As I arrive at the Higher Ferry Slip, I note that said ferry is right over the other side and decide to have a much needed rest on one of the benches outside the Floating Bridge pub which very handily is right next to the ferry queue. I can’t help but notice a guy sitting on the bench opposite with sunglasses on (it really isn’t that sunny), reading a book as he sips a pint of beer and dips into a basket of French fries. The smell is heavenly and reminds me that I haven’t actually eaten anything substantial since this morning. He looks vaguely familiar and I glance surreptitiously at him as I sit, trying to think where I’ve seen him before.
While my interest is discreet, Dotty has no such qualms and is now straining on the leash to get closer to the source of the delicious smell, all the while wagging her tail furiously. Before I realise it, she has launched herself up onto the stranger’s knee. She really is such a tart…
Startled, the man nearly chokes on his pint, but to his credit he doesn’t simply shove Dotty off but smiles down at her and gives her a French fry, thus earning her undying love forever.
All this happens in a nanosecond - my dog is nothing if not an opportunist - and I jump up as quickly as my unsteady state will allow, mumbling my embarrassed apologies (when did I start slurring?)
As I lurch forward, I drop Dotty’s leash and grab her from the stranger’s arms… who is now looking up at me with his eyebrows slightly raised. (Oh God he knows I’m squiffy, mortified doesn’t even begin to cut it – it’s only six o’clock in the evening for pity's sake…)
I continue to mutter rambling requests for forgiveness while trying to admonish my delinquent mutt at the same time. My face is now the colour of a ripe tomato and I turn hurriedly with the intent of spending the rest of my wait as far away from the man as possible. Unfortunately my feet have other ideas as I step into the handle of the leash. Dotty yelps loudly as the force of my foot hanks her upside down and I’m briefly left holding on to her bottom before I let her go and stumble forward, all the while trying to get my foot out of the leash handle. Seconds later I am sprawled face down on the concrete where I remain for a couple of seconds, slightly stunned.
Then humiliation sets in. I can hear the stranger jump up behind me (damn it, he can see my backside – must look massive from his direction; why oh why did I change my jeans? Which knickers am I wearing…?) I debate briefly whether I should go for broke and pretend a broken ankle (or at the very least a sprained one). Dotty is now licking the side of my face furiously and I can feel the presence of the man as he crouches to my other side. I just want a hole to swallow me up…
As I groan slightly (got to give it at least some theatrics) and lift my head, I catch a glimpse of the ferry arriving at the slip and decide to cut and run (my acting skills really are not that good…)
I jump up, nearly head butting the stranger in the process who fortunately reels back just in time to save what could have been a broken nose, grab Dotty’s leash and take off in a sprint that could have given Mo Farrer a run for his money.
Dodging the boarding cars, I continue my headlong dash down the ferry slipway without looking back at my would be rescuer. I don’t stop until I’m under cover in the designated foot passenger area where I can no longer see the Floating Bridge, which means the stranger can no longer see me. Groaning and wheezing, I lean my head against the wall, feeling the vibration of the engines as the ferry begins its crossing. The groaning is of course my response to my recent total and abject humiliation, pure and simple. The wheezing part? Well, I don’t do running. In fact under normal circumstances, if you see me running, it’s a strong indication that you should probably run too, because the chances are that something nasty is chasing me…
As my mind replays the horror of the last fifteen minutes in a continuous loop, I can actually feel myself sobering up until my attention is brought back to the present by a small whimper coming from my feet. I look down to see Dotty plastered to the deck – all four paws splayed out in abject terror and my heart goes out to her. I’d forgotten how much she hates the car ferry. I think it’s the feel of the engines rumbling away under her feet. Bending down I pick her up into my arms and snuggle her into my neck where she gratefully burrows. I determine to put the whole sorry incident right out of my mind and just thank my lucky stars that I’m never likely to see the man again.
Although it would’ve been nice to have seen what he looked like without the sunglasses.
What seems like three hours later - but is really only about twenty minutes - I arrive puffing and panting at the house. Did I mention that the Admiralty’s gardens stretch right down to the river? Well that’s all fine and dandy - however, the downside is that half of it is at a forty five degree angle. God knows why they want to use it for a movie.
As I push open the back door and step into the dim interior, Dotty’s barked greeting is answered by Pickles, indicating that my father’s at home. Rightly assuming he’s hiding in his study, which is where Pickles’ muffled barking is coming from, I knock hard on the door.
The interior of the Admiralty is a testament to a bygone age. Oak panelling, hardwood floors, galleried landing, large open fireplaces, and tributes everywhere to British naval history. I defy anyone remotely patriotic to walk into this house without feeling an insane urge to burst into the first verse of “Land of Hope and Glory”. It’s certainly not to everyone’s taste. But definitely to Hollywood’s it seems…
Dad is doing his best to ignore my knocks. However, the crescendo coming from the two dogs is making it impossible for even him to disregard and eventually he opens the door. ‘So, is he coming?’ I ask without preamble.
‘Now I know it’s all a bit much for you Tory,’ he responds without actually answering my question. And he called me Tory; always a very bad sign. I feel a headache coming on that has nothing to do with my hangover. ‘I really want you to relax and enjoy yourself tomorrow evening…’
‘So he is coming,’ I interrupt - the headache is now warring with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
‘Well, err yes, said he’d be pleased to attend – pretty polite actually for a Yank. Anyway, thought I’d do you a favour and get somebody else to help you with the cooking and, you know, make up a foursome like’
The headache and the sick feeling is now joined by a shortness of breath. Think I might be having a heart attack… ‘Who?’ I manage to whisper.
‘Asked Mabel. Thought it’d be a cracking opportunity for you to get to know each other.’
Chapter Five
It’s six thirty in the evening and I think I’ve finally got everything under control. I feel like I’ve been up for twenty hours, (actually I probably have given that I didn’t sleep a wink last night), and after a totally manic day, I’m absolutely knackered.
After informing my idiot father this morning, (I was completely incapable of saying anything last night that didn’t end up with my hands around his neck – beginning to think I might need to undergo anger management therapy), that under no circumstances did I want Mabel Pomfrey anywhere near my kitchen, even if it’s soon to be hers, Kit and I raided Marks and Spencer’s, so at least I’m fairly confident that I’m unlikely to poison anybody.
We have dipping breads to start, pasta for the main course and cheesecake for dessert – what can go wrong with that?
So now, here I am, hair brushed and gleaming, as much as my wayward curls will allow, make up subtle (which of course took half a bottle of foundation), and all that’s left is for me to put on my new dress which was Kit’s choice and I’m not at all sure about.
Fitted into the waist, (but as Kit said, at least I’ve got one), the dress is navy and white. Kit said I looked like a young Sophia Loren when I tried it on - but she wasn’t wearing her glasses at the time.
Looking at myself now, I’m beginning to panic a bit and wonder if I should chicken out and wear my old trusty floral sack (Kit’s words). But what the hell does it matter anyway. At least I don’t look dowdy and spinsterish. So Sophia Loren it is.
Maybe Noah Westbrook wears glasses. Let the fun begin…
Unfortunately it appears that Mabel has arrived early, the clue being the muted giggling coming from the living room. It’s going to be a long night.
I throw open the door as loudly as I can and let Dotty do her thing while I head directly to the kitchen. Instantly the muted giggling turns to shrieks and I can’t help but smile to myself, especially as I know that Pickles will have wasted no time in turning it into a cosy foursome on the sofa. That’s my girl…
Twenty minutes later and I know I can’t loiter in the kitchen any longer. Everything is ready to go. I’m already half way into my first glass of wine and the only thing worse than being introduced to Mabel Pomfrey is being introduced to her in front of the most famous actor in the world whilst trollied. So I top up my glass and reluctantly head over to the living room.
As I enter the room, Dotty jumps off the sofa in sheer joy at seeing me and I just have time to note that she has spent the entire time sandwiched between my father and his paramour before my father jumps up, more flustered than I’ve ever seen him, to make the introductions.
As he fusses, holding out a hand to help Mabel to her feet, I feel a surge of love for him that surprises me. It’s not often that my irascible parent is out of his depth, but it’s suddenly clear that this meeting is actually very important to him and I resolve in that instant to do my best to make it easy for him.
As Mabel struggles to her feet, I place my wine glass on the coffee table and, moving forward, plaster a smile to my face and hold out my hand. Unfortunately, Mabel is having none of it and surges forward to clasp me into her ample bosom before planting a resounding (and very wet) kiss onto each of my cheeks. Then she holds each of my arms while gushing enthusiastically about our forthcoming intimate relations.
I don’t really have an answer to this except to hope profusely that by relations, she actually means relationship. I spend the next few seconds staring in morbid fascination at two very hairy moles decorating her top lip and chin, while I struggle for something to say. I can see my father out of the corner of my eye grinning from ear to ear and I feel like I’m in the middle of a horror movie.
And then the doorbell rings… Of course Dotty goes berserk and dashes to the front door, her barking reaching an ear splitting climax, to which Pickles then adds his enthusiastic howls.
I hurriedly extricate myself from Mabel’s fervent embrace and rush into the hall in an effort to quieten the dogs down. Unfortunately my father’s yelling behind me to ‘Shut those bloody dogs up’ is doing nothing to help the situation. Which I’m sure can’t possibly get any worse.
Dragging Dotty and Pickles out of the way, I fling open the door and stare in total horror at the stranger from the Floating Bridge. This time without his sunglasses.
I’m hiding in the kitchen. I’ve been here for five minutes forty eight seconds under the pretext of getting drinks and nibbles. However, instead of being the gracious hostess, I am rocking back and forth in my chair while chewing the ends of my finger nails. Dotty is sat at my feet looking up at me with her head cocked to the side. She whines softly, sensing my distress. Pickles has been consigned to the study.
I know I have to go out there, but I just can’t seem to make my feet move. My mind keeps playing back the last ten minutes in full Technicolor…
When I finally opened the door, Dotty threw herself at the man standing there as if they were long lost friends (she has a long memory where food is concerned). I remember him stepping back laughing while holding his gift of a bottle of wine over his head, then bending down to stroke her head gently, before looking up at me standing there like a complete loon.
‘Hello again,’ he murmured softly, the smile still in his eyes. And oh my God those eyes…
Pure blue, heavy lidded, and framed by long black lashes that most women would kill for.
Then he stood back up. He was tall, easily a good six inches over my five foot seven, lean with broad shoulders. His hair, worn slightly longer in defiance of current fashion, fell across his forehead in thick waves, so black, it was almost blue, with just a smattering of grey at the temples.
With dark bronzed skin, generous mouth, and slightly arrogant jaw, he was quite simply the most beautiful man I had ever seen.
And what did I do? I waved him in, snatched the bottle out of his hand, mumbled ‘wine’ three times, and fled back to the kitchen.
It’s now seven minutes and twenty four seconds. There are no sounds coming from the living room where I assume our guest has been taken and I wonder if I can make it to the front door without anyone seeing me. I actually stand up and take a step forward in preparation for my escape when the living room door opens and out stomps my father.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing Victory?’ he shouts. I close my eyes with a moan and sink back into the chair, just as he throws open the kitchen door. ‘Come on girl,’ he continues in his best booming voice, ‘get your arse in gear, it’s like the bloody Sahara Desert in there. Where’s the wets?’
I look up with the intention of telling him exactly what he can do with his wets, when I suddenly realize that Noah Westbrook has been left in the living room with Mabel Pomfrey… As the significance of this sinks in, self pity is replaced by a sudden certainty of impending doom. This could go national, or even international. Oh. My. God.
I jump up so quickly that Dotty falls over in surprise. Without speaking, I thrust the crisps and nibbles into my father’s startled hands, then, after pushing him towards the kitchen door, I turn back to the table and quickly uncork the wine. Reasoning that if he brought red, he must like red, I slosh the contents of the bottle into four glasses and plonk them on a tray.
Turning round I see that dad is still standing there staring at me. ‘What are you doing?’ I hiss waving the tray towards him and only narrowly avoiding tipping its contents over Dotty’s head. ‘Get out there, NOW…’
Hastily my father does as I ask (definitely a first) and I follow hard on his heels. As we cross the hall, I can hear Mabel simpering (no other word for it) in the living room. ‘I do so love your films,’ she is gushing, ‘especially Dysentried, so exciting…’
I shove my father unceremoniously through the door in time to see our famous guest frowning slightly as he tries to come up with a reply that won’t offend. Mabel is now tittering. I just want a hole to swallow me up.
‘The name of the film is Disoriented’, I announce loudly, ‘It’s a movie about a man who doesn’t know where he is, not one who has an infectious disease.’ I know my declaration is unkind as well as unnecessary, adding guilt to my growing plethora of emotions as Mabel subsides into embarrassed silence.
I place the drinks tray on the coffee table as the silence lengthens and note, without actually looking, that Noah Westbrook is seated alone on the sofa. On the right hand end. I groan inwardly. I can’t sit on the other sofa with my father and Mabel. The silence is now deafening.
I look frantically towards my father, frowning at him to introduce me. He clears his throat obligingly before saying formally, ‘This my daughter Victory. She’s thirty two, still lives at home and her job is err, well err, I reckon she pretty much titivates people’s houses for a living.’
Oh my God, can it get any worse? I now sound like a DIY woman of the night…
Picking up the first wine glass, and, resisting the temptation to down it in one, I take a deep breath, wondering how the hell I’m going to rescue the situation. I really need to get a grip. Turning towards Mabel, I hand her the glass and mouth an apology for my rudeness, then, unable to put it off any longer, I hand the next glass to our guest. I know I can’t look at the floor for the rest of the evening so I take a chance and raise my eyes to his as he murmurs his thanks.
Unbelievably there is a twinkle in his eyes and I can see that, far from being uncomfortable, he appears to actually be enjoying all the melodrama. I don’t know whether to smile at him or sit down and cry. I opt for handing him the
bowl of nibbles instead and Dottie comes to my rescue in her never-ending search for the ultimate snack by choosing that moment to jump up onto his lap.
Fortunately, as our earlier encounter suggested, he really does seem to like dogs, and smiling, he turns his attention to the greedy little madam perched on his knee. Ridiculously grateful for the interruption, I grab a glass of wine for myself, (I've now got two on the go – the other is still sitting on the coffee table), and taking a huge gulp, sit gingerly on the other end of the sofa.
The only noise in the room is the sound of Dotty as she chomps on a particularly large nacho. The Admiral clears his throat to speak and I quickly knock back the rest of the glass in nervous anticipation of my father’s variation on small talk. ‘So, er, Noah – can I call you Noah?’ He politely pauses to wait for the actor’s consent before continuing (he did spend nearly forty years in the Royal Navy and knows how to do cultured and refined when he wants to – which is rarely…)
On receiving the go-ahead, he continues in his loudest and most jovial voice. ‘Must be nice to be the object of so many womanly fantasies Noah. Why, I’m sure even our hard to please Victory here – who I must say is the most picky female on the planet - has most likely got the hots for you…’
I’m going to kill him…
‘I mean to say she’s got no time for the lily livered specimens here in Dartmouth – in fact I’ll be honest with you and say that I was wondering at one time if she was batting for the other side.
Slowly and with great relish...
‘But I think it’s safe to say, she’s a red blooded lass and no mistake.’ He actually pauses at that point as if awaiting confirmation from Noah Westbrook who is simply staring at him - possibly in total disbelief. Mabel is nodding her head sagely as if my father has just delivered a piece of divine wisdom.
Gritting my teeth (it’s not like I’m unused to my father’s gaffes when in polite company), I make an effort to laugh lightly. ‘Oh dad, you’re such a tease,’ I chuckle, all the while glaring murderously at him behind my now sadly empty wine glass (Can I grab the extra one without anyone noticing?) ‘Please don’t embarrass our guest – he doesn’t know you well enough to understand your little jokes.’
Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 3
