Fern Britton - The Postcard - Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read

Jenna was in her high chair and Simon was attempting to spoon porridge into her. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ he said encouragingly.

Jenna opened her mouth and grinned. Pushing her tongue out, she allowed the cereal to ooze down her chin. Simon spooned it back in.

It came out again, and before Simon could catch it Jenna had put her hands into it and rubbed it into her face and hair.

‘Would you like a banana, then?’ he asked, reaching for a baby wipe.

Jenna shook her head. She had just turned one. ‘Mumma.’

‘Mummy’s a bit tired,’ said Simon.

Penny sat at the table. ‘Too right Mummy’s tired.’

‘Get this down you.’ Simon passed her a fresh cup of coffee. ‘A caffeine hit should make everything look better. By the way, I’ve emptied the dishwasher for you.’

Penny gave him a cold stare, suddenly irritated again. ‘You’ve emptied the dishwasher for me? Why for me? Because it’s my job, is it? The woman’s job is to empty the dishwasher? Is that it?’

‘Oh Penny, you know what I meant. It’s a figure of speech. Like when you tell me you’ve done my ironing for me.’

‘Well, that is for you. It’s yours. Do you ever do the ironing for me?’

Simon took his glasses off and began polishing them. ‘You know what I mean.’

Penny picked up Jenna’s breakfast bowl. ‘Come on then, monster, have your porridge.’

Jenna obligingly opened her mouth and tucked in.

Simon, returning his glasses to his face, tried a cheerful smile. ‘Good girl, Jenna, you wouldn’t do that for Daddy, would you?’

‘Why do you refer to yourself in the third person?’ asked Penny. ‘Don’t say Daddy, say me.’

‘It’s just a fig—’

‘A figure of speech.’ Penny popped the last spoonful into Jenna’s mouth. ‘Everything is a figure of speech to you, isn’t it? Pass me the wet wipes.’

She expertly mopped Jenna’s face and hands, hoping that Simon felt inadequate watching just how deftly she did it, then lifted her from the high chair and handed her to her father.

‘I’m just going for a shower,’ she said.

He looked anxious. ‘How long will you be?’

‘As long as it takes.’

He looked at the kitchen clock.

‘Well, I can give you ten minutes then I have to go.’

‘You can give me ten minutes? How very generous.’ Penny went to leave the kitchen.

‘Sarcasm does not become you,’ Simon blurted.

‘That wasn’t sarcasm,’ she threw over her shoulder. ‘Sarcasm takes energy and wit and I am too tired for either.’

Walking up the stairs was an effort. Her body was not responding to the caffeine. Everything was an effort nowadays. She looked forward to nothing, she laughed at nothing, her brain felt nothing. Nothing but an emptiness that – and may God forgive her – even Jenna’s dear face couldn’t always fill.

She turned on the shower, stripped off her nightclothes, stood under the hot water and cried.

The morning crept on. By ten thirty Penny had Jenna washed and changed and back in her cot for her morning sleep.

Simon had gone off to his parish meeting about the upcoming Nativity service, complaining that he’d be late, and porridge bowls still sat in the sink under cold and lumpy water.

Penny was in her room dragging a comb through her newly washed hair. She badly needed a cut and a colour, but trying to find a couple of hours when someone could mind Jenna was hard. She stared for the second time that day at her reflection. God, she’d aged. Crow’s feet, jowls, a liver spot by her eyebrow … She’d had Jenna when she was well into her forties and it had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder even than leaving her life in London.

In London she had been somebody: a busy, single, career woman; an award-winning television producer with her own production company, Penny Leighton Productions.

Now she hardly knew who she was. Again she felt guilty at how horrible she’d been to Simon. Taking a deep breath she slapped on a little mascara and lip gloss and vowed to present him with steak and a bottle of wine for supper.

She got downstairs and into her study two minutes before the phone rang on the dot of eleven. Penny took a deep breath and plastered on a cheery persona.

‘Good morning, Jack.’

‘Hello, Penny, how is life at the vicarage treating you?’

Jack Bradbury was playing his usual game of feigned bonhomie. He laughed. ‘I still can’t believe you’re a vicar’s wife.’

‘And a mother,’ she played along.

‘And a mother. Good God, who’d have thought it. How is the son and heir?’

‘The daughter and heir is doing very well, thank you.’

‘Ah yes, Jenny, isn’t it?’

‘Jenna.’

‘Jenna … of course.’

The niceties were achieved.

‘So, Penny …’ She imagined Jack leaning back in his ergonomic chair and admiring his manicured hands. ‘We want more Mr Tibbs on Channel 7.’

‘That’s good news. So do I.’ Penny reached for a wet wipe and rubbed at something sticky on the screen of her computer. Jenna had been gumming it yesterday.

‘So, you’ve got hold of old Mave, have you?’ asked Jack.

‘I emailed her yesterday,’ said Penny.

‘And how did she reply?’

‘She hasn’t yet. The ship is somewhere in the Pacific heading to or from the Panama Canal, I can’t remember which.’

Jack sounded impatient. ‘Does she spend her entire bloody life on a cruise? Does she never get off?’

‘She likes it.’

‘I’d like it more if she wrote some more Mr bloody Tibbs scripts in between ordering another gin and tonic.’

‘I’ll try to get her again today.’ Penny wiped her forehead with a clammy palm. She wasn’t used to being on the back foot.

‘Tell her that Channel 7 wants another six eps, pronto, plus a Christmas special. I want to start shooting the series in the summer, ready to air in the New Year.’

‘I have told her that and I’m sure she wants the same.’

‘I’m not fannying around on this for ever, Penny. David Cunningham’s agent has already been on the blower. Needs to know if David will be playing Mr Tibbs again or he’ll sign him up to a new Danish drama. And he’s asking for more money.’

‘I want to talk to you about budget—’

‘You bring me old Mave and then we’ll talk money.’

‘Deal. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of her.’

‘Phone me asap.’ He hung up before she said goodbye.

Old Mave was Mavis Crewe, an eighty-something powerhouse who had created her most famous character, Mr Tibbs, back in the late 1950s. Penny had snapped up the screen rights to the books for peanuts and the stories of the crime-solving bank manager and his sidekick secretary, Nancy Trumpet, had become the most watched period drama serial of the past three years.

Penny’s problem was that she had now filmed all the books and needed Mavis to write some more. But Mavis, a law unto herself, was enjoying spending her unexpected new income by constantly circumnavigating the globe.

Penny rubbed a hand over her chin and found two or three fresh spiky hairs. She’d had no time to get them waxed and, right now, had no energy to go upstairs and locate her long-missing tweezers.

She pushed her laptop away and laid her head on the leather-topped desk. ‘I’m so tired …’ she said to no one, and jumped when her computer replied with a trill. An email.

TO: PennyLeighton@tlx.com

FROM: MavisCrewe@sga.com

SUBJECT: Mr Tibbs

Dear Penny,

How simply thrilling that Mr Tibbs is wanted so badly by Channel 7 and the charming Jack Bradbury. It really is such a joy to know that one’s lifework has a fresh impact on the next generation of viewing public.