Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014

Copyright © Fern Britton 2014

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Illustration © Carrie May

Author photograph © Neil Cooper

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007468560

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007468584

Version: 2019-03-01

Dedication

To Harry and your exciting future with all my love, Mum xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Part Two

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Epilogue

An Exclusive Extract From Fern’s New Novel: The Newcomer

Read an extract from Good Catch

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Part One

1

‘You should’ve woken me, silly.’ Ryan Hearst ambled into the sunny kitchen, scratching himself somewhere inside his rumpled boxer shorts.

His girlfriend, Jess Tate, glanced up from reading the paper at the kitchen table and allowed her eyebrows to wrinkle briefly in distaste.

Ryan bent down and gave her a kiss on her freckled nose. A small gesture he was prone to, which always managed to irritate her.

‘What’s for breakfast?’ He stretched out his muscular arms, then straightened up and yawned. His armpits gave off an unpleasant odour.

Jess pushed up her reading specs, sweeping her loose brown curls off her face, and gave him what she hoped was a relaxed smile. ‘If your fans could see you now …’

‘Yeah, don’t tell them. Anyway, baby, I’m all yours.’ He placed his hands either side of her head and thrust his hips and crotch towards her, mimicking a male stripper. She pulled a face and turned away. ‘You pong. Go and have a shower and I’ll make something to eat.’

‘You love me, baby, you know you do.’ He scratched his chest and yawned again. ‘I’ve missed you, Jess. I really have.’

She looked into his dark, almond-shaped eyes, even more sexy with the tanned creases of crow’s feet at their edges.

‘Yes, and I’ve missed you,’ she murmured, closing her eyes and forming her full lips into a shape for kissing – but he was already on his way to the bathroom.

With a sigh she got up and made her way to the fridge. There were plenty of eggs, a slab of cheese and some mushrooms. Ryan hadn’t touched a carbohydrate since the third person in their relationship, Cosmo Venini, had entered their lives.

‘Will an omelette do you?’ she called. But he couldn’t hear her over the sound of the shower.

Two pairs of beady eyes popped up over the dog basket next to the dishwasher.

Jess bent down to tickle a brace of plump tummies. ‘Daddy’s home, girls.’

Elsie and Ethel were miniature dachshund sisters. Ryan had brought them home nine months ago, the day he had landed the title role in Venini, a TV series about the exploits of a globe-trotting classical conductor who moonlights as an MI5 agent. The show had been an overnight success and as a result the tabloids had given Ryan the dubious honour of dubbing him ‘the thinking woman’s brioche’.

Jess recalled that cold January afternoon when he’d poked his head round the living room door, the smell of frosty air clinging to him. She was huddled on the sofa in front of the TV, swaddled from head to toe in their duvet to combat the lack of heating, watching Deal or No Deal and wondering whether she should apply to be a contestant in the hope of bringing home some prize money. One look at Ryan’s face told her his audition had been successful.

‘Oh my God! You got the job?’ The icy temperature forgotten, she’d thrown off the duvet and leapt up from the sofa.

‘Yep. Call me Cosmo!’ He pushed the door wide open and stood in front of her, smiling self-deprecatingly, still wearing the huge misshapen tweed overcoat that he’d bought in the charity shop the previous winter.

For a moment Jess could only jump up and down on the spot, beside herself with happiness, then she ran across the room, hugged him tightly and kissed him. ‘I’m so happy for you! This is it, Ryan! This is your big break – oh my God, oh my God – we can pay the gas bill!’

‘I think perhaps we can!’ he laughed, pulling her closer to him. ‘Oh …’ He loosened his grip on her and created a little space between them, ‘Almost forgot – I’ve bought you a present to celebrate.’

She smiled, wide-eyed with excitement, thinking of the silver earrings she’d pointed out to him the previous weekend. ‘You mustn’t, Ryan. We don’t have any money yet.’

He opened his coat and rummaged in the deep poacher’s pockets within.

‘Ta-dah!’ His hands emerged clutching two long bodies with impossibly short legs.

‘What the hell …?’ These were not earrings. ‘Who are they for?’

‘You.’

‘Why?’

‘Present.’

‘I don’t need a present. My present is you getting this great job.’ In spite of herself she reached out and tickled a pair of silken ears. ‘When does shooting start?’

‘In a couple of days.’

‘Gosh, that’s quick. Where?’ Jess asked.

‘Northumberland.’

‘A bit of a schlep from Willesden.’

‘Yeah … Then Milan, New York and Hong Kong.’

She stopped the tickling and looked at Ryan.

‘For how long?’

‘Six months.’ His eyes dropped to the two warm, wriggling pups.

Jess pushed her hair behind her ears, suddenly feeling all of her pleasure at the news drain away. ‘Six months? But you will be coming home, won’t you? Backwards and forwards?’

Ryan shook his head, ‘Probably not.’

‘Oh,’ said Jess, suddenly deflated.

He held the puppies up and spoke to them: ‘So that’s where you two come in. You’re going to look after Mummy while Daddy’s gone.’

Now she got it. The dogs were her consolation prize. A way of keeping her occupied while Ryan was away having the time of his life.

‘So you get to swan off and I’m left holding the fort here, on my own? And it isn’t only that, Ryan – pets are such a tie.’ She was aware of the whining note that had crept into her voice. ‘Suppose I get a job that means I have to go away? Who’ll look after them then?’

He set the dogs down and she heard their little tappy claws on the tiles as he put his arms around her. She clung to him and inhaled the distinctive smell of his coat, burying herself in his neck.

‘Don’t be like that, Jess. I’m really trying here. Don’t spoil it for me.’

*

Ryan ran the soap over his body and revelled in his newly honed physique. His personal trainer, insisted upon by the production company, had worked him hard but it was definitely worth it. Biceps, triceps, abs, quads, arse. Not bad for a forty-two-year-old. There was no doubt about it: men were luckier than women. The older they got the better they looked. George Clooney, Richard Gere – even Sean Connery in his eighties. For women it was tougher, and everyone in the business knew it. Helen Mirren and Meryl Streep were the exceptions. Poor Jess; she would struggle to find work now, unless it was playing a worn-down mum, or a character role.

Ryan got out of the shower and wrapped a large bath sheet around his waist. He checked himself out in the mirror then pulled the towel a little lower to show off the muscled definition of his hips, stomach and groin. Donning his ‘Cosmo’ face he gave his reflection a seductive grin and growled, ‘Down, boy! It’s only me, silly.’

*

Ryan loved going out in public. He always wore his film-star-in-disguise sunglasses and a baseball cap. The thrill of being recognised hadn’t left him yet. Today, walking the dogs on a busy Hampstead Heath, he felt as if he owned the world. Venini was top of the ratings, his face was on the cover of Esquire magazine, he had just been voted the Sexiest Man in Britain and it looked as if the Best Actor BAFTA was sure to have his name on it. Beside him, Jess was recounting what he thought was a rather tedious and seemingly interminable story about her agent and a part in a commercial she’d been put up for the previous week.

‘… I wouldn’t have cared if she’d told me they were looking for actresses ten years older than me. I would have dressed the part. But then to go and be told that I looked too middle-aged, without even trying, it was just so humiliating … Ethel, come away from the ducks! I mean, do I really look middle-aged? My CV says thirty-eight! Where do these advertising execs, fresh out of junior school, think middle age begins? Twenty-five? … Elsie, come away from the Labrador, he’s too big for you! Honestly, Ryan, maybe I should start thinking about a bit of Botox or getting my hair cut or dyed. What do you think?’

But before Ryan had a chance to respond they were interrupted by something that was becoming an ever-more regular occurrence.

‘Cosmo! Cosmo Venini! It is you, isn’t it?’

An over-made-up woman in her fifties was power-walking towards Ryan, who had stopped and was taking off his sunglasses, wrinkling his beautiful eyes into a smile. He held his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

She arrived, puffing slightly, and all but elbowed Jess out of the way in her eagerness to accost Ryan.

‘I knew it was you! What’s your real name again, I’ve forgotten?’

Only Jess knew the slight tightness at the corner of Ryan’s lips signalled annoyance.

‘George Clooney,’ he replied, oozing charm. The woman laughed hysterically as if this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. He held his hand out to her. ‘It’s Ryan, Ryan Hearst. And you are …?’

‘Gilly. Gilly Lomax. I live over there –’ She pointed to a pretty pink house just outside the railings of the park. ‘You’re always welcome to pop in.’

‘I’m afraid he’s very busy.’ Jess stepped in. ‘I’m his partner.’

‘The kettle’s always on …’ Gilly continued talking to Ryan. ‘I think you’re marvellous, and all those gorgeous locations you film in. Venice is my favourite. I’ve been to the Teatro La Fenice, it’s so romantic!’

‘Ryan, we must go, the dogs are getting tired.’ Jess tugged at his jacket sleeve. Not some old charity-shop jacket, but a Prada summer collection number that had cost thousands.

‘Sorry, darling.’ He smiled at Jess and draped his arm across her shoulders in a show of ownership.

‘Oh.’ The woman swept a look over Jess, from to top bottom, then returned to Ryan. ‘Perhaps your friend wouldn’t mind taking a photo of us both on my phone.’ She pulled it from her pocket and pushed it into Jess’s hand. ‘Take a few. Close up.’

‘Of course.’ Jess watched grimly as the woman cosied up to a willing Ryan, and then proceeded to take a series of photos where she knew the woman either had her eyes shut or her mouth at an unflattering angle. Just for good measure, she made sure the last couple of snaps were out of focus.

‘Oh, they’re perfect!’ she announced, quickly turning the phone off and handing it back before the ghastly Gilly could look at them. ‘Lovely to meet you. Come on, Ryan.’

*

They arrived at the park café during a lull between waves of pushchairs, toddlers and exhausted-looking parents. Having bought their coffees they steered their way through the plastic tables until they found a relatively unsticky one in the sunshine. Jess tied Elsie and Ethel’s leads to her chair and sat down gratefully.

Ryan took a sip of the scalding and bitter cappuccino then reached over and squeezed Jess’s hand. ‘That poor woman. I can’t believe you could be so mean. You’ll have ruined her day.’

‘Well, it made mine. Rude cow. I’m invisible to your fans. They push past me and tread on my toes to get to you. No wonder casting agents reject me – I’m invisible.’

Ryan had heard this lament often enough to know where it was going. He tried to head it off at the pass.

‘Not to me you’re not.’

‘Really?’

‘You’re my girl.’

‘Am I?’

‘You sure are.’ He took her other hand and gazed soulfully into her eyes, hoping it would have the desired effect.

‘Even when you’re away with all those gorgeous actresses?’ Jess peered at him intently. ‘You can tell me the truth, you know. Are you sure you’re not tempted?’

‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know me better than that,’ he protested, as if wounded by the accusation.

‘I thought I knew you,’ she said, her voice wavering, ‘but that was before …’

Oh, not this again, thought Ryan. He pulled one hand away from hers and swept it through the floppy long hair he’d been cultivating for Cosmo.

‘Darling, that was five years ago. We are over that, aren’t we? I can’t believe I was such a fool and nearly lost you. Besides, can you imagine the bad press if I did that now and someone found out?’

This time it was Jess who pulled her hand away.

‘That’s nice. You’re more concerned about the damage to your image than the hurt it would cause me.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Ryan sighed, tired of Jess’s insecurities. ‘What you need is a job. A good job. One that will give you back your confidence. You’re a great actress – the best. You’re beautiful and clever and—’

‘Unemployable.’

Knowing he would have to choose his words carefully or else this would escalate into a full-blown row, Ryan tried to buy himself some thinking time by picking up his cup and taking two large mouthfuls of coffee. Clearly in no mood to let him off the hook, Jess fixed him with a flinty glare and allowed the uncomfortable silence to drag on, broken only by the tap-tap-tap of her foot against the chair leg.

A sudden inspiration came to Ryan’s rescue: ‘Look, I’ve got two weeks off before we start filming the second series of Venini. Suppose you and I take a break …?’

‘Where?’

‘How about Thailand? Stay in one of those wonderful spas. Beauty treatments, exercise classes, sunshine … We could rent a little hut perched on stilts over the sea, just the two of us, no distractions.’

‘I can’t afford it.’

‘My treat.’

‘But I hate living off you.’

Ryan sighed in exasperation, ‘Can’t I treat you?’

‘We’ll have to put the girls in kennels, and that’s expensive.’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Jess! The two of us are going on a bloody holiday and you’ll bloody well like it – OK?’

2

A balmy breeze was drifting in off the sea, ruffling the hair of the two friends perched on Trevay’s old harbour wall. Helen Merrifield and Penny Leighton sat in companionable silence for a moment, luxuriating in the late afternoon sunshine. Cornwall had endured a rotten summer, endless days of cold and wet. Holidaymakers had remained admirably stoic, but the sun waited until late September when the last people-carrier crammed with pale-skinned tourists in soggy anoraks had left the county before putting in an appearance.

Penny stretched her long, tanned legs out in front of her.

‘I’d forgotten how good a real tan looks,’ she said.

‘You look marvellous, Mrs Canter, as always,’ Helen replied admiringly.

‘I keep telling you: less of the Canter, if you don’t mind. No matter what the fuddy-duddies in the parish might think, I’m determined to stick with Miz Penny Leighton – running a successful production company in my own name is my one excuse for not getting sucked into the duties of a vicar’s wife!’

Helen found it hard to imagine anyone brave enough to shoehorn Penny into the stereotypical vicar’s wife mould. The two of them had met when they were in their early twenties, both working for the BBC; Helen had never progressed beyond secretarial level, having fallen in love and fallen pregnant in short order, but Penny had worked her way up the ladder to director, making her name with a historical drama that became a hit both in the UK and America. Capitalising on her success, she’d set up Penny Leighton Productions and her drive and energy had ensured that even the recession could not prevent the company going from strength to strength. On the romantic front, however, she’d been a disaster, lurching from one unsuitable man to the next. Until she met Simon. The shy, gentle, decent vicar had seemed an unlikely soul mate for Penny, and initially Helen had harboured misgivings about the relationship, but she was delighted to have been proved wrong. The couple had just returned from a holiday to celebrate their first anniversary, both of them positively glowing with happiness.

‘Simon was so sweet on the cruise – so romantic. This time yesterday we were just flying out of Venice,’ sighed Penny.

‘Lucky you. Piran and I could do with a holiday, but he’s so busy. All the holidays with Gray seem to have blended into one. I remember usually being the one managing the children while he was off ogling all of the young bathing beauties!’

‘Ah, Gray – how is that ex-husband of yours? Any news?’

‘According to the kids, Dahlia Dahling is still giving him the runaround. A glamorous grand dame of stage and screen is an entirely different proposition to good old reliable me. I gather it’s come as quite a shock to him, being in a relationship with a woman who’s accustomed to having her own way.’

‘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 indecisively 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?’

‘You know, Pain In The Arse – PITA. It’s a joke.’

‘Another of your stupid public schoolboy jokes, eh? Well, forgive me and my Wolverhampton comprehensive school denseness. Oh no, hang on – I’m not that dense, am I? I’m sixty-seventh on the Sunday Times Rich List, I’m number one in fourteen countries and I have an entourage of eight, including Henrik my PA.’

As a result, Ollie kept his opinion of Henrik’s latest helpful gesture to himself and instead tried to explain, but Red wasn’t listening.

‘I’m going to have to cancel the show tonight,’ she wailed. ‘I can’t go on stage knowing what an unfaithful shit you are.’ She was so loud, he held the phone away from his ear. Noticing people on nearby tables casting curious glances in his direction, he tried to muffle the sounds coming from the earpiece while holding the phone close to his mouth.

‘Red, honey, I love you. It’s just a picture of some girl who saw the show last night and was waiting at the stage door for an autograph. She was with her fiancée. He took the photo.’

‘Oh yeah? Then how come it got into the papers?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he uploaded it to Twitter or … maybe he sold it. I don’t know, honey. You have to believe me – I don’t even know her name. An autograph, a photo and then it was home to bed, on my own, dreaming of you.’

‘Yeah?’ she snivelled.

‘Yeah.’

‘So, you’d be pleased to see me if I jumped on a plane tonight and came home?’

He felt a tap on his shoulder and looked round. One of the young actresses in the cast of The Merry Wives of Windsor, damp from a swim, was miming a cup of coffee. He shook his head, pointed to the phone and raised his eyebrows in despair. She nodded, pulling the corners of her mouth down comically, and went to the bar.

‘Ollie, are you still there?’ Red’s shrill voice boomed from the earpiece.

‘Yeah, yeah, sorry, there must have been some dropout on the satellite … I missed what you said.’ He hoped she’d forgotten what she had said.

There was a pause while she smothered the mouthpiece and spoke to someone at the other end. He couldn’t catch what she was saying, and was straining to make out the words when her voice suddenly came back loud and clear: ‘You don’t know the pressure I’m under here. There’s thirty-two thousand people out there, and just because they’ve had to wait a bit they’re booing. They don’t know how you’re breaking my heart.’

‘How long have they been waiting?’

‘Not long. Maybe two hours.’

‘You’ve kept them waiting two hours?’

‘No. You’ve kept them waiting two hours by being such a shit to me.’ Someone was calling to her in the background. She muted the phone for a moment, then came back on the line. ‘OK, OK, I have to go. I’ll skype you later. We need to talk.’

‘Yeah, honey.’ He groaned inwardly. ‘I love talking. Now go get ’em, tiger!’

Gemma, his actress friend, thumped down next to him, licking a splash of coffee from her wrist.

‘“Go get ’em, tiger”?’ She arched a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Sooo rock’n’roll.’

‘Oh, Gem, this long-distance, high-profile relationship stuff is not for cissies.’

Gemma took a sip of her cappuccino and wiped the froth from her lips with the tiny paper napkin. ‘Any kind of relationship would do me at the moment.’

‘Look at this.’ He handed her the newspaper.

‘Ah.’ She read the text. ‘Nice photo.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Not you. The mystery girl. She’s very pretty.’

He snatched the paper from her and dropped it on the floor by his feet. ‘You’re not being very helpful.’ They sat and watched the tennis players on the screen for a few moments, then Ollie asked. ‘Are you a jealous person, Gemma?’

‘I haven’t had enough boyfriends to find out. Maybe I haven’t loved anyone enough to care. Don’t you get jealous of Red? All those male groupies hanging outside her hotels and following her around the world?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t love her enough then.’

‘It’s not that. I’m just not the jealous type. She wouldn’t do anything. She doesn’t get the opportunity on tour, anyway. She’s surrounded by her hangers-on and hustled from airport to hotel to stadium to hotel to airport. I’ve seen it. Our first date was at the O2. I went to watch her from the wings.’

‘Great date. Intimate.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Just saying.’

‘Yeah, well anyway, I watched her give her heart and soul to the audience. The way she worked with the band and her dancers, she blew me away. Then the minute she’s sung her last note she takes her bow and runs off stage. Her dresser is waiting with a big warm dressing gown to wrap her in. Her assistant dresser is waiting with a huge towel to wrap round her sweaty hair and then she’s just like, whoosh, straight through a path made for her by Security, past all the backstage crew and out into a blacked-out limo. The band will still be playing. The crowd will still be chanting. The police will have closed the exit roads for a five-minute window to get her out, and in ten minutes she’ll be in her hotel room watching a late-night movie, all on her own.’

‘No wonder she’s bonkers.’

‘It’s tough on her. She’s only twenty-four. She’s been a star for three years, since she blew the world away on the X Factor. The world wants to know everything about her.’

‘And you.’

Ollie’s face clouded over. ‘I hate it.’

‘Lots of actors would give anything to get their profile as high as yours. Why not go with the flow and enjoy the ride?’

‘I don’t want to be famous as a “celebrity boyfriend”. I want my work as an actor to speak for me.’

‘Get over yourself! We’re all a bunch of children dancing in front of our parents: Look at me, Mummy. Look at me!’

Ollie couldn’t help but laugh. ‘OK, perhaps there’s a bit of that. But I still want a private life and a private relationship with my girlfriend, but that’s not likely to happen when there’s a fortune to be made selling photos of us. The irony of it is, while the paps are cashing in, I’m skint.’ Gemma nodded with understanding. You worked for the RSC for kudos, not cash. ‘Red expects me to fly out and join her whenever I have a break, but the transatlantic flights and hotels are cleaning me out.’

‘Have you told her that?’

‘I can’t – she’d offer to pick up the bill, and I don’t want that. I could never be a freeloader.’

Gemma patted his knee. ‘You’re too noble for your own good, that’s your trouble. Want to walk with me back to the theatre?’

‘No, I’ve got some stuff to do.’

‘OK see you later.’

Ollie watched as Gemma made her way to the exit. The ‘stuff’ he had to do – calling in at the dry cleaners for his shirts, stopping by the cashpoint to draw some money – wouldn’t have prevented him walking back to the theatre with her. The real problem was that he couldn’t risk being photographed with Gemma; that would only lead to another row with Red.

Outside, the sun was surprisingly warm and tourists were wandering happily along the Stratford-upon-Avon high street, stopping, with little or no warning, whenever something in a shop window took their fancy. Ollie cursed under his breath as he employed all his navigational skills to avoid tripping over them.

His call with Red had annoyed him. Lately, all his calls with Red annoyed him. She was a great girl. Funny, pretty, great body, talented, never there. It was the never there bit that messed things up. They’d met when she’d come to see him in a fringe production of Joe Orton’s Loot. He’d had the best reviews of his life and it was a game-changer for him. The production was the hottest ticket in town. He’d heard backstage that Red was in the audience; she was already huge in the UK but hadn’t quite gone global. Back then it had just been a matter of dodging the paparazzi, which meant she was still able to enjoy the odd night out.

After the performance, he’d received a sweet handwritten note in red ink on the back of a fag packet:

Fancy dodging the paps with me after the show? Rx

They’d slipped out of a side entrance, just the two of them, and managed to hole up in a tiny bar, blissfully unrecognised, while her minders parked up nearby. She made him laugh, she seemed kind, genuine, in touch with her roots. The connection was instant. She told him about her upbringing in the Midlands, how hard it had been on her family, enduring the constant attention after X Factor. He told her about his father walking out when he was just a kid, how he’d never really fitted in at public school, and how much he wanted to become a good actor. Their lives were different but something really clicked between them that night.

But no sooner had they got together than her star had gone stratospheric.

Ollie was twenty-eight. He loved life. Fifteen months ago he’d had a great social life, but all that had closed down for him. Thanks to Red and her fame. A big fat problem. Did he love her enough to accept it? Was she The One? He knew that she was the most exciting woman he’d ever known … so far … But in the time that he’d known her, she’d changed. The stress of her lifestyle had taken its toll. And the initial excitement of their relationship had been replaced by a kind of prison … That was it, he had lost his freedom … and she was losing herself.

He stopped walking and stared at the swans floating elegantly on the river by the theatre. They were free. Free and wild. One of them got out of the water and waggled up to him, hoping for food.

‘Sorry, mate. Nothing for you.’

He stood still while the large bird pecked fruitlessly at the chewing gum stains on the path, then stood tall, looking at him in disappointment, before giving a shake of its feathers and wandering off forlornly. Ollie saw the tag round one slender black ankle.

‘Not wild after all, boy, eh? Tagged, same as me.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, to be free again.’

*

The matinee went well. The audience of GCSE students were attentive and seemed to enjoy the story. At the curtain calls one young female voice called out, ‘Ollie, I love you’ as he took his bow. He smiled and gave a wave, which provoked another shout: ‘Send my love to Red!’ One of the grander old actors sighed with utter disdain and walked off before the curtain came down.

*

Back in his dressing room, Ollie was sitting with his head in his hands, wondering how he’d got into such a mess, when there was a knock at the door.

‘Ah, Ollie – may I have a word?’ Nigel the company manager licked his wispy moustache.

‘Yeah, Nige. Come in.’ Ollie leaned over and took his costume off the spare chair. ‘Sit down.’

Nigel carried on standing.

‘This is a bit awkward, but … your young fans. We appreciate you can’t, we can’t, stop them from calling out, but could you not acknowledge them?’

Ollie slumped back in his chair. ‘Who’s complained?’

‘Er, it’s not a complaint as such. More a request for some respect towards your fellow artistes.’

‘Sir Terry? Is that why he walked off before the tabs came in?’

‘I’m not going to name names, that would be too sordid. The fact is you’re a young actor sharing the stage with colleagues who deserve your respect and that of the audience.’

‘Sir Terry it is then.’

‘Possibly.’

‘The Knight’, as he was nicknamed, was a grand old gay actor; charming, knowledgeable and with a seemingly bottomless fund of outrageous stories. He’d first joined the RSC in the early fifties, working with Olivier, Gielgud and Richardson. He was theatrical royalty and if he found a company member to be upsetting, that company member would never work with him again. Sir Terry had been considered the box office draw of the season, but as the weeks went by it was becoming clear that young Ollie Pinkerton, hitherto unknown jobbing actor but now a celebrity as a result of his relationship with rock star Red, was the one pulling in the punters.

Ollie took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Nigel, I quite understand. And, as a matter of courtesy, I shall apologise to The Knight right away.’

‘Thank you, Ollie. You will make my life, and indeed your own life, much happier if you do so.’

4

Piran, gutting half a dozen fresh mackerel with a vengeance, was clearly in a bad mood.

‘I’m a historian. Anything after the Second World War is of no interest to me. The Pavilions could slide into the sea and I wouldn’t give a toss.’ He slapped a fillet into a plate of flour. ‘Unless it uncovered an Iron Age settlement or bloody King Arthur’s Camelot – which doesn’t exist, by the way – I’m not interested.’

His two cats, Bosun and Sprat, were winding themselves round his feet waiting for scraps. He chucked down a couple of fish skins.

Helen, who had rolled her shirtsleeves up and was busily covering the fish fillets in flour, patting them gently before placing them on a clean tea towel ready for the frying pan, turned to him crestfallen. ‘I hate that Camelot wasn’t real. Are you sure?’

‘Aye.’

‘But there was an Arthur, wasn’t there?’

‘There’s no evidence, no.’ Piran carried on focusing on the job in hand, his curls bouncing over his forehead as his strong weathered hands dexterously removed the last remaining bones.

‘So no Guinevere?’

Piran slapped the final fillet on the plate in front of her and pushed his hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘No – thank God. She was supposed to have broken his heart, wasn’t she? Ran off with his best mate. Typical bloody woman!’

‘Typical chauvinist comment.’

He stuck his sharp knife, point down, into the wood of his kitchen table so that it quivered like an arrow. ‘I’m making you supper, aren’t I?’

Helen opened her eyes wide and cooed, ‘You are one hundred per cent new man! Would you pour me a glass of wine?’

He glowered at her for a moment then kissed her nose. ‘Don’t go pushing your luck, maid.’

*

The mackerel were delicious, served simply with hunks of buttered crusty bread and large tumblers of local cider. Helen got up, threw the bones in the bin and made a move to put the plates in the sink but Piran reached up and stopped her. ‘Don’t bother with those. They’ll keep till the morning.’ He found her hand and she felt the roughness of his skin on her palm. ‘You smell nice. Are you staying tonight?’

‘Would you like me to?’

‘I’m not going to beg. Your decision, Helen.’

‘Sometimes I’d like you to beg.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to feel crowded, that you liked your independence.’

‘I do …’ An image of Gull’s Cry, the dream cottage that she’d made a reality, flitted through her mind. Once the children had flown the nest, she’d realised that she couldn’t go on sharing a Chiswick townhouse with her philandering husband. So she’d asked Gray for a divorce and uprooted herself to Pendruggan. She’d settled in so well, it was hard to believe only two years had gone by since she moved in. And after years of playing housekeeper and homemaker to her family, it was a luxury to be free to do her own thing.

She was brought back to the present by Piran squeezing her hand. ‘Something tells me there’s a “but …” coming,’ he said.

‘No – well, sort of. I do like my independence, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t appreciate a bit of spontaneous passion now and again.’

‘Why are women so bloody contrary?’ growled Piran in mock exasperation. ‘If it’s passion you want, maid, I’ll sling you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs.’

‘Oooh, would you – right now?’

Her laughter echoed up the stairs as Piran make good on his threat.

*

Piran’s bed was a big old wooden thing, made, he said, out of the wreckage of a fishing boat that had run aground years before. It was the most comfortable bed Helen had ever known. She stretched herself out then curled herself around Piran as he slept with his back to her. Bosun and Sprat lifted their heads as they were gently bobbed about on a sea of tartan blanket, waiting for her to settle. When she was finally still, they put their heads down and curled their tails round their noses. Piran mumbled something.

Helen lifted her head slightly, the better to hear him. ‘What did you say?’

He spoke a little louder.

‘I said, What time is it, cloth ears.’

‘Seven fifteen.’

‘Want a cup of tea?’

‘Yes please.’

For a big man he moved with a fluidity that never failed to amaze her. She watched as he bent down and picked up his discarded T-shirt from the night before, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull it over his head. As all men do, he looked faintly ridiculous and even vulnerable as he stood up displaying his naked lower half. He checked his testicles unconsciously, before shuffling his feet into an ancient pair of leather slippers and reaching for an equally ancient dressing gown that had been draped over a chair.

Bosun and Sprat’s ears pricked up, their eyes watchful in case this was a false alarm or whether it was looking good for breakfast. At the words ‘Come on, boys’ they both sprang off the bed and followed their owner downstairs.

Helen sank back into the tangle of soft cotton sheets and blankets (Piran was never going to be a duvet man) and closed her eyes. She could hear him talking to the cats and the scrape of their food bowls as he placed them on the tiled floor of the kitchen. She could hear the whoosh of the water from the tap as he filled the kettle, and then the radio came on, tuned to the local news. With a sigh she snuggled into the pillow and was almost drifting back into sleep when she heard a loud ‘Oh, for chrissake!’ and the sound of Piran’s footsteps marching towards the bottom of the stairs.

‘Helen, come down here. They’re on the bloody radio.’

‘Who?’ she called back, but he had returned to the kitchen and was out of earshot.

Hurriedly pulling on one of Piran’s old shirts, she made her way to the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, staring at the battered radio and listening intently.

‘What …?’ she asked.

‘Shhh.’

She shut up and listened.

It seemed to be a phone-in. Pam, the show’s presenter, was talking to a female caller:

Caller: The point is, Pam, this is an important and much-loved part of our heritage. The community still uses the Pavilions building and it mustn’t be allowed to fall into the hands of some global coffee chain.

Pam: This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you run three of Trevay’s cafés and you don’t want the competition?

Caller: It’s not about money. It’s about what the Pavilions means to us as a community.

Pam: And when did you last go to the Pavilions?

Caller: That theatre is a piece of Trevay history and should continue to be so.

Pam: When did you last buy a ticket to attend an event there?

Caller: That’s irrelevant. It’s not a matter of when I last went or when you last—

Pam: I last went six months ago, to an antiques fair. I was shocked at the state of the place. It reeks of damp, the window frames are rusted, some of the panes of glass are cracked and boarded up. It needs a lot of money spending on it. Café Au Lait taking over might just be the best thing that could happen to the Pavilions. Let’s see what the caller on line two has to say.

Second caller: Good morning, Pam. My name is Mrs Audrey Tipton. I have lived in Pendruggan for the last forty years. It’s a quiet, unspoiled village with a strong community—

Pam: Audrey, do you think the Pavilions should be preserved as a theatre?

Audrey: Well, yes, that’s my point. Trevay is a ten-minute drive from my house in Pendruggan and offers everything I need for shopping and entertainment. The Pavilions should be fully restored by the council so that it will once again be the top attraction for our summer visitors.

Pam: The council say it’s a white elephant they can no longer afford. Café Au Lait promise that their redevelopment of the site will not only attract more visitors to the area, it will guarantee jobs for local people. That’s a good thing, surely?

Audrey: I have started an action group with several high-profile local supporters and we will fight the council all the way.

Pam: You’ve got a fighting fund, have you?

Audrey: We are establishing one right now with the help of a local television producer – Penny Leighton. She’s our vicar’s wife and very hands-on with local issues. Also Piran Ambrose—

Pam: A local historian we know well here at Cornwall Radio.

Audrey: Indeed. Piran has assured the action group that he can prove the historical importance of the Pavilions and—

Audrey was cut off mid-flow by Piran pulling the plug. Pointing at the now-silent radio in frustration, he turned to Helen. ‘That bloody Tipton woman! I have assured her blasted action group of no such thing – I haven’t even been approached by them. And if she had bloody well approached me …’

Leaving him ranting at the kitchen sink, punctuating each sentence by slinging one of yesterday’s dinner plates noisily into the bowl, Helen picked up her coffee and tiptoed back to bed.

*

Piran wasn’t the only one left apoplectic by Audrey’s comments. Over at the vicarage, Penny was pacing up and down the kitchen in a fury.

‘How can she be allowed to say that stuff? Now she’s put my name out there, people will think I’m committed to the cause.’

Simon ran a hand over his balding head and ventured tentatively, ‘I know she’s put you in a terrible position, darling, but …’ his chocolate eyes took on a pleading look. ‘I’m sure you could phone a few of your actor friends to help, couldn’t you?’

‘It’s not as simple as that. These people have lives of their own and busy diaries. Plus they’re swamped with requests to do something for nothing. No – I can’t do it. I won’t. Besides, what time do I have to get involved? We’re about to start filming the Tibbs series – I won’t have a moment to call my own until that’s done and dusted.’

‘I see.’ Simon’s expression hovered somewhere between expectation and disappointment.

‘Now don’t give me that look.’ Penny hated letting down her loving and devoted husband, especially when he asked so little of her.

He turned away. ‘Well, I must get on. Things to do.’

Penny could feel the hot itch of guilt and duty creeping up the back of her neck. Bloody Pavilions, what did any of it have to do with her?

‘Oh, all right,’ she sighed.

Simon’s face lit up and he stepped forward to kiss her, but she restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest.

‘No, darling, I’m not saying I’ll do it. I’m saying all right, I’ll think about it.’

‘Really?’ He beamed at her in delight. ‘Oh, Pen, I knew you wouldn’t let us down.’

‘No promises, Simon. This won’t be easy and I’m not a miracle worker.’

‘Oh yes you are,’ said Simon, giving her a hug before heading off to prepare for morning service.

‘And don’t forget,’ Penny called after him, ‘I’m doing this for you, not Audrey bloody Tipton!’

*

In the Tiptons’ kitchen, Geoffrey was dutifully congratulating his wife. ‘Well done, Audrey. You were magnificent.’

‘Thank you, Geoffrey.’

‘When did you get Piran on board?’

‘I haven’t actually spoken to him – Simon was supposed to do that, but he went about it in his usual wishy-washy way and got a wishy-washy response in return. He can’t go backing out of it now though, can he!’ she announced smugly.

‘Aud, you’re a genius!’ Geoffrey was about to say more but was interrupted by the phone ringing. He lifted the receiver: ‘Good morning, Tipton residence – Geoffrey Tipton speaking.’

An angry voice growled, ‘Is your meddling wife there?’

‘Excuse me, but who is calling?’

‘Piran Ambrose.’

Geoffrey felt a squirt of fear in his stomach, ‘I’ll just get her for you.’ Thrusting the phone at his wife as if it were a hot potato, he whispered, ‘It’s Piran – he wants a word.’

Audrey’s lips, stained with carmine matte lipstick, curled in something approximating a grin. ‘So, the mountain has finally come to Audrey Tipton,’ she said, sotto voce, holding out an imperious hand for the receiver.

*

Piran’s truck rattled loudly as he hit a lump of dry mud, left by the tyres of some long-gone tractor. ‘That woman thinks she’s Margaret Thatcher. She’s touched in the head! “No, no, no, Mr Ambrose –”’ Helen was reduced to giggles by his booming attempt to emulate Audrey Tipton’s dominating voice – ‘“We are not going to let the Pavilions go without a fight, Mr Ambrose.” I’ll give ’er a fight, all right.’

Despite his protestations, it looked to Helen as though Audrey had indeed got the better of Piran – for now.

They were on their way to the Pavilions, where Audrey had organised an emergency press conference.

They pulled up in the car park, its once smooth tarmac now a craze of cracks, rudimentary repairs and an astonishingly lovely display of willowherb gently going to seed.

A small crowd had formed on the steps to the theatre. Audrey was standing on the top step, and as Helen and Piran approached they could hear her penetrating voice, hectoring the group and one man in particular.

‘Councillor Bedford, you call yourself a man of principle, a man of Cornwall – nay, of Trevay. We, on the other hand, call you “Liar”!’

‘Now steady on, Mrs Tipton.’ Councillor Bedford, a pugnacious man in his forties, squared up to her. ‘This is all a storm in a coffee cup! I want the best for the community. If the council comes to a satisfactory agreement with Café Au Lait, the Pavilions will have a new lease of life and there will be many more jobs for local people.’

There was a smattering of applause from the crowd. Audrey quelled them with a look. ‘So, we have traitors in the ranks, do we? We think a few jobs and the loss of an important community facility is OK, do we?’ The crowd shuffled and looked at their feet.

Helen, standing a short distance away, was distracted by the arrival of a small white car containing the journalist from the Trevay Times and a photographer. She nudged Piran, but failed to get his attention as he was listening to Councillor Bedford, who was beginning to lose his rag.

‘Mrs Tipton, if you or any of your followers had bothered to look after this building, to use it and support it over the last decades, we wouldn’t be in this situation. People like you are hypocrites. If you hadn’t sat idly by, this theatre could have been saved years ago.’

‘How dare you speak to my wife that way, you insolent pipsqueak!’ Mr Audrey weighed in. ‘I demand an apology.’

‘You’re not getting one,’ snarled Councillor Bedford. He turned to the wider audience: ‘You have five weeks from today to come up with a viable business plan for this place. After that, the council’s negotiations with Café Au Lait enter the formal stages of agreement. Good day to you all and good luck.’

‘’ang on a minute, Councillor.’ Piran moved to bar his way. ‘What will you and Café Au Lait be agreeing on? There are rules to follow about this sort of thing – planning applications, consultation with local businesses and residents, public hearings … Seems to me like Café Au Lait are being given a fast track through the back door.’

Councillor Bedford looked Piran up and down with contempt and spoke at a level only the two of them could hear. ‘Oh dear,’ he hissed. ‘She’s got our eminent local historian involved now, has she? You’ll find, Ambrose, that there are no flies on me. Oppose our plans and things could get tricky the next time you want the council to do something for you. Without easy access to archaeological sites and public records, you might find it that much harder to do your job. So think twice before you try making my job harder.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ growled Ambrose, moving in closer, fists clenched. ‘Mess with me and I’ll soon sort you out.’

‘First slander and now threats,’ trumpeted Bedford. ‘What a charmless bunch of no brainers this “Save the Pavilions” brigade is turning out to be.’

‘I’m warning you, Bedford – any funny business over this Café Au Lait deal and I’ll be on to you so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’

Councillor Bedford leered up into Piran’s face.

‘Watch. This. Space. Yokel.’

The punch was so swift it took everyone by surprise.

As Councillor Bedford sprawled on the moth-eaten tarmac, Piran, rubbing his knuckles, turned to address the wide-eyed bystanders.

‘Sorry about that. Just tidying up a bit of unwanted rubbish. I’ll do some research on the old place and see if it is worth saving.’ He turned to the Trevay Times reporter. ‘Wayne, can we count on you to dig around and find out what this little shit’ – he pointed at a winded Councillor Bedford, who had picked himself up and was now tentatively checking his nose for damage – ‘and his cronies are up to.’

Wayne grinned and gave him the thumbs up. ‘You can count on me, Piran. Nothing like a bit of local dirt to boost circulation!’

But as soon as Bedford saw the reporter making a beeline for him, he did a sharp about turn and began trotting in the direction of his car. Wayne was immediately waylaid by Audrey Tipton, who launched into a lengthy diatribe about multinational conglomerates riding rough-shod over small communities. By the time he’d managed to extricate himself, the crowd had dispersed and there was no one left to interview. As things stood, the best he could hope for was a couple of paragraphs on page seven – or so he thought, until his photographer excitedly beckoned him over.

‘Hey, Wayne, look at this!’

Wayne leaned over his colleague’s shoulder and peered at the LCD display on the back of the camera. It showed a perfect shot of Piran’s fist connecting with Councillor Bedford’s nose. Wayne’s face lit up.

‘Looks like we got our front page!’

5

Helen hurried through the front door and made straight for the telephone, not even stopping to take off her coat. As she hit speed-dial and waited impatiently for an answer, her eyes fell to the bag of shopping dumped at her feet with that week’s edition of the Trevay Times resting on top.

‘Hi, Pen. It’s me,’ she announced in a shaky voice, staring miserably at the photo of Piran on the front page.

Penny groaned down the receiver. ‘I thought it might be. I’ve got your bruiser of a bloke here right now. Simon’s pouring the sherry. Want to come over?’

The wind was picking up as she set out across the village green, and Helen felt a nip in the air that told her autumn wasn’t far away. The sun, so warm earlier, had dipped low in the sky, and the temperature was dipping with it. She could smell woodsmoke on the air, and there were plumes of smoke coming from three or four chimneys dotted around the green, one of which belonged to the vicarage.

‘Come in – he’s in there,’ said Penny, pointing to the sitting room.

Helen went through and found Piran sprawled in an armchair, fire-gazing.

Simon had taken his glasses off and was polishing them on his handkerchief, a sure sign that he was feeling anxious.

‘Whatever were you thinking, Piran?’ he asked, shaking his head in dismay before putting his glasses back on.

‘I just saw red, that’s all. The way he was goading me, so cocksure – like he was up to something and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I’ve a feeling in my water the council are trying to pull a fast one. There is no way Café Au Lait should have got this far with their application before anyone knew about it. It’s not that I care about the bloody theatre – I don’t. But I don’t like being had. Something—’ Catching sight of Helen, he broke off, his mouth forming a tight line. Barely acknowledging her, he returned his gaze to the fire.

Helen ignored him and went to give Simon a kiss, then took a seat on the sofa and accepted the large glass of red wine that Penny had poured for her.

‘Thanks, Pen.’ She lifted her glass and took a deep swallow before announcing, ‘I’ve been thinking …’

Piran looked across at Simon and raised his eyebrows. ‘God ’elp us.’

Simon frowned at Piran and turned to Helen. ‘And …?’

‘We’ve got to move on from looking like hysterical idiots’ – she stared fixedly at Piran who stared equally fixedly into his glass – ‘who talk only with their fists.’

‘Hear hear,’ concurred Penny.

‘We need to start looking like credible opposition to Café Au Lait instead of making the headlines thanks to your loutish behaviour!’

‘Exactly,’ said Penny.

‘We have only four weeks to prove ourselves to be serious about saving a building that many locals feel passionate about.’

‘Ppff’ or some such sound escaped from between Piran’s teeth.

‘Piran,’ she reminded him sternly, ‘you have said you’ll see whether there’s a case to be made for saving the Pavilions on the grounds that it’s historically important. Agreed?’

Piran rubbed his sunburned hand over his chin. ‘Aye. But that’s all I’m going—’

She cut across him. ‘And that journalist …’

‘Wayne. Good lad, he is,’ mumbled Piran.

‘… Wayne is going to root about for any underhand dealings between the council and Café Au Lait. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Penny and Simon.

‘So those are two good, positive things to put into action immediately. Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Penny and Simon again.

‘And you, Penny, my dearest and bestest mate …’

Penny looked at Helen with fear and suspicion. ‘Ye-ess?’

‘You, Penny, are going to open your very hot address book and get some big names to support us.’

‘Oh, but … it’s not that easy – I’m in pre-production for the Mr Tibbs shoot and I don’t like to ask people for things and these people trust me not to impose this sort of stuff on them and—’

‘Good. That’s that sorted out,’ said Helen, patting her friend’s leg.

‘Noooo, I won’t let you guilt me into this, Helen.’

‘Come on, Pen. Your empire is big enough for you to delegate all the Tibbs stuff – I should know, I was your PA for the pilot episode, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And isn’t it true that if you don’t ask, you don’t get?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Pen, you’re our wild card – the one woman who can really make a difference. This is too important to leave it to Audrey Tipton – she’ll only end up alienating everyone. There’s only one person who can save the Pavilions and that’s you. We’re counting on you.’

Penny felt three pairs of eyes boring into her as she sat staring at her hands. She knew that once she met those three pairs of eyes (well, technically two, because Piran was still brooding by the fire), the combined looks of hope and anticipation from her favourite people would be too much for her already shaky resolve. Oh bloody hell. How was she going to get out of this? She looked up … and knew it was too late – she’d been had.

‘Excellent!’ Helen clapped her hands together as Penny sighed theatrically. ‘Tomorrow you are going to go through your address book and we’ll draw up a list of possible names and then hit the phones.’

Piran barked a laugh of admiration. ‘Well done, Hel. I like your style!’

She turned her gaze to him. ‘And you, my boy, will be in the archives as soon as the office opens.’

‘What about the vicar?’ complained Piran. ‘What’s ’e going to do – get down on his knees and pray?’

‘Yes,’ said Helen. ‘And then he can gather together a committee of sensible, clued-up people who we can rely on not to get into any more fistfights.’

6

Brooke Lynne was on her way to her agent’s office in Mayfair when she spotted her face on the side of a London bus. Brooke Lynne and Café Au Lait: the stuff of fantasies said the slogan. She liked the photo. The photographer had gone to town on the touching up, and her legs, hips, breasts and scarlet shiny lips, sipping suggestively from the steaming coffee cup, were nothing short of Jessica Rabbit. She pressed the button to open the blacked-out rear window of her chauffeured Lexus and, holding up her phone, took a snap of the poster. Thank God for Twitter she thought, sending the picture out to the world with the message Fabulous coffee, fabulous me xxxx #CafeAuLait.

‘Hey, Brooke, how’s it feel to be the face of coffee?’ Her agent Milo James hugged her. ‘I saw your tweet. Good work. The guys at Café Au Lait will love that. Sit down.’

Brooke sat down on a state-of-the-art ultra-modern plastic moulded chair every bit as uncomfortable (and cold on her derrière) as it appeared. Milo sat at his clear Perspex desk, which was completely empty of anything other than a slender matte black phone that looked exactly like a sex toy.

‘Now, babe …’ He stretched out his arms and interwove his manicured hands. ‘How do you fancy a trip to the seaside? Little place called Trevay – have you heard of it?’

She shook her head.

‘Neither had I, but we will. It’s the new St Tropez, only in Cornwall. Pretty harbour, quaint locals, good food, sassy restaurants and Café Au Lait are opening a big flagship café-cum-bistro there. They want you to go down there tomorrow and smile for the cameras. Tell me you’re free.’

Brooke knew that Milo was well aware she had nothing else in her diary so there was no point in dithering. ‘I’m free.’

‘Good girl.’ His phone rang. ‘Excuse me, babe.’ She nodded as he picked up the ridiculous receiver. ‘Yes?’ He listened as his secretary, Bunnie, spoke. ‘OK, hon, put him through.’ Milo looked over at Brooke and mouthed, ‘Won’t be a minute’ before taking the call.

The distraction gave Brooke the chance to study her extraordinary surroundings. Milo’s office occupied the corner penthouse of a building overlooking Hyde Park. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. Both opened out onto a wrap-around balcony styled as a Japanese garden. A young oriental woman, no more than twenty and chewing gum, was slowly raking a patch of sand into a pattern resembling the ripples of the sea at the water’s edge. There were several maple trees, now clad in their gold and scarlet autumn mantles. Water trickled from the open mouth of a snarling copper tiger into a deep pool full of koi carp. The fish lingered languidly in the shadow of the wooden hump-backed bridge crossing it. The oriental woman palmed her chewing gum and chucked it into the water before collecting her rake and disappearing round the corner of the building and out of sight.

Milo was deep into his phone call and held a hand up at Brooke to let her know he wanted her to stay, before spinning his chair round to look at the view of garden and park.

Milo James. Brooke wasn’t sure whether she liked him much, or indeed trusted him, but he’d taken her on and the least she could do was play along nicely.

Brooke was an actress. What no one seemed to realise was that she was a rather good one. She had trained at the Bristol Old Vic and then gone to New York to take a course at the Actors Studio. It had opened her eyes to how much work Americans put into making it in the industry. They had to be able to sing, dance, act for stage, act for television, act for film, take fitness classes every day and constantly put themselves through the agony of ‘cattle calls’ – their name for mass auditions – to land the one big break.

She’d arrived in New York knowing only the British way: go to drama school, get an agent, sit about waiting for a job. Her new college friends had laughed at her.

‘Girl, you gotta get off your white ass and go to the world! It sure ain’t gonna come to you! And what’s this shit name? Ain’t nothin’ sexy about Brenda Foster! We gotta find you a new name, girl. Look out the window – whaddya see?’

Brenda had obediently got to her feet and gazed out of her grimy Manhattan window. ‘Errm … a yellow taxi.’

‘What else?’

‘A man with a peacock under his arm.’

‘That fool still there?’ Laverne, her flatmate, pushed Brenda out of the way. ‘What is his vibe? OK, forget him. Look again. To the right and up a bit.’

‘The bridge.’

‘Ah-hmm. What’s that bridge called, honey?’

‘The Brooklyn Bridge.’ Brenda turned and looked at her flatmate, nonplussed. ‘Why?’

‘That’s your new name.’

‘Brooklyn Bridge?’

Laverne laughed her deep and wonderful laugh. ‘That’d get you some attention, but not in a good way. No. Play a little. Brooke Bridge? Brooke Lynne? Oh, hey, that’s kinda Beckham ain’t it? Brooke Lynne. I like it.’

So Brenda Foster was put away and Brooke Lynne was born.

Not satisfied with restyling the name, Laverne had gone to work on the look too. The mouse-brown hair was cut short, highlighted and curled. Her eyebrows were marshalled into two bold works of art. Her make-up became ethereal with smoky eyes and coral lips. Her wardrobe went from jeans and T-shirts to bodycon dresses and towering heels.

It seemed to work. Her tutors started to take notice and in the end-of-term play she was given the role of Hedda Gabler. She earned herself two or three good reviews in the smaller artsy publications, including one that described her performance as fluid and believable. Another chip off the old English acting block. Classy. Remember the name.

The day after graduation, Brooke had to return home. There had been tearful goodbyes at JFK airport, with Laverne hugging her one last time and telling her, ‘Now, girl, you go get the world, OK?’

‘OK. You’ll come and see me soon, won’t you?’

‘Sure. Now go.’

They’d hugged again. Brooke turned for one last wave as she went through security, but Laverne had already gone. Brooke had little family. She’d never known her dad and her mum had ended up with a man who’d have preferred it if little Brenda Foster didn’t exist. Her mum had sent her to live with her Aunt Sheila, who was practical, loving and instilled in Brenda an appreciation for hard work.

‘No point dwelling on what might have been,’ she’d say. ‘Best to go out and make your own luck in this life, my girl.’ This advice had stood Brooke in good stead.

Her mother had died when Brooke was in her teens and she had found it hard to grieve for a mother who had shown her so little love. Instead, she locked her feelings of insecurity and abandonment away for another day and focused on being a success. Her aunt had left her a small legacy when she too died a few years later and Brooke spent it on her airfare to the States, knowing it was what her aunt would have wished for her.

Back in London she’d found a room to rent in a smart flat in Barons Court and a job as a waitress in Covent Garden.

In her spare time she went to as many acting/dancing/fitness classes as she could afford and scoured The Stage for open auditions. One of the restaurant regulars was a photographer who got chatting and offered to take some head shots of her to send to agents, etc.

As she walked to the address he’d given her, she planned what she would say and how she would escape if he even suggested that she take her top off. The building, when she got to it, looked bona fide. A renovated warehouse in the West End with a batch of bells and names beside them. She rang his bell. His assistant, a friendly skinny blonde, opened the door and introduced herself as his wife. Brooke relaxed.

After three hours of fun and some fabulous photos, she went back into the tiny changing room to collect her make-up bag and pack her case of clothes. She heard the door bell ring and a few moments later a man’s voice. When she came out from behind the curtain, she was confronted by a tall, muscled, bronzed Adonis. She stopped in her tracks.

‘Ah, Brooke – this is Bob. Bob Wetherby. Bob, Brooke Lynne.’

She shook the huge calloused hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing his beguiling smile and the little scars above his right eye and his … cauliflower ears?

‘Hi,’ he said, gaping at her as if in awe.

It turned out he was the Bob Wetherby. Captain of the England rugby team, current holders of the Rugby World Cup. A genuine sporting legend.

That afternoon he insisted on driving her to work in Covent Garden and sat all night waiting for her to finish. He drove her home. Kissed her on the doorstep and phoned her in the morning. ‘Hi. It’s me, Bob. Bob Wetherby?’

‘I guessed.’ She smiled down the phone.

‘Want some breakfast?’

‘Sure. What time? Only, I’m still in bed.’

‘I’m right outside, so open up and I’ll cook while you shower.’

How was a woman supposed to resist that kind of attention and thoughtfulness from a living god who also happened to be world famous? Brooke couldn’t. She fell head over heels in love.

Bob couldn’t go anywhere without a pack of paparazzi following him and she was really impressed when the Beckhams texted to warn him that there was a group of them hanging about outside Scott’s restaurant in Mayfair.

‘How do Victoria and David know where we’re having supper?’ she asked.

‘Because I told them.’

‘Oh.’

‘Didn’t I mention – we’re having dinner with them and my agent Milo?’

Assuming he was winding her up, Brooke laughed. ‘Ha! Good one, Bobby. I’d die if I met them.’

‘No, seriously, we’re all having supper together. It might be a bit boring because Dave and I will probably talk sport, so he said he’d bring Victoria along so that you and she could talk girl stuff.’

For a moment Brooke sat with her jaw hanging, then she said urgently, ‘Turn round. I need to go home and change.’

‘No time. Here we are.’

Even though Bob had parked his Range Rover in a side street and they went through a rear entrance, a lone photographer managed to get a shot of them. Next morning it was headline news:

SHE LOOKS SCRUM-MY, BOB!

It had actually been a wonderful supper. David, utterly gorgeous, was polite and interesting. Victoria was funny and kind. She had loved Brooke’s Topshop dress and had laughed when Brooke told the story of the origin of her name. The only one she’d hadn’t been entirely comfortable with was Milo James. Although he’d joined in the conversation, she sensed he was constantly scrutinising her and evaluating how well she coped in this rarefied company. It unnerved her. She felt as if he was trying to decide whether she was good enough for Bob, whether she’d tarnish his image.

Apparently she passed the test. At the end of the evening Milo had handed her his card saying, ‘Call me in the morning.’

His secretary put her straight through, as if she was expecting the call.

‘Hi, Brooke. So, how did you enjoy last night?’ said Milo’s oily voice.

‘I enjoyed it very much.’

‘Have you seen the papers?’

She looked at the handful of tabloids spread over the duvet. ‘Erm, yeah. Bob picked them up this morning.’

‘Do you like seeing yourself on the front page?’

Brooke hesitated before answering. It had shocked her to see the extent of the coverage, but once that had subsided, she had to admit it gave her a bit of a thrill. ‘It’s a bit strange, but at the same time quite nice.’

She heard him stifle a laugh. ‘Got an agent?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Get Bob to bring you over to the office later. Ciao.’

*

Milo had promised to raise her profile and make her a star. And that’s what he had done. She and Bob had become celebrity darlings. She had a beauty column in a glossy magazine – ghost-written for her, of course. A cosmetics company were launching a line of make-up in her name. She even had a handbag named after her. The Café Au Lait deal was huge, both in terms of her bank balance and the publicity it generated, and yet …

She didn’t want to seem ungrateful after all Milo’s hard work in getting her these deals, but sometimes it was as if he’d forgotten she was an actress. She’d come to his office today determined to remind him of that.

‘Milo—’ she started the moment he finished his call, but he cut across her.

‘Brooke, I’m sorry, something’s come up. Are there things you want to discuss?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK, how about we talk on the way down to Cornwall tomorrow morning? We’ll be uninterrupted in the car. Four hours to ourselves. Can it wait till then?’

‘Yeah, I suppose it can.’

‘Good girl.’ He stood and ushered her towards the door. ‘Bye, babe.’

Before she knew it, he’d gone back into his office and she was standing on the smooth marble of the reception area, wondering how he always managed to head her off before she had a chance to say what was on her mind.

7

Penny and Helen were on fire. Penny’s address book had names not just dropping out of it, but bouncing round the floor laughing at them.

‘Oh my God, Pen. Samantha Bond, Pierce Brosnan, Judi Dench, David Cunningham, Dahlia Dahling, Ryan Gosling – Ryan Gosling? Are you kidding me?’

Penny laughed and shook her head. Helen high-fived her friend and continued, ‘Philip Glenister, Miranda Hart, John Simm, Maggie Smith, Quentin Tarantino – Tarantino! I’m almost impressed … David Tennant. Stop! You’ve got Dr Who? Now I am impressed.’

‘I’m a very important person, you know.’ Penny held her hands up in front of her. ‘Guilty as charged. What can I do?’

‘You can get on the flipping phone and start ringing these buggers up!’ cried Helen.

*

Simon called the meeting to order. He had chosen the church hall in Trevay because it was bigger than anything in his own parish and because he wanted to get as many people behind the campaign as possible. For the umpteenth time, he checked his watch. Two minutes to eleven. He’d wait those couple of minutes in case anyone was having trouble parking. Another quick head count. Fifteen. He offered up a silent prayer. As if on cue, the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open and in came the local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and coastal paths, forever poking his walking stick into interesting piles of rubbish or using it to test the depth of puddles, he was affectionately known as Colonel Stick. The spritely octogenarian was wearing his usual shabby tweed trousers, highly polished but down-at-heel brogues, frayed shirt, MCC tie, shiny navy-blue blazer and his ever-present gnarled stick was clutched in his equally gnarled right hand.

‘Welcome, Colonel,’ called Simon as the old boy came forward to shake his hand. ‘Glad you could come.’

The Colonel stood up as straight as he was able and saluted. ‘I’ve never missed a show in my life and I’m not about to start now.’ His voice was plummy and surprisingly strong. Simon supposed it must be the result of many years barking orders on the parade ground.

‘Come and sit next to me, Colonel.’ Queenie patted the chair next to her. ‘I’ve got some aniseed twists to keep us going.’

‘Thank you, madam. How very generous,’ beamed the Colonel.

Simon returned to the front of the hall and started proceedings: ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for sparing the time to come and help with this most important and urgent issue. I am grateful to Audrey Tipton for agreeing to take the minutes, and—’

Audrey stood up and immediately took charge. ‘I need a roll call of all attendees. Please state your name and occupation when I point at you.’

Simon sighed and sat down. He was the first to be pointed at. Wearily he said, ‘Simon Canter. Vicar of Pendruggan.’

Scribble, point.

‘Queenie Quintrel. Postmistress, Pendruggan.’

Scribble, point.

‘Colonel Irvine. British Army. Trevay.’

Scribble, point.

The scout master and his wife, the leader of the amateur dramatics society, four members of the chamber of commerce and three local residents.

When the scribbling and pointing was finally done, Simon once again got to his feet and stated the case for action.

By the end of the sixty-minute meeting they had all agreed to post fliers in every window and write letters to the council and their local MP. Mrs Audrey Tipton volunteered to draft those letters, assuming, possibly rightly, that she and Geoffrey knew better than anyone how to compose an important epistle. They would certainly be awkward customers for the council to deal with. Never in her life had Audrey been content to take ‘no’ for an answer, and her husband could vouch for that – out of her hearing, obviously.

*

Piran was hunched over his laptop at Helen’s kitchen table, an enormous pile of ancient copies of the Trevay Times stacked at his elbow.

He’d been sitting like this, growling and grumbling, for a couple of hours. ‘Bloody wild-goose chase. The Pavilions ain’t old enough to have any history.’

Having left Penny to make her entreaties to her famous friends, Helen had come home and made a coffee for Piran before abandoning him to his growling and whingeing. She was now ensconced in her cosy sitting room with Jack, Piran’s devoted Jack Russell. The pair of them were snuggled on the sofa, absorbed in an old black-and-white film on the television. It was just getting to the bit where Bette Davis’s character would utter the famous line ‘fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’ when there came a shout from the kitchen:

‘Helen – come ’ere.’

‘Just a minute.’

‘Come ’ere now!’

‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ His chair scraped on the floor and he marched in with a yellowing newspaper in his hand.

She paused the film. ‘What?’

‘Look ’ere. It’s a review for the opening night of the Pavilions back in 1954.’

She read silently for a moment or two then looked at him. ‘And …?’

‘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.

Only then did Ryan step forward and walk amongst his fans.

Twenty minutes later he stepped over Jess and sat back in his seat, noisily clipping his seat belt.

‘Sorry I took so long. You know how it can be. Someone in goat class spotted me. Got recognised. Had to do the right thing. Chatted, had a few photos. God, it’s so tedious, but it goes with the territory – ya gotta do it.’

The chief stewardess approached, smiling. ‘Mr Hearst. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to other passengers. You’ve made their day. If only all celebrities could be so generous.’

‘It’s my pleasure. After all, it’s the fans who have given me so much. It is they who have made Cosmo Venini so very popular.’ He feigned humility.

The stewardess turned to Jess. ‘You’re Mr Hearst’s girlfriend, aren’t you?’

Jess extended her hand. ‘Jess. Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Those photos of you on the beach were amazing! You look super hot! Certainly don’t look your age.’

Ryan took Jess’s hand and kissed her fingers. ‘She doesn’t, does she? She needed a treat, what with me being away so much.’

‘Oh, Mr Hearst!’ The stewardess clutched her pussy-bowed neck and turned to Jess: ‘How lucky you are to have him.’

As soon as the stewardess had walked away, Jess’s bright smile dropped like an Acme safe tumbling off the side of a cliff in a Road Runner cartoon, ‘Hmph – she can fuck right off.’

‘What?’ said Ryan, running his hands through his well-cut hair and gazing out of the window at London spread below them.

‘Saying I look good for my age!’

‘Don’t be so sensitive. She’s a charming young woman. Do you have any chewing gum? I haven’t had time to clean my teeth.’

Jess rootled around in her bag and passed him a half-empty packet.

‘Thank you. You could do with some too.’

Chewing on her gum furiously, she rummaged through her bag for a hairbrush and ran it through her hair. She found a mirror and gave it a quick polish on her T-shirt. Her reflection did look pretty good. Her glossy brown mane of curls framed a tanned and freckled face that enhanced the blue of her eyes and the whiteness of her teeth. She had definitely lost a bit of chub from her cheeks and chin. She dared to tell her reflection that she was happy. Now if only she could get a job. Pay her way. Feel useful. Talented.

Maybe it wasn’t too late …

9

The limo pulled smoothly up to the steps leading to the wide and welcoming entrance of the Starfish Hotel. While the driver helped Brooke out of the car, a couple of linen-clad flunkeys raced to collect her bags from the boot.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Brooke. Welcome to the Starfish. I’m Toby, this is Marc.’

‘Thank you.’ She gave the young bronzed man a warm appraising glance.

His colleague stepped round from the back of the car carrying her Hermès valise.

‘I love your luggage,’ he said in a deliciously fruity voice. ‘Very stylish.’

Her driver straightened his tie and asked, ‘Anything more I can do for you, Miss Brooke?’

‘No, thank you. Do you have any idea when Milo – Mr James – will be arriving?’

‘I’m waiting to hear what flight he’s on. I’m heading to Newquay Airport now to pick him up.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

As the car drove away, the two young bellhops escorted her up the steps and into the hotel lobby. She was gratified to see that her super sexy Marilyn wiggle was attracting much attention along the way.

The Starfish Hotel was the smartest of Cornwall’s hotels. Built to coincide with the completion of Brunel’s revolutionary train line from Paddington to Trevay, it had offered suitably luxurious accommodation for the wealthy Victorian and Edwardian travellers who flocked to the pretty little fishing village in search of sea breezes and sunshine. With Dr Beeching’s cuts, however, the hotel had lost favour and business, sinking into unloved shabbiness throughout the sixties and seventies. During the eighties and nineties, surfers from all over the globe had used it as a form of cheap hostel. And then in the noughties a wealthy widow, Louise Lonsdale, had stepped in and saved it from decline.

Now the Starfish was the epitome of twenty-first century beach chic. Lots of glass, sunlight, luxury bathrooms and excellent food.

Brooke was swept up to her penthouse suite in the decadently ironic beach-hut lift. As Toby opened the door for her she was dazzled by the early October sunshine, blessing the drawing room with a drench of rosy gold. ‘This is fabulous!’ she said, kicking off her shoes (‘Louboutin!’ bellhop Marc swooned appreciatively) and let her feet revel in the deep pile of the sky-blue carpet as she walked to the big bay window and looked at the harbour below.

As soon as Toby and Marc had finished running through all the instructions for the air conditioning, satellite TV, electric curtains and waterfall shower, she tipped generously and they left her to it.

For a couple of hours she pottered around happily, testing the bed, unpacking her case, phoning Bob and trying out the super-comfy outsized sun lounger on her balcony-cum-deck. This was definitely the life. After a quick shower she slipped on some skinny jeans, tied a headscarf over her famous blonde hair and covered her eyes with a pair of huge sunglasses – a gift from Victoria Beckham. She was ready to explore Trevay.

It was the end of the season, so the town was quiet as Brooke plunged into the narrow back streets lined with smart shops selling local art, beach fashion and desirable home accessories. She spent a happy hour entertaining herself with a bit of retail therapy, enjoying the recognition of the shop assistants and the admiring looks of the men she passed in the street.

When at last she emerged from the maze of little streets she made a beeline for the seafront. Leaning on the railings overlooking the harbour, she took in the view. The tide was out and several boats were lying on their keels, the mooring ropes draped with curtains of green seaweed. Taking a great lungful of the warm, damp air, Brooke turned her face to the watery sun. She had to make the most of this. She’d be back in London by tomorrow night. Reopening her eyes, she scanned the headland to her left as it stretched out towards the open sea. A vast silver dome in the distance was reflecting the sun’s rays, forcing her to squint in order to make out details of the ice-cream-coloured building beneath. It looked like a theatre. Curious, she started to walk towards it.

As she got closer the signs of age and neglect grew ever more obvious. Several windows were broken, the brass handles on the main doors had a patina of verdigris from exposure to salt air and damp. Glass cases that had once held play bills advertising the shows now housed a miscellany of typed notices warning of the cancellation of the scouts’ Gang Show or requesting volunteers to help out at the next pensioners’ bingo night. She cupped her hands over the glass aperture in one of the main doors to see what the foyer looked like. A face suddenly loomed into view, staring at her from the other side of the door. She gave a shriek of surprise and jumped back. The face remained in the window, his lips moving. He was saying something to her.

She composed herself. ‘What?’ she mouthed.

The door opened and a head popped out. ‘Did I startle you? Do forgive me.’

‘I didn’t expect to see anyone, that’s all,’ she replied.

‘Would you like to come in and look around?’ he asked.

‘I … erm …’

‘Don’t worry. I come up here all the time. I have the keys.’ He patted the pocket of his worn tweed jacket.

Brooke stayed where she was and looked about, hoping that she wasn’t alone up here with a strange old man. Bad news: she was.

As if he guessed what was going through her mind, he said, ‘Or maybe you’d like to come back another time? With a friend, perhaps?’

‘Well, I …’ she hesitated. ‘I … yes, I’d love to. I’m an actress actually.’

‘Are you? How marvellous! I used to run this place, you know. That’s why I have keys – I never handed them back.’ He smiled naughtily and twinkled his milky brown eyes at her. ‘Come on in. Where shall we start …?’

*

Brooke was in her element. The old man’s stories, full of the romance and history of the place, kept her spellbound. It was as if she could hear the laughter of bygone audiences filling the auditorium as she looked out over the ripped and worn red plush seats. She could hear the band playing in the dark of the grimy orchestra pit. The old man told her to wait in the stalls while he disappeared through a door to the side of the stage. It was dark and cool as she waited. The only light came from the dome above, as the sun forced its way through the peeling silver paint.

From the wings she heard the old man’s voice announce, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Pavilions proudly presents the one and only Colonel Walter Stick!’ He marched on to the stage, head held high, his walking stick under his arm. Stamping to a smart halt, he turned to address her. ‘What ho, chaps.’ For the next seven or eight minutes he beguiled her with a stand-up routine that was word perfect. He finished with a little song and a soft-shoe shuffle before bowing deeply.

Her heart-felt applause soaked into the empty space. ‘That was wonderful!’

‘Prehistoric humour,’ he said humbly. ‘It used to go down quite well in the fifties. People could relate to stuffy Colonel Blimp types in those days. I called myself Colonel Stick. Many locals still call me that – behind my back. But they don’t remember why.’

‘So did you run this place and perform here?’

‘Yes. The last of the old actor managers, I suppose. Wonderful days and happy memories. Would you like to see my dressing room? I’d give it up whenever the really big stars came down – Max Miller, Morecambe and Wise, Petula Clark …’

‘I’d love to see it.’

She climbed the steps to the stage and he escorted her through the wings into an echoey corridor, down a short flight of steps that opened into a large space with doors leading off in all directions.

‘This was the green room. A great gathering place for before, after and during shows. All these doors surrounding us are dressing rooms.’ He led her to one where a star had once hung, leaving behind a faded imprint to prove its existence.

‘This was mine.’

He turned on a light switch and the room came to life. Turkey carpet on the floor. A huge cheval mirror in the corner. A rail holding two bent metal coat hangers with a shelf above for shoes or hats. A gilt mirror with at least a dozen light bulbs round it sat above an immaculate dressing table laid with several sticks of grease paint, a magnifying mirror, two silver-backed gentleman’s hair brushes and a small box labelled ‘moustaches’.

Brooke stepped into the room and ran her fingers over the make-up sticks. She turned to the old man. ‘Is this all yours?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at his feet, shame-faced. ‘I keep it here for old times’ sake. You must think I’m a silly old man.’

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. Who owns this theatre now? Why is it in such a state?’

‘The council own it. Always have. They’re selling it though. Soon it will be no more. That is what’s called progress. A few of us are banding together to fight for its survival, but I fear defeat is inevitable.’

‘Who’s buying it?’

‘Some coffee chain or other.’ He waved her to a chair and sat down to tell the whole story.

*

Helen was at home googling, trying to find out as much as possible about Colonel Stick aka Walter Irvine.

It seemed he had been born into a family where acting and music hall was in the blood. His father, Tommy Irvine, had been a well-known theatre manager and performer in his own time, best known for his ventriloquist act with an aristocratic, bad-tempered dummy called Claude. Tommy had famously retired from performing after Claude drunkenly insulted Queen Mary during a Royal Command Performance in 1931 and ventriloquist and dummy had to be bundled off the stage by Flanagan and Allen.

As a young man, Walter had carried on the family tradition. Thanks to his father, he knew many of the stars of the day, including Max Miller, but Walter didn’t confine himself to music hall alone. A comic actor of some talent, he appeared alongside some of the biggest stars of the fifties, featuring on the London stage as well as in productions with the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon. With Miller’s help, he’d gone on to perfect his ‘Colonel Stick’ act, which had been a sell-out in theatres up and down the country. The Korean War had truncated his theatrical career, but he’d resurrected it on his return when he took up the job of theatre manager at the Pavilions. The sixties had been the theatre’s golden era, with big-name stars coming to Cornwall to perform, whether in comedy revues, musicals or Shakespearean drama. The list read like a Who’s Who of acting royalty: Dame Peggy Ashcroft, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole …

According to his press cuttings, Walter Irvine had been one of the finest actors of his generation, as well as a highly regarded theatrical impresario. So why had he been so completely forgotten, even in Trevay?

Helen could find no answer online. There was no mention of his private life, even on Wikipedia, and she could find only a couple of passing references to his private film collection. It was as if Walter Irvine had vanished into a black hole once the Pavilions closed down.

Helen stretched and sighed. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll crack this in an afternoon,’ she said to herself. ‘Maybe I should pay him a visit?’

To distract herself she phoned her daughter-in-law, Terri. Helen had been thrilled that her son had found such a lovely wife, and even more thrilled when the newly weds announced that she was going to be a grandmother. Little Summer was a year old now and Helen was totally besotted with her.

Within minutes of Terri answering, the baby – who was sitting in her lap – began breathing heavily down the phone to Helen. She was just starting to talk. ‘Gan Gan,’ she said. ‘Gan, Gan.’ Terri prised the phone from her sticky little hands, laughing. ‘Gan Gan is you, Helen. We think it’s baby-speak for Grandma.’

‘Well, I like Gan Gan just fine.’

Helen couldn’t wait to tell Piran, who was fonder of his almost-step-granddaughter than he liked to let on. She went into the front garden to wait for him and deadhead the last of the roses. Dusk was settling and the lights of Pendruggan farmhouse twinkled at her from across the other side of the common.

The set of the latest Mr Tibbs episode stood in stark relief against the grey sky. Filming was due to begin any day now and the village was enjoying its claim to fame.

She drank in the cool, still air perfumed with the aroma of autumn leaves and sent up a prayer of thanks for this new chapter in her life. Her son happily married and doting dad to a healthy baby girl; her daughter Chloe had finally found her niche working for a charity that helped provide communities in the developing world with clean water, and it sounded as though she’d found love too, with a fellow aid worker. Helen was immensely proud of both of her children. She was quietly proud of herself too, especially now that her first column had appeared in the Cornish Guardian. It had been a bold step to end her marriage and start a new life in Cornwall, but she was glad she’d gathered up her courage and taken the plunge. She felt that she belonged in Pendruggan, and with Piran. Theirs was a comfortable arrangement; for all that he was quixotic, untameable and sometimes downright rude, she loved him. She had been a good wife to Gray, who had walked all over her and taken lovers the way an alcoholic helps himself to another drink. Piran on the other hand, had never let her down and she truly believed he never would.

*

Brooke was thrilled with her idea. Once she explained it to them, she was confident that Milo and the Café Au Lait people would be thrilled to. She was going to enlist their help in saving the Pavilions. They could have a small coffee shop bistro in one half of the foyer, while sponsoring great plays, concerts, summer seasons and pantomimes. She would star in many of the productions and Colonel Irvine would resurrect his Colonel Stick alter ego for special performances. The papers would love the story. Trevay was, after all, the St Tropez of Great Britain – Milo had told her so.

She sat in front of her dressing-table mirror, wearing a hotel bathrobe, and made her face up carefully. The smoky eyes, coral lips and tumble of blonde curls that were the trademark of Brooke Lynne looked happily back at her. Finally she was going to make her mark. Saviour of a provincial seaside theatre and a proper actress. She’d give her publicist a call in the morning.

Her room phone rang.

‘Brooke? It’s Milo. I’m just checking in downstairs. The Café Au Lait guys will be here in twenty minutes. You ready?’

‘Almost.’

‘What are you wearing?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe a—’

She heard him tut. ‘I’ll come up and see to it you choose right. I’ll be there in two minutes.’

She pulled out a couple of simple dresses and put them on the bed. Nothing too revealing. This was a business meeting, after all.

She answered the door at his first knock and he pushed past her.

‘Cool room.’ He gave her a sweeping look from head to toe. ‘Nice make-up. Good girl. What have you got on under that robe?’

‘My underwear of course.’

‘Shame. Where are your clothes?’

She showed him the choices on the bed and he rejected them. ‘Too daytime. I need you to look glamorous. Sexy. What else you got?’

He chose the tight-fitting scarlet lace dress that she had planned to wear for the press launch the next day, impatiently dismissing her protests: ‘It doesn’t matter. You can wear it twice. We’ve got fifteen minutes before they arrive. I’ve told the front desk to send them straight up. We’ll have drinks here in the suite.’

‘OK.’ Brooke shrugged. To have the meeting in the privacy of the room would be a good idea. Then they could celebrate over supper in the dining room downstairs.

Milo was heading towards the door when a thought struck him. He turned and asked: ‘Shoes – what are you wearing?’

‘Stilettos?’

‘Perfect.’

*

Brooke looked in the long mirror and checked herself out. There was no doubt that this was the Brooke Lynne that Café Au Lait had hired. A blonde bombshell sex siren. She bent over to adjust her stockings and smooth the pile of her scarlet suede killer heels. ‘Good luck,’ she said to her reflection. ‘Tonight’s going to be a good night.’

She opened the door to Milo and two men in their forties both wearing sharp suits.

Milo kissed Brooke and introduced her. ‘Brooke, this is Rupert Heligan, Chairman of CAL UK.’

Rupert stepped towards her and kissed her hand, holding it just a little too long. He looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last.’

‘Me too. Thank you, Mr Heligan,’ she replied, turning her bombshell smile up to warp factor seven.

‘Please, call me Rupert.’

She smiled and Milo introduced her to the second man. ‘Brooke, this is Michael Woodbine, CAL’s PR wizard. Without him, you wouldn’t have got the gig.’

Michael stepped forward and placed his hands lightly on her elbows while moving in to kiss her twice. Once on each cheek. ‘You were the perfect choice. Rupert and I knew you were the face CAL needed.’

‘Well, I can’t thank you enough. I am so thrilled to be an ambassador for such great coffee and such a great company. I love your ethos. Fair trade with your growers. Reinvesting in their businesses. I wouldn’t want to work with a company that exploited their suppliers.’ Brooke knew it was her sex appeal that was her big selling point, and why they were interested in her. She was quite happy to use her charms, but she was determined not to play the bimbo for the sake of it.

The three men smiled at her. ‘She’s not just a beauty – she has brains too,’ said Milo, ushering everyone to the huge sofas.

‘Oh yes, I’m so much more than a pretty face.’ Brooke turned her smile up another couple of notches.

‘Fix us some drinks would you, Brooke.’

Brooke’s million-dollar smile froze on her face and she stood still for a moment. She hadn’t thought about drinks, let alone being the one who ‘fixed’ them. She recovered quickly – she was a pro after all. ‘Of course. What would you like?’

She went to the cupboard that she’d been told was the bar and opened it. Everything anyone could have wanted was stocked inside.

‘Scotch, please. On the rocks,’ said Rupert, staring at her bottom as she bent down to search for glasses.

Michael and Milo chose the same. She poured herself a weak gin and tonic.

Once they were all settled and sitting down, Rupert opened up the conversation.

‘Milo, what we want Brooke to do tomorrow is go up to the theatre, have a few shots taken by the invited press, do some interviews with the media …’ He stopped and turned to Brooke. ‘Can you do interviews?’

She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Can you take a brief? Anything awkward, leave it to Michael. Just keep smiling.’

Brooke felt a stab of annoyance. ‘I’m an actress. I can remember lines and I can certainly put across my views.’

Milo surreptitiously raised a finger and gave her a sharp look to stop her from saying more. She stopped.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Get that would you,’ said Milo, ‘there’s a good girl.’

Brooke hid her annoyance but did as she was asked. A short, self-important-looking little man in a brown suit was standing outside. ‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asked.

He held out his hand and, shaking hers, walked in, ‘Councillor Bedford – Chris. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Ah, Chris – glad you could come.’ Milo got to his feet. ‘You know Rupert and Michael.’ They all shook hands. ‘Brooke, get Chris a drink, will you.’

She poured him the lager he’d requested. He had settled himself on the sofa she’d been sitting on, next to Milo. Now there was nowhere but a small stool to perch on. She perched.

The three men discussed business over the top of her head for the next hour. Brooke tried to listen enthusiastically – active listening, she’d heard it called – but the three men seemed to be treating her like a hired servant and it was starting to irritate her. Three times she got up and refreshed their glasses. Not one of them addressed her. Councillor Bedford was an odious creep who hadn’t stopped leering at her all evening, staring at her thighs when she crossed her legs and straining his neck to peer down the front of her dress when she stooped to set the drinks on the table. She was so fed up with the whole business it was tempting to tune out completely, but her ears pricked up when talk turned to the Pavilions.

‘So, Bedford, you’re absolutely sure that we’ve got this in the bag?’ pressed Michael, the PR man. ‘We don’t want any more interference from those local busybodies. From hereon there must be nothing but positive press – we’ve got our image to protect, remember.’

‘Precisely,’ said Rupert. ‘We’re rewarding you handsomely for your … “interventions”, and we expect you to deliver accordingly.’

‘Yes, yes, absolutely, gentlemen!’ Councillor Bedford fawned, rubbing his hands nervously against his trousers. ‘I think you’ll find that there are plenty of sympathetic ears on the council and I personally guarantee to see to it that any opposition will be silenced.’

Definitely odious, thought Brooke, as their conversation droned on. Her stomach was rumbling. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was getting late and she was worried that the kitchen would be closed by the time they went downstairs for dinner. Milo interrupted her thoughts. ‘So, babe, how about you tell the boys what being the face of Café Au Lait means to you?’

Brooke’s eyes lit up. Here was her chance to tell them her master plan. ‘I went up to the Pavilions today and had a look around. It’s a fabulous building and I think it’s going to be great for CAL.’

Milo gave her a smile of approval. Rupert had his eyes fixed on her legs where her skirt had ridden up as she sat on the stool. He’d had quite a lot to drink. The sooner she said her piece and got them downstairs for something to eat, the better.

‘And I’ve had a great idea,’ she ploughed on, ignoring Milo’s warning glance. ‘The Café Au Lait bistro could run side by side with the theatre. If it were situated in the foyer, it could provide restaurant catering for theatre goers and non theatre goers alike once the theatre is restored. The Pavilions would be transformed into a beacon of high entertainment for the West Country!’ She looked around expectantly. Four faces stared back at her, stunned. ‘I don’t know whether Milo has mentioned this,’ she pressed on, ‘but I am a trained actress. A good actress. I can not only be the face of Café Au Lait but also the face of the Pavilions!’

There was silence as she finished. Then Milo got to his feet and said, ‘Brooke, may I have a word?’

He walked towards her bedroom and she followed. ‘Close the door behind you,’ he ordered in a low voice. She did so.

‘What the fuck do you think you are doing?’

‘I … was just—’

‘You were just fucking me and yourself over. Save the theatre? Be an actress? What the fuck’s that about?’

‘Well, I …’

He grabbed the top of her arm hard and squeezed. ‘Don’t you ever undermine me in front of a client again.’

‘You’re hurting my arm.’

He pushed his face into hers and she felt his spittle on her skin as he spoke: ‘I’ll hurt more than your arm if you carry on spouting out any stupid idea that comes into that pea brain of yours. These are powerful men. They have the money, they have my balls and they have your future in their pockets. Do you understand?’

She nodded, frightened.

‘They didn’t come down here to hear you speak. They came here to look at you. They came down here so that they could tell their mates they were in Brooke Lynne’s hotel room. Now you need to be nice to them – and I mean really nice. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes.’ Tears pricked her eyes but she forced them back.

The bedroom door opened behind her. Councillor Bedford stood at the door, swaying slightly, an empty lager glass in his hand. ‘Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?’

Milo beamed at him and let go of Brooke’s arm. ‘I was just saying, we need to get some cocktails sent up. Champagne cocktails, I think. We’ve got a lot to celebrate.’

Brooke returned to the drawing room. ‘Get onto room service would you, Brooke. Have them send up some brandy and half a dozen bottles of champagne.’

As she put the phone down she saw Michael emptying a small bag of white powder onto the coffee table. Taking his wallet from his pocket, he removed a platinum American Express card and began chopping the powder into thin lines. Milo was watching her. ‘Come on, Brooke. You’re a very lucky girl to be employed by these nice men. Relax.’ Michael had just hoovered up the first line. He handed her the rolled-up twenty-pound note he’d been using. ‘Ladies first – it’s good stuff.’

‘No thank you. I don’t—’

Rupert put his finger in the residue Michael had left behind and rubbed it on his gums. ‘Come on, babe. It’s just a little charlie.’

Councillor Bedford’s eyes were like saucers. ‘I’ve always wanted to try this stuff. How do you do it?’

Rupert showed him.

As the drug took effect, Bedford’s pupils dilated and his manner towards Brooke became more bold. ‘I must say,’ he smirked, his eyes brazenly roving over her curves, ‘This is what I call a nice bonus.’

Brooke’s brain was spinning. How had she got into this situation? She felt a hand caressing her bottom. Rupert was behind her, whispering in her ear: ‘Why don’t we go to your bedroom? The others are happy here. Unless you’d like them to watch?’

He slid his arm round her waist and she felt his breath and hot tongue in her ear.

There was a knock at the door.

‘That’s room service.’ He let her go and she ran to the door. Toby and Marc were there, pushing a huge trolley loaded with six bottles of champagne in a wine cooler and a big bottle of brandy.

‘Have you got a phone on you?’ she asked in a desperate whisper.

‘Yeah,’ said Toby.

‘Give it to me.’ She took the phone and quickly turned around, thrusting the phone towards the table, capturing the lines of coke on the coffee table, the bottles of booze, and the look of stunned shock on the three men’s faces.

Marc threw his hands up in horror. ‘Oh my God! It’s a drugs den!’

Milo ran towards Brooke. ‘Give me that phone, you stupid bitch!’

But Brooke was too fast for him. She ran out of the door and into the hallway screaming, ‘Help! Police! Help!’

Toby and Marc abandoned the trolley and ran hell for leather down the corridor after her, bundling her into the service lift and taking her down to the sanctuary of the kitchen.

For a second or two they stood in silence, panting and wild-eyed, grateful to be out of that room. Then Marc grinned at her and said, ‘You can’t half shift in those heels, girlfriend. I’m proud of you!’

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