The Guardian article – a two-page spread with photos of Colonel Irvine, past and present, Brooke and her new incarnation as saviour of the seaside theatre, Penny as wealthy television producer/vicar’s wife, Simon as miracle worker, Helen as dogged helper and Piran as growly-sexy historian romantically involved with Helen, was newspaper heaven and created an enormous amount of interest locally and nationally.
The SToP office at the vicarage was creaking under the barrage of phone calls and emails. It was a matter of all hands to the pump. Penny drafted in three sixteen-year-olds from the village: Siobhan, who was fond of hot pants, crop tops and tattoos; her friend Tillie, who was quiet with blonde hair that occasionally had a blue or pink streak running through it; and Catty, the mother of a fifteen-month-old son called Watson, whom she doted on.
‘Watson? That’s very unusual,’ said Helen conversationally one morning. ‘Is it a family name?’
‘No. When I ’ad ’im, I rang his dad from the ’ospital to tell ’im ’e ’ad a son and ’e said, “What son?” So I thought, fair enough.’
‘Oh,’ said Helen, not knowing how to respond.
Catty laughed. ‘Your face! You believed me!’
Helen was confused. ‘So what is he really called?’
‘Oh, his real name is Watson. After the doctor? Sherlock an’ all that?’
‘Ah, I see now,’ said Helen, though she didn’t see at all.
‘Actually,’ continued Catty conspiratorially, ‘I’m expectin’ again. Early days an’ all, but this time I’m thinking about Jude.’
Helen was tuning into this now. ‘As in Hardy’s – the Obscure?’
It was Catty’s turn to look mystified. ‘No. As in Jude Law – ’im what plays Watson in the films.’
Both women looked at each other in some confusion. ‘Yeah, well, anyway …’ Catty jerked her head towards the kitchen. ‘Wanna a coffee or anything?’
‘Yes. Please. Thank you.’
The awkward moment passed and Helen returned to her desk to find Tillie on the phone.
‘You’re all right, she’s ’ere right now, Jules. No trouble. I’ll put ’er on. Catch you later.’ Tillie handed the phone to Helen. ‘It’s a bloke called Jules what writes Downton.’
Helen felt her heart miss a beat as she took the receiver and shooed Tillie off her desk. ‘Hello. Helen Merrifield speaking.’
‘Helen – hello. I was just having a most amusing conversation with your assistant. Very colourful.’
‘Oh erm …’ Helen didn’t know if an apology was needed. ‘She’s a very helpful local girl. Penny and I have taken on three school leavers, who, erm …’ she struggled to find the right words, ‘who are very new to the work place,’ she finished limply.
Lord Fellowes boomed with laughter. ‘Well, Tillie was marvellous and has quite given me an idea for a new character. Anyway, I was actually phoning to speak to Penny, but I gather she’s not there.’
‘She’ll be back in an hour. Can I take a message?’
‘Yes, do. Please tell her that Maggie and Hugh are free on the dates we discussed so it’s all systems go. They loved the piece in the Guardian and can’t wait to meet old Colonel Stick. What a character! And what fun to put on a show at Easter for all the holidaymakers. The Guardian story has certainly woken people up to the plight of the Pavilions. I’ve drafted a little thing I’ve called Tales of Downton, where Hugh and Maggie tell a few anecdotes, as themselves – and there’s a part for Brooke Lynne too. Perhaps Penny will call me back later?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Helen was frantically writing down all this priceless information. ‘As soon as she gets in, bye.’
*
Penny had been working like mad on Jonathan Mulberry. Even though he had been so unimpressed by the Pavilions, returning to London the following day with a grouchy promise that he would ‘give it some thought’, she had set her heart on having him as the general theatre manager. When her phone calls failed to elicit a more favourable response she’d travelled to London for a face-to-face meeting.
‘I’m not used to provincial stuff,’ he’d told her over dinner. ‘I like a nice warm weatherproof building with a guaranteed audience … And I’ve had enough of doing this job for the love of it – I like to be paid, and paid well.’
Penny almost choked on her seabass meunière but managed to stammer, ‘I’ll pay you … well.’
‘What with? You haven’t any box office yet. And I am not out to bankrupt you.’
‘By the weekend the task force of volunteer builders will be moving out. The Arts Council have given us a grant, and the Friends of the Pavilions have raised quite a bit through car boot sales and sponsorship.’
‘You’re going to need a hell of a lot more than that to get the place open and running. What’s your plan?’
‘We’re not relying on theatrical productions alone for revenue. There’ll be the café, for a start, and the foyer can be let out for functions. We’ll be applying for a wedding licence so that people can get married up there, but our relationship with the council is a bit sticky so we haven’t asked them yet. As for the theatre side of things, Colonel Irvine is brushing off his old script: Hats Off, Trevay! It’s probably a bit dated, but the show opened the theatre back in …’ Her voice faded when she saw the look of pity on Jonathan’s face.
‘It’s not good enough, is it? You need a show with huge stars that will knock people’s socks off. You need backers with big money. I think you may just have to admit defeat and hand it back to the council. You aren’t a theatre woman, Pen. Stick with the telly.’
Penny was outraged. ‘How dare you suggest I can’t run a business! I know what’s needed to build a brand and create success. Look at Mr Tibbs – no one else saw the potential in Mavis Carew’s old crime novels, but that series has sold in over a dozen countries and—’
Jonathan held his hands up in mock defence. ‘OK, I believe you. But you have got to pull something big out of the bag here. That building is a money pit. The repairs you’ve made are like sticking a bit of Elastoplast over a missing leg.’
Penny couldn’t disagree. Maybe she’d spent so much time with her fellow SToP campaigners that she’d lost all perspective on this. Still, she was convinced that getting Jonathan on board was key to making a success of this venture.
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘If I were to open the theatre by Easter with a host of star names and a full house, would you be my theatre manager?’
Jonathan returned her steady gaze. ‘Yes. But it has to be pretty bloody starry.’
*
Penny had spent the train journey back from London replaying her conversation with Jonathan. By the time she parked her Jag outside the vicarage and walked up the path she was feeling utterly downcast. Before she could put her key in the lock, the door flew open and Helen launched herself at her.
‘Pen! Something amazing has happened,’ she cried breathlessly. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to get here so I could tell you face to face.’
‘What is it?’
Helen told her.
‘Oh my God! Julian? Maggie and Hugh? Brooke? Oh my God, my God!’ Penny’s knees almost buckled and she had to grab Helen for support. ‘You’re not joking, are you?’
‘No.’
‘At Easter?’
‘Yes.’
Penny closed her eyes and stood in silent prayer, muttering, ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’ Then she leapt past Penny, rushing down the hall towards Simon’s office, shouting his name as he emerged, blinking, from his study.
‘What’s the matter, Pen? What’s happened?’ He ushered her into his study and shut the door behind them. A moment later Helen, waiting in the hall, heard him cry, ‘Well done, darling! How marvellous! You must phone Jonathan straight away.’
*
‘So, when can I see you again?’ His muffled voice in Brooke’s hair sent a shiver of pleasure through her.
‘I’ve got to go back to Cornwall tonight. After the Guardian piece the whole thing’s gone mad.’ She propped herself up on one elbow and checked the clock display on her phone: it was three thirty. Prince Louis of Suffolk had cooked her a lunch of spaghetti bolognaise in the tiny kitchen of his apartment. He had a small but very grand annexe of his parents’ grace-and-favour London home. Two bedrooms, a cosy drawing room, a dark-room/office and the kitchen. They were lying on a very long, very wide, very squashy sofa in front of his state-of-the-art television.
He kissed her neck. ‘Please don’t go back tonight. I’ll get Hutch to drive you down first thing.’
‘That’s sweet of you, but I’d prefer not to get into trouble by using royal drivers, thank you.’
‘Well, let me take you to Paddington then.’
‘And what if we get seen?’
‘Stuff it.’
She sat up and pushed her hair from her eyes. ‘Louis, I don’t want to attract attention by being seen with you.’
He rolled over and rubbed the back of his wrist over his eyes. ‘I’ve told you. It’ll be all right.’
‘Yes and I get it. You’ve chosen to be a reportage photographer, you’ve got a step-uncle who is one of the biggest newspaper barons in the business and now, because you’ve joined the ranks of Fleet Street, you’re “off limits”. They don’t chase “their own”.’
‘Exactly. Smart of me, eh? It’s like they say – if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. For years my family had to put up with media intrusion and there was nothing they could do about it. Now I have immunity.’
‘Is that the only reason you took the job?’
‘Of course not. I did photography at university and I got a first, so I do know my onions. War hero stroke playboy prince doesn’t cut the mustard as a career option these days. I’ve got plans. I’m going to open my own gallery when the time is right, but first I need experience.’
‘How long will it stay secret though, you and me? It’s too good a story.’
He smiled his most beguiling smile and raised his arms to her. ‘My step-uncle will buy me some time. It’ll probably mean that I’ll have to give someone an exclusive at some point – throw them a few bones. But I’m going to make hay while the sun shines. Give us a cuddle.’
He really was a lovely person. Brooke knew it would be so easy to fall in love with Louis, but he was a young man out to have some fun. Before he joined the press, the papers were full of stories about the hero fighter pilot prince and his many many girlfriends. Now that the press no longer hounded him, she had no idea if there were other girls on the scene, or indeed how many.
After the Guardian shoot one of the protection officers had slipped her a piece of paper with Louis’s number on it. Brooke had put it in her purse but had never taken it out. And then one day her phone at Granny’s Nook had rung.
‘Brooke?’ asked the posh young man. ‘We met the other day – I took your photo for the Guardian?’
Brooke was suspicious. ‘Who is this?’
‘I’m, it’s … Louis. I tracked you down.’
‘How did you get my home number?’
‘Oh, ah, tricks of the trade. Can’t tell you. Would have to kill you. That sort of thing. Fancy some lunch?’
‘I’m in Cornwall.’
‘I know. So am I.’
‘Are you?’ She was certain this was a hoax.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where?’
‘Outside your house.’
Brooke had felt a gush of panic flood through her. Was this some kind of prank? She moved slowly towards her front window, keeping to the walls. She peeked round the curtain. Sure enough, out in the road parked between her gate and the Pendruggan village green was a blacked-out Range Rover.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ she blustered.
‘I’ll get out of the car and show myself, if you like.’
‘OK.’ At least she’d know who this freak was.
Through the receiver pressed to her ear, she could hear the sound of a door opening and a soft squeak of leather which she assumed meant he had slid off the car seat. She peeked round the curtain again. Shit. It was him.
‘Get back in the car! People will see you.’
‘There’s no one around.’
She watched as he held out one arm and turned full circle on the spot indicating the village with not a soul to be seen.
‘Get back in the car!’ she squeaked.
‘Not until you come outside and let me take you to lunch. I’m hungry.’
‘Where would we go? I can’t take you to the pub, can I?’
‘Have you got anything in the larder?’
‘Not much.’
‘Eggs?’
‘Yes.’
‘I make a mean omelette. Can I come in?’
‘Is it just you?’ She looked to the left and right of his car to find his protection officers.
‘I’ve got Hutch with me. He’s good at washing-up.’
The window of the front passenger seat slid open and the smiling face of the man who had slipped her Louis’s number appeared. He waved. She waved back. ‘Shit. I just waved.’
Louis laughed. ‘Can I come in or what?’