Читать книгу Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin - Fern Britton, Fern Britton - Страница 11

Penny and Helen arrived at Truro station in good time to rendezvous with their overnight-sleeper train to London Paddington.

‘What a complete stroke of genius this is!’ remarked Helen. ‘I’ve never been on a sleeper before.’

‘The last time I went on one was over twenty years ago,’ replied Penny as they climbed aboard the waiting train. ‘Went to Cornwall for the summer while I was at uni. Got myself a job in a pub in Newquay. Beach all day, worked like a Trojan until the pub shut, then went clubbing every night. Had a ball.’

‘Holiday romance?’ Helen’s eyes twinkled.

‘A few.’ Penny winked. ‘One really hot lifeguard called Merlin. He had loads of other girls on the go too, of course, but I didn’t care. I just wanted some fun.’

‘Fun – that’s all we girls want, right?’

‘Right!’ Penny agreed. ‘Especially this weekend. But first we need to find our compartment.’

They wandered up the corridor. ‘Ah, here we are!’ Penny stopped outside their berth and opened the door. Inside it was narrow, but there were two decent-sized bunks, one upper and one lower.’

‘Bagsy I’m having the top one!’ said Helen.

‘Hey, that’s not fair!’

There was an unseemly scuffle as both women laughingly tried to throw their bags on to the top bunk. Through sheer force of will, Helen won out, but justice was delivered when she climbed ungainly up after her bag and promptly banged her head on the ceiling.

‘Serves you right,’ said Penny, good-naturedly.

‘Oh Pen, what an adventure,’ From her vantage point, Helen took in the little wash basin with its hot and cold taps. Each bunk had a snug duvet and plump pillows, and they’d each been provided with soap, a towel and a bottle of mineral water. ‘It’s all so dinky and sweet.’

‘Yep, dinky, sweet and a bit of a tight squeeze. There’s a buffet lounge with a bar down the corridor. I think we should decamp there for a bit,’ said Penny.

‘Another brilliant idea.’

Pausing only to grab their handbags, the two friends set off towards the bar.

Helen pointed her finger unsteadily at her friend. ‘You look pished. Your eyes have shtarted to go.’

‘I’m perfectly sober.’ Penny waggled her head equally unsteadily. ‘You’re mishtaken, me ol’ mucker. It is you who is pished. I mean pissed.’

The women giggled loudly, and for longer than was strictly necessary, drawing attention from the adjoining table. Seated at it was serious-looking middle-aged man, who clearly disapproved. He gave a loud tut.

‘I’m sorry? Did you say something?’ Penny peered at him over the rim of her plastic glass. Two hours ago, they’d bought themselves a sandwich and a teensy bottle of red wine, from which they would each get approximately one small glass each. In front of them on the Formica table now lay the detritus of their half-eaten prawn mayo sandwiches plus eight teensy wine bottles.

Without a word, the tutting man closed the tablet he was reading and stood to leave.

‘Was it something we said?’ Helen asked innocently.

The man tutted again but avoided their eyes as he made his way back to his own compartment.

‘Men!’ said Helen, with feeling. ‘Bet he’s bloody Cornish too.’

‘Don’t get us started on Cornwall and Cornish men again! We’ve worked out that you can’t get a Cornish man to do anything in a hurry.’

‘They don’t like it!’ Helen concurred, loudly.

‘And,’ Penny added, narrowing her eyes, ‘they really don’t like women taking charge.’

‘No, except possibly in the bedroom,’ Helen sniggered.

‘I’m serious!’

‘So am I. You’ve got to admit it, Pen. Cornish men are very, very sexy.’

‘What about Gasping Bob? Was he sexy?’

‘Well …’

Penny never got to find out what Helen thought of Gasping Bob’s sexiness or otherwise because the reply was drowned out by the stewardess pulling down the grille and hanging a closed sign on the bar.

‘Sorry, ladies. We’re shutting up for the night.’ She smiled over at them.

Penny and Helen surveyed the empty bottles in front of them.

‘Time for beddywed,’ said Penny.

Helen rose to her feet, swaying rather dangerously. Penny did the same and the two women linked arms as they made their way, rather erratically, towards the door. They thanked the stewardess and gave her a wave before making their way out. The exit clearly wasn’t wide enough for both of them to leave side-by-side, but they tried it anyway. As Helen collided with the doorframe, she let out another loud snigger.

‘Ssssh, people are trying to sleep you know!’ came a muffled voice from behind one of the compartments.

‘Bet that’s Mr Grumpy,’ whispered Helen loudly.

Eventually, after much banging and crashing, they made it back to their compartment. Getting undressed and washed was a rather messy affair, but eventually they were both in their cosy nightclothes.

‘That’s not a onesie you’re wearing, is it?’ asked Helen.

‘Onesie’s aren’t just for kids, you know,’ said Penny, peeking out from underneath her rabbit ears, one of which had fallen over her left eye, giving her quite a comical look.

‘Simon hasn’t seen you like that, has he?’

‘Simon loves me no matter what I look like in bed.’

Helen raised a drunken eyebrow. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

Too squiffy to care what anyone thought, Penny crawled into her lower bunk, pulling the warm duvet up to her neck.

‘Aren’t you going to give me a leg up?’

Penny opened one bleary eye and looked up at Helen. ‘Eh?’

Helen stuck her bottom lip out. ‘I can’t get up there. It’s like climbing Kilimanjaro.’

Penny thought about it for a moment.

‘Pwetty please?’ said Helen hopefully, but her face fell as Penny turned over and was soon snoring like a train.

The first thought that occurred to Helen as she emerged from unconsciousness the following morning was that someone had stuck her eyelids together with glue. The second was that the incessant bang, bang, banging wasn’t the thudding of her heart or the hammering of her headache, but was in fact, somebody banging loudly on the door of the compartment.

She tried to prop herself up on her elbows but as her eyes gradually opened and took in the scene around her, she saw that next to her head were two feet recognisable as Penny’s by the bunny rabbit toes of her onesie.

She gave one of the big toes a hard squeeze.

‘Wake up,’ she croaked. ‘Someone’s at the door.’

The only response was a muffled groan from the other end of the cramped bottom berth. Helen slowly got out of the bed, wincing as a shooting pain pierced her temple. Gingerly she picked her way over the untidy piles of clothes and bags and opened the door. Outside was a fresh-faced young steward.

‘I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, madam, but we’ve reached Paddington. I’ve been banging on the door for ages. I was just about to get the master key to gain access. We thought something might have happened.’

Helen, patted her hair in a futile attempt to restore order to what she knew must be her rather dishevelled appearance.

‘I’m dreadfully sorry. We seem to have overslept.’

‘Heavy night, was it?’

Helen feigned indignation. ‘Not in the slightest. The motion of the train must have given us a deeper sleep than usual. That’s all.’

The young man looked at her doubtfully. ‘People often get carried away on the sleeper, but then they forget what an early arrival we have.’

‘Well, we’ll just get washed and dressed—’

The young man shook his head. ‘There’s no time for that, I’m afraid. We’ve been here ages and you’ve got to leave by seven a.m. It’s already well past that and we can’t wait any longer. I’m sorry, but we have to turn the train around or else we’ll be in hot water.’

‘You mean we have to go now?’

‘’Fraid so.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ll wait here and help you with your things. There’s showers and … um … facilities on the concourse. You can use them.’

‘Er …’

But there was no time for arguing. The corridor outside their compartment was bustling with people doing useful things and outside their door a smiling cleaner was waiting expectantly with a J-cloth and a mop in her hands. Once Penny was apprised of the situation, she shuffled out of bed and the two women gathered themselves together as best as they could. There was no time to change out of their nightwear or to arrange themselves and within moments, they were hustled off the train with friendly thank-yous and helpful directions towards the Ladies.

Juggling their coats and bags, Penny and Helen blinked and looked around them. After the cocoon of the train, Paddington station was a hive of activity. All around them, commuters swarmed from trains like ants. The platforms were filled with passengers all coming and going. It was dizzying, and in their present condition they were finding it quite a challenge to orient themselves.

‘Where did he say the loos were?’ Helen peered uncertainly across the concourse, her hungover brain still confused by all of the activity.

Penny was just about to say that she had spotted the sign for the Ladies when they were approached by a young man with a kindly face. He thrust something into Penny’s hand.

‘It’s not much, but it’ll cover the price of a cuppa.’ He patted her hand sympathetically before hurrying off down towards the sign for the London Underground.

Penny looked at her palm and saw two shiny pound coins. They looked at each other in astonishment.

‘You don’t think he thought we were …?’

‘Bag ladies!!’

‘Come on, let’s get dressed before we attract any more attention,’ Helen said, grabbing Penny’s arm and steering her towards the loos.

Ignoring more curious stares, they washed and dressed hurriedly and were soon heading towards central London in a black cab.

‘Can we please pretend that incident never happened?’ said Penny, looking much more respectable in a smart red Burberry mac, though she hid her eyes behind a pair of Dior sunglasses.

Helen feigned nonchalance. ‘Pretend what never happened?’

They sped along the Marylebone Road. The route along the Westway was lined with new developments of luxury flats and offices.

‘London always seems to be one giant building site.’ observed Penny. ‘It’s forever changing.’

‘Unlike Pendruggan, which is always the same,’ replied Helen. ‘Queenie’s had the same display of faded postcards and out-of-date Cornish fudge in her window since the seventies.’

Before long they were driving up Monmouth Street, where the cabbie dropped them outside their boutique hotel, The Hanborough.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Penny. ‘Civilisation.’

The hotel was the epitome of luxurious London cool. The foyer was a white oasis of calm; low-slung chaises longues were dotted across the marbled Italianate floor and giant bowls of burnished bronze showcased opulent arrangements of orchids, hyacinths and lavender.

After checking in, they made their way up to their rooms, which were next door to each other on the fifth floor. Agreeing to rendezvous at 1 p.m. for lunch, they went their separate ways.

Helen dumped her bags on her king-size bed decked out in Egyptian cotton. Her room mirrored the rest of the hotel with its white walls, curtains, bedding and minimalist white furniture. She headed over to the window and took in the view of the vibrant London scene spread out before her. The morning rush had died down and on the street below she could see hip, young media types sauntering leisurely between their hip offices and equally hip coffee shops.

She closed the curtains against the bright spring sunshine, kicked off her Kurt Geiger heels and flaked out on the bed.

‘God, I love this place!’ eulogised Penny when they met in the foyer at lunchtime.

‘Me too,’ said Helen, ‘Did you check out the Cowshed toiletries in the bathroom? The soap is to die for!’

‘I know, I’ve already made inroads into them. Sat in the roll-top bath for an hour with a scented candle. Heavenly.’

‘What now? I’m famished.’

‘Me too.’

‘What I really fancy is an American Hot with extra mushrooms at Pizza Express.’ Helen’s mouth was watering at the thought of it. ‘Dean Street is only ten minutes’ walk. Let’s head over.’

‘Ah,’ said Penny, ‘sorry to disappoint, but I’ve arranged to meet Neil, the new director, at my club on Wardour Street.’

Helen’s face fell. ‘Not work?’

‘Honestly, it’ll only be for half an hour. He’ll fill me in on what’s going on and then I won’t have to go to the studios.’

Helen didn’t look convinced.

‘Look, I promise it won’t take long – and they do a mean cheese-and-jalapeno burger there. And an even meaner Bloody Mary.’

Helen relented. ‘OK, but you’re paying, Penny Leighton Productions.’

‘It’ll be our pleasure.’

They strolled leisurely through Seven Dials, stopping to window-shop in the many trendy clothes shops, and were soon on Shaftesbury Avenue heading towards Penny’s Club, The House, on Dean Street.

Situated in an elegant Georgian townhouse, the discreet entranceway led to maze of private meeting rooms, bars, and a restaurant that played host to the great and good of London Medialand. Some of the country’s most famous actors, playwrights, directors and journalists were members – and membership was both exclusive and expensive.

As they entered, Helen noticed that Stephen Fry was just leaving. The concierge, who recognised Penny, greeted her like an old friend and ushered them into the main bar area, which was a decked out in a cleverly realised shabby-chic style that had probably cost millions. Penny spotted Neil immediately; he was sitting on one of the antique Chesterfield sofas that were dotted around the room. The large informal space was peopled by a fairly equal mix of men and women, some in small groups, others on their own, working on their iPads or MacAirs. The room was dominated by a central bar which ran the whole length of it, and adjoining the bar area was a restaurant. Both restaurant and bar were full and buzzing during the busy lunch period.

‘Hi, Neil!’

Neil, a handsome blond in his thirties, stood and gave Penny a big hug.

‘You remember Helen, my friend from Pendruggan?’

‘I don’t want to get in your way,’ said Helen, ‘so I’ll go and sit at the bar while you two catch up.’

‘Thanks, Helen,’ said Penny. ‘Hopefully this won’t take long – right, Neil?’

Neil gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s fine – just need to run a couple of things by you.’

Helen left them to it and headed over to the bar. It was busy, but she could see a couple who were just vacating their seats and she popped herself onto one of them as they departed.

Despite the full bar, she was served immediately by a bright and breezy barman.

‘What can I get you?’

‘Not sure. What’s good today?’

‘Depends. What sort of mood you in?’

‘Feel like being nice to myself.’

‘Then I’ve got the perfect drink for being nice to yourself – the Ambrosia. Champagne, aged cognac and triple sec, plus a few of my secret ingredients. It’s named after the food of the gods – can’t get nicer to yourself than that.’

‘Sold!’

Helen watched as he artfully filled a cocktail shaker with ice before adding the ingredients and shaking them thoroughly. He poured the contents into a highball glass filled with more ice and topped it up with chilled champagne.

He placed the glass in front of her on a small black napkin. ‘A drink fit for a goddess,’ he said, giving her a cheeky smile.

‘I bet you say that to all the goddesses.’ She smiled cheekily back at him.

The drink certainly tasted like Ambrosia and Helen could feel the last vestiges of her hangover slip away.

She dug around in her bag and fished out her iPad. Logging into her email account she skimmed through the usual junk until she came to a brand-new photo of her granddaughter, Summer, that had been sent to her from her son, Sean. Summer was sitting in the lap of her mother Terri and was holding the soft grey elephant that Helen had bought her for Christmas. Helen had had a long visit from them in the New Year and now they were visiting Terri’s family up north. Summer looked completely adorable.

In the email, Sean had written:

Summer’s favourite toy now, she won’t let it out of her sight. We’re calling it Ellie.

How sweet, thought Helen.

Next, she sent Piran an email:

What you doing? I’m sitting in Pen’s club. Hugh Laurie’s at other end of the bar!

Helen googled Heals’ website. Assuming the roof ever got fixed, and if there was any money left in her depleted coffers, she resolved to treat herself to a new rug. Maybe they’d find time to pop down there this afternoon; it wasn’t far.

An email from Piran pinged back at her:

Who is Hugh Laurie?

Honestly, thought Helen, you’d have thought he’d been living in cave for all he knew about popular culture.

Never mind. How is the Roman Fort?

Moments later the reply:

Muddy.

‘You’re a mine of information, Piran Ambrose,’ she muttered under her breath.

It wasn’t long before Penny said goodbye to Neil, who was heading back to the dubbing studio, and joined her friend at the bar.

‘All’s well, which is just what I wanted to hear.’

‘Fab. I’ve checked with the restaurant and they think they can fit us in in ten minutes.’

‘Brilliant. Time for a Bloody Mary, I think.’

‘Another Ambrosia for you, Goddess?’ said the cheeky barman.

‘I think goddesses should stick to just one at lunchtime, don’t you?’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘Actually, make mine a virgin Bloody Mary, will, you? I don’t want to push my luck,’ said Penny.

No sooner were their drinks served than a waiter from the restaurant came to tell them their table was ready.

Helen was just stooping to collect her bag and coat from her feet when Penny grabbed her arm and hissed urgently, ‘Don’t move! He might not see us.’

Immediately Helen looked up, her eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take her long to understand why Penny was keen not to be seen. But it was too late – they’d been spotted.

Coming towards them, wearing an impeccably tailored Savile Row suit and sporting an expensive hair-weave and a smarmy smile, was Quentin Clarkson. Not only was he the Chairman of TV7 – which meant he held the future of Mr Tibbs in his sweaty palms – but he was also Penny’s ex and a grade-A slimeball.

‘Penny, my dear!’ he gushed, oozing insincere charm.

‘Quentin, how super!’ While Penny’s rictus grin did a good impression of politeness as they air-kissed, her eyes as they met Helen’s told an entirely different story.