Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

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 …

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.