Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin. Fern BrittonЧитать онлайн книгу.
village where we film the series? Mr Tibbs?’
The penny dropped and Quentin gave her an unpleasant smile. ‘Oh yes, that’s right. It’s all coming back to me now. Didn’t I hear that you’d gone and married a vicar? Can’t be true? Penny Leighton, the ultimate good-time girl? Oh, it’s too priceless!’
Penny replied through gritted teeth: ‘It suits me down to the ground. I love being among people who are so sincere. Maybe you should try it sometime?’
‘Eh?’ Quentin was silenced for a nanosecond before he recovered and turned his attention to Helen. ‘Well, now, who’s this?’
He took her hand, unbidden, and proceeded to plant a slimy kiss on it.
‘Helen Merrifield. We’ve met before. Years ago …’ She wanted to add, ‘when you had real hair’, but resisted the temptation.
‘Did we? I feel sure I’d remember someone as charming as you.’
‘Well, you’re pretty unforgettable yourself,’ said Helen, removing her hand; he’d already held on to it far longer than she was comfortable with.
‘So tell me,’ he turned his attention back to Penny, ‘what brings you back from the sticks?’
‘I’m only here for a couple of days.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Er …’ Penny hesitated. While she was perfectly entitled to a break and her company was independent, she knew that Quentin was likely to be aware of the filming schedule. He wasn’t her paymaster, but she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t putting her back into it.
‘Business. Making sure Mr Tibbs is better than ever for TV7.’
‘Well, that’s just perfect! Miriam and I are throwing a drinks party tonight – you simply have to come.’
‘Well, I, er … not sure …’ Penny caught Helen’s eyes, which were looking at her in alarm.
‘Nonsense, I insist! Everyone is coming. Sir Nigel will be there, and Baroness Hardy.’ Penny’s heart was sinking. Sir Nigel Cameron and Baroness Hardy were co-owners of TV7; their good opinion of her and Penny Leighton Productions really mattered. Schmoozing and glad-handing was an integral part of her job. They had just wrapped the latest series of Mr Tibbs and securing a new one was a long way from being a done deal. It wasn’t all about ratings and revenues; the goodwill of the board could spell the difference between a new contract and cancellation. The future of Mr Tibbs and the jobs of the actors and crew were in her hands. The buck stops with me, she thought, resignedly.
Helen, however had other ideas. ‘She couldn’t possibly, Penny’s taking me out to dinner.’
Quentin Clarkson wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Then you must come along too – I’m sure I can offer something much more tempting than some boring old dinner.’ He eyed her suggestively.
‘Of course we’ll come, Quentin, though we won’t be able to stay too long,’ conceded Penny, avoiding Helen’s furious stare.
‘Marvellous! Seven thirty – you know the address.’ And with that he kissed them both with damp lips – Helen squirming as his hand reached behind her and stroked the small of her back – and headed off towards the exit.
‘What on earth??’ exclaimed Helen when he was out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just thrown away our evening like that?’
‘Don’t give me a hard time. I have no choice. Everyone is relying on me to bag another series. They’d be heartbroken if I failed – and I’d be in the shit.’
Seeing Penny’s glum expression, Helen took pity on her. ‘Told you we should have gone to Pizza Express.’
Penny linked arms with her friend. ‘Note to self: Do not ignore advice from Helen Merrifield.’
‘I still can’t believe he used to be your boyfriend.’
‘Boy-fiend, more like!’
And they enjoyed a snigger as they headed off for lunch.
Simon was dog-tired. His day had got off to a bad start when he realised that he should have been giving a talk on the meaning of Easter at Trevay Junior School. Unfortunately, the realisation only hit him when he was in the car, heading in the opposite direction to visit a sick parishioner in one of the hamlets beyond Pendruggan. Having shown up late and flustered for both appointments, his day had managed to get even worse when Susie Small, the local yoga teacher, called him to say that the village hall had been broken into. What with calling the police and waiting for the locksmith to arrive, Simon had once again found himself being pulled in different directions.
It was dusk by the time he made it home to the vicarage. The clouds in the sky were heavy and ominous. More bad weather had been forecast and the thought of yet another spell of torrential rain and gale-force wind only added to his gloomy mood. He hung his coat on the banister and headed to the kitchen. He was starving, but his heart sank as he opened the fridge and eyed its meagre contents. Normally, Penny would have driven to the shops in Trevay to pick something up or, as it was a Friday night, they might have headed out for a curry. Simon felt a pang. Penny would have known exactly what to say to ease his troubles and take his mind off things. He stared forlornly at the bit of old brie and half a tomato sitting on the fridge shelf. There was also a bowl of leftovers from earlier in the week, but Simon’s tired brain couldn’t remember what it was and the bowl of reddy-brown mush wasn’t giving up its secrets.
Shutting the fridge door, he headed over to the worktop and switched on the kettle. Next to it was a note in Penny’s recognisable flamboyant script:
Left you something in the freezer for every night I’m away – can’t have you starving as well as drowning! Will be a better vicar’s wife when I get back – promise. Pxx
Simon smiled, realising he hadn’t even noticed it the previous night before he’d staggered up to bed, to tired for anything more than a bowl of soup. Switching the kettle on, he bent down and opened the freezer. In one of the drawers was a selection of neatly packaged and labelled dishes in freezer bags: cottage pie, lasagne, spag bol and a few of pots of rhubarb crumble – his favourite.
Taking the cottage pie from the freezer he popped it in the microwave and headed out to the hallway. On the answering machine, the little red light was blinking away, and the LED display indicated that there were six new messages. He pressed the play button.
The unmistakable bossy tones of Audrey Tipton boomed out, filling the hallway:
Mrs Canter, it’s Audrey here. I still haven’t heard back from you regarding the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon. We really must make a start on it, you know. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get this message. Beep.
The next one was from Margery Winthrop, one of the gaggle of pensioners who volunteered their time to help keep the church spick and span:
Hello, Penny, Margery here. Sorry to bother you but just a gentle reminder that we need to sit down and go through the spring flower rota. Doris is having her veins done and June Pearce is swanning off on a Saga cruise, so you’ll need to drum up some more helpers from somewhere. Or will you put yourself down for a few shifts? Anyway, I’ll try you again tomorrow. Beep.
The next one was from Emma Scott, Brown Owl of the local Brownies, who spoke in a broad Cornish accent:
Penny, my love, meant to say when I saw you last week that spring ’as sprung – so that must mean it’s time to get our bums in gear for the Summer Fête. I’ve already had a word with Harry the scout leader, but ’e’s about as much use as chocolate teapot! You’ll ’ave to organise the lot of us, as usual! Bye, my lovely, speak later in the week.
Apart from a call reminding him of his dental appointment, all the other messages were in a similar vein: coffee mornings, afternoon tea