She held up a hand. ‘Stop saying you’re sorry.’
He opened his mouth, as though he was going to say something, then closed it again fast. They ate in silence for a few moments, then Gina asked curiously, ‘So what exactly is your history with Rose? Carrie said she thought you’d been an item.’
She stopped, suddenly aware that he might think it was strange for her to be discussing his love-life with Carrie, but Ben merely shrugged. ‘We went on a couple of dates, about a year ago. It didn’t go anywhere – she’s not really my type – and I assumed she thought the same about me.’
Rose Arundell was young, beautiful and wealthy, Gina thought to herself. What exactly did Ben mean when he said she wasn’t his type?
‘But then she started coming on to me whenever I saw her,’ Ben went on, looking more embarrassed than ever. ‘My surfer mates started to take the mick, called me her bit of rough. So I started to avoid going anywhere I thought I might run into her, which is part of the reason I was in Newquay last night. The Brief Encounter screening was the first time I’d seen her in ages.’
It all made sense, Gina mused, finishing her breakfast and reaching for her coffee. Poor spoiled Rose wasn’t used to rejection and couldn’t believe Ben wasn’t interested. So she’d pursued him and then Gina had materialised, apparently very close to Ben, and Rose had become jealous. She obviously had no idea Gina was with Max. Although, a sly little voice whispered in Gina’s head, the truth was that Rose did have good reason to be jealous. Maybe she saw what Gina was trying so hard to ignore: that there was something there between her and Ben . . .
She pushed her plate away and the cutlery clattered to the table. ‘Shall we watch the film, then?’
Ben swallowed his last mouthful and washed it down with a mouthful of tea. ‘Yeah. Sounds like the perfect way to get rid of a hangover.’
He got up and slotted the disc into the DVD player. Gina carried her coffee towards the seats and paused. Last time she’d been in the living room, there’d been two wing-backed armchairs. There was no sign of them now – they’d been replaced by a small two-seater sofa which faced the television. Ben sat down and propped his feet up on a low wooden coffee table. ‘Come on,’ he said, patting the cushion next to him. ‘And bring that popcorn over too. I’m still hungry.’
Gina did as he asked, settling on the sofa and trying not to notice the way their bodies leaned into each other. If they’d been a couple, it would have been the most natural thing in the world for Ben to slip his arm around Gina’s shoulders and for her to snuggle into him as they watched the film. But they weren’t a couple – couldn’t be – and it was dangerous for her to even think such things. So Gina sat stiffly for the first fifteen minutes of the film, hardly registering what was happening on screen, acutely aware of Ben’s closeness.
‘So, what have you got in mind for the foyer?’ he asked, as a pink-clad Debbie Reynolds leapt out of a cake. ‘Want to turn it into a film set?’
Gina felt him looking at her and kept her gaze fixed on the television. ‘I was thinking that a red carpet might be simpler – like the one at the start of the film.’
She felt him nod. ‘Okay. Do you need me to do anything special with the bar? I’m working over Penzance way next week but I’m sure I can fit something in if you need me to.’
She did look at him then, and wished she hadn’t, because he was closer than he’d been on the train. ‘Thanks, but I think it will be fine.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Shall I get the ice-cream?’
Ben pushed himself off the sofa. ‘I’m not much of a host, am I? All you’ve done since you got here is run around after me.’
Gina didn’t mind if she went to the kitchen or he did, as long as she got some space. By the time he returned with two bowls of Ferdie’s new creation, she’d moved onto the floor.
‘Bad back,’ she lied when he studied her quizzically. ‘I’m better off down here.’
The gelato distracted both of them; it summoned up warm summer mornings and every mouthful was bursting with flavour. How had Ferdie done it? Gina wondered, savouring each taste. How had he captured so much exquisite, mouth-watering taste? It was sheer perfection and, unless she was totally mistaken, it was going to bring the house down.
‘Your grandfather is a genius,’ Ben said, scraping the last dregs of melted gelato from the bottom of his bowl. ‘That was amazing.’
Gina smiled, basking in the glow of reflected pride. ‘I think Debbie and Gene are in real danger of being upstaged by an ice-cream.’
From her much safer vantage point on the floor, Gina could finally relax and enjoy the film. She couldn’t help a tiny snort of amusement when Lina got her comeuppance; was it too much to hope that something similar might happen to Rose?
As the final credits rolled, Gina turned to Ben. ‘You know, I don’t think you said what you’re wearing to the screening.’
‘That’s right, I didn’t,’ Ben said, his tone teasing. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
He had to be coming as Don Lockwood, Gina decided; maybe he’d gone for the period costume from The Dancing Cavalier. The thought almost made her smile. Almost.
Checking the time, she got to her feet. ‘I’d better get going. I want to go over the paperwork for the council meeting tomorrow evening, to make sure we haven’t missed anything. Want me to check the station application too?’
‘Would you mind?’ Ben asked. ‘Tell me if it’s too much work. Or maybe we could go through it together now?’
Gina wasn’t sure she could bear another half an hour of sitting on the floor and she definitely wasn’t going to risk joining him on the sofa again. ‘No, don’t worry, I’ll look at it all together later. It’s no trouble.’
Ben didn’t seem convinced. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Totally,’ Gina assured him, gathering up her bag and coat. ‘I’ll let you know if I spot any problems, but if you don’t hear from me, I’ll meet you and Gorran outside the council offices at six-thirty tomorrow evening.’
‘Okay,’ he said, with a smile that made Gina’s stomach fizz. ‘Thanks for the ice-cream and for breakfast.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, heading for the door.
The town council meetings were held in the grey-bricked town hall, just behind the war memorial in the heart of Polwhipple. Gorran was already waiting, looking nervous, in a suit that was considerably less crumpled than his usual clothes. He’d made an effort to tame his crazy white hair too, not altogether successfully, but Gina decided he’d do. She’d also dressed formally for the occasion, in a cream dress with matching heels that made walking on the cobbled street difficult. Ben arrived a few minutes after her and she was pleased to see he’d aimed to impress; his charcoal suit was well cut and flattering, and Gina thought he wouldn’t have looked out of place in the pages of a men’s magazine. She sat on the thought and managed a brisk, business-like smile. ‘Hello. All set?’
He nodded in greeting, first at her, then at Gorran. ‘I think so. You?’
She handed him a plastic wallet that was full of neatly bundled papers. ‘Yes. Shall we go in?’
Inside the town hall, the floor was tiled in a faded claret and white mosaic. The walls were wood-panelled with dark wood that Gina felt had been in place for a long time. A brass chandelier hung in the centre of the reception area and a wide wooden staircase curved upwards and split into two as it reached the first floor.
Gina approached the receptionist. ‘Gina Callaway, Gorran Dew and Ben Pascoe, to address the Fiscal Planning committee.’
The receptionist made them sign in and issued them with visitors’ badges. ‘Up to the first floor and round to the right,’ she said, in a way that made Gina think she said the same words over and over each day. ‘Through the double doors and take a seat until you’re called.’
‘It’s like being back at school,’ Ben said, after they’d been waiting for a short while. ‘I feel like I’ve been summoned to the head teacher’s office again.’
<
br /> ‘Speak for yourself,’ Gina replied in a low tone, as Gorran nodded his agreement. ‘I never got summoned to the head teacher’s office.’
Ben raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Oh really? Whose idea was it to steal cigarettes to smoke on the beach after the sun had gone down?’
Gina smiled in spite of her nerves. ‘All right, it was mine. But that was down to your bad influence – I was a good girl at school.’
‘My bad influence?’ Ben said, sounding half-shocked, half-amused. ‘I seem to remember you teaching me how to blow the perfect smoke ring.’
This time, Gina grinned. ‘And I remember you turning so pale you outshone the moon. Then you threw up.’
Gorran looked back and forth between them, as though working something out, while Ben let out a quiet laugh. ‘Good times.’
The dark wood door opposite opened and a smartly dressed woman appeared. ‘Callaway, Dew and Pascoe?’ she said, after consulting her clipboard. ‘Come with me, please.’
‘We sound like a bunch of bleddy solicitors,’ Gorran mumbled, running a finger around the inside of his collar.
She led them into a high-ceilinged room surrounded by wood-panelled walls, lit by another chandelier. This one had a long, highly polished table running through the centre, with five council committee members sitting along the far side: three men and two women. The men nodded in greeting as Gorran, Gina and Ben approached the table, and the elder of the two women smiled. The other woman, who was blonde, in her fifties and looked very much as though she had a terrible smell under her nose, did not smile.
‘Your names?’ she snapped, glancing down at a sheet of paper on the table in front of her.
Gorran stammered as he introduced himself, making Gina want to squeeze his hand in solidarity. She concentrated on her own introduction, then listened to Ben, who sounded cool and calm in spite of the nerves she knew he was feeling. The woman did not look impressed at anything she had heard. ‘According to this, you’re requesting tax-payers’ money to invest in two privately owned businesses, is that correct?’
Gina glanced at Ben and cleared her throat. ‘That is true, however—’
‘I’m afraid we don’t invest in private businesses,’ the blonde woman snapped, her blue eyes cold. ‘Next.’
‘We might as well hear what they have to say, Valeria,’ the older woman admonished.
The man with the handlebar moustache nodded. ‘Quite right. What is it you’d like funding for?’
Gina took her folder from her bag and laid it on the table. She flipped open the cover and glanced down for a second. Then she began. ‘Our application falls into two parts. Firstly, we’d like to apply for funding to refurbish the Palace Picture House on the promenade. Once the jewel in Polwhipple’s crown, it’s been falling further and further into disrepair with every passing year, but the good news is that with a little time, attention and money, I think it could soon be the heart of the community once more, drawing in audiences from much further afield and boosting our economy.’
She glanced sideways at Gorran, who, she was glad to see, looked a little less like he might vomit. ‘It’s a good little place,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d be the first to admit I haven’t managed things as well as I might have done but now Gina is here and she’s shown me how good the Palace could be. But to make it really shine, we need money – investment – and that’s something I don’t have. That’s why we’re here.’
Gina gave him an encouraging smile before continuing. ‘Secondly, we’d like to ask for funding to finish the restoration work to Polwhipple’s own train station, with a view to encouraging the Bodmin and Wenford Railway Preservation Society to extend the heritage line to Polwhipple from Boscarne Junction, where it currently terminates.’
Most of the committee were watching Gina, Gorran and Ben, their expressions curious and interested. The blonde woman called Valeria had her eyes fixed on her sheet of paper on the table. Every now and then, she made a small mark, making Gina wonder if she was doing the crossword or Sudoku. There was something almost familiar about her, although Gina couldn’t work out where she might have seen her before. She wasn’t going to let Valeria’s rudeness deter her, though; straightening her shoulders, Gina raised her voice a little more and went on.
‘We’ve brought detailed plans to accompany our application forms. The sums of money we’re asking for aren’t large but they will make all the difference to our proposed projects and to Polwhipple itself. Imagine the town thronging with visitors, waiting to see a film at the newly refurbished cinema. They might want something to eat, or to grab a coffee while they wait, which is extra income that Polwhipple’s small businesses wouldn’t have had otherwise.’
‘Or maybe they’ve hopped on the steam train at Bodmin Parkway, looking for a day out,’ Ben put in, as Gina handed out copies of their application forms. ‘There’s not much to see at Boscarne Junction, unless you want to walk the Camel Trail, so they go straight back to Bodmin. But what if they could stay on the train to Polwhipple and spend a few hours browsing in the shops?’
There was a brief silence as the committee skimmed through the forms. The man with the moustache eventually lowered his reading glasses to study Ben. ‘It says here that you’ve already invested substantial amounts of your own money to renovate the station yourself. Why?’
‘It was my dad’s dream,’ Ben replied simply. ‘He was a driver on the line and wanted to bring the trains back to Polwhipple more than anything. Unfortunately, he died before he could do anything about it.’
Another of the male committee members lifted the application forms, his gaze suddenly sharp. ‘You’re Davey Pascoe’s boy?’
Ben nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘I used to work with him,’ the man said. ‘Never met a man who loved trains as much as he did.’
A smile spread over Ben’s face. ‘That sounds like him.’
The older woman eyed Gina appraisingly. ‘And what’s your connection to Polwhipple, Miss Callaway? You’ll forgive me for saying you don’t sound like a local.’
‘I’m not,’ Gina said. ‘I live in London now, although I was born in Truro. My grandfather runs Ferrelli’s, the gelateria that sits inside the Palace. I’m working with him while he recovers from an accident.’
‘I see,’ the woman said. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you’re here, asking for funding to refurbish the picture house.’
Gina fired a swift smile Gorran’s way. ‘No, it doesn’t. I’ve been a fan of the Palace ever since I spent several summers in Polwhipple, with my grandparents. I have many happy memories of the films I used to watch there and I’m happy to give something back now. Gorran and I have been working together to run some film-centred events and they’ve been very popular. I think that proves that there’s a demand in Polwhipple for a well-equipped, well-managed cinema.’
The man with the moustache looked over the top of his glasses. ‘You were behind the Brief Encounter screening?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. And we’re showing Singin’ in the Rain this Saturday, if you’re interested? Ferrelli’s is supplying an exclusive new gelato and the Scarlet Hotel has devised a cocktail especially for the evening.’
The woman called Valeria lowered the paper she’d been scanning. ‘Do you have any experience of project management, Mr Dew? Miss Callaway has been quite disparaging of your abilities – it doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.’
Gorran blushed. ‘Not dreckly, but—’
Valeria fixed Gina with a humourless smile. ‘How about you, Miss Callaway? Do you have any experience of project management on this scale?’
Gina tried not to bristle. ‘No, but I run my own business and I’m well aware—’
‘Running a party business is quite different to managing a major refurbishment,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I see that Mr Pascoe here has quoted to undertake the bulk of the restoration work – this is in addition to managing his own project of renovating the station.’
Heat began
to crawl up Gina’s cheeks. ‘Ben is a master craftsman who specialises in restoring old buildings. In point of fact, the renovation work at the station itself is almost finished and the funding will mostly be directed towards restoring the train tracks themselves.’
‘But there’s a clear conflict of interest here,’ Valeria persisted. ‘How do we know Mr Pascoe is as good as he says he is?’
Gina gritted her teeth and counted silently to five. ‘There are three quotes in total, and you’ll see that not only is Ben’s the most competitive, he’s also the only builder with direct experience of restoring historically important buildings. I’ve seen some of his work during a recent visit to Lanhydrock House – I can assure you, he’s perfectly competent.’
The final committee member, a sandy-haired man who put Gina in mind of an accountant, glanced along the table at the others. ‘I see. We’ll read through your application in detail and come to a conclusion over the next seven days. You’ll be notified of our decision. Thank you.’
And just like that, it was over. The older woman gave Gina an encouraging smile as they left, and the man who’d worked with Ben’s father came around the table to shake their hands. Valeria did not look up and showed no sign she acknowledged they were leaving.
None of them spoke until they were outside in the fresh air. ‘That was . . .’ Gorran swallowed hard and shook his head ruefully. ‘That was downright terrifying.’
‘You can say that again,’ Ben said, sounding as though he’d just run a marathon. ‘Drink?’
Gorran backed away. ‘Not for me. You go ahead, though.’
‘Absolutely,’ Gina said fervently. ‘Maybe more than one.’
They bid Gorran a good night and started to walk in the direction of the Mermaid’s Tail.
‘I think that went as well as could be expected, under the circumstances,’ Ben said, after a little while.
Gina shook her head. ‘What circumstances? That shark-eyed Valeria woman, you mean?’
He tipped his head. ‘Yeah. I wish I’d known she was going to be there.’
Singing in the Rain at the Picture House by the Sea Page 6
