by Fern Britton
‘Quite!’ Penny smiled at the thought. ‘And what have you been up to while I’ve been gone?’
‘You’re going to be very impressed with me. Remember what I said about trying my hand at a few articles for the local press? Well, after I’d submitted a bunch of homes and gardens pieces, the Cornish Guardian turned round and offered me a weekly column! They want me to write about what’s on locally: arts and crafts, shopping, eating out … The pay’s not great, but it’s a start.’
‘Oh, bravo you! That’ll suit you down to the ground – you’ve always had a genius for finding the best little cafés and galleries and boutiques, and spotting what’s going to be the next big thing.’
‘Well, I’d like to think I haven’t completely lost my London cool,’ Helen returned with mock modesty.
‘Better not let the locals hear you say that – they’ll hang you out to dry!’ They both laughed, but then Penny asked, ‘Speaking of locals, how are things with Piran? Still the embodiment of brooding male?’
‘Yep.’
‘Things are OK, though?’
‘Yeah. I know he loves me and I know that if we lived in each other’s pockets, or under the same roof, we’d drive each other mad …’ It struck Helen that she was trying to convince herself as much as her friend. She let out a small sigh and admitted, ‘All the same, I wouldn’t mind a bit of romance every now and again.’
‘I thought he was your dream man – Marco Pierre White and Heathcliffe rolled into one. All broody moody and drop-dead gorgeous with it?’
‘He is gorgeous, and my heart still flutters and all those things, but he’s just so …’
Penny chimed in on the final word: ‘… Piran.’ They both grinned.
‘He wouldn’t be seen dead on a Mediterranean cruise,’ said Helen.
‘Hardly surprising. One look at Piran and the crew would have him swinging from the yardarm!’
‘True, true,’ Helen laughed. ‘He hasn’t had a haircut all summer and he’s starting to look even more like Bluebeard than Bluebeard himself!’
‘I’ve got you a present, by the way.’ Penny rummaged in her voluminous handbag. ‘Here –’ She passed over a duty-free carrier bag.
‘Ooh, a treat!’ Helen pulled out a bottle of her favourite perfume: Cristalle by Chanel. ‘Oh, Pen, thank you.’ She threw her arm round her friend’s tanned shoulders and hugged her. ‘I’m going over to Piran’s tonight. I’ll splash plenty of this on.’
‘Who’s cooking?’
‘Piran. Dinner will be whatever he catches this afternoon.’ Helen tucked the bottle of perfume safely into her straw shopping basket before asking, ‘By the way, where’s Simon?’
‘Back at the vicarage. He’s going through all his post and emails, and then he’s got his sermon to write for Sunday. I thought it better to leave him to it.’
‘Did he wear his dog collar on holiday?’
‘It took some persuading, but no – thank God. It seems being a vicar is a bit like being a doctor: the minute people find out your profession, particularly in a confined space like a boat, they start coming to you with their problems. He’d have had everyone asking him to marry them, or cast out demons or whatever.’
Helen couldn’t suppress a snigger at the thought of Simon casting out demons on a cruise liner. She shook her head in mock reproach. ‘Penny, you’re an awful vicar’s wife.’
‘Tell me about it! I keep reminding him that I married him for who he is, not because of his job. The Worst Vicar’s Wife in Britain – that’s me. Hey, that’s a great idea for a programme, let me write it down.’ Penny pulled out her iPhone and spent a few moments typing. When she’d finished, she couldn’t resist checking her emails. Thanks to the huge success of Mr Tibbs, a series based on Mavis Carew’s popular crime novels – filmed locally and starring Dahlia Dahling – she was being fêted by TV executives worldwide, eager to get their hands on a second series. She was also being inundated with screenplays and requests from writers and their agents, convinced that Penny Leighton Productions had the Midas touch.
As she checked her emails, the phone rang and she answered it.
‘Hello, Simon. I’m in Trevay with Helen … No, I haven’t seen the paper … The local one? … OK … I’ll get it now … Why? … Oh! What do they expect you to do? … Me? … Let me look at it and then we can talk later … Love you too, bye.’
‘What was that about?’ asked Helen.
‘Something about saving the Pavilions. Let’s get a paper and I’ll buy you a coffee … maybe even a glass of vino.’
*
Piran Ambrose was in his office at the Trevay Museum, hurrying to finish the day’s tasks so that he could get out in his boat and catch the tide for a spot of mackerel fishing. He swore under his breath when the phone on his desk rang, his hand hovering over the receiver indeci-sively before picking up.
‘Yes.’
‘Piran? It’s me, Simon.’
Piran breathed a sigh of relief. He and the vicar had been friends for many years, supporting each other through some difficult times.
‘Simon! Welcome home, how was the holiday with your maid?’
‘Simply wonderful. Marriage is to be recommended, Piran.’
Piran decided to ignore the obvious implications in this comment. ‘How can I help you, Simon?’
‘It’s the Pavilions – there’s a report in the paper that the council are about to sell the place to a coffee chain. Possibly Café Au Lait.’
‘Good idea. The building is falling apart. It needs money spending on it, or knocking down.’
Simon was shocked. ‘You can’t mean that? You’re our local historian – surely you of all people want to save the old place?’
Piran put one leg up on his desk and tipped his chair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he didn’t get a move on he’d miss the tide. ‘It’s an eyesore, Simon. We’re not talking about some Frank Matcham theatre of distinction here. The Pavilions is a fifties, flat-roof, jerry-built dinosaur that hasn’t made any money in decades.’
‘But the Sea Scouts and the WI and … the Trevay Players …’
Piran sniffed with disdain at the mention of the local amateur dramatic company.
‘… and the Arts and Crafts Show, and … er …’
‘Exactly. It’s not exactly a top-drawer venue, is it?’
‘Piran, please. I’ve already had emails from all sorts of people asking me to be on the board of an action committee. I thought you might want to lend us your support, maybe dig out some facts of historical importance.’
Piran scratched his beard and pulled on the gold hoop in his ear. ‘OK. Let me think about it.’
‘I knew you’d help.’
‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’d help. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’
The men rang off, each hoping the other would see sense. Swinging his leg off the desk and springing to his feet, Piran hurried out of his office before the phone had a chance to ring again.
Down in the lobby, Janet, the museum receptionist, was so engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t look up until he called, ‘Bye, Janet. I’m finished for the day. See you tomorrow.’
‘Piran, sorry I didn’t hear you. I was reading this –’ She held up the front page so he could read the headline:
THE END FOR THE PAVILIONS?
‘I’d be ever so sad to see the old place go. My parents used to take me there every summer to see the big shows. Remember when Morecambe and Wise had a season here? Sold out every night. They were on the same bill as … oh what were they called … The Bachelors, that’s it! Lovely boys, they were. Great music.’
‘Not exactly The Beatles, were they?’ sniffed Piran, unimpressed. ‘Not my thing, Janet, see you tomorrow.’
Janet persisted, ‘But it’s heartbreaking. There’ll be a lot of people with a lot of memories.’
‘It’s a white elephant and an architectural mess.’
Leaving Janet shaking her head in disbelief he stamped out
of the door with Jack, his devoted Jack Russell, scampering behind him.
*
Out on the balcony of the Sail Loft, the new wine bar overlooking the inner harbour, Penny was reading the paper too, with Helen squinting over her shoulder at the photos.
‘It’s rather a sweet building, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘If you like the garish fifties Festival of Britain look,’ snorted Penny.
‘That was a great era,’ protested Helen. ‘The war was over. Rationing was coming to an end. Women could wear full skirts and feminine clothes again.’
‘And Trevay built the Pavilions.’ Penny began to read aloud. ‘It says here, “The opening summer season in 1954 ran for twelve weeks. Local man, Walter Irvine, was the first theatre manager. He called in favours from stars he’d worked with before the war, including top comedian Max Miller. Miller, best known for his risqué jokes, topped the bill and made the theatre one of the most successful entertainment venues of its day. It’s hard to imagine that now. The building is succumbing to half a century of Atlantic gales battering it from all sides on its prominent position on the Trevay headland. It is thought that the new owners may be Café Au Lait, the coffee chain well known for buying up buildings of interest and investing multimillions in redevelopment. Could they be the Pavilions’ saviour? Have your say: email your thoughts to … blah blah blah.”’ Penny closed the paper and picked up her glass of wine. ‘Another lost cause for Simon to get involved with.’
Helen chinked her glass with Penny’s. ‘Welcome home!’
They sat without speaking, enjoying their own thoughts and easy in each other’s company. Helen’s eyes wandered up to the headland and the familiar outline of the Pavilions. From this distance it looked rather grand. Onion domes either side of the grand entrance, silvered central cupola above the auditorium and the tall fly tower behind. The building was still painted in its sugared-almond colours of pale blue, pink and yellow, albeit now cracked and faded. It was in a good location, away from the ancient narrow streets of Trevay, with the spectacular backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean behind it. With all that open space it had the benefit of a large car park (now used for car boot sales) and no neighbours to complain about noisy late-night exoduses.
Helen sipped on her chilled glass of wine and shifted her focus back to the harbour. The tide was high but on its way out. She looked along the floating pontoons to the spot where Piran kept his boat tied up. It was still there. He’d better hurry if he was going to catch supper and get back before low tide. Then she saw him; his familiar gait, slightly bow-legged in his faded, shabby jeans, but very attractive. His arms hung loosely by his sides, the wind ruffling his long dark curls, lifting them to reveal the grey at his temples. His hands, nut brown, were pulled from the pockets of his salt-stained fisherman’s smock in order to pick up little Jack and help him into the boat. Helen smiled as Jack went straight to the bow and put his paws up on the ledge, almost like a living figurehead.
‘Look, there’s Piran,’ said Penny.
‘Mmm, I saw him. I wonder what he’ll say about this Pavilions business?’
‘He’ll be all for saving the place, I should think. As the local historian, he’s bound to be part of this action committee Simon was talking about. I’ve a sinking feeling that this campaign is going to be the bane of both our lives if we’re not careful.’
*
‘Hi, honey, I’m hoooome!’ sang Penny as she shut the front door of the vicarage behind her.
‘I’m in the kitchen, Pen.’
‘I hope the kettle’s on.’ Penny walked into her kitchen and had the wind taken out of her sails when she found several familiar, if not entirely welcome, faces round her table.
Penny furrowed her brow slightly at the sight of Audrey Tipton’s determined features peering at her sternly over a teacup.
‘Audrey, Geoff, what an unexpected pleasure!’ Penny oozed, with as much sincerity as she could muster, only to be greeted by a tight-lipped nod from Audrey.
‘Pen, Queenie, Geoff, Audrey and I are debating what, if anything, we can do to save the Pavilions.’
Penny dropped a few teabags into the pot. ‘I guessed as much.’ She nodded her head slowly. A woman of indeterminable age (somewhere between fifty-five and seventy-five was Penny’s best guess) and indomitable disposition, Audrey Tipton was a powerhouse in tweed. She was chairwoman of the Pendruggan village Women’s Institute, the church flower committee and the Village in Bloom committee. Her husband, Geoff, was widely referred to behind his back as Mr Audrey Tipton, due to his total subservience to his wife.
Next to Geoff sat Queenie, owner of the only shop in the village and a gold-medal gossip who couldn’t bear to be left out of anything, which explained her presence at the table.
‘Hello, Queenie!’ Penny stooped to give the friendliest of the faces a kiss, and got a damp whiskery one in return.
‘’Ello, me duck. Coo, you look like you’ve caught the sun. ’Ow was yer second ’oneymoon?’ She gave one of her crackly tobacco-induced laughs and nudged Simon’s elbow. ‘She looks like you gave ’er a proper good time, an’ no mistake!’
Simon turned a deep shade of pink at this, but Penny merely grinned and set about filling the kettle. ‘Don’t you go embarrassing my husband, Queenie. You are a very naughty woman.’
Desperate to steer the conversation away from his personal life and back to the matter in hand, Simon cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, we’re having a meeting about what can be done to save the Pavilions.’
Audrey Tipton fixed Penny with a challenging stare. ‘You got here at just the right moment. We’ve decided that you are critical to our campaign.’
‘Oh?’ replied Penny coolly.
Audrey was not to be intimidated. ‘Yes. As you move in the world of “celebrities”’ – this was accompanied by an unpleasant little smirk, which her husband dutifully mirrored – ‘you can organise a troupe of actors to come down and put on some sort of event to raise the profile of the campaign.’
‘Ah, I see. Would you like me to phone Judi Dench and David Attenborough now, or shall I wait until tomorrow?’ Penny gave a sweet smile and plonked a plate of HobNobs on the table.
‘This is no laughing matter, Mrs Canter. May I remind you that without the co-operation of this village, your Mr Tibbs Mysteries series would never have got off the ground.’ She turned to her husband and commanded: ‘Geoffrey, pour me a cup of tea.’ Then her icy gaze returned to Penny. ‘If you weren’t the vicar’s wife, the whole exercise would have been doomed to fail.’
Penny gritted her teeth and reminded herself that as the vicar’s wife she had a duty to be civil to parishioners, no matter how trying they might be. ‘Audrey, the series was conceived long before I became the vicar’s wife. There’s more to a successful series than—’
‘That may well be the case,’ Audrey cut her off huffily. ‘But without the goodwill and co-operation of the villagers, you would find it very difficult indeed to do your shooting. I do have some influence, you know,’ she added ominously.
Penny felt anger rise in her. She was vaguely conscious of Simon and Geoff holding their breath, and Queenie leaning forward as if she was hoping Penny would give in to temptation and crown Audrey with the teapot. Instead she set the teapot carefully on the table and enquired in a calm, cool voice, ‘Are you blackmailing me, Mrs Tipton?’
‘Not at all, not at all!’ trilled Mrs Tipton, pushing back her chair and standing up. ‘I’m just stating the facts, that’s all. Come along, Geoffrey, it’s time for your dinner.’
As Audrey swept out regally, her submissive husband trailing in her wake, Penny turned to Simon and threw her hands in the air, ‘Oh the life of a vicar’s wife!’
‘For better or for worse, darling,’ Simon reminded her.
‘Don’t push your luck, sunshine!’ growled Penny.
3
Ollie Pinkerton was feeling good. The gym was buzzing today and his pre-breakfast workout had gone well. He zipped
up his jeans, checked his gelled hair in the changing-room mirror and hefted his sports bag onto his shoulder.
Out in the members’ lounge he queued for a skinny mochaccino.
‘Hi, Ollie. What can I get you?’ asked the smiling woman behind the counter.
‘The usual, please, Lou. You still on for tonight’s show?’
It was Lou’s silver wedding anniversary and he had given her a couple of complimentary tickets for The Merry Wives of Windsor at Stratford’s RSC.
‘Oooh, yes. Graeme and I are really looking forward to it. You sure it’s OK?’ Ever so kind of you. We couldn’t afford those prices.’
‘My pleasure.’ Ollie gave her his winning beam of a smile. He hadn’t bothered to tell her that the tickets were comps. ‘We’ll be nicely warmed up for you after this afternoon’s matinee,’ he said, opening his wallet to pay for the coffee.
‘No, no, Ollie. On the house.’
He trousered the five-pound note speedily and thanked her. Just because he was an actor with the Royal Shakespeare Company didn’t mean he was minted.
Collecting his coffee he threaded his way through clusters of tables and chairs to an empty two-seater brown leather sofa in front of a huge television screen showing highlights of a tennis tournament.
On the seat next to him was a copy of the Daily Mail. He flicked through it, only half engaged, until he saw a large photo of himself with a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend. Shit. The headline blared ‘Still Seeing Red, Ollie?’ Shit shit shit.
His phone began to vibrate in his back pocket. He pulled it out, wincing when he saw the caller ID, his pocket rocket rock star girlfriend, ‘Red’.
‘Hi, babe,’ he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Didn’t expect to hear from you this early. How’s Sydney? How’s the show?’
‘How am I supposed to do a show when my boyfriend is shagging around?’ was Red’s blisteringly chilly response.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Henrik just showed me the Mail Online.’
Ollie resisted the urge to swear. Red’s smarmy PA seemed to think the best way to ingratiate himself with Red and worm his way into her good books was to make her suspicious of everyone else. Unfortunately, he’d succeeded; Red wouldn’t hear a word against the little creep. When Ollie had been unwise enough to joke that Henrik was more PITA than PA, she’d turned on him, demanding, ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’
