Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Oliver sat down on the sofa whilst Clemmie made tea. She wasn’t sure why she had even offered him a drink. Maybe it was politeness, maybe a distraction, or maybe, deep down, she wanted to delay hearing whatever he had to say.
She placed the mug in front of him with a firm clink and took a seat opposite, ‘Go on then,’ she said, ‘explain.’
Wrapping his hands around the mug, Oliver took a deep breath. ‘I owe you an apology, Clemmie. A huge one. That review … it was cruel. I know that now.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘Nice of you to realise, what, years later? Do you have any idea what that did to me?’
He looked down, shame settling on his face. ‘I do now and I hate myself for it.’
‘Then why did you do it?’ she demanded. ‘Why write something so scathing when you hadn’t even set foot in my café?’
Oliver took a deep breath. ‘Fiona.’
Clemmie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Fiona? Now why didn’t I guess she would be involved somehow?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve already explained that our families always expected us to end up together.
Same background, same social circles – it was practically written in the stars, according to them.
And for years, I didn’t question it. We grew up together, and when you spend that much time with someone, you don’t always see them for who they truly are.
She was always cutting, always had this edge to her, but I convinced myself it was just ambition.
That she was just hungry for success.’ He let out a breath.
‘But that’s not it. She doesn’t go about things the right way.
I made excuses for her, brushed over the snide comments, ignored the way she put others down.
But every time I worked away and came back, I saw her more clearly and I didn’t like what I saw.
’ His gaze met Clemmie’s, filled with regret.
‘I hate that you’ve been caught in the crossfire again.
She’s jealous. Jealous of your kindness, your talent, how hard you work – the list is endless.
And she’s jealous because she knows how I feel about you. ’
Clemmie tilted her head, sceptical. ‘Why the bad review?’
‘As I told you, I invested when Fiona started her business. It seemed like the natural thing to do. When I became a food journalist, she encouraged me, said I had the perfect voice for the industry: critical and sharp. No sugar-coating.’ He looked at her properly now.
‘Then, one day, she told me about this café she’d visited on holiday. ’
Clemmie’s stomach dropped. ‘She’d been here?’
Oliver hesitated, then nodded. ‘She made it sound like a disaster. She told me the service was dreadful, the coffee was cold, and that she was treated rudely. She said you were arrogant, full of yourself, and that the place didn’t deserve the praise it was getting.’
‘That’s a complete lie.’
‘I know that now,’ Oliver said quickly. ‘But at the time, I believed her. She said she wanted me to write the review as a favour. She was furious about how she’d been treated and wanted to “balance the scales”.’
Clemmie scoffed. ‘That’s pathetic.’ Her expression hardened. ‘So, you just blindly did what she wanted? Without fact-checking? Without thinking about the people it would hurt?’
Oliver flinched. ‘I was young and stupid, and she was always pushing me into things I didn’t want to do.
I know it’s not an excuse.’ He sighed, running a hand through his hair.
‘And the truth is, she convinced me it would help my career. Fiona told me that being critical, standing apart from the usual flowery, overly positive reviews, would make me stand out. That people respected brutal honesty. Given that it was a trial review for the magazine, and I was offered a permanent job soon after, and my career began taking off, it seemed like what she said was true.’
Clemmie was shaking her head. ‘Honesty? There was nothing honest about what you wrote.’
‘I know,’ Oliver said, his voice quiet. ‘I regret it more than anything. Your café was just collateral damage in her twisted games.’
Clemmie swallowed hard. ‘That review destroyed my confidence. It made me feel like I wasn’t good enough to run this place. I nearly walked away.’ Her voice cracked slightly. ‘My granny always says, “If you’ve got nothing good to say, don’t say anything at all.” Shame you never heard that one.’
Oliver looked stricken. ‘Clemmie—’
‘No, you don’t get to just apologise and expect it to fix everything,’ she cut in. ‘You made me doubt myself. Every time I stepped behind that counter, I heard your words in my head. I thought I was a fraud, a joke and the worst baker in the world.’
‘I wish I could take it back,’ Oliver murmured. ‘How can I put this right?’
‘You can’t.’ She blinked back angry tears.
‘I’m so sorry, Clem. I really am.’ He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes glistening with tears.
‘The review was a huge mistake, but I can promise you I now have your back completely. Yes, you broke my heart, but I could see how beautiful you are, how driven you are, and how your family means the world to you. All the qualities I’m looking for.
Believe me when I say Fiona doesn’t mean anything to me, not even as a friend anymore. ’
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Oliver exhaled and leaned forward slightly. ‘On the way here, I contacted my solicitor.’
Clemmie frowned. ‘Why?’
‘I’m pulling my money from Fiona’s business. I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.’
Clemmie studied him carefully. ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘Yes. I don’t want any association with her. It may cause a rift between the families for a while, but I have to do what I believe is best.’
Clemmie could see the anguish in his eyes as he admitted everything, and appreciated what he was doing to put it right. He’d opened up to her and had been completely honest, owning his wrongs, and for that, she admired him. ‘What about the competition? She’s contacted the officials.’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you stole the recipe. It’s just a coincidence that they’re similar.’
Clemmie glanced towards the table, where the stack of letters and old photographs lay scattered. Her expression shifted. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘there’s been a development.’
Oliver followed her gaze. ‘What do you mean?’
Clemmie exhaled, reaching for one of the aged envelopes. ‘Unfortunately, on this occasion, Fiona may be right.’ She carefully unfolded a fragile letter, the ink slightly faded but the words still legible.
‘This letter is from the Earl of Aberford to my great-great-grandmother. They wrote to each other during the war, and in one of these letters, he tells her about Chef étienne’s favourite recipe. He actually gifts it to her, promising it will be a hit for The Café on the Coast.’
Oliver’s eyes widened. ‘The Earl of Aberford? He knew your great-great-grandmother?’
‘It appears so. It’s such a shock and we’ve only found out – literally, just before you rang the doorbell.’
‘You’re saying that your great-great-grandmother and the Earl were friends? That they wrote to each other?’
Clemmie nodded. ‘Yes. And this letter is proof that the recipe came from the Earl himself.’
Oliver let out a low whistle. ‘Wow. I suppose, technically, the recipe does belong to the Royal Family if it came from the royal chef.’
Clemmie pursed her lips. ‘It’s complicated. The Earl was friends with both Chef étienne and Beatrice, and he willingly gave her the recipe and encouraged her to use it in the café.’
Oliver leaned back, mulling it over. ‘Do you know how they met?’
Clemmie shook her head. ‘I have no idea but there’s more. A lot more.’
Oliver raised both eyebrows.