Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  ‘Oh my God you stink,’ she states without preamble.

  ‘Not me,’ I say for what seems like the hundredth time, and point down to my errant pooch, who is now trying to rub what remains of the fox poo on my trousers.

  ‘What on earth’s going on Kitty Kat – do you know?’

  Kit has been my best friend since primary school. She is the ying to my yang, blond to my dark, tall and willowy to my, er, “womanly” curves, drop dead gorgeous to my “homeliness” – and above all, oozing confidence to my less than sparkling personality…

  She's responsible for every scrape I’ve ever gotten into throughout my whole life, and I love her dearly. At the moment Kit is peering at me in slight disbelief. Then, shaking her head in resignation, ‘Why am I surprised you don’t know?’

  I simply stare at her impatiently, knowing her flair for the dramatic. She didn’t disappoint. ‘You, my introverted, sensible, occasionally boring, never melodramatic, BFF, are about to have your humdrum, orderly existence turned completely upside down – at least for the next few weeks anyway…’

  I frown and attempt to interrupt, but she forestalls me by holding up her hand, and for the first time I can see her pent up excitement, and feel an answering tug in the pit of my stomach. I can tell she’s about to deliver the punch line, and is loving every minute.

  ‘Only the most famous, gorgeous, sexiest, richest actor on the entire planet is going to be filming in Dartmouth and... most probably in your house.’

  I frown, and look around at the crowd still hovering across the road. ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’

  Grasping my arms tightly, Kit stares intently into my face. ‘Noah Westbrook. THE Noah Westbrook. Is. Coming. To. Film. In. Your. House.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would Noah Westbrook want to film our house?’

  Kit sighs again, this time in frustration. ‘He’s not filming your house. He’s filming IN your house.’

  I open my mouth with the intention of scoffing again. Then I pause, looking at my finally silent friend. Surely Dad would have told me. He couldn’t possibly have kept something as monumental as this a secret – could he? ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Bumped into the barmaid from the Ship in Kingswear. Apparently your father let it slip to the whole pub.’

  I think back to the last few weeks. The furtive telephone calls, the long periods closeted in his study – all of which I’d put down to his clandestine affair with the merry widow. My heart starts to beat faster, and Kit can see the acceptance in my face.

  ‘Oh shit, Kit. This time he’s gone too far. I really will kill him. When are they coming – do you know?’ Before she can answer, the crowd begin to surge forward again, and I turn round in time to see the object of my murderous fantasies walking towards the house with Pickles at his heels. I think he was trying to sneak in with no-one noticing. One look at my face however tells him there’s no chance of that.

  Dotty, completely oblivious to the undercurrents, gives a joyful bark, and bounds up to Pickles who appears to love the scent of Eau de Fox Poo, and sniffs around her appreciatively, wagging his tail. Dotty simply wags her own tail back, and holds still to give him maximum access…

  The crowd jostle to get as close to the Admiral as possible, all the while firing questions at him about the most exciting celebrity news to hit Dartmouth since the Pilgrim Fathers sailed off to found America nearly four hundred years ago…

  Glancing towards me, the traitorous, lying toad coughs and waves his hand before shouting over the din. ‘Bloody hell, give a fellow a chance to breathe. Noah Westbrook is NOT coming here. No idea where he’s going. They’re just filming the bit parts in the Admiralty gardens, that’s all, and it’s only for a couple of weeks.’

  With that, and an additional – admittedly apprehensive – glance my way, he pushes open the gate and disappears, Pickles and Dotty at his heels, before the crowd can question him further.

  I glance over at Kit, who is looking pretty disappointed, and I can understand why. Her visions of being whisked off her feet by the world’s most popular actor have been trampled into the dust. To be fair, if I’m being honest, I’m feeling a slight pang of regret at my father’s words, (which just goes to show that I’m not always sensible, and maybe even enjoy the occasional melodrama – there’s hope for me yet…) I simply give her a quick hug, and promise to keep her posted, before hurrying after my father. As I shut the gate, the thwarted crowd begins to dissipate behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  ~*~

  ‘I’ve told you a dozen times - I was supposed to keep shtum about it Victory. Don’t you think I’d have told you if I could have?’ I glare sceptically at my father’s innocent face. His tone has turned suspiciously wheedling – always a sign that he’s lying through his teeth. Realising that I have absolutely no chance of getting to the complete truth of the matter, I reluctantly hand in the towel. Besides, the extra money from the film crew will enable us to do some of the much needed repairs to the mausoleum we live in.

  ‘Well at least we haven’t got to worry about the paparazzi hiding in the bushes trying to get a shot of the world’s most famous actor having a cup of tea in our kitchen,’ I mutter as Dottie’s barking reaches a crescendo outside – she’s been left literally in the dog house to contemplate the error of her ways, before being subject to the dreaded bath.

  However, before I get out of the room, my father’s words stop me in my tracks. ‘Ah well, might have been slightly off the mark there…’ I feel a dull thud in my chest, and my heart begins to beat rapidly. I turn round, and wait for my father to drop the bombshell I know is coming…

  I notice for the first time that he’s holding a piece of paper in his hand, which he waves towards me as he hurriedly continues, ‘Had another look at the letter, and it does happen to mention Noah what's-his-face will be part of the crew filming here. In fact it actually says he’s already in Dartmouth…. Incognito, so to speak.’

  I turn round slowly to look at my father, who is now grinning in triumph like some demented Cheshire cat, and resist the urge to throttle him with my bare hands. ‘What do you mean, he’s already in Dartmouth? Where is he staying?’ I’m amazed at how calm my voice sounds.

  Dad must have sensed something in my voice, because his smile falters a bit as he continues, ‘Well, not in Dartmouth exactly. He’s on this side of the river, in Kingswear. Think he’s renting a house up on the cliffs. They’ve even given me his temporary mobile phone number. Thought we might invite him for dinner tomorrow night if he’s free – let him get the feel of the place, soak in the atmosphere… You know what these actor types are like; bit of a thespian thing.

  ‘What do you think…?’

  Friday 2nd May

  To: [email protected]

  Hey sis how’s things in sunny California? Ben and the kids ok?

  Weather in England not living up to its rep - since I’ve been here we’ve had sun every day. Kinda nice actually – not as hot as home but love the light, especially first thing in the morning when the mist sits just on top of the River Dart waiting for the sun to burn through it – would you believe I’m getting the urge to paint – where the hell did that come from? I’ve settled in to my rental. You’d love it, great house with fantastic views over the river and out to sea. It’s in a little place called Kingswear on the other side of the River, facing Dartmouth – which by the way is a great town – really quaint and you know, British. I’ve had a few days to explore under cover without looking a complete goof wearing sun glasses in the pouring rain.

  I’ve not seen the house we’re filming in yet, but actually been asked round for dinner by the owner, a guy by the name of Charles Shackleford. Seems he’s a retired Admiral. Lives with his daughter, who he spent the whole time assuring me ‘scrubs up well’, and is more than capable of putting together a nice bit of ‘scran’, whatever the hell that means. He sounds a bit of a kook, and she probably looks like Nanny McFee
(hopefully without the warts…)

  Anyway, couldn’t come up with a good excuse, and it was obvious the old guy wasn’t gonna take no for an answer, so would you believe I’m walking over tomorrow evening for supper – least I’m hoping that’s what ‘scran’ means :-)

  Long time since I’ve been anywhere without a posse. Guess I really needed the space. Might even be fun. Will keep you posted.

  Anyway Kimmy, I’m zonked – can’t remember the last time I had so much fresh air. It’ll be the death of me.

  Give the girls a kiss from me

  Noah xxx

  Chapter Three

  As the Friday evening weather continued with its unseasonable warmth, Admiral Shackleford decided to take his first pint out on to the terrace. Jimmy, who of course had no say in the matter, loyally followed him out into the sunshine. They sat side by side in companionable silence for a few minutes, while Pickles busied himself trying to catch flies.

  After about fifteen minutes, Jimmy could contain himself no longer, and brought up their lunchtime conversation. ‘So, how’s the plan going Sir?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Have you spoken to Tory yet? Does she know about Noah Westbrook? How are you going to get them together?’ As the barrage of questions came to an end, the Admiral glanced down at his friend in annoyance before saying, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you Jimmy, you had a brain fart? Someone might be ear wigging. Better check the perimeter before we get down to business.’ Jimmy glanced around apologetically, fully expecting to see the half a dozen regulars with their ears plastered to the door. Fortunately, the coast appeared to be clear, and Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief, and gave the Admiral the thumbs up sign.

  The Admiral cleared his throat, looked once behind him, and turned to face his friend before whispering triumphantly, ‘I have been in contact with the package. Turns out he’s already in Kingswear, and has agreed to come round for dinner. Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Blimey Sir, that was quick work. Very impressive Sir, very impressive indeed.’ The Admiral waved away his friend’s admiration and leaned back in his chair, a picture of total self satisfaction at a mission going according to plan.

  ‘Does Tory know?’ The self satisfied smirk slipped a notch at Jimmy’s continued probing. ‘Of course she knows,’ he answered irritably, ‘told her this afternoon. She knows the package has already been delivered to the area, as it were.’ The Admiral paused before continuing, ‘She thought it was a top notch idea to invite the package to dinner.’

  Jimmy nodded his head in admiring agreement as he pondered the Admiral’s bold and cunning plan. That was Admiral Shackleford. Always lived life on the edge, never afraid to make tough decisions and take chances. What a man. Jimmy took a long draft of his pint…

  ‘Thought I’d ask Mabel Pomfrey to make up a foursome.’

  …And promptly spat it out all over Pickles head.

  Chapter Four

  ‘So, is he coming…?’ Kit’s near shout stops me in mid “woe is me” and causes Dotty to take up the mantle in furious excited barking.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I answer irritably, grabbing the little dog before she decides to launch herself off Kit’s balcony window.

  We’re sitting in her tiny but cosy flat in the centre of Dartmouth where I’ve been doing my best to work through a bottle of wine since arriving an hour ago. ‘I’ve no idea, I walked out of the house before I ended up committing patricide.’

  My best friend sags back into her chair with a disappointed thump and I bury my face in my now sweet smelling little mutt who begins licking my nose enthusiastically.

  ‘I just can’t understand you Tory. You must be absolutely the only woman in the whole world who is not moved to squealing delirium at the thought of spending an evening with the biggest heartthrob on the planet. What the hell’s wrong with you? How many women do you think would literally commit murder to be in your shoes right now?’

  ‘Yeah well, they haven’t got a father like mine,’ I respond sourly, plonking Dotty back down in my lap, ‘and three’s definitely a crowd, especially when the third one is just as likely to stand on the piano and give a rousing rendition of “What Shall We Do With The Drunken Sailor” after he’s had a couple of glasses of port.

  ‘He’s going to think we’re absolutely barking Kit, I know he is. And I haven’t got the looks or the wit to offset any negative first impressions.’ Unexpectedly I feel tears gathering in the corner of my eyes and I swallow convulsively and bury my head in Dotty’s warm little body again in an effort to stem a possible flood.

  Kit stays tactfully silent, concern evident in her eyes and waits for me to regain my composure. She knows me all too well and recognizes that this behaviour just isn’t me. I’m the practical one who has an answer or a solution to everything. I never fall apart…

  After a couple of minutes I look up and give her a watery smile. ‘I’m sure he won’t come anyway. Like you said, he’s a big name actor with legions of adoring fans. Why on earth would he want to spend a Saturday evening with an eccentric sailor and a dried up old spinster?’

  ‘Is that it? Have you finished the pity party now?’ Kit’s words and tone are not quite as soothingly sympathetic as I think the situation warrants, but before I get the chance to open my mouth with a suitably indignant retort, she holds up her hand and continues, ‘I’ll grant you that the Admiral is more often than not a sandwich short of a picnic, but you have to admit he’s never boring, especially at a dinner party.

  ‘And you, a dried up old spinster? I don’t think so. It wasn’t a dried up old spinster who organized a flash mob involving half of Dartmouth for Freddy’s thirtieth birthday two years ago, or climbed the rigging for a bet on Ben Sheppard’s yacht last summer or took part in the Boxing Day Swimathon in Torquay last Christmas dressed as a donkey… Sensible you may be – when you have to, but dried up, most definitely not. And you’re only in your thirties for God’s sake. I’m sure you’re not allowed to be a dried up anything until you’re at least sixty.’

  Against my will I feel myself blushing and laugh ruefully. Leaning forward, I raise my glass to her in defeat. ‘Okay smart arse, so, if you’ve got all the answers, what shall I wear to this sparkling dinner party that states witty, intelligent, attractive, fascinating, alluring, charming, charismatic woman of the world in her prime?

  ‘And not only that, what the hell am I going to cook…?’ It’s not often I see Kit lost for words.

  An hour later I’m wobbling down Fore Street towards the higher ferry with Dotty at my heels. Since my dearest friend is approximately three sizes smaller than my generous curves (her words - if I remember right, I used the word buxom, probably as a result of reading too many bodice rippers), it was out of the question that I borrow a knock ‘em dead outfit from her wardrobe. Which meant of course we had to crack open another bottle of wine while dissecting my admittedly meagre and eclectic (my words – if I remember right, she favoured measly, paltry, inadequate and frumpy) mix of clothes. The general consensus was that I need a new dress...

  I really don’t know why we’re going to all this trouble, it’s not like he’s going to fall in love with me for God’s sake!

  Anyway, I’m not too inebriated to know that clothes shopping while feeling slightly worse for wear is not a good idea for two reasons: Firstly, I can’t see the mirror properly and secondly, what I do see will unfortunately be way better than reality (or when I’m sober).

  So, after much hugging, kissing and protestations of undying friendship and love, Kit and I decide to reconvene tomorrow first thing when we will begin the daunting task of creating a whole new sexy me...

  And the food? Of course that will necessitate a visit to Marks and Spencer’s Gastropub selection. All this and I don’t even know if he’s actually coming yet.

  I decide to walk along the promenade towards the higher car ferry which will get me home the quickest. (The Admiralty gardens meander down to the water’s edge, right next to the ferry slip on the other side
of the river where there is a very useful gate to the road.) I still have enough sense to know that the most direct route will probably the wisest at this moment in time given that I definitely need a lie down.

  There are actually two car ferries going to and fro across the river Dart – the Higher and Lower. The advantage of the Higher one, (obviously depending on where you want to go), is that it puts passengers off higher up the River. It’s much larger than the lower one and passes for what could be described in the west country as “high powered” (actually taking thirty two cars at a time...) The Lower Ferry takes passengers directly over to the small village of Kingswear which faces Dartmouth across the river. It only takes about eight cars at a time and is about as far from high powered as you can get without actually rowing. The blurb describes it as “historical”. I think archaic might be a better word. Not so long ago, it broke from its mooring and only the quick thinking ferrymen prevented the passengers potentially disembarking in France.

  There’s also a passenger ferry and we Dartmothians residing on the dark side (as we call the other side of the river) tend to juggle between the 3 modes of transport depending on the time of day, the weather and level of inebriation. Rowing yourself across is also an option but usually only done in times of dire emergency and no ferries – for example, three am in the morning.

  As it’s still only early evening, no such drastic measures are necessary; for which I’m sure Dotty at least is profoundly grateful.