A Seaside Affair

by Fern Britton

  ‘Brooke? Broo-ooke.’ Penny, no respecter of others’ privacy, and having had no response from the front door of Granny’s Nook, was now stepping through the wild back garden and peering through the rear windows. ‘Broo-ooo-ooke. Where the bloody hell are you?’

  Brooke had been rather elusive lately. Penny couldn’t fault her work (voluntary) or the time (unpaid) that she was putting into the Pavilions appeal, and totally understood that Brooke was a jobbing actress who needed to keep up her professional profile, but she was being most mysterious about it.

  It had all started a couple of weeks ago when Brooke picked up the latest issue of Woman’s Own. ‘Oh, the bastards!’ she gasped.

  Penny, who’d been in the middle of sending a tweet about the imminent transmission of the Mr Tibbs series, looked up in surprise. Brooke, pale-faced and shaking, was staring down at the magazine. ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘Look at this –’ Brooke passed the magazine to Penny. It was opened to show a large photo of Bob Wetherby with a beautiful female sprinter to whom he’d just become engaged.

  Penny shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t worry if I were you. The two of you haven’t been an item for months, it’s only natural he should find someone else.’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about that.’ Brooke leaned over and pointed to a photo on the opposite page. ‘But why did those bastards have to take a cheap shot at me?’

  Penny put her glasses on and immediately things became clear. Opposite the page of gorgeous Bob and his Bahamian beauty was a photo of a bedraggled Brooke walking through Trevay and looking miserable. It was accompanied by an article that read:

  Brooke Lynne, once the golden girl of Café Au Lait, was spotted looking dishevelled in the tiny Cornish hamlet of Trevay. Appearing to have the weight of the world on her shoulders, if not her hips and chins, passersby had no idea this was the woman who Bob Wetherby, successful super-rich captain of the English rugby team, once romanced … A source close to her former agent, Milo James, alleged, ‘Brooke Lynne is a sad case. She had the world at her feet. Milo made her the face of Café Au Lait and even introduced her to Bob [Wetherby] but her unstable behaviour and diva tantrums made her impossible to work with. Milo begged Café Au Lait to bear with her while she sorted out her personal problems, but for a family-friendly company, this was not possible. She hurt Bob very deeply. That is something neither he nor Milo will ever discuss. She was a liability and Milo could no longer represent her.’ To see her in such a dowdy and unkempt state upsets all those who care for her. She’s a woman of talent and at her best is as funny and sexy as a twenty-first century Marilyn Monroe. Sadly, in this photo, she appears to have taken on some of the tragic star’s other traits. Her face is bloated and her roots are growing out. Let’s hope she gets back on her feet again soon.

  The day after the spiteful article, Brooke had gone to the hairdressers and started to wear make-up again. She took up running and had, in the last ten days, been up to London for private meetings with a publicist, much to the delight of the Colonel, who was the only person in on the secret.

  Penny pressed her face closer to the window pane and put her hands up to see better. The cosy sitting room was rather untidy but definitely unoccupied. Her eyes took in a pair of sneakers by the fireplace, an open book face down on the coffee table, a cardigan slung over the back of the sofa, and on the mantelpiece at least half a dozen invitations. She could just make out the logo on two of them. Hello! magazine and Stringfellows. What the hell was Brooke up to?

  *

  What Brooke was up to was ‘getting herself out there’, as her old friend Laverne would have urged her to do. After all the work Laverne had put into transforming the dowdy Brenda Foster into sexy, glamorous Brooke Lynne, she’d been so shaken by Milo James and his underhand tactics that she’d retreated into her shell. She’d allowed that despicable creep to make her believe she was nothing, a nobody, unworthy of stardom and success. Frightened of being found out and exposed as boring old Brenda Foster, she’d fled to Trevay. Brooke was aware of herself enough to know that Milo had played into all of her insecurities. He fit the same mould as the stepfather who’d always told her she was worthless and would never amount to anything. The Colonel had been right: it was time she came out of hiding and found the chutzpah to recreate her alter ego.

  It was ironic that the Woman’s Own piece should have brought about the reincarnation of Brooke Lynne. Milo James and his Café Au Lait cronies had obviously planted that story in an effort to undermine her. They knew that she could still create a serious problem for them if she were to go public about what happened that night at the Starfish Hotel. They felt so threatened by her that they were trying to neutralise the risk she posed by portraying her as a washed-up has been, so that any claims she made would be dismissed as a vindictive attempt to get back at Milo for ditching her. If, however, Brooke Lynne were to rise from the ashes like a phoenix, oozing star quality and sex appeal – and showing off her talent as an actress – people just might believe her version of events instead of the lies put out by that slimeball Milo.

  So while Penny was peering through the windows of Granny’s Nook, Brooke Lynne was in London’s West End attending the launch of hot new club Wowzer. Since its sister club, Wonker, was a favourite haunt of Princes Harry and William and their circle, the media had turned out in force in the hope that the royals would attend tonight’s event. It was the hottest ticket in town.

  Brooke had called in a favour from a designer she’d helped promote when her fame was at its peak; he’d been only too delighted to loan her an electric-blue full-skirted dress, cinched in at the waist with a slender mink belt and a breast-skimming, off-the-shoulder, bracelet-length sleeved bodice. Her hair was a rich gold and fell in loose curls round her face, just skimming her bare shoulders. Her eyes were smokily outlined and her lips shiny in their trademark tangerine. She was standing at the bar drinking a Kite Slinger, accompanied by her publicist, Frank.

  ‘Hi, you’re Brooke Lynne, aren’t you?’ A small blonde in a last season’s women’s tuxedo suit approached her.

  ‘Hello.’ Brooke smiled at the young woman. ‘I recognise you from the photo above your column in the Star – you’re Lucy Nugent, aren’t you?’

  The woman, thrilled at being recognised, launched into a torrent of questions: ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were done with showbiz?’

  ‘I’ve been working on a new play in the West Country.’

  ‘The West Country? Isn’t that rather a long way from the West End?’

  ‘A world away – which is sheer bliss. The place is full of wonderfully good-looking men.’

  ‘Yeah? Anyone special?’

  ‘Now that would be telling.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  Brooke gave one of her sexiest laughs and tapped the side of her nose. The journalist tried another tack.

  ‘What do you think of Bob Wetherby’s engagement?’

  ‘I’m so happy for him. He’s a very nice man.’

  ‘What happened between you two?’

  ‘I never kiss and tell.’

  ‘Well, you look better than you did in those photos I saw the other week. Have you had some work done? Botox? Lipo?’

  Brooke laughed. ‘I am au naturel.’

  ‘So what are you doing here? A high-profile party, journos inside, paps outside, a publicist by your side and a super-hot dress on? Spill, Brooke – what’s the news?’

  As luck would have it, at that moment the number one boy band in the world walked into the club and made a beeline for the bar – and the spot where Brooke was standing. All five of the boys could only stop and stare at the gorgeous Brooke Lynne.

  ‘Hi, boys,’ she purred, smiling at them.

  Poor little Lucy the journo was pushed out of the way as they surrounded Brooke, flirting outrageously. Within twenty minutes Brooke had agreed to their invitation to abandon Wowzer and head off to another club where the music was better and the food divine.


  Frank stood in silent admiration as he watched his client leave the building to a storm of flash photography.

  *

  Brooke’s mobile rang. ‘Hey, babe.’ It was Frank. ‘Have you seen the front pages today? Congratulations! I’ve been inundated with calls from journos wanting to know which of those boys you went home with last night!’

  ‘They’re all great boys, but every man jack of them is gay.’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘Of course they’re not – I’m joking. But …’ Brooke took a deep breath and went for it: ‘Frank, could you get me an interview with one of the sensible papers? I’d like to talk about the Pavilions and why I support the campaign to save the place, and about my hopes for my own career.’

  ‘Honey, I’m not sure. It doesn’t sit well with your image.’

  ‘And what is my image? A young, silly, unhinged wannabe actress who can’t be trusted?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘Babe, I know that’s not you, but Milo James slung some mud and it’s going to take—’

  ‘Which is why I need you to get me a serious interview with a quality paper. That way I might be able to land a proper job and earn the money to pay your extortionate bill.’

  He paused while he thought about it. ‘Sure, I’ll try, but …’

  ‘Pleeeeease?’

  ‘Give me a couple of hours,’ he sighed.

  It took him two hours and forty minutes, but he did it. ‘The Guardian will meet you in Trevay, day after tomorrow. Journo and snapper 10 a.m. up at the theatre. Happy?’

  The SToP team were ecstatic when Brooke told them the news.

  ‘OMG!’ shouted Penny, leaping out of her office chair to throw her arms round Brooke.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Simon, his chocolate eyes beaming.

  ‘Marvellous!’ Helen clapped her hands.

  Even Piran, though he remained seated, managed a sincere, ‘Ideal, maid.’

  It was agreed that everyone, including Colonel Irvine, would meet up at the theatre to greet the team from the Guardian. The building was starting to look a lot better now that the scaffolding was finally down. A task force of Scouts and Guides had spent a long weekend weeding the car park, and Queenie had assembled a gang of local ladies who’d polished every surface inside until it sparkled.

  By 10 a.m. the sun was shining in a periwinkle sky and the welcoming committee were standing by with flasks of tea and coffee and plates of pasties to combat the chill March air, eagerly awaiting the men from the Guardian.

  ‘Here they come!’ said Penny, grasping Simon’s hand as a battered Freelander drew up outside the door.

  First out of the car was Graham Mowbray, a journalist known for his love of the arts. He introduced himself then turned to introduce the second man getting out of the car. Tall and rangy, in his late twenties, his handsome features enhanced by a rakish beard, the newcomer turned his bright blue eyes to Brooke and gave her a look that sent a tingle to her stomach.

  ‘And this is my photographer, Louis Suffolk.’

  Louis smiled warmly at the welcoming committee then looked again at Brooke.

  She knew exactly who he was: Prince Louis of Suffolk. Fighter pilot and royal pin-up.

  ‘Hi,’ he murmured.

  Brooke noticed a dark Range Rover pulling up a discreet distance behind. The protection officers, she assumed. She looked around her. No one else seemed to have recognised him behind the beard. Well, they weren’t going to hear it from her.

  19

  The Guardian article – a two-page spread with photos of Colonel Irvine, past and present, Brooke and her new incarnation as saviour of the seaside theatre, Penny as wealthy television producer/vicar’s wife, Simon as miracle worker, Helen as dogged helper and Piran as growly-sexy historian romantically involved with Helen, was newspaper heaven and created an enormous amount of interest locally and nationally.

  The SToP office at the vicarage was creaking under the barrage of phone calls and emails. It was a matter of all hands to the pump. Penny drafted in three sixteen-year-olds from the village: Siobhan, who was fond of hot pants, crop tops and tattoos; her friend Tillie, who was quiet with blonde hair that occasionally had a blue or pink streak running through it; and Catty, the mother of a fifteen-month-old son called Watson, whom she doted on.

  ‘Watson? That’s very unusual,’ said Helen conversationally one morning. ‘Is it a family name?’

  ‘No. When I ’ad ’im, I rang his dad from the ’ospital to tell ’im ’e ’ad a son and ’e said, “What son?” So I thought, fair enough.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen, not knowing how to respond.

  Catty laughed. ‘Your face! You believed me!’

  Helen was confused. ‘So what is he really called?’

  ‘Oh, his real name is Watson. After the doctor? Sherlock an’ all that?’

  ‘Ah, I see now,’ said Helen, though she didn’t see at all.

  ‘Actually,’ continued Catty conspiratorially, ‘I’m expectin’ again. Early days an’ all, but this time I’m thinking about Jude.’

  Helen was tuning into this now. ‘As in Hardy’s – the Obscure?’

  It was Catty’s turn to look mystified. ‘No. As in Jude Law – ’im what plays Watson in the films.’

  Both women looked at each other in some confusion. ‘Yeah, well, anyway …’ Catty jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘Wanna a coffee or anything?’

  ‘Yes. Please. Thank you.’

  The awkward moment passed and Helen returned to her desk to find Tillie on the phone.

  ‘You’re all right, she’s ’ere right now, Jules. No trouble. I’ll put ’er on. Catch you later.’ Tillie handed the phone to Helen. ‘It’s a bloke called Jules what writes Downton.’

  Helen felt her heart miss a beat as she took the receiver and shooed Tillie off her desk. ‘Hello. Helen Merrifield speaking.’

  ‘Helen – hello. I was just having a most amusing conversation with your assistant. Very colourful.’

  ‘Oh erm …’ Helen didn’t know if an apology was needed. ‘She’s a very helpful local girl. Penny and I have taken on three school leavers, who, erm …’ she struggled to find the right words, ‘who are very new to the work place,’ she finished limply.

  Lord Fellowes boomed with laughter. ‘Well, Tillie was marvellous and has quite given me an idea for a new character. Anyway, I was actually phoning to speak to Penny, but I gather she’s not there.’

  ‘She’ll be back in an hour. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Yes, do. Please tell her that Maggie and Hugh are free on the dates we discussed so it’s all systems go. They loved the piece in the Guardian and can’t wait to meet old Colonel Stick. What a character! And what fun to put on a show at Easter for all the holidaymakers. The Guardian story has certainly woken people up to the plight of the Pavilions. I’ve drafted a little thing I’ve called Tales of Downton, where Hugh and Maggie tell a few anecdotes, as themselves – and there’s a part for Brooke Lynne too. Perhaps Penny will call me back later?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Helen was frantically writing down all this priceless information. ‘As soon as she gets in, bye.’

  *

  Penny had been working like mad on Jonathan Mulberry. Even though he had been so unimpressed by the Pavilions, returning to London the following day with a grouchy promise that he would ‘give it some thought’, she had set her heart on having him as the general theatre manager. When her phone calls failed to elicit a more favourable response she’d travelled to London for a face-to-face meeting.

  ‘I’m not used to provincial stuff,’ he’d told her over dinner. ‘I like a nice warm weatherproof building with a guaranteed audience … And I’ve had enough of doing this job for the love of it – I like to be paid, and paid well.’

  Penny almost choked on her seabass meunière but managed to stammer, ‘I’ll pay you … well.’

  ‘What with? You haven’t any box office yet. And I am not out to bankrupt you.’

  ‘By the weekend the t
ask force of volunteer builders will be moving out. The Arts Council have given us a grant, and the Friends of the Pavilions have raised quite a bit through car boot sales and sponsorship.’

  ‘You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than that to get the place open and running. What’s your plan?’

  ‘We’re not relying on theatrical productions alone for revenue. There’ll be the café, for a start, and the foyer can be let out for functions. We’ll be applying for a wedding licence so that people can get married up there, but our relationship with the council is a bit sticky so we haven’t asked them yet. As for the theatre side of things, Colonel Irvine is brushing off his old script: Hats Off, Trevay! It’s probably a bit dated, but the show opened the theatre back in …’ Her voice faded when she saw the look of pity on Jonathan’s face.

  ‘It’s not good enough, is it? You need a show with huge stars that will knock people’s socks off. You need backers with big money. I think you may just have to admit defeat and hand it back to the council. You aren’t a theatre woman, Pen. Stick with the telly.’

  Penny was outraged. ‘How dare you suggest I can’t run a business! I know what’s needed to build a brand and create success. Look at Mr Tibbs – no one else saw the potential in Mavis Carew’s old crime novels, but that series has sold in over a dozen countries and—’

  Jonathan held his hands up in mock defence. ‘OK, I believe you. But you have got to pull something big out of the bag here. That building is a money pit. The repairs you’ve made are like sticking a bit of Elastoplast over a missing leg.’

  Penny couldn’t disagree. Maybe she’d spent so much time with her fellow SToP campaigners that she’d lost all perspective on this. Still, she was convinced that getting Jonathan on board was key to making a success of this venture.

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘If I were to open the theatre by Easter with a host of star names and a full house, would you be my theatre manager?’

  Jonathan returned her steady gaze. ‘Yes. But it has to be pretty bloody starry.’

  *

  Penny had spent the train journey back from London replaying her conversation with Jonathan. By the time she parked her Jag outside the vicarage and walked up the path she was feeling utterly downcast. Before she could put her key in the lock, the door flew open and Helen launched herself at her.