A Seaside Affair

by Fern Britton

  Jess’s head was fuzzy from lack of sleep and excess booze, but she knew enough to realise that the royal boyf had just had a dressing down from his royal mama. What the hell had happened to her peaceful life?

  She turned her attention to Chris and Hutch, who were looking very uncomfortable.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You have all fucked up. Royally, if I may say so.’ She laughed at her own joke but as no one else did she continued as soberly as she could manage: ‘You want good old me to go out there, lie through my teeth and let you slip out the back way again. Am I right?’

  Hutch shuffled a bit. ‘In a nutshell.’

  Jess swung her feet out of bed. ‘OK, I’ll do it. But this is the last time. They probably won’t believe me anyway. I have done this before, remember?’

  Brooke took Jess’s dressing gown off the back of a chair and helped her into it. ‘Thank you,’ Jess breathed.

  ‘Phwoar! You stink of booze.’ Brooke wafted her hand in front of her face.

  Jess gave her a withering look as she did up her robe. ‘Do you want me to save your skin or not?’

  ‘I do, I do. I’m sorry.’

  Louis stepped forward and embraced Jess. ‘Thank you, Jess. I promise this will never happen again.’

  Jess ran a hand through her hair and set off down the stairs.

  By the time she opened the front door she had her speech, all irate but dignified, prepared. She wasn’t given a chance to use it. A grim-faced reporter shoved a photo in front of her as the usual flashbulbs popped. She frowned and pulled the photo closer. It came into focus. It was a picture of Ryan and Serena at a party.

  Ryan and Serena kissing.

  Ryan with his hand up Serena’s skirt, caressing her be-thonged arse.

  She dropped the picture and gave a little cry. She tried to slam the door in the face of the wretched reporter but he held it open with the palm of his hand.

  ‘Sorry to have to break the news to you this way, Miss Tate, but Ryan has been a bit of a naughty boy. He and Serena Metcalfe are engaged. What’s your reaction?’

  Jess felt nauseous. Last night’s brandy was making its way up her throat. ‘I …’

  ‘Let me read you the statement Miss Metcalfe’s publicist released early this morning.’ He reached into his pocket for another piece of paper. ‘It says, “Serena Metcalfe is thrilled to let the world know of her love for Venini star Ryan Hearst. Love has bowled them both over and last night at a star-studded party Mr Hearst proposed to her and she accepted.”’

  Jess felt nothing as she hit the floor.

  *

  The shock was so great that when Jess came to, as she was being carried to the sofa, she didn’t know what had happened. Brooke was being kind to her and stroking her hand, Hutch was brewing some strong coffee and Louis was apologising over and over.

  ‘What do you keep saying sorry for, Louis?’ she asked. ‘Have you hurt me? I don’t feel hurt. It must have been an accident.’

  Brooke looked anxiously at Jess’s pale face and placed a hand on her forehead to test her temperature. ‘Darling, you’ve had a nasty fall. I think you may have bumped your head.’

  ‘It does ache a bit, but I think that’s because Ollie and I had a bit too much to drink last night. He flirted with me. Bless him.’

  ‘Did he? He’s coming over soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He heard about …’ Brooke checked herself and came up with an alternative ending: ‘He heard you had a fall.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jess still didn’t understand. ‘What’s happened to me? Why are you all looking so worried? If there’s something serious, Ryan had better know. He’s in LA at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, we know,’ said Brooke, kissing Jess’s fingers as a mother might a child’s.

  A thought crossed Jess’s mind. ‘Is Ryan all right? Has something happened to him?’

  Hutch brought the tray of coffee in and put it on the low table by the sofa. ‘Here you are, Jess. Sit up a bit and get this down you.’

  The coffee was very strong, hot and sweet. Jess took a sip and pulled a face. ‘That’s horrible. What are you giving me this for?’

  Hutch sat down next to her and very gently told her why.

  It all came flooding back. Jess had never known pain like it. She almost couldn’t breathe for it. She clung to Hutch like a drowning woman to a piece a driftwood and sobbed.

  At the peak of her exhaustion, Louis and Brooke helped her to bed.

  The minute they left her alone, she found her bag and her mobile phone in it. She dialled Ryan’s number. She left the worst kind of message on it. Vitriolic, disbelieving and teary. She redialled and repeated a similar message every few minutes until Brooke looked in on her and confiscated the phone. ‘He’s not going to pick up,’ Brooke told her gently.

  ‘Have you tried?’ sniffed Jess.

  ‘Yes. Several times. And I’ve emailed – but nothing.’

  Jess, clutching at straws, checked the time. ‘It’s the time difference. He’s asleep. He always turns the phone off when he’s asleep. Or … maybe he’s on the plane. That’s it. He’s flying home to tell me it’s not true. I must check the flights.’ She tried to get out of bed, but Brooke held her and wouldn’t let her go.

  ‘Darling, it’s over. There’s no mistake.’

  Jess looked at Brooke with hatred and almost spat in her face. ‘How dare you say that! You haven’t a clue what Ryan and I feel for each other. It’s that witch Serena who’s putting out these lies.’

  Brooke let go of Jess. ‘OK. I think you’d better come downstairs and watch Sky News. They’re running the story every fifteen minutes. Come on.’ Angrily she grabbed Jess’s hand and pulled her out of bed.

  The television was on and it only took a few minutes before they ran the story of Ryan and Serena’s engagement. The happy couple had been filmed emerging from the Beverly Hills Hotel for a press conference. Serena said little but stood next to Ryan, leaning on his shoulder and looking up at him adoringly. It was Ryan who spoke: ‘I am genuinely amazed that this beautiful woman could love me as I love her. I can’t wait to make her my wife and have lots of little girls who look just like her.’

  ‘What about Jess Tate. Does she know?’

  ‘Jess is a wonderful woman, but we’ve grown apart and moved in opposite directions. I wish her nothing but happiness.’

  Jess lost consciousness for the second time that day.

  *

  The doctor, when she came, was very kind and suggested that Jess take a few days off work and do relaxing things like walk the dogs and snuggle on the sofa in front of some old films. She wrote a prescription for a few days’ supply of Diazepam before leaving.

  When Brooke returned from seeing the doctor to her car she found Jess ripping the prescription up and chucking it in the grate.

  Hutch, Michael and Louis had to go. Parking the Range Rover on the opposite side of the village had been a simple ruse that had worked. Brooke was glad to see them leave. In situations like this, men weren’t always the best help. Hutch and Michael left first in order to bring the car round so that Louis could jump in quickly without drawing attention. The grim-faced hack and his mates, having delivered their devastating news and got their pictures, had gone.

  As Louis held Brooke and kissed her, he apologised again for bringing so much disruption to her and Jess’s lives.

  ‘It’s been fun,’ said Brooke, somehow knowing that this was the last time she would see him.

  He kissed her lips gently. ‘It has been fun. You are a very special girl, Brooke. I won’t forget you.’

  The Range Rover was at the gate. He gave her one more lingering kiss then walked away. He didn’t look back.

  *

  Brooke watched as his car moved off and out of sight. She leaned her forehead on the door jamb and allowed a couple of tears to slide down her cheeks and splash on the flagstones.

  Jess called to her from upstairs. ‘Have you got any decent scissors?’

 
; ‘Yes, in my dressing-table drawer.’ Brooke called up.

  ‘Can I borrow them?’

  ‘Of course.’ Then a cold fear gripped Brooke. ‘Oh my God, what are you going to do?’ She raced upstairs, fully expecting to have to grapple the scissors from a blood-soaked Jess, but instead she found her on the landing with a long cream dress bag in her hand.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ shrieked Brooke.

  ‘I’m having a moment’s liberation.’ Jess unzipped the bag and pulled out the most beautiful wedding dress. ‘I bought this for my wedding to that bastard Ryan. Now I am going to cut it up into tiny pieces.’

  ‘No! It’s lovely – someone else would love to have it. Give it to charity. Auction it on eBay, but please don’t destroy it,’ begged Brooke.

  She was too late. Jess had the scissors in her hand and Brooke could only watch as the swathes of satin and silk were snipped, ripped and chopped into nothing but rags.

  37

  A form of insane sanity settled over Jess. The shredded dress was now in the dustbin, the threads on the landing all hoovered up. And she was in her bedroom, calmly filling black bin-bags with anything associated with Ryan.

  Ollie drove over with Jonathan, bringing camomile tea, lavender oil and a box of Nurofen plus.

  Brooke let them in and called up the stairs brightly, ‘Jess – Ollie and Jonathan are here.’

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ Jess called back.

  Brooke pulled a worried face at the boys and beckoned them into the kitchen, pulling the door shut so that they could talk without being overheard.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Jonathan. Brooke told them the full story, including the possibility that she might never see Louis again.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Ollie asked.

  ‘I think I probably am. I mean, it’s not like I was ever going to be Princess Brooke, is it.’ She began filling the kettle, purely as an excuse to turn away from them so they wouldn’t see the tears forming in her eyes. ‘I’ll miss him a bit, but … well, it’ll be something to tell the grandchildren, won’t it?’

  ‘Does Jess know?’ asked Ollie.

  ‘No. Not yet. I’d prefer to keep it to myself at the moment. It’s easier to handle … if you don’t mind not saying anything.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’m much more worried about Jess,’ said Brooke. ‘In the last three hours she’s been through all the stages of shock, denial and anger, and now appears to be in acceptance.’

  ‘That was quick,’ said Jonathan, spying an open packet of chocolate HobNobs and helping himself.

  ‘Yeah. Worryingly so.’

  ‘What’s she doing up there?’ asked Ollie, eyes looking ceilingward.

  ‘Well, after she stopped trying to phone Ryan, ripping up the prescription the doctor gave her and cutting her wedding dress into shreds, she went pretty quiet. I think she’s chucking all his stuff away at the moment.’

  They heard footsteps on the stairs and the bumping of something heavy being dragged down.

  ‘Shh,’ said Brooke, and the three of them arranged their faces into natural expressions as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

  The kitchen door swung open and Jess lugged in three heavy bin-bags. ‘Hi, guys.’

  ‘Hi, Jess.’ Jonathan smiled at her.

  ‘Want some help with that?’ offered Ollie, nodding to the rubbish sacks.

  ‘Great. Thanks. Can you put them out by the dustbin. The binmen collect tomorrow.’

  Ollie and Jonathan took the bags out. Once out of sight of the kitchen, they had a quick peek.

  ‘Tom Ford shoes!’ admired Jonathan.

  ‘Put them back,’ hissed Ollie.

  But Jonathan continued: ‘Cashmere jumper … Vivienne Westwood shirt …’

  ‘Yeah. I bet she bought them all for him.’

  They piled them into the dustbin and went back to the kitchen.

  Both girls were at the kitchen table sipping camomile tea. Ollie pulled out the chair next to Jess and sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing, old friend?’

  Jess sighed. ‘Honestly? I feel as if I’ve been punched very hard and I’m numb all over.’

  Jonathan offered her a HobNob. ‘You don’t have to do the show tonight if you don’t want to. But, in my opinion, it might just be the best thing you could do.’

  Brooke disagreed. ‘She needs to have a couple of days off to get her head together.’

  Ollie put his arm around Jess’s shoulder and hugged her to him. ‘I think Jess needs to make her own mind up.’

  The four of them sat in silence, listening to the hum of the fridge and the dachshunds snoring in their basket. Jess sat still, staring ahead and thinking.

  The clock was creeping round to the time they should be leaving for the theatre. Summer season meant never having a day off, even a Sunday.

  Eventually Jess spoke: ‘Let’s go. What would I do, sitting here by myself tonight?’

  *

  Jess didn’t know she had it in her. She got through the show on autopilot and only once broke down in the wings. It was Colonel Stick who shared a few gentle words and Ollie who held her steady with firm eye contact whenever they were on stage together.

  After the show, Ollie offered the girls supper but Brooke declined. ‘I think I’ll go home. Things to do … and stuff.’

  Ollie understood.

  ‘Well, that leaves you and me, Miss Tate. Fancy a bite to eat?’

  *

  By the time they got to the Starfish, Jess knew she didn’t want to do anything but crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep. There had been a short email from Ryan, waiting for her after the show, saying he’d speak to her soon to explain. She had immediately phoned him back but got voicemail. She made one more call, to her sister Emma, who had been frantically trying to reach her and leaving messages offering to come to Trevay to be by her side. Having sworn to Em that she was OK and there was no need to worry, she turned her phone off and left it in the dressing room. She didn’t want the temptation of trying to call him through the night.

  As Ollie parked up his red MG outside the Starfish and extended a hand to help her out, she told him, ‘I’m sorry, Ollie. I really am not great company tonight. I’m going to take a cab back to Pendruggan.’

  He looked at her with such concern that she laughed. ‘I’m all right, honestly. I just need to … oh … I don’t know, I just need …’

  ‘To walk into this beautiful hotel, check yourself into a luxurious room, sink into a bubble bath and eat something from room service in front of the telly, wrapped in a huge white robe. Am I right?’

  She nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  He offered her his arm and escorted her up the steps where she checked in to the best available room.

  ‘No bags, Miss Tate?’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Nope. I’m baggage-free tonight. Baggage-free from now on, I think.’

  The receptionist was embarrassed. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean … Well, I saw the news today and I’m so sad to hear that you and Mr Hearst …’

  ‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’

  ‘Would you like a complimentary washbag with toothbrush and stuff?’

  ‘Yes please. I have nothing at all with me.’

  Her room was adjacent to Ollie’s and had a view over the narrow streets of Trevay. She stood at the window looking down at the people who were making their way back to their B&Bs or holiday apartments. One couple, in their forties she guessed, with two teenage children in tow, walked hand in hand talking and laughing together. She drew her curtains on them. That was never going to be her future.

  Ollie was fiddling with the huge television at the end of the bed.

  ‘Why don’t hotel tellies just turn on and off?’ He was juggling two remote controls. ‘You have to get through all this “Welcome, Miss Tate” and “Hotel information” guff before you get to … ah, here we are. Back-to-back episodes of Frasier. That’s what you need.’ Sati
sfied he’d beaten the technology, he went to the bathroom and came back bearing a big white fluffy robe. He put it on the bed. ‘Put that on and order some room service while I run you a bath.’

  ‘Ollie, stop. I can look after myself.’

  ‘It makes me feel better to know I’m doing something,’ he called above the running of taps. ‘You’re doing this for me, you know. Not the other way around.’

  When he was satisfied that Jess had everything she needed he left her to it with these words: ‘Night, sweetheart. You’ll get through this, trust me.’

  In the empty room she felt at peace. The bath was the perfect temperature and the steak sandwich and glass of Merlot just the ticket. She even managed to laugh at the television. ‘I’m going to get through this,’ she said to herself several times. Finally she got into bed … and couldn’t sleep.

  *

  Ollie couldn’t sleep either. What on earth was happening in his life? A few months ago he was a Royal Shakespeare Company actor with a rock star girlfriend and a flat in London. Now he was a single seaside entertainer, living close to his mum. Good old Ollie. How life and its various chapters can lower one’s opinion of oneself. He thumped his pillow into a more comfortable shape and tried to sleep again.

  He was lonely. He’d been lonely for months. Or even longer. In fact, all the way back to the start of his relationship with Red. What had she ever seen in him? And God only knew what he’d seen in her. They were like two lost souls who’d collided. He had loved her creativity and her energy. He’d never known a performer who could give so much of themselves to an audience. He’d done his training around actors who were intense and introverted. ‘Up their own backsides’, as his mother would have said. Unlike Red, who truly loved her audiences and was loved by them in return, actors felt that their public hated them. ‘See that woman in the third row with the green jumper? She’s not laughed in any of my scenes. I played the whole effing thing to her and she hates me. What’s she here for?’

  That was the kind of conversation heard daily in the angst-ridden dressing rooms of our nation’s theatres.