by Fern Britton
‘You know, Pain In The Arse – PITA. It’s a joke.’
‘Another of your stupid public schoolboy jokes, eh? Well, forgive me and my Wolverhampton comprehensive school denseness. Oh no, hang on – I’m not that dense, am I? I’m sixty-seventh on the Sunday Times Rich List, I’m number one in fourteen countries and I have an entourage of eight, including Henrik my PA.’
As a result, Ollie kept his opinion of Henrik’s latest helpful gesture to himself and instead tried to explain, but Red wasn’t listening.
‘I’m going to have to cancel the show tonight,’ she wailed. ‘I can’t go on stage knowing what an unfaithful shit you are.’ She was so loud, he held the phone away from his ear. Noticing people on nearby tables casting curious glances in his direction, he tried to muffle the sounds coming from the earpiece while holding the phone close to his mouth.
‘Red, honey, I love you. It’s just a picture of some girl who saw the show last night and was waiting at the stage door for an autograph. She was with her fiancée. He took the photo.’
‘Oh yeah? Then how come it got into the papers?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he uploaded it to Twitter or … maybe he sold it. I don’t know, honey. You have to believe me – I don’t even know her name. An autograph, a photo and then it was home to bed, on my own, dreaming of you.’
‘Yeah?’ she snivelled.
‘Yeah.’
‘So, you’d be pleased to see me if I jumped on a plane tonight and came home?’
He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked round. One of the young actresses in the cast of The Merry Wives of Windsor, damp from a swim, was miming a cup of coffee. He shook his head, pointed to the phone and raised his eyebrows in despair. She nodded, pulling the corners of her mouth down comically, and went to the bar.
‘Ollie, are you still there?’ Red’s shrill voice boomed from the earpiece.
‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, there must have been some dropout on the satellite … I missed what you said.’ He hoped she’d forgotten what she had said.
There was a pause while she smothered the mouthpiece and spoke to someone at the other end. He couldn’t catch what she was saying, and was straining to make out the words when her voice suddenly came back loud and clear: ‘You don’t know the pressure I’m under here. There’s thirty-two thousand people out there, and just because they’ve had to wait a bit they’re booing. They don’t know how you’re breaking my heart.’
‘How long have they been waiting?’
‘Not long. Maybe two hours.’
‘You’ve kept them waiting two hours?’
‘No. You’ve kept them waiting two hours by being such a shit to me.’ Someone was calling to her in the background. She muted the phone for a moment, then came back on the line. ‘OK, OK, I have to go. I’ll skype you later. We need to talk.’
‘Yeah, honey.’ He groaned inwardly. ‘I love talking. Now go get ’em, tiger!’
Gemma, his actress friend, thumped down next to him, licking a splash of coffee from her wrist.
‘“Go get ’em, tiger”?’ She arched a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Sooo rock’n’roll.’
‘Oh, Gem, this long-distance, high-profile relationship stuff is not for cissies.’
Gemma took a sip of her cappuccino and wiped the froth from her lips with the tiny paper napkin. ‘Any kind of relationship would do me at the moment.’
‘Look at this.’ He handed her the newspaper.
‘Ah.’ She read the text. ‘Nice photo.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Not you. The mystery girl. She’s very pretty.’
He snatched the paper from her and dropped it on the floor by his feet. ‘You’re not being very helpful.’ They sat and watched the tennis players on the screen for a few moments, then Ollie asked. ‘Are you a jealous person, Gemma?’
‘I haven’t had enough boyfriends to find out. Maybe I haven’t loved anyone enough to care. Don’t you get jealous of Red? All those male groupies hanging outside her hotels and following her around the world?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t love her enough then.’
‘It’s not that. I’m just not the jealous type. She wouldn’t do anything. She doesn’t get the opportunity on tour, anyway. She’s surrounded by her hangers-on and hustled from airport to hotel to stadium to hotel to airport. I’ve seen it. Our first date was at the O2. I went to watch her from the wings.’
‘Great date. Intimate.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Just saying.’
‘Yeah, well anyway, I watched her give her heart and soul to the audience. The way she worked with the band and her dancers, she blew me away. Then the minute she’s sung her last note she takes her bow and runs off stage. Her dresser is waiting with a big warm dressing gown to wrap her in. Her assistant dresser is waiting with a huge towel to wrap round her sweaty hair and then she’s just like, whoosh, straight through a path made for her by Security, past all the backstage crew and out into a blacked-out limo. The band will still be playing. The crowd will still be chanting. The police will have closed the exit roads for a five-minute window to get her out, and in ten minutes she’ll be in her hotel room watching a late-night movie, all on her own.’
‘No wonder she’s bonkers.’
‘It’s tough on her. She’s only twenty-four. She’s been a star for three years, since she blew the world away on the X Factor. The world wants to know everything about her.’
‘And you.’
Ollie’s face clouded over. ‘I hate it.’
‘Lots of actors would give anything to get their profile as high as yours. Why not go with the flow and enjoy the ride?’
‘I don’t want to be famous as a “celebrity boyfriend”. I want my work as an actor to speak for me.’
‘Get over yourself! We’re all a bunch of children dancing in front of our parents: Look at me, Mummy. Look at me!’
Ollie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘OK, perhaps there’s a bit of that. But I still want a private life and a private relationship with my girlfriend, but that’s not likely to happen when there’s a fortune to be made selling photos of us. The irony of it is, while the paps are cashing in, I’m skint.’ Gemma nodded with understanding. You worked for the RSC for kudos, not cash. ‘Red expects me to fly out and join her whenever I have a break, but the transatlantic flights and hotels are cleaning me out.’
‘Have you told her that?’
‘I can’t – she’d offer to pick up the bill, and I don’t want that. I could never be a freeloader.’
Gemma patted his knee. ‘You’re too noble for your own good, that’s your trouble. Want to walk with me back to the theatre?’
‘No, I’ve got some stuff to do.’
‘OK see you later.’
Ollie watched as Gemma made her way to the exit. The ‘stuff’ he had to do – calling in at the dry cleaners for his shirts, stopping by the cashpoint to draw some money – wouldn’t have prevented him walking back to the theatre with her. The real problem was that he couldn’t risk being photographed with Gemma; that would only lead to another row with Red.
Outside, the sun was surprisingly warm and tourists were wandering happily along the Stratford-upon-Avon high street, stopping, with little or no warning, whenever something in a shop window took their fancy. Ollie cursed under his breath as he employed all his navigational skills to avoid tripping over them.
His call with Red had annoyed him. Lately, all his calls with Red annoyed him. She was a great girl. Funny, pretty, great body, talented, never there. It was the never there bit that messed things up. They’d met when she’d come to see him in a fringe production of Joe Orton’s Loot. He’d had the best reviews of his life and it was a game-changer for him. The production was the hottest ticket in town. He’d heard backstage that Red was in the audience; she was already huge in the UK but hadn’t quite gone global. Back then it had just been a matter of dodging the paparazzi, which meant she was still able to enjoy the odd night out.
After the performance, he’d received a sweet handwritten note in red ink on the back of a fag packet:
Fancy dodging the paps with me after the show? Rx
They’d slipped out of a side entrance, just the two of them, and managed to hole up in a tiny bar, blissfully unrecognised, while her minders parked up nearby. She made him laugh, she seemed kind, genuine, in touch with her roots. The connection was instant. She told him about her upbringing in the Midlands, how hard it had been on her family, enduring the constant attention after X Factor. He told her about his father walking out when he was just a kid, how he’d never really fitted in at public school, and how much he wanted to become a good actor. Their lives were different but something really clicked between them that night.
But no sooner had they got together than her star had gone stratospheric.
Ollie was twenty-eight. He loved life. Fifteen months ago he’d had a great social life, but all that had closed down for him. Thanks to Red and her fame. A big fat problem. Did he love her enough to accept it? Was she The One? He knew that she was the most exciting woman he’d ever known … so far … But in the time that he’d known her, she’d changed. The stress of her lifestyle had taken its toll. And the initial excitement of their relationship had been replaced by a kind of prison … That was it, he had lost his freedom … and she was losing herself.
He stopped walking and stared at the swans floating elegantly on the river by the theatre. They were free. Free and wild. One of them got out of the water and waggled up to him, hoping for food.
‘Sorry, mate. Nothing for you.’
He stood still while the large bird pecked fruitlessly at the chewing gum stains on the path, then stood tall, looking at him in disappointment, before giving a shake of its feathers and wandering off forlornly. Ollie saw the tag round one slender black ankle.
‘Not wild after all, boy, eh? Tagged, same as me.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, to be free again.’
*
The matinee went well. The audience of GCSE students were attentive and seemed to enjoy the story. At the curtain calls one young female voice called out, ‘Ollie, I love you’ as he took his bow. He smiled and gave a wave, which provoked another shout: ‘Send my love to Red!’ One of the grander old actors sighed with utter disdain and walked off before the curtain came down.
*
Back in his dressing room, Ollie was sitting with his head in his hands, wondering how he’d got into such a mess, when there was a knock at the door.
‘Ah, Ollie – may I have a word?’ Nigel the company manager licked his wispy moustache.
‘Yeah, Nige. Come in.’ Ollie leaned over and took his costume off the spare chair. ‘Sit down.’
Nigel carried on standing.
‘This is a bit awkward, but … your young fans. We appreciate you can’t, we can’t, stop them from calling out, but could you not acknowledge them?’
Ollie slumped back in his chair. ‘Who’s complained?’
‘Er, it’s not a complaint as such. More a request for some respect towards your fellow artistes.’
‘Sir Terry? Is that why he walked off before the tabs came in?’
‘I’m not going to name names, that would be too sordid. The fact is you’re a young actor sharing the stage with colleagues who deserve your respect and that of the audience.’
‘Sir Terry it is then.’
‘Possibly.’
‘The Knight’, as he was nicknamed, was a grand old gay actor; charming, knowledgeable and with a seemingly bottomless fund of outrageous stories. He’d first joined the RSC in the early fifties, working with Olivier, Gielgud and Richardson. He was theatrical royalty and if he found a company member to be upsetting, that company member would never work with him again. Sir Terry had been considered the box office draw of the season, but as the weeks went by it was becoming clear that young Ollie Pinkerton, hitherto unknown jobbing actor but now a celebrity as a result of his relationship with rock star Red, was the one pulling in the punters.
Ollie took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Nigel, I quite understand. And, as a matter of courtesy, I shall apologise to The Knight right away.’
‘Thank you, Ollie. You will make my life, and indeed your own life, much happier if you do so.’
4
Piran, gutting half a dozen fresh mackerel with a ven-geance, was clearly in a bad mood.
‘I’m a historian. Anything after the Second World War is of no interest to me. The Pavilions could slide into the sea and I wouldn’t give a toss.’ He slapped a fillet into a plate of flour. ‘Unless it uncovered an Iron Age settlement or bloody King Arthur’s Camelot – which doesn’t exist, by the way – I’m not interested.’
His two cats, Bosun and Sprat, were winding themselves round his feet waiting for scraps. He chucked down a couple of fish skins.
Helen, who had rolled her shirtsleeves up and was busily covering the fish fillets in flour, patting them gently before placing them on a clean tea towel ready for the frying pan, turned to him crestfallen. ‘I hate that Camelot wasn’t real. Are you sure?’
‘Aye.’
‘But there was an Arthur, wasn’t there?’
‘There’s no evidence, no.’ Piran carried on focusing on the job in hand, his curls bouncing over his forehead as his strong weathered hands dexterously removed the last remaining bones.
‘So no Guinevere?’
Piran slapped the final fillet on the plate in front of her and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘No – thank God. She was supposed to have broken his heart, wasn’t she? Ran off with his best mate. Typical bloody woman!’
‘Typical chauvinist comment.’
He stuck his sharp knife, point down, into the wood of his kitchen table so that it quivered like an arrow. ‘I’m making you supper, aren’t I?’
Helen opened her eyes wide and cooed, ‘You are one hundred per cent new man! Would you pour me a glass of wine?’
He glowered at her for a moment then kissed her nose. ‘Don’t go pushing your luck, maid.’
*
The mackerel were delicious, served simply with hunks of buttered crusty bread and large tumblers of local cider. Helen got up, threw the bones in the bin and made a move to put the plates in the sink but Piran reached up and stopped her. ‘Don’t bother with those. They’ll keep till the morning.’ He found her hand and she felt the roughness of his skin on her palm. ‘You smell nice. Are you staying tonight?’
‘Would you like me to?’
‘I’m not going to beg. Your decision, Helen.’
‘Sometimes I’d like you to beg.’
‘I thought you didn’t want to feel crowded, that you liked your independence.’
‘I do …’ An image of Gull’s Cry, the dream cottage that she’d made a reality, flitted through her mind. Once the children had flown the nest, she’d realised that she couldn’t go on sharing a Chiswick townhouse with her philandering husband. So she’d asked Gray for a divorce and uprooted herself to Pendruggan. She’d settled in so well, it was hard to believe only two years had gone by since she moved in. And after years of playing housekeeper and homemaker to her family, it was a luxury to be free to do her own thing.
She was brought back to the present by Piran squeezing her hand. ‘Something tells me there’s a “but …” coming,’ he said.
‘No – well, sort of. I do like my independence, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a bit of spontaneous passion now and again.’
‘Why are women so bloody contrary?’ growled Piran in mock exasperation. ‘If it’s passion you want, maid, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs.’
‘Oooh, would you – right now?’
Her laughter echoed up the stairs as Piran make good on his threat.
*
Piran’s bed was a big old wooden thing, made, he said, out of the wreckage of a fishing boat that had run aground years before. It was the most comfortable bed Helen had ever
known. She stretched herself out then curled herself around Piran as he slept with his back to her. Bosun and Sprat lifted their heads as they were gently bobbed about on a sea of tartan blanket, waiting for her to settle. When she was finally still, they put their heads down and curled their tails round their noses. Piran mumbled something.
Helen lifted her head slightly, the better to hear him. ‘What did you say?’
He spoke a little louder.
‘I said, What time is it, cloth ears.’
‘Seven fifteen.’
‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘Yes please.’
For a big man he moved with a fluidity that never failed to amaze her. She watched as he bent down and picked up his discarded T-shirt from the night before, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull it over his head. As all men do, he looked faintly ridiculous and even vulnerable as he stood up displaying his naked lower half. He checked his testicles unconsciously, before shuffling his feet into an ancient pair of leather slippers and reaching for an equally ancient dressing gown that had been draped over a chair.
Bosun and Sprat’s ears pricked up, their eyes watchful in case this was a false alarm or whether it was looking good for breakfast. At the words ‘Come on, boys’ they both sprang off the bed and followed their owner downstairs.
Helen sank back into the tangle of soft cotton sheets and blankets (Piran was never going to be a duvet man) and closed her eyes. She could hear him talking to the cats and the scrape of their food bowls as he placed them on the tiled floor of the kitchen. She could hear the whoosh of the water from the tap as he filled the kettle, and then the radio came on, tuned to the local news. With a sigh she snuggled into the pillow and was almost drifting back into sleep when she heard a loud ‘Oh, for chrissake!’ and the sound of Piran’s footsteps marching towards the bottom of the stairs.