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

pot in a bit of old newspaper and tipped his beanie hat at her.

      ‘Pleasure doing business wiv ya!’

      Helen muttered under her breath, ‘Bloody shyster.’ But she was secretly pleased with her cute pot and wrapped it up in her scarf to make sure it was quite safe.

      Eventually, after stopping off for Penny to purchase a grey kid leather biker jacket in All Saints, they reached Notting Hill Gate itself. You could tell you were higher up as the wind caught their hair and gave them a windswept appearance.

      ‘There’s a farmer’s market around here somewhere.’ Helen took out her iPhone and Google-mapped their location. ‘This way!’ They both headed off towards one of the backstreets, soon coming to a car park where a dozen or more stalls were selling their wares. Cheese, cured meats, home-made curry pastes and much more were on sale, and the smell of a hog roast filled their nostrils, making their tummies grumble.

      ‘Oooh look!’ exclaimed Penny, pointing to a stall selling Cornish pasties and sausage rolls. ‘I could murder one of those!’

      They headed over and Penny asked for two Cornish pasties.

      ‘Sure,’ answered the friendly girl behind the counter. She was wearing a woolly hat and giant cardy; even though it was April, there was still a chill in the air. She put them in separate bags. ‘That’s ten pounds, please.’

      ‘What??’ Penny spluttered. ‘Five pounds each?? Are they filled with gold dust?’

      ‘Sorry. I don’t set the prices,’ the girl explained apologetically.

      Penny handed the money over and then said to Helen incredulously, ‘But in Queenie’s, they’re ninety pence.’

      ‘Were not in Kansas any more, Toto,’ Helen informed her.

      They munched on their pasties hungrily, but both decided – out of earshot of the nice young girl – that they weren’t a patch on Queenie’s, with her lovely shorter-than-short pastry and meaty, peppery filling.

      ‘Got any room left?’ asked Helen.

      ‘Possibly. What have you got in mind?’

      ‘There’s a Pizza Express round the corner.’

      ‘Go on then. That pasty was just an hors d’oeuvre!’ And they headed off for second lunch.

      After a delicious lunch of shared pizza and dough balls, the two women decided to head back to their hotel. Both were tired after spending all morning on their feet and so they decided to spend the afternoon indulging themselves; Helen had a pedi and a facial while Penny luxuriated in a two-hour full-body citrus wrap with pressure-point massage and scalp treatment. It was bliss and her shoulder was feeling better already.

      As Helen was calling the shots, she’d insisted that they spend the evening at their favourite London hang-out, Mortimer’s Champagne and Oyster Bar in the heart of Mayfair.

      ‘Where to?’ the cabbie asked as they jumped in his sleek black vehicle.

      ‘Upper Grosvenor Street, please,’ said Penny.

      ‘Any word from Simon?’ Helen asked.

      ‘I’ve tried to speak to him, but we’ve missed each other. I had a missed call from him but he didn’t leave a message, and there was no answer when I rang back.’ Penny looked anxious. ‘I hope he’s not giving me the silent treatment. I couldn’t bear it. Maybe we shouldn’t have come.’