Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  I turn towards our now bemused visitor and continue brightly, ‘Pay no attention to my father. He simply can’t resist pulling someone’s leg when the opportunity arises. And anyway, it’s time for dinner.’ I stand up and actually clap my hands a la Mary Poppins. Fortunately I manage to resist bursting into a rendition of ‘A spoon full of sugar,’ in true Julie Andrews’ style, thus sealing our reputation as Dartmouth’s answer to the Adams Family.

  There is no way I’m leaving Noah Westbrook alone in my father’s company for a second longer. Fortunately the bread and dips are already waiting on the dining room table so I smile sweetly down at him while holding my hand out in invitation towards the dining room (my other hand is clutching the second glass of wine which I managed to snatch in a cunning sleight of hand that would have confounded Houdini).

  ‘Would you like to follow me?’ Unfortunately I’m almost undone when he stands up. He is so close, the slight aroma of his cologne drifts towards my nose and unable to help myself, I sway towards him - only to catch a glimpse of my father’s self satisfied grin over the actor’s shoulder. Unbelievably, he’s winking and nodding his head up and down, and I frown as my internal alarm bells start ringing immediately.

  What the hell is the old bugger up to? Abruptly I step away, putting as much distance between me and temptation (not to mention most definite humiliation) as possible. Taking a deep breath, I lead the way into the dining room. Although it’s still early evening and light outside, there are lighted candles on the round dining table and in the sconces on the wall, giving the room a cosy intimate glow. My apprehension rises another notch and we haven’t even eaten yet…

  As my father tops up everybody’s wine, I hurriedly sit down opposite our guest (can’t bring myself to call him Noah), reasoning that the further away I am, the less likely I am to make a complete tit of myself (without dad’s help anyway). However, as I hand over the basket of bread, I can’t help but stare. His fingers touch mine as he takes the basket with a murmured thank you and my face flames as if he’s just said ‘I love you.’ What the hell is wrong with me? I take another gulp of wine. I notice that I’m not the only one who’s star struck. Dotty is lying next to his chair gazing up at him adoringly (she’s not even whining for food) and Mabel is just sitting with a silly grin on her face (immunity doesn’t come with age obviously).

  The conversation is nonexistent. After a couple of minutes with the only sounds coming from the dipping and chewing of bread and Mabel’s false teeth, I’m actually praying that my father will say something, anything – I don’t care what – nothing could be worse than this awful silence…

  ‘Tell me about your beautiful house. It obviously has a lot of history and I’d love to get a feel for the place before all my movie buddies descend on it.’

  And in a flash, the conversation starts up again. It doesn’t take much to get my father started on the ins and outs of his beloved Admiralty, and unknowingly our visitor had hit on exactly the right subject. I breathe a sigh of relief and relax slightly, secure in the knowledge that we’re on pretty safe ground – for the time being anyway. I get up and head towards the kitchen with the intention of bringing in the pasta.

  As I cross the hall, I stumble slightly on hearing dad begin his anecdote about the commodore and his parrot but luckily the response is a hearty laugh…

  Amazingly the evening has not been a complete and utter disaster. Once my father realized that Noah (obviously some of my inhibitions had disappeared by the fourth glass of wine) enjoyed British humour, he kept the anecdotes coming thick and fast and although some were most definitely a bit risqué, I’d actually forgotten what a good host the Admiral could be when on top form.

  It’s now after midnight and Mabel is snoring softly in the corner. I’ve been content to sit and listen for the last hour as both men trade increasingly far-fetched naval stories for equally implausible Hollywood ones. Turns out Noah Westbrook has wit and charm as well as looks. It’s a shame, I would have felt so much better had he been an arrogant twit, but alas, against my will, I am charmed like the rest of the world.

  As the clock chimes half past the hour, our guest glances at his watch and murmurs that it’s time he was getting back as the walk is likely to take him a good hour. ‘Walk?’ my father booms, rousing Mabel from her nap. ‘Can’t possibly risk you falling into the river at this time of night.’ (As though falling in at any other time is okay…)

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Noah answers with a shrug. ‘I’d rather not order a cab and risk being recognized. At which point Mabel comes round long enough to agree about the importance of him remaining incontinent…

  I cringe and hurriedly interject the word “incognito”, but only half heartedly. For once I agree with my father. The prospect of such a famous personality drowning after having dinner at our house doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘Don’t you worry about that lad, Jimmy will take you home and he’ll keep his trap shut if he knows what’s good for him.’

  I can see that Noah is wondering who the hell Jimmy is, but all he says is, ‘Gee, I don’t want to put the poor guy out of his bed at this time of nigh...’ But before he can get any further, the Admiral waves away his protests.

  ‘Do him good, besides, he’s already here – been sitting outside for the last hour – got to keep ‘em in line don’t you know.’

  By this time I’m beginning to feel a bit light headed and everything is taking on a dreamlike quality. I glance at Noah expecting to see derision in his gaze, but to my surprise, his return look is full of mirth and I can tell that, like before, he’s actually enjoyed the whole exchange. Hesitantly I smile over at him as he rises from the sofa and he smiles back at me with barely restrained laughter. In my slightly inebriated state, the smile feels intimate and inviting and my heart thuds unevenly in response. As I follow the two men to the front door, I reflect that I will never forget this evening. In fact my mind has already begun fantasizing about our blossoming friendship; one that lasts through thick and thin; where he can’t make a decision without me; flies me all over the world to keep him sane…

  ‘Well Noah lad, it’s been a pleasure and I’ve no doubt my daughter Victory feels the same. In fact I’d be very surprised if spending an evening with a fine specimen like you don’t just tempt her back into the saddle...’

  And just like that, the bubble bursts.

  Saturday 3rd May

  TO: kim@kimberleyharris.com

  What time is it over there? It’s late here but just had to tell you about the evening I just had. You wouldn’t believe it - total riot.

  Can you remember I told you about the house we’re gonna be filming in? Well it was amazing, like something out of a Jane Austin novel, perfect for The Bridegroom.

  The guy who owns the house (you know, the kooky Admiral - he told me his first name but apparently everyone calls him by his naval rank, even though he’s been retired for years) was definitely one fry short of a Happy Meal and seemed to take great delight in doing everything he could to embarrass his daughter. Would you believe the poor girl’s name is Victory! Apparently her father called her after some famous Admiral’s ship – really need to dust off my British history. Mind you, the only person who appears calls her that is her dad, everyone else calls her Tory. She seemed pretty uptight the whole evening and spent most of it glaring at her father. She was (as mom used to say) a well built gal. Had a really nice smile though.

  There was also another guest who (I guess) was the old guy’s girlfriend. Seems a little weird calling her that, she must’ve been nearing seventy - think Miss Marple and you’re getting the picture.

  It was a bit strained at first, but once the Admiral got a few glasses inside him, he had some great stories, each one a bit more outrageous than the last. But the best bit was watching his daughter’s response to each one. Priceless.

  Just before I left, the Admiral announced he’d booked me a cab. I told him I didn’t want anyone to know I was here and was happy to walk home (there’s
a track that follows the river), but the Admiral insisted that this guy called Jimmy would be delighted to take me and he wouldn’t dare to breathe a word.

  I was about to argue when the Admiral’s girlfriend Mabel, who’d been asleep for the last hour, suddenly woke up and chipped in how important it was for me to stay incontinent Hoping she meant incognito. Honest to God Kim, I don’t know how I kept a straight face. Haven’t had such an entertaining evening in ages. And to top it all, this guy Jimmy (who’d been waiting for me outside for over an hour – bizarre) got out of his car and actually saluted the old guy before opening the door for me to get in. Twenty minutes later we arrived at my house after total silence the whole way – Jimmy had apparently been instructed not to rabbit on – another one of those quaint British phrases meaning shut the fuck up….

  As we pulled up at the house, I was just about to climb out when Jimmy suddenly thrust an old magazine cover under my nose with a full color shot of me semi naked and asked me to sign it for him so he could give it to his wife for their anniversary.

  I tell you sis, you really couldn’t make it up. British eccentricity at its very best.

  Anyway, off to bed now. Feeling really mellow…

  Noah xxx

  Chapter Six

  Sunday lunchtime in the Ship was always busy, much to Admiral Shackleford’s disgust. In his opinion The Sunday Lunchers were in the same bracket as people who only went to church on Christmas Eve. Mind you, at least he wasn’t a hypocrite he reflected as he wove his way through the crowd – he never went to church at all…

  Arriving at the bar, the Admiral ordered his pint and glared at the upstart who had the temerity to sit on his stool. Eventually, as always, the look had the desired effect and the scoundrel got up and left. Laboriously seating himself down on the vacated seat with a grunt of satisfaction, the Admiral congratulated himself on still having a stare that could bring down a subordinate from thirty paces.

  A few minutes passed by as he enjoyed his pint and reflected on the dinner party the night before. Then he glanced at his watch. Where the bloody hell was Jimmy? If the man was any later, he’d be considering disciplinary action – ‘give ‘em an inch and they take a mile’ was the Admiral’s firm philosophy.

  Just then Jimmy pushed open the door with Pickles in tow. ‘Sorry I’m late Sir,’ he panted as he finally reached the bar. ‘Emily wanted me to mow the lawn.’ The Admiral frowned but decided against taking further action and waved at the barmaid to bring his friend a drink.

  ‘So sir,’ said Jimmy, climbing up on to his stool, ‘how did last night go? Was it a success? Have to say the package seemed like he’d had a good time – not that we spoke a lot of course,’ he hastened to assure the Admiral that he'd kept to the strict instructions.

  Charles Shackleford grunted and took a draft of his pint before looking around to see if anyone was listening. There were advantages to a packed pub – even the barmaid didn’t have the time to eavesdrop. Then he turned to Jimmy and grinned broadly. ‘I think I can safely say that stage one of the plan is pretty much the dog’s bollocks my friend. The package had a cracking time – although it has to be said that Victory was not her sparkling best.’ He frowned slightly as he remembered his daughter’s near continuous silence. ‘Still, I threw out a couple of subtle hints to the package and am confident that by the end of the evening he could see past her miserable face and almost continuous drinking.

  ‘Think we’re on a roll Jimmy my lad, we’re on a roll…’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Oh my God, stop, please stop or I’m going to wet myself.’ Kit is doubled over laughing as I give her the low down on last night. The unladylike snorting noises she’s making are causing Dotty, who’s curled up in her basket, to look up, head cocked to one side.

  It’s Sunday morning and we’re both sitting in the little room at the back of Kit’s art gallery. Housed on the ground floor of an old Tudor building on a pedestrianised street full of similar picture postcard buildings all converted into charming shops and cafes, the gallery is Kit’s passion. It’s actually owned by her absentee parents who show as much interest in the gallery as they do in their daughter – which is to say none. Most of the time, Kit’s parents are a bit of a taboo subject and one we very rarely speak about. However, where the gallery is concerned, her parents’ absence suits Kit fine as she gets to do with it as she wishes.

  And I get to share the room at the back with her, which is where I run my Interior Design business. (I could do it equally well at home but… well, need I say more?)

  The gallery is actually quiet for a Sunday in May, probably at least in part due to the recent run of sunny weather breaking in the early hours of this morning. The rain is now beating a frenzy against the windows in complete contrast to yesterday. It gives the old building a cosy feel, and the two of us time to chat, which ordinarily would be great, but on this occasion (Kit is now in fact crossing her legs in desperation she’s laughing so hard) maybe not so much.

  ‘I can’t see what you find so funny,’ I grouch. ‘I told you he’d think we’re all bonkers.’ I daren’t actually tell her about my father’s clumsy attempts at matchmaking - just thinking about it is making me squirm with embarrassment, not to mention my school girl fantasies at the end of the evening…

  Sighing, I cradle my mug of coffee and wait for my inconsiderate supposed best friend to get over her hysterics. After about five minutes she begins to sober up and sympathetically leans forward to give me a hug. Not ready to completely forgive her, I sniff and pull away on the pretexts of salvaging my coffee.

  ‘Don’t worry about it sweetheart, look at it this way, you’ve probably provided him with a story that will do the rounds of the rich and famous in Hollywood for the next ten years.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’ My voice has risen an octave. ‘I can’t believe you’re being so insensitive about my humiliation.’ Which of course starts her laughing again.

  I’m just about to flounce out in my best Scarlett O’Hara impression when my mobile phone rings. Gritting my teeth I glance down at the number. It’s one I’m not familiar with which means it could be business, so with one last glare at my former best friend, I turn my back to answer the call.

  For a split second I don’t recognize the male voice on the other end, then realization crashes in and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. Kit notices my stillness and immediately stops laughing to unashamedly eavesdrop.

  ‘Hi Tory? It’s Noah.’ Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…. ‘It’s him,’ I mouth silently to her, pointing at the phone, our previous argument completely forgotten.

  Kit frantically motions towards the speakerphone button as I simply stare at her dumbly, completely paralyzed. Frustrated, she makes a grab for the phone and we grapple briefly, eventually dropping the phone on the floor.

  ‘Hello, hello? Is this Tory Shackleford’s cell?’ I can hear his voice faintly as we both make panicked eye contact before lunging to the floor at precisely the same time, resulting in our heads meeting with a resounding crack and both of us ending up on the floor with Dotty now barking excitedly between us.

  Despite seeing stars, I manage to push Dotty away and grab the phone off the floor. Putting it back to my ear, I attempt a grunt followed by a wobbly, ‘Just one moment please.’ (Which I really hope will be enough of an indication that there is someone on this end of the line…)

  I cover the mouthpiece with my other hand and groan. ‘Bloody hell, that hurts,’ echoes Kit, rubbing at the livid purple lump that has appeared on her forehead. I resist the urge to add my own expletive, take a couple of deep breaths and put the phone back to my ear.

  ‘Hi Noah, sorry about that, I was just on the other line.’ My voice doesn’t sound too unsteady and feel quite proud of myself.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ comes the cheerful response. ‘Sounded like you were rolling around the floor with a dog – Dotty I presume.’

>   I attempt a tinkling, oh you are funny, kind of laugh which unfortunately comes out more of a cackle. For a split second I want to hang up and crawl under the table, then I glance over at Kit, still nursing her head, and she grins at me and makes a thumbs up sign.

  ‘No, no, not at all.’ Sounding quite normal now if I say so myself. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well first of all I wanted to say thanks a bunch for having me round to dinner last night, it was great.’ Kit’s ear is now plastered next to mine and she rolls her eyes in disbelief. I retaliate by sticking my tongue out.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ I respond in my best Admiral Shackleford’s daughter voice. Kit winces and I screw my eyes shut in an effort to block her out. There’s a second’s pause and I resist the urge to ask if we can do it again, just the two of us – tonight preferably…

  Then he continues, and my heart literally jumps into my throat. Your dad mentioned last night that you fix up houses for a living?’ His voice is a question but he continues without waiting for an answer. ‘This house I’m renting. I love it. In fact I’m seriously thinking of buying. Problem is, it needs a hell of a lot of work and I was wondering if you’d like to come up and take a look.’

  Well, bugger me. Noah Westbrook wants me to come and look at his house. For a moment I’m completely speechless

  ‘What do I say?’ I mouth at Kit who looks back at me like I’ve lost the plot, while miming ‘duh’ with her finger against her head.