That Saturday is opening day. It’s eight o’clock in the morning when I leave the house with three jars of jam Dad made last night, and although he tried to show me how to do it myself, the thought of all that fiddling with thermometers and straining and sugar boiling points was enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.
Even though the sun rose hours ago, the grassy verges are covered in early-morning dew drops, the first sign that autumn won’t be long in coming, and I get that familiar sinking feeling when I think of what the next few weeks will bring. Whether we save the tree or not … whether the strawberry patch is a success or not … I cannot stay here. I have to go back to London and somehow explain this whole mess to Harrison and hope he lets me keep my job. And when did I start saying “back to London” instead of “home”? I shouldn’t be thinking like this. London is home. Lemmon Cove hasn’t been for a long, long while. And yet the thought of not breathing sea air and scaring off flocks of sparrows every morning in favour of cramming myself onto a sweaty tube and breathing in pollution and exhaust fumes makes the stone in my stomach grow even bigger. And then there’s Ryan. Every time I think about leaving Ry, it puts me instantly on the edge of tears and I push the thoughts down, like if I just don’t think about it, it will never happen.
I’m dodging cars parked on pavements even at this time of day and the Seaview Heights car park is also packed, and I have to squeeze between cars to get in. They couldn’t all be here for strawberries, could they?
There are so many people that it feels like I’m already late. Tonya and Ffion are sitting at a table on the care home driveway, inviting visitors to their cake stall. Someone’s obviously spent half the night baking, because there’s a huge cake stand full of Welsh cakes, a pile of dainty china cups and saucers and a teapot with jugs of milk and sugar, and a big bowl of clotted cream.
‘Ooh, you are clever.’ Tonya grabs a jar of jam from my hand before I’ve fully removed it from my bag, unscrews the lid and plunges a spoon in, smacking her lips together as she tastes it. ‘I wish I could do that. Will you give me the recipe and full instructions before you leave?’
‘Oh, I was a bit rusty, my dad is really the—’ I stutter.
‘Fabulous!’ She shoos me out of the way to serve a customer wanting a cup of tea and two Welsh cakes, and that familiar guilt bristles at me again. They all think I’m something I’m not, and that I slaved over a hot stove for most of the night in the kitchen, when all I really did was peer over my dad’s shoulder and try to take in what he was saying.
They’re not charging for the food, but there’s a donation box on the table and the man puts a couple of pound coins in and nods his thanks.
‘Now go and see your boy,’ Ffion says when the man leaves. ‘He’s got a real spring in his step this morning and I think we all know why.’
‘Ry’s not mine,’ I say, even though the words make me feel flushed and fluttery. ‘The spring in his step will be from all the sugar flying about from those Welsh cakes.’
Tonya fixes me with a knowing look. ‘The fact you knew who I was talking about says it all.’
‘Well, you were unlikely to be talking about Godfrey.’ I give her a wink. ‘Although you could’ve meant Mr Barley or that mankini-wearing Jeremy Corbyn gnome that’s … sticking out of the hedge?’ I squint towards it.
‘Picking blackberries, apparently,’ Ffion says. ‘We’ve given up on trying to stop Mr Barley now as long as they’re not naked or doing something that would scar innocent children for life.’
The care home owner, Steffan, is skulking around at the top of the driveway, pacing back and forth in front of the entrance to the white brick building. I watch as he does a circle of the building and returns, and I get the feeling he’s trying to keep his eyes on everything at once, and is maybe a bit overwhelmed by it all.
He catches me looking, and I give him a nod, and when he returns it, I try a wave that ends up coming out more like a salute. Maybe we should have got him involved in this. Everyone has treated him as an enemy because he’s selling the land, but he’s obviously having second thoughts, or I wouldn’t be here.
I see Ryan straight away when I walk into the strawberry patch, the temporary metal gates thrown aside to welcome visitors. He’s near the two trestle tables that have been set up as a checkout area and are currently manned by Godfrey and Mr Barley. He’s putting together make-your-own punnets ready for customers to grab and fill and then pay £2.50 for as they leave. There are already a few people putting strawberries into the recyclable handled boxes, taking their pick from the hundreds of plants.
Ryan grins when he sees me, and that familiar warmth floods in again. There’s something so nice about feeling like people are pleased to see you. It doesn’t happen in London. The people at work are about as indifferent to me as they are to the staff water dispenser in the corner, but here, since the moment Cheryl greeted me in the train station car park, I’ve felt wanted and welcome.
He’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt today, which arguably does more for his biceps than his usual tank top look does. The sleeves are positively straining around muscular arms, and he’s got on black three-quarter-length cargo trousers with his feet shoved into trainers instead of hiking boots, and I can’t tear my eyes away from his solid calf muscles that look like he spends half his life mountain climbing. He’s the kind of guy who could make socks and sandals look sexy. Although I hope he never tries it, just in case.
‘Gosh, I’m so awful at this, but you’ll know. What is it?’ I jump when Alys shoves her phone in my face, so focused on Ryan’s legs that I hadn’t noticed her approaching.
‘I sent her a picture of my tomato slicer last night and she got it straight away. I can’t let her win this one too. You’re my “Guess the Gadget” expert – any ideas?’
I look at the photo onscreen and recognise it immediately because my mum had one. ‘It’s a strawberry huller. It’s your friend’s way of showing support on opening day.’
As I watch her walk away happily to text her friend, I feel guilty again. Any guessing of gadgets has been pure coincidence, fluke, and luck, but even that somehow ties into me being a chef. Everything is tainted by this lie, even the most innocent of things that should be fun.
‘Good morning,’ Ryan says cheerily. I’m gravitating towards him even without knowing where I was going. He leans down to give me a one-armed hug, and I can’t stop my hand sliding up his warm arm and giving him a squeeze back. The familiar scent of his saltwater and bamboo-esque cologne surrounds me and when I go to pull back, he holds on for a moment longer, his stubble grazing when his lips press against my forehead.
Neither of us have mentioned the other night again since, although there have been a few stolen kisses behind the tree trunk when the residents aren’t looking, but there’s a cloud hanging over us. I’m holding back because of the lie, and I know Ryan’s holding back because my life isn’t here anymore. And I can’t get the idea of him being supposed to marry someone else out of my head. It was a long time ago and it shouldn’t still bother me, but the fact he could keep something like that a secret puts a totally different slant on the no-secrets friendship I thought we had, and I’ve spent so many years thinking he didn’t kiss me back that day for one reason, I still haven’t quite processed that it was something else entirely.
‘Hi.’ I can’t get the grin off my face even after he pulls away. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet. Where are all these people coming from?’
‘Seaview Heights started to get some calls last night – people enquiring about parking, payment options, opening times, that sort of thing. Tonya did some digging and discovered that one of the major tourist websites has chosen it as their “pick of the week” for things to do in South Wales, and it’s gathered the right kind of attention.’ He taps the table and I notice the stack of newspapers on one end.
He picks one up and holds it in front of him, accidentally making the cardboard punnet he’d just folded together pop apart. ‘This morning’s paper.’
‘Front-page news!’ I squeal so loudly that several hearing aids go on the blink. ‘This is amazing!’
It’s the most widely circulated newspaper in South Wales, and covering the entire front page is one of Ryan’s photos of the tree at dusk with the sunset sinking into the ocean behind it, and the headline splashed across it reads – Centuries-old strawberry patch reopening amidst stricken seaside sycamore.
I scrabble to turn to page 4 for the full story, my fingers clumsy with excitement. ‘Oh God, Ry.’ I feel my face fall. ‘It’s us.’
There on page 4 and 5 is a whole double-page spread, led by a huge photo of me and Ryan, our arms linked as we took a bite of the first strawberry the other day, and surrounding it are smaller photos of us laughing, digging, laying the weed fabric, and trying to wrestle a gnome from Baaabra Streisand’s mouth. No one is allowed to eat Tony Blair.
On the opposite page, there’s a half-size photo of us hugging. I didn’t even realise Tonya had taken a photo, but it must’ve been after the strawberry tasting when Ryan hugged me because there he is with his arms around me, my head on his chest, his chin resting on my forehead. Both of us have our eyes closed and look totally enrapt with each other. The framing is perfect – a beautiful sunburst on the left and the strawberry patch spread out behind us. It was the morning after rain and Tonya has managed to capture the glistening of the red fruits and the raindrops on pretty white flowers reflecting from the sun and looking like they’re sparkling. The picture is so … joyful. It would make me want to visit if I wasn’t already here.
Underneath it is a picture I took of all the residents standing in front of the tree with Baaabra. The sun is dappled through the branches and shining down on the group, and both pictures together are so magical that you can almost see fairies dancing through them.
‘You look so happy,’ Godfrey says. I hadn’t realised he was listening.
‘So in love with each—’ Mr Barley grunts when Godfrey stamps on his foot under the table they’re sharing, having forgotten that there’s nothing covering the table and their legs are clearly visible.
‘With life itself,’ Mr Barley corrects himself.
I don’t even recognise myself in these photos. My usually sweaty skin looks glowing, and my grown-out hair looks neat and shiny because the camera is kind to split ends, and the blue bits look professionally blended with my dark hair and exactly the kind of metallic shade it looked on the box. Usually I look like someone dyed a bus blue.
All of this is fantastic, and I should be ecstatic, even though I’m an introvert and the idea of photos of me being in a paper that thousands of people read makes butterflies swish around inside and not the good kind of butterflies.
However, it won’t be fantastic if Harrison is one of those people.
‘Have you checked the petition?’ Ryan’s eyes are dancing. ‘The paper only went out at seven o’clock this morning and there are already ten thousand more signatures than there were last night. Our website has crashed three times with the amount of traffic, and Tonya’s had so many emails that she’s paying her grandson to be her personal assistant for the week. He’s got at least three enquiries from national newspapers and a TV camera crew are on their way here.’
‘Oh my God,’ I say. He thinks I’m so overjoyed I can barely find words, and I am for the sake of the tree and the people here, but there’s going to be no hiding a TV crew from Harrison. Or national newspaper coverage. And then what? I lose my job. I have rent and bills to pay in London, and Harrison is a big name in business; he’s bound to blacklist me with other companies. I didn’t spend the past four years as his assistant only to throw it all away, but how am I ever going to convince him that this is all part of a cunning plan to undermine the protest?
I sigh, attracting attention from Ryan, Godfrey, and Mr Barley because I should be happy, not sighing.
The article is beautiful as well. The headline reads “No more wishes at the magical seaside sycamore tree?” and it gives a perfect rundown of the tree – the carvings and the stories behind them, the strawberry patch and Henrietta’s wish to see it as it used to be, and the plight of the care home residents losing their garden space to a hotel. It finishes with links to our website, Tonya’s Twitter account, and the petition, and there’s an appeal for readers to share their stories if they’ve ever visited the seaside sycamore tree.
Godfrey’s signing copies. He’s such a celebrity that he might start charging for his autograph soon. Even Baaabra Streisand has been relocated to a gatepost at the upper end of the land, so she doesn’t get disturbed by people looking at the carvings.
There’s a steady stream of customers all morning. Other residents come out to support their friends, the staff get involved, and Steffan skulks around, pacing from the driveway to the rear of the building and back again, peering over the hedge every time he passes.
There are so many strawberries on plants, and with the sun out, they seem to be ripening in front of our eyes. The tree is a huge hit with visitors, and there are many disappointed children because it’s still summer and the huge bunches of sycamore seeds dangling high above aren’t ready to fall yet.
By lunchtime, Ryan and I, Tonya, and Godfrey have done countless interviews, both in person and over the phone. We’re going to be on the local news tonight and a special interest program on Monday night. The biggest UK-wide newspapers have already published stories about us on their websites, and the number of signatures on the petition is going up every second. Tonya’s grandson keeps shouting out random numbers like 18,137 and 20,989. It’s a gorgeous day and there are plenty of people on their way down to the beach who come in to pick a punnet of fresh strawberries to go with their picnics.
Tonya’s phone hasn’t stopped ringing, Ryan’s assistant at the campsite keeps putting calls through to his mobile, and I’m in the middle of telling a little girl about how I used to pick strawberries here when I was her age when my phone starts buzzing and Harrison’s name flashes up. Even though I was expecting it at any moment, it still makes me jump.
Of course, I’d forgotten to put it on silent, and the loud ringing and buzzing has attracted everyone’s attention, including Ryan’s. The idea of talking to Harrison in front of the people I’m betraying is detestable, but now I can’t even quietly ignore him because that’s going to make them even more suspicious.
‘Go on, Fliss,’ Godfrey says helpfully. ‘I can manage here.’
I reluctantly put the phone to my ear and say his name so brightly that my voice has probably just registered on the National Grid.
Nothing.
‘Harrison? Hello?’
I pull the phone away from my ear but the screen still shows the call is connected.
‘Are you there?’
Silence.
I can’t talk to him here anyway. Apart from being overheard saying something a chef wouldn’t say, there’s so much din from strawberry pickers and people visiting the tree that I can’t hear myself think.
‘I’m going to …’ I say to Godfrey, waving the phone around and gesturing towards the gate.
Like he can sense my unease, Ryan’s watching me from across the patch. ‘Okay?’ he mouths.
I give him a thumbs up and quickly hurry out of the gate, feeling very much not-okay. ‘Harrison? Are you there?’
I put a finger in the other ear to try to block out the noise around me. I can hear the office sounds behind him so I know he’s there, but he’s silent. Like he’s too appalled with me to even speak. This can only be a bad thing, and I brace myself for the yelling that will inevitably follow.
‘Well, this looks like quite a love story.’ He surprises me by talking quietly instead of yelling, although the yelling would be preferable to the menacing tone in his voice.
He’s obviously read the article. I am recognisable then. I was hoping I might’ve got away with it.
‘A love story? Noooo. Noo-oo.’ No one needs to put that much emphasis on a simple “no”. I couldn’t make it sound any more like a love story if I’d tried.
I go up the coastal path and huddle in a corner of the hedge between the pathway and the car park, trying to find somewhere quiet. ‘I can’t really talk right now.’
He laughs a mocking laugh. ‘Oh, I assure you, Felicity, you can find time to talk now.’
‘I’m doing my job,’ I hiss into the phone. ‘I’m doing what you told me to.’
‘You’re hugging some guy on a strawberry patch! Sharing food with him!’
Ah, there’s the yelling.
‘A strawberry patch that did not exist until you got there. And this is the same guy from the sheep video, isn’t it? Is this the campsite-owning Tree Idiot?’
‘Er … no? That’s someone els—’
‘It says here “Local campsite owner, Ryan Sullivan!”’
Something about Harrison knowing Ryan’s name makes the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. ‘Oh. Oh! That guy! Yes, that’s him.’
‘Right. And?’
‘And?’ I tuck my hair back and look around to make sure I’m not being overheard.
‘Are you buying him off with freshly picked strawberries? Trying to seduce him? What’s your angle on this? Because you look smitten.’
‘Looks can be deceiving,’ I mutter. ‘I’m trying to get to know people. To gain their trust. Get right to the heart of this protest, like you told me to.’ I grit my teeth as I say it. I’m doing nothing he told me to. ‘No one’s going to let me in on their plans unless I prove myself to be trustworthy.’
He does a chortle that makes me go cold all over despite the summer sun. You know something’s gone horribly wrong in your life when even one of the most devious, underhanded businessmen in Britain laughs at the notion of you being trustworthy.
‘Have you had a chance to chat to the care home owner yet? I sent him a second set of copies of the paperwork last week – in case he’d misplaced the first lot seeing as it’s taking him so long to sign – and he’s still dithering about it. Give him a kick up the backside when you see him, will you?’
‘He’s … around.’ I peer over the hedge again and spot Steffan skulking around the car park. He catches me looking and I duck down behind the hedge again fast.
‘Without him getting a wiggle on, we’ll lose the hotel company and all their future business if I don’t deliver on this pronto.’
‘Isn’t there somewhere else they can plonk their hotel? This place is special, it doesn’t deserve …’ I trail off because I hear him suck air in through his teeth.
‘Special, is it?’ The menacing tone is back too.
‘Well, not to me,’ I stutter. One day I’ll start thinking before I speak. Today is not that day. ‘To the locals. They won’t give up without a fight. The more of them I meet, the more it doesn’t seem worth it.’ Maybe this is the way out without upsetting either party. If I could persuade Harrison that it’s not worth the hassle, he’d never have to know that I’m not doing my job, and no one in Lemmon Cove would ever find out I’m not a chef.
‘Felicity, you’d make a truly terrible businesswoman.’
Then again, maybe not.
‘You don’t get this far into a transaction and then decide to walk away. How will we ever recoup the costs we’ve already funnelled into this?’
Ffion walks past and gives me a curious glance.
‘Maybe by not offering things you don’t have in the first place,’ I snap into the phone, ashamed of being caught red-handed, so to speak. I give her a nod and a smile, but inside, I’m shrivelling up like a lettuce leaf on a sunny windowsill.
I turn further into the hedge, trying to block out the noise of traffic and the slamming of car doors from the car park.
‘Felicity, this is a disaster. It’s going from bad to worse. That petition is gaining far too many signatures, and now the newspapers have got a hold of the stories. I sent you there to prevent this very thing.’
‘I’m trying, okay?’
‘Really? Because so far, it seems like you’re trying to save the place. If you cost us this client, your job will go with them. Do you understand that?’
If you lose this client, it will be because you sold them land before you owned it. ‘Yes, Harrison,’ I say meekly, annoyed at myself for not telling him where to shove his client. The more time I spend here, the more I despise my company and everything they stand for.
‘Have you tried blackmail? I’ll do some digging on this Ryan Sullivan chap, see what we can dredge up. That might help.’
‘No!’
I can hear the raised eyebrow over the phoneline. ‘Who is he, Felicity? What does he want?’
‘Nothing. He’s just a guy. He loves this place and he doesn’t want the landscape ruined by a hotel.’
‘Of course he doesn’t. He owns a flaming campsite, for God’s sake. That’s like those towns where you have a McDonald’s and a Burger King next door to each other. A constant competition. From what I understand, his campsite is currently the only place to stay in the area. A hotel would drastically decrease his visitor numbers. If you think this is about anything other than business, you’re more naive than I thought.’
I want to tell him he’s wrong. Ryan’s not like that. But the cynical part of me wonders how much of a point he’s got. A hotel opening across the way will have a detrimental effect on Ryan’s business. There’s no denying that.
‘So what’ve you got on him? In the three weeks you’ve been there, you must’ve got something. It certainly looks like you’ve got close enough …’
His tone leaves me without a shadow of a doubt that I have to give him something. I look to the sky for inspiration. ‘He lost his last business because he accidentally poisoned someone with squash.’
‘Excellent.’ I can imagine Harrison steepling his fingers like Mr Burns. ‘That will be useful information. Is it public knowledge?’
‘Yes. Er, I think,’ I say, distracted by doing another check for eavesdroppers.
Harrison tuts. ‘Then how am I supposed to blackmail him with it? It’s no use if the public already know. That would’ve been perfect too. We could’ve run a story about him serving poisonous food; that would’ve soon finished his little establishment off. What else?’
‘You would do that?’ I say in horror. ‘Put out a completely fake story and destroy someone’s livelihood?’
‘Well, I can’t now, can I? Because you haven’t found me any decent information.’
‘Ryan’s not like you.’ I push myself up on tiptoes and peer over the hedge. He’s introducing a little boy to the Donald Trump scarecrow, with its straw hair and face made of orange peel. ‘He’s worked incredibly hard to get to where he is. He’s dedicated and innovative, and smart, and he really cares about people.’
‘A people pleaser, good.’ I can hear the biro scratching across paper as he writes it down.
‘That’s not what I said. He’s dynamic, and ambitious, and fun. He hates social media and his business has gone from strength to strength, and he wants to expand into glamping holidays and self-contained chalets. This tree and the strawberry patch are more important than money to him.’
‘What’s important to me is that when I send my staff to do a job, I get results. Weeks later and all you’ve done since you got there is made the situation worse and stirred up the protest as opposed to quelling it. If there’s something I should know …’
‘The phone signal’s really poor here.’ I scratch my nail across the speaker a couple of times. ‘I think I’m losing you. Don’t worry, everything’s under contro—’ I hang up before he can yell again.
It wasn’t a clever thing to do and he’ll know it had nothing to do with the signal, but I was zero-point-three seconds away from doing something stupid like telling him exactly where he can shove his job. I’m getting caught up in all this and it isn’t reality. Everyone else here is fine. They live here. When the protest is over, win or lose, their lives will carry on. My job, my livelihood, and my ability to pay my bills all rest on Harrison not firing me. I can’t jack in my job and stay. I look over the hedge at Ryan again. No matter how much I wish I could.
‘Are you the one?’
I scream at the unexpected voice behind me as Steffan melts out of the hedge between me and the car park.
‘What?’ I snap at him, my heart hammering from the shock. I step far enough away to put a bit of distance between us and turn to face him with my hands on my hips, trying not to show how petrified I am that he overheard something he shouldn’t have.
‘Are you the one? You know, the one?’ He gives me a conspiratorial wink and thumbs his nose.
It’s a good thing I realise what he means or I might think he was proposing. But my stomach turns over at the thought of him knowing I am, indeed, the “undercover man” Harrison has told him about. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You saluted me earlier.’
‘Just being friendly.’ I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him with a starfish’s strength. And I don’t want him to think he’s got an ally. ‘If you think there’s anyone who’s not who they say they are, you’re wrong.’ I hope I sound more confident than I feel, because I see an opportunity. If I can propagate some seeds of doubt in Harrison’s word, maybe it’ll make him think twice about signing the paperwork.
He doesn’t elaborate and I don’t say any more because it’s a fine line between seeds of doubt and accidentally letting on that I am “the one”.
‘You’re their leader, right?’
‘No. Ryan’s the one in charge. I’m just a visitor.’
‘You visit every day.’
And am extremely pleased to know I’m being monitored. ‘I love it here. This place is special.’
‘I had to open the relief car park before nine a.m. today,’ he says after a while. ‘And Ryan’s opened up the campsite’s parking area too, and people are still queuing to get in.’
I’m not sure what he wants or why he’s telling me this, but I can sense his unease and doubt, and my mind comes back to what I thought earlier – maybe we should be working with him, not against him. ‘You have a good business here. Of course it won’t always be this busy, but over time, maintaining this place, keeping the strawberry patch open and saving the tree … You’d get more money than some soulless hotel has offered you for it.’ It’s plainly a lie. I don’t know how much the hotel has offered, but there are probably more zeroes in it than a few strawberry plants could earn in a century.
He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.
‘More importantly, you’d get the goodwill of the people. Look at this protest. Look at the petition. There are thousands upon thousands of signatures now and it’s going up every minute, and with the number of newspaper, internet, and TV interviews we’ve done this morning, it’s only going to get more attention. People worldwide are commenting on the stories about the carvings we’re posting online. People are making plans to come and visit. You’d hurt so many people by selling it, but you’d make so many people happy if you decided to keep it.’
I think he’s going to dismiss me, but he thinks about it for a few moments. ‘It’s worthless. It might be great at the moment, but when those berries are picked and all those weeds start to regrow, I’ll be in the same position I was before, except I’ll have lost the trust and respect of the companies I’m working with.’
‘But you could do something with it. You could replant the strawberry patch as it was – we’re working with what we’ve got this year, but if proper beds are dug and paths are laid down, there’d be room for so many more plants. Over the course of a few years, it would bring you back more revenue, and regularly, rather than a measly one-off chunk.’ Undoubtedly very, very big chunk, but still.
‘We tried that. It couldn’t be maintained.’ He shrugs. ‘Who’d do it?’
‘I would.’ I fold my arms. ‘Ryan would. I can’t volunteer any of the residents because I don’t know their physical limitations, but everyone out there has been doing everything they can to save it – they’d do what they could to maintain it too.’
‘It’s seasonal.’
‘So is everything. We can work around that. Put up polytunnels for early crops and open in the spring. Open up access to the tree and it would extend through the autumn until the sycamore seeds have fallen. In the winter, we could interplant other crops – low-growing flowers like daffodils and snowdrops. You could sell bunches of them as a drive-by … Even open as a pick-your-own daffodil plot. One of the people I’ve spoken to runs a third-generation florist shop down the coast. We could look into supplying them – I’m sure they’d be open to discussion. You have this huge amount of land and you’re throwing it away, and destroying something really important in the process.’ I stop myself because I’m getting choked up thinking about losing the tree, and I have to take a deep breath and bite the inside of my lip to stop myself crying.
I can feel his eyes burning into me and instead of instinctively turning away like I usually would, I try to muster the strength and turn the same look back at him. And I realise something.
He looks tired. He looks normal. Not like some evil money-hungry businessman, but like a man who’s probably in over his head like the rest of us. He inherited Seaview Heights from a business partner. It probably wasn’t his first choice of career, and maybe he has no idea what he’s doing either, and now he’s stuck between Harrison’s persuasion tactics and doing what’s right by his residents. His dark hair is peppered with grey streaks, and there are patches of grey at his temples. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he’s been losing sleep over this, and although I’d guess he’s only in his late fifties, his stressed face makes him look older.
‘Are you a gardener?’ he asks.
‘I used to be. I worked with Ryan.’ I watch as he considers this information. ‘How about you?’
‘Insurance claims handler. Well, I was. Seaview Heights was a passion project for my business partner – and best friend of thirty years – and when he died, he left it in my hands. I didn’t want to let him down.’
We look at each other for a few long moments.
‘None of us really know what to do for the best,’ I start softly. ‘We’re all out of our depth here. But surely the one thing we can all agree on is that this is not the place for a hotel. When this day is over, we’re going to bring you all the earnings today, and judging by how busy we’ve been, it’ll be a fair amount. If this is only about financial motivation for you, then at least let that money be an indication of what we could do here. If you sign that paperwork, you’ll be taking so much away from the area and taking the most important thing away from your residents – hope.’
His eyes narrow and I realise I’ve mentioned paperwork I’m not supposed to know about. ‘I’d best be getting back,’ I say in a rush. ‘Look how busy we are. They need all hands on deck.’
‘It was nice to talk to you,’ he calls after me.
I wish the ground would swallow me up. I hope he thinks I was just assuming about the paperwork because thinking before I speak is not one of my strong points.
Ryan’s serving a family of five with a punnet of strawberries each when I get back onto the patch. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks as they leave.
‘Fine.’ I put so much emphasis on it that he can plainly see straight through me.
‘I just had a chat with Steffan,’ I say before he has a chance to question anything. ‘Suggested polytunnels and growing other plants to maximise profit. If we could grow winter flowers, I thought Edie might be on board with using some in her shop’s bouquets …’
‘Oh! Supplying the shop!’ Ryan taps the table excitedly, making Alys and Cynthia who are on checkout duty look up from the customers they’re serving. ‘You know how the local greengrocer used to buy soft fruit from Sullivan’s Seeds because people love produce that’s grown ten minutes down the road?’
I nod.
‘I have an idea, and you’re my girl.’ He uses his finger to do the “come hither” gesture. ‘It’ll be like stepping back in time to when we worked together. We all know things were better back then. The music was definitely better.’
I roll my eyes. Trust him to think of that. ‘It didn’t exactly end well the first time, did it?’
‘It ended with Cliff Richard doing “The Millennium Prayer”.’ He makes a vomiting noise. ‘No music decade deserved to be seen out with that.’
His ability to make me laugh at inappropriate moments definitely hasn’t changed. ‘Firstly, everyone knows Cliff peaked in 1988 with “Mistletoe and Wine”, and secondly, I wasn’t talking about the music.’
He grins like he knows exactly what I was talking about. ‘You know how I always used to drag you along to meet suppliers and potential buyers in case I rambled and said something I couldn’t recover from?’
I nod again, the memories making me grin.
‘When we’re less busy here, what if we go and talk to the owner of the little shop in Lemmon Cove? If he’d be interested in selling strawberries that were grown here, we could get the promise of a contract in place for next year. It would be a guaranteed income for Steffan. We could block off a part of the strawberry patch and use a greenhouse to ensure an early crop.’ His eyes are dancing as the idea comes alive. ‘What do you think, Fee?’
I wonder why it matters what I think. ‘If anyone can do it, it’s you. You were incredible at talking bulk purchasers into buying our products.’
‘Mainly because I rambled so much, they’d agree to anything to make me shut up.’
I laugh. He’s not exactly wrong, but it was always one of the most endearing things about him.
‘Will you come? I can’t do it without you.’
I cock my head to the side, intrigued by his lack of confidence. ‘You never needed me to believe in you, Ry.’
‘Yes, I did. My whole world fell apart without y—’
He’s cut off by the shriek of a child as they find a Boris Johnson gnome holding a butter knife in one hand and a decapitated slug in the other, swiftly followed by the yell of Tonya as she rushes off to give Mr Barley a bollocking and another lecture on child-appropriate gnomes.
He meets my eyes and the laughter we’ve both been trying to hold back bursts out.
‘We’re still a team, right?’ His eyes are crinkling at the corners and every time I think the laughter has stopped, I start giggling again.
‘Right.’
‘Well, until you go home. Then I’ll have to get used to life without you again.’ He’s suddenly serious as he looks down and then looks back up at me. ‘I’m not sure how easy that’ll be.’
It’s a good thing we’re standing near the checkout tables because I need to hold on to one for support. My voice chokes when I go to say something, and all I can do is look up and give him a nod.
It’s not going to be easy for me either. In fact, right now, going home seems like the worst plan I’ve ever had.