with a name like Harry?’
‘Using my full name would make it even harder for me to get some people in this business to take me seriously. Believe me, if they hear that Harriet’s on the phone they have a tendency to find other jobs to do. Harry gets a much quicker response and it was my dad’s name. To anyone who dealt with him, I guess I’m the son he never had.’
There was a pause whilst he thought it over.
‘Right. So the old man’s put you in charge now, eh?’
For a young man, his view of what he thought the natural order ought to be was pretty outdated, thought Harry, always acutely sensitive to any suggestion that she wasn’t up to running the business. ‘Actually,’ she corrected him, ‘I own the yard. Just me, with some help from George. I took on the place when Dad died.’
‘Quite a responsibility.’
Harry got the impression his smile was a little forced and there was an undercurrent to his observation that was completely lost on her. Or maybe Matthew Corrigan had taught her to be suspicious even when there was no good reason. She managed to smile back despite her unease. ‘It can be,’ she acknowledged, trying not to give too much away.
‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’
‘There are plenty of people who would like to be their own boss, choosing their own working hours and having the freedom to enjoy this wonderful scenery. Look, am I missing something here? For someone who came in to look for directions you ask a lot of questions.’
He laughed, showing white even teeth. ‘I haven’t got the hang of your British reserve yet. Yes, I was curious; you’re an unusual woman, Harry Watling. Takes some guts to hang on in a place like this, I bet most people in your position would have sold up. I mean, this is a pretty desirable location.’
‘I’m not most people,’ Harry told him, feeling that he’d taken up enough of her time. ‘Do you know where you’re going now?’
‘Good question.’ He studied her face before replacing his sunglasses. ‘As it happens, I’ve found what I was looking for.’ He pointed across to the old clubhouse. ‘I’ve come to talk to a man about his kitchen.’
Harry tried not to sigh. For a little while, at least until it all fell flat, she would no doubt have to put up with a steady stream of exotic strangers in smart clothes and flashy cars invading Watling’s in their search for the old clubhouse. Matthew was hardly going to traipse down to the retail outlet to fit out his restaurant. Presumably he wouldn’t use anyone who wasn’t ostensibly at the top of their game, and the man standing in front of her certainly acted as if he was used to nothing less than complete adulation. He raised one eyebrow at her and Harry realised she’d been staring.
‘Oh, so you’re a kitchen designer?’ Bit rude to suggest he flogged them; he didn’t look the sort to appreciate being called a salesman, even if he was very good at it.
He looked as if he was struggling to contain his amusement. ‘Not quite, I work in them. I’m a chef, my name’s Jimi Tan.’
His voice lifted at the end of the sentence. Harry couldn’t decide whether it was a peculiarity of his accent or if he was trying to tell her something. Maybe she should have heard of him, but she had better things to do than flick through celebrity magazines. On the other hand there was something about him that seemed faintly familiar. Eventually she gave up.
‘Should I know who you are? Because I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry.’
The smile flickered briefly. ‘No need to apologise, Harry, it’s not your fault.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. Best not to keep the man waiting too long, eh? Good to meet you, Harry. Maybe I’ll see you around?’
Unlikely, she thought. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, good luck with your meeting.’
He nodded and went to walk off before seeming to remember something. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about your dad, Harry. I know how you feel.’
Matthew
‘Using my full name would make it even harder for me to get some people in this business to take me seriously. Believe me, if they hear that Harriet’s on the phone they have a tendency to find other jobs to do. Harry gets a much quicker response and it was my dad’s name. To anyone who dealt with him, I guess I’m the son he never had.’
There was a pause whilst he thought it over.
‘Right. So the old man’s put you in charge now, eh?’
For a young man, his view of what he thought the natural order ought to be was pretty outdated, thought Harry, always acutely sensitive to any suggestion that she wasn’t up to running the business. ‘Actually,’ she corrected him, ‘I own the yard. Just me, with some help from George. I took on the place when Dad died.’
‘Quite a responsibility.’
Harry got the impression his smile was a little forced and there was an undercurrent to his observation that was completely lost on her. Or maybe Matthew Corrigan had taught her to be suspicious even when there was no good reason. She managed to smile back despite her unease. ‘It can be,’ she acknowledged, trying not to give too much away.
‘Doesn’t it get lonely?’
‘There are plenty of people who would like to be their own boss, choosing their own working hours and having the freedom to enjoy this wonderful scenery. Look, am I missing something here? For someone who came in to look for directions you ask a lot of questions.’
He laughed, showing white even teeth. ‘I haven’t got the hang of your British reserve yet. Yes, I was curious; you’re an unusual woman, Harry Watling. Takes some guts to hang on in a place like this, I bet most people in your position would have sold up. I mean, this is a pretty desirable location.’
‘I’m not most people,’ Harry told him, feeling that he’d taken up enough of her time. ‘Do you know where you’re going now?’
‘Good question.’ He studied her face before replacing his sunglasses. ‘As it happens, I’ve found what I was looking for.’ He pointed across to the old clubhouse. ‘I’ve come to talk to a man about his kitchen.’
Harry tried not to sigh. For a little while, at least until it all fell flat, she would no doubt have to put up with a steady stream of exotic strangers in smart clothes and flashy cars invading Watling’s in their search for the old clubhouse. Matthew was hardly going to traipse down to the retail outlet to fit out his restaurant. Presumably he wouldn’t use anyone who wasn’t ostensibly at the top of their game, and the man standing in front of her certainly acted as if he was used to nothing less than complete adulation. He raised one eyebrow at her and Harry realised she’d been staring.
‘Oh, so you’re a kitchen designer?’ Bit rude to suggest he flogged them; he didn’t look the sort to appreciate being called a salesman, even if he was very good at it.
He looked as if he was struggling to contain his amusement. ‘Not quite, I work in them. I’m a chef, my name’s Jimi Tan.’
His voice lifted at the end of the sentence. Harry couldn’t decide whether it was a peculiarity of his accent or if he was trying to tell her something. Maybe she should have heard of him, but she had better things to do than flick through celebrity magazines. On the other hand there was something about him that seemed faintly familiar. Eventually she gave up.
‘Should I know who you are? Because I’m afraid I don’t. Sorry.’
The smile flickered briefly. ‘No need to apologise, Harry, it’s not your fault.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I guess I’ll be on my way. Best not to keep the man waiting too long, eh? Good to meet you, Harry. Maybe I’ll see you around?’
Unlikely, she thought. ‘Perhaps. Anyway, good luck with your meeting.’
He nodded and went to walk off before seeming to remember something. ‘Hey, I’m sorry about your dad, Harry. I know how you feel.’
Matthew
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