A Seaside Affair

‘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 …’