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

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СКАЧАТЬ young man shook his head. ‘There’s no time for that, I’m afraid. We’ve been here ages and you’ve got to leave by seven a.m. It’s already well past that and we can’t wait any longer. I’m sorry, but we have to turn the train around or else we’ll be in hot water.’

      ‘You mean we have to go now?’

      ‘’Fraid so.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘I’ll wait here and help you with your things. There’s showers and … um … facilities on the concourse. You can use them.’

      ‘Er …’

      But there was no time for arguing. The corridor outside their compartment was bustling with people doing useful things and outside their door a smiling cleaner was waiting expectantly with a J-cloth and a mop in her hands. Once Penny was apprised of the situation, she shuffled out of bed and the two women gathered themselves together as best as they could. There was no time to change out of their nightwear or to arrange themselves and within moments, they were hustled off the train with friendly thank-yous and helpful directions towards the Ladies.

      Juggling their coats and bags, Penny and Helen blinked and looked around them. After the cocoon of the train, Paddington station was a hive of activity. All around them, commuters swarmed from trains like ants. The platforms were filled with passengers all coming and going. It was dizzying, and in their present condition they were finding it quite a challenge to orient themselves.

      ‘Where did he say the loos were?’ Helen peered uncertainly across the concourse, her hungover brain still confused by all of the activity.

      Penny was just about to say that she had spotted the sign for the Ladies when they were approached by a young man with a kindly face. He thrust something into Penny’s hand.

      ‘It’s not much, but it’ll cover the price of a cuppa.’ He patted her hand sympathetically before hurrying off down towards the sign for the London Underground.

      Penny looked at her palm and saw two shiny pound coins. They looked at each other in astonishment.

      ‘You don’t think he thought we were …?’

      ‘Bag ladies!!’

      ‘Come on, let’s get dressed before we attract any more attention,’ Helen said, grabbing Penny’s arm and steering her towards the loos.

      Ignoring more curious stares, they washed and dressed hurriedly and were soon heading towards central London in a black cab.

      ‘Can we please pretend that incident never happened?’ said Penny, looking much more respectable in a smart red Burberry mac, though she hid her eyes behind a pair of Dior sunglasses.

      Helen feigned nonchalance. ‘Pretend what never happened?’

      They sped along the Marylebone Road. The route along the Westway was lined with new developments of luxury flats and offices.

      ‘London always seems to be one giant building site.’ observed Penny. ‘It’s forever changing.’

      ‘Unlike Pendruggan, which is always the same,’ replied Helen. ‘Queenie’s had the same display of faded postcards and out-of-date Cornish fudge in her window since the seventies.’

      Before long they were driving up Monmouth Street, where the cabbie dropped them outside their boutique hotel, The Hanborough.

      ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Penny. ‘Civilisation.’

      The hotel was the epitome of luxurious London cool. The foyer was a white oasis of calm; low-slung chaises longues were dotted across the marbled Italianate floor and giant bowls of burnished bronze showcased opulent arrangements of orchids, hyacinths and lavender.

      After checking in, they made their way up to their rooms, which were next door to each other on the fifth floor. Agreeing to rendezvous at 1 p.m. for lunch, they went their separate ways.

      Helen dumped her bags on her king-size bed decked out in Egyptian cotton. Her room mirrored the rest of the hotel with its white walls, curtains, bedding and minimalist white furniture. She headed over to the window and took in the view of the vibrant London scene spread out before her. The morning rush had died down and on the street below she could see hip, young media types sauntering leisurely between their hip offices and equally hip coffee shops.

      She closed the curtains against the bright spring sunshine, kicked off her Kurt Geiger heels and flaked out on the bed.

      ‘God, I love this place!’ eulogised Penny when they met in the foyer at lunchtime.

      ‘Me too,’ said Helen, ‘Did you check out the Cowshed toiletries in the bathroom? The soap is to die for!’

      ‘I know, I’ve already made inroads into them. Sat in the roll-top bath for an hour with a scented candle. Heavenly.’

      ‘What now? I’m famished.’

      ‘Me too.’

      ‘What I really fancy is an American Hot with extra mushrooms at Pizza Express.’ Helen’s mouth was watering at the thought of it. ‘Dean Street is only ten minutes’ walk. Let’s head over.’

      ‘Ah,’ said Penny, ‘sorry to disappoint, but I’ve arranged to meet Neil, the new director, at my club on Wardour Street.’

      Helen’s face fell. ‘Not work?’

      ‘Honestly, it’ll only be for half an hour. He’ll fill me in on what’s going on and then I won’t have to go to the studios.’

      Helen didn’t look convinced.

      ‘Look, I promise it won’t take long – and they do a mean cheese-and-jalapeno burger there. And an even meaner Bloody Mary.’

      Helen relented. ‘OK, but you’re paying, Penny Leighton Productions.’

      ‘It’ll be our pleasure.’

      They strolled leisurely through Seven Dials, stopping to window-shop in the many trendy clothes shops, and were soon on Shaftesbury Avenue heading towards Penny’s Club, The House, on Dean Street.

      Situated in an elegant Georgian townhouse, the discreet entranceway led to maze of private meeting rooms, bars, and a restaurant that played host to the great and good of London Medialand. Some of the country’s most famous actors, playwrights, directors and journalists were members – and membership was both exclusive and expensive.

      As they entered, Helen noticed that Stephen Fry was just leaving. The concierge, who recognised Penny, greeted her like an old friend and ushered them into the main bar area, which was a decked out in a cleverly realised shabby-chic style that had probably cost millions. Penny spotted Neil immediately; he was sitting on one of the antique Chesterfield sofas that were dotted around the room. The large informal space was peopled by a fairly equal mix of men and women, some in small groups, others on their own, working on their iPads or MacAirs. The room was dominated by a central bar which ran the whole length of it, and adjoining the bar area was a restaurant. Both restaurant and bar were full and buzzing during the busy lunch period.

      ‘Hi, Neil!’

      Neil, СКАЧАТЬ