Page 67 of Too Busy for Love

As the supposedly high-speed train inches closer to London, I can feel my pulse starting to quicken. I haven’t visited the capital city since Jock and I went our separate ways back in April, and I’m excited to see it again, even if Margate is now going to be my home. Abby and I were up until nearly midnight last night, putting together the pitch to Emilio, and we had a video call with Christopher this morning to run through it and apply any final tweaks. I’m still very slightly irritated that I’ve been thrust forward to do the actual pitch again but, as Abby said every time I questioned it, I’m supposed to be the industry expert. Given that I used that to lever my way into a directorship, I guess it probably serves me right.

In my heart, I still don’t believe that turning the kitchen of The Mermaid into yet another outpost of Emilio Marcuso’s sprawling restaurant empire is the right thing to do. It’s not just about Jock; I really feel that we’re missing a trick by not having a unique food offering. However, I’ve been comprehensively outvoted. Although Christopher has no formal involvement in Atkinson Hotels, he made it clear that this was his will, and it was hard to dig my heels in when he pointed out that AtkinsonConstruction would be financing the new company, at least in the short-term. Abby is also completely certain that a big name such as Emilio will help to get us off to a flying start. I just hope, for her sake, that she’s right. I also wish I could find the right words to tell Jock what’s happened, but there isn’t a nice way to say he’s been pushed aside for a celeb, so I haven’t said anything at all.

I’ve certainly seen a different side of Abby since I first pitched the idea of reopening The Mermaid to her. Although she was pretty outspoken in Mallorca, she seemed a little softer there. In real life, she’s a powerhouse; everything is done at top speed, not just her driving. Before we left for the station, she’d already set up a meeting tomorrow with her project manager, Ella, and the older guy, John. She’s also instructed John to crack on with assembling a team and getting scaffolding erected for the external works. I’m still not sure about him – I really didn’t like the dismissive way he spoke to me last time we met – but Abby assures me that he knows his stuff and he’ll be worth his (not inconsiderable) weight in gold. Although Ella will be mainly remote, as she has a number of sites that she manages, John will be onsite every day so I’ll be working closely with him.

It already seems like an age has passed since I was sitting in Reginald’s sitting room while he urged me to follow my heart and not be distracted by what he called the ‘white noise’. I can’t believe it was only yesterday afternoon. For a moment, I feel a little guilty about ignoring his advice so quickly, but my feet have barely touched the ground since I found Abby on my doorstep, and this will give me a secure future. Surely that’s the most important thing? Maybe, if I can build up The Mermaid and make it successful, there will be an opportunity later on for Jock to come down and take on the kitchen under Emilio if he wants to. After all, he’s going to need someone competent to run thekitchen on a day-to-day basis, isn’t he? That thought cheers me up no end.

As we leave Ebbsfleet International station behind us, the train finally picks up speed, whisking us past the Dartford Crossing and in towards Central London.

‘It’s almost like you’re driving the train,’ I say to Abby with a smile.

‘Piss off,’ she replies good-naturedly, without raising her eyes from her laptop screen.

The sun is shining as we hurry out of St Pancras station towards the taxi rank. I try to take a moment to absorb the bustle and hubbub around me, but Abby shoos me into the back of a cab and gives the address to the driver. As he pulls away, her phone rings and her face lights up.

‘Hiya,’ she says enthusiastically before mouthing the wordJamesat me. ‘How are you?’

There’s a certain amount of banal-sounding chat before she suddenly exclaims, ‘Really? But I’m in London too! Yeah, I’m here with Beatrice. We’re meeting Emilio Marcuso to pitch him the idea of opening a Marcuso’s at the hotel in Margate. What time do you finish? Wait, hang on.’

She turns to me. ‘Would you believe that James is in London today as well? I know it’s short notice, but would you mind making your way back to Margate on your own after the meeting? I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. I can catch an early train in the morning so I’m not late for the site meeting.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reassure her. ‘Of course you want to see him.’

She flashes me a beaming smile before returning her attention to the phone. ‘OK. My meeting should be done anddusted by five. Shall I come to your flat? Great. See you later. Love you.’

‘Love you?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘That sounds like things have moved on a bit.’

She blushes. ‘Didn’t your mother ever teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?’

‘Kind of hard not to when I’m literally sitting next to you.’

‘Yes, well. Things are in a good place. We just don’t get to see each other often enough. Don’t tell Dad, but I’m thinking of moving south permanently. Now that we have a plan for The Mermaid, I’ve actually got more sites down here than up north so it kind of makes sense. James and I have talked about me moving in with him. Although he does business all over the country, he doesn’t spend quite as much time on the road as I seem to, so we might actually be able to have something approaching a normal life. Thinking of which, have you given any thought to your living arrangements?’

‘No,’ I admit. ‘I’ll add it to my list of things to do.’

‘You could move into the staff accommodation at the hotel if you like. We could ask John to prioritise that. I don’t think it needs that much doing to it. A lick of paint, new kitchen and bathroom, and it would be quite habitable, I reckon. Plus, you’d be on site twenty-four seven.’

‘It’s a nice offer,’ I say. ‘But there’s no heating or hot water, and I don’t fancy living on a building site. I’m sure I can find a flat or something until the hotel is properly ready.’

‘Suit yourself. We would have rigged up something temporary to give you water and heat, but I can see that the mess might be off-putting. Ah. Here we are.’

As I take in the façade of Marcuso’s on the Strand, I have to admit that it does look like an upmarket establishment. The sign is rendered in a minimalist, modern font, as is the menu in a display cabinet attached to the wall next to the door. I cast myeyes over it, which proves to be a mistake as I realise I haven’t had time for any lunch in the hustle and bustle of the day so far and I’m actually quite hungry. Having paid the driver, Abby pushes open the door and I follow her inside.

‘Abbee!’ A short, very rotund, dark-haired man in chef’s whites leaps up from one of the tables and rushes over, embracing her enthusiastically.

‘Hello, Emilio. How are you?’

‘Fantastico!’ he enthuses in a strong Italian accent before turning his gaze on me. ‘Are you going to introduce me to your friend?’

‘This is Beatrice,’ Abby replies. ‘She’s the brains behind the project.’

‘I am so excited to hear about it, but first you must eat something.’ He claps his hands loudly and shouts in the direction of the kitchen. ‘Lorenzo!Porta un piatto di frutti di mare.Pronto!’

‘Sì, Emilio,’ a voice calls from somewhere beyond the pass.

‘Let us sit, and you can tell me all about this project of yours,’ Emilio continues, pulling out chairs for us. ‘Unfortunately, I am a busy man, so we have to talk business while we eat. This is not good for the digestion, but…’ He waves his hand expressively and sighs, as if this is a cardinal sin. A waiter brings a carafe of water and some glasses, and I start my pitch.

I quickly learn that Emilio is almost as much of a powerhouse as Abby. His attention is laser sharp as I take him through the presentation, and he frequently interrupts to clarify a point or dig further into a proposal. The most enormous plate of lightly battered prawns and calamari appears after a few minutes and, after Emilio has squeezed generous quantities of lemon juice over the top, I take a prawn, sighing with pleasure as I bite into it. It’s perfectly cooked and the flavour is wonderful. It’s all I can do to stop myself from grabbing the plate and tipping thewhole lot into my mouth. Emilio might not have been my first choice, but I can’t fault his cooking if this is anything to go by. Although Abby hardly touches the food, Emilio is also digging in enthusiastically, and between us we manage to polish off the entire plateful in a few minutes.

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