Claiming Victory: A Romantic Comedy Page 7

  There was a pause as both men went back to their pints.

  ‘And we’ve got this bash tomorrow. That’s it…’ The Admiral banged his now empty pint decisively on the table causing Pickles to wake up with a start. Turning to Jimmy, he pointed his finger at the smaller man in excitement. Gone was the petulant voice to be replaced by a passionate zeal.

  ‘What bash?’ interjected Jimmy bewildered, only to be ignored as the Admiral went into overdrive.

  ‘I think it’s time subtlety went out the window Jimmy. It’s time to bring out the big guns. I’m going to turn on the old charm.’ He ignored Jimmy’s look of horror and stood up. ‘Got to go Jimmy my man. Pick us up at 7.’ And with that he strode out, a man with renewed purpose.

  Jimmy looked down at Pickles still sitting on the floor at his feet. ‘What bash?’ He asked the dog weakly, ‘And what am I going to tell Emily? I’m supposed to be taking her to bingo.’

  Chapter Ten

  Since my heady brush with Hollywood I’ve spent most of every day holed up in Kit’s back office feverishly bringing my ideas for Noah Westbrook’s house to life. I’ve hardly been home except to eat and sleep, especially since the house is now filled with techies getting ready to begin filming next week, not to mention the posse of fans that now seem to be permanently camped outside our garden gate.

  However, truth is the main reason I’ve been staying away is to avoid my idiot father who I am delighted to say I haven’t seen since our conversation on my return from Noah’s on Tuesday. Unfortunately not seeing him has not stopped me from thinking about him, or rather fretting about what he’s up to. Burying myself in my work has helped, but ever since our little “chat”, my delight at being invited to Noah’s cocktail party has been tempered by a deep foreboding that is getting worse by the day. And now it’s Friday; the party is tomorrow and the foreboding has turned to downright dread. I’m even considering slipping a couple of sleeping pills into my father’s pre-party drink. Or I could lock him in the cellar. That’s how desperate I am.

  Despite Kit’s frantic pleas, I have thus far resisted her efforts to get me another new outfit. She doesn’t know about the chat and I can’t bring myself to tell her. I think maybe it has to do with the secret fantasies I couldn’t help harbouring the last time I saw Noah. Admitting them would make me as ridiculous as my father and buying something new would signify hope. The dress I bought for the dinner will do fine.

  Against my will, I find myself going over the conversation with dad for the hundredth time, which of course only adds to my apprehension. Luckily, before I become too depressed, my reverie is interrupted by Kit who’s been tied up in the gallery all day. She looks tired. ‘Phew, I’m totally wiped,’ she groans, confirming my prognosis as she flops down in to the other chair. ‘Thank God the day’s nearly over. I could murder a drink.’

  I glance at my watch, surprised to notice that it’s five pm already. ‘Have you closed up yet?’ I ask, gathering my notes together.

  ‘Yep, all done and dusted. You fancy a quick one in the Cherub?’ As I hesitate, glancing back down at my work, she goes on to say in a more wheedling tone ‘Think Freddy is going to be there…’

  Freddy is the other third of our triangle and I’ve known him for as long as Kit. His real name is actually Gerald – but, as he so succinctly put it – who ever heard of a gay Gerald? He took his idol’s name when he came out at sixteen and both Kit and I were there to shield him from the worst of the taunts. He now works “in theatre darling”. Unfortunately, the theatre is the local Arts Centre in Dartmouth. He’s ever hopeful that he’ll be whisked away to the bright lights of London - although when we ask him why he doesn’t just up sticks and go, he responds with, ‘What will you do without me sweetie?’

  I think the reality is he’s more than happy to be a big fish in a very small pond. He’s been away in Spain for the last three weeks ostensibly interviewing a Spanish Ballet troupe for a possible interpretation of Carmen in the autumn.

  ‘When did he get back from Seville?’ I ask, torn between wanting to see Freddy and holing up in a dark corner somewhere

  ‘About 30 minutes ago. I had a text.’ She opens her phone to read me Freddy’s message.

  ‘Spent debauched week with hot Spaniard. Think I’m in love. Meet me in Cherub at six. P.S. Tell Tory. Kiss, kiss, kiss.’ Obviously he didn’t just assess the dancing… Still, her impression of Freddy’s nasally tones has me smiling for the first time today.

  I glance down at Dotty who has been so good all day, still lying quietly in her basket even though her legs must now be in plaits. I know I’ve neglected her over the last few days, and she absolutely adores Freddy.

  ‘Okay, you’re on.’ I grin finally, giving in. ‘I’ll just give Dotty some dinner and pop to the bathroom to freshen up.’

  Ten minutes later we’re out of the door and on our way to the oldest pub in Dartmouth. Unfortunately it actually takes us twenty minutes to do what is usually a five minute walk at the most – and that’s despite talking a short cut past the church and The Seven Stars pub. Everyone in Dartmouth is consumed by the prospect of a big Hollywood blockbuster being filmed in the town (although “town” is stretching it a bit given that our house is actually over the other side of the river). I think every Dartmothian and his dog fancies himself as a budding thespian and by the time we reach the Cherub, I have been handed fifteen telephone numbers ‘just in case they need any extras.’ I actually think Freddy could make some money as an agent…

  The final straw comes just before we reach our destination. Kit is just about to push open the door when old Mr Higgins decides to favour us with his own unique interpretation of Hamlet. Luckily I manage to restrain Kit from lamping an old age pensioner and he gets as far as ‘Alas poor Yor!’ before I shut the door in his face.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I pick Dotty up as Kit and I wait for our eyes to adjust to the welcoming dimness of the pub’s interior.

  ‘Once more unto the breach, dear frien…Ow.’ Kit throws her handbag at Freddy who is sitting grinning in the corner. Recognizing his voice, Dotty instantly begins barking excitedly and struggles to get out of my arms. Laughing, I let her go and she dashes over to Freddy in a whirlwind of wagging tail and ecstatic little yaps.

  ‘Hello pooch,’ says Freddie, equally delighted to see Dotty and, holding the wriggling dog up in front of him, he allows her to lick his nose.

  As Kit and I follow her to the table, I notice there’s already an open bottle of Champagne with three empty glasses. ‘What’s the occasion?’ Kit asks, plonking herself on a stool, thus subtly leaving the chair for my more ample bottom…

  Freddy carefully tucks Dotty in next to him before he turns his attention back to us. ‘Well, given that our dear Tory is now hobnobbing with the rich and famous over at the Admiralty, I thought I’d help her get used to their tipple of choice.’

  ‘You know naaathing,’ retorts Kit in her best Manuel from Fawlty Towers impression, while wasting no time pouring the bubbly into our glasses.

  ‘Mmm, intriguing,’ murmurs Freddie leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘Do tell…’

  ‘Well, where do I start?’ Kit wiggles her eyebrows and holds up her glass. ‘To our darling Victory who is well overdue for a fairytale…’

  ‘Oh my God, you’ve shagged someone. Finally.’ Freddie turns to me elatedly. ‘I want to hear everything, spare no gory detail…’

  ‘I haven’t shagged anybody,’ I snap, glaring at Kit who simply raises her eyebrows again and continues to drink her Champagne. Sighing, I take a sip of my drink. This is likely to take a while.

  By the time I finish, Freddie is sitting enthralled with his chin balanced on his hands. ‘It is a fairytale,’ he breathes, clapping his hands together. ‘I love it. The sexiest man in the whole world is going to sweep in and claim our Victory. I can feel it, deep down in my jingly bits.’ I open my mouth to interrupt but he forestalls me by raising his glass again. ‘Dear, dear girl, if it can’t be me jumping
Noah Westbrook’s bones, then there’s no one else who deserves it more…’ Kit holds up her glass in agreement and I finally crack.

  ‘You’re both acting like complete morons.’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘You’re as bad as my father.’ Then I grab the Champagne bottle, slosh its contents into my glass and knock it back in one before putting my head despairingly into my hands.

  I can sense Kit frowning. ‘What’s wrong Tory? You’ve not been yourself all week. You know we’re only teasing – we’re both dead jealous really.’ I look back up as she puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘There is something wrong Victory Shackleford, I know you too well. Come on girl, spill the beans.’

  Freddy puts his hand on my other shoulder and even Dotty whines slightly. Looking round at them all, suddenly the funny side of the whole thing hits me. I feel like I’m in an episode of Eastenders. Any minute now the closing theme is going to start…

  I start to laugh and all three of them recoil slightly, a bit shocked at my sudden change of mood – I think they’re beginning to worry I might be slightly deranged. The thought just makes me laugh harder.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Kit finally asks in an offended tone. ‘We’re only trying to help.’

  ‘Oh my God, you’ve no idea,’ I gasp before launching into more hysterical laughter.

  ‘I think she’s having a seizure,’ Freddy mutters, eyeing me with concern. He comforts Dotty who is now shivering and staring at me anxiously. With a gargantuan effort, I reduce my guffaws to titters and wipe my now streaming eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whisper, ‘There’s something I haven’t told you. I just couldn’t bring myself to, but the thing is, I’m so scared he’s going to do something awful.’

  Half an hour later Freddy orders another bottle of Champagne. And chips.

  In the end it’s gone eight o’clock before Dotty and I are on the Higher Ferry. Cuddling the little dog to me I decide that it really is true that a problem shared is a problem halved. What the hell does it matter if my father makes a complete tit of himself? It’s only a bloody party for goodness sake. And anyway, the chances of someone like Noah Westbrook being interested in someone like me are absolutely zero. Even if he goes ahead and buys the house, odds are he’ll hardly ever live in it and when he does, I certainly won’t know about it. I am totally getting myself worked up for nothing. I’ve just got to get the next few weeks over with and then my life can go back to normal.

  As we arrive at the other side, I get the first surprise of the evening. Our tatty, sagging gate at the bottom of the garden has been replaced with a swanking six foot metal contraption that will no doubt keep out even the most determined paparazzi. I frown and give it a shake before noticing a small box to the left. An intercom, how exciting. Leaning forward, I press the button and after a few seconds, a male voice I don’t recognize asks me for my name. ‘Victory Britannia Shackleford,’ I answer, thinking I’d better take it all very seriously in case they decide to shoot me. There’s a short pause as I hear someone in the background muttering, ‘What kind of a fuck name is that?’ Closely followed by, ‘Shit, it’s the daughter.’

  I can only agree with both sentiments, and ten minutes later Dotty and I are doing our usual huffing and puffing routine up the garden path, (well I am anyway). However, as I get nearer to the house, I stop in astonishment and stare at the second surprise of the evening. Our slightly scruffy garden terrace and the grass around it have been transformed into a perfect example of exquisitely groomed nineteenth century splendour. It looks beautiful, exuding an almost otherworldly eeriness in the deepening twilight. It would be easy to believe we’ve actually stepped back in time.

  ‘Wow,’ I breathe down to Dotty who doesn’t appear to share my awe and is busy relieving herself over the expertly manicured flower bed. I drag her away, scanning the windows of the house to see if any of the film crew are still around.

  ‘You’ve got no class,’ I mutter to the little dog as we make our way around to the back door. Inside the house has not been changed quite as much but everything is now gleaming and the smell of polish and paint is so strong it makes me sneeze. ‘Someone’s had a busy day,’ I reflect as I make my way upstairs to my bedroom. Mind you I was expecting the hall to be littered with expensive camera equipment but either they’ve stored their equipment elsewhere in the house or they don’t trust us to look after it…

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I enter my bedroom. This room really is my sanctuary and I’ve made it quite clear (to everybody and his dog) that under no circumstances is it to be used during filming. Not that they would want to really. The slightly shabby interior has hardly changed since I was a girl and everywhere my mother’s touch is evident. When I’m in this room, I can almost believe she’s still here.

  ~*~

  It’s Saturday morning. I’ve had the first good night’s sleep since dad dropped his bombshell about The Bridegroom. I can hear muted noises from downstairs indicating that at least some of the crew are working over the weekend and glancing down at my watch I’m surprised to see it’s still only eight thirty.

  The sun is streaming in through the gap in the curtains and I’m tempted to jump out of bed and throw them wide. I really am a morning person. Dotty on the other hand most definitely is not, and usually has to be dragged out of bed. Right now she's still snoring loudly, dead to the world. Smiling, I put off letting the morning sunlight in and turn over to spoon with her little warm furry body. She sighs contentedly without opening her eyes and, as I kiss the top of her head, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get to do this with a body that’s only got hair on the interesting bits...

  By ten o’clock, even Dotty’s cast iron bladder is about to give up the ghost and after extracting herself from her warm cocoon, she is waiting by the door as I come out of the shower. Dressing quickly, I head downstairs to let her out the front door. Despite the noise I heard earlier, there's no one in the hall. I can hear Pickles barking from the depths of the study but I really am in no hurry to see my father despite my mini epiphany last night, so I decide instead to follow Dotty into the garden to have another look in full daylight (and to make sure Dotty doesn’t dig up the immaculate flower beds).

  As I wander around the terrace, I’m suddenly consumed with excitement at the thought of seeing our house on the silver screen. This is the first time I’ve looked at the whole thing as other than a major encumbrance (apart from the obvious – tea with a famous screen idol etc…) It really is actually quite thrilling and I determine there and then that I’m going to stop moaning and just relax and enjoy the whole experience.

  Calling Dotty, I walk round towards the back door into the kitchen humming to myself, and, pushing open the door, come face to face with Mabel entertaining two strange men in my kitchen. I stop so suddenly that Dotty bumps into my legs, then she skips around me and begins barking furiously at the visitors. I can hear Pickles’ answering barks accompanied by frenzied whining and scratching at the study door, which suddenly opens. Any minute now my father is going to come stomping in demanding what that bloody racket is. Oh joy, now we can have a proper party.

  My hard won serenity is disappearing faster than you can say Dalai Lama and, as my father throws open the kitchen door and strides in with Pickles hard at his heels, I’m right back to square one…

  ‘This is my daughter Victory,’ he booms to the two visitors.

  ‘Tory,’ I interject faintly, more out of habit than because anyone is listening.

  ‘I can see you’ve met Mabel.’ Unbelievably he smacks her ample bottom. ‘Have you put the kettle on my dove? Then, turning back to our guests, ‘Now don’t you mind our Victory’s miserable face. It’s perfectly normal for her to look like she’s been chewing on a wasp.’

  The two men are looking increasingly bewildered. Mabel is tittering and Dotty is now trying to hump Pickles’ leg in excitement. Situation normal really…

  Striding round the table, I decide to take charge. So I plaster a smile on my face (the wasp ji
be definitely stung a bit!) and hold out my hand towards the two men. ‘Tory Shackleford, so pleased to meet you.’ I’m now grinning broadly and, as one of the men shrinks back slightly, I realise I might be slightly overdoing it.

  Still, they both stand up and shake hands informing me their names are Jed and Arnold (Arnold?) Both are most definitely Brits and when I express surprise, they tell me it’s quite normal for more minor members of a film crew to be taken on where the shoot takes place. Breathing a sigh of relief that they’re only “minor”, I ask them what their jobs are while pouring water into the kettle. Unfortunately they go all techie on me and I have to admit to zoning out as I busy myself making tea. However I do manage to get they really are new to this crew and haven’t actually met any of the big guns yet – better and better…

  Relaxing slightly, I take the teapot and milk to the table along with some croissants and jam. ‘Can you grab some cups Mabel?’ I ask the older woman who unbelievably is still giggling like she’s on a first date. Giggling should definitely be banned after the age of twenty. I know my voice is a bit snarky and I also know that she won’t know where the cups are – I’ll show the geriatric father stealer whose kitchen this is…

  Unfortunately she appears to know exactly where the cups are kept, and the sugar. I frown slightly, unwilling to acknowledge that this whole affair may actually have been going on longer than I realized.

  ‘So,’ I say brightly, snatching the cups out of Mabel’s hands before going to fetch the plates and cutlery myself. I really don’t want to know what else she might be familiar with. ‘This is nice. Help yourself to breakfast gentlemen.’

  By the time the croissants are nearly finished, I know that Jed lives in London and Arnold in Manchester. They are both married. Arnold is on his third. Jed has a teenage boy and Arnold three girls (one for each marriage). And they’ve not yet met the director of The Bridegroom – someone called David Bollinger who I’m assured is very well known for his rom coms – or any of the cast due to be filming in Dartmouth.