown over time. She’d been timid and worried of making mistakes at first, but with support and encouragement had grown into her role and John had watched on with almost brotherly affection. Miss Colman’s confidence was much more … attractive – no, mature. That’s the word he was looking for: mature. And impressive. Still, he wasn’t convinced and there were many more questions to be answered. ‘What exactly are you planning?’

‘I’m planning on a huge number of food vendors showcasing different things as well as other local producers, entertainment and activities.’

‘Why can’t you hold it in town?’ The idea of people running all over his land would send his mother into fits, not to mention cause him untold problems.

Miss Colman’s hands were resting in her lap, one on top of the other and there wasn’t an ounce of tension in her shoulders. ‘You know as well as I do, Mr Thornhill, that to hold it in the town would require applying for road closures, the diversion of traffic, and a number of other licenses and permissions. All of which we’re unlikely to get in the time we have available. Your land is the best option. We wouldn’t be limited by size and I plan to make this a big event worthy of regional, if not national, coverage. Your fields are fairly flat and not currently growing crops.’

‘No, they’re not,’ he said with a sigh. They hadn’t been farmed for a long time, his family unable to pay the farmers, repair equipment or process the yields even if they had grown any. He was working on plans to sell more land, but the price wasn’t what they needed to sell for and the solicitors said it really wasn’t worth it. ‘Will it still keep the strawberry theme?’ he asked. He’d always enjoyed the festival and hoped that it would.

‘Not entirely. I think to get the most vendors we need to broaden it. We’ll certainly ask them to consider it as a theme but if people sell other things, that’s fine too. We don’t want to limit ourselves, but I am going to start some awards and we’ll have a special one for strawberry-based products.’

‘And what do you want me to do? Apart from let you use my land?’ He waited for the catch. There was always a catch.

She lifted her delicate hands a fraction. ‘As much or as little as you like, Mr Thornhill. You don’t have to get involved at all if you don’t want to.’

He had an idea that ‘as little’ was probably the way she wanted it. He doubted very much that this powerhouse would ever give up an inch of control, not unless she absolutely had to, and he couldn’t imagine what catastrophic circumstance would require it. She seemed the sort of person who had contingency plans for contingency plans. It probably made her less than fun, though there was that mischievous glint in her eye which could mean otherwise. John took a moment to mull over everything she’d said.

It would cause untold disruption to the house and an insane amount of stress for his family. He had to admit the idea of additional income was appealing but these things were rarely as simple as this woman was making out. If any costs needed covering and she asked him to contribute, there was no way he’d be able to. They didn’t have any spare money. What was left in the back was there for emergency repairs and right now, there wasn’t even enough to cover that. John glanced at his watch. Impressively, she had only taken around five minutes. But he needed the loo before his ten o’clock call, and a coffee. After clearing his throat, he gave his reply.

‘No.’

***

‘No?’ Hetty couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He’d actually said no. No! What was wrong with the man? This was a brilliant idea and what’s more, she wasn’t asking him to do anything. It looked like he was living up to his reputation after all.

From the moment she’d entered the house after finally managing to get past that bulldog of an assistant with her mulish expression, she’d sensed trouble. In Hetty’s mind, she’d seen the grandeur of a BBC costume drama. Though the exterior was incredibly beautiful, the small bit of the interior she’d seen so far showed signs of age and lack of care. The air smelt damp and musty, like soggy towels, tiles were cracked in the hall floor, and in the study, though he’d quickly swept them aside, she’d spotted the stack of unpaid bills on his desk. They clearly needed the money. She’d also imagined him opening the door wearing a Saville Row suit or something equally expensive, but his rumpled pale-blue shirt and faded denim jeans were a surprise, even if they did fit quite nicely on his muscular frame. Bringing her mind swiftly back to business, Hetty asked herself again how he could possibly think this was a bad idea. All Hetty could assume was that John Thornhill was an idiot with no business sense. As handsome as he was – and he was handsome, much more so than she’d imagined – he was looking a gift horse in the mouth then walking behind it and giving it a swift kick up the backside for good measure. Plus, he hadn’t shaken her hand when she offered it. The height of rudeness in her opinion.

‘No,’ he said again. His voice was deep with authority, something Hetty found attractive, but his piercing and steady eyes were fixed. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t something we can support.’

Worryingly for Hetty, on seeing John Thornhill her stomach had tightened a little and it was doing the same thing now. Hetty hoped it was just her stubborn streak kicking in and nothing to do with the way his voice resonated in her head, or the way his shirt pulled slightly open across his broad chest. If it wasn’t, this would be the first time in a long while she’d had a physical reaction to a man, and she couldn’t have chosen a more stuffed-up grump if she’d put an ad on Craigslist. Plus, he had a beard and she didn’t like beards.

‘Mr Thornhill, I don’t think you’re quite grasping what an amazing opportunity this is. I’m planning on turning the food festival into a massive event and I’ll be marketing it widely so there’ll be a lot of attention. Don’t you think it would be good to raise the profile of Thornhill Hall?’

‘That depends on what’s said about it.’

‘Are you always so negative?’ She couldn’t help the challenging question.

He shrugged as if he didn’t care what she thought, and it bothered her. ‘I’m just being realistic, Miss Colman. If it’s a white-wash it won’t reflect well on either of us and Thornhill Hall has enough problems as it is.’

And you’re one of them, she thought, but made sure the words didn’t escape. ‘What if I promise you it won’t be?’

‘I’m sure you can promise many things, Miss Colman, but that isn’t one of them.’

When they’d been talking before, she hadn’t felt tense or worried in the least, confident in her idea and that she could achieve it, but now she found herself leaning forward as John Thornhill’s negative attitude frustrated her. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me exactly what it is you’re concerned about? We’ve already discussed the land isn’t currently being used for anything helpful.’ A slight tightening in his jaw showed the remark had stung and Hetty knew she had to bring this back around before she lost any chance of convincing him at all. ‘All I mean is that the fields won’t take any damage from our using it and I’ll be covering the costs of setting up the festival.’

John eyed her for a moment and a slight tingle of hope rose within her only to be extinguished almost immediately. ‘If you’re planning on holding it on the bank holiday weekend, that’s only four weeks away, which is clearly not enough time to do all the things you’re saying you’re going to do. Is it just you working on this?’

She lifted her head a little, offended at his saying it was too much for her to handle. He clearly didn’t know her. ‘It’ll be myself and my assistant, Macie, which I can assure you is more than enough to get everything organised. We’ll also have a number of volunteers for the weekend.’

‘It’s simply not enough people, Miss Colman, and I don’t have the time to spend on this. As I’m sure you’re aware from town gossip, Thornhill Hall has a number of concerns at present and they require my full attention.’

‘I realise that, but—’

‘I’m, sorry, Miss Colman. I’m afraid the house and the land surrounding it is private property and not open to the public. I won’t consent to opening up the place for people to wander around willy-nilly.’

‘But they won’t be wandering around willy-nilly.’ She didn’t think people said willy-nilly anymore and the ancient phrase almost made her laugh. ‘They’ll be at the food festival which, if we hold it in a field, won’t be anywhere near your house. And I’ll have stewards to make sure people don’t come near the hall if that’s what you want.’

Outside they heard a van speed up the drive, and the sound of gravel flying as it parked. Mr Thornhill checked his watch and stood up behind his desk. ‘Miss Colman, I’ve actually given you seven minutes and I thank you for considering Thornhill Hall, but the answer is no.’

The thought of Gwen’s smug face at the next business forum made Hetty briefly consider planting herself in the chair and refusing to leave until he agreed, but John Thornhill was tall and broad and could probably lift her and carry her out. The idea of him doing so sent a small shiver through her body, and she looked up to see him staring at her.

Reluctantly, Hetty stood and found a business card in her back pocket. ‘I have to say, Mr Thornhill, I think you’re making a very big mistake, but here’s my business card in case you change your mind.’ She handed it over and watched a hint of a smile play at the corners of his mouth.

Mr Thornhill went to the study door and opened it for her, letting her through first. Jaz had helpfully opened the front door already and clearly couldn’t be happier to watch her go. Hetty took the chance of a final look around before leaving. The hallway was massive, about the size of the entire ground floor of Hetty’s cottage but it had a melancholy, almost broken feel to it. Faded wallpaper had begun to peel from the bottom of the walls and the giant chandelier that hung in the centre of the room was missing a number of drops.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Thornhill. Goodbye.’ She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it in a strong grip.

‘Goodbye, Miss Colman.’

As she walked down the steps back to her car, he spoke to the delivery driver. Climbing into Myrtle, she drove away as quickly as possible, her hopes crushed by his refusal. But she would not give up so easily. Winding the window down she took a moment to enjoy the warm sunny day and allowed the brightness of the world to refill her enthusiasm. She’d have to find another venue, that was all. She was determined not to be defeated by stubborn and stuffy John Thornhill. She’d organise the festival somewhere else and show him just what he was missing out on.

Chapter 4

‘There isn’t anywhere else,’ Hetty exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air as her patience ran out. ‘And I can’t get people on board if I can’t tell them where they’re going to be. Urgh, I’m actually getting cross now at how stubborn John-bloody-Thornhill was in saying no. It’s the perfect spot. He’s being such an idiot. I mean, what will it take to convince that man? Do I need to show him projected profit? Detailed health and safety plans? My colour-coded spreadsheets? I don’t understand how someone who runs a successful antiques business doesn’t have enough business sense to see this is an excellent idea. And he didn’t shake my hand. Did I tell you that?’

Down the other end of the phone, Macie giggled. ‘Yes, you did. Twice. He’s really got under your skin, hasn’t he?’

Hetty’s free hand rested on her hip as she paced around her living room. ‘I just don’t understand how he hasn’t leapt at this chance. This is the most brilliant idea ever to walk up to his enormous, crumbly old house and fall into his lap.’

‘Wait, did you fall into his lap? You didn’t mention that before.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Hetty said, refusing to think about what that might be like. She flopped onto the sofa, then curled a leg underneath her.

With all the windows open, birdsong filled the late afternoon air and mixed with the constant hum of the sea. A wonderful breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, cooling the warm day. Her home had originally been part of a pair of fisherman’s cottages, complete with flowering window baskets giving huge pops of colour against the bright white canvas of the walls. Across the road from her, the beach was so full she couldn’t see anything except for a mass of heads and sunhats.

Though Hetty had originally called Macie to ensure everything was in place for the retirement party they were running that night, she hadn’t been able to stop herself talking about the food festival and John’s refusal to support it. After much research she hadn’t come up with anywhere else that was suitable and had even made a tentative call to a contact in the council who’d confirmed everything she’d expected about the chances of getting the road closures to hold it in town. He’d actually laughed at her before giving a kinder answer of slim to none. The whole situation was frustrating and Hetty could feel it knotting her shoulders.

‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Macie. ‘Oh, hang on a second.’ In the background, Hetty heard Macie telling someone where a balloon display was supposed to go. ‘I’m back,’ she said, cheerfully. ‘I take it we’re not giving up.’

‘Of course we’re not,’ Hetty replied. ‘I’ll keep researching and find somewhere else. There must a local farmer who’ll let us have a field. I’m not letting this opportunity go, even if it means I work day and night between now and the bank holiday to get it done.’

‘This is why I love you,’ said Macie, sweetly. ‘You’re my hero.’

‘Are you just saying that because they’ve got those mini spring rolls at this buffet tonight and you want me to turn a blind eye to you eating them all?’

‘Something like that.’

With a giggle, Hetty signed off and tossed her mobile phone onto the seat beside her. That morning, she’d been checking the land registry to see who owned fields suitable for hosting the food festival, but there weren’t actually that many that weren’t growing crops. She didn’t like the idea of having to tone down her plans and really couldn’t stomach the picture of smug Gwen grinning as she admitted defeat. The thought made her uneasy and she went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Stanley the seagull had returned to her garden after trying his luck on the beach and was hopping about on his one good foot, nibbling at the breakfast she’d put out for him.

Glancing at the kitchen table, the pine top of which was obliterated by random notes and bits of paper, Hetty went to it and stared at a plan of one of the Thornhill fields she’d sketched out earlier. She’d mapped out a number of pitches on the rough drawing, and again her excitement for the project and the gut instinct that told her it could be a huge success boiled up once more. The heat of the day and hot stuffy atmosphere inside made her eyelids heavy and she decided a walk would freshen her mind and wake her up enough to get through the busy evening ahead.

She quickly grabbed her keys and pulled the front door closed behind her before heading across the street to the beach. The breeze was usually a little stronger on the shore and she enjoyed the feel of it on her skin, blowing the cobwebs from her mind. There was something wonderful about being this close to nature. The sea was wild and uncontrollable at times – dangerous – but on days like this it was friendly and inviting. It made itself more a part of the bay in the summer, like an extra piece of land to be walked on and enjoyed. Hetty wondered why John Thornhill was so determined to keep his distance from them all. Riffraff he may consider them to be, but they didn’t bite.

The difference in Swallowtail Bay in the summer compared to all the other months was unimaginable. The town was so much busier; the beach full of families lying out on blankets, shaded by big sun umbrellas; kids running around with buckets of water, couples walking hand in hand, carrying their shoes as the water lapped at their feet. Even the air was different, thick with the salt of the sea but mixed with the smell of sweet lollies, ice creams and sun lotion. In its stillness it carried the laughing and chattering voices all the way into town. Even if it rained, the sense of fun remained as everyone dived into coffee shops, pubs and restaurants for cover. And always, the ever greedy, overly confident seagulls hopped about, or circled in the sky waiting for their chance to strike and steal someone’s lunch. Hetty put her hands in her pockets and took a moment to enjoy it all.

As she looked up to watch a small boy searching for shells, she spied a figure she recognised marching along the promenade: John Thornhill. His powerful legs made long strides as he headed to a car. Figuring she had no time to lose, Hetty quickened her pace. She wasn’t letting him get away that easily.

‘Mr Thornhill? Mr Thornhill?’ He glanced around and though he clocked her, he dropped his eyes to his car and unlocked it. ‘Mr Thornhill, what a surprise to see you in town.’

‘Not really, Miss Colman. We’d run out of milk.’ He held up the carrier bag for her to inspect. ‘And like everyone else we have to shop, you know. We don’t have staff to go out and get things for us.’

Hetty decided to ignore his bluntness and smiled instead. ‘I didn’t think you had, Mr Thornhill, unless you were hiding them all when I came to Thornhill Hall yesterday.’

‘Was it only yesterday? It seems longer.’ His voice carried a tiredness that surprised her, and he ran his other hand over his face and down his neatly trimmed beard.

‘Well, I’m glad I caught you because I wanted to speak to you again about the food festival.’ She switched immediately into business mode. ‘I really think you need to understand more fully how it’s going to benefit Thornhill Hall.’

‘Miss Colman, I really don’t have time for this right now—’

‘Then when will you have time? Would you like me to show you the more detailed plans I’ve been working on? Because if I could use the field nearest the road, we could fit in—’

‘I’ve already said no and given you my reason. I don’t think there’s anything else you can tell me that will be convince me to change my mind. Once it’s made up, it’s made up.’

‘Yes, you seem the type,’ Hetty replied, her business persona falling away a little.

‘What type?’

He’d got under her skin so much, her business persona fell away completely. ‘Unmovable. Stubborn. The type that refuses to change their mind once they’ve said no because they’re scared it’ll make them look weak, when really it’s a mark of strength to admit you got something wrong.’ Though she admonished herself, her words at least seemed to have an impact on Mr Thornhill, who stared at her, taken aback. Hetty felt her cheeks redden.

‘Right,’ he said.

‘Look around you, Mr Thornhill,’ she said more softly. ‘Look at how packed out the beach is. Look over at the Wild Goose, it’s full.’ The pub had even erected a few tables and chairs outside and they were overflowing with people. ‘Look at the queue at the ice-cream trucks. Just look at this place.’ Hetty motioned around her. ‘It’s full of tourists and all those tourists will come to our food festival.’

‘Our?’

She couldn’t quite catch his tone and was surprised when he seemed almost embarrassed. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Miss Colman. I’ve an important call first thing tomorrow morning I must prepare for. Good afternoon.’

Crossing her arms over her chest, Hetty watched him climb into his car and turned on her heel, marching back to her cottage. Whatever that last odd moment between them was, there’d been a flicker in his eye and a slight hesitation in his manner that she was sure meant she still had a chance of convincing him. It was time to pull out the big guns and try one last assault.

Chapter 5

‘Jaz, can I have that letter ready before the phone auction please? I’d just like to check it through so that we’re ready to go once I’ve secured this piece, okay?’

‘No problem’ she replied and made her way from the study to her own desk in one of the spare rooms upstairs. The house wasn’t really designed for running a business from home and John felt a tinge of jealousy towards his brother who had a nice air-conditioned office. John went to the window and pulled it open. How could it be this hot at only just half past eight in the morning? He’d never known a summer like it.

As well as phoning into an auction at nine on behalf of a client, he needed to work on some calculations for the bank. John flopped into the chair, feeling the stifling heat, and pulled out the stack of unpaid bills from under a neat pile of paperwork. He eyed them like they were death threats. It was looking like they’d need a loan to clear the backlog of debts and buy them some breathing space while he tried to secure some income. He’d have to speak to the bank on Monday. If only his family weren’t so resistant to every idea he put to them.

Tossing the letter aside, he let his head rest in his hands, but his mind wandered to the food festival idea. He was beginning to think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. They desperately needed something, and it had been presented to him by an extremely capable woman who clearly knew what she was doing. She’d even said he could do as much or as little as he liked. John knew he hadn’t really given it the consideration it deserved and her words on the seafront yesterday had bitten deeply. He was slightly ashamed to admit that perhaps she was right. Was he now saying no simply because he’d said no in the first place? It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of that. He also had a feeling he’d used his family’s ridiculous concerns as an excuse to say no because he simply couldn’t deal with the additional workload, but he might just have to. If the bank refused the loan, he had no idea what they’d do.

Raised voices from the hallways caught his attention and he lifted his head out of his hands. He could hear Jaz denying someone entry and then a voice he was beginning to recognise carried through the door.

‘I only need a few minutes with Mr Thornhill, Miss Simmons. And I know he’s here because yesterday—’

‘You saw him yesterday?’ There was a strange tone to Jaz’s voice, and he went to help her.

Hetty continued. ‘Yes. And he said he had a meeting this morning and I’m willing to bet it hasn’t started yet because it’s only eight-thirty. So, if you can let me in, I’ll go and see him quickly and be out of your hair in no time.’

John found himself shaking his head as he walked to the study door. A strange smile was pulling at his lips. Hetty Colman was without doubt the most infuriating person he’d ever met, but he had to admit her audacity and tenaciousness were unparalleled.

When he opened the study door it was to see her with a large rolled sheet of paper tucked under her arm, and an enormous A4 folder chock full of papers cradled in the other. There was also that pretty grin on her face.

‘How did you get in?’ asked Jaz.

‘Luckily for me the gate had been shut but not bolted. Otherwise I’d have had to climb it and I didn’t really fancy that much.’

John did actually believe that she’d climb the eight-foot-tall iron gates if she had to and couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

‘Ah, Mr Thornhill, there you are. I thought you’d be in.’ She shuffled everything about and pushed her cute glasses up the bridge of her nose. The folder looked like it was about to fall open and the papers fly everywhere. Instinctively, John went to help her. ‘Oh, thank you. Do you have a moment?’

An incredulous chuckle escaped him. ‘Yes, I suppose I must as you’ve gone to all this effort.’

Jaz interrupted. ‘You’ve got that auction starting at nine, John.’

‘I know, Jaz, thanks.’ He quickly checked his watch. ‘You’d best come through, Miss Colman.’

John closed the study door and put the folder down on the other side of his desk, near his visitor. ‘Please take a seat.’

‘Oh, no thank you.’ Hetty immediately began to unroll the paper. ‘Right. I’m here to show you that you really should say yes to the food festival.’ He opened his mouth to speak but she held up her hand to silence him. ‘Please, just hear me out. This is a map of that field of yours near the road. I’ve marked pitch sizes on it already and where the toilets will need to go, unless we can find somewhere else for them which means we could then get more stalls in. As you can see from the number I’ve marked out, this alone could spell a good profit for us and we can decide if we want to charge per pitch or take a percentage of profits made over the weekend. I personally think there’s more money to be made in taking a percentage of profits. I already know a number of vendors who’d be interested, and I can guarantee you once I actually start rounding people up, we’ll be inundated. People are already excited and talking about this idea. We can make it an amazing weekend—’

‘Miss Colman?’

‘There’ll be a load more tourists around over the bank holiday weekend too because we always get weekend visitors and I’ve got a ton of ideas for other things we can have, and as you can see from my file …’ She opened it and began showing him printed documents in plastic wallets. ‘I’ve already mapped out health and safety requirements, written risk assessments and contracts and—’

‘Miss Colman?’ he said again, a little more loudly this time.

‘Yes?’ She looked up, almost startled. Her eyes were an incredible pale blue.

It was time to admit that this was turning into quite a good idea and for some reason he felt a sense of trust deep down in his belly. Miss Colman was intelligent, focused, not in the least bit flighty or ditzy and he really did have faith she could pull this off. He desperately needed his share of the profits. And though his mother wouldn’t like it much, it would only be for a weekend. There might even be other ways he could capitalise on this too, but he’d have to think about that later. ‘Very well, Miss Colman. You can use our land. The lower field as you’ve already mapped it out.’

A wide grin spread across her face, lifting her cheeks, and her eyes twinkled once more. ‘Perfect,’ she said, with a bright cheery smile. ‘You’ll soon see what an amazing idea this is. In fact, can you meet me at Raina’s Café on Tuesday at ten? Yes?’ She didn’t even wait for him to check his diary. ‘Marvellous.’ Hetty began collecting all her things. ‘Just text me if you need to make it later, but there’s a lot to do, so ten would be best. I’ll even treat you to a coffee.’ She was half out of the door when she suddenly spun on her heel. ‘Actually, better keep the whole day free if you can.’

She flashed another brilliant smile, and like a whirlwind she was out of the door and gone before he knew it. John watched Miss Colman replace her glasses with large, elegant sunglasses then climb into her car. As soon as he’d met her, he should have known that, eventually, she’d leave having achieved exactly what she wanted.

***

That evening, the family gathered in the dining room which wasn’t half as grand as everyone expected it to be. John glanced down the length of the long cherry wood table, easily big enough to seat thirty, though he and his family were settled around just one end. He studied the faded deep-red curtains and the patchy, peeling wallpaper. The only things that still seemed to belong were the antique sideboard and dusty chandelier. How much longer they would get to stay was another matter.

His mother brought in a tray bearing their dinners, with Jaz following, also carrying a fully laden tray. Despite what the town might think, they weren’t sitting up here with butlers and maids. As in any house, the person nearest the front door answered it, and his mother did most of the cooking, though they all helped out when she was tired. Jaz lived in town, but as they’d ended up working late, he’d invited her to dinner. It was the least he could do considering her commitment to him and his family, and that he couldn’t pay her half of what she deserved.

Thoughts of Hetty had lingered in his brain all afternoon, distracting him to the point that he’d thrown down his pen and gone for a walk. He wasn’t looking forward to telling his family about the food festival and had waited till now, so everyone was together and it could all be over with in one go. It wasn’t that he regretted his decision – if it was a success, it would definitely make life easier for them all – but his family would be reticent. How he wished there were easier ways of making money. With his family before him, he swallowed down his apprehension along with a mouthful of roast chicken, wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his announcement.

‘You should all know I’ve agreed that the strawberry festival can be held here this year. In the lower field. The woman organising it is turning it into a food festival.’

The responses came in exactly the order he’d anticipated and with the exact exclamations and protests, from everyone but his father who simply ignored things he didn’t like. The only person he was surprised at was Jaz. She stared at him, disapprovingly, her upper lip curling a little. She was being less supportive than he’d expected. Once he’d told her of his and Miss Colman’s agreement this morning, she’d asked a million and one questions, doubting if it would make any money at all and if anyone would come all the way out here just to eat. She wasn’t normally this negative, and of all people, he’d thought she would see the financial benefits. At least now, whatever Jaz’s concerns, she was keeping them to herself. His mother, Lucinda, was the first to speak.

‘Why on earth did you do that, John?’ Her long, thin face, drawn and tired from worry, had fixed in an expression of disappointment.

He decided not to say that Hetty Colman had impressed him with her clear-minded, business-like approach, or that there was something about the confident way she moved her body that had flitted in and out of his mind all afternoon. Instead he said, ‘Because we’re going to get a share of the profits and as that well-known advert says, “Every little helps”. It’ll give us some income. Income that we desperately need.’

‘I can’t believe,’ began his brother, ‘that you, the man who never agrees to anything on the spur of the moment, have agreed to this.’ He gave a scornful, incredulous laugh and clenched his jaw.

‘It wasn’t on the spur of the moment. She actually approached me a few days ago. But regardless, it’s a good idea and doesn’t require us to really do anything.’

Lucinda delicately rested her fork on the edge of her plate. ‘Oh, but it does sound awful, John. There’ll be people everywhere’ – her voice was rising with worry – ‘so many people—’

‘It’ll be fine, Mother. They’ll be in the lower field, they won’t come up to the house at all.’

‘But what if they wander about and get lost and end up on the doorstep? And how did this woman get in in the first place?’

‘Mother, I promise, it’ll be fine. Please trust me.’ John took a sip of water from the chipped mug before him. ‘And she only got in because I had the gates open for a delivery.’ Lucinda looked to John’s father, Rupert. He’d barely said a word and was scooping peas onto his fork with a finger.

Felix glared at John. ‘It won’t be enough to solve our problems, John. Just seems a lot of inconvenience for a pittance.’

John couldn’t believe he was going through all this again. He and his brother had endured this conversation so many times before. It was all right for Felix who dipped in and out of the family’s affairs when it suited him. John couldn’t help the feeling of resentment that mounted when Felix became argumentative just for the sake of it. ‘Felix, just because it won’t wipe out all our debts in one go doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it. As far as I can see, there’s no one single way to pay it all off and make us financially sustainable. It’s going to take time and lots of effort.’

‘Well,’ said Felix, ‘I think you’re wrong. I think we could make huge in-roads rather than taking tiny baby steps all the time if we invested what we have left.’ Felix turned to their mother. He was tall and thin like her, but wiry – more like a pencil – especially as his hair was still very dark despite being five years older than John. He was also joining them for dinner as his wife, Elizabeth, was out at her book club and his twin girls had been deposited at dance club. They lived in Swallowtail Bay in a large new-build house that didn’t have any of the problems their parents’ house did. To make it all worse, because he worked as a finance manager for a local insurance firm, he thought he knew everything about money. John couldn’t have disagreed more about investing the entirety of what little they had left, but Felix kept going on and on about it.

A few weeks ago, a colleague had tipped Felix off to a ‘sound investment’ and since then, he’d done nothing but nag their mother, hoping for her go-ahead to cast the deciding vote. No one bothered consulting their father anymore. You could never get a straight answer from him. And as John was against it from the moment it was nonchalantly dropped into conversation one morning at breakfast, Felix was now trying to get their mother onside in a bid to gang up on him.

John placed a forkful of food in his mouth but found it difficult to chew and swallow. Jaz’s shoulders were tensed on his behalf and she threw reassuring glances his way. Lucinda had her head down nibbling delicately, ignoring the disagreement between her offspring.

‘Felix,’ he said sternly, ‘you know full well I disagree with you on the investment. And even if this doesn’t solve all our problems it will at least give us a little income. Maybe enough to make a full mortgage payment or hire a conservator so we can fix up the tapestries and sell them.’

Lucinda dropped her fork and inhaled sharply. ‘John, do we have to?’

‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you know how much they’d fetch if they were repaired.’

Felix leapt to her defence. ‘I can’t believe you’d say that, John. You know how much they mean to Mother.’

Making an effort to control his temper and enjoy his dinner, John replied. ‘I don’t enjoy it, Felix, but it’s the truth.’ He had no idea how much more needed to go wrong with the house for his mother to realise that they were verging on having to sell up and move if they couldn’t come up with something viable. The carpets were threadbare, the paint peeling from the doorframes and windowsills, and the plaster cornicing falling from the ceiling. A clammy wetness pervaded the house from all the pin-mould that was finding its way inside and God only knew what that was doing to their lungs. The gardens were a mess and they’d yet to repair the windows that had cracked under the strain of last winter.

Jaz sipped her water and examined the tablecloth, keeping well and truly out of it. John was forever grateful for her discretion; it was a trait he didn’t thank her for enough. Rupert also kept his head down merrily munching his dinner, pretending the argument going on around him wasn’t happening. Lucinda wiped the corners of her mouth and laid down her napkin.

‘Do you really think this food festival will bring in some money, John?’

The incredible Hetty Colman appeared in his brain. Not just her face, but the sound of her voice and the feeling of assurance she gave. She clearly had a great business sense and knew what she was doing. ‘I do,’ he said firmly. ‘And even if it’s not much, it’ll be in the lower field with very little inconvenience to us. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t do it.’

‘Very well then,’ she replied with a sigh, earning John a scathing look from his brother. ‘I’ll just have to lock myself in my room until it’s over.’

Chapter 6

Hetty moved the two coffee cups delivered by their fabulous waitress, Lexi, in one of her amazing Fifties outfits, out of the way of the mass of papers. John, she knew, had been watching her since the moment they’d arrived.

‘Have you been here before?’ she asked hoping to break the tension. Hetty was beginning to believe John Thornhill existed in a bubble of stress that followed him around everywhere he went like one of those cartoon rainclouds.

He shook his head. ‘No. It’s nice though. Food looks good.’

At odd times he looked around the room as if everyone was talking about him, which Hetty was sure they weren’t. Well, possibly the old ladies over the other side of the café were, but she was sure they were only commenting on how handsome he was because she’d heard the words ‘attractive’ and ‘knock-out’ whispered far too loudly.

‘Did you want anything to eat?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I always have a piece of cake for elevenses when I’m working here. The chocolate mousse cake is delicious. Maybe I can tempt you in a bit.’ The lyrical notes of Raina’s Irish accent sounded out as she served a customer and as John didn’t respond to Hetty’s cake suggestion, she got started. ‘I’ve already brainstormed and listed everything we need to do for the festival. And by we, you know I mean I, because I did say you didn’t have to do anything.’ After a full-on planning session, the likes of which NATO would have been impressed by, Hetty had organised her thoughts, and the small idea she’d begun with was growing magnificently.

John glanced nervously around and sipped his coffee, then eyed the cup in surprise. ‘Wow, this is good.’

Hetty smiled. ‘Raina’s is the best in town.’

Across the road in the churchyard, the birds were merrily chirping away hidden in the dense leaves. The world seemed so much brighter in summer, Hetty mused. Like Swallowtail Bay had been painted in brighter and bolder colours. The town and the café were full of people she’d never seen before, tourists eager to find the best spot to eat. Hetty enjoyed the warmth of the sun through the window as it fell on her back. For some reason, she was feeling slightly nervous opposite John. It seemed to add to the pressure of the event somehow. But Hetty reminded herself it was like organising anything else. She just had to tackle it one step at a time.

‘Right, Mr Thornhill. I’ve listed all the local businesses we’d like to attend, and any we’d prefer not to.’

‘You should probably call me John.’ He said it with only slight enthusiasm but given how tense he was, she took it as progress.

‘Okay. Then I’m Hetty, not Miss Colman.’

‘Hetty then. Are there some people we’d prefer not to come?’

‘Basically, if they haven’t got a good hygiene rating, I’m not trusting them at a festival.’ John tilted his head and the angle showed off his strong Roman nose.

The Bake House was top of the list and looking at it, apprehension built in her stomach. She’d learned long ago to portion up her worries, putting them in little boxes and storing them away in her mind until she was ready to deal with them. It kept her focused on the task at hand and that was exactly what she was doing now. ‘We’ll also need some entertainment. I was going to ask the local radio station to come along, maybe some local bands, and there’ll be things like guys making balloon animals, that sort of thing.’

John nodded and sipped his coffee again. ‘Bouncy castle?’

‘Yes, definitely.’ Hetty waved the pen in excitement, happy that he was starting to participate in the meeting. She’d imagined this would be a very one-sided conversation with her simply stating what she was going to do and him scowling and reluctantly agreeing or out-and-out arguing. She hadn’t anticipated him making suggestions or speaking in any helpful way. ‘But I was thinking we could have something a bit different too, maybe a slip and slide.’

John shook his head. Here we go, thought Hetty. Just as she’d expected. He’d simply needed a coffee before he began in full grumpy lord-of-the-manor mode. If he was going to start pooh-poohing all her ideas, she’d have to have more than one piece of cake to keep her temper. ‘That’ll need a water supply and a lot of space. It’ll be very messy too and require constant supervision.’

‘Oh,’ said Hetty, slightly taken aback. That was a valid point. ‘Yes, that’s true. What about a different shaped bouncy castle?’

‘So … not a castle then?’

His tone was actually teasing, like he was enjoying himself. A cheeky grin grew on her face in response. ‘Maybe something like a pirate ship, or an assault course?’

‘Pirate ship would be good. What about a puppet show for the kids?’

Hetty nodded agreement. ‘It’s vintage and old-fashioned. I like it.’

‘And a carousel? It’s traditional and everyone loves them.’

Hetty sat straighter and put her pen down. ‘Right, what’s going on here?’

‘What?’

‘You seem far too happy to be doing this. And I know Raina’s coffee is good, but I’ve never seen it have this effect on someone before.’

‘Maybe I like your ideas,’ he replied taking another sip as if to deliberately challenge her theory about the coffee.

What on earth was happening here? This wasn’t the John Thornhill she’d met on previous occasions. ‘Well, if you like those ones you’re going to love this. I like to say go big or go home – so if you let me have another field, we could even have a whole funfair!’

John laughed and it brought a lightness to his features. ‘Okay. Maybe we need to calm down a little.’

‘No,’ Hetty said, finally taking a sip of her own coffee. In all the list-making, she’d forgotten it was there. ‘Now isn’t the time to hold back, Mr Thornhill. Now’s the time to make this the biggest event Swallowtail Bay has ever seen.’

‘Are you always this convincing?’ he teased.

‘Convincing is my middle name,’ she replied with a smile, surprised that he mirrored it.

After a second, the smile began to fade, and his voice became serious again. ‘And how are all the set-up costs to be paid for? The bigger this is, the larger they’ll be.’

Hetty sighed and brushed a hand through her short hair. ‘It’s going to use up all my available capital and possibly some of my own savings, but it’s an investment in my future – one I’m happy to make, I might add. Which is why I have to make this work. The more stuff we have to attract people, the more successful it will be.’

‘You’re really committed to this, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ Hetty said confidently. ‘Which is why my next idea might seem a bit out there and not something you usually find at a food festival, but I think it could be a brilliant way to keep people there literally all day on the Saturday.’

‘What?’ John’s intrigued expression slid into a scowl.

‘I’m thinking on the Saturday night we’ll have a film screening. We can hire a giant screen and people can have food they’ve bought from the food stalls and picnics on the grass.’

‘Okay,’ he replied reticently. ‘But seeing as you now have a video screen and a funfair, how exactly are you going to fit all this in one or even two fields?’

Hetty bit the inside of her cheek and grabbed the Ordnance Survey map she’d stuffed down beside her.

‘With all this you’ll need a lot of facilities and parking space as well.’

Judging by the local funfair that visited once a year, they’d need a field to themselves for the rides, parking and facilities, and the screening and picnic space needed to be near enough to the food stalls that people could get something to eat during the performance. And John was right, they’d need a good number of toilets too. Hetty picked up her pen again and tapped it against her lip. This was all proving to be a bit of a jigsaw. Some of the larger parties she’d organised before had been like this, figuring out what had to go where. They were just on a slightly smaller scale. No, she would not be daunted, she could do this and then Simply Fantastic Events would really be on the map.

Hetty unfolded the sides of the map and studied the entirety of the Thornhill estate. John stood, walked behind her and leaned over her shoulder. Her heart gave an involuntary flutter as she smelt his aftershave. It was subtle and pleasant, carrying a depth that suited him. She glanced up and he ran a hand over his jaw.

‘What about using these fields here?’ he said, pointing to a large square of land.

‘Four fields?’ Had she heard right? He was now offering her even more space.

John re-took his seat so he was looking at her. ‘Despite what you might think, I’m not the type to keep saying no just because I said it once before.’ Hetty coloured, hearing her own words repeated back to her. She hadn’t meant them to be so acerbic. ‘These ideas’ – he motioned to the table now covered in paper – ‘are good ideas, and as you said, we might as well make this as good as it can be.’

Hetty felt the tension ease from her shoulders. ‘In that case, you’d better come with me this afternoon to sell this idea to the traders. Convincing is my middle name, but it’ll help even more if you’re there, lending support.’ John shook his head as he smiled, but she could tell it wasn’t a no. ‘And we’re stopping in at the town hall at four to convince the festival committee to hand over control to me. And you, it seems.’

This time, John fell back in his chair. ‘Is that why you asked me to keep the whole day free?’

‘Have you ever tried to get six retired or working people together at the same time, on the same day?’ He shrugged a no. ‘It’s a nightmare. Trust me. It was the only time I could get, but please don’t be cross. Anyway, after today, you won’t need to do anything.’

A strange look passed over his face and Hetty couldn’t figure out what it was before it disappeared, but it looked almost sad. ‘Your middle name really is “convincing”, isn’t it?’

***

That afternoon, after stashing everything else in her car, Hetty and John, armed with her notebook and the list of vendors, began their quest to convince the shop owners of Swallowtail Bay to take a pitch at the food festival. The sun was shining brightly on the sea, the gentle waves sparkling as they rolled back and forth and a handful of clouds scudded across the sky. Unlike the recent stifling weather, today’s breeze – just enough to lift the longer strands of her short hair – was perfect.

Starting at the top end of the high street where the taxis gathered, Hetty had decided they should focus on only food shops to begin with. If there were pitches left over after, she’d approach some of the nearby towns and ask different types of businesses if they wanted to attend. Miserable Gwen’s hairdresser’s was, naturally, out of the question, but the local bath bombe shop, and even Stella, with all the weird and wonderful things from Old Herbert’s Shop, might be a good try if there were places to fill.

Hetty and John strolled down the grey-blue, uneven cobbles, admiring the vibrant window displays of the boutique shops and the stomach-rumbling smells coming from the restaurants and cafés. Everywhere people were smiling and chatting and bidding her good afternoon, laden with bags, pushing buggies or pulling along wheelie shopping trolleys. This was why she loved her hometown so much and why she’d never left for long. But there was no denying the shock on some people’s faces when they saw her with John Thornhill. She wondered how he was feeling about it and cast a glance in his direction, but he was mostly watching his feet as he walked along. Replying to a friend of her mum’s with a cheery hello, Hetty and John entered the first shop.

‘Hi, Terry,’ Hetty said to the owner of the fishmonger’s. It always amazed Hetty that a good fishmonger’s never smelt fishy, and as Swallowtail Bay’s had the freshest fish around, you couldn’t smell anything except for a woody scent from the locally made smoked salmon. John stared at the display like he’d never been in a shop before.

‘Hello, Hetty love. What can I get for you today?’

‘Me and Mr Thornhill here were wondering if you’d like to have a pitch at the food festival I’m organising.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I heard Gwen having a moan about that. She does love a moan, that one.’

Hetty decided to ignore the fact that Gwen had already started moaning. She was only going to get worse as time wore on, and she’d be seeing her this afternoon on the festival committee, so she didn’t want to bad-mouth her in public. ‘What do you think, though, Terry? Interested?’

‘Definitely,’ he replied, cheerfully. ‘Could sell some of our lovely smoked salmon, we could. Where’s it to be?’

‘Thornhill Hall.’ Terry immediately looked at John in shock. ‘Well, in the grounds anyway.’

‘Thornhill Hall?’ He studied John as if he was an alien from another planet having a quick daytrip to Swallowtail Bay. Then, with a sort of derisive snort, he dropped his head and began filleting a piece of fish. Hetty nudged John, urging him to speak up.

‘We’re very much looking forward to hosting it,’ John said. ‘It’ll be wonderful to welcome everyone one.’

‘Didn’t think you Thornhills liked having people on your land.’

‘We don’t as a rule,’ John said rather sharply and Hetty stepped on his foot. Thankfully, he took the hint. ‘But we’re very excited about the festival. We think it’ll be really good for the Swallowtail Bay economy.’

Terry took a moment to consider John’s response. ‘Go on then. Sign me up.’

‘Fabulous,’ said Hetty, placing a giant tick on her list, next to the shop’s name. ‘I’ll email you all the relevant information.’

Outside, she said, ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ With a shrug, John placed his hands in his pockets, seemingly happy to walk along beside her.

Half an hour later, they’d ticked off a number of businesses, all of whom had agreed to attend and been interested in the awards she was proposing to start. Hetty was grateful to be wearing her baggy dungarees because so far, everyone had been so excited at the prospect of the food festival, they’d forced a sample of their wares on her. Being too polite to refuse, she and John had eaten crostini with fresh tomato and balsamic vinegar from the local deli, a quarter of a pulled pork bap from The Pig and Pen, some weird seaweed crisps from The Veg Box vegan café, tabbouleh, patatas bravas from the tapas place, a lemon slice from the speciality cake makers, plus the chocolate mousse cake and coffees from Raina’s that morning.

‘Gosh, I’m stuffed,’ she said to John as they walked on. ‘If anyone else offers me anything, I’ll have to ask for a doggy bag. I might explode.’

John’s deep, hearty laugh reverberated around her. ‘Yes, me too. We’re on the last one though, aren’t we?’

‘I am,’ she said, faking confidence. The Bake House was next.

‘Am I not invited to this one?’

‘I thought you might need to ring your assistant or check on the house or something?’

‘No,’ he answered slowly. ‘I’m sure Jaz has everything under control. She’d ring me if there was a problem.’

‘Right. Well,’ Hetty hesitated. ‘You can have half an hour off and amuse yourself while I tackle The Bake House. The owner can be a bit …’ She searched for the right word. ‘Funny. It really would be better if I did this one on my own.’

‘Don’t tell me, he’s another one who hates us Thornhills and our pots of gold?’

‘No, it’s not that.’ Hetty considered telling him the truth but quickly decided not to. ‘I’ll ring you as soon as I’m done.’

John clearly wasn’t convinced. ‘Look, Hetty, thanks for the support but I’ve faced enough people today who don’t like us, I’m sure I can manage this last one.’

‘Honestly, John it’s fine, I—’

He walked past Hetty pausing in the doorway and motioning for her to enter first. Rather chivalrously he wasn’t going anywhere. Fabulous, thought Hetty. This wouldn’t be at all awkward would it? Pausing, Hetty straightened the straps of her dungarees, mussed up her short hair for added confidence, then stepped inside.

Chapter 7

The divine smell made her mouth water, despite being full to bursting.

The Bake House’s specialty was bread and the air was heavy with yeast and all the things they flavoured the breads with: olives, tomato, goat’s cheese. The shop was still packed as people tried to buy the last few things that were left. The constant slide of the till drawer and the beep of the card machine mixed with the voices of staff and customers. On the other side, a large glass counter was half empty except for a few cakes and pastries. Heat from the giant ovens made it feel close and humid, and Hetty hoped she wasn’t going red.

Ben, artisan baker – and unfortunately, her ex-boyfriend – had started The Bake House around about the same time she’d started her business. Breaking up with Ben had been the hardest thing she’d ever had to do. They’d been together for nearly ten years and despite hinting at marriage, kids, and – gasp! – living together, nothing had happened. He’d never seemed that keen on moving their relationship forward or taking the next step commitment-wise. Then six months ago, having had enough of waiting, Hetty had made the difficult decision to tear her own heart in two and move on. Seeing him now, for the first time in months, she tightened her grip on the notebook in her hand, willing herself to remain detached and business-like.

He’d had another good day’s trading and many of the baskets and large wicker bowls used to display things were empty. Chatter filled the air as Ben, cheeky and cheerful as ever, made his customers laugh with gentle teasing and jokes at both his, and their, expense. Hearing his voice, Hetty’s heart, which she liked to believe had mostly healed, gave a double beat. Memories of all the good times they’d had together flooded back into her brain sending a longing through her bones.

The split hadn’t been exactly amicable, but for Hetty it had been resigned. He’d argued that it was an extreme and sudden reaction. She’d shouted back that she’d subtly let him know she needed real commitment – for their relationship to move forward as they got older – but that still hadn’t prompted him to ask her to marry him, or even for them to move in together. Ben had stubbornly refused to be ‘rushed’ into doing anything, even though rushing wasn’t exactly how Hetty would have put it. If he’d responded how she’d hoped, not necessarily going down on one knee but with something to show he thought they had a future, things would have been different. She’d loved being with him. They laughed constantly, he’d always been faithful, even if he did have a flirty nature, and he’d loved her. Just not quite enough, she thought with a sigh.

This meeting was going to be a test – the longest conversation they’d have had since the immediate aftermath of the break-up and with John Thornhill watching on, even more awkward than she’d ever imagined. Ben’s light-brown hair, heavily peppered with grey, was sticking up in its naturally fluffy style, and deep laughter lines were visible as he smiled at his customer. ‘What you do with your bread in the comfort of your own home, Mrs Wilson, is entirely your own business.’

Mrs Wilson, who was about 80 and shrunken with age, giggled. ‘Oh, Ben, you are a treasure.’

‘Kind of you to say so, Mrs Wilson. Have a great afternoon.’

Hetty smiled to herself just as Ben glanced up. Seeing her, a flicker of surprise washed over his face then he grinned. Hetty felt her eyes drawn to it. ‘Hetty, hi. Err, what can I get you?’ He planted both hands firmly on the counter and leaned forwards. His dark-blue T-shirt tightened over his biceps, muscles worked by the constant kneading of bread, and a sudden image of his back as she ran her hands over it flitted through her brain. Luckily, the rest of him was obscured by a bright white apron, the ties of which had been wrapped twice around his waist and fastened at the front, otherwise she might have ended up blushing.

‘Nothing to eat, thanks,’ she said, her head and heart full of confusion. It was good to see him again. Too good, maybe, and an ache of pain threatened to seize her. Cramming all her feelings into another little box in her brain, she ensured her emotions didn’t come to the fore. She focused on the fact that if she ate any more she’d be sick. Suddenly remembering John was there too, she shuffled over a little, so he was visible as well. ‘We came to ask if you’d consider having a stall at the food festival I’m organising.’

‘We?’ Ben’s eyes suddenly focused on John who Hetty saw stood a little straighter, rolling his shoulders back.

‘Yes, this is John Thornhill. He’s agreed to us using some of the land around Thornhill Hall. John, this is Ben Jackson.’

‘Ben Jackson, baker extraordinaire,’ Ben replied. John acknowledged him with a slight raise of the head and Ben nodded. He didn’t offer any more and after a second, her curiosity piqued.

‘So, what do you think?’ She hated herself for asking, but if Ben could be relied upon for anything, it was telling her what he really thought. She’d always admired his straight-talking because when he paid a compliment, he really meant it. He had a good business sense too.

‘It’s ambitious but – wait, hang on – Karen?’ he called to one of his staff. ‘Can you come and serve please?’ Then he moved to the end of the counter to speak to Hetty. Hetty followed him to the gap in the worktop and felt that familiar pull of his charisma and charm beckoning her towards him both physically and emotionally. ‘But if anyone can do it, you can. I used to love the strawberry festival.’ There was a fondness in his voice that made her swallow hard. ‘I think I had my first kiss at the strawberry festival. It should definitely be brought back. And, if you ask me, you’re just the person to do it.’

She wondered how he’d fared over the last six months. Had he moved on or was he still hurting too? Was his confidence hiding any remaining pain, or was he really fine? Under his intoxicating gaze she pulled her mind back to business. ‘I’m going to start some awards too. Taste of the Bay awards. Knowing your skill, you’d probably win. So, do you want a pitch?’ She still wasn’t sure what response she’d prefer. A yes would be a big draw for the locals; a no would be easier for her emotionally. As the business side of her brain kicked in, she found herself trying to convince him. ‘There’ll be a lot of people going.’ I hope, she added internally. ‘You could make a lot of money, and you know how trade drops in the winter.’

‘Not for me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m busier than I can handle anyway. And all year round too.’ It was annoyingly true. His bread was so good that even in the depths of winter when the high street was dead, people came to his shop.

‘But still, we think it’s going to be very successful. Even if your business is doing well, it’ll be worth you getting involved,’ said John, trying to help in convincing him. Hetty admired the thought but was also surprised that he’d taken it upon himself.

‘Maybe,’ Ben answered with a slightly dismissive tone she knew to be teasing but probably hadn’t come across that way to John. Ben turned to Hetty, inclining his head towards her and speaking in a low murmur. From the corner of her eye, she saw John bristle at being shut out of the conversation. ‘Do you want me there?’ His tone had that familiar teasing edge again and it felt like he was asking about a lot more than just the food festival.

Hetty suddenly realised the possibilities. If she said yes, she was planting the seed that they might get back together. There was clearly still an attraction between them. But could he give her what she wanted? The commitment she wanted? A tingle ran down her spine. ‘You’d be a great draw, as you know.’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ He folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head to the side.

Damn, his easy confidence still had a magnetic effect that was hard to resist, but she couldn’t deal with that right now. She had other things on her mind, like the mountainous to-do list she needed to get through. Plus, she could feel deep down there was a danger of falling back in love with him if she stayed too long. John folded his arms over his chest and gave a heavy sigh; clearly Ben and his confident, cheeky manner was getting on his nerves. ‘Well, it’s the only answer you’re going to get,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve got my number. If you decide you want a pitch, call me, but they’re selling out fast.’ And with that she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the shop.

Hetty and John made their way back towards the promenade. As she made her way there, she took a moment to enjoy the salty sea air and let it cool her cheeks. Seeing Ben had been far more intense than she’d expected it to be. Having a real conversation with him and one in which she valued his opinion, had reminded her of all the conversations they’d had when they were together, both building up their fledgling businesses, and the evenings cuddled on the sofa, the Friday nights at the pub and holidays in Rome and Venice. It reminded her of all the things that had attracted her to him in the first place. And having John looking over her shoulder, stern and disapproving, hadn’t helped either.

‘He’s quite full of himself, isn’t he?’ John said, thrusting his hands into his pockets as they strolled along.

‘Not really,’ she replied, defensive on Ben’s behalf. ‘Anyway, he kind of has a right to be. Everything he said was true. His is one of the best businesses in Swallowtail Bay and he is the best baker in the town, if not the county.’

‘Right,’ was all John said before training his eyes on the horizon.

At the promenade, she took a moment to watch a sandwich tern resting on the water’s edge, its messy black head down as it gently hopped along. Before John could say anything more about Ben, her mobile rang in her pocket. It was her mum, Daisy. ‘Sorry, John, I just need to take this.’ Wandering a little away, Hetty took a deep breath, put on her cheerful voice, and answered. ‘Hi, Mum, what’s up?’

‘Ugh, it’s your dad again.’

Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘What’s he done now?’

There was a time, a year ago, when her mum would have answered with a smile and fondness in her voice, but her parents had made what had proved to be a catastrophic mistake by retiring at exactly the same time. The first few months had been fine, they’d loved being together and having days out here and there, but over the six months that followed they’d grown increasingly intolerant of each other to the point where they now irritated the other daily with their breathing, chewing and general existence.

‘Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.’ Hetty immediately picked up on the strange tone to her mum’s voice. ‘Just what he’s done every day for the last few months. He’s gone golfing with Tony Dean.’

John had wandered towards the pebbles and was absent-mindedly nudging them off the promenade and back onto the beach with his foot.

‘Isn’t that a good thing? It means he’s out from under your feet. You can chill out by yourself. Grab a coffee, read a book in the garden.’

‘He’s always out these days, Hetty. I can’t remember the last time we had a day together. But the worst thing is …’ Daisy was quickly finding her stride … ‘he comes home and does nothing but talk about bloody golf. I’m sick of the subject. Absolutely sick of it. If he tells me again what his handicap is and what Tony’s putting is like, I’m going to scream – right in his face – and then—’

‘All right, Mum,’ Hetty interrupted, gazing out over the calm, clear water of the sea, trying to absorb some of its serenity. The breeze was dying again, and the water resembled a giant silver-blue jelly gently wobbling a little here and there. Hetty matched her breathing to the faint sound of the tide nudging the shingle back and forth. ‘Do try and calm down, Mum. You’ll give yourself a heart attack.’

‘At least it would put me out of my misery as far as your dad is concerned, and then he might actually appreciate me. If he’s not golfing or talking about golf, he’s in his shed doing goodness knows what. I’m starting to wish I’d never blimmin’ well retired.’

‘You could start volunteering or something?’ Hetty offered, hoping it might stem the flow of her mum’s vitriol.

‘Volunteer to murder your dad and bury him under the patio, maybe.’ Hetty rolled her eyes. ‘Come for lunch on Sunday.’

It was a demand, not a question. Hetty had a lot to do and as soon as possible, but she was getting more and more concerned as to where this new family dynamic was heading. ‘All right then,’ she agreed. ‘Will you make trifle?’

For the first time in ages her mum chuckled. ‘Just for you. Traditional or chocolate?’

‘Umm … hard question. Traditional, I think.’ Hearing the smile in her mum’s voice was worth losing a day’s work anytime. ‘About one?’

‘Yes. We’ll eat at two.’

‘Okay. See you then. Love you. Try not to kill Dad in the meantime.’

‘I’ll try but I’m not making any promises. Anyway, love you too, darling. Bye bye.’

As lovely as the prospect of a trifle was, Hetty couldn’t help frowning. The way her mum had said goodbye in a despondent, unhappy tone was worrying. Was a life of leisure with her dad really that bad?

‘Everything all right?’ John asked.

‘Yes fine. We’ve got just enough time to talk tactics before we meet with the festival committee. Don’t look like that,’ she said upon seeing his grumpy expression. ‘Trust me, we need a plan.’

***

John sat down opposite the festival committee hoping the terror he felt inside wasn’t visible on his face. He’d never before encountered six more frightening people. Hetty had described a lady called Gwen before they’d arrived. Their main opposition apparently, and he’d clocked her immediately. She sat scowling at him like he was something on the bottom of her shoe. This was precisely why his family didn’t come into town unless they absolutely had to. The five other people looked equally terrifying but had slightly less aggressive eyes. The room was stuffy where the windows had been closed all day and he felt tiny beads of sweat form on his forehead. He shouldn’t have been here today really. He should have been trying to find a piece for a client, and the old radiator in the kitchen had started coming off the wall. He had to fix that when he got back.

Hetty sat beside him, quietly composed in the face of her opposition. She was so serene. The complete opposite of him. His quiet world had been spun on its axis by this crazy whirlwind of a woman. It was like she’d walked into his silent, book-lined study, shattering the peace, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and shaking him till his teeth rattled. He’d never known anyone like her. And now he was doing something for her he never envisioned doing for anyone – sitting opposite terrifying older ladies and one kind-looking older gentleman. But he was doing this for himself too, he remembered. One of the older ladies sipped a cup of tea and attempted to smile at him.

‘That’s Mary,’ Hetty whispered. ‘She’s already on our side, I think. I’ve tried to scope out the others, but they could go either way. Don’t forget, stick to the plan.’

The plan, hatched after they’d come out of The Bake House, was for John to remain silent in a speak-only-when-spoken-to fashion. He’d agreed, given that he didn’t know any of these people and trusted Hetty’s judgement, but she’d been different after visiting that last place. Her calm exterior seemed as if it had been tested and he wasn’t surprised; the guy running the place was a bit too full of himself for his liking and very flirty with Hetty. That in itself hadn’t surprised him; Hetty was a very pretty lady.

‘So,’ said Gwen, clasping her hands in front of her, enjoying this moment of power. ‘Hetty, you’ve come to try and convince us to hand over the strawberry festival to you.’

‘Yes,’ she replied confidently. ‘As I said at the business forum, this is just the opportunity I’ve been looking for and now I’m pleased to say that Mr Thornhill has agreed to us hosting the event at Thornhill Hall and in fact, to us using four of his fields.’

‘Four?’ Gwen almost shouted across the table. She had one of those piercing voices that carried. The remaining committee members looked on in surprise. ‘What on earth do you need four fields for?’

Hetty calmly outlined the number of people who’d already agreed to have a stall, and all the additional things they’d discussed that morning.

‘It doesn’t sound like you’re running a food festival anymore, you’re running a – a – I don’t know what.’ Gwen was beginning to redden. ‘But it doesn’t sound like something the committee should be supporting.’

To John’s horror, some of the heads nodded.

‘I’ll admit,’ said Hetty, ‘my original idea has grown—’

‘It sounds like it’s grown to more than just you and your assistant can handle.’

The older gentleman on the committee piped up. ‘Ambition is to be applauded, but we don’t want it to turn into an embarrassment. The strawberry festival we currently have might be small but it’s manageable.’

More nodding of heads and John bit back the retort that it was more of an embarrassment as it presently was. Seeing the support she had, Gwen was back on the attack.

‘And Thornhill Hall is famously anti the townsfolk going anywhere near the place. Do you think people will suddenly be brave enough to visit when you’ve made it clear you don’t want us normal people anywhere near your house?’

A flash of apprehension and annoyance passed over Hetty’s features and John decided it was time for him to speak. His own annoyance was mounting like steam inside a pressure cooker and needed to be released before it erupted into a response he might regret. A response that might cause Hetty even more problems.

‘I understand your reticence,’ he said calmly, rising out of his seat. ‘I was resistant to the idea myself. But I’ve come to realise that this is a fabulous idea and I have every confidence Hetty can not only organise this, but that it will be a great success as well.’ Gwen glanced at the other committee members and her mouth formed a tight angry line as their faces began to change, swaying away from her. ‘As for people coming to Thornhill Hall …’ He paused. ‘It’s true that we don’t open up the house and the grounds for public viewing. There are a number of reasons for that which, quite frankly, are nobody’s business but our own.’

Hetty’s eyes had been following him and the corners tensed as he said this.

‘But we’re ready now to welcome anyone and everyone to the food festival. I’m happy to allow Hetty to use our land to organise what will undoubtedly be a fabulous event over one of the busiest summer weekends, so that everyone can capitalise on it and enjoy the financial benefits.’

As John sat down, he saw the look of confusion and approval on Hetty’s face. She couldn’t have thought that he’d speak so enthusiastically on her behalf. He found himself glad that he’d both surprised and impressed her.

‘Right,’ said Mary, speaking up for the first time. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m tired of organising an event everyone laughs at and only comes along to out of a sense of duty. If Hetty is happy to organise this amazing-sounding food festival, I think we should let her. Show of hands, please. All in favour?’

Four hands raised. Gwen and the older gentleman’s arms stayed firmly by their sides, but it didn’t matter because the motion was carried. The first Swallowtail Bay Food Festival was to be held on the August bank holiday weekend in just under four weeks’ time.

As much as she’d impressed him, John really hoped Hetty and her assistant could pull it all off in time. His family didn’t need any more egg on their faces. They had a whole omelette there already.

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