Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer. Samantha TongeЧитать онлайн книгу.
and the wife but where is the bingo or puppet show for the kids?’
‘I guess it is early days,’ said Izzy, now on her feet.
‘There’s no reason why any normal family can’t enjoy this place, just the way it is,’ muttered George, and Phil turned purple in the face.
Oh dear. Now tears hung in the little boy’s eyes, while the baby grinned and smeared purée around its mouth, apparently enjoying the sideshow.
I glared at the three adults and jerked my head towards the boy. ‘Perhaps you could discuss this somewhere else?’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll look after the children if—’
‘Don’t bother. We’re leaving,’ said Phil and grabbed his son’s orange juice to knock back. Except the glass must have been wet and, as he lifted it into the air, Phil lost his grip for a second. Liquid gushed southwards and yes, you’ve guessed it, right onto short me.
‘Urgh!’ I wiped my cheek and breathed in sticky citrus smells.
‘Christ,’ said Phil. ‘Huge apologies. I didn’t mean that to happen.’
George rolled his eyes.
‘It was an accident.’ Phil glared at a smug George.
‘Attention, everyone!’ snapped a voice. Formal Cornish tones, already recognisable to me. Within seconds, Tremain stood by my side as I spat out the citrus liquid. I turned around, slipped on spilt liquid and fell to the floor. My cheekbone hit the table on the way down and I winced. Immediately, strong arms pulled me to my feet. I flinched as Tremain touched my skin, just under the left eye.
‘Keep still,’ he ordered and held up his hand as Izzy approached. With a handkerchief, he carefully wiped the juice from my face. He tilted my head to the light and my heart raced as he trailed a finger across my eye socket. Must have been the shock of the argument, that’s all.
‘No real damage done. You might have a bruise for a few days. You’re lucky you didn’t hit the table corner. That could have gone in your eye.’
‘Lucky?’ I stuttered and wondered why his proximity made me not trust myself. Up close, I noticed a small scar above his top lip. How many women had tried to kiss it better? Urgh! Where had that thought come from? Perhaps I was dazed from the fall. Yes. I mean nothing could persuade me to press my lips against the lips of a man who was so arrogant. Even if his leaf-green eyes, for one second, appeared full of concern. Even if, up, close and personal, with his broad chest, firm arms and direct stare, he looked like a man who would single-handedly fight a whole army for you, if he’d decided you were his one.
Tremain turned to Phil and George. ‘It takes a five foot woman to try to settle your argument?’
‘Five foot two,’ I muttered, ‘and that’s sexist.’
Tremain flashed me a look. Blimey. Was that almost a hint of humour in his eyes? I couldn’t tell, because it disappeared more quickly than the orange juice had flown.
‘This is a holiday resort not a war zone,’ Tremain continued.
Phil rubbed his forehead while their baby looked on, absolutely delighted. No doubt this was even better than its favourite slapstick kids TV show. ‘Your waiter was rude, Mr Maddock,’ he said and briefly explained what had happened, despite George’s indignant interjections.
‘I see.’ Tremain glanced back at me and something stirred in my stomach as he scanned me from head to toe. ‘Good thing that washing machine is working in your chalet—and that the drink wasn’t red wine,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Sir … Madam.’ He half smiled at Phil and his wife. ‘I appreciate your disappointment in our site, so I do, and apologies—we are going through a transition period, thrown upon us unexpectedly, and are doing our best. That’s why you weren’t charged for this week—so that you could provide useful feedback. Please.’ Tremain called over Greg. ‘I’m sure Chef will be happy to cook something that meets your needs.’ Tremain raised an eyebrow. ‘George?’ He jerked his head and the two of them headed into the kitchen.
Around twenty minutes later, after Greg had taken the family’s order and Izzy and I had finished our food, the kitchen’s doors swung open. George stormed out and pulled off his name badge. He threw it onto one of the tables and then hurried past us, before leaving the building. Tremain appeared a few seconds later.
‘All sorted?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ muttered Tremain and shook his head. ‘George seems to have reacted to a flying splat of carrot purée, as if it were a hand grenade that might threaten your life.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, my apologies for this incident. I’ve dealt with it.’
‘Perhaps he just needs time—to adjust?’ Izzy said.
Tremain shrugged. ‘Mother and I have made it quite clear to the staff what is expected of them now. Fortunately, so far, most of our team have proved able to cope with the rebranding. But the change in clientele has brought new challenges.’ Looking suddenly tired, Tremain gently took my arm and steered me towards outside, whilst Izzy sat talking to the young waiter. In the evening light, Tremain took another look at my face.
‘The bruise is blackening now. I’d get back to your lodge if I was you, and soak those clothes.’
‘Thanks … um … Shame about George. You wouldn’t think he was such a snob, just to look at him. He seems like an ordinary guy—a granddad type, who loves kids.’
‘Then lesson learnt—never judge a person by their appearance.’
I shifted from foot to foot. ‘Yes, about that, you see, with the soil on your clothes, I assumed …’ Urgh, rambling now.
‘I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty and I’d say the best managers get down with the lower ranks,’ he said and walked off.
Ranks? He made his staff sound like an army regiment. I followed him. OK, I wasn’t perfect, but I never found it hard to apologise when I was in the wrong.
‘Wait a minute. Look, I’m sorry.’
Tremain turned around. ‘Whatever. Makes no difference to me. Gardener, handyman, management …’ His eyes flickered. ‘There are worse jobs a man can do.’
My heart squeezed as in that brief second his eyes revealed a degree of … damage. Once again I felt that urge to wrap my arms around his solid frame. What was that all about? Maybe, just maybe, there was a human being below that tough, uncompromising, robotic surface.
‘We go together, like ramma ramma lamma, dippety dooby dooby, sha na na …’
‘Kate! You just murdered that chorus.’
‘Don’t be cheeky.’ I grinned and glanced sideways at Izzy as she drove along the coastal road. Or rather chugged—the volume of tourist traffic was high, but that didn’t matter as it meant we could enjoy the sea views. I never could remember the exact words to that brill song from Grease
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