by Fern Britton
‘Look at the photo.’
She looked. It was a picture of two men on stage. One wearing a loud checked suit and a trilby jammed on his head, the other with a monocle and a swagger stick under his arm. The caption read:
Marvellous Max Miller and Pavilion theatre manager Walter Irvine delight audiences at the opening night of Trevay’s latest attraction.
She looked up at him, wrinkling her brow. ‘I still don’t get it.’
‘Look carefully at the man with the stick under his arm. Does he seem familiar?’
She peered closer. ‘Erm … no …’
‘Walter Irvine?’
She shook her head.
‘Better known as Colonel Stick?’
She gasped and looked again. ‘Really?’
‘I’d bet Jack’s life on it.’
Hearing his name, the terrier lifted his head from his paws and wagged his tail.
*
Simon parked his old Volvo outside the vicarage. The large bag of fish and chips on the seat next to him smelled enticingly of warm paper, hot grease and vinegar. He tucked the package under his arm and got out of the car. Immediately the front door opened and Penny flew out, wrapped in a huge beige cashmere poncho and carrying a fat plastic documents folder. She locked the door and kissed her husband.
Simon never failed to be blown away by the fact that this glamorous, exacting, talented, lovely woman was his. He returned her kiss and, blinking soulful chocolate-coloured eyes through his spectacles, he held out his free arm for her to take. ‘Evening, Mrs Canter. Good day?’
She arranged her chic sunglasses on the top of her head and beamed up at him. ‘Great! You? How did the meeting go? Audrey unbearable?’
‘Not bad. Meeting pretty good. Audrey rather helpful.’
‘Excellent.’ The two set off down the vicarage path to walk the short distance across the green to Gull’s Cry. ‘Thanks for getting the chish and fips. Helen wouldn’t tell me what’s going on, but she sounded so excited I reckon Piran must have found something.’
*
‘Pass the ketchup would you, Pen? Thanks.’ Piran squirted a large pool of sauce on the open packet of chips. They hadn’t bothered getting plates out, preferring to eat them straight from the paper wrapping.
For a while the only sound was satisfied munching as everyone tucked in. Then Helen wiped her fingers on a piece of kitchen towel and kicked off the conversation.
‘Simon, you start – how did the meeting go?’
He told them about the plans for fliers in windows, leaflets through letterboxes and letters to the council.
‘Good for Audrey and Geoff. That’ll keep them busy. Who else was there?’
Simon duly listed the attendees, finishing: ‘… and Queenie, of course. She took Colonel Stick under her wing – kept him quiet with aniseed twists.’
Helen paused with a chunk of cod halfway between her plate and her lips. She darted a look at Piran, who shook his head as a warning for her not to say anything just yet.
‘What?’ said Penny, immediately spotting what had passed.
‘All in good time,’ Piran answered infuriatingly. ‘Penny, your turn – any of those actor types in your address book come good?’
Penny clapped her hands together, thrilled with what she had to tell. She moved her fish-and-chip paper to one side and opened the document wallet that had been sitting underneath.
‘I think you’re going to be very pleased!’ She beamed at them, waiting for murmurs of wonder and approval, but kept them waiting a moment too long.
‘Get on with it, woman!’ barked Piran.
‘OK, OK.’ Penny took the papers out of the wallet. ‘Let’s see … I started by emailing the cast of Mr Tibbs; seeing as the series is being filmed locally I thought they’d be supportive. Both David Cunningham and Dahlia Dahling’ – the actors who played the two lead roles, bank-manager-cum-sleuth Mr Tibbs and his secretary Nancy Trumpet – ‘have agreed to help in some way.’
‘That’s jolly good of them,’ said Simon, patting Penny’s arm affectionately.
‘There’s more. The Arts Council are launching a new campaign to get people to support their regional theatres, so we can get some publicity on the back of that. AND – ta-dah! – dear Julian Fellowes has said he might, might, can’t promise in blood, but might …’
‘Yes?’ Helen was on the edge of her seat.
‘… be able to persuade Hugh Bonneville and Maggie Smith to join him for a special Downton Abbey night where they share a kind of behind-the-scenes gossipy chat with the audience.’
‘What’s Downton Abbey?’ asked Piran, frowning.
‘Shut up!’ Helen punched his arm. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘And …’ Penny continued, ‘it looks as though we’ll be getting some memorabilia from Dr Who, signed by cast members, past and present.’
‘David Tennant?’ swooned Helen.
‘Yes, David Tennant. And my man in Hollywood is going to ask Quentin Tarantino’s office for anything the great man can sign and send us too.’
Penny sat back looking very pleased with herself. Simon and Helen could only gaze at her in astonishment, their eyes like saucers.
‘Wow,’ said Helen.
‘’oo’s Quentin Tarantino?’ asked Piran.
After it was explained exactly who Tarantino was, and Penny had poured out the last of the bottle of red wine, Piran pulled out the newspaper cutting he’d shown to Helen earlier that day and passed it to Penny and Simon.
‘’ave a look to that.’
Simon and Penny hunched together and looked. It was Simon who got the connection first.
‘Piran! This is Colonel Stick, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the man who first took charge of the theatre is still in Trevay?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he was a music hall performer who knew Max Miller?’
‘Give the man a cigar!’
‘He was at the meeting today. He told me he’d never missed a show, but I thought he meant a military “show”, that he liked nothing better than to get stuck into a battle. But he meant—’
‘I should think he did.’
Penny was listening hard and had finally put two and two together. ‘So he is the piece of historic interest we need to save the Pavilions?’
‘Correct.’
‘But how exactly? What can Colonel Stick do that could possibly help us save the theatre?’ asked Helen. ‘I mean, I’m sure he has lots of interesting anecdotes about the old days, but how many people really care about music hall now? And why would they be bothered about a retired theatre manager?’
Piran leaned back in his chair and drained his glass. ‘If you birds would finally stop your incessant twittering, I might be able to get a word in and enlighten you.’
Penny and Helen exchanged looks but fell silent.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging. This Colonel Stick isn’t just famous for his music hall act. He was also an avid adopter of amateur film-making back in the day. Judging from all the old theatre press cuttings I’ve dug out, our Colonel was rubbing shoulders with the greats – not just music-hall greats, but the biggest stars of the theatre world. He was friends with the likes of Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, John Gielgud and Richard Burton. And seeing as he was so keen on capturing everything on film, I reckon those old home movies of his could turn out to be some very rare and highly desirable footage.’
Helen, Penny and Simon were agog.
‘And people would be really interested to see this stuff, wouldn’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Film memorabilia is highly sought after. There’ll be collectors out there who would pay a fortune for that sort of stuff,’ added Penny, ever the businesswoman.
‘Right then, I reckon one of us needs to have a chat with our Colonel,’ said Piran.
All eyes turned to Helen.
‘You’re such a people person,’ cooed Penny, nudging her friend in the
ribs.
8
Brooke was in the back of yet another silent, blacked-out limo, speeding down the M4 towards the West Country. The driver was super professional, smart and polite.
‘Good morning, Miss Lynne. Have you any bags you’d like to put in the boot?’
‘Just these, thank you.’
He’d lifted the large heavy aluminium suitcases with a barely audible grunt while she checked her bag for her keys, phone and sunglasses, then locked the front door of the flat and made her way into the sunshine, glancing around quickly for photographers. All clear. The driver was already waiting for her with the door open.
Brooke glanced inside, ready to give Milo a cheery ‘good morning’, but the car was empty apart from a selection of newspapers and a bottle of water standing in the arm rest separating the two back seats.
As if reading her mind, the driver said, ‘Mr James sends his apologies. He’s in meetings all day today. He’ll be travelling to Cornwall this evening.’
He settled her in the car, making sure the skirt of her dress was clear of the door as he shut it and then got in himself.
‘Would you like the radio on, Miss Lynne?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Just let me know if you get too hot or too cold.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you need to stop for anything, just say the word.’
‘I will.’
He hadn’t spoken after that. The car moved smoothly and efficiently, gliding through the London traffic and out on to the westbound M4. It gave her time to think about Milo.
She really did need to talk to him about getting her some acting work. He’d certainly made her a ‘celebrity’ – whatever that meant. Thanks to the gossip columns, she was now mononymous: known by her first name alone. The ‘Lynne’ was seemingly superfluous. (Laverne back in New York would be thrilled.)
More often than not though, when she featured in the media it was as half of BobBro – thanks to some ‘witty’ journalist who’d come up with the idea of combining her name with Bob’s. Dear Bob … the perfect boyfriend. He worshipped her and she adored him. But were worship and adoration the same thing as love?
Was being the face of a coffee company the same as being a respected actress?
The answer to both questions was clear.
Brooke was stuck. She enjoyed being a ‘name’. She enjoyed being ferried in stretch limos to restaurants and photo shoots. Watching the money pouring into her bank account and being showered with celeb freebies was a welcome relief after waitressing to make ends meet. And yet …
She wanted to act. Proper acting. A chilling thought entered her brain and send a shudder through her. Oh God: she was acting. Brooke Lynne was just a part. A character she had created. Had created so successfully that no one could see or remember Brenda Foster. No one wanted Brenda Foster, but they loved Brooke Lynne.
She needed to talk to Milo. Face-to-face. Tonight.
*
Ollie woke with the King Daddy of hangovers. He lay still, waiting for the thumping in his head to subside. As of ten thirty last night he was officially out of work. The end-of-season party had been a very boozy affair. The Knight, Sir Terry, had made an emotional speech to the assembled company, recalling his glory days with ‘Darling Larry, Ralph and Johnny’ before following Ollie to the gents and making a clumsy pass at him.
Ollie groaned, recalling the heartbreaking look of humiliation on Sir Terry’s face as he gently turned him down.
‘Oh, dear boy,’ The Knight had blustered. ‘Please don’t think that I … I would never do anything so … please don’t mention this to anyone … I’d hate to give the wrong impression.’
Ollie’s response had been to give him a firm hug and plant a kiss on his wrinkled cheek. ‘Sir Terry, I’m flattered.’
One thing The Knight had said to him later that night, as they said their final goodbyes had stayed with him and it now rattled around in his brain like a painful ballbearing.
‘My dear boy, you are indeed a pretty face, but you’re a bloody fine actor, too. Never lose sight of that. Make that your focus and don’t get sucked into all the other flim-flam.’
‘By flim-flam, do you mean Red?’ asked Ollie.
‘I mean the fame game, my dear. I’m sure your Red is a wonderful girl. But fame is a fickle mistress. You need to be known for your talent, not for hers.’
His thoughts were interrupted by the shrill ring of his smartphone on the bedside table. He fumbled for it and saw it was Red wanting FaceTime. He pressed the accept button and held the phone up so that she could see him. Her face came into view on the screen.
‘You look like shit,’ she said.
‘Hey, thanks. Good morning to you, too.’
‘Let me see round the room.’
He held the phone up and turned it a full three hundred and sixty degrees.
‘You’re on your own?’ she demanded.
‘Yes. As always.’
‘How was the party? Anyone make a pass at you?’
‘Yes – The Knight.’
‘You turned him down?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Dunno. I haven’t seen you for so long, for all I know you might have turned gay.’
He closed his eyes and didn’t bother to reply. She was getting more and more demanding, and irritating.
Red spoke again: ‘So, now you’re not working, when are you coming out to see me?’
Even if he could have afforded it, especially now that he was unemployed, the last thing he wanted to do was jump on a flight and travel halfway around the world. He longed to get back to his flat in London and hang out with his mates. Sleep a bit. Drink a bit. Have a break. Then look for another job. Despite the constant attention from the media, his new-found fame had yet to result in any big new job. He thought about what Sir Terry had said. Thanks to all the ‘flim-flam’ most directors probably saw him as a liability rather than an asset.
‘Ollie! Have you fallen asleep? Can you hear me?’
He opened his eyes and tried to smile, ‘Sorry, babe. I’m a bit hungover.’
‘So, do you want to come and see me or what?’
‘I would love to, but I really need to sort some stuff out here. Get back home to London, pay the bills, do my washing … You know …’ He trailed off lamely.
Her expression turned sour and she spoke to someone Ollie couldn’t see: ‘He says he’s tired.’
‘Put him on!’ shrieked a German-accented voice. Henrik’s overplucked eyebrows and satsuma tan filled the screen. ‘Why are you tired, Actor Boy? Do you perform to hundreds of thousands of people screaming your name every night? Do you give your entire soul to the world, every second of every day?’ He didn’t wait for Ollie to answer. ‘No! Yet you whine about being tired. You don’t know the meaning of the word, Actor Boy.’
Ollie’s headache suddenly got a whole lot worse.
*
Ryan reached for Jess’s hand across the armrest of their first-class seats. She was sleeping. The elastic on the left-hand side of her eye mask had forced her hair into a loop, exposing a freckled ear. She was making little pppfff noises through her slack lips. He forced down a desire to pinch them shut.
The Thai holiday had, to all intents and purposes, been a great success. Ryan had spoiled Jess rotten. He’d sunbathed on the beach or sweated in the gym while she indulged herself in the spa and availed herself of Rick, the resort’s not unattractive, and infuriatingly straight, personal trainer. Between Rick and the crack team of beauty therapists, Jess had dropped ten pounds and fifteen years.
Ryan had enjoyed the best sex with her that he could remember. The old Jess was back.
He tweaked her hand three times, the shared code meaning ‘I Love You’, one word per squeeze. She stirred and gave a snorey snort before lifting her eye mask and wiping a dribble of saliva from the corner of her mouth.
‘Hello.’ He leaned forward and kissed her.
She smiled sleepily
at him. ‘What time is it?’
‘We’re about an hour to landing.’
‘Great.’ She stretched extravagantly, extending her hands above her head, and marvelled at her tanned and streamlined arms. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time. The lines across her forehead had vanished. The crevasses either side of her eyes had softened to mere culverts – and attractive culverts at that. Her hip bones had fought their way out of her flesh and her legs were showing signs of muscle definition. Ryan couldn’t keep his hands off her and had actually shown signs of jealousy when Rick, the trainer, had paid her a few compliments in front of him.
‘That bloody man fancies you,’ he’d huffed, having had the uncomfortable experience of watching Rick put his hands all over Jess as she lifted some very heavy weights.
‘Who? Rick?’ Jess had asked, genuinely astonished.
The next day, during their gym session, Jess had flirted gently with Rick and, to her amazement, he had definitely flirted back.
A few days into their holiday, the Venini press office had arranged for a photo agency to grab some ‘caught unawares’ photos of Ryan looking hunky on the beach. Jess and Rick happened to jog past at the moment the shots were taken, and the magazines back home had been full of photos showing ‘Ryan Hearst’s long-term lover working hard to keep her man’. To Ryan’s annoyance, those photos had appeared in a considerably larger format than the ones showing his toned body.
The camp elocution of the purser came over the intercom: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are due to land at London Heathrow in approximately forty minutes. Can we ask you now to adjust your seats to the upright position, put your tray tables away and fold any blankets or pillows ready for the cabin crew to collect. Thanking you.’
Ryan handed his blanket to Jess and stood up. ‘I think I’ll just stretch my legs.’ He stepped over her, leaving his newspapers and his leather gladiator sandals in a heap on the floor, and set off down the aisle towards the bathroom in his flight socks.
Jess started clearing up the detritus of several hours in the air. She suspected that Ryan didn’t really need to stretch his legs; what he needed was some public love.
Sure enough he had made his way down the aisle and pushed aside the coarse and scratchy pleated curtain that separated the wealthy from the hoi polloi. Giving it a count of twenty, he stood there gazing deeply into as many eyes as he could lock onto, waiting patiently until the signs of recognition began. It started with a few elbows nudging the ribs of their neighbour, then eyes widening and broad smiles, then a ripple of sound as his name was murmured, with row after row picking up the refrain like a Mexican wave of whispers.
