Family Baggage

by Monica McInerney

  ‘It’s a real family affair by the sound of things. No problem at all. I’m sure you and I will get on just as well.’

  He sounded completely relaxed about it. Perhaps that came from the acting background. Presumably film sets and TV studios were unpredictable workplaces. Harriet gave a relieved laugh. ‘Thanks so much. We’ve had a few unexpected ups and downs so I wanted to be sure that was all fine with you.’

  ‘It’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘Perhaps we could meet for coffee before we go and have a cocktail? Have a general chat about the tour before we get started?’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea. Will I meet you downstairs? I’ll carry a newspaper so you know me. Either the Times or the Guardian, I’m still trying to work out which political camp I’m in now I’m back in Britain.’

  ‘You won’t need to bother with the newspaper. I’ve been watching the videos of your show for the past while, so I’m sure I’ll know you.’ She was warming to him more and more. ‘So how long is it since you’ve been home?’

  ‘Home?

  ‘Here, in Cornwall.’

  ‘I come back to England quite regularly, but, oh, I haven’t been in Cornwall since we filmed the series. So it’s nearly fifteen years.’

  The more they spoke, the more she could hear his English accent coming through. Mrs Lamerton and Mrs Pollard had been particularly keen on hearing that voice of his in real life. She’d heard them talking about it the night before. They’d been competing to see who could describe it the best. Like warm treacle, Mrs Lamerton had said. No, deep and rich, like toffee, Mrs Pollard had insisted. They were both right. It was a warm, deep voice.

  ‘And have you still got relatives in Penzance?’ He might like to call in to them while they were so near.

  ‘In Penzance? No, not that I know of.’

  ‘Really? Oh, I thought you were born there. Your biography said —’

  ‘You were given the Penzance biography? I’m sorry, please don’t believe a word of it. My first agent and I made that up one night over a bottle of whiskey. I was actually born in London. Stoke Newington, to be precise. But my agent thought Penzance sounded far more romantic.’

  ‘But your parents are Irish?’

  ‘No, English. From London, too, though they’re living in Spain these days. I’ve just come from visiting them, in fact.’

  The image she had of him was crumbling away piece by piece. ‘So you weren’t ever planning on becoming a dentist, either? Before you were talent spotted?’

  ‘It says that too? We really did get carried away. I’m sorry about that. No, I’d always wanted to try acting.’

  Harriet mentally ran through the facts. He wasn’t born in Penzance. His parents weren’t Irish. His path to acting wasn’t a romantic one … Expect the unexpected, she thought warily. What else would be different about him? An image of a prematurely old, wrinkled grey-haired man flashed into her mind. Quite a few years had passed, after all. She had to ask. She had to know before she saw him, so she had time to prepare herself if the news wasn’t good. ‘Mr Shawcross, getting back to what we were talking about a few moments ago … just so I’m sure I recognise you when we meet downstairs … ’ How did she put this? She decided to try the roundabout approach. ‘Would you say you’ve changed much in appearance since the Willoughby days?’

  ‘Have I changed much?’ She heard something in his voice, but she wasn’t sure if it was amusement or annoyance. ‘Well, now, there’s a question. Tell me, do you look anything like you did fifteen years ago?’

  ‘I hope not,’ she said emphatically. Fifteen years ago she’d had braces on her teeth, puppy fat and a peculiar pair of spectacles that Austin and Lara had picked out for her. They’d insisted they were very cool. It was only years later, after she’d switched to contact lenses, that they’d admitted they’d picked the awful ones as a joke.

  ‘It was that bad?’

  ‘It was that bad.’ She was kicking herself. Why couldn’t she have waited until she saw him to find out for herself? ‘I’m sorry, it’s fine, I’m sure I’ll recognise you—’

  ‘No, you’re right, it’s a perfectly reasonable question. Fifteen long years have passed since then. Lots of water under the bridge. Lots of hair loss, too, unfortunately.’

  ‘Hair loss?’ Was this why there hadn’t been a photo of him in the notes?

  ‘Bald as a badger, I’m afraid. Oddly enough, I’m also finding it takes me longer to get around these days. My old legs seem to tire so quickly. Will we be able to stop now and again for a cup of tea and a bun, do you think?’

  Another mental picture appeared, with more detail this time. An elderly bald man limping across green fields, a flask of tea in hand, an elderly lame dog limping behind him. She blinked it away. ‘Yes, of course we can.’

  ‘And I hope you don’t mind but I decided to ask my doctor to travel with me, too. There’ll be no problem with the expenses, will there? I’ve booked him into the room next to mine.’

  ‘Your doctor?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple of angina scares lately, so I thought it better to be safe than sorry.’

  ‘Oh. Well, no, of course that’s fine. I’m sure we can make room for him.’

  He laughed then, a warm sound. ‘Harriet, it’s all right. I’m teasing you.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I’m teasing you. You were being so diplomatic I couldn’t resist it. It was only fifteen years ago, not fifty. I promise you I haven’t changed that much since the series. And I promise my doctor isn’t with me, either.’

  She sat down, a mixture of embarrassed and relieved. ‘Mr Shawcross —’

  ‘Please, call me Patrick. We’re going to be travelling together, we can’t be standing on ceremony. Let’s just enjoy ourselves. Isn’t it a matter of us driving around beautiful Cornwall for a few days together? A few photo sessions? Interviews over dinner each night?’

  ‘Interviews?’

  ‘You’re right, that’s too formal. Let’s call them conversations. We could probably have had it all done in a day, but that’s neither here nor there now, I suppose. The two of us can take it easy.’

  ‘The two of us?’ It was her turn to be amused. ‘You mean the fourteen of us.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There’s fourteen of us on this trip, remember. Fifteen if I include the bus driver. And he’s a handful, I don’t mind warning you.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I wish I was being funny.’

  ‘And don’t tell me, the other twelve people are a handful as well?’

  ‘Yes, I think they might be.’

  ‘All right, Harriet, I think we’re even.’

  ‘Even?’

  ‘I teased you and you teased me. So, to get back to this article …’

  ‘Article?’

  ‘The magazine article you’re writing about me.’

  ‘But I’m not writing an article about you. I’m leading a travel group. That’s what I meant about the group of fourteen people. There are twelve in the tour party, plus you and me.’ Things had turned very odd. ‘This is the actor Patrick Shawcross I’m talking to, isn’t it? The one who played Willoughby?’

  ‘Yes, but we are talking about the same trip, aren’t we? The trip down the Willoughby memory lane? Organised from Australia?’

  ‘Yes, but Mr Shawcross, I’m not from a magazine. I work for Turner Travel. It’s my family’s travel business based in Merryn Bay, just outside of Melbourne. We specialise in leading themed tour groups, like this Willoughby one.’

  ‘You’re with a tour group?’ His amused tone had now completely disappeared. ‘But I was told this whole trip was for an Australian magazine article, one of those “where-are-they-now” features. Your colleague Laura —’

  The back of her neck was prickling. ‘Lara.’

  ‘Lara faxed over a copy of a magazine feature I did here in England years ago. Sophie at the agency said it was all going to be based on that.’

  ‘It is.
That was the starting point for the whole tour. But we only faxed the article to give your agent an idea of the places we’d be visiting. Didn’t you get the itinerary? The one we faxed last month? With all the notes about the tour?’ Harriet had seen James fax it to the agency himself.

  ‘No, I’ve been travelling in Spain the past few weeks, visiting my family. The only itinerary I saw was a list of dates and places, months ago, when I first got the invitation. I have it here.’ There was a pause and then he returned. ‘It’s from a Lara Robinson to Sophie in the agency. “Dear Sophie, As discussed, the following is the suggested itinerary for Patrick Shawcross’s trip.” And then a list of placenames and suggested dates, St Ives, Boscastle etc., etc. “I look forward to hearing from you. Lara.” Sophie sent it to me when she first got the invitation; I said it all looked fine. That’s all I knew until I collected the tickets and details of this hotel at the airport.’

  Harriet knew the fax he had mentioned. It was the interim one Lara had prepared. And he was right, there hadn’t been any mention of a tour party on it. She was now extremely worried. ‘What about the one we asked the hotel to deliver with your fruit basket?’

  She heard him take a look. ‘There’s a card, but no itinerary.’

  She tried to keep the alarm out of her voice. ‘Mr Shawcross, I’m so sorry about this. We really need to talk, as soon as we can.’

  ‘Of course we can talk about it. But Lara —’

  ‘It’s Harriet.’

  ‘Sorry, Harriet. As I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you, a tour group is a different kettle of fish to a magazine article. I’m not sure I can —’

  ‘No!’ She couldn’t let him say it. She couldn’t even let him think about pulling out. ‘I mean, please, Mr Shawcross, don’t make any hasty decisions. Not until we’ve spoken face-to-face.’ She knew she sounded desperate. She was desperate. She could feel the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘Could you tell me your room number?’

  ‘Thirty-nine. On the third floor.’

  She knew it was one of the rooms with a seaview balcony, but on a separate floor from the tour party. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  She quickly ran to the bathroom to splash some water on her face. As she turned on the old-style tap, a gush of water splashed out of the sink, all over her shirt and skirt. She swore out loud. She couldn’t go up and see him like this, or wait for it to dry.

  Within three minutes she had thrown off her uniform, opened her case and changed into the first outfit she could find – jeans and a simple red T-shirt. She pulled them both on and glanced in the mirror. Both a bit casual, but stylish enough. Jewellery would help, perhaps. She was already wearing her blue opal bracelet and added a pendant around her neck, a simple resin circle in a striking darker blue. She quickly took out her make-up bag and reapplied some red lipstick, mascara, a smudge of golden brown eyeshadow and a touch of blush, all in record time.

  She was nearly out the door when she caught sight of her feet. She’d put on her Turner Travel court shoes again without thinking. It was a very bad look. Another scrabble in her case for some high-heeled boots. They were on in seconds. She checked from all angles that they looked okay and that the jeans hadn’t got tucked up in the boots like jodhpurs. They had. She quickly fixed them up. There was only time for the quickest restyle of her hair – a matter of running her fingers through the short black strands and perking up the fringe – and a check that her lipstick was still in place. It would have to do. And at least her own clothes gave her more confidence than the Big Bird outfit. She gave herself one last glance in the mirror and then she was out the door, her heart pounding.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He answered at her first knock. It was definitely the man from the Willoughby videos. The same dark curly hair. The dark eyes. He was taller than she’d expected though. At least six foot. But apart from that he could have stepped straight off the set. It was a huge relief. She beamed up at him. ‘Oh thank God. You look just like Patrick Shawcross.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Well, yes. That’s because I am Patrick Shawcross. You must be Harriet.’

  ‘Yes, I am. Hello, Mr Shawcross.’ She couldn’t take her eyes off him. It was like Dorian Gray. It was remarkable how little he’d aged. It had to be plastic surgery.

  ‘No, actually it’s not.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth. She’d said it out loud. How rude. She blamed the jetlag, even though she’d been denying to herself she had any. ‘I’m so sorry. You look much younger than I expected, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, well done. Wrap an insult up in a compliment like that and you’ll go straight to the heart of any actor, lapsed or otherwise.’ He smiled then. ‘You really do have quite a thing about age, don’t you?’

  ‘Not usually, no.’ She was very embarrassed. ‘I somehow got it into my head that you were in your seventies, grey-haired, one foot in the grave.’

  ‘Not quite. I’ve just turned forty-five and I’m fit as a fiddle. I have my passport here if you’d like to check my birth date?’ His face was serious but there was a definite sparkle in his eye.

  ‘No, I believe you, I promise.’

  ‘Then we’re off to a good start.’ He smiled at her again. Very nicely. ‘Please, come in.’ It was a suite, twice the size of hers. A lounge area with a table and chairs, leading on to a full length balcony with a stunning view over the beaches. Through a door she could see a double bed. She was pleased to see the large fruit basket on the side table.

  As she followed him across the room, she got the scent of his aftershave. She loved the smell of aftershave. His was distinctive, something lemony, with musk or something deeper underneath.

  ‘Can I offer you tea?’ he asked. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, neither thanks. I thought it might be better if we got straight down to —’

  ‘Business? Absolutely. Let me take a look at the itinerary and we’ll see if we can get to the bottom of this.’

  They had just sat down when a mobile phone on the table between them rang. He checked the number. ‘Harriet, I’m sorry, but I’ve been expecting this call all day. Would you mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Would you like me to wait outside?’

  ‘No, please don’t. I won’t be long, I promise.’

  He answered the phone, moving over to the open balcony door as he spoke. He was obviously pleased to hear from the caller. She heard a snatch or two, the talk punctuated with low laughter, his English accent coming through more obviously the longer she heard his voice. ‘That’s great news, well done. Fill me in … Four weeks worth? … No, I’ll check the script when I’m back …’ It sounded like he was lining up work.

  As he leaned against the balcony rail looking out over the water, she took the opportunity to study him even more closely. It was odd to see him in the flesh after spending so long looking at him on the videos. He really had changed very little. It was like looking at Willoughby’s older brother, she decided – his just as good-looking older brother. He was dressed in dark jeans and a white shirt, the sleeves folded up over his brown arms. A tan from his time in Spain, she presumed. He somehow didn’t look the type to go for sunbeds. He was a solid build, but fit-looking. He turned back towards her then, saying his goodbyes. As he came closer, she noticed more details. There were traces of grey in his hair, at the temples. And perhaps a few more lines, especially around his eyes. She saw them again now as he sat down and smiled at her.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I’m all yours now. You’re sure I can’t get you coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’ There wasn’t time. The cocktail party was due to start in less than two hours. They needed to get this sorted out quickly. She passed him the itinerary. ‘Please, take a look.’

  She watched his face as he read the cover page. Then he turned to the next page. Today’s program. He started reading it aloud. If she wasn’t feeling sick to her stomach she would have quite liked listening to his voice.

  ‘The tour really starts
tonight with your first opportunity to meet and mingle with our SPECIAL GUEST! Patrick Shawcross, yes, Willoughby himself! Have you got your questions ready??! And go on, try an exotic cocktail, while also enjoying a buffet selection of the finest local produce in the comfortable setting of the hotel. The bolder ones among you might even like to kick on afterwards with a nightcap in the stunning seaview bar and lounge! But don’t forget our early start tomorrow, now, will you??’

  He looked up at her. She saw his eyes weren’t dark brown but in fact a dark blue. ‘Did you write this?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She had a feeling that was just as well.

  He turned the page and read aloud again. ‘A day of Willoughby treats is in store for all of us today! We’re off in the bus to the harbour villages of Boscastle and Port Isaac, the settings for episodes nine, twelve and fifteen, passing some of Cornwall’s most spectacular coastal scenery en route. There’ll be ample opportunities for photographs and, even better, plenty of chances to hear Patrick Shawcross’s reminiscences of his Willoughby filming days. There’s sure to be a few surprises!!’ He turned the pages and read some more. Kept turning. She watched his face. No reaction. Finally he turned to the last page, then closed the folder. He was silent, slowly patting it against his hand. Harriet was reminded of the flicking tail of a lion. An unhappy lion.

  ‘I wish Sophie had shown me this.’

  Harriet swallowed. ‘Yes, so do I.’

  ‘I’d have turned it down.’ He gave it back to her. ‘Harriet, I’m sorry, but I can’t possibly do it.’

  She couldn’t hear him say that. She wouldn’t let him say it. She tried to keep her voice calm. ‘I can certainly see why you might think that. But Mr Shawcross, you’re here now. We’re all here. Surely the easiest thing would be to go ahead?’

  ‘I can’t. Harriet, that Willoughby series was fifteen years ago. I can barely remember it. What I agreed to do – what I thought I had agreed to do – was a simple “where-are-you-now” magazine feature, photos of me at all the different locations, you know, standing next to the church at Widecombe-in-the-Moor, recreating the scene from the opening credits —’