LITMIR.BIZ

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the sound of the old pet name.

      ‘I love it here. I always did. But I wanted a different way.’

      He resumed walking, Lawrie kept pace with him, wishing she was wearing flatter, sturdier shoes. He had a fast, firm tread; she had always liked that. Hugo was more of a dawdler, and it had driven her mad—as had his admonishments to ‘Slow down...it’s not a race’.

      Jonas didn’t look at her as she reached his side but continued as if there hadn’t been any break in the conversation. It was as if he was glad he had the chance to explain. And why shouldn’t he be? The boy had done well. Very well. He hadn’t needed her at all. It must be satisfying to be in his position. Successful, in control, magnanimously helping out your ex.

      Lawrie clenched her fist, digging her nails deep into the palm of her hand. This wasn’t how her life, her return to Trengath, was supposed to have been.

      ‘By the time my father had his second heart attack I’d managed to expand the Boat House into twenty-seven seaside locations in the South-West and people were buying into the whole experience—branded T-shirts, mugs, beach towels. So, from a business point of view, expanding the dining experience into a holiday experience made sense.’

      Lawrie pulled her mind away from her introspection. Self-pity had never been her style anyway. It didn’t get you anywhere.

      ‘I guess,’ she said slightly doubtfully. ‘But I don’t go to my favourite coffee shop and think what this place needs is somewhere for me to sleep.’

      ‘But your favourite coffee shop is near where you live or work,’ he pointed out. ‘Sure, we’re popular with the local population, but in summer especially seventy per cent of our customers are tourists—even if just a small percentage of those people want to take the experience further and holiday with us then that’s already a good deal of our marketing done.’

      She looked at him in fascination. He sounded like one of her clients.

      ‘I was writing the dissertation for my MBA on brand expansion at the time. Fascinating to put the theory into practice.’

      An MBA? Not bad for a boy who’d left school at sixteen. Not that she hadn’t known he was capable of so much more. But, truly, had she ever thought him capable of all this? Shame crept over her, hot and uncomfortable. Maybe he was right. She had underestimated him.

      He flashed her a smile, warm and confiding—a smile that evoked memories of long late-night conversations, of dreams shared, plans discussed. Had she and Hugo ever talked like that? If they had, she couldn’t remember.

      ‘Luckily I had been planning what I would do with this place if I were in charge since I was a kid. I’ve left the hotel itself as pretty high-end, with the rooms still aimed at the luxury end of the market, but I’ve utilised the woods and the golf course more effectively and I began to reap the rewards almost straight away.’

      They were near the top of the small hill. He reached it first and paused, waiting for her to catch up, an expectant look on his face.

      She looked down and gasped. ‘What on earth...?’

      Set beneath them were the woods, which opened almost immediately into a large glade, easily seen from the top of the bank on which they were standing. Inside the glade were eight round white cotton objects that looked a little like mini circus tents.

      ‘Glamping’ he said, his voice serious. His eyes, however, had warmed up and were sparkling with amusement at her expression. ‘Oh, come on—you’re a city girl. Isn’t this how the London middle classes enjoy the great outdoors?’

      She found her voice. ‘You’ve put tents into the woods? Do your parents know? Your dad will have a third heart attack if he sees this.’

      ‘Ah, but these are luxurious, fully catered tents,’ he assured her. ‘Perfectly respectable. People can enjoy all the hotel facilities, including their own bathrooms and food in the hotel—although there are barbecues if they want to be pioneer types. They arrive to fully made-up camp beds, there’s space to hang clothes, armchairs, rugs, heating. Not what I call camping, but it’s hugely popular. The traditional bring-your-own-tent-type campers are on what used to be the golf course, and there are lots of shower and toilet blocks for their use there. According to one review site they are the best camping loos in Cornwall.’

      ‘Well, there’s an accolade.’

      ‘I’m hoping for a certificate.’

      ‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Tree houses? Yurts? A cave with hot and cold water laid on?’

      He chuckled softly, and the sound went straight to the pit of her stomach.

      ‘Just a few stationary camper vans dotted around here and there.’

      ‘Of course there are.’ She nodded.

      He looked at her, his blue eyes darkening, suddenly intense. ‘They’re very popular with honeymooners—complete privacy.’

      She felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and a shiver goosed its way down her spine. ‘A bit cramped,’ she said, hearing the husky tone in her voice and hating herself for it.

      ‘They’re customised cosy getaways for two—big beds, good sheets and baskets of food delivered.’

      ‘You’ve thought of everything.’

      So different from the two of them, with a sleeping bag and a couple of blankets, a bottle of champagne, the moon, the stars, the sound of the surf. And each other—always each other. Bodies coiled together, lips, hands, caresses... She swallowed. How did these memories, buried so deep, resurface every time this man spoke?

      ‘I had long enough to plan it, watching my parents cater for rich idiots who didn’t give a damn where they were,’ he said, his mood changing instantly from dangerously reminiscent to businesslike again. ‘This place is so beautiful, and yet only a handful of people ever had the opportunity to enjoy it—and once they were here they had no idea what was outside the estate walls. Opening it up to campers and glampers means anyone can come here, whatever their budget. We make sure they have all the information they need to go out and explore, hire them bikes, provide transport. All our food is sourced locally, and we recruit and promote locally whenever possible.’

      Lawrie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It’s inspired,’ she said honestly. ‘Utterly inspired, Jonas.’

      Without thinking, without even realising what she was doing, she put a hand on his arm, squeezed softly.

      ‘Amazing.’

      The feel of his arm was warm and firm under her hand, and the fine cotton of his shirt bunched up under her fingers. How many times had she slid her hand up this arm, admired the strength inherent in the toned muscles as he emerged, sleek and shiny, from the sea? Felt their gentleness as he pulled her in close, encircling her in the safety of his embrace?

      ‘I’m glad you like it.’

      Jonas stepped back. Stepped away from her hand, her touch.

      ‘The hotel isn’t just the base for the festival—it sets the tone. It’s important you understand that. Shall we?’

      He gestured back towards the hotel. She shivered, suddenly cold despite the balmy warmth of the day and the wool of her suit jacket. If only she was still with Hugo. If only she were secure in her job. Then seeing Jonas, speaking to him, would have meant nothing apart from a certain nostalgic curiosity. She was feeling vulnerable, that was all.

      ‘You’re right—this is the perfect setting for the festival. I see how it works now.’ She could do businesslike as well. She’d practically invented it.

      He registered the change, a querying eyebrow shooting up as she adjusted her jacket again, smoothing her hair back away from her face, plastering a determinedly polite smile onto her face.

      ‘So, what other changes have you made?’ Lawrie kept up a flow of light conversation as Jonas

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