A Seaside Affair (10 page)

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!’

T
he taxi pulled up outside Ryan and Jess’s flat. The street looked dull and drab after the brightly garish colours of Thailand. The dark and threatening clouds above were only highlighted by the steel grey of the sky. As Ryan paid the cab driver, and signed an autograph for the cabbie’s wife, Jess stood on the damp pavement and looked up at the windows of their top-floor flat. She’d soon be alone again. Ryan was off filming in two days’ time. The carefree relaxed mood of her holiday was dissolving like an aspirin in water, yet without the benefits of analgesia.

She had asked Ryan, as they’d sat by the pool in Thailand one day, if he thought she might be depressed.

He’d looked at her in surprise, then told her to pull herself together; she didn’t have a mental illness, all she needed was to get a job under her belt. When she pointed out that it wasn’t that easy and started to list the humiliating auditions she’d endured of late, his response had been to suggest that she give up acting and try something else.

‘You’re a jolly good organiser,’ he told her. ‘You’d make an excellent school secretary.’

‘Like your mother?’

‘Yes. Like my mother. She was always home in time to cook supper for me and Dad, plus she had all those long holidays.’ He’d smiled and kissed her. ‘It would suit you very well.’

‘So you don’t think I’ve got what it takes to make it as an actress?’

‘Hey, babe, it’s not that.’ Ryan put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘It’s just that this business is really tough and I don’t want to see you brought down by it.’

Despite the many hours she’d spent torturing herself with the notion that she was a failure as an actress, this unexpected career advice had knocked her sideways. She’d wanted to be an actress ever since she could remember. If that was taken from her, what did she have left? The only thing she could come up with was Ryan. Apart from one (major) indiscretion with a young actress, he’d stuck with Jess for seven years. But there had been no mention of marriage, or children. All they shared was a rented flat at the top of a converted Edwardian house in Willesden and two dachshunds. Lucky girl.

Ryan broke into her thoughts. ‘Jess, carry my holdall would you? I’ll get the cases.’

Together they hauled themselves and their luggage up the four flights of stairs.

Panting, Ryan put his key in the front door and pushed it open. Jess heard the sound of mail swishing over the stripped floorboards of the small hall.

‘Here we are then: home sweet home!’ declared Ryan. ‘Put the kettle on, love. I’m dying for a whizz.’