A Seaside Affair: A heartwarming, gripping read from the Top Ten bestseller. Fern Britton
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Mr Tibbs and his secretary Nancy Trumpet – ‘have agreed to help in some way.’
‘That’s jolly good of them,’ said Simon, patting Penny’s arm affectionately.
‘There’s more. The Arts Council are launching a new campaign to get people to support their regional theatres, so we can get some publicity on the back of that. AND – ta-dah! – dear Julian Fellowes has said he might, might, can’t promise in blood, but might …’
‘Yes?’ Helen was on the edge of her seat.
‘… be able to persuade Hugh Bonneville and Maggie Smith to join him for a special Downton Abbey night where they share a kind of behind-the-scenes gossipy chat with the audience.’
‘What’s Downton Abbey?’ asked Piran, frowning.
‘Shut up!’ Helen punched his arm. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
‘And …’ Penny continued, ‘it looks as though we’ll be getting some memorabilia from Dr Who, signed by cast members, past and present.’
‘David Tennant?’ swooned Helen.
‘Yes, David Tennant. And my man in Hollywood is going to ask Quentin Tarantino’s office for anything the great man can sign and send us too.’
Penny sat back looking very pleased with herself. Simon and Helen could only gaze at her in astonishment, their eyes like saucers.
‘Wow,’ said Helen.
‘’oo’s Quentin Tarantino?’ asked Piran.
After it was explained exactly who Tarantino was, and Penny had poured out the last of the bottle of red wine, Piran pulled out the newspaper cutting he’d shown to Helen earlier that day and passed it to Penny and Simon.
‘’ave a look to that.’
Simon and Penny hunched together and looked. It was Simon who got the connection first.
‘Piran! This is Colonel Stick, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the man who first took charge of the theatre is still in Trevay?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he was a music hall performer who knew Max Miller?’
‘Give the man a cigar!’
‘He was at the meeting today. He told me he’d never missed a show, but I thought he meant a military “show”, that he liked nothing better than to get stuck into a battle. But he meant—’
‘I should think he did.’
Penny was listening hard and had finally put two and two together. ‘So he is the piece of historic interest we need to save the Pavilions?’
‘Correct.’
‘But how exactly? What can Colonel Stick do that could possibly help us save the theatre?’ asked Helen. ‘I mean, I’m sure he has lots of interesting anecdotes about the old days, but how many people really care about music hall now? And why would they be bothered about a retired theatre manager?’
Piran leaned back in his chair and drained his glass. ‘If you birds would finally stop your incessant twittering, I might be able to get a word in and enlighten you.’
Penny and Helen exchanged looks but fell silent.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of digging. This Colonel Stick isn’t just famous for his music hall act. He was also an avid adopter of amateur film-making back in the day. Judging from all the old theatre press cuttings I’ve dug out, our Colonel was rubbing shoulders with the greats – not just music-hall greats, but the biggest stars of the theatre world. He was friends with the likes of Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, John Gielgud and Richard Burton. And seeing as he was so keen on capturing everything on film, I reckon those old home movies of his could turn out to be some very rare and highly desirable footage.’
Helen, Penny and Simon were agog.
‘And people would be really interested to see this stuff, wouldn’t they?’ said Helen.
‘Film memorabilia is highly sought after. There’ll be collectors out there who would pay a fortune for that sort of stuff,’ added Penny, ever the businesswoman.
‘Right then, I reckon one of us needs to have a chat with our Colonel,’ said Piran.
All eyes turned to Helen.
‘You’re such a people person,’ cooed Penny, nudging her friend in the ribs.
Brooke was in the back of yet another silent, blacked-out limo, speeding down the M4 towards the West Country. The driver was super professional, smart and polite.
‘Good morning, Miss Lynne. Have you any bags you’d like to put in the boot?’
‘Just these, thank you.’
He’d lifted the large heavy aluminium suitcases with a barely audible grunt while she checked her bag for her keys, phone and sunglasses, then locked the front door of the flat and made her way into the sunshine, glancing around quickly for photographers. All clear. The driver was already waiting for her with the door open.
Brooke glanced inside, ready to give Milo a cheery ‘good morning’, but the car was empty apart from a selection of newspapers and a bottle of water standing in the arm rest separating the two back seats.
As if reading her mind, the driver said, ‘Mr James sends his apologies. He’s in meetings all day today. He’ll be travelling to Cornwall this evening.’
He settled her in the car, making sure the skirt of her dress was clear of the door as he shut it and then got in himself.
‘Would you like the radio on, Miss Lynne?’
‘No thank you.’
‘Just let me know if you get too hot or too cold.’
‘Thank you.’
‘If you need to stop for anything, just say the word.’
‘I will.’
He hadn’t spoken after that. The car moved smoothly and efficiently, gliding through the London traffic and out on to the westbound M4. It gave her time to think about Milo.
She really did need to talk to him about getting her some acting work. He’d certainly made her a ‘celebrity’ – whatever that meant. Thanks to the gossip columns, she was now mononymous: known by her first name alone. The ‘Lynne’ was seemingly superfluous. (Laverne back in New York would be thrilled.)
More often than not though, when she featured in the media it was as half of BobBro – thanks to some ‘witty’ journalist who’d come up with the idea of combining her name with Bob’s. Dear Bob … the perfect boyfriend. He worshipped her and she adored him. But were worship and adoration the same thing as love?
Was being the face of a coffee company the same as being a respected actress?
The answer to both questions was clear.
Brooke was stuck. She enjoyed being a ‘name’. She enjoyed being ferried in stretch limos to restaurants and photo shoots. Watching the money pouring into her bank account and being showered with celeb freebies was a welcome relief after waitressing to make ends meet. And yet …
She wanted to act. Proper acting. A chilling thought entered her brain and send a shudder through her. Oh God: she was acting. Brooke Lynne was just a part. A character she had created. Had created so successfully that no one could see or remember Brenda Foster. No one wanted Brenda Foster, but they loved Brooke Lynne.
She needed to talk to