by Fern Britton
‘Pen! Something amazing has happened,’ she cried breathlessly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to get here so I could tell you face to face.’
‘What is it?’
Helen told her.
‘Oh my God! Julian? Maggie and Hugh? Brooke? Oh my God, my God!’ Penny’s knees almost buckled and she had to grab Helen for support. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’
‘No.’
‘At Easter?’
‘Yes.’
Penny closed her eyes and stood in silent prayer, muttering, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’ Then she leapt past Penny, rushing down the hall towards Simon’s office, shouting his name as he emerged, blinking, from his study.
‘What’s the matter, Pen? What’s happened?’ He ushered her into his study and shut the door behind them. A moment later Helen, waiting in the hall, heard him cry, ‘Well done, darling! How marvellous! You must phone Jonathan straight away.’
*
‘So, when can I see you again?’ His muffled voice in Brooke’s hair sent a shiver of pleasure through her.
‘I’ve got to go back to Cornwall tonight. After the Guardian piece the whole thing’s gone mad.’ She propped herself up on one elbow and checked the clock display on her phone: it was three thirty. Prince Louis of Suffolk had cooked her a lunch of spaghetti bolognaise in the tiny kitchen of his apartment. He had a small but very grand annexe of his parents’ grace-and-favour London home. Two bedrooms, a cosy drawing room, a dark-room/office and the kitchen. They were lying on a very long, very wide, very squashy sofa in front of his state-of-the-art television.
He kissed her neck. ‘Please don’t go back tonight. I’ll get Hutch to drive you down first thing.’
‘That’s sweet of you, but I’d prefer not to get into trouble by using royal drivers, thank you.’
‘Well, let me take you to Paddington then.’
‘And what if we get seen?’
‘Stuff it.’
She sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes. ‘Louis, I don’t want to attract attention by being seen with you.’
He rolled over and rubbed the back of his wrist over his eyes. ‘I’ve told you. It’ll be all right.’
‘Yes and I get it. You’ve chosen to be a reportage photographer, you’ve got a step-uncle who is one of the biggest newspaper barons in the business and now, because you’ve joined the ranks of Fleet Street, you’re “off limits”. They don’t chase “their own”.’
‘Exactly. Smart of me, eh? It’s like they say – if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. For years my family had to put up with media intrusion and there was nothing they could do about it. Now I have immunity.’
‘Is that the only reason you took the job?’
‘Of course not. I did photography at university and I got a first, so I do know my onions. War hero stroke playboy prince doesn’t cut the mustard as a career option these days. I’ve got plans. I’m going to open my own gallery when the time is right, but first I need experience.’
‘How long will it stay secret though, you and me? It’s too good a story.’
He smiled his most beguiling smile and raised his arms to her. ‘My step-uncle will buy me some time. It’ll probably mean that I’ll have to give someone an exclusive at some point – throw them a few bones. But I’m going to make hay while the sun shines. Give us a cuddle.’
He really was a lovely person. Brooke knew it would be so easy to fall in love with Louis, but he was a young man out to have some fun. Before he joined the press, the papers were full of stories about the hero fighter pilot prince and his many many girlfriends. Now that the press no longer hounded him, she had no idea if there were other girls on the scene, or indeed how many.
After the Guardian shoot one of the protection officers had slipped her a piece of paper with Louis’s number on it. Brooke had put it in her purse but had never taken it out. And then one day her phone at Granny’s Nook had rung.
‘Brooke?’ asked the posh young man. ‘We met the other day – I took your photo for the Guardian?’
Brooke was suspicious. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m, it’s … Louis. I tracked you down.’
‘How did you get my home number?’
‘Oh, ah, tricks of the trade. Can’t tell you. Would have to kill you. That sort of thing. Fancy some lunch?’
‘I’m in Cornwall.’
‘I know. So am I.’
‘Are you?’ She was certain this was a hoax.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside your house.’
Brooke had felt a gush of panic flood through her. Was this some kind of prank? She moved slowly towards her front window, keeping to the walls. She peeked round the curtain. Sure enough, out in the road parked between her gate and the Pendruggan village green was a blacked-out Range Rover.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ she blustered.
‘I’ll get out of the car and show myself, if you like.’
‘OK.’ At least she’d know who this freak was.
Through the receiver pressed to her ear, she could hear the sound of a door opening and a soft squeak of leather which she assumed meant he had slid off the car seat. She peeked round the curtain again. Shit. It was him.
‘Get back in the car! People will see you.’
‘There’s no one around.’
She watched as he held out one arm and turned full circle on the spot indicating the village with not a soul to be seen.
‘Get back in the car!’ she squeaked.
‘Not until you come outside and let me take you to lunch. I’m hungry.’
‘Where would we go? I can’t take you to the pub, can I?’
‘Have you got anything in the larder?’
‘Not much.’
‘Eggs?’
‘Yes.’
‘I make a mean omelette. Can I come in?’
‘Is it just you?’ She looked to the left and right of his car to find his protection officers.
‘I’ve got Hutch with me. He’s good at washing-up.’
The window of the front passenger seat slid open and the smiling face of the man who had slipped her Louis’s number appeared. He waved. She waved back. ‘Shit. I just waved.’
Louis laughed. ‘Can I come in or what?’
20
Ollie had been more depressed than ever after his trip to Cornwall. In the past his mother’s face had always lit up with joy whenever they met, but this time it had been obvious that her happiness at seeing him had been tinged with concern and sadness … and even pity. It was as if, without meaning to, she’d held a mirror up and shown him the ugly truth: he was stuck in a pointless and horrible relationship and his career had completely stalled.
He hadn’t bothered to tell Red about the woman he’d met in Trevay who wanted to get her down for some fundraiser. Did they really think that Red, a global rock star, would drop everything for a shitty little theatre that no one had heard of? He was fed up with being treated as a gateway to Red. He was fed up with being the boyfriend of a woman he never saw and rowed with whenever they spoke. What had happened to them? When he first met her she had been electrifying. A tiny ball of energy, riding the thrilling crest of fame. She had been normal, funny, enjoying this extraordinary luck that had given her so much. They had still been able to nip out to the corner shop together and get the Sunday papers and a bottle of milk, no bodyguards in tow, no smarmy PAs with camp German accents. She’d had her own bank card that she could get cash with. She loved seeing her account balance on the printed receipt, each week adding another nought or two.
All that had changed. Now she was surrounded by security guards, record label publicists and that bloody sycophant, Henrik. She hadn’t a clue what she was worth and never carried cash. When he tried to phone her, he couldn’t even get to her. His calls were answered by some minion – a new one every time, it seemed – who said they’d pass on the message that he’d called. Had he been dumped? Was he a free m
an? He hadn’t the energy to find out. He felt sucked dry.
His mum rang every day, clearly worried sick about him. ‘Ollie, this isn’t like you. Please come and stay with me for a bit, just till you get back on your feet.’
‘Mum, I’ve got to be in London. It’s where the work is.’
‘Have you spoken to your agent?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘There’s a casting next week for a short tour of Dial M for Murder.’
‘That sounds promising.’
‘It’ll be shit.’
‘But it’s a job.’
‘It’s not what I want.’
‘What do you want?’
He wanted to be the Ollie he used to be. The Ollie who hadn’t met Red. The Ollie who had energy and saw life as an adventure.
‘I don’t know, Mum.’
‘Have you spoken to Red recently?’
‘No.’
‘And how does that make you feel?’
‘I’m not sure, Mum.’
‘Do you love her?’ she asked gently.
‘I don’t know.’
‘If you loved her, you would know.’
‘How would I?’
‘You wouldn’t let her out of your sight – you wouldn’t be able to stand not seeing her. Tell me something: when was the last time she made you laugh?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘When was the last time she told you she loved you?’
‘Can’t remember.’
‘And the last time you told her you loved her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re answering all your own questions.’
‘Yeah, but …’
‘Why don’t you come down? You can do your own thing. Just take a break for a while, give yourself time to think.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Come and stay with me.’
And so they continued, going round and round in circles.
*
Jonathan got off the train at Bodmin and stepped into the car Penny had sent him. On the seat was a note addressed to Jonathan Mulberry, Theatre Manager, The Pavilions, Trevay.
He opened it and read:
Darling Jonathan,
I promise you won’t regret it. Welcome aboard.
All my love,
Penny
When he had received the phone call from Penny telling him about Julian Fellowes’ incredible offer, Jonathan remained cool. So cool that Penny felt the need to tell him again.
‘He’s written a forty-five-minute piece for us. It starts off as a sort of dialogue between Maggie and Hugh about the incredible and hilarious things that happened during the making of Downton. While Maggie and Hugh recount tales from the series, our Brooke will be re-enacting some of the events, portraying some of the characters from the series, like Mrs Patmore and Elsie. She’ll have a lot to do on the night. Then, after the interval, he’s offering to do an ‘Ask the Author’ question-and-answer session on his own. It’s just incredible!’
‘Hmm, not a bad start. Not a bad start at all,’ said Jonathan.
‘It’s fucking brilliant is what it is!’ shrieked Penny.
‘It’s pretty good,’ he admitted. ‘You know what you’ve got to do now?’
‘Send you a contract to be our new theatre manager?’ Penny crossed her fingers and scrunched her eyes up in anticipation of a positive answer.
‘Hold your horses,’ he drawled. ‘First, you need to phone Mavis Carew and tell her what Julian has offered. I’m willing to bet that she’ll leap in with an offer of her own – a fundraising evening with herself and the stars of Mr Tibbs taking questions from the audience.’
‘Ahh!’ Penny gasped. ‘Do you really think so? Jonathan, you are a genius.’
‘I have my moments,’ he acquiesced.
‘Then will you be our new theatre manager?’
Jonathan chuckled down the line: ‘You bet your life.’
Penny almost wept with relief before adding: ‘All we need now is a stage management team, lights, designer, sound, wardrobe department, stage-door keeper, and box office manager. Simple.’
Jonathan laughed again. ‘Hey, I know a few people and can sort that out – provided you do the rest.’
That night a much happier and more relaxed Penny sat with her feet resting on Simon’s lap as they watched the first episode of a new comedy drama called Horse Laugh. It was very good. One actress in particular stood out.
‘Jess Tate … isn’t she the girlfriend of that bloke who plays the Italian in that thing about opera and espionage?’ asked Simon.
‘Blimey. How would you know that?’ asked Penny with jokily raised eyebrows.
Simon was a bit annoyed. ‘I do read the papers.’
‘I know, but … never mind. What is his name?’
‘Venini something?’
‘Yeah …’ Penny reached for her iPad and tapped a query into Google. After a moment’s searching she found what she was looking for. ‘Here he is: Ryan Hearst. I’ll put a call in tomorrow morning to see if he’d like to join our merry gang.’ She typed a short note to remind herself.
*
Ryan was in the pool, having just finished his one hundred daily lengths, when his PA, Jimmy, called him to the phone. ‘It’s the London office.’ As soon as Ryan had pulled himself out of the pool he handed him a towel and then the receiver.
‘Hi,’ said Ryan as he put the phone to his ear.
His agent gave him all the latest news from the office and his filming schedule for the next day then said, ‘You’re probably not interested in this but Julian Fellowes and Mavis Carew are both involved in raising funds for a dilapidated theatre in Cornwall.’ Ryan heard the sound of computer keys being tapped thousands of miles away in London and imagined them bouncing off a transatlantic satellite somewhere above him. His agent was looking up the information. ‘Here we are. It’s the …’ Ryan imagined him scrolling down the email ‘… the Pavilions in Trevay.’
‘The Pavilions? Yeah. I’ve read about it.’
‘Well, they wondered if you would like to join the company for a summer season.’
‘With Julian and Mavis?’
‘No, as a name for their summer show.’
Ryan laughed. ‘Ha! No way! My end-of-the-pier days are behind me now, thank God. Equity minimum and dingy digs with grim landladies. No thanks.’
‘Thought as much. You have to admire their balls, though!’ The two men enjoyed the joke.
‘Chuck it to Jess,’ said Ryan. ‘She needs something to keep her busy this summer. She’s got nothing on till Horse Laugh gets recommissioned.’
*
Jess was reading a stunning review in the Daily Telegraph for Horse Laugh and for her performance in particular when her iPhone popped up with a message from her sister Emma.
See: told you it would happen, you’re a bloomin superstar. Call you in half an hour when I’m back home. Xxx
Jess didn’t have time to reply before the phone rang again. It was her agent, Alana Chowdhury.
‘Darling. Who’s my little star then?’
Jess blushed with pleasure. ‘Was it OK? Did you watch?’
‘Did I watch? Darling, nothing would have moved me from my sofa!’ This was a lie. Alana had been dining with another client but had made sure she’d watched it on Sky Plus this morning, fast forwarding through the scenes that Jess was not in. Not that there were many, which had made Alana late for the office. ‘You were in-cred-i-ble. I’ve just got the overnight figures and you won the slot with a 42 per cent share.’
‘Really?’ Jess tried to sound as if she knew what Alana meant. ‘Gosh.’
‘Yes, gosh. The network are thrilled. I’m sure we’ll hear about a recommission any day. Have you seen the papers?’
‘Yes,’ Jess replied shyly.
‘And?’ Alana demanded. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look yet.’
‘Well …’ Jess stretched out her hand for the Daily Tele
graph. ‘The Telegraph says, “an exciting new comedy talent, with divine timing and a real sincerity”.’ How she wished her parents were alive to read it.
‘And do they mean you, little miss modest?’
‘Yes, but they mention everyone else too.’
‘Forget the others! This is all about you!’ Alana laughed richly. ‘Oh, that reminds me. Want to spend the summer in Cornwall?’ Alana filled Jess in on the Pavilions job, carefully not mentioning Ryan chucking it to her as one of his scraps.
‘What fun! Yes, please. I’d love a summer in Cornwall and so would Ethel and Elsie. Wait till I tell Ryan. He may even come down to visit. He loves regional theatres and is always talking about how we must back them or lose them.’ Jess was thrilled with this new opportunity and rang Ryan immediately …
‘Hey, babe,’ he answered sleepily. Jess looked guiltily at her clock. 10 a.m. in the UK. Shit: 2 a.m. in LA.
‘Ryan, it’s me.’
There was a clatter on the other end, as if he’d dropped the phone, then a scrunching and things grew muffled. Jess imagined him in the darkness of his room, trying to find where he’d dropped the phone and accidentally burying it under the pillow. She thought she could hear him swearing faintly, but when he came back on his voice was smooth and unruffled. ‘Jess … darling. It’s two in the morning. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry to wake you. It’s just … you’ll never guess what!’
‘What?’
‘Horse Laugh got a 42 per cent share of the audience last night and rather lovely reviews.’
‘Did you get a mention?’
‘Erm yes.’
Ryan felt a pang of peevishness and didn’t ask her to read any of them, but managed, ‘Good girl. Any other news?’
She told him about Trevay. ‘Maybe you could come down when you get a filming break?’
‘Yeah maybe, babe. Listen, I gotta split.’ Jess hated this new faux American accent he felt the need to affect. ‘I need to get another few hours in the sack. I’ve got a couple of heavy scenes to shoot in the morning. OK, babe?’