As she walked to the address he’d given her, she planned what she would say and how she would escape if he even suggested that she take her top off. The building, when she got to it, looked bona fide. A renovated warehouse in the West End with a batch of bells and names beside them. She rang his bell. His assistant, a friendly skinny blonde, opened the door and introduced herself as his wife. Brooke relaxed.
After three hours of fun and some fabulous photos, she went back into the tiny changing room to collect her make-up bag and pack her case of clothes. She heard the door bell ring and a few moments later a man’s voice. When she came out from behind the curtain, she was confronted by a tall, muscled, bronzed Adonis. She stopped in her tracks.
‘Ah, Brooke – this is Bob. Bob Wetherby. Bob, Brooke Lynne.’
She shook the huge calloused hand. ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing his beguiling smile and the little scars above his right eye and his … cauliflower ears?
‘Hi,’ he said, gaping at her as if in awe.
It turned out he was the Bob Wetherby. Captain of the England rugby team, current holders of the Rugby World Cup. A genuine sporting legend.
That afternoon he insisted on driving her to work in Covent Garden and sat all night waiting for her to finish. He drove her home. Kissed her on the doorstep and phoned her in the morning. ‘Hi. It’s me, Bob. Bob Wetherby?’
‘I guessed.’ She smiled down the phone.
‘Want some breakfast?’
‘Sure. What time? Only, I’m still in bed.’
‘I’m right outside, so open up and I’ll cook while you shower.’
How was a woman supposed to resist that kind of attention and thoughtfulness from a living god who also happened to be world famous? Brooke couldn’t. She fell head over heels in love.
Bob couldn’t go anywhere without a pack of paparazzi following him and she was really impressed when the Beckhams texted to warn him that there was a group of them hanging about outside Scott’s restaurant in Mayfair.
‘How do Victoria and David know where we’re having supper?’ she asked.
‘Because I told them.’
‘Oh.’
‘Didn’t I mention – we’re having dinner with them and my agent Milo?’
Assuming he was winding her up, Brooke laughed. ‘Ha! Good one, Bobby. I’d die if I met them.’
‘No, seriously, we’re all having supper together. It might be a bit boring because Dave and I will probably talk sport, so he said he’d bring Victoria along so that you and she could talk girl stuff.’
For a moment Brooke sat with her jaw hanging, then she said urgently, ‘Turn round. I need to go home and change.’
‘No time. Here we are.’
Even though Bob had parked his Range Rover in a side street and they went through a rear entrance, a lone photographer managed to get a shot of them. Next morning it was headline news:
SHE LOOKS SCRUM-MY, BOB!
It had actually been a wonderful supper. David, utterly gorgeous, was polite and interesting. Victoria was funny and kind. She had loved Brooke’s Topshop dress and had laughed when Brooke told the story of the origin of her name. The only one she’d hadn’t been entirely comfortable with was Milo James. Although he’d joined in the conversation, she sensed he was constantly scrutinising her and evaluating how well she coped in this rarefied company. It unnerved her. She felt as if he was trying to decide whether she was good enough for Bob, whether she’d tarnish his image.
Apparently she passed the test. At the end of the evening Milo had handed her his card saying, ‘Call me in the morning.’
His secretary put her straight through, as if she was expecting the call.
‘Hi, Brooke. So, how did you enjoy last night?’ said Milo’s oily voice.
‘I enjoyed it very much.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
She looked at the handful of tabloids spread over the duvet. ‘Erm, yeah. Bob picked them up this morning.’
‘Do you like seeing yourself on the front page?’
Brooke hesitated before answering. It had shocked her to see the extent of the coverage, but once that had subsided, she had to admit it gave her a bit of a thrill. ‘It’s a bit strange, but at the same time quite nice.’
She heard him stifle a laugh. ‘Got an agent?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Get Bob to bring you over to the office later. Ciao.’
*
Milo had promised to raise her profile and make her a star. And that’s what he had done. She and Bob had become celebrity darlings. She had a beauty column in a glossy magazine – ghost-written for her, of course. A cosmetics company were launching a line of make-up in her name. She even had a handbag named after her. The Café Au Lait deal was huge, both in terms of her bank balance and the publicity it generated, and yet …
She didn’t want to seem ungrateful after all Milo’s hard work in getting her these deals, but sometimes it was as if he’d forgotten she was an actress. She’d come to his office today determined to remind him of that.
‘Milo—’ she started the moment he finished his call, but he cut across her.
‘Brooke, I’m sorry, something’s come up. Are there things you want to discuss?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, how about we talk on the way down to Cornwall tomorrow morning? We’ll be uninterrupted in the car. Four hours to ourselves. Can it wait till then?’
‘Yeah, I suppose it can.’
‘Good girl.’ He stood and ushered her towards the door. ‘Bye, babe.’
Before she knew it, he’d gone back into his office and she was standing on the smooth marble of the reception area, wondering how he always managed to head her off before she had a chance to say what was on her mind.
Penny and Helen were on fire. Penny’s address book had names not just dropping out of it, but bouncing round the floor laughing at them.
‘Oh my God, Pen. Samantha Bond, Pierce Brosnan, Judi Dench, David Cunningham, Dahlia Dahling, Ryan Gosling – Ryan Gosling? Are you kidding me?’
Penny laughed and shook her head. Helen high-fived her friend and continued, ‘Philip Glenister, Miranda Hart, John Simm, Maggie Smith, Quentin Tarantino – Tarantino! I’m almost impressed … David Tennant. Stop! You’ve got Dr Who? Now I am impressed.’
‘I’m a very important person, you know.’ Penny held her hands up in front of her. ‘Guilty as charged. What can I do?’
‘You can get on the flipping phone and start ringing these buggers up!’ cried Helen.
*
Simon called the meeting to order. He had chosen the church hall in Trevay because it was bigger than anything in his own parish and because he wanted to get as many people behind the campaign as possible. For the umpteenth time, he checked his watch. Two minutes to eleven. He’d wait those couple of minutes in case anyone was having trouble parking. Another quick head count. Fifteen. He offered up a silent prayer. As if on cue, the double doors at the back of the hall squeaked open and in came the local eccentric. Seen at all hours of the day briskly walking the lanes and