Chapter 37 Theo
Theo
‘You’re Nora’s boyfriend, Theo. Correct?’
I turn to the woman standing by the Oast House’s front desk.
She has a good twenty years on me. I don’t usually go for older women, but she’s a total knockout.
Tall and willowy, with an intricate arrangement of braids wrapped around her head.
She’s in chef’s whites. This must be Zoe.
Nora’s mentioned her a few times—waxed lyrical, more like.
‘I am.’ I extend my hand, and we shake. I can’t deny the thrill that goes through my entire body at her turn of phrase. Nora’s boyfriend. Even if it’s less accurate than she thinks.
‘We’ll have a table for you in just a second. Right, Trish?’ she says to the host standing next to her. Her accent is soft. French. I know I live in one of the most hectic cities in the world, but Zoe’s smile is so peaceful, I swear she should bottle it.
‘Yup,’ Trish says. ‘Take a seat. The table will be five minutes.’
She gestures at a nearby sofa. I thank them and turn to leave, but Zoe holds out a newspaper to me.
‘Something to browse. While you wait.’ She thrusts it into my hand, her smile expectant. Encouraging.
Weird. I get the strangest vibe from her as I take it. Like someone’s walked over my grave. Goosebumps. I shake it off.
I settle on the sofa, one ankle up and resting on my other thigh, and idly turn the pages of the paper.
It’s a local rag—the Kent Chronicle. Full of the usual crap about local councillors and gymkhanas and primary school summer fetes and other bullshit.
I’m not sure why I’m bothering to leaf through it, except that pulling out my phone in this place seems rude. Inappropriate.
Until I turn the page and an image hits me. And then I really do get goosebumps. They erupt all over my body.
I stare at it. Holy fucking shit. Why didn’t I think of this sooner? On instinct, I jerk my head up and look over to Zoe. She’s watching me, and she gives me a smiling nod.
I whip out my phone.
‘I offered your girlfriend a job, you know,’ Evelyn says conversationally when she’s joined me a few minutes later.
‘What—here?’
‘Yes. We need an in-house wedding and event planner, and she’s really blown me away.’
My mind reels. This could be great for Belle. She’d nail it, and it would be a steady stream of work at a prestigious resort. She could really sink her teeth into this role.
‘She’d be incredible—but what did she say?’
‘She said she’d think about it. That she had a lot on her mind, and a few moving parts. But she seemed willing to consider it, at least.’
Damn right Belle has a lot on her mind. I’m pretty sure she would have told me if Holmes had approached her yet. Maybe he won’t bite. Maybe he’s happy with Titty McTitsalot and he’ll throw away his chance to be with this incredible woman.
I hope he does. I hope he fucking does the decent thing and stays away.
For the first time since I spoke to him, I regret giving him an opening with Nora.
Evelyn’s news, and the phone call I just made, have given me hope.
Hope that I could be in with a chance. That I could possibly, eventually, be worthy of her.
That I could give her what she wants.
And that green shoot of hope is enough to make me want to fight for her.
Even if Holmes turns up at her door with flowers and begs her for a second chance.
Because I swear to God, I know Belle better than she knows herself, and she’s smoking crack if she thinks he can make her happy.
She may be deluding herself that what we have is just sex.
Fine.
Whatever.
She’s fucking wrong.
But even if she thinks that, there’s no way she can realistically walk away from the way I detonate her in bed and go back to him.
It’d be like her going to bed with a fucking minivan. Taking God knows how long to get her from nought to sixty. Slow. Steady. Same old routine, every time, I bet.
Boring.
As.
Fuck.
God’s sake, Theo. Stop thinking about her in bed with him. About that huge, oafish body on her. Slobbering over her.
Jesus Christ. Stop it.
I’ve played fair. I’ve led Jonathan Holmes, that bloody carthorse, to water. Whether he drinks is on him. But for the first time, I wonder why the fuck I’ve played fair.
I’m a Montague.
I play dirty.
I’ve faked a relationship to get what I want, for fuck’s sake.
So why I’ve rolled over and taken Belle at her word and faded politely away into the background, I have no clue.
That needs to change.
The gloves need to come off.
I lean forward. I have no right to be here, talking to Evelyn Macleod with my Montague Group hat on.
It’s a hat I’m not even entitled to wear.
Not really. Not yet. This is a conversation I’m not mandated to have.
But who gives a fuck? My older brother believes in the end justifying the means.
He always chooses to seek forgiveness over asking permission.
It’s about time I took a leaf out of his book.
‘I’d love to know more about the farm,’ I ask her. ‘Specifically, the resort. Miles and I are fascinated by it. You seem to be doing everything right, from where I’m standing, at least.’
‘You’ve got to understand,’ she says, ‘the farm and resort have a symbiotic relationship. You can’t have one without the other.
And lockdown showed us that. The resort suffered—a lot, obviously—and the farm’s corporate business suffered, but the home delivery service of fresh produce went through the roof.
We couldn’t meet the demand. It was crazy. So that helped us weather the storm.
‘But now, things are flying again. More than ever, because of the huge shift towards staycations. We’re booked out for most of the next year, and we really should be looking at doubling our accommodation.
And with fewer people having gone back to working full time in an office, our members have gone through the roof too.
We’ve maxed out our memberships and we have a huge waiting list.’
It’s music to my ears, and exactly what I suspected. A thriving, established business. A brand brimming with potential. And presumably, time and capital constraints preventing the necessary investment to reap further rewards.
‘Cards on the table,’ I say. ‘In a perfect world, what would you do next? And what’s stopping you?
Because my girlfriend is a huge fan of yours,’—this earns me a dazzling smile—‘and from what she tells me, you’re not the type of person to rest on your laurels.
You want more. You came in to grow this place, and you’ve done it, and we’re all in awe.
But I bet you always have one eye on the horizon. ’
She stirs her coffee and eyes me thoughtfully. ‘No bullshit. I like that a lot. You’re so like your brother, you know.’
Usually, that kind of observation would make me flinch, but I take it in the spirit it’s meant. As a compliment.
‘I can’t believe my brother hasn’t come sniffing around here before,’ I tell her.
‘I don’t know. He’s probably been busy running a hotel business during a global lockdown. That didn’t leave any of us with much time for anything but survival.’
‘Touché.’
‘In terms of what I want, I want to double our accommodation and add more communal space so we can extend our memberships. We have the land to do it, but it’s not in the business plan.
I put a sizeable investment in, but most of that’s gone on the renovations we’ve made so far and investing in the farm side of things.
Biodynamics is a slow business, and the grants don’t cover everything.
We’ve got cash, but not the kind of cash needed for major investments. ’
I nod. ‘What else.’
‘Another farm and resort. Probably in the South Downs area, possibly with a biodynamic vineyard attached.’
‘Just the one resort?’ I crinkle my eyes at her, and she laughs. Shrugs.
‘You’ve got me. The sky’s the limit for me.
I think we have a brand with a lot of currency, and I don’t think the rural luxury hotel market is going anywhere.
There are so many existing farms bleeding out, under-invested and dependent on subsidies.
They’re ripe for renewal and investment and a new way of doing things.
We have the expertise on the farming side and the resort side. It seems a shame not to exploit that.’
‘It does indeed.’
I’m trying to play it cool, but fuck me, this opportunity is exciting.
The Manhattan thing is clear-cut. It’s an easy turnaround once we’ve committed to a vision.
To a business model. But here—it’s a slow-burn with a tonne of investment needed.
The Montagues are not farmers—not by any stretch—but we eat, breathe and sleep hotels and occupancy rates.
Having all our eggs in the metropolitan hotels basket has been tough as hell, and yet the UK’s rural luxury hotels can’t keep up with demand.
Rack rates are through the roof. Everywhere’s booked up.
And we should be having a piece of that fucking pie.
Yes, diversification can be dangerous when you don’t know what you’re doing.
There’s a reason it’s called ‘di-worse-ification’ in business circles.
But a joint venture with an established partner who has expertise in the areas where you’re lacking?
That’s a whole different story.
It’s time to come clean to Evelyn. ‘I’m not here to negotiate on behalf of my brother.
Even though I know he’s blown away by what you’ve done here.
Consider this a fishing expedition. But give me an idea: how much money does your perfect scenario require you to get your hands on?
And would you ever consider bringing a strategic partner in? ’