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

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      ‘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.

      ‘Oh, did he now?’ Miriam Clarkson’s eyes narrowed with cold fury.

      ‘Er, the Turkish hamman, darling,’ spluttered Quentin. ‘I thought our guests might like to see—’

      Miriam didn’t miss a beat. Taking Helen firmly by the arm, she said loudly, ‘Let me introduce you to Camilla and James. They’re ordinary people just like you and I’m sure you’ll have plenty in common.’

      It turned out that Camilla and James both lived in Chiswick and worked for the BBC. For the next hour Helen had to listen to Camilla drone on about house prices, the difficulty in finding a parking space for their 4×4 – which had never seen a muddy field in its life – in their Chiswick Street, and how utterly selfish her Ukrainian nanny had turned out to be, asking for time off to visit her dying father in the school holidays.

      ‘I used to live in Chiswick,’ Helen said. ‘But I sold up and moved to Cornwall a couple of years ago.’

      Camilla looked aghast. ‘But you must be kicking yourself? Your house would probably be worth twice as much by now!’

      ‘Quite the opposite,’ said Helen. ‘It was the best thing I’ve ever done.’ And with that, she excused herself, knowing that if she had stayed with those two tiresome twits for a moment longer she would scream.

      Heading out onto the ambiently lit terrace. Helen took out her phone from her bag and called Piran. It went straight to voicemail. She imagined herself there instead of here, with Piran, enjoying a pint or two in the Sail Loft.

      Sighing, she put her phone back in her bag and headed into the party again. She tried to catch Penny’s eye, but she was in deep conversation with Sir Nigel and the Baroness and didn’t notice her.

      ‘Ah, Helen – come and meet Emily. Her son went to the same school as yours, I believe, and he’s now doing an MA.’ It was Camilla again.

      Helen looked at her watch. Any chance of slipping away early was diminishing fast. She grabbed a cocktail and a canapé from a passing waiter and plastered a smile on her face. It was going to be a long evening.

       5

      It was 9.30 a.m. when Helen presented herself washed and dressed outside Penny’s hotel-room door. The two women hadn’t left the party until gone eleven the previous night, and by then it was far too late to retrieve their evening. They’d made it back to the hotel and were too exhausted and fed up to face anything more than a quick nightcap at the bar.

      The door opened to reveal Penny in her bath robe. Helen immediately went and flopped down on the bed while Penny put the finishing touches to her make-up. Despite being the wrong side of forty, Penny’s blonde hair, long legs, fair complexion and not least her infectious energy made her seem ten years younger. Simon was a lucky man, Helen thought, not for the first time.

      ‘Were we ever as insufferable as that lot last night?’ she asked Penny.

      ‘You certainly weren’t – but I’ve a horrible feeling that I might have been.’

      ‘Nonsense! You’ve never shown the slightest sign of disappearing up your own bum like that lot. I hope I never see Quentin bloody Clarkson again.’

      ‘I’ve no choice but to see him, unfortunately. But at least I’m a step closer to a new series of Mr Tibbs. Sir Nigel loves it – he even hinted we might be offered a long-term deal.’

      ‘Brilliant!’ Helen clapped her hands. ‘And as a reward for your long-suffering and forbearing friend – i.e.: moi – today, we are going to do exactly what I say!’

      ‘Well, OK, your majesty but it’s your turn to pay for lunch.’

      ‘It’s a deal!’

      After a light breakfast in their hotel – porridge with honey for Helen and granola and Greek yogurt for Penny – they set off towards Piccadilly station.

      ‘Where are we going?’ Penny asked.

      ‘You’ll see!’

      As they headed down the escalator, the crowding seemed much worse than they remembered from the old days. Had London always been this busy? Helen wondered.

      Their journey was a rather cramped and uncomfortable one, but they both enjoyed people-watching. Londoners kept their heads down, usually reading a paper or their Kindles. The tourists chattered loudly and took their time getting on and off the train, irritating the Londoners, who were used to a certain regimented tempo.

      ‘Do you remember when people used to read actual books?’ Helen observed.

      ‘You’re so twentieth century!’

      Eventually, without too many hiccups, they reached their destination: Ladbroke Grove.

      ‘Ah. Revisiting old haunts, are we?’

      When Helen lived in London, there had been nothing she liked better than heading down to Portobello Road and rummaging around on the many hundreds of stalls for hidden treasures. You never knew what you might turn up. Helen had, in her time, found an Art Nouveau mirror from the Morris school; a Clarice Cliff milk jug and even a vivid green Whitefriars vase. Her move to Cornwall had been a new start and she’d jettisoned many of her belongings, but those cherished items still had pride of place in Gull’s Cry.

      They headed slowly up the Portobello Road. It was heaving with tourists and locals. Fashionable young men and women spilled out of the trendy cafés and funky coffee shops. When Helen had first started going there, all the shops had a distinctly home-made feel. Now High Street brands jostled for attention. Gone were the conspicuous shaggy-haired musicians and trustafarians, making way for hordes of rich, successful Londoners.

      Stopping at a stall selling crockery, china and bric-a-brac, Helen spotted an adorable honey pot. She picked it up and scrutinised it. No scratches or chips, and looking at the bottom she could see that it was from the Crown Devon factory. It would look lovely on the kitchen windowsill of her cottage.

      ‘How much?’ she asked the stallholder.

      Despite being surrounding by London’s fashionable set, the trader was definitely old-school.

      ‘Forty quid, love.’

      ‘Eh? That’s extortionate!’

      ‘Blame eBay, love, not me. That’s the going rate.’

      ‘Rubbish, you could find something like this in the Sue Ryder shop in Trevay for a couple of quid.’

      ‘Look, love, I dunno what the ’ell

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