Kind Hearts and Coriander

by April Hardy

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

PERFECT FOR FANS OF THE LIST AND THE I HEART SERIES A heartwarming romantic comedy On her mum?s death, sous chef Polly Hanson learns she may be hotelier Charles Hetherin?s illegitimate daughter. She?s grown up watching her mother struggle and do without, and she?s furious. The Hetherins have it all, including fabulous Hetherin Hall country house hotel. Determined to discover whether or not Charles is her father, Polly?s mistaken for a job applicant and finds herself working as a waitress at the Hall. Getting to know what might be her family, she can?t help but start to fall in love with them and their quirky ways. Romance is the last thing on her mind. But she can?t deny the sparks flying between her and Oliver, the grumpy but gorgeous restaurant manager. However, it seems no one is quite who Polly thinks they are?

Release date: January 16, 2017

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 229

Sample

I’m sure authors aren’t supposed to have a favourite amongst their books, but I’ll always have a soft spot for Kind Hearts and am so grateful to all those who helped it on its way.

Huge thanks to Emirates Airline Festival of Literature. It was for a session at the 2014 festival that I wrote the opening chapter of Kind Hearts. It was my first foray into romantic comedy and I just wanted to know if it was worth carrying on with! The encouragement I received (and still do) from EAFoL and Dubai International Writers’ Centre, whilst completing the manuscript, led to me being signed by my agent, Alison Bonomi of LBA Books. I’d like to thank Yvette Judge, everyone behind the scenes, and visiting tutors Jo Wroe and Sherry Ashworth for their kind advice and feedback.

One of the best things I ever did was join the Romantic Novelists’ Association – a wonderfully supportive organisation. I’d like to thank the readers on their New Writers’ Scheme. The manuscript of Kind Hearts went through the scheme, which I’d thoroughly recommend to anyone starting out as a writer of romance.

The 2014 Exeter Novel Prize was another push in the right direction for Kind Hearts, when it was one of the runners up. Enormous thanks to Cathie Hartigan, Margaret James and Sophie Duffy for organising the competition, and Broo Doherty for judging the finalists. A great experience!

Much appreciation to my patient editor, Alexandra Davies, and everyone else at Accent, especially Bethan James, Emily Tutton, Hazel Cushion, Helen Evans, Rebecca Lloyd, Joe Moore, David Norrington, and Zoe Foster for her fab cover designs. And not forgetting Peter Newsom, who my husband also thanks, for saving him from being the only man at the Dubai launch for Sitting Pretty!

I must mention Jane Northcote and the fantastic staff at the Dubai World Trade Centre Club, where I now spend a couple of afternoons a week as Writer in Residence. It’s a wonderful place to write.

Huge hugs for my supportive writing pals, Sue Mackender, Terri Fleming, Tessa Shapcott, Denise Barnes, Adrienne Dines, Lynne Shelby, Jenny Haddon, Marie Frances, Anne Bennett, Sharmila Mohan and Linda MacConnell. You’ve all helped me more than you know.

Thanks and love to my family, who’ve been there at every turn and done everything they could to help me on my way.

And last but not least, my husband, Andrew, whose home-made pasta just gets better and better!

My eyes blurred as Mum’s coffin slid back, the curtains closing seamlessly around it. Did that sob come from me? Someone on my right pressed a clean handkerchief into my hand and I relaxed my grip on the soggy tissue remnants in my pocket. I should have known one packet wouldn’t be enough. So, that was it. She was gone. I blew my nose, wiped the tears from under my eyes with my knuckles, and made my way back out into the harsh sunlight. Another kind lady waited and walked by my side. I think she might have been one of Mum’s neighbours.

The pub had put on a decent spread. Mum’s friends and neighbours kept bringing me things I didn’t want to eat. I hid them so I didn’t appear rude – behind glasses, in a pot plant – in a sort of sausage roll and Scotch egg treasure hunt for the cleaners later.

I’d wanted to do the food myself. It seemed the least I could do for her.

‘Don’t be daft, love,’ Mum had said. ‘I don’t want the last thing you ever cook for me to be for my wake. Make me something now, while I’m here to enjoy it.’ I’d made her favourite; Cumberland toad in the hole with onion gravy. She’d managed two small mouthfuls. That was the day she’d given me the letter and made me promise not to read it until after.

Charles Hetherin! Of course I knew the name – almost every school leaver in Netley Mallow must have done a summer waitressing, changing beds, or working in the gardens at Hetherin Hall. But Mum had been so determined I go to Westminster to do my City & Guilds. I’d always just put it down to her fondness for Jamie Oliver.

But why let me grow up believing my father had died just before I was born then drop this bombshell on me? I needed answers, and there was only one person who could give them to me now. I drained my glass and put it down on the bar.

In the morning, I was going to Netley Mallow. And I was going to look him right in the eye. If he knew Mum was pregnant and just dumped her ... if he had any idea he was my father ... I’d know. And believe me, Charles Hetherin would wish I’d never been born. 

* * *

Back in my almost-big-enough-to-swing-a-cat Peckham flat, I put the kettle on – what is it about us Brits and the good old cuppa? I switched my tablet on and flung my red coat over the back of the chair. Yes, red. Mum had wanted people to wear bright colours and for there to be happy music and party food today. No black clothes or sad faces, she’d said. I’d followed her instructions as closely as possible.

Connecting to Google, that annoying phrase, Who’s the daddy? popped into my mind. It got short shrift there and slunk away with its tail between its legs as I banged about the kitchen, warming the teapot, opening a brand new packet of Jaffa Cakes and inhaling the rich, tangy aroma. I rammed the first, slightly dented, one whole into my mouth. The shower of crumbs on the counter could stay put for now – I had more important things to think about.

By the time the tea was made, Charles Hetherin’s self-satisfied face was once again looking at me from the screen. I must have done this a dozen times since I’d read her letter. It was the same picture I’d seen before – from the paper, when he’d hosted some big charity fund-raiser at the Hall. He looked well-fed and smug and his right eyebrow was slightly arched –probably busy congratulating himself on the tax-deductibility of the occasion. Meanwhile, poor Mum was buying dented tins and scouring the reduced shelf in the supermarket and giving herself tiny portions so I would have enough to eat. Why did she never tell me?

My eye was drawn back to the arch-villain eyebrow – Oh God, I do that too. And always the right one. I couldn’t actually do it with the left. There’s a photo somewhere of me pulling that same face, I was sure. Maybe it would be in Mum’s things. Come to think of it, he’d got my eyes too, or I suppose I’d got his – they were exactly the same almond shape and shade of green. He didn’t have my smattering of freckles though, unless he was wearing makeup for the camera. But we had the same coppery hair, only mine was long and ringletty and his looked like he was wearing one of Donald Trump’s castoffs. Did that sound bitchy? Probably, but for now, I felt it was allowed. Normal, happy-go-lucky, smiley service would resume tomorrow. Or the day after. Maybe.

Munching on another Jaffa Cake, I found myself drawn like a magnet back to the Hetherin Hall website. Classic Georgian country house nestled between the three picturesque Netley villages. Tranquil landscaped gardens with tennis courts, croquet hoops, private spa, and access to the nearby golf course and stables. P.G. Wodehouse would have loved it. Twenty-two individually furnished, en-suite bedrooms with garden or woodland views, award winning àla carte restaurant, function rooms, licensed for civil ceremonies – well, aren’t we fancy.

There was a slightly smaller version of the Hall – Hetherin House – up in Yorkshire, in Harrogate. And when I clicked on Hetherin International I found a couple of French versions too, in Paris and Saint-Émilion, Italian ones in Rome and Tuscany, and one in Switzerland. There were plans for one in Austria too, apparently. Was Charles Hetherin planning to take over western Europe, a couple of boutique hotels at a time? And if so, what did he have against Spain, Portugal, and Greece? Too ‘package holiday’ for a Hetherin establishment?

They all looked posh and expensive and lovely, but I was only really interested in the one where he lived – the one where I would find him. I studied the Hetherin Hall restaurant pictures and sample menu for what must have been the twentieth time. That menu was imprinted on my brain by now and I knew exactly what I would order as a diner there. The pan-fried local trout for a starter, followed by the pressed, slow-roasted shoulder of lamb with organic spring greens. For dessert, the bitter chocolate and orange liqueur tart with honeycomb dust – just the thought made me reach for another Jaffa Cake. This was my territory. Real food made with locally sourced ingredients; everything free-range, organic, happy, and sustainable – just how it should be. My kind of food, unlike the pretentious, how-it-looks-matters-more-than-what-it-tastes-like fare we produced at The Honor & Oak, my current restaurant. If they’d had any jobs going, I’d have been seriously tempted. Well, I might have if circumstances had been very different. But as things stood, it would be a ridiculous idea – unless I was planning to poison the family. I could bump them all off and make myself sole heir to the Hetherin Empire, like in that old black and white film – what was it called – Kind Hearts & ... something! A chocolate-orange flavoured snort of laughter escaped my throat. I’d clearly gone from the sublime to the ridiculous, only without the sublime bit first.

Picking up my cup of tea, I took a sip and immediately spat it back in the cup. It was cold. I reached for another Jaffa Cake to take away the taste but the packet was empty. Blimey! Had I eaten them all? No wonder I felt a bit sick.

I treated the cheese plant by the window to the contents of my cup – Mum had always watered her plants with whatever was left in the teapot and this big, green monster in particular was partial to cold tea dregs. It probably thought it was Christmas, getting a whole cup’s worth.

Glancing out, I could see a gang of teenage school kids in scruffy half-uniform shuffling into the kebab shop across the road. I heard myself sigh. Why would anybody want to eat that crap? I’d rather chew the skin round my fingernails. I leaned my head against the cool glass and let my eyes wander unfocused over the grotty high street.

In the kitchens at Hetherin Hall, delicious ingredients, textures, aromas, and flavours would be brought together to make wonderful meals. If I were a Hetherin, I thought a little bitterly, I should be there. That was my birth right, wasn’t it? I stared into the busy, noisy street, thinking about what I was going to do. Would Mum approve of me going down there and confronting him? She must have expected me to do something like that otherwise why write the letter now? I guessed she wouldn’t want me to be alone in the world, not if I had family out there.

He had two children – a girl and a boy. I had a sister and a brother who didn’t even know I existed. There were no pictures of them on the website, no mention of their names. I wondered if that was their choice or his.

Taking my cup back into the kitchen, I got a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge, then put it back. Not on top of Jaffa Cakes. I really would be sick.

Wandering into the bedroom, I opened the wardrobe door and wondered what I would wear to go to Hetherin Hall the next day. I knew it was a ridiculous thing to worry about, but how do you dress to confront a multi-hotel-owning millionaire who might or might not know he’s your father? There was nothing suitable at all. I felt a wave of Jaffa overload sickness as I imagined him thinking I was some gold-digging con-woman and throwing me out on my ear.

Well, you know what, Charles Hetherin? I’ve just said goodbye to the only parent I’ve ever known – the only person who’s always been there for me. And if you don’t want to know me, that’s fine. Nothing about meeting you can be as painful as these last months have been.

So, Daddy! You’d better get a good night’s sleep tonight, because I’m guessing you won’t be getting one tomorrow.

I’d barely fallen asleep when the alarm went off. The temptation to hurl it across the room and snuggle down under my duvet was almost stronger than I was – after all, I was going to call in sick, anyway. Then the arch-villain eyebrow appeared in my mind, nudging me from groggily half-asleep to groggily half-awake.

An hour later, I’d lied my head off to Sheila, our one-woman admin department and any other title she cared to give herself, at the Honor & Oak, and taken as long as I could over breakfast to miss the rush hour traffic. While I worked my way through the twenty-seven point shunt I always had to do, whatever time of day it was, to ease my little Honda Jazz out from between the closely parked cars, I wondered if this was what battery hens felt like.

The roads became wider and less congested the further out of London I got. I didn’t know if Surrey really was greener or if it was my imagination, but it felt as though I was driving through one of those films, shot in real time then sped up. Spring seemed to be doing its thing on fast forward. By the time I hit Hampshire, it had well and truly sprung.

There were cute little woolly lambs gambolling in a field. Feeling warm and sunny, I opened my window, and then quickly closed it again, holding my breath. I hadn’t noticed the cows. Or was it bulls? It certainly smelled like bulls, but what did I know?

The radio reception was getting hazy, so I tried for another station. I couldn’t find one that wasn’t playing classical music or droning on about sport and was still fiddling with it when I noticed a police car flashing from behind.

‘Bugger!’ I pulled over, into the shade of a picnic lay-by, and slowed to a stop between a camper van and a tandem, its green-cagouled riders glancing up from their thermos flask and Utterly Butterly sandwich box. Great. An audience. Not embarrassing at all.

I was sure I hadn’t been speeding. Had I been veering about when I was messing around with the radio? As if going to confront a wealthy and powerful complete stranger and tell him he’s my long-lost father wasn’t enough to worry about for one day. That was all I needed – and I’d managed so well to lull my apprehension into a peaceful, sleepy state. Well, at least I thought I had. It was wide awake now.

The police car pulled in and one of the boys in blue climbed out – except he was more stout middle-aged man in blue. He ambled across the tarmac towards me, just a little out of place against the backdrop of daffodils nodding their heads in the light breeze like guitar-strumming hippies. Even the camper van was sunshine yellow. I wound down my window and awaited my fate. At least I seemed to be the right side of the wind where the bulls were concerned.

‘Good morning, miss.’ He bobbed down and smiled in a fatherly way I really wasn’t expecting. ‘Did you know your right brake light is broken?’

‘What?’ I got out and went round to look. ‘Oh, you’re kidding,’ I sighed. Bloody Peckham. You couldn’t park within a mile of your own home and when you did find a space, you couldn’t leave your car for five minutes without someone doing something to it. Unless I’d done it myself, shunting back and forth to get out of the parking space and had been in such a dither I hadn’t felt the crunch.

‘Have you got far to go, miss?’ He could certainly give London policemen a lesson in how to speak to the public. I couldn’t imagine him performing a stop and search. No, he’d be the one visiting primary schools, handing out lollipops and green cross code stickers – if they still had those now.

‘Just to Netley Mallow,’ I said. ‘To Hetherin Hall, actually. I’m going there to ... er ... see someone ...’ I tailed off, realising I was talking too much. What is it about security guards, customs officers, and policemen that means I always have this compulsion to justify my movements and prove myself to be law-abiding?

We were attracting an up-close audience now, courtesy of the sunshine yellow camper van. Little feet in scuffed trainers scuttled around the side of the car and two small boys of about five and six in matching Spiderman T-shirts grinned at me through ice-cream covered mouths – one strawberry, one chocolate.

‘Netley Mallow’s the next village, miss. It’s not far.’

‘Thanks,’ I smiled. Well. it would be rude to say ‘Yes, I already know.’

‘There’s Coopers’’ garage there. Take you about ten minutes or so to get there.’

‘Oh, right. Thanks.’ I didn’t know about the garage, but then it was years since I’d been near the area and I hadn’t passed my driving test back then.

‘They’ll fix your light for you. Best sort it out now, don’t want to have an accident.’

‘Thank you.’ I smiled at him again, thinking I must look and sound like the village idiot. In London I’d have got a fine or points on my licence or at least a snotty lecture about road safety.

‘I can drive that way if you like – show you the way. Don’t want to get lost.’

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Now I was waiting for someone to leap out from behind a bush with a hidden camera. He couldn’t be a real policeman, surely? Or had I just lived in London too long?

‘Well, follow me then.’ He strolled to his car and folded himself back in. Tandem Man shook open a map while Tandem Woman held his plastic cup. And from the corner of my eye, I could just see the two little ice cream boys breaking through a gap in the hedgerow, probably on their way to water the daffodils.

* * *

‘Your back light’s gone.’ The salt and pepper-haired mechanic at A&A Coopers’ scratched his head. ‘Alan!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Over ’ere, son.’ He looked me up and down with what I assumed was curiosity, while a younger, slimmer, fair-haired version of himself came over, wiping his hands on what looked like the remains of an old T-shirt. ‘What you reckon?’

‘Back light’s gone.’ Cooper Junior didn’t look at me at all.

‘Reckon you can fix it for the young lady? She’s on ’er way to Hetherin Hall.’ He over-pronounced the H’s dramatically.

‘Nah Dad – whole casing’s cracked. Need to get a new one from the Honda garage for that. Then we can fix it.’

‘And where’s the nearest one?’ Cooper Senior scratched his head again.

‘Reckon Southampton,’ Cooper Junior answered, stuffing the T-shirt rag in his pocket. He still hadn’t acknowledged my presence – maybe he was shy.

‘Better give ’em a ring.’

‘I can do that,’ I jumped in. ‘if you could just give me the number. Oh, and the number of a taxi to get to the Hall, please.’ They were grinning at each other. What had I said?

‘Reckon you’d best leave that to us, miss – all part of the service. We’ll call you at the Hall when it’s ready. And you won’t be needin’ any taxi to get there – it’s just a five minute walk.’

* * *

Before I knew what I was doing I was walking, in what was hopefully the right direction, having left my car with the Coopers. I had no idea how long it was going to take to get my light fixed or how much it was going to cost. What I did have was the feeling that they saw me as some kind of damsel in distress – clearly amused at the thought of me calling the Honda garage myself. The feminist in me wanted to be offended by the way they’d assumed I wouldn’t know what I was doing, but somehow, I couldn’t. They’d been so sweet, doing their best to help a stranger.

The sun seemed to switch itself to a higher heat as I walked. The Coopers’ idea of five minutes was definitely longer than mine, but then I don’t suppose they went in for court shoes much. Cooper Senior had given my feet a bit of a funny look when I got out of the car, but surely he must have realised I was driving in my stockinged feet and had just put my shoes back on. They were my smartest pair and had been clean and shiny when I left Peckham. They were quite dusty now.

Part of me felt as if I’d taken part in a sketch on a comedy show, or on one of Mum’s Two Ronnies DVDs. I’d been half expecting them to break into a song and dance routine and I’d have to start dosey-doeing or whatever it was around the forecourt between them. But another part of me felt a kind of warmth that was nothing to do with the sun. People here were kind. Just look at the policeman too – kind and caring.

Maybe it was a good omen. . .