A half an hour later, we’re crawling through the gap in the fence and it’s Freddy who makes all the noise - all of a sudden stopping dead and wailing about the damage to his best leather trousers caught on a stray splinter…
Chapter Fifteen
In the end, my fame is relatively short lived. Once the paparazzi accepted that my relationship with Noah Westbrook was over, they quickly lost interest in watching the Admiralty, preferring to do any hanging around outside Noah’s house further round the headland. Eventually though, when Noah failed to materialize, they gave up their vigil even there, and life moved on.
Dad has persistently refused to tell me the whole story, saying it isn’t entirely his to tell. He did reiterate that the accusations were false and that he’d had information to prove it. It had only taken a meeting with somebody I’d never heard of in the Home Office to sort the “bit of a problem” out - although, it might have taken weeks for Hugo to secure an interview if it hadn’t been for his son. Turns out Jason has connections from his Cambridge days (figures – he had to be intelligent as well as gorgeous, even if he is a knob…)
We haven’t really spoken about Noah, despite my father’s best efforts. He knows the bare bones, but I can’t really bring myself to say any more. I just want to try and put it behind me and get on with my life.
Some hope. Four weeks after my homecoming, I find the key to Noah’s house in a side pocket of my bag. The pain feels as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. I’ve studiously avoided watching the TV or reading the papers, so I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing. I do know that my worries about the damage to Noah’s career were completely unrealized. If anything, his popularity has soared. Way to go me… At first I did entertain a forlorn hope that once my dad was exonerated, he would come to see me, but as the weeks passed and he didn’t appear, even that small hope faded, until now I’ve come to accept that it really is over between us. I’m getting better, but everything just seems so colourless. Even the Regatta, usually so much fun, was just another hurdle to get through, and I’m beginning to wonder whether it might be better for me to move away, to somewhere I’m not reminded of the life I stupidly threw away every time I cross the river and look up towards the headland.
~*~
The weather for mid September was unusually warm. Although the trees were beginning to shed their leaves as Autumn approached, and the nights were beginning to get chilly, the days continued sunny and hot. The Admiral was sitting outside The Ship with Pickles, waiting for Jimmy. While things had gone back pretty much to the way they were before Hollywood had intruded, the Admiral was wise enough to understand that something had nevertheless fundamentally altered between him and Jimmy. Although he wouldn’t have recognized it as such, the difference could be attributed to respect. Jimmy was no longer a subordinate, subject to the Admiral’s whims – well at least not at the weekend anyway. They were on a much more equal footing and strangely enough Charles Shackleford was content with that – mostly…
Now though, as he waited impatiently for Jimmy to arrive, he was determined to enlist his friend’s help. He couldn’t possibly sit and watch Victory’s miserable face for one minute longer. Although his daughter had given her blessing to him and Mabel getting hitched, the Admiral conceded that two women in a kitchen was one too many. He knew Victory intended to move out once the nuptials were over, but he felt like he’d come full circle. It was left to him as usual to sort the whole bloody mess out. Of course he’d have to track the bloke down first.
In the end, it was another ten minutes before Jimmy arrived, and to the Admiral’s amazed disbelief, he actually had his wife in tow. This was so incredible that for a moment words failed him as he thought he was seeing a mirage. Pickles, the traitor, ambled happily up to the harpy, and, completely oblivious to his master’s sense of what was right and proper, held up his head for a fuss. ‘What would you like to drink dear?’ Jimmy’s request was nervous, even to the Admiral’s insensitive ears, so at least he was aware of the enormity of this breach of protocol. Charles Shackleford jumped up, unwilling to be abandoned for even a minute with the woman he’d only exchanged half a dozen words with in nearly forty years. Horrifyingly however, Emily put her hand on his arm saying, ‘Charlie, stay where you are. Jim will get me a drink.’ Completely lost for words, the Admiral sat back down and watched longingly as his friend disappeared in to the dim interior of the pub. Taking a sip of his pint, he looked anywhere except at the woman seated next to him.
‘Don’t worry Charlie, I won’t be staying long. I just wanted to have a quiet word with you.’ Against his will, the Admiral felt a slight quickening of interest, which he did his best to hide, glancing over at Emily with a frown. ‘I know you want Jim to help you sort out your daughter’s love life,’ she said flatly, ‘And we all know just how successful that was the last time you meddled.’ The Admiral opened his mouth to protest, but the bloody woman unbelievably held up her hand to indicate that she hadn’t finished. What a bollocking cheek. Still, it did the trick and he subsided reluctantly, while looking longingly to see if Jimmy was on his way back. No such luck, so he sighed and waved the harpy to continue what he assumed was about to be a blistering lecture. Which is why her next words caught him completely by surprise. ‘I want to help. If you’re to stand any chance of getting this stupid mess sorted out between Tory and her actor, you’re going to need a woman’s input.’ She glanced over to the slowly opening door where Jimmy was struggling with the drinks. ‘Well don’t just stand there, go and give him a bloody hand.’ To his internal amazement Charles Shackleford found himself climbing out of his chair to hold open the door. He felt like crying.
Jimmy placed the drinks down on the table and the Admiral was relieved to see that one was for him. He had a feeling he was going to need it. ‘A bag of pork scratchings for you my dove,’ was all Jimmy said, handing the small packet to his wife with a flourish as though he’d just offered her keys to a Porsche. She simpered back. Bloody simpered. And in response, Jimmy smiled and kissed her on the cheek. The Admiral was quite simply appalled. Was this the sort of treatment Mabel was expecting? He took a large draught of his pint in an effort to repress a sudden sinking feeling. However, before he could plunge further into the deep dark hole that was suddenly the prospect of matrimony, Emily patted Jimmy’s knee and spoke again, dropping a complete bombshell with all the aplomb of someone who knows she has her listener by the short and curlies. ‘I have it on good authority that Noah Westbrook will be back in Dartmouth sometime over the next forty eight hours.’ She looked at both men, self satisfaction evident in her expression, clearly saying, ‘If you want something done right, get a woman to do it.’
All thoughts of matrimony, painless or otherwise, were completely forgotten as the Admiral turned towards Emily, impatiently waiting for her to elaborate. As she started to smile smugly, obviously relishing the situation, the Admiral was finally forced to give her the stare - the one known to drive subordinates to gibbering idiots in five seconds flat. It didn’t quite have that effect on Jimmy’s wife, but her smugness definitely slipped a bit and she was gratifyingly quick to continue. ‘Gladys Taylor got a call from her agency instructing her to go up to a certain house to give it a good clean and open it up ready for the owner. Course Gladys doesn’t know whose house it is…’
Charles Shackleford leaned back in his chair and nodded his head slowly. He wasn’t surprised to hear Emily’s news. This was just another sign from up top that he was destined to fix the disaster that was his daughter’s love life. Again. He gave a self-righteous sigh and took another swallow of his beer, quickly dismissing the source of his information as his mind feverishly began working on a plan. However, Emily Noon did not intend to be cast aside quite so easily, and, leaning forward, she fixed the Admiral with a look of her own that had been known to cause grown men to run for the hills. ‘So, exactly when are you going to tell Tory?’
~*~
Dotty and I are strolling along o
ne of the many pathways that meander through the woods up the side of the valley behind the Admiralty. Well, I’m strolling – Dotty as always is dashing about, searching for that ultimate treasure - the foulest smell possible to take back to Pickles as a present. I keep a close eye on her as we make our way through the trees. Although the early afternoon is warm and sunny, evidence of the coming Autumn is everywhere, from the russets and golds of the trees to the satisfying crunch of the leaves fallen to the ground early. Spying a few wild blackberries bushes, I fish around in my pocket for a bag and spend an enjoyable half an hour picking the ripe berries, alternating them between the bag and my mouth. Dotty, whose list of edible treats does not apparently include blackberries, takes the opportunity to have a well earned nap, sunning herself in a small patch of sunlight that’s managed to penetrate the dense canopy.
The mundane task helps to take my mind off my ongoing internal war. I really am driving myself up the wall, not to mention Kit and Freddy who have bless them, endless patience, and my father who unfortunately does not. His latest observation, offered earlier today as he slammed out of the house, was that my face was beginning to resemble that of a bull dog who’s just licked piss off a nettle and I should bollocking well stop mooning around and make an effort to “grow a pair.” And, while others might have put it a little more sympathetically, I know he’s right. Despite the temptation to lay all my current problems at my father’s insensitive door, I realize, deep in my heart, that I’ve only got myself to blame for my current situation.
I’ve studiously avoided going over to the other side of the river since getting completely, blindly trollied during Regatta week and performing a drunken rendition of What’ll I Do Without You while taking sobbing gulps of my gin and tonic in between verses. Unfortunately caught on camera, the resulting video was standing at nearly two million hits on YouTube as of this morning. But one drunken karaoke going viral is unlikely to cause the end of the world as we know it (although I’ve so far resisted reading the comments), and I can’t continue to eschew all human contact forever – not least because I need to start earning a living again now I’m no longer Noah Westbrook’s personal interior designer (oh God, please don’t let him have seen the video). So, before setting out on my walk, I called Kit to ask if she fancied a drink at the Cherub after closing up the gallery later on today. Her enthusiasm ratcheted up the guilt a couple of notches, especially as her life is not exactly going according to plan at the moment.
After therapeutically clearing the bushes of every berry within reaching distance, I wipe my juice stained hands on my jeans, and glance down at my watch, surprised to note it’s nearly three thirty. I’m supposed to be meeting Kit just after five, so I hurriedly tie off my bag and, waking Dotty from her impromptu siesta, we head quickly down the trail towards the Admiralty. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do with all the blackberries I’ve picked – there are only so many apple and blackberry pies I can fit in the freezer, and jam making is definitely not one of my many talents. As I plonk my prize on the kitchen table fifteen minutes later, I wonder whether I should just give them to Mabel. She looks like she might be a bit of a jam making groupie. Decision made, I write a short note for dad and slip it under the bag before heading upstairs for a quick shower, Dotty trotting enthusiastically at my heels. She knows we’re heading up to her second favourite place in the whole wide world after the kitchen – my bed. And, after all that exercise, she’s more than ready for another snooze.
As the ferry bumps up the slipway on the other side just over an hour later, I can’t help but notice the Floating Bridge next to the slip is heaving, every table filled with tourists making the most of the early evening sun before it becomes too cold to sit outside. Glad of my sunglasses, I quickly make my way off the ferry and away from any prying eyes. Sadly my spontaneous and unique karaoke performance whilst under the influence has most definitely rekindled the public’s interest in my activities, with everyone and his dog waiting in breathless anticipation to see what I’ll do next to make a complete tit of myself. Today however, I am determined to stay well and truly, not to mention boringly, sober, so my less than adoring voyeuristic fans can go screw themselves…
Kit is already seated in the corner when Dotty and I arrive, and there’s an open bottle of wine ready and waiting on the table. ‘Boringly sober,’ I remind myself as I sit down opposite and watch her pour me a glass. My faithless furry companion has already abandoned me in favour of my best friend who, in addition to the wine, is also in possession of an opened packet of crisps – a fact that Dotty no doubt clocked within nanoseconds of entering the pub. ‘To starting over,’ I murmur as we clink glasses. To my dismay, Kit’s response to my toast is more like a grimace than a smile and I can’t help but watch concerned as she knocks back half her glass of wine in one gulp. ‘Are your mum and dad still coming over at the end of the month?’ I ask quietly. ‘I think so,’ is her miserable reply. ‘I’ve told them I’ve got too much stock for them to put the gallery on the market immediately. They have to give me time to at least recoup some of the losses.’ I shake my head in disbelief, unable to get my head around what’s happened. ‘What did they say?’
‘They’re prepared to give me until the end of October. Apparently they’ve already got a potential buyer. Someone they met in France, He wants to pay cash.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask, not knowing what else to say, helplessly watching her take another long gulp of wine before refilling her glass. ‘Find a job before I’m homeless,’ she answers flatly at length. ‘You’ll never be homeless Kitty Kat,’ I respond gently, ‘You know there’s always a place for you at the Admiralty.’ To my horror, she suppresses a sudden sob and I reach out my hand, saying lightly, ‘Just think, the two of us can wreak havoc in Mabel’s kitchen.’ She grasps my outstretched hand and laughs tearfully. ‘It will all work out Kit, you’ll see,’ I continue, my words of reassurance as much for myself as for my best friend. ‘What did my mum use to say? - When one door closes, another one always opens.’
‘The darkest hour is just before dawn,’ she offers ruefully. We clink our glasses again, this time in calm acknowledgement that the bad times will pass.
‘O.M.G, I’ve arrived just in time. One more minute and you’d have gone all Thelma and Louise on me and the next thing I know I’m talking you out of driving yourselves over a cliff…’
‘Did you invite him?’ I ask Kit over Dotty’s ecstatic welcoming bark. ‘I might have happened to mention I was seeing you tonight,’ is her doleful response, ‘Although I could have sworn I said I wasn’t totally sure but thought we were meeting in the Dartmouth Arms.’
‘You don’t think I can spot a porky pie coming from you a mile off, oh queen of prevaricators? Puleease, how long have I known you?’ Freddy’s answer is dismissive as he seats himself between us and I can’t help but smile. Kit is not quite so tolerant. ‘Did you not think, Ah, perhaps they haven’t told me because they want a girly get together? Or are you slightly less intuitive than you are nosy?’ she asks, eyebrows raised in question. ‘I haven’t got an intuitive bone in my body, as you well know,’ Freddy responds cheerfully, waving at the barman to bring him his usual. ‘Now, potential gossip on the other hand...’ He rubs his hands gleefully. ‘So darlings, what have I missed? Made any more videos lately?’ The last is obviously directed at me and I resist the urge to pour his newly acquired drink over his head.
In the end, we both give in somewhat gracelessly and pour all the misery and angst out to our thick-skinned third. Once done, we stare at him expectantly, waiting for some kind of astounding insight into what is undoubtedly a difficult situation. However, sometimes we have to remember that for all he prides himself in being in touch with his feminine side, at the end of the day, Freddy is still a man. And his response to Kit’s outpouring of despair just goes to prove it.
‘If you have to give up your flat, can I have first refusal?’
Chapter Sixteen
The Admir
al managed to get through two whole days before he decided to take matters into his own hands. He told himself that he wasn’t going to actually do anything, just have a quick shufti, spy out the lay of the land so to speak. After all, he couldn’t be sure whether Noah was truly back in Dartmouth. Once he’d done a quick recce, he could then assess the situation and go to Victory with a full report. Capital plan.
He arranged to meet Jimmy in The Ship at half past seven, ostensibly for a quick drink. His sneaky strategy was to divulge the mission details to his reluctant accomplice once they’d had a pint. That way, the dragon wasn’t likely to get wind of anything before hand and Jimmy was less likely to chicken out. He’d thought briefly about conducting this operation by himself but had quickly abandoned the idea. As much as it galled him to admit it, Jimmy’s prudence and caution had proved invaluable on more than one occasion. He might joke that Jimmy was usually ignored so much his name should be Terms and Conditions, but in light of their newly discovered equality, the Admiral deemed that if there was even the remotest chance that he was going to end up in the shit, then it was only fair that Jimmy should do so too.
Sweet Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 2) Page 14