Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  Claiming Victory

  By

  Beverley Watts

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2014 by Beverley Watts. All rights reserved worldwide.

  No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, or given away in any form without the prior written consent of the author.

  Cover Design Karen Ronan

  www.coversbykaren.com

  Cover Background Source

  http://www.homeaway.co.uk

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Retired Admiral, Charles Shackleford, entered the dimly lit interior of his favourite watering hole. Once inside, he waited a second for his eyes to adjust, and glanced around to check that his ageing Springer spaniel was already seated beside his stool at the bar. Pickles had disappeared into the undergrowth half a mile back, as they walked along the wooded trail high above the picturesque River Dart. The scent of some poor unfortunate rabbit had caught his still youthful nose. The Admiral was not unduly worried; this was a regular occurrence, and Pickles knew his way to the Ship Inn better than his master.

  Satisfied that all was as it should be for a Friday lunchtime, Admiral Shackleford waved to the other regulars, and made his way to his customary seat at the bar where his long standing, and long suffering friend, Jimmy Noon, was already halfway down his first pint.

  ‘You’re a bit late today Sir,’ observed Jimmy, after saluting his former commanding officer smartly.

  Charles Shackleford grunted as he heaved his ample bottom onto the bar stool. ‘Got bloody waylaid by that bossy daughter of mine.’ He sighed dramatically before taking a long draft of his pint of real ale, which was ready and waiting for him. ‘Damn bee in her bonnet since she found out about my relationship with Mabel Pomfrey. Of course, I told her to mind her own bloody business, but it has to be said that the cat’s out of the bag, and no mistake.’

  He stared gloomily down into his pint. ‘She said it cast aspersions on her poor mother’s memory. But what she doesn’t understand Jimmy, is that I’m still a man in my prime. I’ve got needs. I mean look at me – why can’t she see that I’m still a fine figure of a man, and any woman would be more than happy to shack up with me.’

  Abruptly, the Admiral turned towards his friend so the light shone directly onto his face and leaned forward. ‘Come on then man, tell me you agree.’

  Jimmy took a deep breath as he dubiously regarded the watery eyes, thread veined cheeks, and larger than average nose no more than six inches in front of him

  However, before he could come up with a suitably acceptable reply that wouldn’t result in him standing to attention for the next four hours in front of the Admiral’s dishwasher, the Admiral turned away, either indicating it was purely a rhetorical question, or he genuinely couldn’t comprehend that anyone could possibly regard him as less than a prime catch.

  Jimmy sighed with relief. He really hadn’t got time this afternoon to do dishwasher duty as he’d agreed to take his wife shopping. Although to be fair, a four hour stint in front of an electrical appliance at the Admiral’s house, with Tory sneaking him tea and biscuits, was actually preferable to four hours trailing after his wife in Marks and Spencer’s. He didn’t think his wife would see it that way though. Emily Noon had enough trouble understanding her husband’s tolerance towards ‘that dinosaur’s’ eccentricities as it was.

  Of course, Emily wasn’t aware that only the quick thinking of the dinosaur in question had, early on in their naval career, saved her husband from a potentially horrible fate involving a Thai prostitute who’d actually turned out to be a man…

  As far as Jimmy was concerned, Admiral Shackleford was his Commanding Officer, and always would be, and if that involved such idiosyncrasies as presenting himself in front of a dishwasher with headphones on, saluting and saying, ‘Dishwasher manned and ready sir.’ Then four hours later, saluting again while saying, ‘Dishwasher secured,’ so be it.

  It was a small price to pay… He leaned towards his morose friend and patted him on the back, showing a little manly support (acceptable, even from subordinates), while murmuring, ‘Don’t worry about it too much Sir. Tory’s a sensible girl. She’ll come round eventually – you know she wants you to be happy.’ The Admiral’s only response was an inelegant snort, so Jimmy ceased his patting, and went back to his pint.

  Both men gazed into their drinks for a few minutes, as if all the answers would be found in the amber depths.

  ‘What she needs is a man.’ Jimmy’s abrupt observation drew another rude snort, this one even louder.

  ‘Who do you suggest? She’s not interested in anyone. Says there’s no one in Dartmouth she’d give house room to, and believe me I’ve tried. When she’s not giving me grief, she spends all her time in that bloody gallery with all those airy fairy types. Can’t imagine any one of them climbing her rigging. Not one set of balls between ‘em.’ Jimmy chuckled at the Admiral’s description of Tory’s testosterone challenged male friends.

  ‘She’s not ugly though,’ Charles Shackleford mused, still staring into his drink. ‘She might have an arse the size of an aircraft carrier, but she’s got her mother’s top half which balances it out nicely.’

  ‘Aye, she’s built a bit broad across the beam,’ Jimmy agreed nodding his head.

  ‘And then there’s this bloody film crew. I haven’t told her yet.’ Jimmy frowned at the abrupt change of subject, and shot a puzzled glance over to the Admiral.

  ‘Film crew? What film crew?’

  Charles Shackleford looked back irritably. ‘Come on Jimmy, get a grip. I’m talking about that group of nancies coming to film at the house next month. I must have mentioned it.’

  Jimmy simply shook his head in bewilderment.

  Frowning at his friend’s obtuseness, the Admiral went on, ‘You know, what’s that bloody film they’re making at the moment – big blockbuster everyone’s talking about?’

  'What, you mean The Bridegroom?’

  ‘That’s the one. Seems like they were looking for a large house overlooking the River Dart. Think they were hoping for Greenway, you know, Agatha Christie’s place, but then they spied “the Admiralty” and said it was spot on. Paying me a packet they are. Coming next week.’

  Jimmy stared at his former commanding officer with something approaching pity. ‘And you’ve arranged all this without telling Tory?’

  ‘None of her bloody business,’ the Admiral blustered, banging his now empty pint glass on the bar, and waving at the barmaid for a refill. ‘She’s out most of the time anyway.’

  Jimmy shook his head in disbelief. ‘When are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Was going to do it this morning, but then this business with Mabel came up so I scarpered. Last I saw she was taking that bloody little mongrel of hers out for a walk. Hoping she’ll walk off her temper.’ His tone indicated he considered there was more likelihood of hell freezing over.

  ‘Is Noah Westbrook c
oming?’ said Jimmy, suddenly sensing a bit of gossip he could pass on to Emily.

  ‘Noah who?’ was the Admiral’s bewildered response.

  ‘Noah Westbrook. Come on Sir, you must know him. He’s the most famous actor in the world. Women go completely gaga over him. If nothing else, that should make Tory happy.’

  The Admiral stared at him thoughtfully. ‘What’s he look like, this Noah West... chappy?’

  The barmaid, who had been unashamedly listening to the whole conversation, couldn’t contain herself any longer and, thrusting a glossy magazine under the Admiral’s nose, said breathlessly, ‘Like this. He looks like this.’

  The full colour photograph was that of a naked man lounging on a sofa, with only a towel protecting his modesty, together with the caption “Noah Westbrook, officially voted the sexiest man on the planet.”

  Admiral Charles Shackleford stared pensively down at the picture in front of him. ‘So this Noah chap – he’s in this film is he?’

  ‘He’s got the lead role.’ The bar maid actually twittered causing the Admiral to look up in irritation – bloody woman must be fifty if she’s a day. Shooting her a withering look, he went back to the magazine, and read the beginning of the article inside.

  “Noah Westbrook is to be filming in the South West of England over the next month, causing a sudden flurry of bookings to hotels and guest houses in the South Devon area.”

  The Admiral continued to stare at the photo, the germination of an idea tiptoeing around the edges of his brain. Glancing up, he discovered he was the subject of scrutiny from not just the barmaid, but now the whole pub was waiting with baited breath to hear what he was going to say next.

  The Admiral’s eyes narrowed as the beginnings of a plan slowly began taking shape, but he needed to keep it under wraps. Looking around at his rapt audience, he feigned nonchalance. ‘Don’t think Noah Westbrook was mentioned at all in the correspondence. Think he must be filming somewhere else.’

  Then, without saying anything further, he downed the rest of his drink, and climbed laboriously off his stool.

  ‘Coming Jimmy, Pickles?’ His tone was deceptively casual which fooled Jimmy not at all, and, sensing something momentous afoot, the smaller man swiftly finished his pint. In his haste to follow the Admiral out of the door, he only narrowly avoided falling over Pickles who, completely unappreciative of the need for urgency, was sitting in the middle of the floor, scratching unconcernedly behind his ear.

  Once outside, the Admiral didn’t bother waiting for his dog, secure in the knowledge that someone would let the elderly spaniel out before he got too far down the road. Instead, he took hold of Jimmy’s arm, and dragged him out of earshot – just in case anyone was listening.

  In complete contrast to his mood on arrival, Charles Shackleford was now grinning from ear to ear. ‘That’s it. I’ve finally got a plan,’ he hissed to his bewildered friend. ‘I’m going to get her married off.’

  ‘Who to?’ asked Jimmy confused.

  ‘Don’t be so bloody slow Jimmy. To him of course. The actor chappy, Noah Westbrook. According to that magazine, women everywhere fall over themselves for him. Even Victory won’t be able to resist him.’

  Jimmy opened his mouth but nothing came out. He stared in complete disbelief as the Admiral went on. ‘Then she’ll move out, and Mabel can move in. Simple.’

  Pickles came ambling up as Jimmy finally found his voice. ‘So, let me get this straight Sir. Your plan is to somehow get Noah Westbrook, the most famous actor on the entire planet to fall in love with your daughter Victory, who we both love dearly, but - and please don’t take offence Sir - who you yourself admit is built generously across the aft, and whose face is unlikely to launch the Dartmouth ferry, let alone a thousand ships.’

  The Admiral frowned. ‘Well admittedly, I’ve not worked out the finer details, but that’s about the sum of it. What do you think…?’

  Chapter Two

  ‘DOTTY’

  ‘DOTTY’

  ‘DOTTY NOOOOO…’

  Although I actually run the last few yards, I’m too late; the dirty madam has already started the roll, and is now liberally covered in fox poo.

  ‘Bloody hell Dotty, you grubby little tart – it’s in the bath for you as soon as we get home.’

  I plonk her back on the lead, trying as far as possible to avoid the big lump of fox doo that is now clumped around her muzzle.

  ‘You are so disgusting.’ I mutter, dragging her along the path.

  Dotty is a Bichon Frise crossed with a Chihuahua (the breeder called her a Chi-Chon, which I think might be another word for mongrel with a high price tag.) She has fur resembling nylon, and a disturbing tendency to roll in anything she finds that’s even slightly revolting. She is also the love of my life. Most of the time.

  I had intended to walk the trail all the way to Dittisham, in an attempt to walk off my current frustration towards my unpredictable, idiosyncratic, and only surviving parent. However, the ghastly smell rising from my badly behaved mutt who is looking far too pleased with herself, has put paid to that, and I decide to head back straight to the Admiralty. The name of our house is only one of many eccentricities of my father. Names have always been a bit of a thing for him – starting with mine.

  Which happens to be Victory Britannia Shackleford, after his two favourite ships in the Battle of Trafalgar...

  I’ve never really forgiven him. Luckily, the only one who actually calls me Victory is my father. Everyone else shortens it to Tory, for which I am profoundly grateful.

  Carefully keeping Dotty downwind, I begin the descent through the woods towards the house. It’s early May, and the bluebells carpet the forest floor in a sea of royal blue. As I walk, I keep catching glimpses of the Dart Estuary through the trees. The sunlight sparkling on the water is almost otherworldly, and only the distant sound of the car ferry crossing over to the picturesque town of Dartmouth on the other side of the river, reminds me that Dotty and I aren’t completely alone.

  I love moments like these, and taking a deep breath, I slowly feel my anger subside. I know I'm being unreasonable. My father is perfectly entitled to a relationship, and it isn’t like he’s cheating on mum – she’s been dead for over six years.

  Picking my way carefully down the steep track, I finally admit to myself that my anger is more out of fear. If he has another woman, dad won’t need me anymore. I’ll have to move out. Leave the only home I’ve ever known. Panic grips me at the mere thought, and I feel my anger turn inwards. It’s just bloody ridiculous. Nearly thirty three years old, and still living with my father. It’s not like I can’t afford to get a place of my own. My interior design business is doing well, and mum left me well provided for.

  It isn’t about money. I simply can’t bear the thought of losing my only surviving parent. Six years down the line, the pain of my mum’s death is still as fresh as if it was yesterday. While I’m living at home, I can stop anything like that ever happening again. I can ensure that nothing bad happens to my madcap, reckless, not to mention completely irresponsible father. Just like mum did.

  I give a deep sigh. The problem is, I’m not my mum. I know dad loves me, but this morning I realized for the first time that maybe he doesn’t actually like me very much. I cringe as I recall his actual words earlier. ‘I hate to say it Victory, but you’ve turned into a boring, nagging harpy with no imagination, or sense of adventure.’

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is time I began to see life more like he does. As I finally break free of the trees, and climb down the few overgrown steps to the road, I decide to speak with dad again at dinner. I am determined to prove to him that there is more to me than a repetitive nag. I am fully capable of living life on the edge, and signing up to his philosophy of “living for today”.

  As I start down the road towards the house, I feel a pull on the lead and glance down at Dotty who is finally getting over the doggie euphoria of disguising her scent with one resembling a dead skunk. No doubt
picturing the all too familiar tin bath tub that’s waiting for her in the garage.

  Deep in thought, I don’t notice until I’m almost at the gate that a small crowd has gathered on the grass verge, pushing and shoving in an effort to peer down into the gardens surrounding the Admiralty.

  Our house is a beautiful Edwardian manor built at the turn of the century to take full advantage of the glorious River Dart. On the other side is The Britannia Royal Naval College where all Royal Navy Officer Training takes place. The Admiralty was originally owned by one of the earliest Commodores in charge of the place. It was ideally situated to keep an eye on any shenanigans going on in the College. As another ex-commodore listed in its hallowed halls, this is a pastime my father still engages in with total enthusiasm, aided by an up to the minute set of binoculars.

  I really do love my father, but how he ever got promoted to Admiral will forever remain a mystery, not least I suspect to the Royal Navy. When asked, he usually mumbles something about being in the wrong place at the wrong time…

  The Admiralty’s extensive grounds slope down towards the river and the higher car ferry, giving a beautiful open vista of the bend in the river as it snakes away in the direction of Totnes towards the right, and the sea towards the left.

  It's usually very quiet and private, and the crowd are struggling to see anything through the fence, so I wander up to ask what all the commotion is.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘When are they starting filming?’

  ‘God, I’m so envious.’

  ‘You must be so nervous Tory.’

  ‘I’m from the Herald Express…’

  In seconds I’m surrounded. What the hell is going on? Not one to enjoy crowds, Dotty is standing practically on top of me, and trying very hard to jump in to my arms (which would be lovely in normal circumstances…)

  I’m tempted to shout ‘QUIET,’ in an effort to stop the verbal onslaught coming at me from every direction. In the end however, Eau de Dotty wins out…

  ‘Oh my God, what the hell is that horrible smell?’ comes from the person nearest me, and slowly the crowd start to back off as I vainly protest that it isn’t me… Just when I decide that the whole of Dartmouth and Kingswear have gone mad, I spot my best friend Kit fighting her way through from the back of the throng.