the ribs of their neighbour, then eyes widening and broad smiles, then a ripple of sound as his name was murmured, with row after row picking up the refrain like a Mexican wave of whispers.
Only then did Ryan step forward and walk amongst his fans.
Twenty minutes later he stepped over Jess and sat back in his seat, noisily clipping his seat belt.
‘Sorry I took so long. You know how it can be. Someone in goat class spotted me. Got recognised. Had to do the right thing. Chatted, had a few photos. God, it’s so tedious, but it goes with the territory – ya gotta do it.’
The chief stewardess approached, smiling. ‘Mr Hearst. Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to other passengers. You’ve made their day. If only all celebrities could be so generous.’
‘It’s my pleasure. After all, it’s the fans who have given me so much. It is they who have made Cosmo Venini so very popular.’ He feigned humility.
The stewardess turned to Jess. ‘You’re Mr Hearst’s girlfriend, aren’t you?’
Jess extended her hand. ‘Jess. Yes, I am. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Those photos of you on the beach were amazing! You look super hot! Certainly don’t look your age.’
Ryan took Jess’s hand and kissed her fingers. ‘She doesn’t, does she? She needed a treat, what with me being away so much.’
‘Oh, Mr Hearst!’ The stewardess clutched her pussy-bowed neck and turned to Jess: ‘How lucky you are to have him.’
As soon as the stewardess had walked away, Jess’s bright smile dropped like an Acme safe tumbling off the side of a cliff in a Road Runner cartoon, ‘Hmph – she can fuck right off.’
‘What?’ said Ryan, running his hands through his well-cut hair and gazing out of the window at London spread below them.
‘Saying I look good for my age!’
‘Don’t be so sensitive. She’s a charming young woman. Do you have any chewing gum? I haven’t had time to clean my teeth.’
Jess rootled around in her bag and passed him a half-empty packet.
‘Thank you. You could do with some too.’
Chewing on her gum furiously, she rummaged through her bag for a hairbrush and ran it through her hair. She found a mirror and gave it a quick polish on her T-shirt. Her reflection did look pretty good. Her glossy brown mane of curls framed a tanned and freckled face that enhanced the blue of her eyes and the whiteness of her teeth. She had definitely lost a bit of chub from her cheeks and chin. She dared to tell her reflection that she was happy. Now if only she could get a job. Pay her way. Feel useful. Talented.
Maybe it wasn’t too late …
The limo pulled smoothly up to the steps leading to the wide and welcoming entrance of the Starfish Hotel. While the driver helped Brooke out of the car, a couple of linen-clad flunkeys raced to collect her bags from the boot.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Brooke. Welcome to the Starfish. I’m Toby, this is Marc.’
‘Thank you.’ She gave the young bronzed man a warm appraising glance.
His colleague stepped round from the back of the car carrying her Hermès valise.
‘I love your luggage,’ he said in a deliciously fruity voice. ‘Very stylish.’
Her driver straightened his tie and asked, ‘Anything more I can do for you, Miss Brooke?’
‘No, thank you. Do you have any idea when Milo – Mr James – will be arriving?’
‘I’m waiting to hear what flight he’s on. I’m heading to Newquay Airport now to pick him up.’
‘OK. Thanks.’
As the car drove away, the two young bellhops escorted her up the steps and into the hotel lobby. She was gratified to see that her super sexy Marilyn wiggle was attracting much attention along the way.
The Starfish Hotel was the smartest of Cornwall’s hotels. Built to coincide with the completion of Brunel’s revolutionary train line from Paddington to Trevay, it had offered suitably luxurious accommodation for the wealthy Victorian and Edwardian travellers who flocked to the pretty little fishing village in search of sea breezes and sunshine. With Dr Beeching’s cuts, however, the hotel had lost favour and business, sinking into unloved shabbiness throughout the sixties and seventies. During the eighties and nineties, surfers from all over the globe had used it as a form of cheap hostel. And then in the noughties a wealthy widow, Louise Lonsdale, had stepped in and saved it from decline.
Now the Starfish was the epitome of twenty-first century beach chic. Lots of glass, sunlight, luxury bathrooms and excellent food.
Brooke was swept up to her penthouse suite in the decadently ironic beach-hut lift. As Toby opened the door for her she was dazzled by the early October sunshine, blessing the drawing room with a drench of rosy gold. ‘This is fabulous!’ she said, kicking off her shoes (‘Louboutin!’ bellhop Marc swooned appreciatively) and let her feet revel in the deep pile of the sky-blue carpet as she walked to the big bay window and looked at the harbour below.
As soon as Toby and Marc had finished running through all the instructions for the air conditioning, satellite TV, electric curtains and waterfall shower, she tipped generously and they left her to it.
For a couple of hours she pottered around happily, testing the bed, unpacking her case, phoning Bob and trying out the super-comfy outsized sun lounger on her balcony-cum-deck. This was definitely the life. After a quick shower she slipped on some skinny jeans, tied a headscarf over her famous blonde hair and covered her eyes with a pair of huge sunglasses – a gift from Victoria Beckham. She was ready to explore Trevay.
It was the end of the season, so the town was quiet as Brooke plunged into the narrow back streets lined with smart shops selling local art, beach fashion and desirable home accessories. She spent a happy hour entertaining herself with a bit of retail therapy, enjoying the recognition of the shop assistants and the admiring looks of the men she passed in the street.
When at last she emerged from the maze of little streets she made a beeline for the seafront. Leaning on the railings overlooking the harbour, she took in the view. The tide was out and several boats were lying on their keels, the mooring ropes draped with curtains of green seaweed. Taking a great lungful of the warm, damp air, Brooke turned her face to the watery sun. She had to make the most of this. She’d be back in London by tomorrow night. Reopening her eyes, she scanned the headland to her left as it stretched out towards the open sea. A vast silver dome in the distance was reflecting the sun’s rays, forcing her to squint in order to make out details of the ice-cream-coloured building beneath. It looked like a theatre. Curious, she started to walk towards it.
As she got closer the signs of age and neglect grew ever more obvious. Several windows were broken, the brass handles on the main doors had a patina of verdigris from exposure to salt air and damp. Glass cases that had once held play bills advertising the shows now housed a miscellany of typed notices warning of the cancellation of the scouts’ Gang Show or requesting volunteers to help out at the next pensioners’ bingo night. She cupped her hands over the glass aperture in one of the main doors to see what the foyer looked like. A face suddenly loomed into view, staring at her from the other side of the door. She gave a shriek of surprise and jumped back. The face remained in the window, his lips moving. He was saying something to her.
She composed herself. ‘What?’ she mouthed.
The door opened and a head popped out. ‘Did I startle you? Do forgive me.’
‘I didn’t expect to see anyone, that’s all,’ she replied.
‘Would you like to come in and look around?’ he asked.