He handed Katie a rectangle of thick cream parchment embossed with gold lettering, which confirmed that Gregory A. Forbes was indeed the CEO of Forbes & Mortimer, high-end property developers.
‘As I said, I’ve been trying to contact Ms Carmichael for some time, but she’s proved as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Maybe she should consider taking up a position as an international spy!’ Greg laughed at his own joke, a braying guffaw that reminded Katie of a strangulated donkey. ‘Once she’s heard what I’m prepared to shell out to add this scruffy, run-down shack to my portfolio, I’m sure she’ll snap my hand off.’
The niggle of discomfort morphed into anxiety, but for a totally different reason.
‘May I ask what you intend to do with the café?’
‘And the flat upstairs – is it one bedroom or two, by the way?’
‘It’s two, but …’
‘Even better!’ Greg’s eyes glinted like the diamond in his pinkie ring. ‘It’ll make a superb luxury apartment for some wealthy escapee from the London rat race to enjoy a taste of the real Cornwall, and, as an added bonus, once the renovations are complete it’ll add a little bit of sophistication to this run-down seaside village. Any idea who owns the field at the back of here with those awful wooden hobbit houses on?’
Katie worked hard to conceal her reaction, to maintain her expression of polite interest in Greg’s plans. Two things bounced around her brain as she slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans whilst Greg took the liberty of poking around in the kitchen – opening cupboard doors, switching on the lights, and generally impersonating the equivalent of a used car salesman kicking the tyres.
First of all, she knew there would be a reason why Agatha hadn’t left a forwarding address with one of the other business owners in Perrinby, and she should check in with her friend before handing over her personal details. But secondly – and this was the overwhelming emotion swirling around her veins – what if she could do this? What if she could make Agatha’s Beachside Café a success? And how would she know unless she tried?
She glanced out of the bay window at the spectacular view of the beach beyond; the sand washed in a golden glow from the midday sun, a lone jet-ski rider skimming the surface of the waves like a pond-skater, a toddler collecting pebbles and shells in her castle-shaped bucket. Closer to home, she could see the ducks going about their daily business, and the owner of the bridal boutique in the process of waving goodbye to a beaming client and her chattering entourage. Ignoring the stab of pain that the unbridled joy on the bride-to-be’s face caused her, Katie made her decision.
‘I’m sorry, Greg, but I think I should check with Agatha before I hand over her phone number.’
She gave him her brightest smile, but to her utter astonishment Greg’s face clouded, his jaw tightened and he whipped his fists from his pockets, slamming them down on the wooden table in front of her with such force that he sent a chair, and her heart, crashing onto the floor.
‘God! Will you just hand it over? Anyone would have thought this Agatha woman’s one of those privacy-obsessed celebrities instead of a common-or-garden domestic science teacher on the run from her failed marriage.’
Katie gaped at Greg in astonishment, but before she could say anything further the door of the café burst open to reveal a man with the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, his unruly blond curls sporting a natural just-tumbled-from-bed look, and his previously white T-shirt covered in splashes of paint and clay.
Despite the tenseness of the situation, her first thought was where had he left his surfboard?
Chapter 3
‘I heard shouting. Is everything okay? Oh, it’s you.’
The tone of her saviour’s voice told Katie everything she needed to know – and that she had been right to withhold Agatha’s details from the self-styled property tycoon. Obviously she wasn’t the only one to have fallen foul of his demands.
‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I need to take a shower after spending time in this rat-infested place!’ spat Greg, all previous charm evaporated as he turned to face Katie, his index finger raised. ‘But make no mistake – I’ll be back. And a word of advice from the wise: if you’re thinking of trying to revitalise this “cute little Cornish café”, then you’re onto a loser. No one with an ounce of commercial acumen would even contemplate opening a new business in a village like this.’
Only when the roar of the BMW’s powerful engine had melted into the distance did Katie allow herself to sink down onto one of the battered wooden chairs, her whole body besieged by a sudden bout of trembling, her heart beating hard against her ribcage after the unexpectedly upsetting encounter.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes,’ she muttered. ‘Thanks.’
But she wasn’t. Her anxiety demons, so close to the surface since Dominic had thrown a grenade into her carefully constructed world, had broken free of their shackles and were gleefully rampaging around her body, making it difficult for her to breathe. All she wanted to do was grab her antibacterial spray and launch into a marathon of frenzied cleaning until they retreated back into their dark and dingy cave, but she couldn’t do that with an audience – that wasn’t the relaxed, karma-infused first impression she had wanted to project to potential customers.
‘I’m sorry to say it, but you don’t look okay.’ The beach-boy-lookalike smiled as he ran his fingers through his tousled curls. ‘I’m Oscar, by the way, Oscar Spencer. I run the art gallery and ceramics studio next door.’
‘Katie Campbell, deluded newbie café manager.’
Oscar laughed, his vivid blue eyes crinkling attractively at the corners. ‘Look, why don’t you come over and I’ll make you a coffee?’
‘Thanks, I’d love that.’
She gave Oscar a grateful smile and followed him to the adjacent building, a mirror image of the café, but that was where the similarities ended. In complete contrast to the dowdy duchess next door, the gallery was filled with warmth and light and the heady fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, buttery croissants and the wisp of citrusy cologne. The walls, ceiling and elaborate cornices were painted in gleaming white paint, and the wooden floorboards had been stripped back and whitewashed. It was fresh and clean and the perfect backdrop for the main attraction – the artwork, which adorned all available surfaces.
Everywhere she looked there were canvases of all different shapes and sizes; some mounted, some framed, some showcasing muted watercolours, others vibrant pastels, but all depicting local scenes of the Cornish countryside and, of course, the beach. Interspersed between the paintings and pencil drawings were hand-thrown ceramic pots, quirky sculptures made from driftwood and sea glass, and on a paint-splattered easel in the far corner stood a huge canvas that Oscar had clearly been in the middle of working on when he’d heard Greg’s outburst, depicting a family picnicking on a windswept beach, the parents relaxing on a red-checked blanket alongside a wicker basket, smiling indulgently at the two young boys scampering across the sand, their faces wreathed in joy as their blond hair burgeoned in the breeze. It was the best piece in the room and Katie couldn’t take her eyes from it.