‘That’s your new name.’
‘Brooklyn Bridge?’
Laverne laughed her deep and wonderful laugh. ‘That’d get you some attention, but not in a good way. No. Play a little. Brooke Bridge? Brooke Lynne? Oh, hey, that’s kinda Beckham ain’t it? Brooke Lynne. I like it.’
So Brenda Foster was put away and Brooke Lynne was born.
Not satisfied with restyling the name, Laverne had gone to work on the look too. The mouse-brown hair was cut short, highlighted and curled. Her eyebrows were marshalled into two bold works of art. Her make-up became ethereal with smoky eyes and coral lips. Her wardrobe went from jeans and T-shirts to bodycon dresses and towering heels.
It seemed to work. Her tutors started to take notice and in the end-of-term play she was given the role of Hedda Gabler. She earned herself two or three good reviews in the smaller artsy publications, including one that described her performance as fluid and believable. Another chip off the old English acting block. Classy. Remember the name.
The day after graduation, Brooke had to return home. There had been tearful goodbyes at JFK airport, with Laverne hugging her one last time and telling her, ‘Now, girl, you go get the world, OK?’
‘OK. You’ll come and see me soon, won’t you?’
‘Sure. Now go.’
They’d hugged again. Brooke turned for one last wave as she went through security, but Laverne had already gone. Brooke had little family. She’d never known her dad and her mum had ended up with a man who’d have preferred it if little Brenda Foster didn’t exist. Her mum had sent her to live with her Aunt Sheila, who was practical, loving and instilled in Brenda an appreciation for hard work.
‘No point dwelling on what might have been,’ she’d say. ‘Best to go out and make your own luck in this life, my girl.’ This advice had stood Brooke in good stead.
Her mother had died when Brooke was in her teens and she had found it hard to grieve for a mother who had shown her so little love. Instead, she locked her feelings of insecurity and abandonment away for another day and focused on being a success. Her aunt had left her a small legacy when she too died a few years later and Brooke spent it on her airfare to the States, knowing it was what her aunt would have wished for her.
Back in London she’d found a room to rent in a smart flat in Barons Court and a job as a waitress in Covent Garden.
In her spare time she went to as many acting/dancing/fitness classes as she could afford and scoured The Stage for open auditions. One of the restaurant regulars was a photographer who got chatting and offered to take some head shots of her to send to agents, etc.
As she walked to the address he’d given her, she planned what she would say and how she would escape if he even suggested that she take her top off. The building, when she got to it, looked bona fide. A renovated warehouse in the West End with a batch of bells and names beside them. She rang his bell. His assistant, a friendly skinny blonde, opened the door and introduced herself as his wife. Brooke relaxed.
After three hours of fun and some fabulous photos, she went back into the tiny changing room to collect her make-up bag and pack her case of clothes. She heard the door bell ring and a few moments later a man’s voice. When she came out from behind the curtain, she was confronted by a tall, muscled, bronzed Adonis. She stopped in her tracks.
‘Ah, Brooke – this is Bob. Bob Wetherby. Bob, Brooke Lynne.’
She shook the huge calloused hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing his beguiling smile and the little scars above his right eye and his … cauliflower ears?
‘Hi,’ he said, gaping at her as if in awe.
It turned out he was the Bob Wetherby. Captain of the England rugby team, current holders of the Rugby World Cup. A genuine sporting legend.
That afternoon he insisted on driving her to work in Covent Garden and sat all night waiting for her to finish. He drove her home. Kissed her on the doorstep and phoned her in the morning. ‘Hi. It’s me, Bob. Bob Wetherby?’
‘I guessed.’ She smiled down the phone.
‘Want some breakfast?’
‘Sure. What time? Only, I’m still in bed.’
‘I’m right outside, so open up and I’ll cook while you shower.’
How was a woman supposed to resist that kind of attention and thoughtfulness from a living god who also happened to be world famous? Brooke couldn’t. She fell head over heels in love.
Bob couldn’t go anywhere without a pack of paparazzi following him and she was really impressed when the Beckhams texted to warn him that there was a group of them hanging about outside Scott’s restaurant in Mayfair.
‘How do Victoria and David know where we’re having supper?’ she asked.
‘Because I told them.’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t I mention – we’re having dinner with them and my agent Milo?’
Assuming he was winding her up, Brooke laughed. ‘Ha! Good one, Bobby. I’d die if I met them.’
‘No, seriously, we’re all having supper together. It might be a bit boring because Dave and I will probably talk sport, so he said he’d bring Victoria along so that you and she could talk girl stuff.’
For a moment Brooke sat with her jaw hanging, then she said urgently, ‘Turn round. I need to go home and change.’
‘No time. Here we are.’
Even though Bob had parked his Range Rover in a side street and they went through a rear entrance, a lone photographer managed to get a shot of them. Next morning it was headline news:
SHE LOOKS SCRUM-MY, BOB!
It had actually been a wonderful supper. David, utterly gorgeous, was polite and interesting. Victoria was funny and kind. She had loved Brooke’s Topshop dress and had laughed when Brooke told the story of the origin of her name. The only one she’d hadn’t been entirely comfortable with was Milo James. Although he’d joined in the conversation, she sensed he was constantly scrutinising her and evaluating how well she coped in this rarefied company. It unnerved her. She felt as if he was trying to decide whether she was good enough for Bob, whether she’d tarnish his image.
Apparently she passed the test. At the end of the evening Milo had handed her his card saying, ‘Call me in the morning.’
His secretary put her straight through, as if she was expecting the call.
‘Hi, Brooke. So, how did you enjoy last night?’ said Milo’s oily voice.
‘I enjoyed it very much.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
She looked at the handful of tabloids spread over the duvet. ‘Erm, yeah. Bob picked them up this morning.’
‘Do
