‘Pretty excited actually,’ confides Arnold whose previous credits include “Manchester Country Life” (I didn’t know there was any country life in Manchester), and “Manchester Morgues” (evidently there are a lot of those).
‘Had to promise faithfully to bring back autographed photos of Noah Westbrook for all my girls – they’ll lynch me if I turn up wi’ out ‘em.’ I laugh with the slightly superior attitude of someone who has already met and been intimately acquainted with the god in question.
‘Nope,’ interjects Jed, shaking his head, ‘my boy’s looking for pics of Gaynor Andrews. He thinks she’s lovely.’ I frown, never having thought to ask who else is in the movie. ‘Who is she?’ I ask with genuine interest and not a little jealousy (I know, bloody ridiculous). ‘I’ve never heard of her – is she famous?’
‘I’ll say,’ answers Jed whose previous camera skills were tested to the limit on “Celebrity Big Brother”. ‘Not in the same league as Noah Westbrook but she was in one o’ those reality TV shows a couple o’ years back and got spotted by none other than Quentin Tarantino. Apparently, according to those in the know, she’s definitely destined for the top. Rumours say her and Noah were once involved. Don’t know how true it is though.’
He shifts Dotty, who has been on his lap since he gave her a bit of his croissant, and pushes a slightly creased photograph from his pocket across the table towards me which apparently his teenage son had given him to be signed. Picking up the picture I feel an unavoidable pang of pure envy. Gaynor Andrews is beautiful. I vaguely recognize her from the pages of Hello. Her hair is long, thick, lustrous and of course blond. She has a figure that women like me can only dream about (her hour glass doesn’t include a waist of 32 inches).
I am totally unsurprised that she and Noah have been an item, and I can so easily picture the two of them entwined on Noah’s pristine white sheets…
‘Give us a shufti,’ says my father who has been suspiciously quiet for the last half an hour.
I hand over the photograph with a heavy heart and he whistles with complete disregard for the elderly matron sitting next to him.
‘Well, she’s a looker and no mistake.’ Then he looks me up and down, grimaces a bit, reaches across Mabel and promptly removes the last croissant off my plate…
Chapter Eleven
Dotty and I are making our way up through the woods covering the slopes of the Dart Valley behind the house. It’s now the middle of the afternoon and I really should be getting myself ready. Kit and Freddy will be coming round in an hour to help me “pretty myself up”…
I think they’re on a hiding to nothing myself, but the last time we were together they insisted they had the skills to make me into the bell of the ball – although to be fair, their confidence came after we’d finished the second bottle of plonk…
Finally reaching the top of the valley, Dotty and I sit on a fallen log and survey the whole of the beautiful Dart Valley below. It really is a breathtaking view, but for the first time it doesn’t move me the way it does normally. I look down at my scruffy jeans and idly pick off the brambles clinging to my knees.
I turn my attention to Dotty who is now dancing around in an effort to dislodge herself from the leaves stuck to her bottom. Cuddling her to me, I speak out loud. ‘Thing is Dotspot, I just wish they’d all quit with the whole Cinderella thing. Between Kit, Freddy and my father, it really is getting completely out of hand. What the hell are they all expecting? If they think we’re going to ride off into the sunset together, they better start looking into buying a cart horse.’ Unexpectedly the thought of Noah Westbrook trying to fit me behind him on a beautiful white stallion makes me smile. It’s all so bloody ridiculous.
And when the hell did I begin to take myself so seriously?
Standing up again, I place Dotty back on the ground and dust myself down. ‘Come on Dotspot, let’s go and do this,’ to which she responds by wagging her tail eagerly and dashing down the trail ahead of me. ‘Who needs a prince,’ I mutter following her trail. ‘The whole fairytale thing is overrated anyway…’
‘There is absolutely nothing wrong with making the best of yourself.’ Kit stands back to survey her work of art, otherwise known as me… I feel like a bloody fairy on top of a Christmas tree. I am sooo overdressed. Unbeknown to me, my two best friends had conspired to buy me a new outfit.
I am now wearing a fitted (FITTED) sheath dress in black and white with an indecently plunging neckline. (I called it indecent, Kit and Freddy called it making the most of my assets.) Underneath the dress I am wearing what feels like a strait jacket but is, I am reliably informed, invisible smoothing underwear. My hair has been blow dried and curled by Freddy who apparently was a hairdresser in another life. My normally unruly waves are now shiny and smoothly parted on one side and brushed away from my face a la Marilyn Monroe (who, Kit tells me frequently, had exactly the same figure as me…)
The whole ensemble is finished off with little black sandals complete with four inch heels and vampy red lipstick.
I look at myself in the mirror. Forget the Christmas tree fairy, I look more like a chunky Cruella Deville. I endeavour to take a deep breath and find that the most I can achieve is a little pant…
‘Gorgeous,’ breathes Freddy, ‘Victory goes to Hollywood. You will stun the whole room my darling.’
‘I’ll definitely stun someone if I fall off these bloody shoes,’ I mutter, staggering around the bedroom to practice. ‘I’m not even sure I can sit down.’
‘Then stay standing up,’ responds Kit unsympathetically. ‘Come on Tory, try and get into the whole spirit of the thing. Whatever happens tonight, this will be something for you to look back on and tell your children.’ Then, seeing my lack of response at her pep talk, she resorts to handing me a large glass of wine.
Grabbing the glass, I sit gingerly on the edge of the bed and take a deep swallow. ‘Are either of you going to be on hand to resuscitate me if I pass out?’ Freddy sniggers but I think Kit finally tires of my sarcastic quips. ‘Stop being so negative,’ she snaps, ‘and for God’s sake stop bloody whingeing. You’ve no idea how much I’d love to be in your shoes right now.’ I open my mouth to respond then shut it again. I can see that Kit’s deadly serious. She’s my best friend and I love her. ‘I’m so sorry Kitty Kat,’ I say softly, ‘I really wish it was you going instead of me too.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t bloody well bugger this up Victory Shackleford. I want to hear every sordid detail when you get back.’ Then she walks over and gives me a helping hand up from the bed followed by a quick hug. I feel a lump in the back of my throat. ‘And for God’s sake don’t start crying,’ she admonishes, even though her own eyes are suspiciously shiny. ‘You’ll ruin your mascara.’
‘VICTORY ‘AVE YOU DONE? I COULD HAVE DRESSED THE WHOLE BLOODY NAVY IN THE TIME IT’S TAKEN YOU TO GET YOUR GLAD RAGS ON…..’ My father’s bellow from the bottom of the stairs brings an abrupt end to our emotional exchange and Freddy finishes off by saying, ‘Amen to that.’
Time to go…
Grabbing my purse and my precious folder of ideas for Noah’s house, I turn back to Dotty who is now ensconced in Kit’s arms. ‘Be a good girl for Aunty Kit,’ I murmur, giving her a quick kiss on the head and leaving a bright red lip imprint right between her eyes.
‘We’ll be waiting,’ says Kit, tucking the little dog under her arm. She and Freddy are taking Dotty over the other side to grab some fish and chips, then Kit’s going to bunk up in my room for the night. I’ve drawn the line at Freddy sleeping on the floor, promising faithfully to call him first thing tomorrow.
As I totter slowly down the stairs, I notice that Jed and Arnold are still here and to my blushing delight they enthusiastically wolf whistle as I descend. For once my father doesn’t speak, simply nods his head in what I’m assuming is approval as I reach the bottom. Fortunately he doesn’t ask what’s in the folder.
‘Aren’t you two going to the party?’ I ask Jed and Arnold who are still st
anding in their work clothes.
‘No such luck Tory,’ Arnold responds. ‘We’ll be working ‘til late on this lot here.’ He indicates the sound equipment now lying all over the hallway and drawing room floor.
‘Don’t forget to bring us some Champagne back,’ grins Jed wading back into the plethora of seemingly jumbled up wires littering the ground. I frown slightly, really hoping that they don’t set the house on fire before we get back…
Ten minutes later Jimmy is driving us up the narrow road to Noah’s house. My heart is beginning to thud loudly. Unfortunately there was no opportunity throughout the journey to reinforce my earlier threat to my father (I think that was the main reason dad decided to sit up front with Jimmy – he usually prefers to act as if he’s in a limousine…)
And speaking of limousines, just as we arrive at the house, there appears to be one struggling to turn round in front of us. I lean forward (a real challenge in this dress) to see if anyone’s getting out. My heart has now moved on to a tango. I’m just praying internally that my father remembers all those important Mess Dinners he attended during his Navy days and acts accordingly…
Once facing back down the hill, the limo in front appears in no hurry to move off, although I can’t see anyone actually getting out. After a few minutes my father sighs irritably and indicates that Jimmy should drop us off here. After giving the smaller man strict instructions to ‘stand by’ for the rest of the evening, dad laboriously climbs out of the front seat and, wonder of wonders, comes round to open the door for me. Then he holds out his hand and helps extract me and my smoothing underwear from the back seat.
Perhaps I have nothing to worry about after all. Early indications appear to suggest that my father intends to be on his best behaviour. I breathe a small sigh of relief as I climb out and take his arm. He definitely looks the part, wearing what the Royal Navy would refer to as “dog robbers” – a smart blazer and trousers together with a sporty little Noel Coward type cravat – all in all the epitome of a retired Admiral.
So far so good...
Arm in arm, we walk towards Noah’s house which is still fifty yards away. It’s a beautiful evening. Despite the hour, the sun is glinting warmly through the trees and what sounds like the entire local bird population is chattering away in a flurry of spring nest building.
As we get closer to the still stationary limousine, the driver door suddenly opens and out springs an immaculately groomed chauffeur. Full of avid curiosity, we slow our steps to avoid arriving at the car at the exact same time as he throws open the rear passenger door. After a couple of seconds, a long tanned leg languorously unfolds from the opening together with a perfectly manicured hand, imperiously requesting the chauffeur’s assistance. Dad and I glance at each other, and grin, for once in complete accord. This has got to be someone famous. Stopping completely about ten yards from the limo, we wait in a fever of anticipation to see who gets out.
A couple of minutes later, we’re not disappointed. The vision extracting herself from the car is none other than Gaynor Andrews. She’s absolutely breathtaking. Every movement as she straightens up and then gracefully reaches back into the car for her purse seems to be perfectly choreographed. She's wearing a pure white jumpsuit that clings to every curve. The front is low-cut, revealing a subtle, tantalizing glimpse of her small, perfectly formed breasts.
Self consciously I let go of my father’s arm, and tug on my own plunging neckline reflecting that my dress is definitely not subtle anything. My father, for once completely speechless, doesn’t even notice I’ve dropped his arm, and is continuing to stare, open mouthed, at the beautiful woman in front of him. Her ensemble is completed by silver strappy, impossibly high heels, which she doesn’t have any problem walking elegantly in.
Without acknowledging the chauffeur, she steps aside gracefully as he shuts the car door, then notices us for the first time. Frowning slightly, she lifts her Dior sunglasses and regards us in much the way I imagine a cat would stare at a mouse. After a couple of seconds, no doubt thinking us of absolutely no note whatsoever, she replaces the sunglasses on her petite nose and turns away without bothering to speak. I am astonished at her blatant rudeness and hold my breath, fully expecting my father to tear a strip off the actress in his usual abrupt manner. However, he simply stares after her like a love struck puppy, then looks back down at me with a sparkle in his eyes.
‘This is the life, Victory.’ My heart stutters and sinks at the eager glint in his eyes. ‘Takes me back to that dinner I had with The Queen. Had ‘er Majesty rolling in the aisles,’ he confided in a theatrical whisper. ‘Don’t you worry my girl, I know how to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. I’ll have ‘em all in stitches in no time…’
I need alcohol!
Taking a deep breath (or as deep as this damn dress will allow), I hold dad back a little, really not wanting to catch up to the leading lady at Noah’s front door. I have never in my whole life felt so much out of my depth. I can’t imagine what I was thinking in wanting to come here. I should have made an excuse. Any excuse. Pulling at my father’s arm, I attempt to get his attention, intending to inform him that I really don’t feel well (definitely not a lie) and want to go home. However, before I get chance to open my mouth, our host catches sight of us hovering in the road and, extracting himself from Gaynor Andrews’ enthusiastic embrace, walks towards us with a smile.
‘Hey guys, so glad you made it.’ His greeting is friendly and open, as though he’s genuinely glad to see us. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the actress still standing in the doorway. Sunglasses off, she is staring back at us, no doubt wondering if we’re the hired help…
I turn my attention back to Noah who is shaking my father’s hand and clapping him on the back. Wearing a simple white shirt and stone coloured jeans, he looks good enough to eat, and as he turns those heavy lidded, oh so sexy, blue eyes on to me I feel the blush begin at my toes and work its way up…
‘You look gorgeous Tory.’ His eyes are warm and the blush turns into crimson heat. I know he’s just being kind, but it’s not every day one gets told that she looks gorgeous by a Hollywood sex symbol. Struggling for a suitably gracious response, I end up simply holding out my folder. ‘I’ve brought your drawings,’ is my amazing, super cool attempt at flirtation.
‘That’s great. Maybe we can find some time later to go over them.’
‘Like the bedroom?’ I want to say, but luckily it comes out as , ‘Err, sure, that would be good.’ My father is looking back and forward between us during the exchange with a look of bewildered delight on his face and I remember that he doesn’t know anything about my earlier visit. Fortunately, for once in his life, he says nothing and allows Noah to guide us back towards the house.
Gaynor Andrews is no longer standing on the front porch and I get the feeling that she doesn’t do waiting. Once inside the beautiful hallway, I’m careful to show the same amazement as earlier and simply follow Noah through into the drawing room towards the sound of talking and laughter. As we enter the room, curious glances are sent our way and it is very obvious that we are the only two strangers in the room, apart from the waiters carrying around trays of canapés and Champagne.
‘Hey everyone. Meet Admiral Charles Shackleford and his daughter Tory. These are the guys who have been kind enough to loan us their house to film in.’
There is a small silence where I sense us being looked up and down en mass by Noah’s guests – I get the distinct feeling it’s mostly down. Then, as the quiet lengthens, my father clears his throat and steps forward, causing my heart to judder in horrified anticipation.
‘It’s very nice to meet you all.’ I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and smile weakly, even going so far as to give a little half wave to the assembly.
‘So where does a man get a drink around here. The inside of my mouth feels like a Swahili witch doctor’s shammy leather ju ju bag…’
My father has never even heard of political correctness.
An hour later I am nursing my third glass of Champagne while propping up the wall. My embarrassment at my father’s social gaff has dulled to resentment. It seems that my rude, unpredictable, politically incorrect old man is a hit with the Hollywood locals. I can hear them all roaring with laughter as my father describes with relish the antics of an old junior rating whose nickname had apparently been Whacker Payne on account that (a) His name was Payne and (b) he was (and I quote) ‘rigged like a Nagasaki donkey’
But slowly, as I listen to my father enthusiastically recounting some of his more daring naval exploits (and by daring I think he’s generally referring to those adventures resulting from alcoholic over indulgence), I really can’t help but smile and I realise that actually it’s not always necessary to fit in. My father has spent his whole life as a testament to that. He has never, to my knowledge, toed the line and he’s all the happier for it.
Okay, so perhaps his constant flouting of convention has pushed me to the other extreme, but I can’t spend the rest of my life blaming everything on dad and it really is time I loosened up a little. I take a deep breath followed by another gulp of my Champagne and, placing my precious drawings carefully on a small side table, I head over to the buffet table and small talk…
‘So there I was dahling, simply dying of boredom when along comes this absolutely divine young man to sweep me off my feet, and I’ve never really looked back.’ I position myself between a very mature British lady who sort of resembles a praying mantis and an ageing American gentleman with an impressive pot belly and huge mutton chop whiskers. I have no idea who they are but assume that the American at least is an actor – nobody would voluntarily sport facial hair directly out of an episode of Downton Abbey if not in preparation for a part in The Bridegroom. Unsure whether to interrupt or not, I stand and fidget self consciously while listening to their conversation, which appears to be centred around the merits of having a younger partner – of the type recommended by Joan Collins…
Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 8
