Fern Britton - A Seaside Affair

Helen sipped on her chilled glass of wine and shifted her focus back to the harbour. The tide was high but on its way out. She looked along the floating pontoons to the spot where Piran kept his boat tied up. It was still there. He’d better hurry if he was going to catch supper and get back before low tide. Then she saw him; his familiar gait, slightly bow-legged in his faded, shabby jeans, but very attractive. His arms hung loosely by his sides, the wind ruffling his long dark curls, lifting them to reveal the grey at his temples. His hands, nut brown, were pulled from the pockets of his salt-stained fisherman’s smock in order to pick up little Jack and help him into the boat. Helen smiled as Jack went straight to the bow and put his paws up on the ledge, almost like a living figurehead.

‘Look, there’s Piran,’ said Penny.

‘Mmm, I saw him. I wonder what he’ll say about this Pavilions business?’

‘He’ll be all for saving the place, I should think. As the local historian, he’s bound to be part of this action committee Simon was talking about. I’ve a sinking feeling that this campaign is going to be the bane of both our lives if we’re not careful.’

*

‘Hi, honey, I’m hoooome!’ sang Penny as she shut the front door of the vicarage behind her.

‘I’m in the kitchen, Pen.’

‘I hope the kettle’s on.’ Penny walked into her kitchen and had the wind taken out of her sails when she found several familiar, if not entirely welcome, faces round her table.

Penny furrowed her brow slightly at the sight of Audrey Tipton’s determined features peering at her sternly over a teacup.

‘Audrey, Geoff, what an unexpected pleasure!’ Penny oozed, with as much sincerity as she could muster, only to be greeted by a tight-lipped nod from Audrey.

‘Pen, Queenie, Geoff, Audrey and I are debating what, if anything, we can do to save the Pavilions.’

Penny dropped a few teabags into the pot. ‘I guessed as much.’ She nodded her head slowly. A woman of indeterminable age (somewhere between fifty-five and seventy-five was Penny’s best guess) and indomitable disposition, Audrey Tipton was a powerhouse in tweed. She was chairwoman of the Pendruggan village Women’s Institute, the church flower committee and the Village in Bloom committee. Her husband, Geoff, was widely referred to behind his back as Mr Audrey Tipton, due to his total subservience to his wife.

Next to Geoff sat Queenie, owner of the only shop in the village and a gold-medal gossip who couldn’t bear to be left out of anything, which explained her presence at the table.

‘Hello, Queenie!’ Penny stooped to give the friendliest of the faces a kiss, and got a damp whiskery one in return.

‘’Ello, me duck. Coo, you look like you’ve caught the sun. ’Ow was yer second ’oneymoon?’ She gave one of her crackly tobacco-induced laughs and nudged Simon’s elbow. ‘She looks like you gave ’er a proper good time, an’ no mistake!’

Simon turned a deep shade of pink at this, but Penny merely grinned and set about filling the kettle. ‘Don’t you go embarrassing my husband, Queenie. You are a very naughty woman.’

Desperate to steer the conversation away from his personal life and back to the matter in hand, Simon cleared his throat. ‘As I was saying, we’re having a meeting about what can be done to save the Pavilions.’

Audrey Tipton fixed Penny with a challenging stare. ‘You got here at just the right moment. We’ve decided that you are critical to our campaign.’

‘Oh?’ replied Penny coolly.

Audrey was not to be intimidated. ‘Yes. As you move in the world of “celebrities”’ – this was accompanied by an unpleasant little smirk, which her husband dutifully mirrored – ‘you can organise a troupe of actors to come down and put on some sort of event to raise the profile of the campaign.’

‘Ah, I see. Would you like me to phone Judi Dench and David Attenborough now, or shall I wait until tomorrow?’ Penny gave a sweet smile and plonked a plate of HobNobs on the table.

‘This is no laughing matter, Mrs Canter. May I remind you that without the co-operation of this village, your Mr Tibbs Mysteries series would never have got off the ground.’ She turned to her husband and commanded: ‘Geoffrey, pour me a cup of tea.’ Then her icy gaze returned to Penny. ‘If you weren’t the vicar’s wife, the whole exercise would have been doomed to fail.’

Penny gritted her teeth and reminded herself that as the vicar’s wife she had a duty to be civil to parishioners, no matter how trying they might be. ‘Audrey, the series was conceived long before I became the vicar’s wife. There’s more to a successful series than—’

‘That may well be the case,’ Audrey cut her off huffily. ‘But without the goodwill and co-operation of the villagers, you would find it very difficult indeed to do your shooting. I do have some influence, you know,’ she added ominously.

Penny felt anger rise in her. She was vaguely conscious of Simon and Geoff holding their breath, and Queenie leaning forward as if she was hoping Penny would give in to temptation and crown Audrey with the teapot. Instead she set the teapot carefully on the table and enquired in a calm, cool voice, ‘Are you blackmailing me, Mrs Tipton?’

‘Not at all, not at all!’ trilled Mrs Tipton, pushing back her chair and standing up. ‘I’m just stating the facts, that’s all. Come along, Geoffrey, it’s time for your dinner.’

As Audrey swept out regally, her submissive husband trailing in her wake, Penny turned to Simon and threw her hands in the air, ‘Oh the life of a vicar’s wife!’

‘For better or for worse, darling,’ Simon reminded her.

‘Don’t push your luck, sunshine!’ growled Penny.

Ollie Pinkerton was feeling good. The gym was buzzing today and his pre-breakfast workout had gone well. He zipped up his jeans, checked his gelled hair in the changing-room mirror and hefted his sports bag onto his shoulder.

Out in the members’ lounge he queued for a skinny mochaccino.

‘Hi, Ollie. What can I get you?’ asked the smiling woman behind the counter.

‘The usual, please, Lou. You still on for tonight’s show?’

It was Lou’s silver wedding anniversary and he had given her a couple of complimentary tickets for The Merry Wives of Windsor at Stratford’s RSC.

‘Oooh, yes. Graeme and I are really looking forward to it. You sure it’s OK?’ Ever so kind of you. We couldn’t afford those prices.’

‘My pleasure.’ Ollie gave her his winning beam of a smile. He hadn’t bothered to tell her that the tickets were comps. ‘We’ll be nicely warmed up for you after this afternoon’s matinee,’ he said, opening his wallet to pay for the coffee.

‘No, no, Ollie. On the house.’

He trousered the five-pound note speedily and thanked her. Just because he was an actor with the Royal Shakespeare Company didn’t mean he was minted.

Collecting his coffee he threaded his way through clusters of tables and chairs to an empty two-seater brown leather sofa in front of a huge television screen showing highlights of a tennis tournament.

On the seat next to him was a copy of the Daily Mail . He flicked through it, only half engaged, until he saw a large photo of himself with a girl who wasn’t his girlfriend. Shit . The headline blared ‘ Still Seeing Red, Ollie? ’ Shit shit shit.

His phone began to vibrate in his back pocket. He pulled it out, wincing when he saw the caller ID, his pocket rocket rock star girlfriend, ‘Red’.

‘Hi, babe,’ he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. ‘Didn’t expect to hear from you this early. How’s Sydney? How’s the show?’