‘This better be bloody worth it,’ Owen grunted to Sam as the two of them wrestled with opposite corners of an enormous rectangular fish tank.
‘It will, trust me. A couple of inches your way and it’ll be just right.’ Sam huffed his fringe from his eyes, seemingly unconcerned about the death stare Owen was levelling at him.
‘That’s what you said twenty bloody minutes ago. Whose idea was it to stick a bloody fish tank in the middle of a restaurant, anyway?’ Owen braced a shoulder against the tank as he shuffled backwards.
‘It’s an aquarium, not a fish tank—at least that’s what we’ve put on the website. And we wouldn’t be having to move it if some smart-arse hadn’t decided to change the specs for the seating.’
Owen couldn’t decide if it was the utter calmness of Sam’s tone or the fact he was absolutely right that made him want to punch his business partner on the nose. The fact that Owen was the smart-arse in question didn’t help matters either. ‘Those booths I found are going to look fantastic,’ he grumbled.
A supplier he’d worked with for years had got wind of their plans to create a high-spec restaurant in the unlikely venue of an old skittle alley beneath Sam’s parents’ pub in the tiny seaside town of Lavender Bay and made contact. His firm had recently designed some composite low-backed booths which could be customised in a variety of materials and colours. The deal he’d offered in return for cross-promotional images and a booking on opening night for him and his wife had been too good to refuse.
Unfortunately, the change meant some rejigging of the already agreed layout of the restaurant and the resultant shifting of the fish tank. And an increase in the budget, though Owen had decided to swallow that himself. ‘I should have checked everything on the CAD before I suggested the change.’ The specialist software allowed Owen and his design team to reproduce the layout for all their projects on the computer, so they could plan interiors to pinpoint accuracy.
Sam shrugged one shoulder, dismissing the issue. ‘I’m not the one complaining, mate. I love the samples for the booths, and this is exactly why I needed someone with your experience on board. If you started messing around with the menus, that might be a different story.’
As if he would. The restaurant had been Sam’s dream for a long time and he’d been well on the way to achieving it on his own terms before Owen had volunteered himself as a partner in the project. ‘I’ll leave the food and drink to you Mr Cordon Bleu.’
Sam grinned. ‘I never get tired of hearing that.’
Once upon a time, when he’d been young and stupid it was the kind of thing Owen might have taken the mick about. These days, he was a big believer in aiming high and shouting about every damn achievement along the way. ‘I don’t blame you, if it was me I’d have it tattooed on my arm.’
Sam laughed, then straightened up with a groan. ‘I reckon the tank will be fine here, and if it’s not I don’t care anymore.’
‘Aquarium, not tank, remember?’ Owen couldn’t resist the little dig. ‘Right, what do we have to do with the damn thing now?’
‘Nothing, thank God. Mr Gould from the pet shop is a serious…’ Sam waved his hand in the air like he was searching for the correct term. ‘…Fishologist.’
‘Fishologist?’
‘Aquarianist, maybe? I dunno. Whatever. He’s mad about fish and when I told him about this I thought he’d faint with the excitement. I gave him the dimensions for the ta—aquarium and a budget and he’s doing the rest. He’ll be in tomorrow to check it over and get it up and running and he’s even volunteered to teach me how to take care of the fish once they’re installed.’
Owen couldn’t help but shake his head. It was exactly what he should’ve expected. In London, it seemed like most people wouldn’t give you the time of day unless there was a profit in it for them. Not that he’d ever gone out of his way himself. He liked Alex and her husband well enough, would happily go for a beer with any of his site crews to celebrate the successful end of a project, but he’d never been a great one for hanging out for the sake of it. Forging friendships had never seemed that important, and he’d never thought his life lacking until he’d seen the other side of the coin.
In the bay you couldn’t move two feet without someone popping up and offering their help—whether you wanted it or not. Barely a day had gone past without some friend or neighbour sticking their head around the bottom of the stairs to check on their progress, and half the time they ended up with a paint brush or a hammer in hand.
The new seating would be installed in the next couple of days and then they’d be onto the final dressing of the place which Owen was taking the lead on so Sam could turn all of his focus to their opening night which was now less than a fortnight away. For the first time since he’d founded his own company, Owen had taken a leave of absence. Alex was proving more than capable of overseeing everything, and the two of them still kept in touch with regular meetings over Skype, but the day-to-day running was out of Owen’s hands.
From now until opening, Subterranean would be his primary focus. Well, apart from Libby, of course. She’d been a bit subdued for a couple of weeks, but whenever he asked what was wrong all he got was a bright smile and the same ‘I’m just a bit tired’ excuse. He’d wondered if her dad had said anything about selling up but was at a loss as to how broach it without admitting his involvement. He’d promised Mick he’d keep his mouth shut until after Christmas, and he was stuck with it.
He still wasn’t sure how he was going to explain away his involvement with the deal when she did eventually find out. Keeping quiet felt like a betrayal, but at the end of the day nothing would change for Libby—she could do what she wanted to the shop and would still have a roof over her head. His appetite for converting the chip shop had waned now he’d fully come to understand how much it meant to her. Turning her out just wasn’t on the cards. He might not be turning the quick profit that a conversion and sale would bring him, but the money he would save by not converting the place could be ploughed into another project instead. A lower, but longer-term return from the rental income would still fit into his overall investment portfolio—he’d just have to find a way to convince her to accept him as her landlord. No problem. No problem at all. Owen scrubbed a hand over his short hair. Unless he could find a way to really sell the idea to her, she was going to bloody kill him.
Straightening up, Sam rubbed the base of his spine. ‘Isn’t it a bit too convenient that today’s the day when Jack had urgent business at the farm?’ With the harvest well and truly over, Jack had been repaying their assistance by lending a hand with getting the restaurant ready for opening day. Both Sam and Owen had told him repeatedly it wasn’t necessary, but Jack had enough pride for the three of them combined and wouldn’t hear of it.
The Barnes’ weekly planning meetings had expanded further still to include Jack and Sally and now rotated between the pub and the farm as Annie Barnes and Sally took it in turns to host a Sunday afternoon buffet. Owen’s participation had been expected from the start, and more often than not Libby tagged along so she could keep up to date with what everyone was doing.
Foundations were being laid for an extension to the processing shed which would house a new workshop for Eliza, who currently had stuff split between her room in the pub and a spare room in the Gilberts’ farmhouse. They were forever fielding calls for things she’d left at one place or the other and needed ‘right now!’
A local firm of builders were ripping out the inside of the old farm cottage ready for Sally to take up residence in her self-titled ‘granny annexe’. At hers and Jack’s request, Owen had helped with the redesign and sat in on the interviews to find the right building firm, but other than that he was leaving the oversight in Jack’s very capable hands. His offer to source materials at cost through his business had taken some persuasion to accept, but it felt like the least he could do. Their wholesale acceptance of Owen was still something of a shock. Somehow, he’d ended up a part of a huge sprawling family group and he still couldn’t quite believe his luck.
Things with Libby were good—more than good, in fact—even if she had been a bit distant of late. It wasn’t surprising, really, given how much time he was spending on the restaurant, but she’d assured him she was happy to see him even if all they did was tumble onto the bed in the beach hut and sleep more often than not. They were trying to make the most of it whilst they could. September was moving into October and the heat of the summer had faded with the last of the tourists. Even with the extra quilts and blankets they’d added to the bed, it would soon be too cold to spend their nights in there. They had a little portable heater but leaving that on overnight was too big a risk.
He’d been making enquiries about a few of the holiday rental apartments to see if anyone would be willing to lease him one on a longer-term basis, but he hadn’t had much luck. Most of the owners used the low season to carry out maintenance and repairs, or already had plans for friends and family to visit. He didn’t want to keep switching around from place to place, so he would just have to keep trying. He’d grown used to falling asleep with Libby in his arms, and he wasn’t willing to give that up without a fight.
They were expecting one last bump in visitors for the half-term holidays, and they’d timed the opening of the restaurant for the first weekend to maximise footfall. Invitations had been sent out to a handful of local dignitaries, critics from national and local press and friends and colleagues of Sam’s from the restaurant world. Rather than a grand opening night, they’d opted to offer a selection of dates over their first week which was being branded as a showcase. Neither of them was expecting to make a lot of money over the winter months, but it would be a great way for Sam to trial dishes and for them to iron out the kinks which came with starting any new business.
Sam’s phone began to ring. ‘I wonder what Eliza’s forgotten this time,’ he said with a groan as he retrieved it from his back pocket. He cast a quick glance at the screen then swiped it. ‘Sam Barnes.’
Not Eliza then. As Sam continued his side of the conversation, Owen started to move away to afford him a bit of privacy but was waved to a standstill. ‘No, that sounds great, Moira. Yes, I’m sure we’ll have time if they’re all willing to put a couple of evenings in next week. Everything will be in place by then, so they’ll be able to familiarise themselves with the layout.’
When deciding on staff for the restaurant, they’d both agreed to utilise local talent as much as possible. Sam had approached several colleges in the area running catering and service industry courses with a view to offering part-time employment for their students. Moira, a tutor at the college in the next town over, had several students who lived in the bay, making it an ideal option for all concerned.
‘All sorted?’ Owen asked as Sam ended the call.
‘Yes, mate. They’re coming in Wednesday and Thursday next week, and Moira’s offered to come with them to act as a bit of an intermediary until everyone’s settled in.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ Owen didn’t have much of a clue about wrangling teenagers, and he doubted Sam did either. He’d made equality and harassment training compulsory for everyone he employed—including himself. The building industry had a terrible reputation for sexist behaviour and attitudes, though plenty of companies like his were doing their best to turn that around. He didn’t have much experience in the catering world, but he wanted everyone who worked for him to enjoy it. Sam struck him as a pretty laid-back guy, but he’d never seen him in action in the kitchen when the pressure was on. ‘Hey, Sam? You don’t morph into Gordon Ramsey when you’re cooking, do you?’
Shaking his head, Sam laughed. ‘Not my style. I worked for a chef like that once in my very early days and it was the worst experience of my life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pushover, but screaming at people just isn’t me.’
‘Thank God. Look, we can’t do much more here until the furniture arrives so I’m going down to the hut for a few hours to work up some draft contracts. I’ll run them past my legal team and send them to the college for comment as well. We’ve done some trainee placements on our sites, so I’ve got a lot of the standard terms and conditions on file already.’
‘That might be the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.’ Sam paused. ‘Oh sorry, I drifted off at the mention of the word contracts and was thinking about Beth.’
‘Nice. And I think that’s my cue to go. I’ve got the phone if you need me.’
‘No worries. I’m going to lock up here and go and make a mess in Beth’s kitchen for a few hours. Fancy coming round for a drink later?’
Owen shrugged. ‘Let me find out what Libby’s up to first, and I’ll let you know, okay?’
‘Sure, sure, I know what that means. You two will end up in the love shack, and that’s the last we’ll hear of you.’
Raising an eyebrow, Owen fixed Sam with an unrepentant stare. ‘Not everyone has a nice, cosy bed in a nice, private flat to share with their girlfriend, so don’t give me a hard time, okay?’
‘I hear you.’ Sam held up his hands in truce. ‘But it would be nice to get the gang together without one or other of us being in crisis mode. I’m going to give Eliza a ring and see if she and Jack are free. Make it to the flat by eight and I’ll even feed you.’
‘Now if you’d just said that in the first place…’ Owen grabbed his phone, wallet and keys from a nearby table and headed for the door. Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he glanced over his shoulder at Sam. ‘I’ll pick up some wine on the way. White or red?’
‘Yes.’
With a laugh and a wave, Owen jogged up the stairs.
A fierce wind tore along the promenade, sending odd bits of rubbish swirling and making Owen glad for the thick fleece sweatshirt he’d donned that morning. Stretching out one foot, he stamped on a sheet of newspaper as it went dancing past on the wind. Two more sheets barrelled past him, so having pocketed the first sheet he went chasing after them. As he continued to make his way along the prom, he came across several more sheets which he stopped to gather. He hated seeing rubbish anywhere, but particularly somewhere as beautiful as the bay. There were plenty of bins posted along the prom, painted in the same glossy black as the railings to help them blend in. Stopping at the nearest one, he stuffed the newspaper down inside to prevent it from being carried off again.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, is that my paper?’ Owen glanced up to see a flustered older lady approaching him. She clutched a messy bundle of screwed-up papers and supplements still in their plastic wrap against her chest with one hand, the other full of shopping bags. ‘The wind caught me by surprise as I came out of the newsagent’s and I ended up dropping it. Before I knew it, bits were flying everywhere.’ Red-faced with distress, she tried to gesture with her hands, almost losing grip of one of the magazines.
‘Here, let me help you.’ Taking the stack, he knelt to sort and straighten the pile into something more manageable, talking to her as he worked. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve thrown half of your copy of The Times in the bin. I didn’t realise.’
‘Oh, not to worry. I saved the puzzle section, so that’s the main thing.’ With a bit of effort, Owen wrestled the remaining stack into a shopping bag she held open, then brushed off his knees. ‘You’re very kind,’ the woman said, her eyes almost disappearing in a crinkly smile.
‘It’s nothing, really. Now, are you sure you can manage all this, or can I give you a hand?’ It hadn’t escaped his notice how white her fingers were from the weight of her shopping straining them.
‘I haven’t far to go, just up to Baycrest. It was too nice a day to stay cooped up, although I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so windy.’ She adjusted the brightly coloured scarf covering her white curls then tilted her head to one side. ‘Do I know you?’
‘My name’s Owen Coburn. You might have seen me around the place, I’m working with Sam Barnes from The Siren. We’re opening a restaurant together, you might have heard about that?’
‘I’ve heard all about it from Joe—that’s Sam’s grandfather. He’s got a flat at Baycrest just a few doors down from mine. I must say it sounds very exciting, if a bit fancy for the likes of me, but that’s not it.’ To Owen’s surprise, she gripped his chin between two fingers and turned his first one way then the other. ‘No, there’s something about you, young man, I just can’t put my finger on it.’
Excitement churned in his gut. Could this be the breakthrough he’d been looking for? Telling himself to not get ahead of himself, he tried to keep his first question casual.
‘Have you lived in Lavender Bay for a long time, Mrs…?’
‘Collymore,’ she supplied. ‘But you can call me Doris, dear. If you count seventy-eight years as a long time, dear, then I’d say so. Born and raised here.’ She pointed vaguely in the direction of the shops. ‘Lived next door to the Methodist chapel until the day I was married, then moved into one of the old fishing cottages where I remained until the day my Ned passed. I couldn’t stand to be there on my own, and there are plenty of young families in need of good homes, so I packed myself off up to Baycrest. Best thing I ever did. I miss my Ned something awful, but it’s lovely to be surrounded by friends. I have all the company I want, and when I’d rather be on my own I can just shut my front door.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Listen to me giving you my life story! Why did you want to know how long I’ve lived here?’
This was it. He’d told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t need to go rummaging around in the past anymore, but the way his heart was pounding right then told him that was a load of rubbish. He wanted to know. He needed to know. ‘I heard I might have some distant relatives around these parts, but I don’t know anything about them.’
‘Oh, how interesting. What did you say your surname was again, Coburn?’ Her eyes crinkled at the edges, then she shook her head. ‘Can’t say that’s a name I can place, dear, sorry.’
‘The family I’m looking for is the Blackmores.’
Her head jerked up, and a tingle shot down Owen’s spine. ‘Doris?’ he prompted when she didn’t say anything.
‘Sorry, dear, I was wool-gathering. Happens to us all at this age. Let me ask around and I’ll get back to you if I hear of anything.’
Disappointment crashed over him like a tidal wave, threatening to suck him under. He should’ve known better than to get his hopes up. ‘No, that’s fine. I think I might have the name wrong. I’ll double-check my facts first.’
She patted his arm once more. ‘There’s no harm in my asking, there’s not many families around these parts that one or other of us doesn’t know. Don’t fret, dear.’ That was easy for her to say. Owen gave himself a mental kick in the arse. There was no point in being mad at Doris; none of this was her fault.
They reached the bottom of the entrance leading to Baycrest. ‘Stairs or ramp?’ he asked.
‘Ramp, I think. Walking in all that wind has worn me out, but I can manage fine from here.’ She unhooked their arms and held out her hands for her bags.
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Absolutely. You’ve been more than enough help, dear. Come down here now, let me give you a kiss. I can see Lillian twitching at her net curtains so let’s give her something to look at.’
He couldn’t help but laugh, she was a real sweetheart. Bending his head, he let her peck his cheek. ‘It was lovely to meet you, Doris.’
‘You too, Owen, dear. Come for tea next week, that’ll really set the tongues wagging! Let’s say next Wednesday at four o’clock. I’m in flat three on the ground floor. There’s a buzzer at the main entrance.’
‘I might just do that. Take care now.’ He waited at the bottom of the path until he was sure Doris was managing on her own, then headed back the way he’d come. A dark cloud blotted out the weak warmth of the sun, turning his mood as grey as the weather once more.