A Cornish Gift

by Fern Britton

  In person, she was stick thin, Botoxed to within an inch of her life, and the air around her practically vibrated with a nervous energy that was enough to set your teeth on edge.

  Miriam ordered a hired lackey in a crisp white-and-black uniform to take their coats, then they were shown through to an impressive reception room, awash with expensively tasteful furnishings in various shades of beige or taupe.

  ‘Psst.’ Helen nudged Penny. She’d remembered where she recognised Miriam from. ‘Didn’t she used to be your assistant?’

  ‘Yep. That was why Quentin and I split up. Found him shagging her on the floor of his Canary Wharf offices.’

  ‘That’s right, it’s all coming back to me now!’

  ‘She got her talons into him pretty quickly and used his connections to build up her business. They deserve each other.’

  The room was full of small groups of men and women talking, laughing and drinking. The men all wore what passed for casual in this part of London. Navy or tweed blazers from Hackett with open-necked shirts paired with mismatched chinos in salmon pink or mustard. The women seemed to share the same Knightsbridge hairdresser and wore either Burberry Prorsum or Joseph.

  Quentin spotted them immediately and made a beeline for them.

  ‘Penny, darling, so glad you could come!’

  ‘Quentin. I see Miriam has done wonders on your pad.’

  ‘The woman is a genius. Insisted we dug out the basement to create a Turkish hamman. The neighbours all kicked up a stink, as usual, but what Miriam wants, she usually gets! The whole place has just been Feng Shui-ed!’

  ‘Really?’ Penny raised a cynical eyebrow.

  At that point, a distinguished-looking gent in his early sixties came towards them. He had lively green eyes and an open and honest face. Helen liked him immediately.

  ‘Penny, my dear girl! You look wonderful.’

  Penny greeted him warmly with a hug and introduced him to Helen. ‘Lovely to see you too, Sir Nigel.’

  ‘We don’t often see you on the mean streets of West London,’ he said. ‘How is Cornish married life treating you?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘I love the place myself. The wife and I have a bolthole in St Agnes. Hope to retire there one of these days when TV7 let me out of their clutches.’ He smiled at Helen apologetically. ‘Do forgive me, I’m just going to borrow your friend for a few minutes, my dear. Baroness Hardy and I want to pick her brains about something …’

  Helen gave Penny a look that said hurry up, then turned to find that she’d been left in the clutches of Quentin Clarkson.

  ‘Alone at last.’ He sidled up to her and placed his hand on her lower back. ‘This is a big house, you know. I could take you on a little tour – there are plenty of cosy nooks and crannies that we could explore together.’ His fat hand inched towards her bottom.

  She was tempted to stand on his elegantly-shod toes, but before she had a chance, Miriam materialised. Her eyes were narrowed. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she demanded suspiciously.

  ‘Your husband offered to take me on a private tour of the house,’ Helen said innocently.

  ‘Oh, did he now?’ Miriam Clarkson’s eyes narrowed with cold fury.

  ‘Er, the Turkish hamman, darling,’ spluttered Quentin. ‘I thought our guests might like to see—’

  Miriam didn’t miss a beat. Taking Helen firmly by the arm, she said loudly, ‘Let me introduce you to Camilla and James. They’re ordinary people just like you and I’m sure you’ll have plenty in common.’

  It turned out that Camilla and James both lived in Chiswick and worked for the BBC. For the next hour Helen had to listen to Camilla drone on about house prices, the difficulty in finding a parking space for their 4×4 – which had never seen a muddy field in its life – in their Chiswick street, and how utterly selfish her Ukrainian nanny had turned out to be, asking for time off to visit her dying father in the school holidays.

  ‘I used to live in Chiswick,’ Helen said. ‘But I sold up and moved to Cornwall a couple of years ago.’

  Camilla looked aghast. ‘But you must be kicking yourself? Your house would probably be worth twice as much by now!’

  ‘Quite the opposite,’ said Helen. ‘It was the best thing I’ve ever done.’ And with that, she excused herself, knowing that if she had stayed with those two tiresome twits for a moment longer she would scream.

  Heading out onto the ambiently lit terrace. Helen took out her phone from her bag and called Piran. It went straight to voicemail. She imagined herself there instead of here, with Piran, enjoying a pint or two in the Sail Loft.

  Sighing, she put her phone back in her bag and headed into the party again. She tried to catch Penny’s eye, but she was in deep conversation with Sir Nigel and the Baroness and didn’t notice her.

  ‘Ah, Helen – come and meet Emily. Her son went to the same school as yours, I believe, and he’s now doing an MA.’ It was Camilla again.

  Helen looked at her watch. Any chance of slipping away early was diminishing fast. She grabbed a cocktail and a canapé from a passing waiter and plastered a smile on her face. It was going to be a long evening.

  5

  It was 9.30 a.m. when Helen presented herself washed and dressed outside Penny’s hotel-room door. The two women hadn’t left the party until gone eleven the previous night, and by then it was far too late to retrieve their evening. They’d made it back to the hotel and were too exhausted and fed up to face anything more than a quick nightcap at the bar.

  The door opened to reveal Penny in her bath robe. Helen immediately went and flopped down on the bed while Penny put the finishing touches to her make-up. Despite being the wrong side of forty, Penny’s blonde hair, long legs, fair complexion and not least, her infectious energy, made her seem ten years younger. Simon was a lucky man, Helen thought, not for the first time.

  ‘Were we ever as insufferable as that lot last night?’ she asked Penny.

  ‘You certainly weren’t – but I’ve a horrible feeling that I might have been.’

  ‘Nonsense! You’ve never shown the slightest sign of disappearing up your own bum like that lot. I hope I never see Quentin bloody Clarkson again.’

  ‘I’ve no choice but to see him, unfortunately. But at least I’m a step closer to a new series of Mr Tibbs. Sir Nigel loves it – he even hinted we might be offered a long-term deal.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Helen clapped her hands. ‘And as a reward for your long-suffering and forbearing friend – i.e.: moi – today, we are going to do exactly what I say!’

  ‘Well, OK, your majesty but it’s your turn to pay for lunch.’

  ‘It’s a deal!’

  *

  After a light breakfast in their hotel – porridge with honey for Helen and granola and Greek yogurt for Penny – they set off towards Piccadilly station.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Penny asked.

  ‘You’ll see!’

  As they headed down the escalator, the crowding seemed much worse than they remembered from the old days. Had London always been this busy? Helen wondered.

  Their journey was a rather cramped and uncomfortable one, but they both enjoyed people-watching. Londoners kept their heads down, usually reading a paper or their Kindles. The tourists chattered loudly and took their time getting on and off the train, irritating the Londoners, who were used to a certain regimented tempo.

  ‘Do you remember when people used to read actual books?’ Helen observed.

  ‘You’re so twentieth century!’

  Eventually, without too many hiccups, they reached their destination: Ladbroke Grove.

  ‘Ah. Revisiting old haunts, are we?’

  When Helen lived in London, there had been nothing she liked better than heading down to Portobello Road and rummaging around on the many hundreds of stalls for hidden treasures. You never knew what you might turn up. Helen had, in her time, found an Art Nouveau mirror from the Morris school; a Clarice Cliff milk jug and even a viv
id green Whitefriars vase. Her move to Cornwall had been a new start and she’d jettisoned many of her belongings, but those cherished items still had pride of place in Gull’s Cry.

  They headed slowly up the Portobello Road. It was heaving with tourists and locals. Fashionable young men and women spilled out of the trendy cafés and funky coffee shops. When Helen had first started going there, all the shops had a distinctly home-made feel. Now high street brands jostled for attention. Gone were the conspicuous shaggy-haired musicians and trustafarians, making way for hordes of rich, successful Londoners.

  Stopping at a stall selling crockery, china and bric-a-brac, Helen spotted an adorable honey pot. She picked it up and scrutinised it. No scratches or chips, and looking at the bottom she could see that it was from the Crown Devon factory. It would look lovely on the kitchen windowsill of her cottage.

  ‘How much?’ she asked the stallholder.

  Despite being surrounded by London’s fashionable set, the trader was definitely old-school.

  ‘Forty quid, love.’

  ‘Eh? That’s extortionate!’

  ‘Blame eBay, love, not me. That’s the going rate.’

  ‘Rubbish, you could find something like this in the Sue Ryder shop in Trevay for a couple of quid.’

  ‘Look, love, I dunno what the ’ell or where the ’ell this Trevay is, but down the Portobella, it’s forty quid.’

  He leaned into her confidingly. ‘Tell you what, gimme thirty and you’ve got yerself a bargain.’

  Despite knowing she was being ripped off, Helen found herself reaching for her purse and handing the money over. The trader wrapped her little honey pot in a bit of old newspaper and tipped his beanie hat at her.

  ‘Pleasure doing business wiv ya!’

  Helen muttered under her breath, ‘Bloody shyster.’ But she was secretly pleased with her cute pot and wrapped it up in her scarf to make sure it was quite safe.

  *

  Eventually, after stopping off for Penny to purchase a grey kid leather biker jacket in All Saints, they reached Notting Hill Gate itself. You could tell you were higher up as the wind caught their hair and gave them a windswept appearance.

  ‘There’s a farmer’s market around here somewhere.’ Helen took out her iPhone and Google-mapped their location. ‘This way!’ They both headed off towards one of the backstreets, soon coming to a car park where a dozen or more stalls were selling their wares. Cheese, cured meats, home-made curry pastes and much more were on sale, and the smell of a hog roast filled their nostrils, making their tummies grumble.

  ‘Oooh look!’ exclaimed Penny, pointing to a stall selling Cornish pasties and sausage rolls. ‘I could murder one of those!’

  They headed over and Penny asked for two Cornish pasties.

  ‘Sure,’ answered the friendly girl behind the counter. She was wearing a woolly hat and giant cardy; even though it was April, there was still a chill in the air. She put them in separate bags. ‘That’s ten pounds, please.’

  ‘What??’ Penny spluttered. ‘Five pounds each?? Are they filled with gold dust?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t set the prices,’ the girl explained apologetically.

  Penny handed the money over and then said to Helen incredulously, ‘But in Queenie’s, they’re ninety pence.’

  ‘Were not in Kansas any more, Toto,’ Helen informed her.

  They munched on their pasties hungrily, but both decided – out of earshot of the nice young girl – that they weren’t a patch on Queenie’s, with her lovely shorter-than-short pastry and meaty, peppery filling.

  ‘Got any room left?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Possibly. What have you got in mind?’

  ‘There’s a Pizza Express round the corner.’

  ‘Go on then. That pasty was just an hors d’oeuvre!’ And they headed off for a second lunch.

  *

  After a delicious lunch of shared pizza and dough balls, the two women decided to head back to their hotel. Both were tired after spending all morning on their feet and so they decided to spend the afternoon indulging themselves; Helen had a pedi and a facial while Penny luxuriated in a two-hour full-body citrus wrap with pressure-point massage and scalp treatment. It was bliss and her shoulder was feeling better already.

  As Helen was calling the shots, she’d insisted that they spend the evening at their favourite London hang-out, Mortimer’s Champagne and Oyster Bar in the heart of Mayfair.

  ‘Where to?’ the cabbie asked as they jumped in his sleek black vehicle.

  ‘Upper Grosvenor Street, please,’ said Penny.

  ‘Any word from Simon?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I’ve tried to speak to him, but we’ve missed each other. I had a missed call from him but he didn’t leave a message, and there was no answer when I rang back.’ Penny looked anxious. ‘I hope he’s not giving me the silent treatment. I couldn’t bear it. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, he’s just busy, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll call.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. What about Piran?’

  Helen let out an irritated sigh. ‘Oh, he’ll be completely wrapped up in his beloved Roman fort. I’ve given up!’

  They stared silently out of the window, each with their own thoughts, taking in the Saturday-night crowds thronging the streets. Before long they had reached the exclusive Mayfair street lined with stylish bars and restaurants. They pulled up outside Mortimer’s and the first thing that they saw was a rope barrier, behind which was a queue of people waiting to enter the bar.

  ‘Don’t seem to remember queuing to get into Mortimer’s,’ said Penny.

  ‘Nor me. There used to be a nice old gent who opened the door for you – where’s he gone?’

  In his place were two imposing-looking men in bomber jackets with shaved heads and earpieces. Next to them was a small, fierce young woman wearing a tight-fitting black sequined dress and brandishing a clipboard.

  Helen and Penny joined the queue. In front of them was a glittering assortment of young, beautiful people. The women wore the tiniest of dresses and there was plenty of cleavage and midriff on display. Where are their coats? Penny wondered.

  ‘Look at her heels!’ Helen pointed at a pretty girl in front of them who was teetering on a pair of Louboutins that were at least six inches high.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ observed Penny.

  The queue was moving quickly and before long they had reached the girl with the clipboard.

  ‘Names?’ she demanded.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your names? I need to check you’re on the list,’ she snapped, eyeing them both with disdain.

  The women looked at each other in bafflement.

  ‘What list?’

  ‘Look,’ the woman almost barked at them, ‘this is an exclusive club and we can’t just let anybody in. If your names are not on my list, then there’s no entry.’

  At this point Helen was tempted to turn around and head off to the nearest pub, but Penny loved a challenge. Besides, she was damned if she was going to be beaten by this brash and obnoxious young woman. Her animal instincts sparked into action.

  ‘Oh, I think there must be some mistake. I’m Penny Leighton, Head of Penny Leighton Productions? We’re got a private table booked. Jemima and Russell are coming – they’re on your list, aren’t they? And Beatrice and Eugenie? You’ve got them down too, right?

  The girl looked at her list and said uncertainly, ‘Well … I’m not sure …’

  ‘There’ll be trouble if they arrive and we’re not there. Hey, I’m just thinking – there’s something about you. I’m casting for a new reality series set in a London club. You look like exactly the sort of person we’re looking for.’

  ‘Really?’ She had the girl’s attention now. After a moment, weighing things up, she seemed to reach a decision.

  ‘OK, give me your business card.’ Penny obliged and the girl popped it onto her clipboard. She nodded to one of the bouncers, who opened up the red
-rope gate and let them through.

  Once inside, Helen and Penny’s jaws hit the floor. The Mortimer’s they remembered had epitomised quiet, understated elegance; now all they could see was a throng of people shouting to be heard above the loud music and flashing neon lights.

  They looked at each other in dismay. Instead of waiters in black uniforms working the room with calm efficiency, the bar and the tables were being served by thin young women in short miniskirts and low-cut tops.

  ‘Do we even dare have a drink? This place is making me feel really old,’ said Helen.

  ‘Come on, we’ve got this far. Let’s have just the one and then we’ll bugger off.’

  They seated themselves at one of the tables and immediately a scantily clad young woman arrived to take their order.

  ‘What can I get you, ladies?’ the girl asked in an Eastern European accent.

  ‘Two glasses of champagne, please,’ said Penny.

  ‘Of course.’ The girl gave them a friendly smile.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Penny enquired of the girl. ‘What happened to the old Mortimer’s? The place is so um … different from the last time we came.’

  The girl leaned in towards them to make herself heard above the music.

  ‘It was bought out by big Russian businessman. He change everything and make us wear these clothes to attract rich big spenders.’

  ‘Well, it seems to be working.’ Penny looked around her at the clientele.

  ‘Sometimes the men take it too far,’ the girl continued, ‘but the tips are good. I will get you your drinks.’