don’t want to get in your way,’ said Helen, ‘so I’ll go and sit at the bar while you two catch up.’
‘Thanks, Helen,’ said Penny. ‘Hopefully this won’t take long – right, Neil?’
Neil gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Everything’s fine – just need to run a couple of things by you.’
Helen left them to it and headed over to the bar. It was busy, but she could see a couple who were just vacating their seats and she popped herself onto one of them as they departed.
Despite the full bar, she was served immediately by a bright and breezy barman.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Not sure. What’s good today?’
‘Depends. What sort of mood you in?’
‘Feel like being nice to myself.’
‘Then I’ve got the perfect drink for being nice to yourself – the Ambrosia. Champagne, aged cognac and triple sec, plus a few of my secret ingredients. It’s named after the food of the gods – can’t get nicer to yourself than that.’
‘Sold!’
Helen watched as he artfully filled a cocktail shaker with ice before adding the ingredients and shaking them thoroughly. He poured the contents into a highball glass filled with more ice and topped it up with chilled champagne.
He placed the glass in front of her on a small black napkin. ‘A drink fit for a goddess,’ he said, giving her a cheeky smile.
‘I bet you say that to all the goddesses.’ She smiled cheekily back at him.
The drink certainly tasted like Ambrosia and Helen could feel the last vestiges of her hangover slip away.
She dug around in her bag and fished out her iPad. Logging into her email account she skimmed through the usual junk until she came to a brand-new photo of her granddaughter, Summer, that had been sent to her from her son, Sean. Summer was sitting in the lap of her mother Terri and was holding the soft grey elephant that Helen had bought her for Christmas. Helen had had a long visit from them in the New Year and now they were visiting Terri’s family up north. Summer looked completely adorable.
In the email, Sean had written:
Summer’s favourite toy now, she won’t let it out of her sight. We’re calling it Ellie.
How sweet, thought Helen.
Next, she sent Piran an email:
What you doing? I’m sitting in Pen’s club. Hugh Laurie’s at other end of the bar!
Helen googled Heals’ website. Assuming the roof ever got fixed, and if there was any money left in her depleted coffers, she resolved to treat herself to a new rug. Maybe they’d find time to pop down there this afternoon; it wasn’t far.
An email from Piran pinged back at her:
Who is Hugh Laurie?
Honestly, thought Helen, you’d have thought he’d been living in cave for all he knew about popular culture.
Never mind. How is the Roman Fort?
Moments later the reply:
Muddy.
‘You’re a mine of information, Piran Ambrose,’ she muttered under her breath.
It wasn’t long before Penny said goodbye to Neil, who was heading back to the dubbing studio, and joined her friend at the bar.
‘All’s well, which is just what I wanted to hear.’
‘Fab. I’ve checked with the restaurant and they think they can fit us in in ten minutes.’
‘Brilliant. Time for a Bloody Mary, I think.’
‘Another Ambrosia for you, Goddess?’ said the cheeky barman.
‘I think goddesses should stick to just one at lunchtime, don’t you?’
‘You’re the boss.’
‘Actually, make mine a virgin Bloody Mary, will, you? I don’t want to push my luck,’ said Penny.
No sooner were their drinks served than a waiter from the restaurant came to tell them their table was ready.
Helen was just stooping to collect her bag and coat from her feet when Penny grabbed her arm and hissed urgently, ‘Don’t move! He might not see us.’
Immediately Helen looked up, her eyes scanning the room. It didn’t take her long to understand why Penny was keen not to be seen. But it was too late – they’d been spotted.
Coming towards them, wearing an impeccably tailored Savile Row suit and sporting an expensive hair-weave and a smarmy smile, was Quentin Clarkson. Not only was he the Chairman of TV7 – which meant he held the future of Mr Tibbs in his sweaty palms – but he was also Penny’s ex and a grade-A slimeball.
‘Penny, my dear!’ he gushed, oozing insincere charm.
‘Quentin, how super!’ While Penny’s rictus grin did a good impression of politeness as they air-kissed, her eyes as they met Helen’s told an entirely different story.
‘How perfectly marvellous to run into you! I was only saying to Miriam the other day that we really don’t see enough of you.’
‘Well, Quentin, I’m permanently based in Cornwall now, so I don’t get up to town much.’
‘Ah yes, I heard that you’ve buried yourself in some godforsaken backwater.’
‘Hardly – it’s Pendruggan, Quentin.’
His face was momentarily blank.
‘The village where we film the series? Mr Tibbs?’
The penny dropped and Quentin gave her an unpleasant smile. ‘Oh yes, that’s right. It’s all coming back to me now. Didn’t I hear that you’d gone and married a vicar? Can’t be true? Penny Leighton, the ultimate good-time girl? Oh, it’s too priceless!’
Penny replied through gritted teeth: ‘It suits me down to the ground. I love being among people who are so sincere. Maybe you should try it sometime?’
‘Eh?’ Quentin was silenced for a nanosecond before he recovered and turned his attention to Helen. ‘Well, now, who’s this?’
He took her hand, unbidden, and proceeded to plant a slimy kiss on it.
‘Helen Merrifield. We’ve met before. Years ago …’ She wanted to add, ‘when you had real hair’, but resisted the temptation.
