Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  ‘Well?’ he asks finally, when I fail to respond. ‘Well what?’ I whisper back distractedly, still unable to get my head around his request. Frowning slightly at my failure to answer, he places his hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him, peering at me closely before repeating his question.

  ‘Will you come up and stay with me in London for the weekend?’

  I gaze back up at his beautiful, serious face, my mouth suddenly as dry as Ghandi’s flip flop, and somehow manage to croak, ‘Yes.’

  Friday 30th May

  To: kim@kimharris.com

  Hey Kim

  How’s it going? It’s three in the morning here and I can’t remember the last time I was this happy. Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep :-)

  Remember how it felt, the night before the holidays started, how we used to lay awake, too excited to sleep? That’s how I feel.

  I’ve just had the best night at this crazy music festival they got going here in Dartmouth. The only bug in the ointment was you guys not being with me, but next year, I’m flying you all over here. You’ll love it Kimmy, and I know you’ll love Tory. She’s the one sis. I never thought I could feel like this.

  I told Gaynor how I feel about Tory tonight and she was totally fine with it. I even admitted I’d told Tory about what happened with mom and the baby and she was good. Said it was great I found someone I trusted enough to open up to, and she knows that one day she’ll find someone equally special to confide in.

  I feel like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders sis and I can’t tell you how good that feels.

  Will call you from London.

  Love you all loads

  Noah

  xxx

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘It’s all set up Jimmy lad. Keep your eye on the news, there’s going to be an interesting announcement very soon followed by the sound of wedding bells, you mark my words. All he needed was a nudge in the right direction’.

  The Ship was pretty much empty despite it being Friday lunchtime, the whole of Dartmouth and Kingswear still getting over the music festival the weekend before. The barmaid had disappeared to make the two men a cheese and onion sandwich – a cunning ploy by the Admiral to get Jimmy on his own without anyone ear wigging.

  Jimmy frowned at the Admiral’s self satisfied tone, feeling a not unfamiliar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  He knew that if he was to stand any chance of finding out just what his friend was up to, he’d have to play it cool. The Admiral wouldn’t be able to resist boasting about his supposed ingenuity if Jimmy played his cards right, and this was a game the smaller man was well accustomed to.

  Sure enough, Jimmy’s disinterest prompted the expected glower, together with an irritated humph, and only the arrival of their doorstop sandwiches postponed the predicted blowing of the Admiral’s trumpet.

  Once the barmaid was out of earshot, the Admiral took a bite out of his sandwich and leaned towards Jimmy, tapping the side of his nose.

  ‘I’ve given a small tip off to this journalist chappy,’ he murmured, inadvertently spraying bits of bread and cheese liberally over Jimmy’s sweater.

  Jimmy puckered his brow, processing the Admiral’s information while absently brushing the crumbs off his jumper. ‘What journalist?’ He asked finally, prompting an impatient grunt.

  ‘Does it matter? The point is, Jimmy lad, this reporter was very interested to hear about a certain romance if you get my drift…’

  Jimmy paused, sandwich in hand, and stared in horror at his former commanding officer. ‘What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?’ The Admiral demanded when Jimmy carefully returned his sandwich to its plate untasted.

  Jimmy carefully wiped his hands on his paper napkin while his mind frantically tried to process the enormity of the Admiral’s interference. Silently he tried to come up with some sort of excuse that would explain and justify his oldest friend’s meddling.

  In the end, all he could think of to say was, ‘You shouldn’t have done that Sir. You should have left well alone. Tory’s a sensible girl, and she’s perfectly capable of running her own life without your interference.’ Then he climbed down from his stool, bent down to give Pickles a quick head rub, before straightening up and staring his old commanding officer in the eye. ‘You’ve been like a brother to me Sir, for more years than I can remember, but I’m very sorry, on this occasion, I can’t condone your actions Admiral. Permission to withdraw…’

  The Admiral stared aghast at his friend. This was insubordination at its absolute worst. He had no idea what to say.

  In the end, it wasn’t up to him. Jimmy saluted smartly, and walked away.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’s seven thirty in the morning and I’m lying in bed listening to the unaccustomed silence. Noah’s finally gone to London. In the end we had a whole extra week together thank to a few more loose ends than anticipated, but now the whole cast and crew have relocated to Greenwich in London. The only reminders of the last few weeks are a few trailer tire tracks, and the newly erected six foot gates that are likely to last longer than the house.

  I couldn’t be happier.

  For some obscure and totally crazy reason, Noah Westbrook likes me. I mean, really likes me. ME – plain, plump, ordinary Victory Shackleford. Since leaving for London, he’s phoned me at least once a day, sometimes as many as four or five times in between filming. And this weekend I’m going to see him again. He’s rented a mews house in South Kensington where we can be completely alone and away from prying eyes. I feel as though I’m living in some kind of fabulous dream and keep thinking any moment now, I’ll wake up and find out it’s all been in my head.

  Today is Monday so I’ve got four whole days until I see him again. Lots to do until then if I want to show him some progress on the house. Jumping up, I oust a still snoring Dottie from the cocoon she’s made of the bedclothes, and head to the bathroom singing.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m grabbing a piece of toast en route to an early start at the gallery. There’s no sign of dad which is a little surprising. He’s usually ensconced in the kitchen reading his newspaper by now. Taking a bite of toast, I frown a little, wondering if he’s gone out early with Pickles, then I shrug – trying to second guess my father is like trying to slam a revolving door. Leaving him a quick note, I put Dotty’s leash on and slip out of the back door into the garden.

  It takes me twenty minutes to reach the other side of the river, and, once on dry land, I stop in the local French deli to buy a couple of pain au chocolates, still deliciously warm from the oven at this time in the morning. There are a few people waiting as I enter the shop, and to my surprise they stop chatting, and turn to stare at me as I walk in. I glance down to check I haven’t left my skirt tucked into my knickers – wouldn’t be the first time - but all appears to be where it should be. As I join the queue, the silence starts to become slightly oppressive, and I have no idea what’s causing it. I step forward to place my order with the lady behind the counter. As she hands me the warm bags, I attempt a smile to lighten the atmosphere, and I’m completely taken aback as she responds by giving me a broad grin and a wink. Smile faltering, I back out of the shop, juggling my packages as I fumble to untie Dotty from the lamp post. Hurrying away, I hear one of the customers say in low tones, ‘Bloody unbelievable.’

  I walk quickly round the corner towards the gallery, anxious to get out of sight of eyes I can still sense staring at my back. The whole incident leaves me slightly unsettled, and as I go to unlock the gallery door, I’m surprised to find it’s already open. Heart hammering at the thought that Kit could have had a break in, I cautiously shut the door behind me, and walk towards the back of the shop, all the while checking to see if anything is missing. As I push open the office door, I jump as a shadow rises from the chair.

  ‘Bloody hell Kit, you nearly gave me a heart attack,’ I gasp, ‘I thought you’d been burgled.’ I put my things onto the desk before continuing, ‘You’re in
early, what’s the occasion? Still, at least your pan au chocolate won’t need nuking for a change. Have you put the coffee on?’ Picking up the paper bags, I walk towards the kettle before registering that Kit hasn’t answered. Frowning, I turn towards my best friend to ask her what’s wrong, but as I see her face, the words die in my throat. She looks so sad and my heart lurches as I read pity in her gaze. For me. Glancing down to the coffee table in front of her, I register the newspaper open at what appears to be a double page spread. I feel sick as my eyes travel back up to meet hers. ‘I’m so sorry Tory,’ she whispers, pushing the paper towards me. Dread mounting, I drop the bags and step forward until I’m standing over the open newspaper. The lurid headlines scream out at me…

  NOAH WESTBROOK SET TO MARRY UNKNOWN BRIT IN DESPERATE BID TO PUT BEHIND HIM THE TRAGIC LOSS OF HIS UNBORN CHILD AND MOTHER ON THE SAME DAY.

  Underneath is a picture of Noah entering a restaurant in London, together with a picture of me, taken God knows when, and a picture of a white faced Gaynor, hands up in an attempt to protect her from the camera.

  I hear a low moan, and realise with a shock that it’s coming from me. Grabbing the newspaper, I sink into the other chair.

  The whole story is there, every explicit juicy detail. As I read the last few lines, I can feel the bile rising into my throat.

  A source close to local girl Tory Shackleford says that the bride to be is understandably over the moon at being given this precious opportunity to help Noah get over the double tragedy, hinting at the possibility of more children in the not too distant future.

  Both Noah Westbrook and Gaynor Andrews have declined to comment.

  Flinging the newspaper away from me, I clutch my middle, and rock backwards and forwards, tears sliding unchecked down my face. I barely register Kit jumping up and going to lock the gallery door, before coming back to crouch in front of me, and pull my unresisting body into her arms.

  ‘It wasn’t me Kit, it wasn’t,’ is all I’m able to whisper, over and over again. Suddenly I pull away.

  ‘Why hasn’t he called me? He knows I wouldn’t do this, he knows me. I have to phone him. I have to make him understand it wasn’t me.’ Ignoring Kit’s advice to sit and think before I do anything I’ll regret, I push her away and jump up to get my mobile phone. With shaking hands, I bring up Noah’s telephone number. ‘I’ll explain it to him,’ I mutter, pressing dial. ‘He’ll believe me, I know he will.’ Taking deep panting breaths, I wait for the dialing tone. If I can just get to speak to Noah, everything will be okay.

  ‘The number you have called has been disconnected.’

  ‘No, please God, no,’ I moan, trying the number again and again until Kit gently prizes the phone out of my hand, and puts it back in my bag.

  ‘Stop, please stop Tory,’ she begs, holding my hands between hers tightly. Leaning forward, she rests her forehead against mine. ‘We’ll sort it love, we’ll do it together. You’ll get through this, I promise.’

  But I know she’s lying. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  ~* ~

  A couple of hours later we’re holed up in Kit’s flat. I think she called my father to tell him where I am. I didn’t speak to him. I don’t want to speak to anybody. The vultures are already descending on Dartmouth, looking for another scoop. I can’t seem to think straight. My mind just keeps telling me I need to speak to Noah.

  Kit has made several phone calls and tells me she’s been unable to speak to the journalist who wrote the article. I can’t even remember his name. I stroke Dotty’s silky head absently as she presses herself up against me, sensing my distress.

  ‘I have to go and see him Kit.’ It all seems so clear suddenly. ‘I have to go to London and speak with him.’ I lean forward and clutch her hand, willing her to understand, to help me. ‘I can’t leave it like this. I have to make it right.’

  I expect her to protest but all she does is sigh. ‘Do you know where he is?’ I nod eagerly. ‘It’s a small boutique hotel. Noah told me that David booked the whole place. Said it was tucked away, quiet, away from the cameras.’ I laugh bitterly.

  An hour later we’re on the road. Kit insisted on coming with me, mostly I think because she doesn’t trust me not to do something stupid. I didn’t protest too much. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me that the next twenty four hours are not going to be a high point in my life and while I may not be that stupid, I sense I’ll need my best friend’s support. We have left Dotty in the doting arms of Freddy, and I had to smile at her total absorption in the chicken sandwich he was eating as we left…

  I sit silently while Kit is driving. I don’t have any kind of plan, apart from somehow confronting him at the hotel. I have a feeling that I’ll only get one chance, and I’ve no idea how I’ll convince him of my innocence – or if he’s even interested. I’ve googled the hotel, which is set on a discreet street in Belgravia. The website described it as timeless, a gentle ode to classicism, a place to relax and be waited on. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be staying that long.

  While driving in London is not for the faint hearted, and certainly not for people whose navigator is more interested in biting her nails down to quick than giving accurate directions, Kit is fortunately an old hand at negotiating Britain’s capital city. Her eclectic travels in search of unique and distinctive pieces of art could potentially result in a successful career with Google Maps if the gallery ever closed down.

  We finally arrive at our destination (or rather a back street half a mile away) in the middle of the afternoon. I have no idea of Noah’s schedule, and I tell Kit that I’ll simply find somewhere to sit where I can observe the hotel unnoticed until he turns up – in or out. I can see Kit’s not happy, but one look at my face convinces her that arguing would be fruitless.

  In the end, we find the Beckenham Hotel quite easily. Oozing quiet glamour, the Georgian townhouse is slightly set back from the road in a small leafy verdant garden giving the illusion that it’s not in the city at all. As I stare up at the vintage exterior, I wonder which room is Noah’s, and shiver. Then, looking round, I spy a small bench sheltering under a flowering hawthorn tree in the corner of the garden. While giving an unrestricted view of the quiet street, it’s nevertheless almost invisible to anyone walking up to the hotel entrance. Gesturing my intention to Kit, I glance quickly back to the hotel entrance before slipping unobserved through the gate. The afternoon is cold and grey, which will hopefully put off anyone tempted to linger in the secluded arbour. After a few minutes hesitation, Kit follows me, and we sit huddled together to wait.

  In the end, it’s almost an anti-climax when I finally get to confront Noah after only a two hour wait. Despite it being early evening, the lane around the hotel is still deserted, only birdsong competing with the muted London tea time traffic a couple of streets away. I wonder where all the paparazzi are, and grimace when I realise they’re probably all camped outside the Admiralty. There’s no sign of any cast or crew either, and my nerves are stretching to breaking point. Then suddenly, without warning, Noah appears around the corner. Heart in my mouth, I watch him walk across the narrow road. He cuts a lonely figure as he strides towards the hotel entrance looking neither right nor left. I know he hasn’t spotted me. Clutching my hands together, I step out of Kit’s comforting presence, and stumble onto the path where he can see me easily. For a second, he doesn’t register the movement, then he turns and looks straight at me. The remote, stone faced man standing ten feet away bears no resemblance at all to the warm, affectionate lover I knew in Dartmouth, and just like that, I know it’s over.

  I lurch forward, desperate to say something, anything, but as I move, he steps back. He stares at me coldly for a few more seconds before deliberately turning away, and walking up the steps to the doorway. Two minutes later, the hotel concierge appears at the entrance, and asks us politely but firmly to leave.

  I don’t remember walking back to the car, or negotiating the rush hour traffic to get out of th
e city. I just remember the shaking. At some point, Kit must have covered me in a blanket. I wanted to say thank you but I couldn’t seem to muster the energy to do anything but huddle into it, and stare unseeingly out of the window. I think we finally arrived back in Dartmouth around midnight. I recall Kit giving me a small white tablet before putting me to bed in her flat, then only soft, welcoming blackness.

  Chapter Twenty

  I’m woken up by the bang and clatter of the weekly rubbish collection in the street below my window. Groaning, I turn over and pull the pillow around my ears. God I feel terrible, like I’ve just come off an all night bender. I briefly wonder why I’m lying in a strange bed, then it all comes crashing back, making me feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. Taking a deep breath, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  I don’t know where to go from here. Being with Noah has changed me in ways I’m only now beginning to realize, and I don’t have any idea how to pick up the pieces of my former life. It feels as though a door to an exotic wondrous dream has been slammed in my face. But at the end of the day, that’s all it ever was – a dream.

  A knock at the door puts an end to my self absorbed misery. I’m tempted to ignore it, pretend to be sleeping, but that’s never kept Kit out before, so I sigh and reluctantly mumble, ‘Come in.’