Franco’s eyes cruised the many faces upturned to him, as if expecting to see one surrounded by flashing arrows, but nothing leapt out at him.
Then there was one of those inexplicable split-second moments where everything seems to hush except for one voice.
‘Aren’t you going to shout to your boyfriend, Cariad?’
A snipey, shrill voice. He knew instantly from what he had read about them in her letters that it had to be either Becky or Lacey. It came from the side of him, right at the front. Sure enough there were two blondes wearing twisted smiles bookending a dark-haired woman with the eyes of a hunted deer and wearing a pink top and a pink hairband.
I’ll be wearing a pink top and a pink hairband.
It had to be her.
Cariad was thinking that if there were no trains that night, she would take a hotel room near the station and travel out on the first one tomorrow morning.
‘Oh, my God, Cariad. You came.’ Franco marched to the edge of the stage and bent down.
Cariad was still pondering on travel plans and it took her brain a ridiculously long time to catch up with her eyes. Franco Mezzaluna was less than two feet away and bending down to her and STARING RIGHT INTO HER FACE.
‘Jesus Christ.’ This from Lacey. Cariad could have sworn she heard the physical thump of her jaw hitting the ground.
‘Wait there, honey,’ said Franco to Cariad, who couldn’t have moved anyway, even if she had tried. Her legs had turned to cement.
Becky gulped. ‘He knows you? He really knows you?’ she said to Cariad, in a voice that was full of wonder and gasps and shock.
‘Well . . .’ Cariad lifted her shoulders and dropped them. It was all she could manage because she was full of more wonder and gasps and shock than Becky was. Becky took that single word to mean, Well, I told you, though, in truth, Cariad hadn’t a clue how she intended to finish her sentence.
Whatever Franco said to the crowd in the next few minutes was lost to Cariad as she was too busy trying to fathom out what the hell had just happened. Franco Mezzaluna had recognised her. He had looked into her eyes and said her name. It was like trying to compute more colours in the spectrum, the vastness of the universe, the concept of infinity – totally out of the realm of her understanding.
Everyone started clapping and cheering. Becky was nudging Cariad and asking questions. Lacey’s mouth was opening and shutting as if she were a dying goldfish. Franco was beckoning to Cariad, who still couldn’t believe her eyes. She stole a look behind her to check there wasn’t someone else whom Franco was really trying to communicate with but there was only Josh and Aaron, in the same land of the gobsmacked as their girlfriends.
Suddenly things started to move very fast as kind hands in the crowd pushed her towards the stage steps so she could meet her hero, as he was requesting.
‘I want to come,’ cried Becky, grabbing Cariad’s pink shirt and hanging on as she moved forwards but a huge security guard prised off her fingers. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he said.
‘I’m her friend,’ screamed Becky.
‘I don’t care if you’re her conjoined twin, love, you aren’t getting past me.’
Becky wasn’t happy if the four-letter tirade was anything to go by, but it did nothing to help her case. Neither did the frustration manifesting itself in her foot.
‘Kick my leg again love, and I’ll have you arrested,’ the security guard warned Becky before he turned his back on her and lifted Cariad up onto the stage where she found herself standing in front of her world-famous pen-pal.
‘Hi,’ he said, and he was every bit as handsome as his photos in the glossy magazines. More so. It was as if he had been airbrushed in real life. He bent towards Cariad and gave her a kiss on her cheek. The crowd whooped.
‘Do you know each other?’ asked Eve with smiling confusion.
‘Kind of,’ replied Franco, answering for both of them but looking straight at Cariad. ‘We’ve been writing for many years.’
Well, I’ve been writing, you’ve been ignoring, said a sniffy voice in Cariad’s head.
Franco turned back to the crowd and declared the lagoon officially open. He thanked them for coming to see him, wished them all well, waved and then he took Cariad’s hand and pulled her backstage.
‘Could I steal your ice-cream lady?’ Franco asked Jacques and Eve.
Eve looked at Cariad, who appeared to be totally shell-shocked.
‘I think if Cariad wants to be stolen, we will do our best to manage without her.’ Eve smiled. The ice-cream shop was going to be mad busy today, but could she really say anything else? ‘May I ask where you’re going?’
‘Don’t know,’ replied Franco. ‘That’s for Cariad to decide.’
Jacques pointed to Franco’s attire. ‘Well, if the plan is to slip under the radar, I’d think about changing.’
Franco looked down at his distinctive eight-thousand-pound suit. ‘Good point. But I . . . er . . . don’t have anything with me . . .’
‘You look about the same size as me. I have some clean, spare clothes in the office. Give me a minute.’ Jacques dashed off as Logan requested a quiet word with Franco out of earshot of the others. As Cariad stood waiting, she pinched her arm discreetly. It hurt so she really was awake and this really was happening.
‘Here you go, Franco,’ said Jacques, reappearing with a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.
With a lot of unpredictable animals and a llama with a predilection for spitting, Jacques always had a stock of spare clothes to hand, just in case.
‘Franco, you really don’t have time . . .’ Logan was clearly annoyed, but Franco was a man on a mission and would not be dissuaded.
‘Logan, I have time. I’ll meet you at the front entrance of this park at seven this evening.’
‘You can’t . . .’
‘Oh, I can,’ insisted Franco, handing him his suit jacket before he started to unbutton his shirt. Jacques put his hands over Eve’s eyes and she batted them away. Married as she was, she wasn’t going to miss the sight of Franco’s bared six-pack for anyone. Jacques gave her an amused nudge, though Eve did avert her eyes when he started to unbuckle his belt.
‘Logan, look after these for me. I’m playing hookey.’
Logan was in a flap now. ‘If you miss the flight . . .’
‘I won’t.’ Jacques smiled disarmingly at him and Logan huffed.
‘Thank you for showing me your great Winterworld.’ Franco turned to Eve, leaned forwards and delighted her by giving her a kiss on the cheek. Then he gave Jacques’s hand a firm shake. ‘I’ll return the clothes. Logan will see they’re laundered . . .’
‘Don’t worry.’ Eve flapped her hand, dismissing the suggestion and giving a ridiculous few seconds’ thought to selling them on eBay, listing them as ‘freshly worn by one of the hottest men in the world’.
‘Okay then, let’s go.’ And with that, Franco held out his hand for Cariad to take. He guided her past his waiting limo, because the press would follow it and he wanted to be anonymous today. Instead, he opened the door to one of the five taxis waiting in the staff car park.
‘What’s the name, love?’ asked the driver, folding up his newspaper.
‘Er, can’t remember the name they booked it under. Who are you waiting for?’ said Franco, feigning puzzlement.
‘Brookes.’
‘That’s me. I’m Brookes.’
‘Where to then?’ The taxi driver swallowed the lie whole.
Franco turned to Cariad with a look of enquiry.
Cariad hadn’t a clue. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m hungry. I want lunch,’ said Franco. ‘Where do you like to go? We can talk and eat.’
‘Er . . . Sedgewick’s,’ said Cariad. It was the first name that came into her head.
‘Then Sedgewick’s it is,’ said Franco. ‘Driver, please take us to Sedgewick’s.’
‘I love a Sedgewick’s fish feast,’ said the taxi driver over his shoulder. ‘Have you tried their curry
sauce? My advice is don’t get peas, get that curry sauce. Ooooh.’ And he made a noise as if something wonderful and tickly had just tripped down his spine.
‘I hope it’s the best place in town,’ said Franco.
Yes, why didn’t you suggest the best place in town, numpty? Cariad’s brain tutted.
‘Well, I’d hardly call it that . . . Firenze is the best place . . . oh, hang on, they’re shut for refurbishment. Let me think. Ah yes, I know – Rotherwood Hall, if you’re going posh,’ said the driver. ‘Yes?’
Franco turned to Cariad for approval. She nodded enthusiastically.
‘Definitely,’ said Franco to the driver then.
Cariad couldn’t believe it. Not only was she going to Rotherwood Hall for lunch, where the starters cost more than her mam’s house, but she would be sitting opposite Franco Mezzaluna at a table there. Oh boy.
‘Rotherwood Hall it is.’ Franco turned to Cariad. ‘I owe you the best restaurant in the area at lea—’ His words dried up as he closed his eyes against the thought which had just entered his brain. Cariad guessed what that thought was.
‘You’ve left your wallet in your suit, haven’t you?’
‘Oh ‘eck,’ chuckled the driver.
‘I don’t carry money. Logan does that for me.’
‘Best make it Sedgewick’s after all,’ said Cariad, leaning forward to instruct the driver. She didn’t have enough money to cover Rotherwood Hall prices. Plus, now that Franco had jeans and a Winterworld sweatshirt on, there was a good chance they’d be turned away at the door. Still, eating at Sedgewick’s with Franco Mezzaluna wasn’t that much of a drop between first and second prize. The food was sort of the least important factor.
‘Well,’ Franco shifted in the back seat so he was facing Cariad as much as the seatbelt would allow him to. ‘After all these years, we finally get to meet.’
‘You do know who I am then?’ Cariad’s heart was jumping around in her chest like a wild bouncy ball.
‘Of course. I’ve read all your letters. I’ve kept them. Every single one. Yours was the first fan mail I ever got from the UK. The dragons you drew on them have increased in quality though over the years, I have to—’
‘You bastard.’
The insult had spiralled up and out of Cariad before she had a chance to stop it. And with it, a large attached chunk of fury which had been stuffed down and repressed since the days of her childhood.
‘What?’
‘You heard. For nearly fourteen years you’ve had my letters and never once replied. Then you turn up and think I’ll just drop everything . . .’
Franco dropped a heavy sigh. ‘I am so sorry. You’re right. I am a bastard. But I kind of hoped I’d have the chance to make it up to you. Let’s talk over lunch,’ he said, aware that the driver was listening to everything they said. ‘I like seafood.’
‘It’s a fish-and-chip place,’ said Cariad. ‘You won’t be able to pick your own lobster out of a tank.’
‘Thank goodness,’ replied Franco with a slight shudder. ‘I wouldn’t ever do that.’
The taxi driver was in full Sedgewick’s appreciation mode now. ‘We like a Sedgewick’s haddock. Old Betty in the kitchen is wonderfully heavy-handed with the portions as well, thank the Lord.’
Franco grinned at the driver’s smiling eyes framed in the rear-view mirror, before shifting his focus to the scenery. ‘What beautiful countryside.’
‘Nice innit,’ said Cariad. ‘We’re nearly here. It’s just over the brow of this hill.’ Was she really going into a fish-and-chip shop on the outskirts of Barnsley with one of the world’s most gorgeous film stars? The two things didn’t quite match up.
‘Are you a body double?’ asked the taxi driver as he swung into the restaurant car park.
‘‘S’cuse me?’
‘That film star is in Barnsley today, isn’t he? That Franco Zefferelli bloke. My wife slavers over him. Are you one of those fellas that attracts all the fans so he can slip away in secret? What’s that accent you’ve got?’
‘I’m Irish,’ replied Franco, pulling off a not very convincing Eire twang. ‘I’m flattered that you think I’m like him. He’s quite a looker.’
‘The real one is a lot wrinklier close up,’ said Cariad, still carrying some anger in her voice. ‘And I think he has blocks in his shoes.’
Franco rounded his eyes at her with amusement.
‘Eight pounds fifty please.’ The taxi driver pulled on the hand-brake. Franco gave a look of embarrassment as Cariad pulled out her purse.
‘I’ll send you the money,’ he said.
‘In your next letter?’ Cariad handed over a tenner and told the driver to keep the change.
‘Remember, try that curry sauce,’ was the driver’s parting shot as he drove off.
‘I am so sorry. Again,’ said Franco. He noticed that Cariad was hobbling slightly as they walked towards the restaurant. ‘You okay there? You hurt your leg?’
‘When Becky was kicking the security bloke, she got me as well,’ said Cariad. ‘I’ll have a beauty of a bruise later I bet.’
‘She wouldn’t have got past those guys.’
‘It wasn’t for the want of trying.’ Cariad thought of Becky’s snarling face when she was barred from going backstage and wanted to giggle. For once she was actually quite looking forward to seeing her at home later.
‘I promise I’ll make this up to you. As well as everything else,’ said Franco, being a gentleman and opening the door to Sedgewick’s, which was actually a refurbished Little Chef at the top of Half Moon Hill.
‘I’ve got money enough for lunch. Providing you don’t go mad ordering lots of curry sauce,’ said Cariad.
‘I have to have some though,’ replied Franco with a knicker-melting smile. ‘The taxi driver sold it to me.’
Sedgewick’s was half-full. There was no one there under the age of sixty-five, and even the waitresses, in their smart black frocks and starched white aprons, looked as though they should be collecting their pensions. As the young couple entered, people gave them a cursory glance and then returned their attentions to their plates. It was probably the first time in years that Franco had been treated with such indifference. He most certainly had never taken second billing to a piece of battered cod before.
‘Table for two, please,’ Cariad said to an approaching waitress, who led them to a red-upholstered booth by the window.
‘Bet it’s a novelty for you not being swarmed by autograph hunters, isn’t it?’ said Cariad, lifting up two menus and passing one to her dining companion.
‘Oh yes,’ replied Franco, realising that he might as well have been wearing an invisibility cloak in here and it was strangely refreshing.
‘Thing is, no one expects to see Franco Mezzaluna in a chip shop in Barnsley,’ whispered Cariad. ‘Even if anyone should recognise you, they’ll think their mind is playing tricks on them.’
Franco looked out of the window at the rolling green hills and the blue-tinted Pennines in the distance. He took a deep breath, as if he was pulling the scenery into his lungs. He felt weird, but nice weird. And ‘normal’; part of a world that didn’t hang on his every word or was nice to him because they wanted him for something. Today he was a regular guy who could let his guard down. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to move around in public feeling free.
‘Hello, love, nice to see you again.’ A different waitress, who recognised the young lady from a previous visit, had appeared at their table, pen poised over her notepad, and was addressing Cariad, but staring at Franco. ‘This your young man?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Yes,’ Franco answered for her.
‘You’re a belter, aren’t you?’ She twisted her head around to shout to her colleague. ‘Hey, Ena, isn’t this young fella a smasher?’
‘He is that, Sue,’ replied Ena. ‘I wouldn’t mind him with a fried egg.’
‘You look familiar,’ said Sue the waitress. ‘Have you been here befo
re?’
‘No, it’s a first time for me,’ replied Franco, careful to speak in the Irish voice he had been using with the taxi driver.
‘Aw, you’ve found a fellow Welsh ‘un.’ Sue smiled at Cariad, who disguised her giggle with a cough.
‘I’m sure I know you,’ Sue persisted. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Michael,’ Franco supplied quickly.
Sue studied him with her sharp little bird-eyes. ‘Michael what?’
‘Er . . . Bublé,’ replied Franco, grabbing at the first name that sailed into his mind.
Sue rolled the name around in her head silently then threw back her head and laughed. ‘If you’re Michael Bublé, I’m Elizabeth Taylor,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s “ten-per-cent-off Tuesday”. Do you know what you want or shall I give you a couple more minutes?’
‘Why don’t you order for me?’ said Franco to Cariad. So Cariad ordered two haddock and chips – with curry sauce, obviously – a pot of tea and some bread and butter.
‘Well done on the incognito front,’ said Cariad, when Sue had gone to hand the order into the kitchen, ‘Mr Bublé.’
‘It was the first name I thought of,’ replied Franco, blue eyes glittering like the waters of the Winterworld lagoon. Cariad had read in so many slushy romance books of people wanting to dive into someone’s eyes and she now knew why.
‘So, here we are,’ Franco eventually said, a wide lazy smile resting on his deliciously kissable lips.
‘Yep. In a chip shop in Barnsley,’ replied Cariad. ‘I can see us in the next issue of Hello!. It’ll make a right change from you whisking women off to the Cipriani Hotel in Venice or Raffles in Singapore.
‘I’m only doing a photoshoot if Sue and Ena are in it,’ Franco said, scratching the stubble that was already coming through after a shave early that morning.
Cariad smiled, then remembered that she’d actually called him a bastard. If she hadn’t been restrained by a seatbelt, she might have slapped him as well.
‘So you actually read my letters? Really?’
The Barn on Half Moon Hill Page 3