The Stolen Weekend Read online

  ‘Where did he say the loos were?’ Helen peered uncertainly across the concourse, her hungover brain still confused by all of the activity.

  Penny was just about to say that she had spotted the sign for the Ladies when they were approached by a young man with a kindly face. He thrust something into Penny’s hand.

  ‘It’s not much, but it’ll cover the price of a cuppa.’ He patted her hand sympathetically before hurrying off down towards the sign for the London Underground.

  Penny looked at her palm and saw two shiny pound coins. They looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘You don’t think he thought we were …?’

  ‘Bag ladies!!’

  ‘Come on, let’s get dressed before we attract any more attention,’ Helen said, grabbing Penny’s arm and steering her towards the loos.

  Ignoring more curious stares, they washed and dressed hurriedly and were soon heading towards central London in a black cab.

  ‘Can we please pretend that incident never happened?’ said Penny, looking much more respectable in a smart red Burberry mac, though she hid her eyes behind a pair of Dior sunglasses.

  Helen feigned nonchalance. ‘Pretend what never happened?’

  They sped along the Marylebone Road. The route along the Westway was lined with new developments of luxury flats and offices.

  ‘London always seems to be one giant building site.’ observed Penny. ‘It’s forever changing.’

  ‘Unlike Pendruggan, which is always the same,’ replied Helen. ‘Queenie’s had the same display of faded postcards and out-of-date Cornish fudge in her window since the seventies.’

  Before long they were driving up Monmouth Street, where the cabbie dropped them outside their boutique hotel, The Hanborough.

  ‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Penny. ‘Civilisation.’

  The hotel was the epitome of luxurious London cool. The foyer was a white oasis of calm; low-slung chaises longues were dotted across the marbled Italianate floor and giant bowls of burnished bronze showcased opulent arrangements of orchids, hyacinths and lavender.

  After checking in, they made their way up to their rooms, which were next door to each other on the fifth floor. Agreeing to rendezvous at 1 p.m. for lunch, they went their separate ways.

  Helen dumped her bags on her king-size bed decked out in Egyptian cotton. Her room mirrored the rest of the hotel with its white walls, curtains, bedding and minimalist white furniture. She headed over to the window and took in the view of the vibrant London scene spread out before her. The morning rush had died down and on the street below she could see hip, young media types sauntering leisurely between their hip offices and equally hip coffee shops.

  She closed the curtains against the bright spring sunshine, kicked off her Kurt Geiger heels and flaked out on the bed.

  ‘God, I love this place!’ eulogised Penny when they met in the foyer at lunchtime.

  ‘Me too,’ said Helen, ‘Did you check out the Cowshed toiletries in the bathroom? The soap is to die for!’

  ‘I know, I’ve already made inroads into them. Sat in the roll-top bath for an hour with a scented candle. Heavenly.’

  ‘What now? I’m famished.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What I really fancy is an American Hot with extra mushrooms at Pizza Express.’ Helen’s mouth was watering at the thought of it. ‘Dean Street is only ten minutes’ walk. Let’s head over.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Penny, ‘sorry to disappoint, but I’ve arranged to meet Neil, the new director, at my club on Wardour Street.’

  Helen’s face fell. ‘Not work?’

  ‘Honestly, it’ll only be for half an hour. He’ll fill me in on what’s going on and then I won’t have to go to the studios.’

  Helen didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Look, I promise it won’t take long – and they do a mean cheese-and-jalapeno burger there. And an even meaner Bloody Mary.’

  Helen relented. ‘OK, but you’re paying, Penny Leighton Productions.’

  ‘It’ll be our pleasure.’

  They strolled leisurely through Seven Dials, stopping to window-shop in the many trendy clothes shops, and were soon on Shaftesbury Avenue heading towards Penny’s Club, The House, on Dean Street.

  Situated in an elegant Georgian townhouse, the discreet entranceway led to maze of private meeting rooms, bars, and a restaurant that played host to the great and good of London Medialand. Some of the country’s most famous actors, playwrights, directors and journalists were members – and membership was both exclusive and expensive.

  As they entered, Helen noticed that Stephen Fry was just leaving. The concierge, who recognised Penny, greeted her like an old friend and ushered them into the main bar area, which was a decked out in a cleverly realised shabby-chic style that had probably cost millions. Penny spotted Neil immediately; he was sitting on one of the antique Chesterfield sofas that were dotted around the room. The large informal space was peopled by a fairly equal mix of men and women, some in small groups, others on their own, working on their iPads or MacAirs. The room was dominated by a central bar which ran the whole length of it, and adjoining the bar area was a restaurant. Both restaurant and bar were full and buzzing during the busy lunch period.

  ‘Hi, Neil!’

  Neil, a handsome blond in his thirties, stood and gave Penny a big hug.

  ‘You remember Helen, my friend from Pendruggan?’

  ‘I 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.

  4

  ‘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.

  ‘Did we? I feel sure I’d remember someone as charming as you.’

  ‘Well, you’re pretty unforgettable yourself,’ said Helen, removing her hand; he’d already held on to it far longer than she was comfortable with.

  ‘So tell me,’ he turned his attention back to Penny, ‘what brings you back from the sticks?’

  ‘I’m only here for a couple of days.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Er …’ Penny hesitated. While she was perfectly entitled to a break and her company was independent, she knew that Quentin was likely to be aware of the filming schedule. He wasn’t her paymaster, but she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t putting her back into it.

  ‘Business. Making sure Mr Tibbs is better than ever for TV7.’

  ‘Well, that’s just perfect! Miriam and I are throwing a drinks party tonight – you simply have to come.’

  ‘Well, I, er … not sure …’ Penny caught Helen’s eyes, which were looking at her in alarm.

  ‘Nonsense, I insist! Everyone is coming. Sir Nigel will be there, and Baroness Hardy.’ Penny’s heart was sinking. Sir Nigel Cameron and Baroness Hardy were co-owners of TV7; their good opinion of her and Penny Leighton Productions really mattered. Schmoozing and glad-handing was an integral part of her job. They had just wrapped the latest series of Mr Tibbs and securing a new one was a long way from being a done deal. It wasn’t all about ratings and revenues; the goodwill of the board could spell the difference between a new contract and cancellation. The future of Mr Tibbs and the jobs of the actors and crew were in her hands. The buck stops with me, she thought, resignedly.

  Helen, however had other ideas. ‘She couldn’t possibly, Penny’s taking me out to dinner.’

  Quentin Clarkson wasn’t to be deterred. ‘Then you must come along too – I’m sure I can offer something much more tempting than some boring old dinner.’ He eyed her suggestively.

  ‘Of course we’ll come, Quentin, though we won’t be able to stay too long,’ conceded Penny, avoiding Helen’s furious stare.

  ‘Marvellous! Seven thirty – you know the address.’ And with that he kissed them both with damp lips – Helen squirming as his hand reached behind her and stroked the small of her back – and headed off towards the exit.

  ‘What on earth??’ exclaimed Helen when he was out of earshot. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just thrown away our evening like that?’

  ‘Don’t give me a hard time. I have no choice. Everyone is relying on me to bag another series. They’d be heartbroken if I failed – and I’d be in the shit.’

  Seeing Penny’s glum expression, Helen took pity on her. ‘Told you we should have gone to Pizza Express.’

  Penny linked arms with her friend. ‘Note to self: Do not ignore advice from Helen Merrifield.’

  ‘I still can’t believe he used to be your boyfriend.’

  ‘Boy-fiend, more like!’

  And they enjoyed a snigger as they headed off for lunch.

  Simon was dog-tired. His day had got off to a bad start when he realised that he should have been giving a talk on the meaning of Easter at Trevay Junior School. Unfortunately, the realisation only hit him when he was in the car, heading in the opposite direction to visit a sick parishioner in one of the hamlets beyond Pendruggan. Having shown up late and flustered for both appointments, his day had managed to get even worse when Susie Small, the local yoga teacher, called him to say that the village hall had been broken into. What with calling the police and waiting for the locksmith to arrive, Simon had once again found himself being pulled in different directions.

  It was dusk by the time he made it home to the vicarage. The clouds in the sky were heavy and ominous. More bad weather had been forecast and the thought of yet another spell of torrential rain and gale-force wind only added to his gloomy mood. He hung his coat on the banister and headed to the kitchen. He was starving, but his heart sank as he opened the fridge and eyed its meagre contents. Normally, Penny would have driven to the shops in Trevay to pick something up or, as it was a Friday night, they might have headed out for a curry. Simon felt a pang. Penny would have known exactly what to say to ease his troubles and take his mind off things. He stared forlornly at the bit of old brie and half a tomato sitting on the fridge shelf. There was also a bowl of leftovers from earlier in the week, but Simon’s tired brain couldn’t remember what it was and the bowl of reddy-brown mush wasn’t giving up its secrets.

  Shutting the fridge door, he headed over to the worktop and switched on the kettle. Next to it was a note in Penny’s recognisable flamboyant script:

  Left you something in the fre
ezer for every night I’m away – can’t have you starving as well as drowning! Will be a better vicar’s wife when I get back – promise. Pxx

  Simon smiled, realising he hadn’t even noticed it the previous night before he’d staggered up to bed, to tired for anything more than a bowl of soup. Switching the kettle on, he bent down and opened the freezer. In one of the drawers was a selection of neatly packaged and labelled dishes in freezer bags: cottage pie, lasagne, spag bol and a few of pots of rhubarb crumble – his favourite.

  Taking the cottage pie from the freezer he popped it in the microwave and headed out to the hallway. On the answering machine, the little red light was blinking away, and the LED display indicated that there were six new messages. He pressed the play button.

  The unmistakable bossy tones of Audrey Tipton boomed out, filling the hallway:

  Mrs Canter, it’s Audrey here. I still haven’t heard back from you regarding the Old People’s Christmas Luncheon. We really must make a start on it, you know. I’ll expect to hear from you as soon as you get this message. Beep.

  The next one was from Margery Winthrop, one of the gaggle of pensioners who volunteered their time to help keep the church spick and span:

  Hello, Penny, Margery here. Sorry to bother you but just a gentle reminder that we need to sit down and go through the spring flower rota. Doris is having her veins done and June Pearce is swanning off on a Saga cruise, so you’ll need to drum up some more helpers from somewhere. Or will you put yourself down for a few shifts? Anyway, I’ll try you again tomorrow. Beep.

  The next one was from Emma Scott, Brown Owl of the local Brownies, who spoke in a broad Cornish accent:

  Penny, my love, meant to say when I saw you last week that spring ’as sprung – so that must mean it’s time to get our bums in gear for the Summer Fête. I’ve already had a word with Harry the scout leader, but ’e’s about as much use as chocolate teapot! You’ll ’ave to organise the lot of us, as usual! Bye, my lovely, speak later in the week.