The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read. Fern Britton

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      Penny was in her room dragging a comb through her newly washed hair. She badly needed a cut and a colour, but trying to find a couple of hours when someone could mind Jenna was hard. She stared for the second time that day at her reflection. God, she’d aged. Crow’s feet, jowls, a liver spot by her eyebrow … She’d had Jenna when she was well into her forties and it had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Harder even than leaving her life in London.

      In London she had been somebody: a busy, single, career woman; an award-winning television producer with her own production company, Penny Leighton Productions.

      Now she hardly knew who she was. Again she felt guilty at how horrible she’d been to Simon. Taking a deep breath she slapped on a little mascara and lip gloss and vowed to present him with steak and a bottle of wine for supper.

      She got downstairs and into her study two minutes before the phone rang on the dot of eleven. Penny took a deep breath and plastered on a cheery persona.

      ‘Good morning, Jack.’

      ‘Hello, Penny, how is life at the vicarage treating you?’

      Jack Bradbury was playing his usual game of feigned bonhomie. He laughed. ‘I still can’t believe you’re a vicar’s wife.’

      ‘And a mother,’ she played along.

      ‘And a mother. Good God, who’d have thought it. How is the son and heir?’

      ‘The daughter and heir is doing very well, thank you.’

      ‘Ah yes, Jenny, isn’t it?’

      ‘Jenna.’

      ‘Jenna … of course.’

      The niceties were achieved.

      ‘So, Penny …’ She imagined Jack leaning back in his ergonomic chair and admiring his manicured hands. ‘We want more Mr Tibbs on Channel 7.’

      ‘That’s good news. So do I.’ Penny reached for a wet wipe and rubbed at something sticky on the screen of her computer. Jenna had been gumming it yesterday.

      ‘So, you’ve got hold of old Mave, have you?’ asked Jack.

      ‘I emailed her yesterday,’ said Penny.

      ‘And how did she reply?’

      ‘She hasn’t yet. The ship is somewhere in the Pacific heading to or from the Panama Canal, I can’t remember which.’

      Jack sounded impatient. ‘Does she spend her entire bloody life on a cruise? Does she never get off?’

      ‘She likes it.’

      ‘I’d like it more if she wrote some more Mr bloody Tibbs scripts in between ordering another gin and tonic.’

      ‘I’ll try to get her again today.’ Penny wiped her forehead with a clammy palm. She wasn’t used to being on the back foot.

      ‘Tell her that Channel 7 wants another six eps, pronto, plus a Christmas special. I want to start shooting the series in the summer, ready to air in the New Year.’

      ‘I have told her that and I’m sure she wants the same.’

      ‘I’m not fannying around on this for ever, Penny. David Cunningham’s agent has already been on the blower. Needs to know if David will be playing Mr Tibbs again or he’ll sign him up to a new Danish drama. And he’s asking for more money.’

      ‘I want to talk to you about budget—’

      ‘You bring me old Mave and then we’ll talk money.’

      ‘Deal. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of her.’

      ‘Phone me asap.’ He hung up before she said goodbye.

      Old Mave was Mavis Crewe, an eighty-something powerhouse who had created her most famous character, Mr Tibbs, back in the late 1950s. Penny had snapped up the screen rights to the books for peanuts and the stories of the crime-solving bank manager and his sidekick secretary, Nancy Trumpet, had become the most watched period drama serial of the past three years.

      Penny’s problem was that she had now filmed all the books and needed Mavis to write some more. But Mavis, a law unto herself, was enjoying spending her unexpected new income by constantly circumnavigating the globe.

      Penny rubbed a hand over her chin and found two or three fresh spiky hairs. She’d had no time to get them waxed and, right now, had no energy to go upstairs and locate her long-missing tweezers.

      She pushed her laptop away and laid her head on the leather-topped desk. ‘I’m so tired …’ she said to no one, and jumped when her computer replied with a trill. An email.

      TO: [email protected]

      FROM: [email protected]

      SUBJECT: Mr Tibbs

      Dear Penny,

      How simply thrilling that Mr Tibbs is wanted so badly by Channel 7 and the charming Jack Bradbury. It really is such a joy to know that one’s lifework has a fresh impact on the next generation of viewing public.

      Another six stories, and a Christmas special? But my dear, that is simply not possible.

      I wrote those stories years ago as a young widow in order to feed my family. Mr Tibbs has done his job, I’d say and I don’t have the patience to think up more adventures for him.

      Can you not simply repeat the old ones?

      Yesterday we went through the Panama Canal. Absolutely extraordinary. Very wide in parts and very narrow in others. We are now sailing in the Pacific and stopping off at Costa Rica tomorrow. Why don’t you drop everything and join me for a few weeks? Enjoy our spoils from dear Mr Tibbs.

      With great affection,

      Mavis Crewe CBE

      Penny couldn’t move. She read the email again and broke into a cold sweat. No more Mr Tibbs? Put out repeats? Go and join her on a cruise? Did the woman have no idea that so many people’s careers were hanging in the balance because she couldn’t be arsed to write a half-baked whimsy about a fictional bloke who solved the mystery of a missing back-door key? Anger and frustration coursed through her. She pressed reply and started to type.

      TO: [email protected]

      FROM: [email protected]

      SUBJECT: Mr Tibbs

      Dear Mavis,

      If we have no more bloody scripts there is no more Mr Tibbs. Do you want to throw away all that you’ve achieved? I certainly am not going to let you. The end of Mr Tibbs would mean the end of your cruising and the end of me. PLEASE write SOMETHING! And if you won’t do that, I shall have to find someone else to write Mr Tibbs for me, with or without your help.

      Penny

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