The Great Cornish Getaway. Fern Britton
has disappeared,’ she announced.
‘Richard?’ said Simon vaguely. ‘Richard at the garage?’
‘No, no,’ said Penny, her voice rising with impatience, ‘Gere. Richard Gere.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s all over the news.’
‘I thought you were working?’
‘Never mind that.’ Penny showed her husband the phone. ‘Look. He’s been filming here in the UK.’
‘Whereabouts?’ asked Simon with interest.
Penny huffed crossly, ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’d like to know, that’s all. If it’s local then maybe I could find him.’
‘Northumberland,’ Penny said, slumping into the nearest armchair.
‘Oh,’ said Simon. ‘That’s a long way from Cornwall.’
‘Perhaps he’s seriously ill? Or having a nervous breakdown?’
‘Now you’re being too dramatic,’ said Simon. Richard and Penny had bonded thanks to his help with her TV production studio a few years ago. It was a close friendship and, as with all her good friends, Penny was fiercely protective of Richard.
Penny had an idea. ‘Maybe it’s a brilliant PR trick? You know, to get people interested in the film?’
‘Maybe.’ Simon squinted at the sermon on his computer screen.
Penny huffed again.
The phone rang.
Neither of them moved. It was bound to be someone in the parish asking about the Valentine's fundraiser.
They listened as Simon’s recorded message played: This is Pendruggan Vicarage, the Reverend Simon Canter speaking. I am so sorry I am unable to take your call but do please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you for calling.
Whoever it was paused before hanging up.
‘I wonder who that was?’ asked Simon.
‘Who cares?’ said Penny. ‘Richard is more important right now. I hope he’s OK. It’s a long time since we heard from him.’
‘We had a Christmas card. He knows where we are if he needs us,’ said Simon wisely. ‘Did the news give any clues?’
‘Just that he’s been missing since yesterday morning. His agent has said that he is taking some time out. The film company are saying they may sue him for breach of contract.’
Simon turned back to his sermon. ‘He’ll turn up.’
Richard and Kevin had arrived at Rocky Cliffs Holiday Park the evening before. They’d had a long journey, made easier by the spare clothes and cologne that Richard kept in a bag in the car.
It had been dark when they’d arrived, but the caravan was just as June had promised – brightly furnished and comfortable. Kevin turned on the central heating and emptied the car. He showed Richard to the double bedroom with en suite bathroom. ‘This will be you, and I’m next door in the kids’ room. No arguing! Fancy fish and chips for supper? I’ll nip into the village to get some, and in the meantime, there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. Help yourself.’
Richard slept well again that night. He woke up to the sound of seagulls tap-dancing on the roof and the smell of bacon frying. He looked at his watch – 6.30 a.m.
‘Morning,’ said Kevin. ‘Sleep well?’
‘You bet.’ Richard stretched and yawned. ‘Want me to open the curtains or are there too many people about?’
‘Mate, the place is dead. Go ahead. Draw the curtains. I think you’ll like what you see.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ Richard was stunned as he pulled the flowery curtains across the picture window. The caravan was on the top of a cliff looking out over a vast horizon. The sun was rising and glinted off an inky sea. ‘It’s gorgeous. Is that the Atlantic?’
‘Yep.’
‘There’s someone out there, surfing. It’s really early and it’s February. Are they mad?’
‘Yes, but it’s almost a religion down here. Would you like to have a go?’
‘Oh sure. I mean, I’m only an American who is used to the warm waters of the Atlantic or the Caribbean. I’d really love to freeze my butt off in that!’
Kevin laid the neat dining table with some cutlery and two mugs of tea. ‘You want some toast?’
‘I want to go walk on that beach.’
‘Have your breakfast and we will.’
After breakfast, while Kevin had a shower, Richard slipped out for a walk on the cliffs to see if he could catch a phone signal. Finally, high on a blowy cliff, his phone showed a few signal bars, and he made a quick call to let his nearest and dearest know that he was all right.
By the time he got back to the caravan he was feeling better than he had in days. The voices of home had soothed him.
As he stepped inside the caravan, the first thing he heard was his name.
Kevin was watching the television and Richard was the main topic of conversation. The presenters were trying to guess where he could have gone and why.
Kevin was suddenly aware Richard was behind him. ‘Well, they know you’ve done a bunk now.’ He turned the television off. ‘You OK?’
Richard sat down heavily on the plump sofa. The good mood of just a few minutes ago was slowly fading. Putting his head in his hands, he swore softly to himself.
‘What are we going to do? Would you like me to take you back?’ Kevin asked.
Richard thought for a moment. ‘Can you cut my hair?’
‘What?’
‘Can you cut my hair? Real short?’
‘I doubt it, and if I do it’ll look terrible.’
‘Great. Got any scissors?’
‘I think June has some kitchen ones, or I’ve got nail clippers.’
Richard got up and searched June’s cutlery drawer. ‘Here,’ he said, holding up a pair of scissors so large you could cut carpet with them. ‘These are fine.’
Richard took off his jumper and T-shirt and pulled up a chair. ‘Do it.’
‘How short?’
‘I don’t care. Just make me look different.’
‘OK.’ Kevin gingerly took a lock of the famous snow-white hair. ‘Ready?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Here goes.’ He took the first snip.
Twenty minutes later Richard looked in the mirror. ‘Wow. That’s good.’
Kevin was unsure. ‘It’s very short.’
Richard ran his hand over his stubbly head. ‘It’s perfect. Have you got any old clothes I can borrow? My new ones will stand out.’
‘Yes, but they’re all rather shabby.’
‘Go get them.’
Kevin searched out a pair of ripped and faded jeans, a salt-stained T-shirt, a well-worn hoodie and a battered baseball cap. ‘These any good?’ he asked.
Richard