by Fern Britton
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.’
Within a few minutes she was back. While the bill was extortionate, the champagne was good.
Helen raised the glass to her lips and was just about to toast Penny when the words died on her lips.
‘Oh no.’
‘What?’ Penny turned to see what Helen was looking at. Sitting at a table adjacent to theirs were Helen’s ex-husband Gray, and his new girlfriend, the actress Dahlia Darling. Dahlia was of indeterminate age, but had once been the Purdy of her generation. She and Gray had been an item for a while now, having met on the set of Mr Tibbs and Helen suspected that her vain, selfish and serially unfaithful ex had got himself more than he bargained for.
Dahlia spotted them first. Grabbing Gray’s hand, she headed over to their table. She was charm personified and if she felt any awkwardness or jealously at Helen’s presence, she was far too regal and professional ever to let on. Helen, for her part, felt nothing but joy that Gray was now somebody else’s problem.
‘Darlings!!’ Dhalia greeted them effusively and demanded that the waitress bring them more champagne.
Gray gave them both a hug and Helen was sure he held her for longer than was strictly necessary.
‘We’re meeting my agent and his wife – we’re out celebrating because I’ve just managed to get a cameo in Downton!’
‘That’s thrilling!’ said Penny. ‘Just make sure that you’re free for the next series of Mr Tibbs – it wouldn’t be the same without you.’
‘Don’t you worry, my darling. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, would I, Gray?’ Dahlia threw herself at his neck and gave him a fulsome kiss on the cheek. As she did so, he pointedly locked eyes with Helen and threw her one of his ‘puppy-dog left out in the rain’ looks that she knew so well.
They chatted, laughed and shared old jokes, enjoying Dahlia’s anecdotes despite the noisy surroundings. After a while Helen excused herself to go downstairs to the Ladies. There were mirrors everywhere and she felt like Alice in Wonderland as she was assailed by vision after vision of herself reflected into infinity. Disconcertingly, when she sat down on the toilet seat she was horrified to see herself reflected mid-wee. Whoever thought this was a good idea? she wondered, and deduced that it was bound to be a man.
Heading towards the stairs, she hoped that they would be able to leave soon. They had a table booked at Chez Walter and she was finding the club and the company of Gray and Dahlia rather wearing. She thought longingly of Pendruggan.
As she reached the stairwell, her heart sank as she saw Gray heading down the stairs towards her.
‘Helen, darling, you look ravishing. How are you, you look a bit sad – are you?’
�
�No Gray, you’re projecting – I’m perfectly happy, thank you!’
‘I don’t believe you. I’ve done nothing but dream about you for months. How could you throw something so good away? Come on, Helen, you know how good we were together.’
He took her hand and moved as close to her as he could in the confined space of the stairwell. His face was inches from hers.
‘The grass not so green on the other side, Gray? The only person who threw anything away was you. You didn’t seem to want the vow of fidelity, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been happier – you did me a favour! I wish you and Dahlia well – you make a lovely couple!’
And with that, she extricated herself from his clutches and tripped back up the stairs.
‘Come on, Penny, it’s time to go,’ she said when she reached their table, interrupting Penny mid-flow. ‘We’ve got a date with a man called Walter. Dahlia, remind Gray it’s Sean’s birthday next week, won’t you!’
‘Hold your horses!’ Penny downed the rest of her Bollinger and sprinted out after Helen into the night.
6
It was Sunday. They’d treated themselves to a fry-up for breakfast before heading off to Paddington to catch their train. Not a sleeper this time, and they had a five-hour journey ahead of them, but they’d stocked up with the Sunday papers and plenty of Haribos and had now ensconced themselves in First Class.
‘I can’t believe we managed to run into all those people. You know, the ones we’d rather not see.’
‘Well, they do call it London Village. It’s worse than Pendruggan!’
‘I’m glad were going back. I’m not sure London is quite what I remembered,’ said Helen. ‘Perhaps we’re not really Londoners any more?’
‘But they say that when a woman is tired of London, she’s tired of life.’
‘Well, I never heard anyone in Cornwall say that,’ Helen responded.
‘But we’re not really Cornish – and we never will be. Look at Queenie: she’s lived in Pendruggan for five decades and they still think of her as an outsider.
‘That’s probably because she still sounds like a Billingsgate fishwife!’
‘True!’ laughed Penny.
‘I hate to ask, but did you hear from Simon yet?’
Penny looked apprehensive. ‘No. Today’s impossible because he’ll be conducting services all day. I’m afraid even if he could get to the phone he wouldn’t call. He’s still peeved with me.’
‘I’m sure he isn’t. Simon isn’t one to harbour resentments,’ Helen reassured her.
‘Perhaps not. But maybe he was right: I should have stayed in Pendruggan and helped out.’
‘Everything will be fine. You’ll see.’
They reached Truro in the late afternoon and the journey back to Pendruggan passed without incident. The bad weather had blown over and the coastline was bathed in a magnificent sunset; the sky ablaze with vivid purple and orange hues.
‘Red sky at night,’ said Penny.
She dropped Helen at the village green, by the gate to Gull’s Cry. They gave each other a big hug.
‘Thanks for coming with me,’ said Penny sincerely. ‘It may not have been the weekend we expected but it has certainly made me appreciate what I’ve got.’
‘I’d have been furious if you’d asked anyone else!’
‘You’ll be at the blessing of the tower in Trevay on Tuesday?’
‘I’ll be there with bells on!’ Helen joked.
‘Very funny!’
Helen pushed the little gate open and waved to Penny. Then she turned to face Gull’s Cry.
What she saw almost took her breath away. Outside the cottage, Gasping Bob’s wiry brown body was on top of the ladder, fixing some heavy tarpaulin to the roof. He turned around and waved to her from above, making a noise that sounded like one of his ‘Ah’s. She waved back at him, delighted that something was finally being done to sort the roof out.
The door of the cottage opened and out came Piran, trowel in hand. His hair was covered in flecks of white plaster and paint.
Despite the risk of denting his reputation as the grumpiest man in Cornwall, Helen threw herself into his arms. He was still her grumpiest man in Cornwall, after all.
‘Careful now, maid.’ He held the dirty trowel away from her, and Helen could tell from the light in his eyes that he was pleased to see her too. ‘How was the big smoke?’
‘Great,’ she answered, rather too quickly. Then her eyes turned to Gasping Bob. ‘At last! Something is being done about the leaks. Not that I’m complaining, of course!’
Piran looked sheepish. ‘Lost my key last night, had to sleep here.’
Helen smiled. ‘Ah … Not very nice, is it?’
‘Yeah, well. Spent all night bailing out. Sorry, Helen. I was a bit caught up in meself. Should have sorted it before now. But I’ve repaired the plaster up there, and Bob thinks the roof should be sorted in a couple of days.’
‘Good old Bob. He’s a sight for sore eyes.’ She surveyed Bob’s skin-tight shorts and narrow bum. ‘Well, he’s a sight, anyway.’
‘Don’t let him hear you say that – he’s got quite a rep with the ladies.’
Helen laughed and kissed Piran’s nose, plaster and all. ‘Cornish men! There’s no one like you!’
They made their way inside the house and Helen dropped her bags by the door.
‘Home sweet home,’ she said, meaning every word. ‘How are things at the Roman fort?’
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he said.
He went over to his big overcoat and took something out of the pocket. A shy look in his eye, he handed it to Helen. It was something small but quite heavy and wrapped in tissue paper.
‘What is it?’
‘’urry up and open it!’ he urged. ‘But be careful.’
‘All right, all right!’ Helen teased open the tissue paper and caught her breath as she saw what lay inside. It was a silver coin, tinged with green and bent and battered at the edges. Helen could tell it was very old but remarkably well-preserved. On the ‘heads’ side was what appeared to be a Roman head and the words ‘Claudius Caesar’.
She looked at Piran quizzically.
‘The Roman Emperor, Claudius. We found it a couple of weeks ago. Turn it over.’
On the other side was a depiction of a woman. Helen couldn’t make any of the writing out but the woman definitely had a strong Roman nose.
‘Who is she?’ she asked.
‘We think it’s Helen of Troy.’
Helen’s eyes were like saucers, ‘Really?’
‘Yep. One of the archaeologists found this and I thought of you.’
‘Oh, Piran. It’s wonderful. Is this for me?’
‘Yes and no. It’s now owned by the Crown, but I’ve spoken to a silversmith in Trevay and she’s made you a replica to wear on a necklace. We can pick it up tomorrow.’
‘Piran Ambrose, I think that is the single most romantic thing any man has ever done for me.’
‘Well,’ he smiled, his eyes twinkling. ‘Just keep it to yourself.’
The great and the good of Trevay and Pendruggan had turned out in force to see the blessing of the new bell tower. Penny and Helen, who hadn’t seen each other since their return on Sunday evening, shuffled along one of the rows near the front. Simon had already taken his place next to Louise, the outgoing vicar. The bishop, fresh from his retreat, would be officiating at today’s ceremony.
As she sat down, Penny caught the eye of Audrey Tipton in the next row, who gave her a stiff nod of the head.
‘She‘s still miffed about the Great Pendruggan Bake-Off. Queenie reckons that we’re the odds-on favourites to win!’ she whispered, gleefully.
‘Never mind that, how are things at home? Simon?’
‘Shush, the bishop’s about to speak.’
The bishop welcomed them all and then, after a short prayer, addressed the congregation.
‘It’s a pleasure to be here today to bless this wonderful new bell
tower. The builders have done an excellent job and I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that Simon here has moved heaven and earth to make sure that everything ran on time and on budget, all while trying to run his own ministry as well as keeping everything afloat here. I think we owe him a big thank you.’
The gathered parishioners gave Simon a round of warm applause and the bishop encouraged him to step up to the dais and say a few words. After thanking the verger and the army of helpers who had turned out to lend a hand, he addressed his wife.
‘I just want to say how much I owe to my wife, Penny. She’s the one who gives me all the love and support I need to carry out my duties. She’s the one who really should get a round of applause.’ The parishioners clapped her heartily and Penny blushed as Simon said, ‘Thank you, Penny. I’m so glad to have you home.’ His eyes shone with love for her.
The bishop said another short prayer of blessing, and across Trevay – from the church all the way to the Pavilions Theatre near the harbour – the bells rang out crisp and clear throughout the town.
A shaft of light filtered through the stained-glass windows and shone down on the happy group of friends, Helen of Troy glimmering in its dappled sunshine.
If you enjoyed The Stolen Weekend, why not order Fern Britton’s new novel,
A Seaside Affair, published on 24th April?
When the residents of the Cornish seaside town of Trevay discover that their much-loved theatre is about to be taken over by coffee chain, Café au Lait, they are up in arms. It is up to Penny Leighton, hotshot Producer and now happily married Cornish resident, to come up with a rescue plan. Armed with her only her mobile phone and her contacts book, she starts to pull in some serious favours.
The town is soon deluged by actors, all keen to show their support and take part in a charity season at the theatre. One of the arrivals is Jess Tate, girlfriend to TV heartthrob Ryan Roberts. His career is on the rise while hers remains resolutely in the doldrums. But when opportunity comes calling, it isn’t just her career prospects that are about to change. Trevay is about to put on the show of its life – but can the villagers, and Jess, hold on to the thing they love the most?