Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

‘Looks like we got our front page!’

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.’

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.