Turning the Tide Read Online Free PDF Page B

eyes half closed, Lola heard the crunch of footsteps along the path and waited for the hesitant cough, the ‘Lovely morning’ with a not-too-subtle pause between the two words; or even the frequently purred and truly unoriginal ‘Bella Vista!’
    Nothing. Interesting. Keeping her gaze averted until she was sure his back was safely turned, Lola spun round to see where the first man to completely ignore her was heading. She could have howled with disappointment as he wandered towards the boat yard. No doubt he’d be back to his boat and off to sea without ever knowing what he’d missed. Then she saw him walk past the boat yard and down to the old yacht club building that now sported a ‘sold’ sign.
    Lola smiled as the sun came out. Suddenly the day looked a lot brighter.
    Reflecting that the regatta had very nearly been the death of her, Harry staggered into the relocated Spitmarsh Yacht Club, desperate for a pee; grateful, even with all the experience of a seasoned sailor, not to be bouncing around in the committee boat any more. But she was dreading coming face to face with the competitor who’d repeatedly tried to cross the starting line too early and who she’d had to disqualify – because Eric refused to do it on the grounds that ‘He knows where I live!’ She’d just have to hope that the man had calmed down a bit and was not as big as he appeared in his cockpit.
    Having relieved her most pressing need, Harry realised she was trapped. Short of launching herself out of the fanlight in the Ladies, she had no alternative but to run the gauntlet of yacht club wives brandishing sausage rolls and vol-au-vents in the post-regatta spectacular that was the awards ceremony. Bracing herself for a gas attack of Trésor and face powder, Harry took full advantage of the rumpus caused by a smoke alarm going off in the kitchen to make for the bar.
    ‘A pint of best bitter, please,’ she asked, doing a double take as she recognised Lola Moult behind the counter. With a figure that made Beyoncé look like an ironing board, glossy black hair and the proud, straight nose of an Egyptian princess, Carmen and Roy Moult’s beloved teenaged daughter must have rivalled Helen of Troy for launching ships. So many yachtsmen had unintentionally dropped their lines and lost control of their boats at the sight of her, that Harry was seriously thinking about getting all new nautical charts of Little Spitmarsh marked with a navigational warning.
    Lola had done the occasional weekend stint at the old yacht club, but Harry hadn’t expected her to move with the premises. In Little Spitmarsh, however, there was no such thing as a casual job, since they were all taken by the surplus of serious workers.
    ‘Make that two, please, and whatever you’re having.’
    Lola Moult was like a dangerous mountain with tremendous peaks and plenty of ice. Many men had tried to conquer her, but were always beaten back to base by the hostile environment. Now, as Lola returned the comment with a little flirty smile instead of her perpetual sulk, Harry didn’t need to look over her shoulder to see why.
    ‘I’ll get these, Harry,’ said Matthew.
    Harry watched Matthew watching Lola. She wouldn’t have thought that, style-wise, there was a lot to choose between her own denim shorts and rugby shirt, chosen to suit the afternoon in the committee boat, and Lola’s jeans and white tee shirt. So it had to be the way Lola moved, like a couple of giant peaches in a silk body stocking, that made Harry feel like the invisible woman. She was about to pick up her beer and figure out a way to swim against the tide of men surging towards the bar, when Matthew did it for her.
    ‘Come with me.’
    Harry had no choice; she was tired, she was thirsty, Matthew had hijacked her beer and the bar was heaving behind her. He led her to a table in the corner and made her sit down; then went off and came back with a paper plate laden with the yacht club ladies’ non-burnt