by Fern Britton
‘Yes. Speak later?’ But he’d already gone.
Jess spent the rest of the morning answering congratulatory texts from her friends and colleagues from the show and searching the Internet for a picture-perfect Cornish cottage that she and Elsie and Ethel could rent.
*
‘Ollie, it’s Mum.’ Her voice was loud in the receiver.
‘Hi, Mum,’ replied Ollie in a downbeat voice. ‘I was just taking a nap.’
Undaunted, his mum raised her voice even louder: ‘Then wake up, boy – I have some good news. They’re looking for actors to star in the new summer season at the Pavilions and I’ve got you on the list for tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, Mum, no, I really don’t want to … It’s very kind of you and all that, but … I’m not in the mood and I’m waiting to hear about Dial M for Murder and …’
‘Get yourself on the 14.23 from Paddington – I’ll be waiting for you at Truro station tonight. Oh, and I’ve booked you a haircut first thing.’
She’d gone before he could say a word.
Part Two
21
The Easter production of Tales of Downton was a sellout, with tickets changing hands on eBay for many times their face value. The great and the good of Trevay were all out in force, and the Islington Chatterati, many of whom had Cornish second homes, made it their business to secure tickets. Rumours were rife that David and Samantha Cameron would be coming to watch too. They often stayed in neighbouring Rock on their holidays. It all generated a buzz of excitement that equalled anything to be found on a West End opening night.
Brooke was nervously putting the final touches to her make-up. They’d had precious little time to rehearse and she could only hope that her training at the Bristol Old Vic and the Actors Studio had stood her in good stead.
As it was a fairly informal set, with just Brooke and the other two actors on a simply lit stage, she’d opted for an understated but elegant black calf-length dress that wouldn’t ride up over her knees when she sat on her stool. Tonight was all about changing the way people thought of her. This wasn’t about looking good on the pages of a tacky tabloid; this was about Brooke Lynne – the actress.
Jonathan popped his head around the door.
‘Ready? Curtain call in about five mins.’ He gave her a calm and encouraging smile. ‘Feeling OK?’
‘You betcha.’ Brooke gave him a wink with more confidence than she felt and put the final touches to her hair.
*
Julian Fellowes did not disappoint his fans. His script for the evening was brilliantly written and perfectly performed by Hugh and Dame Maggie. The anecdotes were hilarious and they held the audience in the palms of their hands. Brooke was a natural. Playing the parts of the other Downton Abbey cast members was a perfect showcase for her talents. Naturally funny, she imbued the (liberally exaggerated) stories of behind-the-scenes high jinks and mayhem with humour and intelligence. Her talent as an impressionist was a revelation and the audience were doubled up with laughter at her rendering of the much-loved characters, in particular, her performance as Carson, the butler.
When the three actors took their bows, they received a standing ovation. As they left the stage, the ongoing cheers and cries of bravo brought them back for an encore. Brooke caught the Colonel’s eye in the front row and he gave her an approving smile as the audience cheered and clapped their approval.
The night continued in the same enjoyable vein. Sir Julian’s ‘Any Questions’ section was a hoot, and both Lord Fellowes and the audience enjoyed Queenie’s good-humoured heckling from the front row, proffering an invitation for Thomas Barrow to drop in and share one her famous pasties out the back of the shop anytime he was passing …
The evening ended with an auction. The sale of Dr Who memorabilia and a jacket from Quentin Tarantino, who had worn it while directing Django, made almost £50,000. An awful lot of the money raised would be disappearing into the black hole of building costs and the rent that the council was charging them, but it did a great deal to lift everyone’s confidence.
Their next big fundraising gala was scheduled for the autumn. Billed as A Night with Mr Tibbs, it was already selling well.
*
Buoyed by the success of the Downton evening, everyone involved with the Pavilions was in a buzz of excitement about the summer production, Hats Off, Trevay! By the time the cast assembled for the first day of rehearsals, the theatre had a full complement of staff for the first time in maybe twenty years. For the next five months the Pavilions would be open every day, a proper working theatre once again.
The bustle of the auditorium was what Ollie liked most. He hadn’t been in a theatre since he’d left Stratford and the Royal Shakespeare Company. He stood at the back of the newly repaired rows of seats and drank in the smell of paint and fresh wood shavings. On the stage a gaggle of young people were walking about with bits of three-by-one on their shoulders or carrying tins of paint. An older man – Ollie assumed he was the production manager – was barking instructions: ‘Ed, stop twatting about and get that bloody ship’s rail painted.’ A ginger-headed boy with nose piercings sulkily stopped painting the back of his mate’s dungarees and got on with his job.
An electrician rattled open a very tall set of aluminium ladders and shouted to someone in the dark at the back of the stalls: ‘Jim? Put up circuit 27.’ A voice near Ollie replied, ‘Okey-doke!’ and a bank of lights lit up the left side of the stage. ‘Cheers, mate.’ Ladder man climbed up and started adjusting the lamps way up high.
A woman Ollie thought he recognised from his audition walked past him. He racked his brains. Was she the company manager? He couldn’t remember. That day had been a blur. The only bit he remembered clearly was going home and telling his mum he’d got the job.
‘Excuse me …’ He stopped the woman.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, recognition spreading across her face with a smile.
‘I was wondering if you knew where I could put my stuff and where the rehearsals are?’ He gestured to his heavy rucksack.
‘Of course. Follow me.’
She led him through the auditorium towards the stage and the pass door that separated the audience from the mysteries of backstage. At once he felt himself connecting with the familiar tattiness of the ‘actors’ side’ of the theatre as opposed to the comfort and glamour of the ‘audience’ side. The woman kept up a steady flow of inconsequential chatter, asking him where he was staying (at his mum’s for the time being) and whether he was looking forward to the summer season (yes).
They crossed the stage and went down a short flight of steps to the green room and the dressing rooms leading off it. Several cast members were sitting around on sagging sofas drinking the coffee that a young, female assistant stage manager was making.
Brooke spotted Ollie first and jumped up to greet him.
‘Hi, Ollie – Brooke Lynne. So lovely to meet you at last.’
He dropped his rucksack on the floor and they exchanged the two-cheek kiss that is obligatory in showbiz circles.
‘Hi.’ He beamed round at the others, who all made welcoming noises.
‘And this,’ said Brooke approaching a shiny-cheeked elderly man who was beaming at everyone from a seat in the corner, ‘this is Colonel Walter Irvine. The first manager of this theatre and entertainer extraordinaire.’ She bowed with a Dandiniesque flourish of her hand.
The old man chuckled. ‘My dear, you flatter me.’
Ollie went to him and shook his hand. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Colonel. I love your script.’
‘Oh, dear boy, I’m afraid the original script, when we blew the dust off it, was very creaky – but young Mr Mulberry has worked hard at bringing it up to date.’
‘I think it’s wonderful, and so funny,’ said the woman who’d led Ollie down from the auditorium. ‘Boy meets girl, boy loses girl to heartless baddie, girl realises her mistake, gets back with boy, happy ending.’
‘And you, my dear, will be splendid
as the girl’s best friend.’ The Colonel patted her hand.
Ollie looked at the woman again. Bugger. She wasn’t the company manager at all, she was Jess Tate. Star of Horse Laugh and girlfriend of superstar Ryan Hearst. He’d met her once, somewhere. He racked his brains, trying to remember. It was at the car park machines at Heathrow, when he’d collected Red. ‘Yeah. You’ll be amazing!’ he said, trying to cover his confusion.
It seemed he’d got away with it. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Want a coffee?’
Down the stairs clattered a tall bearded man in his early thirties. He walked towards Ollie. ‘Hi, I’m Dan. We met at the audition?’
‘Of course. Hi, Dan,’ said Ollie.
‘You’ll find I’m company and stage manager rolled into one. Budget didn’t stretch to two of us. I see you’ve met everyone.’ He smiled and turned to the assembled throng.
‘Tech crew are just clearing the stage and then we’ll go up and have a read-through of the script. It’s great to have us all together at last.’
When they finally got up to the stage, Ollie saw that it had been swept and tidied and now had a circle of chairs sitting on it.
Jonathan Mulberry, Pavilions theatre manager and the director of Hats Off, Trevay! was waiting for them.
There were lots of kisses and hellos and thank yous as they got settled.
‘Lovely to have you all here – and well done on getting the gig,’ said Jonathan. There was polite laughter.
‘Right, let’s get started. Turn to page one, everybody. Ollie, off you go.’
It was clear that Ollie, as the leading man, and Brooke, as his leading lady, were perfectly cast. Jess was both funny and moving as the best friend caught in the middle of the romance. Colonel Irvine was playing his alter ego, Colonel Stick: the jokey storyteller who guided the audience through the tale using dramatic voices, amusing comic interludes and the odd song and dance.
Being a musical, Ollie, Brooke and the cast had songs to learn. At the end of the afternoon, Dan handed round CDs with their music on. From tomorrow they would have a rehearsal pianist joining them. The full band wouldn’t turn up till nearer the end of rehearsals.
It was getting dark outside as they all tumbled out into the repaired car park.
‘Can I give anyone a lift?’ asked Ollie, looking at both Brooke and Jess.
‘I’ve got my car, thanks,’ said Brooke. Louis was coming down today. She hoped he’d be at Granny’s Nook when she got in.
‘OK. How about you, Jess?’ Ollie asked.
‘I can walk. I’m in the Starfish Hotel. It’s only a ten-minute walk.’
‘I drive past, if you want a lift?’
Jess hesitated for a moment before replying, ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
At the Starfish, Ethel and Elsie would be eagerly awaiting her return. The hotel manager, Louise Lonsdale, had so loved having Julian Fellowes, Dame Maggie Smith and Hugh Bonneville staying for the high-profile fundraiser for the Pavilions, that she couldn’t do enough for anyone connected to the theatre. As a result she’d overlooked the hotel’s no pets policy and allowed Jess Tate to bring her two little dogs.
‘Miss Tate, Ethel and Elsie are my guests. When you are busy in rehearsals they will work behind the reception desk, adding an extra welcome to our visitors.’
Jess climbed into Ollie’s battered red MG Midget and together they set off down the hill into the narrow lanes of the fishing village.
‘Where is your mum’s house?’ she asked him.
‘’bout ten minutes away. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do the whole summer there. I love her and all that, but once you’ve left home there’s no going back, is there?’
He changed gear from third to second, the clutch protesting horribly, and negotiated a tight turn onto the road by the harbour wall before continuing: ‘I’d like to stay at the Starfish ideally. I love hotel living, but it’s way beyond my means.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Jess. ‘Louise, the owner, is rather fond of getting “names” into her establishment. If you can put up with doing the odd bit of PR for her, I think she’d probably pay you to stay there. She’s given me a really good rate.’
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. ‘What sort of PR?’
‘Pose for the occasional photo for the papers and magazines. Have supper with her and her friends, bring Red along. That sort of thing.’
At the mention of Red, Jess felt a distinct chill in the car. She looked over at his now expressionless face. ‘I’m sorry. Have I overstepped the mark?’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘No, no. It’s just … well, let’s say things are never quite as they seem. I don’t know quite how to explain what the situation with Red is, so let’s just say it’s complicated.’
Jess looked down at her hands which were resting in her lap and turned her left hand to let her engagement ring sparkle under a passing street light. ‘I didn’t mean to be nosy. I understand how hard long-distance relationships can be. My fiancée is in LA right now.’
He smiled over at her. ‘Well, then you and I shall keep each other company. And if you can put a good word in for me with the Starfish’s boss – Linda …?’
‘Louise.’
‘Louise … then do. And here we are.’
The MG slowed to stop and promptly cut out. ‘Oh shit,’ said Ollie succinctly. ‘She’s a bugger to start when she does this. If I leave her to cool for a half an hour it might do the trick. Can I buy you a drink?’
‘That sounds very nice.’ But then she remembered, ‘I need to walk my dogs round the block first though.’
‘I could do with a walk. Can I come with you?’
Jess smiled at him. ‘Deal.’
*
The bar of the Starfish was quiet, just a few businessmen chatting over tall glasses of chilled lager after a long day of meetings and a couple with a son around ten years old, Jess guessed, intent on his tablet. Pools of light glowed round the deliciously squashy sofas and low tables arranged in cosy enclaves facing the vast bay windows overlooking the twinkling harbour. A new moon shone on the water and lapped the fishing boats and the yachts that were moored there.
‘Evening, Miss Tate. What can I get you?’ The bartender was a dear man, almost near retirement age, who’d been with the hotel since its heyday in the fifties and sixties.
‘Evening, Jack. May I have a glass of merlot?’
‘Large?’
‘Is there any other size?’
The man laughed and turned to find the bottle on the long mirrored shelves behind him. After he’d poured the glass and handed it to Jess he turned to Ollie. ‘And what can I get for you, sir?’
‘A pint please. Doom Bar.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Drinks in hand, Jess led the way to a pair of low armchairs in a far corner. Elsie and Ethel flopped onto the carpet at her feet.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked Ollie.
He was unsure how to respond. He was starving and would love to eat here, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome.
‘Mum will be expecting me. Chicken pie, I think.’
Jess was disappointed. ‘Maybe another time …’ She looked away and down at the dogs to ruffle their ears. She hoped he didn’t think she was trying to chat him up.
‘I’d love to stay for supper, but I don’t want to impose,’ Ollie explained. ‘You might feel like an early night and I don’t want to be a bore.’
‘I’m going to have a bar snack. The macaroni cheese here is the best sort of comfort food. You can eat and be gone within the hour.’
He grinned. ‘I’ll give Mum a shout then.’
*
It was two hours later when Ollie left. He’d had just the one pint to Jess’s three large merlots, and as she said goodnight to him on the front step she hugged him. Over the last two hours they’d managed to give each other a potted history of their lives to date. Jess had skipped over her anxieties about Ryan and Ollie had mostly avoided talking
about Red, but they were aware enough of the quiet undercurrents to respect each other’s privacy.
‘I’m really looking forward to this summer. I hope we can be mates,’ said Jess.
Ollie returned her hug and kissed her cheek. He liked this straightforward woman who loved her man and her dogs. ‘Mates,’ he said, and he turned to take the steps down to his car two at a time.
She watched him as he started the MG first time and the headlights came on to pick out the road ahead of him. He wound down the driver’s rickety window and shouted, ‘Bye. Do you want me to pick you up on the way in tomorrow, Mrs Mate?’
‘My call’s at ten. When’s yours?’ she called back.
‘Same.’
‘Great.’ She smiled and waved. ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Mate.’
22
Brooke drove out of Trevay and through the darkening lanes towards Pendruggan. She had given Louis a key to Granny’s Nook, on his insistence, and could feel her heart quickening. Would he be there? She drove past the welcoming lights of the Dolphin, the local pub that Louis kept threatening to take her to. She’d love to walk in on his arm and show him off, but then what would happen? Much as she wanted the world to know that this most eligible of princes was taking her out, at the same time she knew that sort of publicity could spell the end of any romance they might be enjoying. Louis was kind and warm and reckless, but he valued his privacy – and, on past history, moved on very quickly as soon as private became public.
Leaving the lights of the Dolphin twinkling behind her, she drove on to Pendruggan and turned left towards the village green. The lights were on in most of the cottages lining the green, but what about Granny’s Nook? Yes, yes – the porch light was on, but the curtains were drawn so that she could see only a sliver of light.
She drew up alongside the familiar black Range Rover, turned off the ignition and breathed a small sigh of satisfaction. He was here.
Louis was in the sitting room, grooving to Justin Timberlake and holding a wine glass.