Fern Britton Short Story Collection: The Stolen Weekend, A Cornish Carol, The Beach Cabin

‘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.’