Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

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.

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.