Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  By the time he pushed open the pub door, most of the Sunday lunchtime rush has been and gone. The interior was welcomingly quiet and dim, and the air redolent with the fading aroma of roast beef. He sniffed appreciatively and wondered if they’d have enough beef left to put him a quick sarnie together. Didn’t have time for the whole shebang as he’d asked Mabel to come over for dinner, promising to take her over to the Pictures in Paignton afterwards and he definitely needed to get his head down before that if he wasn’t to fall asleep on the back row.

  A few minutes later, he was tucking into a doorstep beef sandwich complete with a leftover Yorkshire pudding and gravy just as a windswept Jimmy pushed open the door. Pickles had his own little bowl of scraps at the Admiral’s feet.

  ‘Can’t stop long sir,’ the small man said breathlessly as he trotted over to the bar. ‘Emily’s just popped over the other side to M&S before it closes so I’ve got about half an hour ‘til she’s back. The kids are coming over for dinner tonight so I’ve got to move the best china.’

  The Admiral looked irritably at his friend over the top of his sandwich. ‘Don’t know how you cope with all those carpet crawlers of yours. How many are there now – twenty or something?’

  Jimmy chuckled, completely unfazed by the Admiral’s description of his grandchildren. ‘Just four sir, although I admit, it does sometimes feel like there’s a lot more of ‘em.’

  ‘Humph,’ was all the Admiral responded. Jimmy secretly thought that his old commanding officer had a private longing for a couple of his own carpet crawlers, but of course he never said anything.

  ‘How are you feeling today sir?’ he asked instead, having witnessed (and participated in) the long and arduous task of getting the well oiled Admiral to bed the night before. He and Tory had taken an arm each as they helped him from the car, into the house and up the stairs. Everything had been going ship-shape until they began staggering up the staircase, where the operation could well have proved fatal on several occasions due to the Admiral’s continual attempts to wave his arms around in time to his own unique and very loud interpretation of “Life on the Ocean Wave”.

  The whole undertaking was made all the more hazardous, not to mention deafening, as both Dotty and Pickles added their enthusiastic barking while darting up and down the stairs with complete disregard to the fact that it was one thirty in the morning.

  The Admiral sighed at Jimmy’s probing before admitting that ‘He’d felt better,’ prior to ordering another pint. They went on to sit in companionable silence for a couple of minutes. The only noise that could be heard was Pickles knocking his bowl around the room in an attempt to get the last of the gravy stuck round the outside.

  At length, the Admiral turned to his oldest friend and said, ‘Think we are cooking on gas Jimmy my boy. The package seemed mighty interested in our Victory – even disappearing off with her into his study for a full half hour.’ He frowned as a sudden thought occurred to him. ‘Hope he’s not tampering with the goods though.’

  ‘Oh I’m sure Tory isn’t that kind of girl Sir, she wouldn’t even consider letting someone she’s only just met into her locker.’

  ‘Mmm,’ was the Admiral’s only response, either indicating that he didn’t share Jimmy’s faith in his daughter’s moral standards, or that Victory would be completely incapable of resisting someone of Noah Westbrook’s sex appeal. Probably a bit of both…

  ‘Well, I’m not taking any chances with our Victory’s reputation. I’ll be keeping a close watch on the package over the next couple of weeks. Make no mistake Jimmy, it’s wedding bells I’m looking for and I’ll not accept anything less for my only daughter…’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Despite the fact that it was gone two o’clock by the time I went to bed last night, I’m awake bright and early. Well, in all honesty, I’m not that bright given that I did consume the better part of a bottle of Champagne last night – or was it two? My head has been pounding for the last hour, giving a strong indication it might have been the latter.

  As I lie there listening to Kit’s deep breathing and Dotty’s occasional dreaming twitch, I go over the events of the evening in my head for the umpteenth time. Kit was awake when I got home last night, (how could she not be after the racket we made?) For some reason though, I didn’t tell her about Noah’s kiss. I’m not sure why. I think maybe I’m afraid she’ll make too much of it and the only way that route will end is in tears. He’s famous and drop dead gorgeous, totally used to women throwing themselves at him (in my case, literally). He was most likely just curious as to what it felt like to grope a size 14 (don’t know what he’d call it in the USA, probably just says “big” in the labels.)

  I told her all about Noah’s amazing job offer though and bless her, she was excited as me. I spent another hour droning on about his house and my ideas for updating it and she didn’t drop off once, although that could have been more because Dotty’s snoring at one point was loud enough to wake the dead. Climbing quietly out of bed, I resolve to put the whole kiss incident right out of my mind and concentrate on the important stuff – like taking some pain killers for this bloody headache.

  An hour later Kit and I are legging it down the garden in an attempt to catch the car ferry waiting at the slip. Although it’s Sunday, I’m eager to make a start on Noah’s project as soon as possible, so while Kit opens the gallery to tourists, I intend to hole up in the back office and get cracking.

  We make it to the ferry with seconds to spare and as I look back towards the Admiralty, I can see figures beginning to swarm around the garden. The house had already been filling up with the film crew as we left and I only managed a quick wave to Arnold and Jed who appeared to be tied up with the big boys of the operation.

  My decision to head to the gallery to work was definitely the right one.

  By lunchtime I’ve sent emails to a reputable builder and an architect in Torquay who I’ve worked with before. Both are trustworthy and have an amazing ability to think outside the box – not always a given in south Devon. So far, I haven’t mentioned who the client is because (a) I can’t trust them not to shout it from the rooftops and (b) I don’t want Noah to be ripped off. I know, I know, he has plenty of dosh but that’s not the point.

  After pressing send on the last email, I decide to pop out to grab a bite to eat and give Dotty a chance to do her business. The gallery is very busy as I pass through and I make a discreet chomping motion to Kit as I head for the door, asking if she wants me to bring her a sandwich. At her nod, I give her a quick thumbs up and walk out into the fresh air, which today is cloudy and windy with a hint of rain. What a difference a day makes I reflect, pulling my cardigan across my chest. Dotty loves this kind of weather though and trots happily along with her nose in the air, appreciatively sniffing the wonderful smells carried on the salty air.

  After buying two wraps from the local deli, I walk over to the small park in the centre of Dartmouth and we take a seat near the bandstand. Despite, or perhaps because of, the inclement weather, the town is buzzing. A yachting and tourist haven both, Dartmouth always has its fair share of visitors, but today there seem to be more people around than usual. I wonder how many are here hoping for a glimpse of the cast of The Bridegroom. I sit eating my sandwich while I people watch.

  Dotty is curled up on the bench with her head in my lap gazing up at me in her ever hopeful, feed me, I’m starving, mode. Finishing my wrap, I look down to give her the last bit when suddenly she jumps off the bench, barking ecstatically as a tall figure walks over and stops in front of me, blocking out my light. With a sense of déjà vu, I squint upwards to see a tall man wearing glasses and a beany hat. Despite the disguise, I know who it is instantly, as does Dotty who is now making excited little whimpering noises as she attempts to climb up his leg.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be hard at work creating me the house of my dreams?’ he says mildly, and sits down beside me. ‘Shouldn’t you be hard at it earning enough money to pay me?’ I respond
flippantly, despite my heart hammering ten to the dozen, so loudly he can probably hear it. Dotty is beside herself with delight and is now wriggling blissfully all over his lap in an effort to lick any part of him that’s uncovered. I watch her with envy - if only I could do the same…

  ‘They’re busy backing my trailer into your yard as we speak,’ he counters, waving vaguely in the direction of the river. ‘Unfortunately, as you can no doubt imagine, the angle means it’s not exactly an easy feat, particularly if we don’t want it to finish up floating in the Dart after creating a long swathe of destruction through your newly immaculate flower beds.’

  ‘What do you mean, newly immaculate?’ I grin, despite myself. The garden was most definitely my mother’s domain; dad and I wouldn’t know the difference between a dahlia and a dandelion. He smiles back and asks if I have time to join him for a cup of tea. Instead of giving in to the impulse to shove Dotty off and throw myself into his lap, I sigh dramatically and tell him I can spare fifteen minutes before I have to get back to the grindstone. ‘But first I have to take my friend Kit her lunch.’ I hold up the extra wrap for him to see. ‘She’s doesn’t have my padding and will very likely starve to death if I don’t feed her at regular intervals.’

  Standing up, I brush the crumbs off my knees and lift Dotty off his lap, ignoring her grumble of protest – I think she was settling in for the day. ‘Do you want to come with me or shall I meet you somewhere?’ He gets to his feet and waves at me to go on in front. ‘Lead on fair maiden; I would in faith be honoured to be introduced to those you call friends.’

  I am torn between wanting to introduce Kit because I know how much it will mean to her, and selfish reluctance because – well, to put it simply, she’s so much prettier than me. ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous you silly vain twit,’ I reprimand myself crossly as we head back towards the gallery.

  I don’t know whether to be happy or sad that the gallery is now empty as I lead Noah through the door. I call out to Kit as he glances around the exhibits with interest and after a couple of seconds, she comes through from the back where she’s been making a hot drink.

  ‘OMG, I’m so glad of five minutes peace. I might just strangle the next bloody tourist who walks through that door. Did you bring me some gr…?’ She stops in mid grumble, as, like me, she instantly recognizes the tall lithe figure of Noah Westbrook standing behind me. I can’t stop the stab of jealousy that rips through me as I notice for the first time today the tight jeans and skimpy tank top she’s wearing.

  As she continues to gawp at the actor, I step forward to make the introductions. ‘This is my best friend Kit Davies. Kit, this is Noah Westbrook. I don’t think I need to tell you who he is…’ I hope my lack of enthusiasm isn’t too obvious in my voice, but to be honest, I don’t think Kit would’ve noticed if I’d introduced her as the Whore of Babylon. As soon as I began speaking, she went completely and totally uncharacteristically red. Like a beetroot. I completely forget my doubts as I stare at her in fascination. I really can’t remember the last time Kit didn’t have a lightening quick retort. Obviously used to this kind of response, Noah steps forward and holds out his hand. ‘Hey, it’s great to meet you Kit.’ His voice, as always, is open and friendly and shakes Kit out of her inertia.

  ‘Yes,’ is her earth shattering response. Noah raises his eyebrows a little and I resist the urge to snigger at my usually cool as a cucumber best friend.

  Just then, the gallery door opens to admit a group of five pensioners and Kit immediately snaps to. Apparently the over seventies in general cause more damage to enormously expensive works of art than a classroom full of ten year olds. And, although it clearly states that all breakages must be paid for, the chances of getting your average aurally challenged eighty year old to cough up are slim to none. In fact you’d probably have more luck with the ten year old. At least the dangerous bags they’re swinging around have a tendency to contain a bit more than a couple of fluff covered mint humbugs and a purse that needs a fifteen digit code to access.

  As Kit goes into KGB mode, I hurriedly usher Noah into the office at the back. Dotty is already ensconced in her basket. Looking back at the gaggle of geriatrics oohing and aahing over a beautiful (and unique) two thousand pound china clock, I estimate that none of them are likely to see eighty five again. My observation is endorsed by Kit’s white face as she positions herself close enough to catch the rare timepiece should the need arise. I realise we are not going to get past them any time soon – not without serious repercussions to both ageing hearts and costly artifacts – both obviously irreplaceable…

  So I ask Noah if he’d like a cup of tea here instead. ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ is his easy response and, shrugging off his lightweight navy jacket, he makes himself comfortable on one of the ancient easy chairs as I bustle about like an honorary member of the Waltons. As he sits down, Dotty promptly jumps up on to his knee and settles down. She closes her eyes with a contented sigh, then rapidly opens them again as she hears me unearth a packet of biscuits. There wasn’t even a tell tale rustle, but I’m not surprised. Past experience has shown that her nose is more than capable of sniffing out a ginger nut half a mile away.

  Is a mug ok?’ I ask, unsure of what I’ll do if he says no, as it’s pretty much a mug or nothing. ‘Super,’ he grins back with an exaggerated English accent.

  As I hand him his tea, I note he’s taken off his hat, which has left his hair all tousled and oh so yummy. The glasses are still on, so he actually looks like a sexy boffin. I’m doomed. Swallowing, I quickly turn back to the plate of biscuits. ‘Ginger nut?’ I ask, thrusting the plate under his nose. He blinks and rears back slightly in an effort to avoid inhaling one, then gingerly (pardon the pun) takes one off the plate, examines it and sniffs it. ‘Ginger,’ he confirms with a half smile. ‘Never had one of these before. Why do you call it a nut when it’s clearly a biscuit?’

  I am nonplussed and have to confess I have absolutely no idea. I seat myself in the other, even shabbier chair and watch him take a bite of his biscuit. ‘Bloody hell that’s hard,’ he says as he finally gets his teeth through the exterior. ‘Maybe that’s why they call it a nut,’ I tease smiling. ‘Of course, we haven’t all got your sensitive Hollywood teeth, but, actually, there’s an art to eating a ginger biscuit. Watch and learn…’ With exaggerated care, I dunk my biscuit into my tea. ‘The key is not to leave it in so long that it disintegrates into your drink, but just long enough to soften the outside.’ Taking a bite I close my eyes and sigh with pleasure, allowing the biscuit to melt on my tongue while savouring the ginger essence. It really is the little things…

  Then I look over at him intending to say, ‘Your turn,’ only to find him staring at me. Or more specifically, my mouth. Silence. ‘Err, have I got crumbs?’ I say eventually, self consciously brushing my fingers over my lips. ‘No, no crumbs,’ he answers absently, still staring at me. I try to come up with another witty comment, but my stock of sarcastic quips seems to have dried up. ‘Would you like another?’ is all I come up with in the end. Blinking, he comes back from wherever he’s been and looks down at the half eaten biscuit still in his hand.’ “Better not rush things,’ he says finally in mock seriousness. ‘The loss of half a biscuit is better than a whole one. I’m going in…’

  I laugh again and the weird tension is broken. ‘Perfect,’ he says a couple of seconds later after popping the soggy remainder into his mouth. ‘Yep, I’ll have another one.’ He glances down at Dotty, who, having jumped off his knee at the prospect of biscuits, has now resorted to doing a war dance around his trouser leg. ‘And I think she wants one too.’

  A few minutes later, Kit comes back into the office and, seeing both chairs taken, wearily lowers herself into Dotty’s basket. ‘My nerves are completely shot,’ she says without preamble. ‘I’m seriously thinking of banning everyone over the age of sixty five unless they leave their handbags at the door.’

  ‘Tea?’ I ask after checking my watch and thinking maybe it’s
still a little too early for anything stronger. ‘You’re an angel,’ she responds with a sigh, then reading my mind, ‘Have we got any whisky to put in it?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ I climb out of my chair to investigate and wave towards the vacated seat. ‘Sit down sweetie, you still look as white as a sheet.’ Then, walking over to an alcove in the back of the room, I throw open the doors of an old filing cabinet which houses both of our accounts. Shoving the jumbled up papers out of the way, (I know, I know, and to make it worse, we both use the same accountant – she’s currently in therapy), I manage to unearth a dusty bottle. ‘There’s still some of that alcoholic mouth wash your Polish ex brought you back from Krakow,’ I shout with my head still in the cupboard.

  ‘Oh my God, am I that desperate?’ muses Kit, who still hasn’t moved from Dotty’s bed. ‘Yep, I think so. Bring it on…’

  I carry the bottle back over to the table holding the tea making paraphernalia and the rest of the mugs – some of which I’m ashamed to note have possibly a new strain of penicillin growing inside - and switch the kettle back on. Next, pulling the cork out with my teeth, I add a generous measure of what apparently passes in Poland for a top notch liqueur (it really does taste like that pink stuff they give you to swill your mouth out at the dentists) and add a tea bag and some milk which immediately curdles ominously. ‘Just waiting for the kettle,’ I say, giving it a quick stir.

  As Kit finally makes an effort to extract herself from the basket, Noah jumps up to help.

  Bloody hell, for a second I’d forgotten he was there. It’s scary the way he just seems to fit in, wherever he is. I watch with envy the ease with which he pulls up her tiny frame then glance down at the vacated basket. I couldn’t even fit my right buttock in it.