Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  I struggle to right myself with my legs still on the mattress and Noah tries to help by pushing my shoulders off his nether regions. Unfortunately, as I’m not exactly sylph like, this takes more effort than perhaps he’s bargained for. By the time I’ve managed to swing my legs off the bed and he’s shoved me into a sitting position, we’re both panting like we’ve just finished a twenty minute workout. It’s the most exercise I’ve had in ages…

  I turn round on my knees to face him. ‘I’m so,so sorry Noah. I didn’t know Dotty was on your bed, I was just trying to get her off then I fell and she went under the bed and then I saw you and managed to grab her and then I started to fall and…’ I know I’m babbling and probably sound like a complete lunatic (oh God am I taking after my father?)

  Unbelievably the actor smiles ruefully and, standing up, he waves my apologies away. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve been in much more compromising positions than this. Tell me what you’d like to do with this bedroom.’

  Telling myself sternly that he means to it, not in it, I resist the urge to ask him what kinds of compromising positions and get to my feet, determined to make no more embarrassing faux pas. Smoothing my shirt down, I rescue my notebook from the bedside table, glance down at my scribbles and cough self consciously – all the while chanting ‘professional, professional’ inside my head… Then, taking a deep breath I tell him.

  Half an hour later we are again ensconced in the drawing room, as I've referred to it in my notes, and my embarrassment has been completely replaced by enthusiasm. Hoping against hope that I haven’t completely blown it, I give him all my initial thoughts and ideas – including a completely new state of the art kitchen, the possible building of an Edwardian style conservatory on the side of the house and a New England type porch spanning the whole of the front. Might as well go for broke seeing as money is not actually an issue…

  Twenty minutes in to my animated dialogue, I can see he’s hooked. He leans forward and his eyes really do begin to sparkle and suddenly he seems so much more approachable. For the first time I forget he’s a famous Hollywood movie star and just see him as a prospective client with a beautiful house that I know I can turn into something amazing.

  When I finally trail off into silence, he stares out at the wonderful views and nods his head without speaking. It’s obvious that some internal battle is being played out in his head and I long to ask him why he’s even considering buying a house here of all places. Beautiful it undoubtedly is, but I sense that on some level he’s actually running away from something and my curiosity is inevitably roused. What’s he doing here all alone? Is that normal for someone like him? Despite the questions whirling around in my head, for once in my life I remain silent.

  I sense that any attempt to pry into his private life will be met with open hostility and I wonder what it must be like to be constantly in the public eye – every decision, every movement scrutinized and analyzed remorselessly. Unobserved, I sit and watch his beautiful but remote face and wonder if there is someone in his life. He looks so sad and lonely. Ridiculously I find myself wanting to give him a hug, just to show him that everything will be okay. How crazy is that?

  Just as I’m beginning to wonder if he’s forgotten I’m here, Dotty - never one to be ignored for long - decides to put an end to the silence by jumping sneakily on to the coffee table and helping herself to a biscuit. I scold her half heartedly, for once secretly glad she’s such a hog. The quiet was definitely becoming oppressive.

  Visibly rousing himself from his reverie, Noah simply smiles down at the little dog and hands her another one. Then looking over at me sitting nervously on the edge of the sofa he smiles again, this time warmly and directs the full force of his charm at little old me. Just like that he turns back into Noah Westbrook, Hollywood heart throb.

  ‘I love your ideas. Can you sketch them out for me?’ I nod my head vigorously, not trusting myself to speak. ‘Do you want more tea or would you prefer something a little stronger?’

  Inexplicably my heart begins thudding in my chest and I nod my head again. ‘Is that a yes for tea or a yes for a glass of wine?’ His tone is now teasing and intimate. (Am I imagining this?)

  ‘Wine, please,’ I manage to croak, wondering if I’ll ever have the opportunity to become blasé in his company.

  He heads into the kitchen, and brings back a bottle and two glasses. ‘Pinot Noir okay?’ At my nod, he deftly uncorks the wine, and pours two large measures. Taking my glass from his hand, I reflect that it’s a good job I’m not driving, and take a large gulp. As expected, the wine is full bodied and smooth so I take another very large, very appreciative mouthful and all but smack my lips (not that we drink bad wine in our house you understand, but after forty years in the Royal Navy my father is quite happy to drink anything that is remotely alcoholic…) And this little number has probably cost the equivalent of a two week all inclusive in The Maldives...

  I’m beginning to feel very mellow and relaxed. Peering into my glass, I’m surprised to see that it’s actually nearly empty and, ever the perfect host, Noah leans forward to fill it up. There is quiet as he looks over my portfolio again. I'm really not good with silence and I frantically think of something to say.

  ‘I’m really sorry about your bed.’ Apologizing again – really grasping at straws. ‘It was incredibly rude of me to lay on it without asking.’

  He looks up with a quirky smile before answering drily, ‘You’d be surprised how many women I find in my bed uninvited.’ I feel my face flame and stutter, ‘Well, of course I wasn’t, I mean I didn’t, I mean it wasn’t…’

  Unexpectedly he laughs. ‘I know, don’t worry about it Tory, it’s not a big deal.’

  My face reddens again at his use of my name. ‘For God’s sake get a grip girl,’ I admonish myself taking another gulp. ‘How long will you be working on The Bridegroom?’ I ask finally, congratulating myself on coming up with a safe topic.

  ‘It depends on lots of factors, but we should be wrapped up by the end of the year.’

  ‘Oh. So when will you finish filming here in Dartmouth? It will be so strange to see our house on the big screen. When is the film going to be released?’ I’m babbling again…

  This time he closes my portfolio decisively before looking up again– way to go Victory, piss him off with endless questions. ‘We’ll be filming in Dartmouth until the end of this month and the movie is scheduled for release next summer. You’ll probably hardly recognize your house in the movie when you see it, they’ll no doubt make lots of changes. Remember, it’s supposed to be the nineteenth century.’

  He doesn’t actually sound pissed. ‘Will you be living here permanently?’ I can’t help it, it just slips out. I bite my lip and take another gulp of wine thinking stupid, stupid, stupid.

  To my surprise he answers me. ‘I’m not totally sure. I have lots of things going on in my life right now.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘Think maybe I’m looking for somewhere to hole up if I’m honest, as far away from tinsel town as I can get.’

  I am so gob smacked that he’s actually answered my question that I really can’t think of anything to say back. I just stare at him, again seeing the slight sadness behind his eyes.

  Then the moment is lost as he raises his glass and speaks with a determined grin, all the melancholy gone. ‘So come on Victory Shackleford, where does a guy go to have fun around here?’

  My mind briefly pictures me showing him the bright lights of Dartmouth – it certainly won’t take long – then I remember, ‘Well, there is a music festival at the end of May,’ I say excitedly, ‘if you’re still here then. It lasts for three days and is usually great fun. There’s live music in every pub and on the bandstand in the park. I doubt anyone will recognize you if you go, it’s usually heaving.’

  ‘Sounds like a blast,’ Noah responds with what seems like genuine enthusiasm. ‘If we get a break from filming, I’ll tag along if you don’t mind.

  Th..that would be lovely.’ I’m stutter
ing again, all the while chanting ‘It’s not a date, it’s not a date’ inside my head... Dotty chooses that moment to let out a little whine and I know she wants to go to the bathroom. She’s abandoned the biscuits and is sitting next to the double doors leading out on to the terrace.

  ‘Would you like to see the rest of the garden before you leave?’ I jump at his offer, sensing our intimacy is at an end and if I hang around much longer, I’ll be outstaying my welcome. ‘Great,’ I smile, standing up hurriedly, ‘Lead on.’

  Twenty minutes later Dotty and I are back on the road. I am on cloud nine. If there was a ten, I’d be on it. I’ve left my portfolio with Noah with the proviso I’ll collect it when I bring him my ideas for the house.

  Which I’m going to leave with him at the cocktail party he’s holding for the cast and crew this Saturday. I’m actually skipping down the road – Dotty is running after me in bewilderment. I can’t believe I’ve been invited. Victory Shackleford hobnobbing with the rich and famous. My steps falter slightly as I remember that Noah has also invited my father and I wonder what bribe I can use to get him to behave.

  Maybe agree to move out? Yep, that should do it…

  ~*~

  I spend the last half an hour of my walk back wondering how on earth I’m going to broach the subject of the Noah’s invitation without admitting I’ve been up to his house, finally settling on the admittedly weak story of bumping into Noah in town. Sadly I’m incapable of coming up with anything more elaborate – I really have got a long way to go to get to my father’s level of proficiency at telling a good cock-and-bull story.

  Unfortunately I think he might have been lying in wait for me at the house because he throws open the door just as I’m about to put my key in. Pickles immediately barrels out, launching himself delightedly at Dotty as if they’ve been apart for days – elderly he may be, but he certainly hasn’t lost his eye for the ladies. Mind you, I can’t help but reflect that the term lady in this instance might be stretching it a bit as I watch Dotty enthusiastically throwing herself onto her back…

  In an effort to postpone the inevitable, I bend down to rub Pickles’ ears and pick Dotty up. As I finally straighten back up, my father clears his throat self consciously, and I look up as my internal alarm bells immediately begin to ring. My father is many things but self conscious is not one of them. I know this from first hand, very painful experience… ‘Err, I was wondering, thought we might have a bit of a chat – you know, father and daughter like.’

  I thought back to the last time we had a bit of a father daughter chat which lead to him writing me off as an uptight poker arsed spinster. Still, it will give me a chance to put forward Noah’s invitation. Maybe he won’t be able to go to the party. Could be he just wants to tell me he’s intending a dirty (sorry, romantic) weekend with Mabel. My hopes somewhat lifted, I nod my head and we retire to Dad’s study, which has been the traditional place for our one-to-ones since I was first out of nappies.

  I sit myself down with Dotty on my knee as my father begins to pace, mumbling to himself. I frown slightly. This is getting weirder and weirder. Then the thought suddenly hits me. Oh God, please tell me he’s not thinking of marrying Mabel Pomfrey – not yet. Unbidden, I see a vision of me walking down the aisle as maid of honour behind my soon to be stepmother.

  ‘So Victory, what d’you think of him then? Come on girl, and don’t give me any flannel.’

  My vision is now in full Technicolor – I’m wearing lilac. Then I frown as his words sink in. ‘Think of who?’

  ‘Now don’t act dense with me Victory Shackleford. You know who I’m talking about. The actor chap, you know, the looker. Tell it me straight. What do you think of him? Is he the kind of bloke you could see yourself bunking up with?’

  I stare at my father’s earnest and very serious face. I have no idea what to say.

  ‘I mean, you’d probably have to move across the Pond but he’s not short of a bob or two so he’d let you come home from time to time and ‘course me and Mabel can come over and visit…’

  He trails off, probably in response to the look of abject horror on my face. ‘Have you been drinking?’ Is all I can think of to say.

  He sighs dramatically at my apparent refusal to answer his question and plonks himself into the chair opposite.

  ‘Fair do, could be I’m jumping the gun a tad but it has to be said you’re a bit like a fart in a trance at the best of times my girl and as I’m your father, I want what’s best for you. So, DO YOU WANT TO MARRY THIS BLOKE OR NOT?’

  There is silence for a few seconds as my head attempts to make sense of his last sentence. Then I explode.

  ‘Are you completely off your rocker? Of course I don’t want to marry him you idiotic old wind bag. I’ve only known him for five minutes. Do I fancy the pants off him? Damn right I do, but then so does every other female with a working pulse. If you do anything at all to embarrass me at this party, so help me I really will throttle you.’

  ‘Party, what party?’

  I open my mouth to start up again and realise that I really have done it. There is absolutely no chance my stupid stupid STUPID father is going to cry off from the invitation now. Oh no, not when he’s on a mission to marry his fat, plain spinster of a daughter off to a famous movie star. God, he must want rid of me badly if he’s prepared to cook up such a crazy scheme. I have never been so angry and hurt.

  I stand up, place a now shivering Dotty on to the floor and walk over to where he’s sitting. Putting a hand on each arm of the chair, I lean forward and speak softly, slowly and clearly.

  ‘You and I have been invited to a social event at Noah Westbrook’s house on Saturday evening along with most of the film crew and actors filming here in The Bridegroom. The purpose I believe is to kick off their time in Dartmouth with a light hearted little bash before the hard work of the next few weeks begins on Monday.

  You will behave and you will refrain from saying or doing anything even remotely hinting at the possibility of a future relationship between Noah and me. If you go against my wishes in this, I promise you dad, hand on heart, that you will NEVER get me to move out of this house. The party begins at seven thirty.’

  Then straightening up, I walk carefully out of the room without looking back.

  My father never says a word.

  Tuesday 6th May

  TO: kim@kimberleyharris.com

  Hey Kimmy, sorry haven’t been in touch for a couple days, been catching up on my lines before we kick off next week. How’s it going in sunny LA? Kids and Ben OK?

  I’ve sort of come to a decision – drum roll… Think I’m gonna go ahead and buy the house I’m renting.

  Before you go all crazy on me sis, hear me out. I won’t move here permanently, but it’s somewhere I can hole up when it all gets too much and the thing is, I just love it here. It’s like being on a totally different planet and after what happened, I really need that.

  Please don’t think I’m abandoning you and the kids, I just need time to figure things out in my head. I know you understand.

  You remember Tory Shackleford? Well turns out she decorates stuff – pretty good at it too. She came over earlier and had some great ideas for making over the house. It was great to have a conversation with somebody who’s not trying to second guess me all the time, you know, someone who’s not afraid to give an opinion, be damned whether I like it or not. Seems like she got quite a lot of spunk when she’s not so uptight.

  Anyhow my peace will be shattered at the end of this week with the crew and cast descending. I’ve decided to throw a party on Saturday evening to get all the guys together. Not sure why now to be honest – guess it seemed like a good idea at the time. Think I was hoping Gaynor would still be in Barbados, but no such luck. David said she was – and I quote – ‘the fucking leading lady’ and to get her ass over to the UK. Apparently that means they need her back as soon as possible. She’s no doubt sulking her way over the Atlantic as we speak…

  Anyway got
ta go – catering to sort out. Don’t worry about me will you? I won’t do anything stupid sis and promise I won’t drop off the face of the earth ;-)

  Missing you loads

  Noah xxx

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Well, I’ve made a tactical error Jimmy and no mistake. In fact you would be closer to the mark if you called it a complete balls up. You’d think a fellow like me who’s given so much to international diplomacy over the years would not have cocked up quite so royally...’ He glanced irritably over at Jimmy who all of a sudden began spluttering and coughing into his pint. ‘What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?’ he asked crossly before sighing impatiently and hammering the smaller man on the back. ‘I’m buggered if I’m going give you the kiss o’ life Jimmy, so you better pull yourself together.’

  Taking a few deep breaths, Jimmy managed to stem the coughing fit – possibly due to the horrible thought of potentially being resuscitated by a balding, pot bellied sixty five year old man.

  The two men had eschewed their usual seats at the bar in favour of a secluded corner of the Ship where they were less likely to be overheard – even though at four in the afternoon the pub was almost empty, not to mention the sounds of Pickle’s snoring at their feet could potentially drown out a fog horn.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself Sir,’ Jimmy managed finally, ‘We all know that Tory can be a prickly character. You gave it your best shot, there’s no shame in giving up.’

  ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about man? Give up? ‘Course I’m not giving up. Just showed me cards too damn soon.’ The Admiral sighed again, this time petulantly. ‘Admittedly it is a bit of a crippler, but she’s definitely got the hots for the package, I can tell you that much.’