The Great Cornish Getaway

‘Do you think people will recognise me?’

Kevin gave him a full head-to-toe survey.

‘As long as you don’t speak, you’ll be fine.’

‘Have you forgotten I’m an actor?’ asked Richard. ‘Listen.’ He cleared his throat and then said in a West London voice, ‘How now, brown cow.’

Kevin was amazed. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. Where did you learn that?’

‘I lived in London in 1973. Worked in the West End doing Grease.’

‘Grease?’

‘The musical. Before John Travolta made the movie, I played his part. Danny Zuko.’

‘You did?’

‘Yep, and while I was over here I practised the accent. It’s come in useful once or twice.’

‘Blimey, mate, it had bloody better do the job now, or you’re busted.’

‘OK, let’s go to Trevay and grab a coffee.’

As Kevin picked up his car keys, Richard asked, ‘Can you teach me how to talk like you? Some of that cockney slang?’

‘Of course, me old china plate. Lesson one starts as soon as we get on the frog and toad.’

As Kevin and Richard drove to Trevay, the rest of the country was waking up to newspapers running pages and pages of photos of Richard; then and now. Details of his work and love affairs. Comments from ‘film buffs’, ‘close friends’ and leggy young women – all keen to get themselves in the paper whether they had met him or not.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_13654655-5c86-58de-902f-3cc84bd2e5e1)

A gang of reporters arrived outside the vicarage, taking it in turns to bang on the door and shout through the letter box.

Dorrie was furious. ‘I’m ringing Don. He’ll come and thump them.’

Simon was alarmed. ‘No need for that. I’ll go out and reason with them.’

Penny was alarmed now. ‘No, you won’t. Anyway, it’s cold out there.’

‘Penny, it’ll be fine.’ He reached for his fleece. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

As Simon opened the front door, he was met by a storm of questions from the pack outside. Penny and Dorrie dodged out of sight into his office and peeked through the curtains.

Simon was holding his hands up to silence the gang. ‘Good morning …’

But before he could go on, a voice shouted, ‘What’s your name?’

‘I am Simon Canter. Vicar of this parish. I assume you want to know where Richard Gere is?’

‘Is he hiding in the church?’ called an old hack from the back. The others sniggered.

Simon tried to regain control. ‘My wife and I have no idea where Richard is, but he is most definitely not here.’

‘Are you concerned about his disappearance?’ asked a wide-eyed young reporter from the Daily Mirror holding a tape recorder towards Simon.

‘Well, of course we are worried, but he has many friends and he knows he’s welcome here.’

A television cameraman was standing at the back of the small crowd and filming everything.

‘And your wife?’ asked the girl from the Daily Mirror again. ‘How is she?’ she asked with a suspicious tone, unaware of the simple friendship between Penny and Richard.

‘Like anyone, she is very concerned and upset.’

‘Do you have a message for Mr Gere if he’s watching?’ shouted a voice.

Simon hesitated. ‘Richard, wherever you are, I hope you know that a lot of people are worried for you and …’ He hadn’t time to finish. The front door behind him flew open and Penny grabbed his arms. She pulled him back into the house and slammed the door in the faces of the press.

‘Ow,’ he said, rubbing his arms. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘There’s a television camera shooting the whole thing. You’ve just given the press the best soundbite they’ll get today. How could you?’

Simon’s expression turned from pain to horror to apology. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes, OH!’ shouted Penny. ‘I told you not to go out there.’

Dorrie looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get back to the pub for opening. I’ll go out the back way. Call me if you get any news.’

‘Likewise,’ said Penny, kissing her friend.

As she watched Dorrie climbing over the garden wall and edging around the graveyard to avoid the press, her mobile pinged with a text. It was from her best and oldest friend, Helen:

I’ve just seen the news. I’m coming over.

Penny replied: Come through the back door. Reporters at the front. We are under siege!!!!

Helen shut the front door of her cottage – which was called Gull’s Cry – and looked across the village green to the vicarage. There were several strange cars, a couple of Range Rovers and a BBC Cornwall radio car. By the front gate a group of men and women were either on their phones, stamping their feet, smoking, or doing all three.

Penny was waiting for her in the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please. How long have those idiots been outside for?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Really? What do they think they’re going to get?’

‘God knows. Come into the lounge. Simon may be on the telly in a minute.’

On the sofa, Simon was sitting, ashen-faced, watching himself give his surprise press conference.