A Seaside Affair (37 page)

‘Shh,’ said Brooke, and the three of them arranged their faces into natural expressions as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

The kitchen door swung open and Jess lugged in three heavy bin-bags. ‘Hi, guys.’

‘Hi, Jess.’ Jonathan smiled at her.

‘Want some help with that?’ offered Ollie, nodding to the rubbish sacks.

‘Great. Thanks. Can you put them out by the dustbin. The binmen collect tomorrow.’

Ollie and Jonathan took the bags out. Once out of sight of the kitchen, they had a quick peek.

‘Tom Ford shoes!’ admired Jonathan.

‘Put them back,’ hissed Ollie.

But Jonathan continued: ‘Cashmere jumper … Vivienne Westwood shirt …’

‘Yeah. I bet she bought them all for him.’

They piled them into the dustbin and went back to the kitchen.

Both girls were at the kitchen table sipping camomile tea. Ollie pulled out the chair next to Jess and sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing, old friend?’

Jess sighed. ‘Honestly? I feel as if I’ve been punched very hard and I’m numb all over.’

Jonathan offered her a HobNob. ‘You don’t have to do the show tonight if you don’t want to. But, in my opinion, it might just be the best thing you could do.’

Brooke disagreed. ‘She needs to have a couple of days off to get her head together.’

Ollie put his arm around Jess’s shoulder and hugged her to him. ‘I think Jess needs to make her own mind up.’

The four of them sat in silence, listening to the hum of the fridge and the dachshunds snoring in their basket. Jess sat still, staring ahead and thinking.

The clock was creeping round to the time they should be leaving for the theatre. Summer season meant never having a day off, even a Sunday.

Eventually Jess spoke: ‘Let’s go. What would I do, sitting here by myself tonight?’

*

Jess didn’t know she had it in her. She got through the show on autopilot and only once broke down in the wings. It was Colonel Stick who shared a few gentle words and Ollie who held her steady with firm eye contact whenever they were on stage together.

After the show, Ollie offered the girls supper but Brooke declined. ‘I think I’ll go home. Things to do … and stuff.’

Ollie understood.

‘Well, that leaves you and me, Miss Tate. Fancy a bite to eat?’

*

By the time they got to the Starfish,
Jess knew she didn’t want to do anything but crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep. There had been a short email from Ryan, waiting for her after the show, saying he’d speak to her soon to explain. She had immediately phoned him back but got voicemail. She made one more call, to her sister Emma, who had been frantically trying to reach her and leaving messages offering to come to Trevay to be by her side. Having sworn to Em that she was OK and there was no need to worry, she turned her phone off and left it in the dressing room. She didn’t want the temptation of trying to call him through the night.

As Ollie parked up his red MG outside the Starfish and
extended a hand to help her out, she told him, ‘I’m sorry, Ollie. I really am not great company tonight. I’m going to take a cab back to Pendruggan.’

He looked at her with such concern that she laughed. ‘I’m all right, honestly. I just need to … oh … I don’t know, I just need …’

‘To walk into this beautiful hotel, check yourself into a luxurious room, sink into a bubble bath and eat something from room service in front of the telly, wrapped in a huge white robe. Am I right?’

She nodded. ‘You’re right.’

He offered her his arm and escorted her up the steps where she checked in to the best available room.

‘No bags, Miss Tate?’ said the receptionist.

‘Nope. I’m baggage-free tonight. Baggage-free from now on, I think.’

The receptionist was embarrassed. ‘Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean … Well, I saw the news today and I’m so sad to hear that you and Mr Hearst …’

‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’

‘Would you like a complimentary washbag with toothbrush and stuff?’

‘Yes please. I have nothing at all with me.’

Her room was adjacent to Ollie’s and had a view over the narrow streets of Trevay. She stood at the window looking down at the people who were making their way back to their B&Bs or holiday apartments. One couple, in their forties she guessed, with two teenage children in tow, walked hand in hand talking and laughing together. She drew her curtains on them. That was never going to be her future.

Ollie was fiddling with the huge television at the end of the bed.

‘Why don’t hotel tellies just turn on and off?’ He was juggling two remote controls. ‘You have to get through all this “Welcome, Miss Tate” and “Hotel information” guff before you get to … ah, here we are. Back-to-back episodes of
Frasier
. That’s what you need.’ Satisfied he’d beaten the technology, he went to the bathroom and came back bearing a big white fluffy robe. He put it on the bed. ‘Put that on and order some room service while I run you a bath.’

‘Ollie, stop. I can look after myself.’

‘It makes me feel better to know I’m doing something,’ he called above the running of taps. ‘You’re doing this for me, you know. Not the other way around.’

When he was satisfied that Jess had everything she needed he left her to it with these words: ‘Night, sweetheart. You’ll get through this, trust me.’

In the empty room she felt at peace. The bath was the perfect temperature and the steak sandwich and glass of Merlot just the ticket. She even managed to laugh at the television. ‘I’m going to get through this,’ she said to herself several times. Finally she got into bed … and couldn’t sleep.

*

Ollie couldn’t sleep either. What on earth was happening in his life? A few months ago he was a Royal Shakespeare Company actor with a rock star girlfriend and a flat in London. Now he was a single seaside entertainer, living close to his mum. Good old Ollie. How life and its various chapters can lower one’s opinion of oneself. He thumped his pillow into a more comfortable shape and tried to sleep again.

He was lonely. He’d been lonely for months. Or even longer. In fact, all the way back to the start of his relationship with Red. What had she ever seen in him? And God only knew what he’d seen in her. They were like two lost souls who’d collided. He had loved her creativity and her energy. He’d never known a performer who could give so much of themselves to an audience. He’d done his training around actors who were intense and introverted. ‘Up their own backsides’, as his mother would have said. Unlike Red, who truly loved her audiences and was loved by them in return, actors felt that their public hated them. ‘See that woman in the third row with the green jumper? She’s not laughed in any of my scenes. I played the whole effing thing to her and she hates me. What’s she here for?’

That was the kind of conversation heard daily in the angst-ridden dressing rooms of our nation’s theatres.

The strange thing was, Ollie was really loving
Hats Off, Trevay!
The comedy, the schmaltz, the people who paid hard-earned cash to be entertained. The kids at the stage door with their scruffy bits of paper and a dried-up biro, wanting an autograph and a photo. It made their holiday. It wasn’t Shakespeare or Beckett or even Alan Ayckbourn, but it was fun and he had made some good friends. He truly valued Brooke and Jess – and Jonathan too, although he didn’t know him so well. Actors had to fall into comradeships quickly. Their lives were made up of relationships that were intense, utterly revealing and brief. One day you were bosom buddies then the final curtain came down and you might never see those people again. A travelling band of minstrels, all too many of whom were morally incontinent. Bloody Ryan Hearst. How dare he hurt Jess! Ryan had known all along he was bad news. What a bastard. Where would that prick be without Jess? She had supported him and trusted him, and he couldn’t even summon the decency to let her down gently. Poor cow.

He hoped she was sleeping peacefully. As he turned his pillow and plumped it up, he vowed to keep an eye on her.

*

Jess’s bed was too big. She wished she had Ethel and Elsie with her, to squash her up a bit. And to offer her some distraction. She couldn’t stop torturing herself with thoughts of Ryan and sodding Serena. What time would it be in LA now? Mid afternoon? It would be warm and they’d be stretched out on a double sunbed, holding hands and rubbing sun cream into each other’s backs. OK, they couldn’t be holding hands
and
rubbing sun cream into each other, but they’d be together. Jess found the sorest spot in her mental anguish and started to press it hard. It would be so hot in the sun, that they’d dive into the pool, Serena creating barely a splash, and Ryan would caress her flawless body under the water, pulling off her bikini bottoms. She would squeal and be mock shocked but he would grab her and make love to her and …

Jess sat up in bed. She needed a drink. The minibar was well stocked but the bottles were too small. She wanted a big bottle of wine. No, champagne. And she needed someone to drink it with. She thought about phoning Brooke and asking her to get in a car and bring the dogs too, but it was late and Brooke would be asleep by now. Who could she ring? Her heart leapt painfully as she thought about Ryan again. No. She wasn’t going to ring him. Not if he was the last person on earth. She’d ring … Ollie. Of course. He was only next door. She rang room service and ordered a bottle of really expensive champagne and asked to be put through to Mr Pinkerton’s room.

He answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

‘Ollie. It’s me. I can’t sleep and I wondered … if you’re awake, would you like to share a bottle of fizz with me?’

‘As a matter of fact, that sounds just the ticket. I should love to. Is it a pyjama party?’

‘Most definitely.’

‘Give me two minutes.’

*

Jess made the most of her two minutes. Brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth. Wondered why. Then rubbed some of the complimentary body lotion into her legs and arms in lieu of perfume.

There was a knock on the door. It was the waiter. He pushed over the threshold a trolley holding a bottle of champagne which was rattling in an ice bucket. Two glasses were chilled and dewy. There was also a plate of smoked salmon sandwiches and a bowl of crisps. ‘Compliments of the kitchen.’

As the waiter took his leave, Ollie slipped into the room. Freshly shaved and minty breathed.

‘Hi,’ he said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward.

‘Hey,’ said Jess. ‘This seemed like a good idea five minutes ago. If you’ve changed your mind, it doesn’t matter.’

‘No. It’s a great idea. Shall I open the champagne?’

‘Yes please.’ Jess pointed to the sandwiches and crisps. ‘And please don’t think I ordered these too. They’re compliments of the Starfish, apparently. Might give me heartburn this late.’

The champagne cork popped softly in Ollie’s hand and he deftly poured the foaming liquid into a glass and passed it to Jess before pouring his own. ‘Well, I’m willing to risk one.’ He picked up one of the tiny triangles and munched. ‘It’s delicious – and no bad effects yet.’

‘Ryan hates smoked salmon.’

‘He’s a prat.’

‘Says it repeats on him.’

‘How romantic. Now stop talking about him and eat one of these babies before I scoff the lot.’

Jess ate two and had a top-up of champagne.

‘Shall we watch a movie? There must be some old black-and-white thing on TCM surely?’ asked Ollie.

‘I can’t remember how you turned it on.’

‘God, women are pathetic.’ He shook his head in mock exasperation. He found the remote and eventually found TCM. ‘Do you like Bette Davis?’

‘Of course.’

‘How do you fancy
Now Voyager
?’

‘Oh wow! Is it on? I love that movie.’

Ollie made himself comfortable on top of the covers of the enormous bed. ‘Come on, we’ll watch it together – and bring the bottle and the crisps with you.’

They sat up next to each other, quite relaxed, as the movie played and the bottle got emptier. When the film came to the end they spoke in unison with Bette Davis as she said the immortal line, ‘… Oh Jerry, don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.’

Ollie turned the volume down and looked at Jess intently. ‘Do you think we could have the stars?’

‘I think maybe it’s late and that’s the champagne talking.’

‘Maybe. But I’d like to kiss you.’

‘That’s definitely the champagne talking.’

‘No. It’s me, honest.’

‘Don’t make me laugh.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t kiss properly when I’m laughing.’

I
t had been decided that the annual village fête, due the Sunday after next, would have a theatrical theme.

Pendruggan pulled out all its stops. Side shows included a hoopla stall called L
ORD OF THE
R
INGS
,
a baby shower tent called M
AMMA
M
IA
and, Penny’s particular favourite,
a horse-betting game called S
TRICTLY
C
OME
P
RANCING
.
Other attractions included old favourites such as bowl for a pig and guess the weight of the vicar.

This year the celebrity fête openers would be the cast of
Hats Off, Trevay!

The morning dawned warm and bright. Penny was in her bedroom at the vicarage, stepping into a nifty little Cavalla dress from last year. ‘Zip me up, would you, darling?’ she asked Simon.

It turned out he had to put in quite a bit of effort tugging at the fabric to make the fastener pull up over her bust.

Penny was annoyed. ‘Bloody thing must have shrunk at the cleaners.’

Simon agreed, tutting at the poor standards these days, although privately he thought his wife had put on a bit of weight recently.

‘Does it look too tight?’ Penny asked him.

‘No. It looks perfect, and so do you.’ He asked God’s forgiveness for this tiny white lie.

Across the village green at Gull’s Cry, Helen was gathering up her purse and the dogs. She had three today: Ethel, Elsie and Jack, Piran’s terrier. His master had gone on ahead to help Simon with the BBQ and the tea and beer tent.