The Hen Party

by Cathy Bramley

  Before Molly left, we’d worked out how to make our own beauty treatments using store-cupboard ingredients and she’d given me a quick demonstration of her Indian head massage, which apparently did something to my chakras. Whatever it was, it sent me to sleep and when I woke up she’d gone and had scribbled the number of Deliciously Devon, the catering firm she’d mentioned, on a Post-it note and told me to ask for Angie.

  I checked my watch as I headed into the village. The hen party was arriving in six hours but I wasn’t worried; everything was coming together, all I needed was alcohol and food …

  Seafood would wow my sophisticated guests and Brightside Cove had its very own supplier. What could be more delicious than freshly caught crab for our lunch tomorrow?

  I found Big Dave inside his shack, mending one of his lobster cages. He was nailing lengths of plastic plumber’s pipe into a wooden pallet.

  The smell of fish was overwhelming and only my good manners prevented me from holding my nose. I’d only seen him from a distance before. Close up he looked like a grizzly bear with an enormous grey beard and a mass of straggly hair squished under a woolly hat.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, not quite knowing whether to call him Dave or Big Dave.

  He gave the nail one final bash and looked up.

  ‘Nina Penhaligon.’ He eyed me with curiosity. ‘I’ve been hoping to meet you. How are you bearing up under the glare of the public eye? Takes its toll, doesn’t it?’

  I remembered Molly referring to him as a celebrity, perhaps he’d had his fair share of unwanted attention too.

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better now I’m away from it.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Dave, pleased to meet you.’ He dropped the hammer and grabbed my hand to shake it. His hands were rough and warm, his T-shirt bore the slogan ‘Catch of the Day’ and there were what looked like shreds of lobster shell in his beard. ‘Nurse Elsie’s not really going to die, is she? I read all the articles but I can’t work out whether you’re bluffing or not.’

  ‘You’ll have to keep watching to find out, I’m afraid,’ I said with a grin. ‘I’m sworn to absolute secrecy.’ And this time I meant to keep my promise.

  ‘Oh, I will watch. So,’ he pointed to a piece of blackboard suspended from the door on orange twine, ‘what you after – crab, lobster? What is it – romantic meal? Dinner party?’

  ‘Lunch for twelve tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ve got guests coming who are expecting excellent food. I thought I’d serve crab salad.’

  Food for guests in the past had been a takeaway from The Hot Wok in Clapham. This was catering at a whole new level for me. I felt hot just thinking about it.

  Big Dave straightened up proudly. ‘You won’t get better live crabs in Devon. Guaranteed.’

  ‘Live crabs?’ I baulked, conjuring up an image of a pot of boiling water and a bucket full of innocent crabs … I gave myself a shake. I’d be fine. Probably, and Theo could help.

  Dave laughed, which made his belly shake and his eyes crinkle.

  ‘I can prepare and cook them for you, if you like? Perhaps garlic and chilli crab salad served with local crusty bread?’

  My mouth was watering just thinking about it. ‘You could do that?’

  He scratched his beard. ‘I couldn’t do dinner, I’m already booked up tomorrow, but lunch is possible. Pricey but possible.’

  I waved a hand; Sapphire had made it clear that money was no object.

  ‘Deal,’ I said happily, and we shook hands again. ‘So you’re a chef as well as a fisherman?’

  ‘Don’t you recognize me?’ He pushed up the edge of his hat to reveal an extra inch of face. ‘Dave Hope? I was a finalist on MasterChef years ago. My steamed razor clams with oyster sauce made the judges cry.’

  Happy tears, I presumed, given Big Dave’s beam of pride. His name was ringing a bell now; I had a vague memory of a winner who opened a fine-dining restaurant, won every culinary prize going but then went bankrupt and lost everything.

  ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘Didn’t you open a seafood restaurant?’

  ‘Yeah. Hope on a Plate. East coast of England. My home turf.’

  ‘And now you’re in Devon. Quite a long way from home,’ I said.

  I picked up an oval stone from his work bench and turned it over in my hands. It was smooth and flat. The perfect skimmer. A sudden memory hit me of a hot summer’s day standing ankle deep in foamy water, a large warm hand over mine, showing me how to make stones kiss the surface of the sea. And my eyes, something about the colour of my eyes … But as quickly as it came the picture faded and I was back listening to Big Dave’s tale of woe.

  ‘… so getting away from everything seemed like the best solution. I’d dreamed of opening my own bistro for years. But …’ He stroked his beard wistfully. ‘It turned out to be Hopeless on a Plate. I was to blame, of course; I coped really badly with fame. That’s why I asked how you were doing.’

  ‘What do you mean by coping badly?’ I asked, feeling a pang of recognition.

  Big Dave stared out to sea.

  ‘I’m a walking example of how not to deal with success. I’d spent years honing my skills as a chef. It was all I ever wanted to do from being a kid.’

  ‘Sounds like me and acting.’ I smiled.

  ‘Winning the TV show propelled me into the spotlight. I opened the restaurant and I was living my dream. But I played up to the cameras, I forgot I was just a chef and I became a man about town, attending every party, rubbing shoulders with the stars. I spent so much time chasing press coverage to keep my profile high that the business floundered.’

  ‘Do you regret taking part in MasterChef?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but I regret losing sight of what I loved, which was cooking. I should have remained true to myself.’

  ‘But if your fame was linked to your culinary skills, that was okay, surely? I long for the day I’m an instantly recognizable actress.’

  Big Dave pulled a face. ‘I thought it was great to begin with. I was the first famous person ever to have come from my town. There was talk of a statue at one point. Everyone was so proud.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said. Listening to Big Dave was like getting a tutorial on how not to handle fame. ‘If you had your time again, what would you do differently?’

  ‘I’d be proud of who I was, what I’d achieved, and I’d let my cooking do the talking. And if I had done that, I’d still have my own restaurant today.’

  He heaved a big sigh and looked at me wistfully. ‘But that was a long time ago; I don’t like to talk about it,’ he finished off, pressing his lips together firmly.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ I said, wondering how long I’d have been here if he had wanted to talk about it.

  ‘Now I just cook for myself and special clients.’

  ‘Well, lucky us,’ I said with a grin. Having an award-winning chef on tap was another huge plus point to add to the Brightside Holidays website and I couldn’t wait to tell Theo about him. ‘I am so glad we met.’

  ‘Me too.’ Big Dave smiled shyly. ‘So crab salad, twelve covers, shall we say one o’clock tomorrow?’

  ‘Deal.’ I started to move away and then hesitated. ‘Dave … my sudden blast of fame has thrown me a bit too. Any advice?’

  His wise face softened and he patted my arm. ‘Use it wisely and remain true to yourself and you won’t go far wrong.’

  We swapped numbers in case of any problems before I left him to carry on with his lobster cage repairs. Sapphire Spencer couldn’t fail to be impressed by tomorrow’s lunch. This was turning out better than I could have dreamed of. Next stop, The Sea Urchin pub to place an order for enough alcohol to quench the thirst of twelve hens …

  Thirty minutes later, the bar at Driftwood Lodge had been well and truly stocked. Raquel, the landlady, had recommended wines, given me instructions for a few simple cocktails, suggested a selection of mixers, and had even let me borrow some glasses for the weekend. And after extracting a promise to have it
all delivered before the hen party arrived, I left her ordering some extra cases of champagne from her wine merchant.

  My final job before returning to Driftwood Lodge was to source some supplies for our beauty treatments.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ I said brightly, pushing open the door of Jethro’s General Store.

  ‘Wasn’t about to,’ he said, knocking his baseball cap up to make it easier to scowl at me. ‘I’ve got Policeman’s heel. I’m in purgatory over here. I’d complain but no one would listen.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ I murmured. ‘I’ll help myself.’

  There wasn’t exactly a wide range of buckets but there were four yellow ones in the shape of castles so I bought them all plus four washing-up bowls.

  ‘What do you want all those for?’ said Jethro, wincing as he got to his feet, too nosy to stay seated.

  ‘The usual,’ I said innocently. ‘Putting sand in.’

  For our Brightside beach sand pedicures. Another DIY beauty treatment we’d pilfered from the internet. Honestly, I didn’t know why people bothered going to fancy spas. All you needed was water, sand, coconut oil and salt.

  ‘Heard you got visitors this weekend. From London,’ he muttered suspiciously.

  ‘Good news travels fast.’ I put the buckets on the counter and handed him the exact money. God forbid I made work for him by having to give me change. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they don’t bother you.’

  ‘They already have. Big Dave has just been in. Cleared me out of lemons. Well, the lemon. I was going to have that for my tea.’ He gave me a sideways glance. ‘On Sunday. Don’t know what I’ll have now. Still. Don’t you worry about me.’

  I could see where this was going. I had to get out of the shop quickly or I’d end up inviting him to ours.

  ‘Have you got a bag, please?’ I asked.

  While Jethro tutted and ferreted about under the counter for something big enough, the door opened and a tall man wearing wetsuit bottoms, sunglasses and flip-flops sauntered in holding a camera followed by Eliza, looking very curvaceous in a full-body wetsuit.

  Her face lit up when she saw me. ‘Hey, beauty!’

  ‘Only one child at a time,’ said Jethro, appearing from under the counter with a black bin liner.

  ‘Ha ha,’ Eliza said, pretending to grip her sides with mirth.

  ‘Yep. Very funny,’ agreed the tall man. ‘As ever.’

  ‘Why is that funny?’ I asked, greeting Eliza with a hug.

  ‘He’s been saying that to us since we started school,’ she said wearily.

  ‘This is your brother?’

  It was obvious now that I looked properly. The man was a good head and shoulders taller than his sister but he had identical intense blue eyes, a similar snub nose and blonde hair, although his didn’t have pink tips.

  ‘That joke never gets old.’ Jethro made a wheezing noise, which I realized was as close as he probably got to a laugh. He pushed the bin liner towards me. ‘All I’ve got, take it or leave it.’

  I thanked him for his kindness and put my purchases in it.

  ‘So you’re the man I have to thank for blowing my cover last week,’ I said archly.

  He reached for my hand. ‘Danny Tyler, sex god and professional photographer at your service.’

  ‘I’ve heard it all now,’ Jethro muttered.

  ‘And what do you need to say to Nina?’ Eliza nudged him.

  ‘I owe you an apology for dobbing you in on Facebook last week.’ He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. And then ruined it by adding, ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Danny!’ she cried.

  ‘We-ll,’ he said with a casual shrug. ‘She probably enjoyed the attention.’

  ‘It was quite annoying, actually,’ I said, shaking off his hand.

  ‘Use my shop as a youth club, why don’t you?’ Jethro piped up, lowering himself with exaggerated care into his chair. ‘Don’t mind me. I’ll just sit here and ponder what to have for my tea on Sunday. While someone eats my lemon.’

  ‘We’ll get out of your way, Jethro,’ said Eliza, pushing me towards the door.

  ‘Until next time, dude,’ said Danny, winking at him. ‘Be lucky.’

  ‘At my age?’ we heard him chunter as we left the shop. ‘Lucky to be alive, you mean.’

  I checked the time and prepared to make my getaway. I still had to make contact with Angie of Deliciously Devon and make a shopping list for food for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  ‘Bye then—’ I began.

  ‘So,’ Danny interrupted me by clapping his hands, ‘I thought we’d head for the rocks at the far side of the cove.’ He took the lens cap off his camera, zoomed into my face and then lowered it to his chest. ‘Freckles. Cool.’

  ‘See, I knew you’d like her,’ Eliza said smugly.

  ‘The lens likes her,’ he corrected smoothly, ‘I think we can work together.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ I said drily.

  ‘Great. So if you want to get the clobber on?’ he said, nudging me towards Eliza’s shop.

  I looked at her. ‘What clobber?’

  ‘The Peacock Mermaid tail you chose yesterday definitely suits your colouring,’ she said, looping her arm through mine. ‘We’ll do the pictures for my website in that.’

  She began to move but I stayed rooted to the spot.

  ‘But I can’t do a photo shoot today!’ I shot her a panicky look. ‘I’ve got the Maidens of Mayfair in limos, right now, heading this way.’

  ‘They’ll be hours,’ said Danny cheerily. ‘The motorway is at a standstill. Heard it on the news.’

  ‘It won’t take long and you did promise,’ said Eliza, increasing the grip on my arm.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Quick sticks,’ she said, chivvying me forwards. ‘You’re in a hurry, remember.’

  It suddenly dawned on me that the two of them were dressed for the water.

  ‘I’m not going to get wet, am I?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Eliza shook her head solemnly.

  ‘Scouts’ honour,’ said Danny, tapping his forehead in a two-fingered salute.

  ‘Because that’s non-negotiable,’ I said sternly.

  Chapter 7

  I put on the shell-clad bikini and pulled my shirt on over it. The tail would have to go on once we made it down to the rocks.

  ‘This is it. My big break.’ Eliza passed Danny the bag containing the mermaid tail while she locked the shop door and stuck a note to it saying she’d be back in half an hour.

  ‘I keep pinching myself. My first proper customers are TV celebrities and I’ll have an actress on my website wearing one of my outfits. My dream is coming true thanks to you, Nina. This time next year I’ll be famous and people will be travelling from all over the country to be a mermaid for the day.’

  ‘Glad to help,’ I said happily. I knew that feeling of euphoria. I’d been the same when I’d landed the role in Victory Road, that things were going my way, my dreams were coming true. Not exactly Keira Knightley status yet, but on my way. ‘But what about your shop? You won’t be able to keep popping out when you’ve got clients.’

  ‘I shall delegate the shop to another member of my team,’ she said airily, ‘while I’m busy making a success of the mermaid school.’

  ‘Hmmm. I do want to help you with your photo shoot, Eliza,’ I said, checking the time again anxiously. ‘But I want Brightside Holidays to be a success too, for Theo and Kate’s sake. Do we really have to do this now?’

  She nodded. ‘The website is ready to launch; all I need are the photographs.’

  ‘And I’ve only got today off work,’ Danny added. ‘In demand, me.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’ I followed the pair of them past the harbour and along the path to the far end of the cove.

  Danny’s dream, he confided on the way, was to work full time as a photographer. He was doing an evening course at college and by day worked in a high-street photographic shop, churning out other people’s holida
y snaps.

  ‘I need these pictures for my portfolio,’ Danny went on. ‘My only claim to fame so far is taking a passport photograph for Jude Law. He came to Devon on holiday and had his passport stolen. He let me keep one of them and signed it for me, saying it was the worst holiday of his life. Happy days.’

  We walked as far as the old lifeboat house at the edge of the bay. It was a rather lovely brick building; it had a pitched roof topped with a pointed statue at one end, long narrow windows down each side and a quirky bay window just below the front gable. If it hadn’t been for the double doors at the front wide enough to fit a boat through and the rough concrete slipway running down towards the water, it could easily be mistaken for a chapel. It was all a bit battered and shabby now, but pretty nonetheless, and I bet it had seen many adventures before it had been replaced by the modern lifeboat station further down the coast.

  We went round the far side and set our bags down where we were sheltered from the prying eyes of a group of six surfers who’d just piled out of a camper van and were currently loitering at the shoreline. The sand was soft and warmed by the sun beneath my toes, but the air had a nip in it. Danny walked off to the water to locate the best spot for our shoot and Eliza unzipped the bag containing the costume.

  I pulled on the tail over bikini bottoms and Eliza fitted the nylon fin into the end. She brushed my hair until it shone and fixed a tiny circlet of shells on top of my head. All I had to do was take my shirt off and my transformation would be complete.

  Danny whistled to us. ‘Found the perfect spot!’ he yelled, pointing to a large rock jutting out from the water about twenty metres from shore. ‘Come on!’

  ‘That’s halfway to France.’ I looked down at my tail. ‘How do I get down there?’

  Eliza wrinkled her nose. ‘We roll you down the slipway?’

  I glanced over at the surfers, who’d now abandoned any pretence at watching the waves and were sitting on their surfboards staring at us. Or rather, at me.

  ‘Like a beached whale? No way. Can’t I wade out to the rock and then put the costume on in situ?’

  ‘You’ll never manage it without getting the tail wet. Besides, these tails are a devil to get into when your skin is wet. And you might fall over, or snag the fabric on the rocks. Either way the pictures would be ruined.’