by Fern Britton
Apart from a call reminding him of his dental appointment, all the other messages were in a similar vein: coffee mornings, afternoon tea for the old folks, an outing for the disabled … Simon couldn’t figure out how Penny was able to fit it all in alongside her full-time job. He felt another pang, this time of guilt. He’d been quite cross with her about her weekend away. Why shouldn’t she have a break? If he’d had to deal with this lot, he’d want to run a mile too.
He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was a decidedly untrendy and ancient Nokia that had been dropped, thrown and even survived a dip in a cup of tea. He’d have his trusty Nokia over a new-fangled smart phone any day.
Simon saw that he had two texts from Penny and a missed call. He’d been so busy he’d not had a chance to look at his phone all day.
He pulled Penny up from his contacts list and hit the green call button, putting the phone to his ear.
This is Penny Leighton, I can’t take you call right now …
Simon didn’t leave a message. He’d call her later. Tell her he loved her.
After he’d finished his meal, he settled himself down in front of the early evening news. Ten minutes, he told himself, then I’ll tackle Sunday’s sermon. Within moments, he was fast asleep.
Piran had been looking forward to a few hours’ night fishing with his mate Brian. Their usual routine was to take the boat out, crack open a few cans and put the world to rights. But the weather that had been threatening all day had finally broken, and as he drove through Trevay hailstones were bouncing off his battered pickup truck with such force it was like being machine-gunned with walnuts.
He let out a sigh. The weather warnings were dire for shipping and, hardy as he was, there was no way he was taking the boat out in this.
The dig at the Roman fort had been a long slog. The finds that they were turning up were incredible, but the constant battle against the elements was wearing them all down. Now that night-fishing was off the agenda, Piran wanted nothing more than to kick back with a couple of pints of Doom Bar and watch some football.
Having made sure that his little fishing boat was anchored properly in Trevay harbour – it was sure to take a battering tonight – Piran set off for the convenience store, where he planned to get some supplies in. The wind was so strong it was all he could do to open the door of his pickup. Pulling the hood of his waterproofs tighter to his face, he battled through the rain and into the store where he bought eggs, bacon, a wholemeal loaf and a couple of bottles of his favourite Cornish ale. The storm had reached biblical proportions by the time he exited the store, whistling through the narrow streets and pelting him with horizontal rain as he ran for the truck. Juggling his shopping, he struggled to find his car keys in the deep pockets of his waterproof jacket. Fumbling with wet, icy fingertips, he pulled them out, but as he did so, his single door-key was pulled along too. Piran could only watch as it spun in the air, landing with a plop in a giant puddle of rainwater that had pooled beneath his car. Letting his shopping fall, he dropped to his knees and began to scrabble around in the cold, dirty water to find it. His heart sank as his fingers made contact with the wide gaps of the storm drain. His key was gone – swept down into the sewer, never to be retrieved.
He cursed a heartfelt bollocks, retrieved his supplies and climbed back into the pickup. The only other person who had a key to his cottage was Helen, and she was too far away to be useful, but he remembered that Helen always kept a key to her own cottage underneath the flower pot in her front garden. So, grim-faced, he headed in the direction of Gull’s Cry.
Helen and Penny were pulling up outside an imposing house on one of Kensington’s most exclusive streets. They’d spent the afternoon shopping in the West End, but the sheer enjoyment of making random indulgent purchases had been dented by the knowledge that they were compelled to attend Quentin Clarkson’s ghastly drinks party.
‘I can’t think why you went out with him in the first place. Hasn’t he always been a complete and utter plonker?’
Helen looked stunning in a Cos asymmetrical dress in midnight blue which highlighted her blue eyes. Penny had gone into power dressing mode and was resplendent in an Alexander McQueen red crêpe dress that set off her blonde hair perfectly.
‘Well, yes, a plonker through and through – from birth, I imagine. But underneath all that, he’s got quite a fierce business brain. Before he took over, TV7 was the laughing stock of the TV world. It was all tacky game shows and bargain-bucket reality TV. Now they’ve got some the hottest shows on television. He was ambitious, so was I. What can I say?’
‘Well, rather you than me. The guy gives me the creeps.’ Helen shuddered, remembering his hand on her back earlier that day.
‘Tell me about it!’ Penny lowered her voice as they approached the front door. ‘You’ll never guess what he used to do when we were having sex?’
‘I don’t think I want to know.’
‘Well …’
But Penny never finished what she was going to say because at that moment the door flew open and standing before them was a vision in beige silk Diana Von Furstenberg.
‘Penny, darling!’ the vision drawled.
‘Miriam. How lovely to see you, I can’t believe we’ve left it for so long.’
Helen noticed that Penny’s voice was about an octave higher than normal, which to those in the know was a clear indication that she loathed the woman.
‘Do come in – and your little friend, too.’ She held out an imperious hand to Helen. ‘Miriam Clarkson. I’m Quentin’s wife, but you’ll probably recognise me from The Lion’s Lair.’
‘Yes, I thought you looked familiar.’ Helen offered her hand in return but Miriam Clarkson barely touched it. The Lion’s Lair was a hugely popular TV show where young entrepreneurs got to spend some time working alongside their business gurus. Miriam Clarkson was one of the ‘Lions’ and ran a multimillion-pound interior design business whose clients included Roman Abramovich and Richard Branson. She was also notoriously volatile. Helen found this odd, considering Miriam’s oft-proclaimed devotion to Eastern mysticism, which she claimed helped her to ‘channel the energies’ of the luxury properties she was hired to imbue with her trademark style.
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 a
n 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 vivid 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 surrounding 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 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.