A Seaside Affair (2 page)

‘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?’

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 indeci-sively before picking up.

‘Yes.’

‘Piran? It’s me, Simon.’

Piran breathed a sigh of relief. He and the vicar had been friends for many years, supporting each other through some difficult times.

‘Simon! Welcome home, how was the holiday with your maid?’

‘Simply wonderful. Marriage is to be recommended, Piran.’

Piran decided to ignore the obvious implications in this comment. ‘How can I help you, Simon?’

‘It’s the Pavilions – there’s a report in the paper that the council are about to sell the place to a coffee chain. Possibly Café Au Lait.’

‘Good idea. The building is falling apart. It needs money spending on it, or knocking down.’

Simon was shocked. ‘You can’t mean that? You’re our local historian – surely you of all people want to save the old place?’

Piran put one leg up on his desk and tipped his chair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he didn’t get a move on he’d miss the tide. ‘It’s an eyesore, Simon. We’re not talking about some Frank Matcham theatre of distinction here. The Pavilions is a fifties, flat-roof, jerry-built dinosaur that hasn’t made any money in decades.’

‘But the Sea Scouts and the WI and … the Trevay Players …’

Piran sniffed with disdain at the mention of the local amateur dramatic company.

‘… and the Arts and Crafts Show, and … er …’

‘Exactly. It’s not exactly a top-drawer venue, is it?’

‘Piran, please. I’ve already had emails from all sorts of people asking me to be on the board of an action committee. I thought you might want to lend us your support, maybe dig out some facts of historical importance.’

Piran scratched his beard and pulled on the gold hoop in his ear. ‘OK. Let me think about it.’

‘I knew you’d help.’

‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’d help. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’

The men rang off, each hoping the other would see sense. Swinging his leg off the desk and springing to his feet, Piran hurried out of his office before the phone had a chance to ring again.

Down in the lobby, Janet, the museum receptionist, was so engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t look up until he called, ‘Bye, Janet. I’m finished for the day. See you tomorrow.’

‘Piran, sorry I didn’t hear you. I was reading this –’ She held up the front page so he could read the headline:

THE END FOR THE PAVILIONS?

‘I’d be ever so sad to see the old place go. My parents used to take me there every summer to see the big shows. Remember when Morecambe and Wise had a season here? Sold out every night. They were on the same bill as … oh what were they called … The Bachelors, that’s it! Lovely boys, they were. Great music.’

‘Not exactly The Beatles, were they?’ sniffed Piran, unimpressed. ‘Not my thing, Janet, see you tomorrow.’

Janet persisted, ‘But it’s heartbreaking. There’ll be a lot of people with a lot of memories.’

‘It’s a white elephant and an architectural mess.’