by Fern Britton
‘How do they want me to look?’ But Alana had already rung off.
*
‘Konnichiwa! That’s Thai for hello, isn’t it?’
‘No, Em, that’s Japanese.’ Desperate for a friendly voice to lift her spirits and distract her from her woes, Jess had phoned her sister. Emma was younger by three years and lived in rural chaos somewhere in Kent with her musician husband Dan (who never seemed to have an actual paying job) and a headstrong five-year-old son called Max.
‘How’s my favourite nephew?’ asked Jess.
‘That’s because he’s your only nephew. Oh, you know, the usual. I heard one of the mums at school refer to him as Mad Max the other day. Might have been something to do with the little horror locking the reception teacher out of the classroom and leading the kids in a mini revolt.’
Jess laughed. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be Prime Minister one day.’
‘If that happens, I’m emigrating. How was Thailand?’
‘It was amazing …’ Jess’s voice wavered.
‘You don’t sound too sure of that.’
‘No, no, no,’ Jess protested. ‘Ryan was great, really attentive, made me feel like a princess.’
‘About time too,’ said Emma.
‘He’ll be off shooting Venini again soon.’
‘Ah. And you’re feeling – what, exactly? Wish you were going with him?’
‘No, it isn’t that.’ Jess hesitated, wondering how to put it into words. ‘I mean, I will miss him, but … I’m feeling so rootless. It’s been ages since I had a decent role to get my teeth into and I just don’t know if it’s ever going to happen for me. Ryan says I should get a job as a school secretary.’
‘What?’ Emma spluttered. ‘Well, that’s just typical! Look, I know you adore the pants off the guy and always have – hell, we really like Ryan too; he’s fun when he remembers not to take himself too seriously – but selfless he ain’t. God forbid he’d have the time or the energy to support you in the same way that you’ve been there for him.’
‘He does support me. He took me to Thailand, didn’t he?’
Emma’s voice softened. ‘Look, Sis, you are a bloody amazing actress. You’re not some bimbo starlet, you’re the real deal. Remember how Mum and Dad helped you get through stage school, paying for all those extra acting lessons? They weren’t just indulging you because it was what you wanted, they did it because they believed in you, because you had a talent that was worth nurturing.’
Despite herself, tears sprang into Jess’s eyes. Mum and Dad had been gone over a decade now, both having succumbed to cancer within a few years of each other, but not a day went by when she didn’t miss them.
‘Don’t quit yet, Jess. Something will happen for you, I’m convinced of it.’
Jess swiped the tears from her eyes. She didn’t know what she would do without Emma. It felt good to know there was someone in her corner, loving her unconditionally.
‘In the meantime,’ said Em briskly, ‘when are you next coming down? It’s been months since we saw you. Dan’s got a big jam in a couple of weeks – he and some of the other layabouts have got a mini music festival going on at the local pub. There’ll be beer. And possibly fags.’
‘Em! I thought you’d quit?’
‘Yeah, well, that would make me too perfect. See if you can persuade Big Head to join you.’
‘He’ll be filming. I’ll come though. Can’t wait to see Max.’
‘OK, but don’t put your fingers near his cage. He bites!’
*
By the time Jess came off the phone, Alana’s email had landed in her inbox. It wasn’t exactly heavy on details: just the name of the casting director, the address of the rehearsal rooms where the audition would take place and the title of the production – Horse Laugh. It was based on a series of successful books about a woman called Lydia who inherits a racing stables from her black sheep of an uncle. Despite knowing nothing about horses, jockeys or races, Lydia somehow manages against all the odds to make a success of it, with lots of hilarious adventures along the way. She’s aided and abetted by her faithful sidekick, a stable girl called Moira, who’s older, wiser and has a cynical one-liner for every occasion.
Jess quickly downloaded one of the books on her Kindle and spent the rest of the evening speed-reading while being fed chicken salad by Ryan.
‘Lydia is a great character, Ryan. I could do a lot with the part.’
‘Is she the only female role?’
‘No, there’s her friend, Moira. But she’s quite a bit older than Lydia.’
‘What are their ages?’
‘Thirty-something and forty-something.’
Ryan put his hand to his chin and rubbed it. Jess could hear the rasp of his stubbly beard on his fingers.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘You think they want me for Moira, the old one, don’t you?’
‘No, don’t be silly.’
‘But you do?’
‘I’m only thinking it might be a good idea to be prepared to audition for either one, just in case.’
*
The following morning, Jess found the address she was looking for and rang the bell fifteen minutes early. With a buzz, the door unlocked itself and she went into an open hallway, with a long corridor stretching back the length of the building and doors leading off either side of it … A young girl with a clipboard and scruffy ponytail was waiting.
‘You here for Horse Laugh?’
‘Yes. Jess Tate.’
The girl looked at her clipboard and found Jess’s name. ‘You’re a bit early, so if you could just wait here.’ She indicated four plastic chairs lined up against the wall.
‘Thank you.’ Jess sat. ‘By the way, can you tell me which part you’re auditioning for today?’
‘Moira.’
Jess smiled brightly. ‘Great. Thanks.’
The girl set off down the long corridor then opened the first door on the left and disappeared.
Jess let her smile drop. Ryan had been right. Thank God she’d listened to him and done her homework on both Lydia and Moira.
He’d put his arm round her and given her a pep talk: ‘Darling, they’ll be casting everyone younger than the book. Lydia will end up as a twenty-three-year-old and Moira a thirty-two-year-old – trust me.’ She trusted him.
Twenty minutes later she was standing in Charing Cross Road, dialling Ryan’s number.
‘I’ve been called back for this afternoon.’
‘I’ve got everything crossed for you.’
She got the job.
Within ten days the contract came through. Jess was on the up.
*
Ollie parked his old red MG Midget in the car park of Heathrow’s terminal five, grabbed the huge bunch of cream roses from the tattered front seat and ran as fast as he could to the arrivals gate. He got there with time to spare. Red’s flight was delayed by thirty minutes.
Good-looking young men running breathlessly through airport terminals with vast bouquets of expensive roses inevitably attract attention. He was no exception. Two giggly air hostesses approached him.
‘We know you don’t want any fuss and this is your private time, but can we have our photo taken with you?’
He stood and grinned for the picture, conscious all the while of more and more eyes turning towards him.
‘You waiting for Red?’ a young teenage girl, standing a few feet away, asked boldly and rather too loudly. ‘Is all the band coming too? I’m wearing my T-shirt.’ She opened her grubby denim jacket to reveal Red and her band Red Zed in action.
‘Hmm,’ said Ollie, smiling while pulling his baseball cap down further. He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to find a potbellied man in his fifties, sweating in an over-tight polo shirt and with highly magnifying spectacles, preparing to jab him again. ‘You’re that actor fella, are you?’
‘Um.’ Ollie was feeling horribly exposed and uncomfortable.
‘I know it’s you. My son here –’ he pointed at a gangly spotty boy wearing an ‘I ♥ Red’ T-shirt – ‘is waiting for Red’s autograph. She is coming through this way, isn’t she?’
‘Um …’ Ollie hated this level of recognition.
‘Well, is she or isn’t she?’ asked Mr Magoo.
At that moment two uniformed police officers, tipped off by the air hostesses, stepped in. ‘Come with us if you would, sir,’ said the taller one as they positioned themselves on either side of him, angling their bodies to clear a way through the growing crowd and escort him to the safety of their small office.
‘Who are you meeting, sir?’ the tall policeman asked, closing the door behind them.
‘My girlfriend. Red?’
‘Thought so. Our colleagues airside will assist her through Customs and get her out to you in one piece.’
‘Thank you. That’s really kind.’
‘No problem, sir.’ The policeman’s eyes flicked to his colleague. ‘While we’re waiting, would you mind giving us a photo and an autograph?’
*
Red’s tiny frame, clad head-to-toe in black leather with even blacker sunglasses covering most of her pale freckled face, topped by the trademark scarlet spiky hair, was barely visible within the phalanx of police officers. It didn’t stop the fans who were waiting for her, and the wider audience of innocent bystanders, from pressing forward, cameras flashing as they called her name. When Ollie’s two policemen manoeuvred him safely inside her secure circle of blue uniforms, Red screamed with joy.
‘Oh my God! Isn’t this crazy!’ She kissed him and held onto the arm that wasn’t carrying the bunch of roses. Then, sticking her free arm into the air and waving at the crowds, she yelled, ‘Hi, everybody! Red’s home!’ which encouraged a fresh blast of flashbulbs and hysteria.
‘Have you missed me?’
‘Yeah!’ shouted the crowd, whether they were fans or not. It seemed the polite thing to do.
‘Red can’t hear you!’ she shouted back. ‘I said, “Have you missed me?”’
‘YEAH!’
By now they were nearing the exit and the police, in one practised and professional move, steered Red and Ryan out of the terminal and into a big black limo parked on the double yellow lines.
Red was bundled into the back and she reached a hand out ready to pull Ollie in after her.
‘My car’s in the car park,’ he said.
‘OK. See you later,’ said Red. The chauffeur closed the door behind her and hurried round to get behind the wheel. Red’s window slid down and she asked, ‘Are those for me?’ Pointing at the roses.
‘Oh – yes.’ He handed them over.
‘Thanks. I’ll call you as soon as I get to the hotel.’
The car moved away from the kerb just as the crowds burst through the terminal doors and out onto the pavement. Seeing them running towards the car, Red tossed her roses into the air for them to catch.
Ollie could only look on in astonishment as two dozen roses at five pounds a stem were torn apart.
*
In the open and very public breakfast room of the Starfish, Brooke took a seat opposite the odious Milo and listened to his pathetic rewrite of the previous evening’s events.
‘Brooke, babe, you have no idea how upset Rupert and Michael are thanks to your outrageous behaviour.’
‘My behaviour? Excuse me, but they were off their faces and I was frightened.’
‘Frightened? Whatever of?’
‘I felt intimidated and threatened. Physically, emotionally and sexually. And instead of protecting me, you tried to bully me into “being nice to them”, as you put it.’
‘Now you’re talking nonsense.’
‘I was scared. They were drunk and taking drugs.’
‘So what? Everybody does a bit of coke. It’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist about.’ He picked up his coffee cup and winked at her across the rim. ‘Who’s to say the charlie wasn’t yours?’
‘What? I am not some pea-brained idiot, Milo. I felt like a piece of meat last night. “Get them a drink, Brooke. Be nice to them, Brooke.” You expected me to have sex with one or all of them, didn’t you?’
Milo’s face darkened and he leaned forward, glancing around the breakfast room to make sure no one was eavesdropping before lowering his voice and hissing, ‘Prove it. Who’d believe a slag like you over someone like me?’
Brooke’s heart beat faster as she took in this sudden nasty turn, but she was determined not to show her alarm.
‘You forget – there are photographs.’
Milo leaned back in his chair and laughed. ‘Meaningless! The boys were just fooling around – a bit of talcum powder and high jinks.’
Brooke played her trump card. ‘I’m going to tell Bob. And when he hears how you behaved he’ll leave your agency and tell the press why. You’ll be ruined.’
‘Ooh! She threatens me. I’m so scared!’ Then Milo dropped the mock hysteria and hissed nastily: ‘Have you checked your phone lately?’
Brooke was on the back foot. ‘No.’
‘You should.’
She scrabbled in her bag and brought out her phone. One voicemail message: Bob. Very emotional.
‘Milo’s just called me. Do you really need a job that much? Getting stoned? Drunk? Giving the Café Au Lait guys the come-on? I can’t believe it. If Milo hadn’t walked in on you, I’d never have known. He’s helped you so much and this is how you repay him? And me? Fuck, you’ve used me good and proper, haven’t you? Milo will keep all this out of the papers – for my sake, not yours. As for us? You are not the person I thought you were. I’ll send your things to Milo’s office for you to collect. I’m changing the locks and my phone number, so don’t bother trying to get hold of me.’
Brooke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her eyes brimming with tears, she looked across the table at Milo. His mouth twisted in a cruel, satisfied grin.
‘How could you be such a bastard, Milo? What have I ever done to you?’
He spread his hands in front of him. ‘What can I say? This is business, babe. You don’t play by my rules, you’re finished. No Café Au Lait contract, no hero boyfriend, and no agent. Oh, and you can kiss goodbye to the magazine column, the make-up range, the handbags – all cancelled. I’ll see to it you never work in this industry again. Shame, because you were on the cusp of something good.’ He stood and tossed two twenty-pound notes on the table. ‘Call that your tip.’
Brooke could only sit fighting back the tears, watching in silence as he walked away, taking her career with him.
11
Colonel Walter Irvine was not accustomed to having visitors. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had dropped by Beach Cottage, his cosy bachelor abode overlooking Shellsand Bay. It was a small two-up-two-down with a tiny kitchen and bathroom tacked on. Those had been Peter’s handiwork. Very good at design and building, was Peter.
Walter had already tidied up the shabby sitting room in readiness for his visitors, now he was looking at the uneven walls of the narrow and gloomy hall. How long had it been since he’d painted them in that magnolia eggshell? He thought for a moment. It must have been soon after he’d lost Peter. Goodness – forty years ago. Could it really have been that long? He reached up and brushed a cobweb from one of the numerous photographs of his Glorious Glosters. Not many of the boys left now. He straightened his shiny regimental tie and gave them a smart salute.
‘I’m on parade today, chaps. Got a visitor. Save the Pavilions, what. Tell you about the battle plan once briefed.’
Turning away from his old comrades, he marched into the kitchen. He’d no sooner started to lay out a tray of two cups and saucers when there came a knock at the door.
‘Come in, come in. Welcome to Beach Cottage.’
His visitor had a kind, pretty face and introduced herself as Helen Merrifield. Walter recognised her from around the village and seemed to recall that she had moved to Pendruggan quite
recently.
‘Am I right in thinking you are new to these parts, my dear?’ he asked, ushering her in.
‘Yes’, Helen replied. ‘I came from London after my husband and I divorced. Fresh start.’
‘Ah yes, the big metrollops! You probably wouldn’t guess it now, but I hail from London myself. St John’s Wood. But Cornwall feeds something in the soul, don’t you find?’
‘I couldn’t agree more. I feel like I’ve found my spiritual home.’
She followed him into the kitchen where he passed her the cups for their tea and some ginger nuts and fig rolls to arrange on a patterned plate. They both settled in front of the fire in the sitting room. They chatted easily until the Colonel set down his cup and said, ‘I don’t think you’ve come just to humour an old man, have you, my dear?’
‘Well, no, not quite,’ said Helen. ‘As you know, Colonel Irvine, the council are planning to sell the Pavilions to a large coffee chain. Many people in the area feel that this shouldn’t be allowed to happen and we’re mobilising strong opposition to the plans. But we’re on the back foot rather, and time isn’t on our side.’
The Colonel nodded, encouraging her to continue.
‘We’ve come across something that might just make all the difference to our campaign to prevent the sale going ahead. And that something is you.’
‘Me, dear girl?’
‘You were the man who opened the theatre and ran it, weren’t you?’
For a moment the Colonel seemed engrossed in picking at some invisible fluff on his check trousers, but eventually he looked Helen in the eye, and with some pride, replied, ‘I was.’
‘You were a performer as well as theatre manager?’
‘Indeed. Me and my alter ego – Colonel Stick. I created him during my time in Korea. I was barely out of my teens when I was called up for National Service; drew the short straw and got sent off to fight. Terrible times.’ Walter shook his head, then focused his gaze on an old photograph propped on the mantelpiece. It featured a good-looking man in wellies with one foot resting on a garden spade and a cup of tea raised to the camera. ‘To liven things up, my friend Peter and I and several of the other chaps formed an entertainment corps. We all needed to take our minds off the horrors that the war was inflicting on us, so we’d put on plays and musical revues. Colonel Stick was my contribution – a parody of some of those blustering army major types. It made the lads laugh, and laughter was something we desperately needed back then.’