A Seaside Affair. Fern Britton
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a genius for finding the best little cafés and galleries and boutiques, and spotting what’s going to be the next big thing.’
‘Well, I’d like to think I haven’t completely lost my London cool,’ Helen returned with mock modesty.
‘Better not let the locals hear you say that – they’ll hang you out to dry!’ They both laughed, but then Penny asked, ‘Speaking of locals, how are things with Piran? Still the embodiment of brooding male?’
‘Yep.’
‘Things are OK, though?’
‘Yeah. I know he loves me and I know that if we lived in each other’s pockets, or under the same roof, we’d drive each other mad …’ It struck Helen that she was trying to convince herself as much as her friend. She let out a small sigh and admitted, ‘All the same, I wouldn’t mind a bit of romance every now and again.’
‘I thought he was your dream man – Marco Pierre White and Heathcliffe rolled into one. All broody moody and drop-dead gorgeous with it?’
‘He is gorgeous, and my heart still flutters and all those things, but he’s just so …’
Penny chimed in on the final word: ‘… Piran.’ They both grinned.
‘He wouldn’t be seen dead on a Mediterranean cruise,’ said Helen.
‘Hardly surprising. One look at Piran and the crew would have him swinging from the yardarm!’
‘True, true,’ Helen laughed. ‘He hasn’t had a haircut all summer and he’s starting to look even more like Bluebeard than Bluebeard himself!’
‘I’ve got you a present, by the way.’ Penny rummaged in her voluminous handbag. ‘Here –’ She passed over a duty-free carrier bag.
‘Ooh, a treat!’ Helen pulled out a bottle of her favourite perfume: Cristalle by Chanel. ‘Oh, Pen, thank you.’ She threw her arm round her friend’s tanned shoulders and hugged her. ‘I’m going over to Piran’s tonight. I’ll splash plenty of this on.’
‘Who’s cooking?’
‘Piran. Dinner will be whatever he catches this afternoon.’ Helen tucked the bottle of perfume safely into her straw shopping basket before asking, ‘By the way, where’s Simon?’
‘Back at the vicarage. He’s going through all his post and emails, and then he’s got his sermon to write for Sunday. I thought it better to leave him to it.’
‘Did he wear his dog collar on holiday?’
‘It took some persuading, but no – thank God. It seems being a vicar is a bit like being a doctor: the minute people find out your profession, particularly in a confined space like a boat, they start coming to you with their problems. He’d have had everyone asking him to marry them, or cast out demons or whatever.’
Helen couldn’t suppress a snigger at the thought of Simon casting out demons on a cruise liner. She shook her head in mock reproach. ‘Penny, you’re an awful vicar’s wife.’
‘Tell me about it! I keep reminding him that I married him for who he is, not because of his job. The Worst Vicar’s Wife in Britain – that’s me. Hey, that’s a great idea for a programme, let me write it down.’ Penny pulled out her iPhone and spent a few moments typing. When she’d finished, she couldn’t resist checking her emails. Thanks to the huge success of Mr Tibbs, a series based on Mavis Carew’s popular crime novels – filmed locally and starring Dahlia Dahling – she was being fêted by TV executives worldwide, eager to get their hands on a second series. She was also being inundated with screenplays and requests from writers and their agents, convinced that Penny Leighton Productions had the Midas touch.
As she checked her emails, the phone rang and she answered it.
‘Hello, Simon. I’m in Trevay with Helen … No, I haven’t seen the paper … The local one? … OK … I’ll get it now … Why? … Oh! What do they expect you to do? … Me? … Let me look at it and then we can talk later … Love you too, bye.’
‘What was that about?’ asked Helen.
‘Something about saving the Pavilions. Let’s get a paper and I’ll buy you a coffee … maybe even a glass of vino.’
*
Piran Ambrose was in his office at the Trevay Museum, hurrying to finish the day’s tasks so that he could get out in his boat and catch the tide for a spot of mackerel fishing. He swore under his breath when the phone on his desk rang, his hand hovering over the receiver indecisively before picking up.
‘Yes.’
‘Piran? It’s me, Simon.’
Piran breathed a sigh of relief. He and the vicar had been friends for many years, supporting each other through some difficult times.
‘Simon! Welcome home, how was the holiday with your maid?’
‘Simply wonderful. Marriage is to be recommended, Piran.’
Piran decided to ignore the obvious implications in this comment. ‘How can I help you, Simon?’
‘It’s the Pavilions – there’s a report in the paper that the council are about to sell the place to a coffee chain. Possibly Café Au Lait.’
‘Good idea. The building is falling apart. It needs money spending on it, or knocking down.’
Simon was shocked. ‘You can’t mean that? You’re our local historian – surely you of all people want to save the old place?’
Piran put one leg up on his desk and tipped his chair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. If he didn’t get a move on he’d miss the tide. ‘It’s an eyesore, Simon. We’re not talking about some Frank Matcham theatre of distinction here. The Pavilions is a fifties, flat-roof, jerry-built dinosaur that hasn’t made any money in decades.’
‘But the Sea Scouts and the WI and … the Trevay Players …’
Piran sniffed with disdain at the mention of the local amateur dramatic company.
‘… and the Arts and Crafts Show, and … er …’
‘Exactly. It’s not exactly a top-drawer venue, is it?’
‘Piran, please. I’ve already had emails from all sorts of people asking me to be on the board of an action committee. I thought you might want to lend us your support, maybe dig out some facts of historical importance.’
Piran scratched his beard and pulled on the gold hoop in his ear. ‘OK. Let me think about it.’
‘I knew you’d help.’
‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’d help. I’ve said I’ll think about it.’
The men rang off, each hoping the other would see sense. Swinging his leg off the desk and springing to his feet, Piran hurried out of his office before the phone had a chance to ring again.
Down in the lobby, Janet, the museum receptionist, was so engrossed in her newspaper that she didn’t look up until he called, ‘Bye, Janet. I’m finished for the day. See you tomorrow.’
‘Piran, sorry I didn’t hear you. I was reading this –’ She held up the front page so he could read the headline:
THE END FOR THE PAVILIONS?
‘I’d be ever so sad to see the old place go. My parents used to take me there every summer to see the big shows. Remember when Morecambe and Wise had a season here? Sold out every night. They were on the same bill as … oh what were they called … The Bachelors, that’s it! Lovely boys, they were. Great music.’
‘Not exactly The Beatles, were they?’ sniffed Piran, unimpressed. ‘Not my thing, Janet, see you tomorrow.’
Janet persisted, ‘But it’s