High Tide Page 19

  It was a summer of sailing, music, laughter and promise. Debbie’s dad had done up an old dinghy, which they took up and down the river and round to secret coves in a flotilla with their friends. Kate remembered wearing nothing but a bikini top and shorts day in day out. She remembered the cool water on her skin as she dived off the dinghy into the bright-blue water. Their limbs turned biscuit brown, their hair streaked white-blonde. They were golden girls.

  They owned the town. They had no shortage of boys to choose from, both from Pennfleet and summer visitors. They flirted, but that was it. They didn’t want to be tied down. They thrived on kisses and flattery, growing ever more confident. Their friendship was strong and it was all they needed. There was no pact; it was just how they operated. Each of them knew that the possibility of someone meaningful was out there, but until he came along, they weren’t ready for anything serious. Freedom was paramount.

  The yacht club end-of-season disco proved a turning point. Maybe it was the sense that summer was drawing to a close, as the days got shorter and the sun got lower in the sky. Maybe it gave them a sense of urgency, a sense that they needed something more to get them through the long dark winter months. The visitors would be leaving soon and the town would become a ghost of itself, the pubs and bars suddenly empty of noise and laughter.

  The Malahide grandchildren were there in force. Their grandmother Irene, chatelaine of Southcliffe, had been a high court judge who’d retired to Pennfleet and was determined to see out the rest of her days giving her extended family holidays to remember. Southcliffe had been the scene of much revelry and high jinks over the years. There were enough Malahides to throw a party without inviting anyone else, but they were sociable and generous and so the young of Pennfleet often found themselves lured up the long winding drive and onto the croquet lawn. Their grandmother was sensible enough not to let the rabble into the actual house, but the garages had a huge empty space over the top of them that converted neatly into a party room. The parties were wild. The Malahides’ friends were spoiled, wealthy and high-spirited. The indigenous young of Pennfleet were never quite sure how to treat them. Hearts and noses were broken, aided and abetted by vast quantities of drink.

  Tonight, they had come into Pennfleet en masse. They were a yacht club fixture, with a plethora of boats between them. They scooped up all the trophies in the regatta, and no one much cared, because it seemed to have become a given that they would win. It was impossible to know how many of them there actually were, because their ranks swelled and dwindled from weekend to weekend, depending on which of them were down. It seemed that night they were all there. Everywhere you looked, there was a white-blonde head, a vision of good breeding. They had none of the potential faults of English aristocracy: their teeth were perfect; there was no goofiness or underbites or sticky-out ears. They were catalogue perfect, in their faded denim and boat shoes and polo shirts, boys and girls alike.

  And it was there Kate found herself pinned down by Rupert’s bright, enquiring gaze. Rupert had had a terrible reputation. In another age he would have been called a playboy. He toyed mercilessly with the hearts of the local girls. Rupert, it was said, was his grandmother’s favourite and was due to inherit Southcliffe.

  That night he was wearing a Breton T-shirt, shorts and espadrilles, with a bandana round his neck. He should have looked ridiculous and effeminate, but as soon as Kate met his gaze she knew there was no question. He made her feel mysterious, alluring, like the girl he had been looking for all his life.

  ‘Come and dance,’ he said to her, and it was a command. She had no choice.

  They owned the dance floor. They barely touched, but their eyes never left each other as they moved in perfect time to the music, the bass pounding through them. Kate knew everyone was looking, that her friends were exchanging glances. Debbie caught her eye at one point – a warning glance, she thought, a glance that asked whether she knew what she was doing. But she was in too deep by then. She was bewitched.

  And then he took her hand and led her away from the dance floor.

  Debbie cornered her.

  ‘What are you doing? You know what he’s like.’

  ‘I can look after myself.’ Vodka had made Kate bold.

  ‘You know what he does! Makes the local girl feel like a princess, gets into her knickers then dumps her.’

  Rupert was waiting patiently throughout their whispered exchange. Debbie flashed him a sweet smile then turned back to Kate.

  ‘You’re just a plaything. Don’t fall for it. You’re just his new box of Lego. He’ll forget you tomorrow.’

  ‘Debs – I’ll be fine.’

  That was how his magic worked. He made girls feel invincible. Special.

  He led her out onto the deck overlooking the river. The cool night air settled on her skin. The river rippled and shone in the lights from the yacht club. She could hear the water, reassuring, always there, lapping against the bank.

  And he kissed her and she thought, This is it. This is what it’s all about. Everything she’d ever heard about him, she forgot in that moment. Every warning. As he ran his fingers through her hair, and murmured into her ear, his warm lips working their way down her neck to her collarbone, any doubts she’d had melted away. Her blood fizzed as sweet as sherbet inside her.

  ‘Where can we go?’ he asked.

  And without thinking twice, she led him to the shed where the boats were taken for repair, with its cold cement floor and the smell of diesel, and she fucked him, up against the wall, digging her nails into his back under the rough cloth of his shirt. And they stood, gasping and clinging to each other, and he whispered, ‘Oh my God. I didn’t know it could be like that,’ and she didn’t realise he said that to all the girls.

  They lay curled up with each other for hours in the darkness, warmed by their lust. Their fingers were linked as they whispered. They rubbed noses, touched foreheads, their breath mingled, their lips grew sore from kissing.

  ‘Come to my brother’s twenty-first,’ said Rupert. ‘Next Saturday. I need you with me. I want you to sit next to me. Promise?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kate’s heart thudded.

  ‘You’ll be the guest of honour.’

  ‘What should I wear?’

  ‘Oh, any old thing.’ He grinned. ‘Nothing, preferably. Seven thirty for eight.’

  He held her tight before she peeled herself away. She had to be home by one. Her parents trusted her and in return she never broke their rules.

  ‘Saturday,’ he whispered, and she nodded and walked away, gliding back through the streets and up the hill to home, where she lay in bed, shivering with the cold and the shock, lightheaded and turned completely inside out.

  The next Saturday, Debbie helped her get ready for the party. She was quiet, though, whether with disapproval or jealousy Kate wasn’t sure. She was too caught up with the evening ahead to worry. She hadn’t seen Rupert all week, and she fought her instinct to contact him. She was going to play it cool, and blow his mind when he saw her. She was going to be the belle of the ball.

  She wore a black body-con dress, so tight there was no possibility of knickers, and high, high heels. Debbie blow-dried her hair into a sleek sheet of gold, put on false lashes, painted on red lips.

  Kate barely recognised herself in the mirror. She looked like a film star, polished and glamorous. She would outshine everyone there, she promised herself. Rupert would be proud to have her by his side.

  Her dad, her dear sweet kind proud dad, gave her a lift, for Southcliffe was quite a way out of town. He drove his car halfway up the drive, then she asked him to stop. She was too embarrassed to be seen being dropped off in a battered old Ford. By the time she reached the marquee, her shoes had blistered her feet. But the excitement inside her dulled the pain. She couldn’t wait to make an entrance, and see Rupert’s face light up.

  As soon as she walked into the marquee, she realised her mistake. Everyone inside was in formal dress: black tie or long frocks. And althou
gh she got admiring glances from the men, she knew she was all wrong.

  ‘Ooh,’ said one man. ‘Who ordered a stripper? Brilliant idea.’

  ‘Cracking norks,’ goggled another.

  And then Rupert saw her, and she saw him mouth ‘Oh shit’, and the girl he had his arm draped round giggled. And in that moment, she wanted to die.

  She could still feel the humiliation, over fifteen years later, but she could laugh about it now. Her naivety. It had taught her a few lessons. And now she was a woman, a grown-up, and she was confident, and because of the circles she moved in, nothing much fazed her. She could handle Rupert Malahide.

  She was covered in muck. It was astonishing what the recesses of an airing cupboard could accumulate: cobwebs and dust mice and fluff. She took a long bath, soaking it all away, then blow-dried her hair properly for the first time since she’d been here. She pondered what to wear, thought about the dress she’d brought over for the funeral, but decided that would be way too dressy even for Pennfleet’s best restaurant, and she’d made that mistake before, so she settled on jeans and a cream silk shirt. She certainly didn’t want Rupert to think she was going to too much effort.

  The Townhouse by the Sea was converted from the old custom house on the quay. Kate had expected some soulless identikit boutique hotel decor but was instantly charmed. It was warm, quirky, atmospheric and luxurious. It was dark when she arrived, and the bar and dining area were lit by candles to enhance the subdued lighting.

  The manageress, a young girl in her early twenties with a long chestnut bob and laughing eyes, had the knack of making her feel like a longstanding and valued customer. She had a certain polish, but was obviously local, which stopped her sounding too disingenuous.

  ‘You’re dining with Rupert, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’m Angelica. Come and have a drink while you wait. He’s always late, dear of him.’

  As Angelica led her to a turquoise velvet sofa, Kate wondered how many of Rupert’s dining partners had been led here. If she was one of many. If Angelica was thinking here goes another one. If she was, she didn’t betray it.

  ‘Can I recommend our autumn cocktail?’ said Angelica. ‘It’s mostly blackberries. And vodka. And ginger wine. It’s lethal. But delicious.’

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ said Kate

  ‘It’s called Bramble On,’ Angelica told her. ‘I think it’s a play on a Led Zeppelin song. We have to humour Luca.’ She giggled. ‘You’ll be meeting him later. He and Rupert are impossible when they get together. If they get carried away, just tell me and I’ll sort them out.’

  ‘OK,’ said Kate, slightly disconcerted. ‘I love the hotel, by the way.’

  ‘We’re doing really well.’ Angelica was proud. ‘Pennfleet is a bit off the beaten track off-season, but we seem to be fully booked all the time these days.’

  ‘I can see why,’ said Kate. ‘It’s charming.’

  Over Angelica’s shoulder, she could see Rupert arrive. He was in jeans and a grey sweater, so she was pleased she hadn’t dressed up.

  ‘Hey. Don’t get up. I’m sorry I’m late. I think the cab driver was in another time zone. ’ He bent down to kiss Kate, then turned and kissed Angelica. ‘I hope you’ve been looking after my guest, Gel. What are we drinking?’

  ‘Blackberry cocktails,’ Kate told him.

  ‘Perfect.’ He sat down next to her and picked up a menu. ‘Have you looked at the menu yet? Luca is a culinary genius. Honestly. You won’t have eaten food like it.’

  ‘I recommend the porchetta,’ said Angelica. ‘With baked apples. And celeriac puree. And maybe some oysters to start? We’ve just started serving them again.’

  ‘Does that sound OK to you?’ Rupert asked Kate. ‘Shall we have that? I totally trust Angelica.’

  Kate was a little startled that she hadn’t even had time to look at the menu, but somehow Rupert didn’t come across as chauvinistic. If any other man had done that, she would have been furious.

  ‘Fabulous,’ she said.

  Angelica took their menus and glided away. Rupert watched her go.

  ‘I’ve got my eye on her,’ he said.

  Kate’s heart sank. So he hadn’t changed. And how bloody rude. To eye up the staff while he was taking her out. She stiffened.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Rupert, with a grin. ‘I don’t mean in that way. I mean I’m thinking about poaching her for my new project. Though Luca will kill me.’

  Kate relaxed a little. ‘New project?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ he replied. ‘How are you? My grandmother sends her regards, by the way. Have you had an awful few days?’

  Kate remembered how, when he focused on you, you felt like the centre of his world.

  ‘Well,’ said Kate, ‘it hasn’t been a bundle of laughs. But I’m coping.’ She smiled. ‘Though I’ve been living on cheese toasties and Jaffa Cakes. My personal trainer’s going to have a fit.’

  What had she said that for? It made her sound like an idiot. Rupert looked at her askance.

  ‘If you’re going to start worrying about carbs and fat, you’d better leave now.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Kate. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been in New York too long. And I’ve been really looking forward to tonight.’

  ‘I don’t really do guilt,’ said Rupert. ‘About anything. But definitely not about food.’

  Kate bit her tongue. She knew as well as anyone he didn’t do guilt. He’d never shown a moment’s remorse about how he’d treated her. And it was easy not to feel guilty about food when you had a fast metabolism. She imagined he never put on a pound of excess weight. She didn’t say anything, though.

  Angelica returned with a tray bearing two etched tumblers, garnished with mint and blackberries. There was a plate of canapés too.

  ‘Onion tartlets with melted Reblochon,’ she told them. ‘With the compliments of the chef.’

  Kate took her drink and picked up a tartlet.

  ‘No guilt,’ she told Rupert.

  She took a sip of her drink. It tasted of autumn and decadence: warm and syrupy and tart and seductive. She bit into the tartlet: sweet, melting onion combined with the salty tang of creamy cheese.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She feigned swooning. ‘It’s out of this world.’

  ‘I told you. Luca’s a genius,’ said Rupert, lobbing a whole tartlet into his mouth unceremoniously.

  Kate and Rupert’s table was right by the French windows at the far end of the dining room. It looked out onto the harbour, where the lights of the town were reflected in the water, flashes of silver and gold on deepest black. There was a snowy-white linen tablecloth, a pewter candelabra stuffed with fuchsia candles, and a silver platter bearing a dozen oysters resting on a bed of ice. Two high-backed chairs covered in grey velvet faced each other. Kate took her seat as Angelica brought over a bottle of Chablis.

  ‘Luca insists you have this with your oysters,’ she said. ‘He won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Rupert, and Kate smiled her assent.

  ‘Me too.’

  Rupert turned out to be a hugely entertaining dining companion. Effusive about the food and wine, he was full of gossip and inside information.

  ‘Luca and Angelica have this fiery on-off relationship,’ he told her. ‘He’s totally besotted with her, but she leads him a merry dance. I do feel a bit sorry for him. His fiancée left him a couple of years ago – went back to her childhood sweetheart. And he’s been mooning round after Angelica ever since. He asks her to marry him about five times a week, but she refuses.’

  ‘So is that why he’d be cross if you poached her?’

  ‘No – he’d be cross because she’s so bloody good at her job. He’d never find a replacement. She started off as a chambermaid and now she basically runs the place.’

  ‘So what is this New Project?’

  ‘As soon as it became obvious my grandmother was losing her sight, and there was nothing that could be done about it, we had a family confe
rence. You know what a big part of our lives she’s always been. None of us wanted her to have to leave Southcliffe. She is Southcliffe.’

  He looked at Kate as if asking for confirmation.

  ‘I understand that,’ she said.

  ‘It also became obvious that Granny wasn’t going to accept help from anyone. She is infuriatingly independent. But you can’t live on your own in a big house like that with failing eyesight. So … as the only grandchild without any real responsibility, or a family, it was up to me to come and live with her.’

  ‘That’s very … dutiful,’ said Kate.

  Rupert grinned. ‘I know the whole town thinks it’s because I’m after the house. But that’s been put in a trust for all of us ages ago. I do it because I love her, and because she did a better job of looking after us lot than any of our parents did. She was always there for us. If I couldn’t repay her for that, what kind of man does that make me? Not that it’s exactly a hardship. I love Pennfleet. I always have.’

  ‘Me too,’ agreed Kate. ‘You forget the magic, when you’re away. But it reels you straight back in.’

  Rupert nodded. ‘Anyway, we’ve never been sure what to do with the house long term. We can’t just keep it as a holiday home. That’s a luxury too far. So, after much debate and number crunching, we’re going to hire it out as a party house.’

  ‘A party house,’ said Kate. She could see it already in her mind’s eye. ‘How wonderful.’

  ‘It will be.’ Rupert nodded his agreement. ‘The idea is to hire it out for birthdays and special occasions. Cashing in on the whole Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey obsession that seems to be sweeping the country. If not the whole world. We’re going mega-upmarket. Croquet, butlers, maids, tea on the lawn, chauffeur-driven Bentley, billiards … you get the picture.’

  ‘I suppose that’s exactly how it was once.’

  ‘Before we got hold of it and lowered the tone. Very probably. Obviously it needs a load of money chucking at it. Our clientele will be people who want only the best. So it’s going to be quite an investment. But we hope to be up and running at the end of next year. And we can keep some weeks free for ourselves.’