*
They arrived at a small boutique hotel settled on the banks of Lake Windermere. A tall and charming porter in his sixties emerged from the well-lit entrance hall and into the gloom of the car park to help them with their bags.
‘Good evening, sir, madam. Welcome to Heron’s Pool.’
He checked them in and showed them to their room, which was furnished in traditional English style. Cosy, unpretentious and softly lit.
‘It’s a bit dark now, madam, but in the morning you’ll be able to enjoy the glorious view over the lake.’
He then pointed out the minibar, kettle, wifi and satellite television. As he was leaving, he asked, ‘Will you be dining with us, sir? Chef has kept a table for you.’
‘Actually, I’m starving. Yes please.’
They agreed on a reservation for eight o’clock, leaving them time to walk the girls and get changed.
The dining room was candlelit and the food delicious.
‘Why are you spoiling me so much, Ryan?’
‘You deserve it, darling.’
‘Not a guilty conscience?’ she asked playfully.
‘Damn! Am I that obvious!’ They laughed at this small but significant joke. ‘How about a nightcap?’
They took their brandies into the snug and sat together on the deep velvet sofa watching the flames of the open fire licking the red-hot embers.
‘All this luxurious living is very tiring.’ She rubbed her eyes and yawned.
‘You go up and I’ll follow in a minute.’
‘OK. Give the girls a last wee, would you?’
*
They slept late and ordered a huge room-service breakfast, then went back to bed and made love languidly. Eventually, Elsie and Ethel could keep their legs crossed no longer and Ryan took them out for a stroll while Jess lay in a hot and bubbly bath. It was almost lunchtime by the time they decided they really should get out into the fresh air. A short walk from their hotel, a smart little cruiser bobbed on its pier embarking passengers for a lake cruise.
‘Shall we?’ Ryan comically raised his eyebrows in a caddish way and offered his arm.
She took it and answered, ‘Ooh, sir, I ain’t never bin on a boat before. Supposing I feel giddy?’
‘Don’t worry. I shan’t let go of you.’ He grabbed her waist (noting how very slender it had become of late) and pulled her to him sharply. ‘You’re a demmed attractive gal, Letitia.’
They heard the motor of a camera whirr as it took a shot of them larking around.
A woman in her forties, with a very Welsh accent, said loudly to anyone who would listen: ‘I knew it was ’im. That bloke off the telly, see.’ She walked up and stood very close to Ryan, ignoring any boundaries of personal space. ‘It is you, right? What’s your name?’
‘Ryan Hearst.’
‘Tha’s right. Ryan. And this is your girlfriend, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not the one in the paper then. The one I saw today. She’s very pretty, mind.’
‘What paper?’ asked Jess.
‘The
Mirror
. I don’t like to read them, but it was there like.’
Ryan was trying to steer Jess away from this frightful woman, but she shook him off.
‘Who was in the photo?’
‘Your fella ’ere. He ’ad ’is arm round ’er.’
Ryan could stand it no longer. In a low voice he told her, ‘I am on a private holiday with my girlfriend and would appreciate it if you would just bugger off. Goodbye.’
Then he turned on his heel sweeping Jess, Ethel and Elsie away as smoothly as possible – not easy when the dogs had woven their leads round and through his legs.
Behind them the ghastly woman was declaring loudly, ‘Well, there’s rude! I was only saying, like.’
Once on board the beautiful little cruiser, Ryan led Jess to a comfortable seat in its bow. Strings of red, white and blue bunting flapped in the wind as the vessel pushed off from the pier and started to putter through the water. Jess had remained ominously quiet throughout.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ Ryan asked, his voice artificially jolly. ‘I see they have a bar inside.’
‘Who did you have your picture taken with?’
He bent down to pick up the girls and put them on the seat between them. ‘Hm?’
‘You heard.’
‘I don’t know what the bloody woman was talking about. I’ve had to go to thousands of parties and dinners and stuff in the last few months. I can’t remember much about them.’
‘So why has a paper printed a picture of you with your arm around another woman?’
He looked at her, devastated. ‘Darling, please don’t get like this. I don’t know who or what or anything about it.’
‘Have you been seeing someone in America?’
‘No.’
‘Promise me, because …’ Jess bit her lip. Through her sunglasses Ryan could see a tear shining, ready to drop. He put his arm round her and held her tight. ‘Darling, you must believe me: I am not seeing anyone else. I live like a monk in LA. They all laugh at me and think I’m gay.’
He wiped away the tear, which now escaped and was running down her cheek. ‘Darling, there is only you. In fact, this holiday is a way of getting you on your own and asking you a big question. I was hoping to do it this evening, but that fucking Welsh cow has forced my hand.’
He slid off the seat and knelt in front of her. ‘Darling Jess, would you do me the honour of being my wife?’
O
llie rang his agent every day asking about work.
His bank balance was spilling into the red and he worried about next month’s rent. Though his agent was a sharp operator, his initial interest in Ollie’s talent seemed to have waned and he’d gone quiet on him. These days it was hard for Ollie to get to speak to him. He was always ‘in a meeting’, according to his PA.
On top of all this, Red was being a world-class nightmare. She kept ringing him in the middle of the night, not caring whether she woke him up, to sob down the phone or scream at him or accuse him of being unfaithful, or sometimes to tell him just how great she was and how shit he was. It was doing him no good at all.
He sat on his shabby sofa, the old Spanish shawl that had been his grandmother’s thrown over the back, and made his daily call.
‘Hi, Trinny,’ he said when the receptionist picked up. ‘It’s Ollie. Is Tim around?’
‘Hi, Ollie. Let me check.’ The phone went dead and he imagined Trinny checking to see if his agent wanted to speak to him. He was surprised when Tim came on the line.
‘Ollie – long time. How’s tricks?’
‘Great. Yeah. Doing good.’
‘Great. How’s Red?’
‘Still on the American leg of the tour. Sell out. All good.’
‘Good. Good …’ Tim paused. ‘So, how can I help you today?’
Ollie thought it was obvious, but stayed with the game. ‘I’ve had a great break after Stratford and I’m ready for a new challenge. Batteries all charged. Eager for work.’
‘OK,’ said Tim. ‘What you got in mind?’
Ollie swallowed his frustration and after a tiny beat said, ‘Theatre, telly, voice-overs …’
Ollie could hear Tim sucking his teeth. ‘Right. Right. If anything comes in, I’ll let you know. I’m always working for you, you know that.’
‘Yeah. Sure. Of course.’
Tim said nothing more.
Ollie filled the silence. ‘OK. Well. Cheers.’
Tim had already gone.
*
At the gym that afternoon, Ollie took his aggression and pent-up frustration out on a punch bag and a heavy set of weights. The man he saw in the mirrored wall was not the man he had been. Yes, he could hold his own with the body builders around him and he knew he was pretty good looking, but something in his eyes had died. Red was sapping the life out of him. He wanted to end it with her but wasn’t ready for the emotional onslaught she’d release, or the media frenzy that would surround the announcement. Already the papers were picking up on him not going to the States to see her. The paps followed him constantly, hoping to get a shot of him in the company of another woman. He never obliged. His days were spent at home, in the gym, or at his corner shop grabbing supplies. His friends had stopped asking him out because of the fuss surrounding him. Every week he read in a gossip column that Red was pining for him and that he refused to go to her. Didn’t they understand that he was skint? He couldn’t afford to jet off to America, let alone pay his way once he was there. And he wouldn’t dream of allowing Red to pick up the bill – not that it would ever occur to her to offer. She had no idea when it came to money. Like the Queen, everything was taken care of for her.
That night he rang his mum and embarrassed them both by crying. She listened attentively as he poured out all his problems.
‘Why don’t you come down and stay for a few days?’ she offered. ‘You can do your own thing. I won’t fuss over you. Just take a break.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Is it the money?’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘I’ll book your train tickets tonight. You’re coming down for the weekend.’
*
She was waiting on the platform for him as he stepped off the train in Truro. They hugged tightly. Mum smelled the same as she always had.
They drove the familiar route to the house he’d grown up in. His room was unchanged. His football medals were still on the bookshelf and his old bear Cassius sitting on his pillow.
His father had walked out when Ollie was only seven. A few years later they’d heard he’d died. Liver failure. His Mum had never wanted to find herself another man, she’d been stung once. Instead her world had revolved around Ollie. She’d worked hard and given her only child a good home and the best education that she could afford.
While his favourite toad in the hole was cooking she gave him the tour of her garden. Although it was February, the primroses and daffodils were turning their faces to the sun and purple aubrietia was foaming on the old drystone wall facing the fields where next door’s cows were idly chewing the cud and waiting for milking.
He slept soundly that night. The dark and the occasional cough of a cow outside his open bedroom window working its soothing magic on his unhappy soul.
*
‘Morning, my love.’ Ollie’s mum placed a mug of steaming tea on his bedside table. ‘Breakfast in twenty minutes, OK?’
‘Love you, Mum. Thanks.’
Over bacon, eggs, fried bread and grilled tomatoes, his mum chatted about her plans for the day.
‘I’ve got to nip out for a couple of hours – there’s a bring-and-buy sale in the village hall this morning in aid of Save the Children, and I promised I’d help out. I’ll be back here by midday though. Then I thought we could go down to Trevay and have fish and chips on the quay like we did when you were little.’
He smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
She smiled in return. ‘Good. See you later then.’
*
‘Salt? Vinegar?’ The young man behind the counter was holding a greasy salt shaker.
‘Yes please. Mum?’ Ollie turned to find his mum already brandishing a twenty-pound note. ‘I’ll pay for these, Mum. My treat.’
‘You hold on to your money. You need it.’ She thrust the note towards the young man, who asked again, ‘Salt? Vinegar?’
Outside, the watery sun was warm in the sheltered spot that Ollie and his mum found. They sat quietly munching and watching a fishing boat as it tied up alongside the fish market to unload its catch. Seagulls swooped overhead, their beady eyes on the feast below.
‘How’s Red?’
Ollie internally applauded his mother, who had waited almost twenty-four hours to ask the one question she wanted an answer to.
‘Busy.’
‘When does she get back?’
‘Not sure. Depends on her tour.’
‘Are you going out to see her?’
‘No.’
‘Is it the money?’
Yes, it was the money.
‘No. It’s work.’
She brightened. ‘You’ve got a job?’
‘No. But I need to be in the UK and available for auditions.’
‘I see.’
‘Yeah.’
*
Helen called Jack to a stop. She had walked him over the headland and onto Trevay’s small beach below the Pavilions. From the beach, Helen could see the progress being made by the volunteer builders. It was beginning to look quite smart; the upper and dress circles were back in action, the windows had been repaired, the roof was now watertight, the heating working and the seats reupholstered in claret dralon. The Trevay Players had put on a marvellous panto over Christmas and had raised a good chunk of cash for the repairs fund. All in all, things were ticking along nicely.
As Jack stood wagging his tail and sniffing the breeze, Helen’s gaze shifted from the theatre to a young handsome man sitting alongside an older woman on one of the many benches dotted round the harbour. The woman had her hands folded in her lap, her eyes closed to the sun, while the young man – her son perhaps? – had got up to put the remains of their takeaway lunch in a nearby rubbish bin. He looked familiar. Helen searched her brain. She got it. He was the actor boyfriend of that hard-faced pop star she was forever obliged to read about in her newspaper. What was her name? She fumbled for her phone and dialled Penny.
‘Pen? It’s Helen. What’s the name of that actor who’s going out with that pop star who’s touring America?’
‘Darling, can you be a tad more specific?’
‘You know, the one with red spiky hair.’
‘Oh, Red.’
‘Yeah. What’s her name?’
‘Red.’
Helen was blissfully unaware of the irony in Penny’s voice.
‘Oh yeah! Well, I think I see her boyfriend in Trevay.’
‘And?’
‘Should I ask him whether Red would be interested in helping the Pavilions appeal?’
Penny couldn’t believe the naivety of her friend. ‘Great idea. While you’re at it, see if she wouldn’t do a big concert for us.’
‘I think that might be pushing it.’
‘I’m joking.’
Helen wasn’t listening, ‘What’s
his
name?’
*
Ollie pulled his neck and chin down into his jacket as he saw the woman with a dog approaching him. It wasn’t that he minded being recognised, it was just that today he could do without it.
‘Hello, I’m sorry to disturb your privacy …’
Then why are you doing it? he thought.
‘… But I had to say welcome to Trevay. My name is Helen.’