Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin

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 for the old folks, an outing for the disabled … Simon couldn’t figure out how Penny was able to fit it all in alongside her full-time job. He felt another pang, this time of guilt. He’d been quite cross with her about her weekend away. Why shouldn’t she have a break? If he’d had to deal with this lot, he’d want to run a mile too.

He took his mobile phone out of his pocket. It was a decidedly untrendy and ancient Nokia that had been dropped, thrown and even survived a dip in a cup of tea. He’d have his trusty Nokia over a new-fangled smart phone any day.

Simon saw that he had two texts from Penny and a missed call. He’d been so busy he’d not had a chance to look at his phone all day.

He pulled Penny up from his contacts list and hit the green call button, putting the phone to his ear.

This is Penny Leighton, I can’t take you call right now …

Simon didn’t leave a message. He’d call her later. Tell her he loved her.

After he’d finished his meal, he settled himself down in front of the early evening news. Ten minutes, he told himself, then I’ll tackle Sunday’s sermon. Within moments, he was fast asleep.

Piran had been looking forward to a few hours’ night fishing with his mate Brian. Their usual routine was to take the boat out, crack open a few cans and put the world to rights. But the weather that had been threatening all day had finally broken, and as he drove through Trevay hailstones were bouncing off his battered pickup truck with such force it was like being machine-gunned with walnuts.

He let out a sigh. The weather warnings were dire for shipping and, hardy as he was, there was no way he was taking the boat out in this.

The dig at the Roman fort had been a long slog. The finds that they were turning up were incredible, but the constant battle against the elements was wearing them all down. Now that night-fishing was off the agenda, Piran wanted nothing more than to kick back with a couple of pints of Doom Bar and watch some football.

Having made sure that his little fishing boat was anchored properly in Trevay harbour – it was sure to take a battering tonight – Piran set off for the convenience store, where he planned to get some supplies in. The wind was so strong it was all he could do to open the door of his pickup. Pulling the hood of his waterproofs tighter to his face, he battled through the rain and into the store where he bought eggs, bacon, a wholemeal loaf and a couple of bottles of his favourite Cornish ale. The storm had reached biblical proportions by the time he exited the store, whistling through the narrow streets and pelting him with horizontal rain as he ran for the truck. Juggling his shopping, he struggled to find his car keys in the deep pockets of his waterproof jacket. Fumbling with wet, icy fingertips, he pulled them out, but as he did so, his single door-key was pulled along too. Piran could only watch as it spun in the air, landing with a plop in a giant puddle of rainwater that had pooled beneath his car. Letting his shopping fall, he dropped to his knees and began to scrabble around in the cold, dirty water to find it. His heart sank as his fingers made contact with the wide gaps of the storm drain. His key was gone – swept down into the sewer, never to be retrieved.

He cursed a heartfelt bollocks, retrieved his supplies and climbed back into the pickup. The only other person who had a key to his cottage was Helen, and she was too far away to be useful, but he remembered that Helen always kept a key to her own cottage underneath the flower pot in her front garden. So, grim-faced, he headed in the direction of Gull’s Cry.

Helen and Penny were pulling up outside an imposing house on one of Kensington’s most exclusive streets. They’d spent the afternoon shopping in the West End, but the sheer enjoyment of making random indulgent purchases had been dented by the knowledge that they were compelled to attend Quentin Clarkson’s ghastly drinks party.

‘I can’t think why you went out with him in the first place. Hasn’t he always been a complete and utter plonker?’

Helen looked stunning in a Cos asymmetrical dress in midnight blue which highlighted her blue eyes. Penny had gone into power dressing mode and was resplendent in an Alexander McQueen red crêpe dress that set off her blonde hair perfectly.

‘Well, yes, a plonker through and through – from birth, I imagine. But underneath all that, he’s got quite a fierce business brain. Before he took over, TV7 was the laughing stock of the TV world. It was all tacky game shows and bargain-bucket reality TV. Now they’ve got some the hottest shows on television. He was ambitious, so was I. What can I say?’

‘Well, rather you than me. The guy gives me the creeps.’ Helen shuddered, remembering his hand on her back earlier that day.

‘Tell me about it!’ Penny lowered her voice as they approached the front door. ‘You’ll never guess what he used to do when we were having sex?’

‘I don’t think I want to know.’

‘Well …’

But Penny never finished what she was going to say because at that moment the door flew open and standing before them was a vision in beige silk Diana Von Furstenberg.

‘Penny, darling!’ the vision drawled.

‘Miriam. How lovely to see you, I can’t believe we’ve left it for so long.’

Helen noticed that Penny’s voice was about an octave higher than normal, which to those in the know was a clear indication that she loathed the woman.

‘Do come in – and your little friend, too.’ She held out an imperious hand to Helen. ‘Miriam Clarkson. I’m Quentin’s wife, but you’ll probably recognise me from The Lion’s Lair.’

‘Yes, I thought you looked familiar.’ Helen offered her hand in return but Miriam Clarkson barely touched it. The Lion’s Lair was a hugely popular TV show where young entrepreneurs got to spend some time working alongside their business gurus. Miriam Clarkson was one of the ‘Lions’ and ran a multimillion-pound interior design business whose clients included Roman Abramovich and Richard Branson. She was also notoriously volatile. Helen found this odd, considering Miriam’s oft-proclaimed devotion to Eastern mysticism, which she claimed helped her to ‘channel the energies’ of the luxury properties she was hired to imbue with her trademark style.

In person, she was stick thin, Botoxed to within an inch of her life, and the air around her practically vibrated with a nervous energy that was enough to set your teeth on edge.

Miriam ordered a hired lackey in a crisp white-and-black uniform to take their coats, then they were shown through to an impressive reception room, awash with expensively tasteful furnishings in various shades of beige or taupe.

‘Psst.’ Helen nudged Penny. She’d remembered where she recognised Miriam from. ‘Didn’t she used to be your assistant?’

‘Yep. That was why Quentin and I split up. Found him shagging her on the floor of his Canary Wharf offices.’

‘That’s right, it’s all coming back to me now!’

‘She got her talons into him pretty quickly and used his connections to build up her business. They deserve each other.’

The room was full of small groups of men and women talking, laughing and drinking. The men all wore what passed for casual in this part of London. Navy or tweed blazers from Hackett with open-necked shirts paired with mismatched chinos in salmon pink or mustard. The women seemed to share the same Knightsbridge hairdresser and wore either Burberry Prorsum or Joseph.

Quentin spotted them immediately and made a beeline for them.

‘Penny, darling, so glad you could come!’

‘Quentin. I see Miriam has done wonders on your pad.’

‘The woman is a genius. Insisted we dug out the basement to create a Turkish hamman. The neighbours all kicked up a stink, as usual, but what Miriam wants, she usually gets! The whole place has just been Feng Shui-ed!’

‘Really?’ Penny raised a cynical eyebrow.

At that point, a distinguished-looking gent in his early sixties came towards them. He had lively green eyes and an open and honest face. Helen liked him immediately.

‘Penny, my dear girl! You look wonderful.’

Penny greeted him warmly with a hug and introduced him to Helen. ‘Lovely to see you, too, Sir Nigel.’

‘We don’t often see you on the mean streets of West London,’ he said. ‘How is Cornish married life treating you?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

‘I love the place myself. The wife and I have a bolthole in St Agnes. Hope to retire there one of these days when TV7 let me out of their clutches.’ He smiled at Helen apologetically. ‘Do forgive me, I’m just going to borrow your friend for a few minutes, my dear. Baroness Hardy and I want to pick her brains about something …’

Helen gave Penny a look that said hurry up, then turned to find that she’d been left in the clutches of Quentin Clarkson.

‘Alone at last.’ He sidled up to her and placed his hand on her lower back. ‘This is a big house, you know. I could take you on a little tour – there are plenty of cosy nooks and crannies that we could explore together.’ His fat hand inched towards her bottom.

She was tempted to stand on his elegantly-shod toes, but before she had a chance, Miriam materialised. Her eyes were narrowed. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she demanded suspiciously.

‘Your husband offered to take me on a private tour of the house,’ Helen said innocently.