by Fern Britton
6
Brooke Lynne was on her way to her agent’s office in Mayfair when she spotted her face on the side of a London bus. Brooke Lynne and Café Au Lait: the stuff of fantasies said the slogan. She liked the photo. The photographer had gone to town on the touching up, and her legs, hips, breasts and scarlet shiny lips, sipping suggestively from the steaming coffee cup, were nothing short of Jessica Rabbit. She pressed the button to open the blacked-out rear window of her chauffeured Lexus and, holding up her phone, took a snap of the poster. Thank God for Twitter she thought, sending the picture out to the world with the message Fabulous coffee, fabulous me xxxx #CafeAuLait.
‘Hey, Brooke, how’s it feel to be the face of coffee?’ Her agent Milo James hugged her. ‘I saw your tweet. Good work. The guys at Café Au Lait will love that. Sit down.’
Brooke sat down on a state-of-the-art ultra-modern plastic moulded chair every bit as uncomfortable (and cold on her derrière) as it appeared. Milo sat at his clear Perspex desk, which was completely empty of anything other than a slender matte black phone that looked exactly like a sex toy.
‘Now, babe …’ He stretched out his arms and interwove his manicured hands. ‘How do you fancy a trip to the seaside? Little place called Trevay – have you heard of it?’
She shook her head.
‘Neither had I, but we will. It’s the new St Tropez, only in Cornwall. Pretty harbour, quaint locals, good food, sassy restaurants and Café Au Lait are opening a big flagship café-cum-bistro there. They want you to go down there tomorrow and smile for the cameras. Tell me you’re free.’
Brooke knew that Milo was well aware she had nothing else in her diary so there was no point in dithering. ‘I’m free.’
‘Good girl.’ His phone rang. ‘Excuse me, babe.’ She nodded as he picked up the ridiculous receiver. ‘Yes?’ He listened as his secretary, Bunnie, spoke. ‘OK, hon, put him through.’ Milo looked over at Brooke and mouthed, ‘Won’t be a minute’ before taking the call.
The distraction gave Brooke the chance to study her extraordinary surroundings. Milo’s office occupied the corner penthouse of a building overlooking Hyde Park. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. Both opened out onto a wrap-around balcony styled as a Japanese garden. A young oriental woman, no more than twenty and chewing gum, was slowly raking a patch of sand into a pattern resembling the ripples of the sea at the water’s edge. There were several maple trees, now clad in their gold and scarlet autumn mantles. Water trickled from the open mouth of a snarling copper tiger into a deep pool full of koi carp. The fish lingered languidly in the shadow of the wooden hump-backed bridge crossing it. The oriental woman palmed her chewing gum and chucked it into the water before collecting her rake and disappearing round the corner of the building and out of sight.
Milo was deep into his phone call and held a hand up at Brooke to let her know he wanted her to stay, before spinning his chair round to look at the view of garden and park.
Milo James. Brooke wasn’t sure whether she liked him much, or indeed trusted him, but he’d taken her on and the least she could do was play along nicely.
Brooke was an actress. What no one seemed to realise was that she was a rather good one. She had trained at the Bristol Old Vic and then gone to New York to take a course at the Actors Studio. It had opened her eyes to how much work Americans put into making it in the industry. They had to be able to sing, dance, act for stage, act for television, act for film, take fitness classes every day and constantly put themselves through the agony of ‘cattle calls’ – their name for mass auditions – to land the one big break.
She’d arrived in New York knowing only the British way: go to drama school, get an agent, sit about waiting for a job. Her new college friends had laughed at her.
‘Girl, you gotta get off your white ass and go to the world! It sure ain’t gonna come to you! And what’s this shit name? Ain’t nothin’ sexy about Brenda Foster! We gotta find you a new name, girl. Look out the window – whaddya see?’
Brenda had obediently got to her feet and gazed out of her grimy Manhattan window. ‘Errm … a yellow taxi.’
‘What else?’
‘A man with a peacock under his arm.’
‘That fool still there?’ Laverne, her flatmate, pushed Brenda out of the way. ‘What is his vibe? OK, forget him. Look again. To the right and up a bit.’
‘The bridge.’
‘Ah-hmm. What’s that bridge called, honey?’
‘The Brooklyn Bridge.’ Brenda turned and looked at her flatmate, nonplussed. ‘Why?’
‘That’s your new name.’
‘Brooklyn Bridge?’
Laverne laughed her deep and wonderful laugh. ‘That’d get you some attention, but not in a good way. No. Play a little. Brooke Bridge? Brooke Lynne? Oh, hey, that’s kinda Beckham ain’t it? Brooke Lynne. I like it.’
So Brenda Foster was put away and Brooke Lynne was born.
Not satisfied with restyling the name, Laverne had gone to work on the look too. The mouse-brown hair was cut short, highlighted and curled. Her eyebrows were marshalled into two bold works of art. Her make-up became ethereal with smoky eyes and coral lips. Her wardrobe went from jeans and T-shirts to bodycon dresses and towering heels.
It seemed to work. Her tutors started to take notice and in the end-of-term play she was given the role of Hedda Gabler. She earned herself two or three good reviews in the smaller artsy publications, including one that described her performance as fluid and believable. Another chip off the old English acting block. Classy. Remember the name.
The day after graduation, Brooke had to return home. There had been tearful goodbyes at JFK airport, with Laverne hugging her one last time and telling her, ‘Now, girl, you go get the world, OK?’
‘OK. You’ll come and see me soon, won’t you?’
‘Sure. Now go.’
They’d hugged again. Brooke turned for one last wave as she went through security, but Laverne had already gone. Brooke had little family. She’d never known her dad and her mum had ended up with a man who’d have preferred it if little Brenda Foster didn’t exist. Her mum had sent her to live with her Aunt Sheila, who was practical, loving and instilled in Brenda an appreciation for hard work.
‘No point dwelling on what might have been,’ she’d say. ‘Best to go out and make your own luck in this life, my girl.’ This advice had stood Brooke in good stead.
Her mother had died when Brooke was in her teens and she had found it hard to grieve for a mother who had shown her so little love. Instead, she locked her feelings of insecurity and abandonment away for another day and focused on being a success. Her aunt had left her a small legacy when she too died a few years later and Brooke spent it on her airfare to the States, knowing it was what her aunt would have wished for her.
Back in London she’d found a room to rent in a smart flat in Barons Court and a job as a waitress in Covent Garden.
In her spare time she went to as many acting/dancing/fitness classes as she could afford and scoured The Stage for open auditions. One of the restaurant regulars was a photographer who got chatting and offered to take some head shots of her to send to agents, etc.
As she walked to the address he’d given her, she planned what she would say and how she would escape if he even suggested that she take her top off. The building, when she got to it, looked bona fide. A renovated warehouse in the West End with a batch of bells and names beside them. She rang his bell. His assistant, a friendly skinny blonde, opened the door and introduced herself as his wife. Brooke relaxed.
After three hours of fun and some fabulous photos, she went back into the tiny changing room to collect her make-up bag and pack her case of clothes. She heard the door bell ring and a few moments later a man’s voice. When she came out from behind the curtain, she was confronted by a tall, muscled, bronzed Adonis. She stopped in her tracks.
‘Ah, Brooke – this is Bob. Bob Wetherby. Bob, Brooke Lynne.’
She shook the huge callous
ed hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing his beguiling smile and the little scars above his right eye and his … cauliflower ears?
‘Hi,’ he said, gaping at her as if in awe.
It turned out he was the Bob Wetherby. Captain of the England rugby team, current holders of the Rugby World Cup. A genuine sporting legend.
That afternoon he insisted on driving her to work in Covent Garden and sat all night waiting for her to finish. He drove her home. Kissed her on the doorstep and phoned her in the morning. ‘Hi. It’s me, Bob. Bob Wetherby?’
‘I guessed.’ She smiled down the phone.
‘Want some breakfast?’
‘Sure. What time? Only, I’m still in bed.’
‘I’m right outside, so open up and I’ll cook while you shower.’
How was a woman supposed to resist that kind of attention and thoughtfulness from a living god who also happened to be world famous? Brooke couldn’t. She fell head over heels in love.
Bob couldn’t go anywhere without a pack of paparazzi following him and she was really impressed when the Beckhams texted to warn him that there was a group of them hanging about outside Scott’s restaurant in Mayfair.
‘How do Victoria and David know where we’re having supper?’ she asked.
‘Because I told them.’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t I mention – we’re having dinner with them and my agent Milo?’
Assuming he was winding her up, Brooke laughed. ‘Ha! Good one, Bobby. I’d die if I met them.’
‘No, seriously, we’re all having supper together. It might be a bit boring because Dave and I will probably talk sport, so he said he’d bring Victoria along so that you and she could talk girl stuff.’
For a moment Brooke sat with her jaw hanging, then she said urgently, ‘Turn round. I need to go home and change.’
‘No time. Here we are.’
Even though Bob had parked his Range Rover in a side street and they went through a rear entrance, a lone photographer managed to get a shot of them. Next morning it was headline news:
SHE LOOKS SCRUM-MY, BOB!
It had actually been a wonderful supper. David, utterly gorgeous, was polite and interesting. Victoria was funny and kind. She had loved Brooke’s Topshop dress and had laughed when Brooke told the story of the origin of her name. The only one she’d hadn’t been entirely comfortable with was Milo James. Although he’d joined in the conversation, she sensed he was constantly scrutinising her and evaluating how well she coped in this rarefied company. It unnerved her. She felt as if he was trying to decide whether she was good enough for Bob, whether she’d tarnish his image.
Apparently she passed the test. At the end of the evening Milo had handed her his card saying, ‘Call me in the morning.’
His secretary put her straight through, as if she was expecting the call.
‘Hi, Brooke. So, how did you enjoy last night?’ said Milo’s oily voice.
‘I enjoyed it very much.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
She looked at the handful of tabloids spread over the duvet. ‘Erm, yeah. Bob picked them up this morning.’
‘Do you like seeing yourself on the front page?’
Brooke hesitated before answering. It had shocked her to see the extent of the coverage, but once that had subsided, she had to admit it gave her a bit of a thrill. ‘It’s a bit strange, but at the same time quite nice.’
She heard him stifle a laugh. ‘Got an agent?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Get Bob to bring you over to the office later. Ciao.’
*
Milo had promised to raise her profile and make her a star. And that’s what he had done. She and Bob had become celebrity darlings. She had a beauty column in a glossy magazine – ghost-written for her, of course. A cosmetics company were launching a line of make-up in her name. She even had a handbag named after her. The Café Au Lait deal was huge, both in terms of her bank balance and the publicity it generated, and yet …
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful after all Milo’s hard work in getting her these deals, but sometimes it was as if he’d forgotten she was an actress. She’d come to his office today determined to remind him of that.
‘Milo—’ she started the moment he finished his call, but he cut across her.
‘Brooke, I’m sorry, something’s come up. Are there things you want to discuss?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, how about we talk on the way down to Cornwall tomorrow morning? We’ll be uninterrupted in the car. Four hours to ourselves. Can it wait till then?’
‘Yeah, I suppose it can.’
‘Good girl.’ He stood and ushered her towards the door. ‘Bye, babe.’
Before she knew it, he’d gone back into his office and she was standing on the smooth marble of the reception area, wondering how he always managed to head her off before she had a chance to say what was on her mind.
7
Penny and Helen were on fire. Penny’s address book had names not just dropping out of it, but bouncing round the floor laughing at them.
‘Oh my God, Pen. Samantha Bond, Pierce Brosnan, Judi Dench, David Cunningham, Dahlia Dahling, Ryan Gosling – Ryan Gosling? Are you kidding me?’
Penny laughed and shook her head. Helen high-fived her friend and continued, ‘Philip Glenister, Miranda Hart, John Simm, Maggie Smith, Quentin Tarantino – Tarantino! I’m almost impressed … David Tennant. Stop! You’ve got Dr Who? Now I am impressed.’
‘I’m a very important person, you know.’ Penny held her hands up in front of her. ‘Guilty as charged. What can I do?’
‘You can get on the flipping phone and start ringing these buggers up!’ cried Helen.
*
Simon called the meeting to order. He had chosen the church hall in Trevay because it was bigger than anything in his own parish and because he wanted to get as many people behind the campaign as possible. For the umpteenth time, he checked his watch. Two minutes to eleven. He’d wait those couple of minutes in case anyone was having trouble parking. Another quick head count. Fifteen. He offered up a silent prayer. As if on cue, the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open and in came the local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and coastal paths, forever poking his walking stick into interesting piles of rubbish or using it to test the depth of puddles, he was affectionately known as Colonel Stick. The spritely octogenarian was wearing his usual shabby tweed trousers, highly polished but down-at-heel brogues, frayed shirt, MCC tie, shiny navy-blue blazer and his ever-present gnarled stick was clutched in his equally gnarled right hand.
‘Welcome, Colonel,’ called Simon as the old boy came forward to shake his hand. ‘Glad you could come.’
The Colonel stood up as straight as he was able and saluted. ‘I’ve never missed a show in my life and I’m not about to start now.’ His voice was plummy and surprisingly strong. Simon supposed it must be the result of many years barking orders on the parade ground.
‘Come and sit next to me, Colonel.’ Queenie patted the chair next to her. ‘I’ve got some aniseed twists to keep us going.’
‘Thank you, madam. How very generous,’ beamed the Colonel.
Simon returned to the front of the hall and started proceedings: ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for sparing the time to come and help with this most important and urgent issue. I am grateful to Audrey Tipton for agreeing to take the minutes, and—’
Audrey stood up and immediately took charge. ‘I need a roll call of all attendees. Please state your name and occupation when I point at you.’
Simon sighed and sat down. He was the first to be pointed at. Wearily he said, ‘Simon Canter. Vicar of Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Queenie Quintrel. Postmistress, Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Colonel Irvine. British Army. Trevay.’
Scribble, point.
The scout master and his wife, the le
ader of the amateur dramatics society, four members of the chamber of commerce and three local residents.
When the scribbling and pointing was finally done, Simon once again got to his feet and stated the case for action.
By the end of the sixty-minute meeting they had all agreed to post fliers in every window and write letters to the council and their local MP. Mrs Audrey Tipton volunteered to draft those letters, assuming, possibly rightly, that she and Geoffrey knew better than anyone how to compose an important epistle. They would certainly be awkward customers for the council to deal with. Never in her life had Audrey been content to take ‘no’ for an answer, and her husband could vouch for that – out of her hearing, obviously.
*
Piran was hunched over his laptop at Helen’s kitchen table, an enormous pile of ancient copies of the Trevay Times stacked at his elbow.
He’d been sitting like this, growling and grumbling, for a couple of hours. ‘Bloody wild-goose chase. The Pavilions ain’t old enough to have any history.’
Having left Penny to make her entreaties to her famous friends, Helen had come home and made a coffee for Piran before abandoning him to his growling and whingeing. She was now ensconced in her cosy sitting room with Jack, Piran’s devoted Jack Russell. The pair of them were snuggled on the sofa, absorbed in an old black-and-white film on the television. It was just getting to the bit where Bette Davis’s character would utter the famous line ‘fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’ when there came a shout from the kitchen:
‘Helen – come ’ere.’
‘Just a minute.’
‘Come ’ere now!’
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ His chair scraped on the floor and he marched in with a yellowing newspaper in his hand.
She paused the film. ‘What?’
‘Look ’ere. It’s a review for the opening night of the Pavilions back in 1954.’
She read silently for a moment or two then looked at him. ‘And …?’