but once that had subsided, she had to admit it gave her a bit of a thrill. ‘It’s a bit strange, but at the same time quite nice.’
She heard him stifle a laugh. ‘Got an agent?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Get Bob to bring you over to the office later. Ciao.’
*
Milo had promised to raise her profile and make her a star. And that’s what he had done. She and Bob had become celebrity darlings. She had a beauty column in a glossy magazine – ghost-written for her, of course. A cosmetics company were launching a line of make-up in her name. She even had a handbag named after her. The Café Au Lait deal was huge, both in terms of her bank balance and the publicity it generated, and yet …
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful after all Milo’s hard work in getting her these deals, but sometimes it was as if he’d forgotten she was an actress. She’d come to his office today determined to remind him of that.
‘Milo—’ she started the moment he finished his call, but he cut across her.
‘Brooke, I’m sorry, something’s come up. Are there things you want to discuss?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, how about we talk on the way down to Cornwall tomorrow morning? We’ll be uninterrupted in the car. Four hours to ourselves. Can it wait till then?’
‘Yeah, I suppose it can.’
‘Good girl.’ He stood and ushered her towards the door. ‘Bye, babe.’
Before she knew it, he’d gone back into his office and she was standing on the smooth marble of the reception area, wondering how he always managed to head her off before she had a chance to say what was on her mind.
Penny and Helen were on fire. Penny’s address book had names not just dropping out of it, but bouncing round the floor laughing at them.
‘Oh my God, Pen. Samantha Bond, Pierce Brosnan, Judi Dench, David Cunningham, Dahlia Dahling, Ryan Gosling – Ryan Gosling? Are you kidding me?’
Penny laughed and shook her head. Helen high-fived her friend and continued, ‘Philip Glenister, Miranda Hart, John Simm, Maggie Smith, Quentin Tarantino – Tarantino! I’m almost impressed … David Tennant. Stop! You’ve got Dr Who? Now I am impressed.’
‘I’m a very important person, you know.’ Penny held her hands up in front of her. ‘Guilty as charged. What can I do?’
‘You can get on the flipping phone and start ringing these buggers up!’ cried Helen.
*
Simon called the meeting to order. He had chosen the church hall in Trevay because it was bigger than anything in his own parish and because he wanted to get as many people behind the campaign as possible. For the umpteenth time, he checked his watch. Two minutes to eleven. He’d wait those couple of minutes in case anyone was having trouble parking. Another quick head count. Fifteen. He offered up a silent prayer. As if on cue, the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open and in came the local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and coastal paths, forever poking his walking stick into interesting piles of rubbish or using it to test the depth of puddles, he was affectionately known as Colonel Stick. The spritely octogenarian was wearing his usual shabby tweed trousers, highly polished but down-at-heel brogues, frayed shirt, MCC tie, shiny navy-blue blazer and his ever-present gnarled stick was clutched in his equally gnarled right hand.
‘Welcome, Colonel,’ called Simon as the old boy came forward to shake his hand. ‘Glad you could come.’
The Colonel stood up as straight as he was able and saluted. ‘I’ve never missed a show in my life and I’m not about to start now.’ His voice was plummy and surprisingly strong. Simon supposed it must be the result of many years barking orders on the parade ground.
‘Come and sit next to me, Colonel.’ Queenie patted the chair next to her. ‘I’ve got some aniseed twists to keep us going.’
‘Thank you, madam. How very generous,’ beamed the Colonel.
Simon returned to the front of the hall and started proceedings: ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for sparing the time to come and help with this most important and urgent issue. I am grateful to Audrey Tipton for agreeing to take the minutes, and—’
Audrey stood up and immediately took charge. ‘I need a roll call of all attendees. Please state your name and occupation when I point at you.’
Simon sighed and sat down. He was the first to be pointed at. Wearily he said, ‘Simon Canter. Vicar of Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Queenie Quintrel. Postmistress, Pendruggan.’
Scribble, point.
‘Colonel Irvine. British Army. Trevay.’
Scribble, point.
The scout master and his wife, the leader of the amateur dramatics society, four members of the chamber of commerce and three local residents.
When the scribbling and pointing was finally done, Simon once again got to his feet and stated the case for action.
By the end of the sixty-minute meeting they had all agreed to post fliers in every window and write letters to the council and their local MP. Mrs Audrey Tipton volunteered to draft those letters, assuming, possibly rightly, that she and Geoffrey knew better than anyone how to compose an important epistle. They would certainly be awkward customers for the council to deal with. Never in her life had Audrey been content to take ‘no’ for an answer, and her husband could vouch for that – out of her hearing, obviously.
*
Piran was hunched over his laptop at Helen’s kitchen table, an enormous pile of ancient copies of the Trevay Times stacked at his elbow.
He’d been sitting like this, growling and grumbling, for a couple of hours. ‘Bloody wild-goose chase. The Pavilions ain’t old enough to have any history.’
Having left Penny to make her entreaties to her famous friends, Helen had come home and made a coffee for Piran before abandoning him to his growling and whingeing. She was now ensconced in her cosy sitting room with Jack, Piran’s devoted Jack Russell. The pair of them were snuggled on the sofa, absorbed in an old black-and-white film on the television. It was just getting to the bit where Bette Davis’s character would utter the famous line ‘fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night’ when there came a shout from the kitchen:
‘Helen – come ’ere.’
‘Just a minute.’
‘Come ’ere now!’
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ His chair scraped on the floor and he marched
