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The Beach Cabin: A Short Story
Fern Britton
The perfect summer short story from bestselling novelist and broadcaster, Fern Britton.Ed and Charlotte have been married for fifteen years, but they have been drifting apart and now Ed suspects that Charlotte may be involved with another man.He decides a family holiday is just what they need and rents a cottage on the cliffs near the picturesque Cornish village of Pendruggan. He is desperate not to lose Charlotte and hopes that the holiday will bring them closer together again, but Charlotte is wondering what happened to the man she fell in love with.So into their car they all pile, including their teenage daughter Alex, her younger brother, Sam and their enormous Bearded Collie – will their Cornish escape be the holiday to make them… or break them?
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015
Copyright © Fern Britton 2015
Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008146412
Version: 2017-11-21
Contents
Cover (#ub80e61dd-21e0-587f-a4ef-9ddee781c521)
Title Page (#u7d3e547e-8862-500f-b2a3-0f3e0feb8ab9)
Copyright (#u212d6af3-f9a3-5d53-a489-042b7dec6452)
Prologue (#u1a32a022-20ad-5c7d-8bb0-170251a51e7a)
Chapter 1 (#ub1500c8f-8c2f-50e0-82cd-64dc86cfac13)
Chapter 2 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 3 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Read on for a Sneak Peak of Fern’s Latest Bestselling Novel (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading _ a Seaside Affair (#litres_trial_promo)
Fern Media Ad (#litres_trial_promo)
W6 Café Ad (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Fern Britton: (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u4936ad9d-91e8-5cf3-8b08-cdaf2013525d)
Channel 7 Studios, London, 2000
The floor manager of Skool’s Out, Channel 7’s hit children’s TV show, watched the action play out in front of him in a state of high anxiety, rather like a budgerigar left in charge of a cattery, never sure from which direction the danger was going to come from. The programme always went out live at 5.15 p.m. on a Friday and the whole operation was a test of nerves, patience, forbearance and arse-licking for the entire crew. Despite the old show-business adage about never working with animals or children, the set was always filled with dozens of hysterical pre-teens, plus that week’s line-up of novelty acts. This typically consisted of an assortment of pet dogs that could whine the National Anthem, a nine-year-old who could fart at the same decibel level as a car horn and some idiot intent on breaking a silly world record, like how many times you can kick your own butt in one minute. On top of this the crew had to contend with the fragile egos and sometimes ridiculous demands of the celebrity guests, combined with the inflated ones of the show’s presenters. Anything could go wrong, and it was a fine balance between giving the show’s trademark anarchy full flight while keeping things under control.
The set was designed to look like a school where the kids had taken over. Walls were daubed in graffiti, there were ‘detention’ cells that the guests could be placed in if they displeased the ‘kids’ and everything had a slightly sinister quality that was pitched somewhere between St Trinian’s and a Tim Burton movie.
The floor manager heard the director’s voice from the control room through his earpiece. ‘Dave and cameras move over to the cell area for Robbie’s detention skit.’
‘Yep.’ On the set, Robbie Williams had been placed in one of the cells and was being lambasted by the show’s irreverent star, a puppet called Brian the Cat – a mass of tatty black-and-white fur and Denis Healey eyebrows who spoke in the thick Mancunian tones of his puppeteer. Brian was lambasting Robbie from outside his cell accompanied by his sidekick, a young presenter called Kirsty.
‘Robbie Williams, the studio audience have unanimously decided to give you detention on account of not only crimes against music…’
The audience howled with laughter.
‘…but also, for eating all the pies!’
Cue more hysterical screaming.
Ed Appleby, the studio runner, watched tensely from his position behind the camera crew. He could see Robbie’s PA and his publicity manager watching stony-faced from the wings. If things went too far and Robbie got upset, there would be hell to pay. Ed took his Joe 90 glasses off, gave them a quick wipe before putting them back on and then ran his hand anxiously through his dark curly hair.
Brian the Cat was egging the audience on. ‘What do you reckon? Shall we let him go home now, kids? Has he done his detention?’
‘Splat him!’ the children screamed. Robbie grabbed the cell bars and shook his head vigorously, mouthing something Ed couldn’t hear over the roaring of the audience, but which looked suspiciously like, Bollocks to that.
‘Let him have it!’ declared Brian triumphantly, and a bucket that had been hovering above Robbie’s head tipped over and released a yellow goo over his head.
‘Camera one, zoom in,’ said the director over talkback.
The camera zoomed in to see Robbie’s expression as the yellow gunk slicked down his face and chest.
Robbie wiped the gunk away from his eyes with his fingers and licked his lips. There was an anxious pause in the room before Robbie said in his soft Northern accent, ‘Mmmn, lemon curd, nice. Can I have a jar to take back to me mam, sir?’
As the audience cheered their raucous approval, Ed saw the faces of Robbie’s people relax.
The camera moved away to Kirsty. ‘Ha-ha! Now let’s see the new video from 5ive – they’re going to be here next week and we’re going to give them a proper Skool’s Out welcome, aren’t we?’
Ed’s shoulders relaxed briefly, but they immediately tensed again as he felt someone sidle up to him and gently pinch his bottom. He turned sharply and was immensely relieved to see Charlotte Finney, the show’s design director, standing next to him. They were virtually the same age, but, while Ed was still working his way up the ranks as a lowly junior, Charlotte was responsible not only for the way the show looked, but also the tone and feel. All the senior managers took her seriously, though, judging from her expression, she was feeling anything but serious. She gave him a cheeky wink.
‘Thank God it’s you!’
‘Who else were you expecting to make contact with your sexy arse, Ed?’ she said huskily.
‘God knows in this madhouse,’ he whispered back. ‘I’d better go.’
There would now be a brief three-minute video interlude for everyone to get to their new place, make a quick costume change and prepare for the next segment.
Ed shot Charlotte a look that said sorry and raced over to release Robbie from his temporary cell. A posse of Robbie’s people and studio assistants followed hot on his heels, bringing hot towels and clean clothes for the star. Declining their offers of help, Robbie took off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the yellow slime while flaunting his taut and tanned six-pack.
‘Keith, you fucker, I’ll get you back for that!’ he said good-naturedly to Brian’s puppeteer, Keith Puckley, who had extricated himself from Brian’s undercarriage.
‘Didn’t they tell you at stage school that this would happen, Rob?’ Brian shot back.
‘Fuck off!’ Robbie grinned, and playfully poked Keith’s middle-aged paunch. ‘Who ate all the pies, eh? I think we know the answer to that one!’
‘Must mean I’m in with a chance as your replacement in Take That – give your mate Gary Barlow a call and tell him I’m free.’
Before they could trade further insults, Ed interjected: ‘Keith, you’re not free yet – Brian has to judge the burping competition in one minute. Robbie, we need to get you cleaned up for the finale. You’re singing us out with “Rock DJ”.’
‘Oh yeah, ace.’ With a final grin at Keith, Robbie headed off to make-up, entourage of flunkies in tow.
Ed and Keith looked at each other. Only another thirty agonising minutes to go, then they could all breathe out.
An hour and a half later, Robbie had been dispatched in his limo, the kids had all been loaded on the coaches that would take them home to Milton Keynes or wherever it was they had come from, and Ed was sitting on the steps at the rear entrance of Channel 7’s Soho studios, smoking a crafty cigarette. The doors behind him opened with a crash as Keith, still accompanied by Brian the Cat, emerged. The puppet was operated from below with a combination of levers and sticks, which allowed his limbs to function. Brian’s head and body lolled lifeless over Keith’s arm.
‘Thank fuck that’s over for another week,’ said Keith with feeling as he plonked himself down on the step next to Ed. ‘I’m getting too old for all this shit.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Ed. ‘The show wouldn’t work without Brian. You love it, you know you do.’
Keith grunted something unintelligible in reply, lighting up his cigarette and pulling heavily on it.
The back door opened again and Charlotte stepped out. He wasn’t aware of it, but Ed’s face lit up as if it had been illuminated by a thousand-watt light bulb. Charlotte was dressed in green army combat trousers and a fitted black T-shirt that showed just a hint of her soft creamy belly when she lifted her arms up. Her choppy, layered red hair, probably a shade of red that didn’t occur in nature, framed her oval face and made her green eyes greener. Charlotte had told Ed that she was actually a blonde, but he didn’t care. He thought she was utterly gorgeous.
‘Keith Puckley, put that cigarette out now!’ She pointed at Keith accusingly. ‘If Brian gets a fag burn it’ll be Muggins here that’ll have to sit up all night stitching him, or, God forbid, making another one from scratch – which I’ve already had to do once, thanks to the Christmas party shenanigans.’
‘Sorry, Charlotte,’ said Keith meekly. ‘I was gasping.’
‘Oh, all right, but be careful.’ Charlotte softened and ruffled Brian’s fur affectionately. ‘God knows why, but I’ve become attached to the horrible little bastard.’
‘You wouldn’t want to be as attached to him as I am. Feel like I can’t get away from the little bugger,’ he said gloomily.
Charlotte patted his arm sympathetically. ‘Maybe it’s time to put Brian back in his box, Keith. It’s been a long day.’
‘You’re probably right.’ Keith stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘Time to go home.’
As he departed he said, ‘And no getting up to any hanky-panky, you two. I might be an old duffer but I don’t miss much.’
Ed and Charlotte tried to look innocent. ‘I don’t what you mean, Keith,’ Charlotte said, trying to stop a grin from spreading over her face.
‘A likely story.’ He wished them goodnight and headed inside.
After a moment, once she was sure he’d gone, Charlotte inched closer to Ed so that their thighs were touching. Her hand crept under the back of his T-shirt and she leaned in to nibble his ear.
Ed’s senses felt under assault; she smelled of fresh meadow flowers and Ed could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. It took all his willpower not to reach under her T-shirt and slip his hand under her bra. Despite this, it was Ed who pulled away first.
‘We’d better be careful, someone might see us.’
Charlotte slipped her hand into his. ‘They all know already. Look at Keith – and he’s well out of the gossip loop.’
‘No.’ Ed shook his head. ‘They don’t know. Not officially, anyway, and I don’t think they should, not yet. We’ve talked about this.’
She pulled away and looked at him with a frown. ‘Yes, we might have talked about it, but I still don’t see we have anything to hide.’
Ed squeezed her hand and tried to make light of it. ‘I know you don’t, but you’re the design director and I’m the lowly runner. They’ll think I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.’ He tried to engage her with a smile.
Charlotte’s frown deepened. ‘I don’t care what they think. We’ve been seeing each other for nearly a year. Your toothbrush can’t remember what your bathroom looks like, I let your best friend sleep on my sofa for three weeks and I’ve played in a Scrabble contest with your mum. For heaven’s sake, Ed, we couldn’t be more together if we tried.’
‘But you know what the top brass are like. They hate relationships on set in case things go wrong.’
‘What’s going to go wrong?’ Charlotte looked alarmed.
‘Nothing! Nothing’s going to go wrong, Charlotte. But I’m building my career, and yours is going so well. We don’t want anything to spoil that, do we?’
Ed felt as though the conversation was running away from him but couldn’t work out where he’d gone wrong. This was the first time Charlotte had ever said anything about wanting their relationship to be more open. They’d both been happy for their work and personal lives to be separate – hadn’t they?
He pulled his cigarettes from his top pocket, took one for himself and offered one to Charlotte. She shook her head, her lips set in a thin line.
‘I’ve given up.’
‘Since when?’
‘This morning.’
‘Oh?’
Ed removed the cigarette from his mouth unlit. Charlotte was looking at him, an unreadable expression on her face. It wasn’t a look he recognised or that he felt particularly comfortable with, if he was honest.
‘What’s wrong, Charlotte?’
Charlotte tugged at her long fringe, something he’d noticed she did when she was nervous or anxious.
‘Something’s happened.’
