To my surprise however, my visitor isn't Kit, but Freddy. I look behind him but there’s no sign of Dotty. ‘Hope you haven’t lost my dog,’ I grumble, feeling suddenly naïve and foolish at the stupid, stupid situation I’ve found myself in.
‘Dotty’s out for a morning constitutional with her aunty Kit,’ Freddy replies, perching on the side of the bed. ‘You ladies may have risked life and limb pinning down a Hollywood super rat, but I’ve had a whole day of picking up dog poop. One day is enough.’
I close my eyes. Maybe Noah Westbrook is a rat, but in my head I can still see him walk unsuspectingly towards my leafy hiding place, somehow looking so isolated and alone. Resolutely putting the picture out of my head, I make an effort at a smile, ‘Thank you Freddy, your heroic sacrifice is duly noted, and a bottle of something nice will be heading your way as soon as I get out of bed.’ I give an experimental tug on the bedclothes trapped under his bottom, but before I can tell him to shift, a white bundle of fur comes dashing through the open doorway, and with a flying leap Dotty throws herself at me, as though I’ve been away for weeks.
Her total joy at my mere presence brings a lump to my throat, and, swallowing the threatened tears, I grab hold of her wriggling body, and plant hello kisses on the top of her head.
Jumping up to protect his perfectly creased trousers from muddy paw prints, Freddy gives a dramatic, long suffering sigh before retreating to the door. ‘I’ll leave you two to get re-acquainted while I supervise Kit’s regrettably lack lustre coffee making skills.’
An hour later, I’m showered and dressed in my less than fresh jeans and sweater from yesterday, sipping Freddy’s unique interpretation of a caramel latte which, if my taste buds serve me correctly, includes a large slug of Grand Marnier. Sitting here with my two best friends arguing with each other over my best interests, I realise just how lucky I am. Whatever happens in my future, I know that Kit and Freddy will be there commiserating, celebrating, or cheering me on, and I’ll be doing exactly the same for each of them. Who needs a man anyway…?
Unfortunately, the ringing of my mobile phone chooses this moment to reveal the utter sham of my burgeoning attempts at looking on the bright side, as my heart jumps in the hope that it’s Noah calling to tell me it’s all been a misunderstanding. I grab the phone without stopping to look at the caller ID and fight the urge to cry with disappointment as my father’s deafening voice shouts down the phone.
‘Victory is that you?’
Sighing, I hold the phone away from my ear before responding, ‘Hi dad, yes it’s me. Is everything okay at home?’
‘Total cake and arse party over here girl. Whatever you do, don’t come back. The bloody papa... parap... pazap… damn journalists are six deep outside the gates. Take a special ops exercise just to get you in. I’m sending Jimmy over with your stuff. Lie low, and I’ll send a signal when it’s safe for you to come back.’ He puts the phone down before giving me any indication of what the signal is likely to be, and I’m left filled with apprehension at what exactly my father deems to be “my stuff"”.
I look over at my two friends. ‘I hope you’re not expecting any guests over the next few days.’
~*~
By lunch time the next day, I’m ready to throw myself out of Kit’s window. I haven’t stepped foot outside since our return from London, and Kit has done everything in her power to keep me from reading any of the tabloids or watching the news. ‘It’s a nine day wonder Tory,’ she answers airily when I protest. ‘The bloody vultures will soon get fed up, and move on to torment some other poor sod.’ I can only hope she’s right, but that doesn’t stop me from pacing the floor in her small flat and wondering, achingly, what Noah is up to right now.
That dad’s interpretation of my stuff turned out to be surprisingly accurate hasn’t helped the matter any. If my sixty five year old father is able to pack me a case, what does that say about my personality…? Drinking my umpteenth cup of coffee, I throw myself despondently into an armchair. The calls are stacking up. I’ve let most of them go to voice mail - including the builder and architect asking about Noah’s house - but I can’t hide forever.
Suddenly Dotty jumps up and starts barking as the flat buzzer rings, indicating a visitor. Kit is at the gallery, so I nervously pick up the receiver without speaking. ‘Are you there Victory?’ My father’s total inability to do anything in a normal level of decibels causes Dotty to start a fresh round of barking. My heart sinks. I haven’t seen him since all of this kicked off, and I know he’s worried about me, but the thought of trying to make polite conversation with my dad fills me with complete horror.
‘I’ve got a letter for you,’ he continues, completely oblivious to my lack of enthusiasm. ‘It’s from London. Thought you might want to read it.’
Heart thumping, I immediately let him in. Maybe Noah’s had second thoughts. While he’s stomping up the stairs, I make a concerted effort to collect myself. It’s probably nothing. As my father finally enters the flat, there’s a moment of pandemonium as Pickles dashes round his legs to greet his long lost friend. Both dogs are ecstatic to see one another, and I close my eyes wearily as my father yells at them both to stop the bollocking noise – even though he’s the one making most of it.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ I ask when the racket has died down slightly. I wander into the kitchen without waiting for an answer, and, hands inexplicably trembling, I put the kettle on. Dad follows me through and to my surprise, pulls me into a quick hug before handing me the envelope. Glancing up at his face, I notice how pale he is, with dark circles around his eyes. I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Are you okay dad?’ I ask, slightly worried. He waves my concern away however, and, pointing to the envelope, still unopened in my hand says abruptly, ‘Open the bloody letter Victory and let’s be done with this business.’
Frowning, I take a deep breath, and walking back into the living room, tear open the envelope. It has a London postmark. I quickly scan the contents, feeling completely sick.
The letter’s not from Noah at all. It’s from a firm of London solicitors asking me to cease harassing their client Mr Noah Westbrook with immediate effect. Should I fail to heed this advice, the matter will be reported to the police in relation to possible criminal proceedings. With regard to my employment by Mr Westbrook to project manage the renovations to his house in Dartmouth, I am advised that the house is being put up for sale, and my employment is now terminated. I will be allowed to keep the one hundred thousand pounds given to me at the start of the project as a good will gesture. However, should I attempt to contact or harass their client in any way, the funds will immediately become repayable.
Re-reading the letter, I sink into a chair. The bastard. He hasn’t even given me chance to defend myself, he’s just buying me off. Did I even know him at all? Allowing my head to sag against the back of the chair I give a small, bitter laugh, and throw the letter onto to the floor. ‘Lucky me,’ I whisper, ‘I’m now a hundred grand richer. Not bad for a few shags, eh dad? Your daughter’s going up in the world. You think I should open myself an escort agency, you know, specializing in larger women?’
My father stares at me for a second before bending down to pick up the discarded letter, and the room is blessedly silent for the next five minutes as he reads.
‘What, nothing to say dad?’ I ask sarcastically as he finishes reading. ‘Bloody hell, that’s got to be a first for you.’ His face blanches slightly at my words but he stays silent, distress uncharacteristically written all over his face. I take a deep sigh, guilt gripping me. I know my father cares about me, and it’s not like this situation is his fault. ‘I’m sorry dad. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you. To be honest, I’m angry at myself more than anything. I was just stupid to think we ever had any future, something like this was bound to happen.’
He opens his mouth to say something, but unable to face any more sympathy, I jump up to turn on the TV for the first time in days. ‘Let’s see what’s going on in the rest of the
world shall we? You watch while I get you that coffee’ Then I flee back to the kitchen.
I can hear the daytime soaps in the background as I linger, dragging out the time it takes to add coffee and milk to the mugs, while waiting for the kettle to boil. Then, unable to make it last any longer, I take the drinks back in to the lounge.
As I hand my father his mug, he takes a sip, glances up at me, then coughs, clearing his throat. ‘The thing is Victory,’ he starts to say in a gruff voice, as I sit back down in my chair…
But whatever he wants to tell me is lost as the midday news comes on. He begins to get up, obviously intending to turn it off, but I wave my hand at him. ‘You can’t all protect me forever dad. I need to know what’s happening.’ Frowning, he sits back down, but I can tell he’s ill at ease. We sit in tense silence as each story comes up, but we have to wait twenty minutes for the interesting bit - I’m glad the world economy takes precedence over Hollywood gossip. Then my stomach churns as Noah’s picture comes up on the screen.
‘There have been no further developments in the Noah Westbrook story. The actor is staying firmly silent, as is his co-star Gaynor Andrews, although the two have been seen together on several occasions recently, sparking rumours that the stars intend to put their tragic past behind them and re-kindle their romance.’
A blurred photograph of me comes up on the screen as the commentator continues, ‘Tory Shackleford, the other woman in what appears to be turning into a bizarre love triangle, has not been seen since the story broke, despite the continued presence of reporters outside the Dartmouth resident’s house.’ The picture of me is replaced by one of the Admiralty, a dozen reporters still camped outside our bright shiny new gates.
‘Bloody nightmare just to get out of the place,’ my father grumbles, obviously uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say. I daren’t look at him. If I see any sympathy in his eyes, I know I’ll break down. Instead I sit staring at the TV screen, where the news has now gone on to show a heartwarming story about a dog. A nine day wonder Kit said. She was right. And Noah and Gaynor are probably going to get back together. How funny is that?
‘Fact is you’re better off without him Victory,’ my father blurts angrily when I fail to respond. ‘These pretty Hollywood types aren’t for you my girl. No idea about real life or what it’s like to do an honest day’s work. Most of ‘em think manual labour’s a Spanish museum. They’re all fluff and no substance.’ His unconvincing bluster actually makes me smile a little and I finally look over at him. ‘Don’t worry about me dad, I’ll be fine. It might take me a while, but at the end of the day I’m a chip off the old block.’
There’s a small silence. ‘No,’ he disagrees in a low tone that’s completely out of character, ‘You’re not a chip off anything Victory Shackleford. You’re much, much better than that. A one off. Noah Westbrook’s made the biggest mistake of his life by listening to some muppet talk a load of codswallop.’ He glares at me for a second as if daring me to argue, then abruptly pulls himself out of his chair. ‘I have to go, got some business to attend to.’ A couple of seconds later he’s stomping down the stairs shouting back at Pickles to ‘Get a bloody move on.’ After a last lingering look towards Dotty, the old spaniel obediently trots after his master. The front door slams and quiet reigns.
Chapter Twenty One
As the Admiral climbed on board the passenger ferry to get him straight to Kingswear, he suddenly realized that he had no idea where Jimmy actually lived. He’d never been there - not once. He’d never even thought to ask where it was. Frowning, he sat on one of the seats inside the cabin, ignoring the inquisitive looks from the other passengers who were obviously up to speed with Dartmouth’s biggest and most recent scandal. Pulling out his mobile phone, he looked up Jimmy’s number, then hesitated, not at all sure if his friend would actually answer the phone if he called.
It abruptly dawned on him that Jimmy’s request for permission to withdraw from the Ship Inn might not just have been from the pub, but actually from the Admiral’s life altogether…
The sudden panic that gripped him was powerful and completely unexpected. Jimmy Noon was his oldest friend, and he couldn’t imagine not having the small man in his life. He scowled at an unsuspecting passenger sitting opposite him. This was nothing less than mutiny, and simply couldn’t be allowed to happen. There was only one way to put it right - if he could just find out where the old bastard bloody well lived.
In the end, the bird brained woman at Kingswear’s small post office told him. Cost him a book of first class stamps and a box of envelopes for the information though. Damned audacity of the woman.
As he puffed and panted up the hill with Pickles wheezing behind him, the Admiral went over exactly what he was going to say. He got as far as ‘The thing is Jimmy lad,’ when he suddenly realized that he’d arrived at his destination. He’d had no idea that Jimmy actually lived just round the corner from the Ship. In a gasping effort to get his breath back, he leaned against the door of his friend’s house which turned out to be an immaculately maintained terrace, sporting a picturesque array of spring flowers overflowing a hanging basket and window box. After a few seconds of panting (both him and Pickles), and stalling (just him), he worked up the courage to knock on the door. This feeling of uncertainty and doubt was a completely new experience for Charles Shackleford. In fact, the last time he could remember being uncertain about anything was – well, never…
Taking a deep breath, he knocked again, uncertainty now being replaced with the much more familiar feeling of impatience. ‘Where the bloody hell is everyone? How long does it actually take to answer a bollocking door?’ he thought irritably, raising his hand to knock again, only to be suddenly faced with the poker face of Jimmy’s wife Emily, who he hadn’t seen for years. His first thought was, ‘Bloody hell, she’s got more chins than a Chinese phone book,’ then, registering her less than friendly expression, he coughed slightly and asked if Jimmy was at home.
The annoying woman left him standing on the door step as she pursed her lips, and abruptly turned away without speaking. Still, she didn’t shut the door in his face, and the Admiral was left feeling quietly confident, until he heard her shout from the depths of the house, ‘Jim, the treacherous fossil’s at the door.’ Bloody cheek of the woman…
There was a pause of two or three minutes, while the Admiral attempted in his head to get past, ‘The thing is, Jimmy lad,’ then the small man appeared at the door, his face uncharacteristically solemn, giving nothing away. Any relief the Admiral was feeling promptly fled in the face of Jimmy’s painfully formal and sombre expression, all his rehearsed words completely disintegrating into thin air. In the end, Charles Shackleford said simply, ‘Jimmy lad, I’ve made a complete balls up. I know I’m about as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit right now, but I need you to come with me to London to help me put this cock up right. I swear to God it wasn’t me said all that stuff. ’ There was another pause as Jimmy’s face remained unreadable, causing the Admiral to hold out his hand in an uncharacteristic plea. ‘Please,’ he muttered, the petition forced through his lips for probably the first time in forty years.
Jimmy stared at his former commanding officer for another couple of seconds, then he sighed and said, ‘There’s a train leaves for London Paddington at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, but we’ll need to get to Totnes. I’ll meet you at the taxi rank at seven.’ As he turned away, intending to shut the door, the Admiral started to suggest that they take Jimmy’s car to the station, but only got as far as ‘Why can’t,’ before he saw the determined look on his friend’s face, and closed his mouth with a snap. ‘Good idea,’ he mumbled instead, just before the door shut decisively in his face.
Looking down at Pickles, who was busy investigating something unrecognizable in the gutter, the Admiral exhaled noisily. ‘Don’t know what you think Pickles my boy, but I thought that went quite well. Now, let’s see if you can bunk up with Mabel for the night.’
~*~
&nbs
p; Charles Shackleford felt every painful second of the four hour train journey to London. Never had he been silent for so long. Although he’d agreed to accompany him, Jimmy spent the whole trip with his eyes closed, leaving the Admiral to stew in his own guilt, and agonize over exactly what he was going to say when he finally managed to track down Noah Westbrook. By the time the train pulled into Paddington Station, he’d drunk five cups tea and three cups of coffee, purely for want of something to do. Now he wanted to pee so badly, he could swear his back teeth were floating.
After they exited the station, and stood at the taxi rank, Jimmy finally spoke. ‘You have any idea where his hotel is Sir?’ The Admiral glared at the smaller man, all thoughts of remorse temporarily forgotten, before sniffing and saying tetchily ‘Bout time you said something. Was beginning to think nobody was home.
‘No, I don’t know where his hotel is, and couldn’t very well ask Victory. I reckon they’re filming in the Old Naval college at Greenwich, so I thought we’d grab one o' them water taxis from the embankment, and head down the river to see if we can collar him there. I know Greenwich of old, went there as a subby, so we should be able to sneak up on him before he gets wind of us and legs it.’
Jimmy frowned at the mental picture of Noah Westbrook doing a runner to escape from the wrath of Tory’s vengeful father. ‘More likely to be the other way round when he finds out what the Admiral’s been up to,’ he thought to himself wryly…
Two hours later, the two men disembarked from the water taxi at Greenwich under the gigantic shadow of the world famous Cutty Sark. Both the Admiral and Jimmy paused briefly to pay silent homage to one of the last surviving nineteenth century tea clippers. The fastest and greatest sailing ship of her time, it was now a museum attracting thousands of visitors from all over the world.
Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 16