Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

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.’