by Jo Carnegie
‘I s-s-suppose you’re right,’ he said glumly. ‘How will people take me s-s-seriously in the pulpit if they’ve seen me as a toothless vagrant? It’s not the right message to send out.’
‘I think you’ve made the right choice, Reverend,’ Clementine told him. Saying her goodbyes, she started to pull Errol Flynn back towards the village green. At the phone box by the crossroads, she noticed a funny little man standing smoking a cigarette. As she approached, he flashed an over-friendly smile and flicked the butt on the ground. Clementine took an immediate dislike to him.
‘Lovely day!’ he said. ‘I bet there’s lots of excitement, what with all these big stars arriving, and whatnot.’
‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Clementine said.
The man flashed stained teeth into what Clementine supposed was meant to be an ingratiating smile. ‘So where do you live, then?’
‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I live at Fairoaks. Just off the village green.’
The man’s smile had faltered momentarily, but came back on again. ‘So you’re a local!’ He walked over to her. Clementine caught a whiff of stale smoke. ‘I think you and me could come to some sort of business arrangement. I’m after any stories of Rafe and Sophia I can get. You could tip me off with any gossip you get, sightings, that sort of thing. I’d pay you well, of course. What do you think?’
‘What I think,’ said Clementine, ‘is that you should bugger off.’ And with that, she marched off towards the village shop. Tying up Errol outside, Clementine pushed open the door and went in.
Brenda was perched atop a rather precarious step-ladder, replenishing the top shelf.
‘Are you sure that’s safe?’ Clementine called up in alarm. ‘We can’t have you tumbling off and breaking your neck.’
Brenda climbed down. ‘Don’t you worry about me Mrs S-F, this thing’s as steady as a rock. If I landed on me head, I’d probably bounce, anyway!’ She dusted off her hands. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Is the new Cotswold Life in yet?’
Brenda winked. ‘Got your copy saved behind the counter.’
As Clementine went over to pay, Brenda started talking about that morning’s events. ‘Ooh, I was ever so excited, I can tell you! Got up early and put my Sunday best on to watch it all. Ted thought I was mad. “What you doing that for, woman?” he kept asking. And I said, “Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it?”’
‘I just bumped into an oily little reporter outside,’ Clementine said. ‘Asking all sorts of questions and trying to nose around.’
Brenda tried to look resigned. ‘Suppose we’ll have to get used to that now, what with us being a celebrity hot spot and everything.’
‘Oh dear, I think you’ve got us to blame for that,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Although once the initial excitement wears off, the press to tend to lose interest.’
Clementine looked round. A short, cheery faced woman was standing behind them. She was dressed in a fleece body warmer and sensible clothes, and had the ruddy complexion of someone who liked the outdoor life.
The woman smiled, rosy red cheeks creasing up. ‘Pam Viner. Assistant director on A Regency Playboy.’
‘Ooh!’ breathed Brenda.
Pam twinkled at Clementine. ‘Is that your black Lab outside? We just met, what a friendly chap.’ Her face dropped slightly. ‘Lost mine a few months ago. Dudley had been with the family years, we were all devastated.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Clementine, meaning it. Maybe some of these film people weren’t so bad after all.
Pam seemed to read her thoughts. ‘We do all appreciate you letting us film here, especially with this competition coming up. Somebody told me your good news, congratulations!’ She looked at her watch, which was a child’s one with a picture of Scooby Doo on the face. ‘I must be on my way, only came in for a packet of Revels.’ She smiled conspiratorially. ‘Helps while away the hours. It’s not as glamorous as everyone thinks!’
‘You should try telling that to the rest of the village!’ Clementine laughed. Pam chuckled.
‘Well, it’s been very nice to meet you …’ She looked questioningly at Clementine.
‘Clementine,’ she answered. ‘Clementine Standington-Fulthrope.’
‘And I’m Brenda Briggs,’ Brenda added. She glanced at the packet of sweets in Pam’s hand. ‘Have those on the house.’
Pam looked delighted. ‘That really is very kind of you.’ She dug around in her handbag for something and produced a slightly bent business card. She gave it to Clementine. Pam Viner, freelance, said the swirly writing across it. ‘Take that, it’s got my number on it. Do give me a call if you have any worries or concerns about anything, and I’ll make sure they’re sorted out. I do know how film crews can seem like an imposition sometimes, but I want to assure you that we’ll do all we can to make sure there’ll be no disruption.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Clementine, pleasantly surprised.
Pam’s eyes twinkled again. ‘A happy village makes for a happy film set! Anyway. I’m sure I’ll see you both around. Goodbye for now.’
The shop bell tinkled as the door open and closed again. Brenda let out a disappointed huff as a car engine started up and drove away.
‘Bit plain, wasn’t she? I thought she’d be in some kind of swanky power suit, her hair and make-up all done. She looked well, rather ordinary.’
‘Ordinary is good,’ Clementine replied briskly. Someone like Pam Viner could be a trump card to keep relations between the film crew and village as problem-free as possible. Pam seemed like one of them, and was just what they needed.
Chapter 11
FRIDAY WAS THE day of the eagerly anticipated welcome party at the Jolly Boot. All week Calypso had been haring round like a mad thing, making sure all was going to plan. Seraphina Inc. had provided a generous budget, and between her, Jack and Beryl they had made sure every penny was well spent.
There was a great feeling of expectant excitement in the village. Bar the odd lorry or people carrier, they hadn’t heard a peep out of the film crew since they’d been holed up at Braithwaite Hall. Everyone was looking forward to a knees-up, and meeting the cast and crew. The one question on everyone’s lips was, would Rafe Wolfe turn up?
At Clanfield Hall, Frances knocked on her husband’s study door. As well as spending many hours a day in their respective studies, the couple also had separate bedrooms. Ambrose had developed prostate problems some years back, and told Frances he didn’t want to disturb her in the night. Frances had suspected it was more of a pride thing and that he didn’t want to admit to growing old, but Ambrose had been so insistent, she hadn’t pushed it. Of course, it had been difficult for her. She still had her needs. Despite Ambrose’s growing crabbiness, Frances still found her noble-looking husband attractive. By contrast she felt Ambrose hadn’t looked at her that way in years. Sometimes Frances wondered why she bothered making the effort.
She knocked again.
‘Enter!’
Frances pushed the door open and went in. Old Racing Posts and Daily Telegraphs littered the floor, while the dark green walls were filled with watercolours of the Fraser family’s favourite hunting horses and gun dogs from over the centuries. Ambrose looked up from his chair by the fireplace. Sailor was at his feet dozing happily. ‘Yes, Frances, what is it?’
She went and sat in the other chair, but not before having to move a pile of spent cartridges from Ambrose’s recent shooting trip. ‘Why do you keep these stupid things?’ she complained. Ambrose shot her a look over his Lester Piggott autobiography but didn’t say anything.
‘The Jolly Boot are holding a welcome party tonight for the film people.’ Frances told him. ‘Do you fancy going? It would be good to introduce ourselves, especially as they’re going to be coming here.’
‘Do I have to stand by the bar making bloody silly conversation all night?’
‘It’s a welcome party, Ambrose. That’s the whole point.’
‘Harrumph!’ he said and disappeared behind his book again.
Frances stared in frustration at her husband. ‘I take it that’s a no?’
He growled in response. Frances stood up and left the room silently, before she said anything she’d regret. They never went out any more! Privately, she’d been astounded Ambrose had agreed to let them film at Clanfield in the first place, but she knew beneath the bluster the plight of Churchminster had affected him.
Back in her own study, she walked over to one of the sash windows. The great expanse of the Clanfield estate stretched out before her. Frances cast her mind back to the day she’d moved in, as a young impressionable 20-year old. Her parents had been delighted at the match, even though Ambrose was twenty years her senior, and Frances had shared their enthusiasm. Ambrose had been romantic back then; Frances smiled as she remembered how he’d proposed to her. On one of their many walks round the estate when they’d first started courting, Ambrose had called his favourite gun dog, Trigger, to heel, got a ring out of a box he’d put on Trigger’s collar, and gone down on one knee to ask her to become his wife.
‘I’ll make you the happiest woman in Gloucestershire!’ he’d declared.
Frances had laughed. ‘Aren’t you meant to say, “the happiest woman in the world?”’
Ambrose had chuckled, ‘Clanfield is the world, Frances. You’ve got everything here you need.’
At the time she’d believed him. She’d had such aspirations for them, for the house, the future. Yet life had slipped her by.
Where had it all started to go wrong? she wondered.
The Jolly Boot looked fantastic. In keeping with the Regency theme, it had been decked out like a seventeenth-century tavern. All the furniture had been moved out and replaced with long wooden tables, on which stone jugs of ale stood. Straw littered the floor, while Jack, Beryl and the bar staff were dressed in period dress, the men in smock shirts and breeches, the women in low-cut long dresses festooned with ribbons and other fripperies. In one corner stood a huge, succulent hog roast, slowly turning, while in another a band dressed as travelling players were setting up. A flamboyant jester complete with black-and-white face paint was busy tuning his lute strings.
The place was already filling up with villagers and film people. A glamorous gaggle of girls stood in one corner chatting to the Fox-Titts, while several burly looking men stalked in wearing bomber jackets with ‘security’ emblazoned across the backs. Two urban-looking young men in skinny jeans and trilby hats stood by the bar eyeing up Stacey Turner, who was making the very most of her cleavage-enhancing outfit. The ale and Dom Perignon were flowing freely.
‘Calypso, you look stunning!’
Camilla couldn’t keep the admiration out of her voice. Her younger sister was wearing skin-tight black leather trousers, which showed off every inch of her long legs, and a pair of gravity defying heels. Camilla looked down at her own plain black dress from Whistles. It was nice, but nothing spectacular. Maybe she should start taking a leaf out of Calypso’s wardrobe.
Calypso grinned. ‘They’re bloody hot, though. I had to shoehorn myself into them, Christ knows how I’m going to get them off later.’ She looked uncharacteristically anxious for a moment. ‘It’s going all right, isn’t it?’
‘It’s fantastic!’ Camilla assured her. ‘I thought people might be well, a bit snotty, but I’ve already met the wardrobe mistress for Sophia Highforth in the queue for the loo. She was very friendly, and has offered to dress me if I’m an extra! And I’ve chatted to the assistant director. Pam, I think her name was. She was super nice, too.’
Freddie Fox-Titt came up, two flutes of champagne in each hand. ‘Great bash, Calypso! Here, I thought you might be in need of some refreshment.’
To their surprise, Calypso turned it down. ‘Thanks Freddie, but I need to keep a clear head.’ Over the other side of the room, Jack Turner was trying to get her attention. ‘Excuse me, chaps,’ she said.
‘Good lord, did I just see that?’ asked Freddie. ‘Your sister turning down a glass of bubbly?’
Camilla giggled. ‘Calypso’s taking this all very seriously. She’s doing a fantastic job.’
‘I’ll recommend her to Tam Butler-Spinkworth for his sixtieth, he wants something with a bit of pizzazz.’
‘Calypso’s your woman,’ said Camilla. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start with something like that.’
Freddie scanned the crowd. ‘No Jed tonight?’
‘He’s coming later,’ Camilla said. ‘Had to work late.’
‘There’s another one who’s putting in the hours,’ said Freddie. ‘Angie ran into Frances the other day and said they’re super-pleased with his progress. Thrown a lot at him, but he seems to be coping well.’
‘He’s doing a fabulous job,’ Camilla agreed. ‘What with Calypso working so much as well, it does make for an empty house, though. Sometimes I feel like I’m living on my own!’
‘Next time you’re on your own come to the Maltings for dinner with us,’ Freddie said kindly. ‘You know you’re welcome any time. Gives me a good opportunity to get out the fizz!’
Camilla smiled at him. ‘Thanks, Freddie.’
He put his glass up to clink against hers. ‘Here’s to a good night.’ Freddie took a sip. ‘I must say, I’m worried Angie might keel over if Rafe Wolfe does turn up. She thinks he’s the best thing since sliced bread!’
Jed turned up not long after, freshly showered and looking gorgeous. He attracted a few looks from the film crew, and not just the girls.
‘Someone’s got the hots for you!’ laughed Camilla, as a short man with bleached blond hair and some kind of dog chain round his neck eyed Jed up for the umpteenth time.
Jed looked quizzical. ‘What are you on about?’ He turned to see the man in full ogle. A playful look crossed Jed’s face and he gave his admirer a big wink. The little man looked pleased as punch.
Camilla giggled. ‘Don’t lead him on! You’ll probably get accosted in the loos, now.’
Jed drained his pint of cider. ‘Actually, I thought I might head off. I’m knackered. Will you be all right by yourself?’ He’d been there an hour, which was a miracle as Jed wasn’t much of a socializer. Camilla knew he’d only come down because she’d asked him.
‘I’ll be fine, everyone’s here. Go and get your beauty sleep.’ Not that you need it, she thought as Jed kissed her and walked off, oblivious to the admiring looks in his wake.
By 11 p.m. the party was in full swing. The cover band was fantastic, and the little dance floor was packed with villagers and film crew enjoying a boogie. Several of the minor cast members had turned up, causing great excitement amongst the female population of Churchminster. Angie Fox-Titt, buoyed up by several glasses of champagne, dragged them all up to dance when her favourite Rolling Stones song, ‘Paint It Black’, came on.
‘What about Rafe?’ Freddie asked wrily, when Angie returned bright-eyed and with a flushed face afterwards.
She flung her arms round his neck. ‘Who needs Rafe when I’ve got you?’
Freddie looked at his wife, her maturely curvy body spilling out of an old cocktail dress she’d had for years. Her wavy chestnut hair shone in the overhead lights, mascara starting to run, accentuating her big brown eyes. Christ, he fancied her! He whispered something in her ear.
Angie threw back her head and laughed. ‘I’ll hold you to that when we get home, Frederick Fox-Titt!’
Meanwhile, Calypso was outside on her mobile dealing with a work call. A shipment of champagne being delivered to a house first thing tomorrow had been held up. ‘When will it be there? My client is going to freak out, she’s holding a brunch for sixty!’ Calypso listened to the person on the other end. ‘No, that won’t do. The brunch will be halfway through by then!’
‘Excuse me,’ a voice said. ‘Is the film party being held here?’
Calypso looked up, cross at the interruption. In the half-light she could see a tall blond man standing there. ‘Yep, it’s inside,’
she said brusquely.
‘Thank you,’ the man said. He had a rich, deep voice.
Calypso nodded and turned her back on him, her mind whirring with angry clients and errant delivery drivers. She didn’t need this shit tonight! ‘Are you still there? Now, what the hell are we going to do?’
When Calypso re-entered the pub several minutes later, she was aware of a different atmosphere. Everything seemed much more charged, the level of conversation hushed and excited. She’d barely taken two steps before Brenda Briggs gripped her arm.
‘Oh my Gawd! Have you seen? He’s here!’
‘Who?’ asked Calypso confusedly. After much cajoling, the problem had been sorted. Her stress levels were still soaring through the roof.
Brenda’s eyes were popping out of her head so far, Calypso thought she must be suffering from an overactive thyroid. Brenda jerked her head violently in the direction of the bar. ‘Him!’ she whispered dramatically. ‘Rafe Wolfe!’
Calypso saw a gaggle of girls, all jostling and flicking their hair. In the middle of it all stood Rafe Wolfe, as though he’d just been beamed down from a Sunset Boulevard billboard. He was at least a foot taller than his admirers, light-blond hair bleached by the sun, complexion tanned and apple-fresh. The baby-pink polo shirt and dark jeans he was wearing couldn’t hide the hardness of a killer body.
Calypso was probably the only female in the pub who wasn’t swooning. Even Freddie Fox-Titt was thinking what a jolly handsome fellow Rafe was. ‘How predictable,’ she thought scornfully, watching the women’s desperate straining faces as they tried to talk to him. Rafe Wolfe towered over them, his arms crossed. Occasionally he would lean down to listen to what someone was saying to him and nod vaguely. He might be sending every female around him crazy, but Calypso thought he looked insufferably smug.
Suddenly Rafe looked over and their eyes met. His were piercing, the colour of a summer sky on a cloudless day. The film star raised his eyebrows and smiled at Calypso, showing off a set of perfect, milk-white teeth. Calypso had an urge to laugh. He was like a walking, talking catalogue model! Across the room, Rafe looked slightly puzzled at her smirk.
