The Secret Ingredient. Nina Harrington

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      The woman’s head was held high and tall and there was a faint smile on her lips as she stared out to sea, reaching for it with both hands while her pale feet seemed totally encased in the sand.

      It was dusk and on the horizon there were the characteristic red and gold and apricot streaks in the misty shadows that stretched out to the horizon. Soon darkness would fall but Lottie knew that this woman would stay there, entranced, until the last possible moment, yearning for the sea, until the very last of the day was gone.

      While she still had a chance for happiness.

      A single tear ran down Lottie’s cheek and she sniffed several times before diving into her bag for a tissue, but then remembered that she had left them back at the cake shop, so made do with a spare paper napkin she had popped into her bag for spillages.

      Last chances. Oh, yes. She knew all about those.

      Until three years ago she had been a business clone in a suit, trapped in cubicle nation in the investment bank where her father had worked for thirty-five years. All she’d had to do was keep her head down, say the right things and do what she was told and she’d had a clear career path that would take her to the top. She’d even had the ideal boyfriend with the right credentials on paper just one step higher than her on the ladder.

      How could her life have been more perfect?

      The fact that she hated her job so much that she threw up most mornings was one of the reasons she was earning the big bucks. Wasn’t it?

      Until that one fateful day when all of the pretence and lies had been whipped away, leaving her bereft and alone. Standing on a beach like the one in the painting. Holding out her arms towards the sea, looking for a new direction and a new identity.

      She wasn’t balls-of-steel Charlie any longer, the girl who had walked away from her six-figure salary and the career track to the top of her father’s investment bank to train as a pastry chef. Oh, no.

      That girl was gone.

      The girl sitting with tears in her eyes was Lottie the baker. The real girl with the real pain that she had thought she had worked through over these past three years but was still there. Catching her unawares at moments like this when the overwhelming emotion swallowed her down and drowned her.

      For the first time in a long time she had allowed her public face to slip and reveal that she was hurting.

      Foolish woman! Exhaustion and unspoken loneliness made her vulnerable. That was all.

      The paper napkin was starting to disintegrate so she stuffed it back into her bag.

      Maybe at the end of the night when everyone was heading home she could steal a few minutes with the artist and ask her about ‘Last Chances’.

      Who knew? Maybe Adele Forrester might be able to answer a few of her questions about how making the most of last chances could change your life so very much. And what to do when all of the people and friends that you thought would stick by you decided that you had nothing in common with them once you jumped ship and stopped answering your calls.

      Starting with that, oh-so-perfect-on-paper boyfriend.

      Yes, maybe Adele had a few answers of her own.

      With one final sniff, Lottie blinked and wiped her cheek with the back of her finger. Time to repair the damage to this make-up and get ready to rock and roll. She had two hundred portions of canapés to plate out.

      Busy, busy.

      Yes, she should really make a move now. Oops. Too late.

      Lottie sensed rather than heard someone stroll closer and stand next to her, so that they were both looking at the canvas in silence for what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds.

      ‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ Lottie sniffed as yet another tear ran down her cheek, preventing her from turning around and embarrassing herself in front of a complete stranger.

      ‘Absolutely perfect. How does she do it?’ Lottie asked. ‘How does Adele capture so much feeling in a flat image? It’s incredible.’

      ‘Talent. And a deep feeling for the place. Adele knows that beach at all times of day and season. Look at the way she blends the ocean and the sky. That can only come from seeing it happen over and over again.’

      Lottie blinked again, but this time in surprise.

      He understood. This man, because it was a man’s voice and definitely a manly pair of designer trousers, was echoing the exact same thoughts that were going through her head.

      How did he do that? The tremor in his voice was instantly calming and restorative. Someone else saw the same things in this work that she had. How was that possible?

      It was unnerving that he knew what this painting was all about and could talk about it with such passion.

      And then the harsh reality of where she was struck home and she felt like a fool. Ian had told her that this was a preview show for art critics and media people. This man was probably a friend of Adele Forrester who knew perfectly well the history behind the picture.

      Maybe he could answer her question?

      Lottie lifted her chin and shuffled sideways on the bench so that she could look up into the face of the man standing by her side.

      The room froze.

      It was as though everything around her slowed down to treacle speed like a DVD or video being played in slow motion.

      The laughter and gossip from the clusters of elegantly dressed people gathered around the gallery owner became a blur of distant sounds. Even the air between them felt colder and thicker as Lottie sucked in a low, calming breath.

      Was this really happening?

      ‘Rob Beresford,’ she said out loud, and instantly clenched her teeth tight shut.

      Thinking out loud had always been her worst habit and she’d thought she had it beaten. Apparently not. Her mouth gaped open in confusion.

      And why not?

      Rob Beresford. Her least-favourite chef in the world. And the man who had single-handedly tried to destroy her career.

      TWO

      ‘In the flesh.’ Rob shrugged. And without asking permission or forgiveness he sat down next to her on the flat leather-covered bench and stretched his long legs out towards the exhibition wall. ‘I hope that you are enjoying the exhibition. This piece is really quite remarkable.’

      Lottie tried to make her senses take it in. And failed.

      Rob Beresford.

      Of all the people in the entire world, he was the last person she expected to meet at a gallery preview show.

      He looked like a picture postcard of the ideal celebrity chef. Stylish suit. Hair. Designer stubble. Damn the stylist who had his clothes pitched perfectly.

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