A Seaside Affair. Fern Britton
Brooke was thrilled with her idea. Once she explained it to them, she was confident that Milo and the Café Au Lait people would be thrilled to. She was going to enlist their help in saving the Pavilions. They could have a small coffee shop bistro in one half of the foyer, while sponsoring great plays, concerts, summer seasons and pantomimes. She would star in many of the productions and Colonel Irvine would resurrect his Colonel Stick alter ego for special performances. The papers would love the story. Trevay was, after all, the St Tropez of Great Britain – Milo had told her so.
She sat in front of her dressing-table mirror, wearing a hotel bathrobe, and made her face up carefully. The smoky eyes, coral lips and tumble of blonde curls that were the trademark of Brooke Lynne looked happily back at her. Finally she was going to make her mark. Saviour of a provincial seaside theatre and a proper actress. She’d give her publicist a call in the morning.
Her room phone rang.
‘Brooke? It’s Milo. I’m just checking in downstairs. The Café Au Lait guys will be here in twenty minutes. You ready?’
‘Almost.’
‘What are you wearing?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe a—’
She heard him tut. ‘I’ll come up and see to it you choose right. I’ll be there in two minutes.’
She pulled out a couple of simple dresses and put them on the bed. Nothing too revealing. This was a business meeting, after all.
She answered the door at his first knock and he pushed past her.
‘Cool room.’ He gave her a sweeping look from head to toe. ‘Nice make-up. Good girl. What have you got on under that robe?’
‘My underwear of course.’
‘Shame. Where are your clothes?’
She showed him the choices on the bed and he rejected them. ‘Too daytime. I need you to look glamorous. Sexy. What else you got?’
He chose the tight-fitting scarlet lace dress that she had planned to wear for the press launch the next day, impatiently dismissing her protests: ‘It doesn’t matter. You can wear it twice. We’ve got fifteen minutes before they arrive. I’ve told the front desk to send them straight up. We’ll have drinks here in the suite.’
‘OK.’ Brooke shrugged. To have the meeting in the privacy of the room would be a good idea. Then they could celebrate over supper in the dining room downstairs.
Milo was heading towards the door when a thought struck him. He turned and asked: ‘Shoes – what are you wearing?’
‘Stilettos?’
‘Perfect.’
*
Brooke looked in the long mirror and checked herself out. There was no doubt that this was the Brooke Lynne that Café Au Lait had hired. A blonde bombshell sex siren. She bent over to adjust her stockings and smooth the pile of her scarlet suede killer heels. ‘Good luck,’ she said to her reflection. ‘Tonight’s going to be a good night.’
She opened the door to Milo and two men in their forties both wearing sharp suits.
Milo kissed Brooke and introduced her. ‘Brooke, this is Rupert Heligan, Chairman of CAL UK.’
Rupert stepped towards her and kissed her hand, holding it just a little too long. He looked into her eyes and smiled. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you at last.’
‘Me too. Thank you, Mr Heligan,’ she replied, turning her bombshell smile up to warp factor seven.
‘Please, call me Rupert.’
She smiled and Milo introduced her to the second man. ‘Brooke, this is Michael Woodbine, CAL’s PR wizard. Without him, you wouldn’t have got the gig.’
Michael stepped forward and placed his hands lightly on her elbows while moving in to kiss her twice. Once on each cheek. ‘You were the perfect choice. Rupert and I knew you were the face CAL needed.’
‘Well, I can’t thank you enough. I am so thrilled to be an ambassador for such great coffee and such a great company. I love your ethos. Fair trade with your growers. Reinvesting in their businesses. I wouldn’t want to work with a company that exploited their suppliers.’ Brooke knew it was her sex appeal that was her big selling point, and why they were interested in her. She was quite happy to use her charms, but she was determined not to play the bimbo for the sake of it.
The three men smiled at her. ‘She’s not just a beauty – she has brains too,’ said Milo, ushering everyone to the huge sofas.
‘Oh yes, I’m so much more than a pretty face.’ Brooke turned her smile up another couple of notches.
‘Fix us some drinks would you, Brooke.’
Brooke’s million-dollar smile froze on her face and she stood still for a moment. She hadn’t thought about drinks, let alone being the one who ‘fixed’ them. She recovered quickly – she was a pro after all. ‘Of course. What would you like?’
She went to the cupboard that she’d been told was the bar and opened it. Everything anyone could have wanted was stocked inside.
‘Scotch, please. On the rocks,’ said Rupert, staring at her bottom as she bent down to search for glasses.
Michael and Milo chose the same. She poured herself a weak gin and tonic.
Once they were all settled and sitting down, Rupert opened up the conversation.
‘Milo, what we want Brooke to do tomorrow is go up to the theatre, have a few shots taken by the invited press, do some interviews with the media …’ He stopped and turned to Brooke. ‘Can you do interviews?’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Can you take a brief? Anything awkward, leave it to Michael. Just keep smiling.’
Brooke felt a stab of annoyance. ‘I’m an actress. I can remember lines and I can certainly put across my views.’
Milo surreptitiously raised a finger and gave her a sharp look to stop her from saying more. She stopped.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Get that would you,’ said Milo, ‘there’s a good girl.’
Brooke hid her annoyance but did as she was asked. A short, self-important-looking little man in a brown suit was standing outside. ‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asked.
He held out his hand and, shaking hers, walked in, ‘Councillor Bedford – Chris. Sorry I’m late.’
‘Ah, Chris – glad you could come.’ Milo got to his feet. ‘You know Rupert and Michael.’ They all shook hands. ‘Brooke, get Chris a drink, will you.’
She poured him the lager he’d requested. He had settled himself on the sofa she’d been sitting on, next to Milo. Now there was nowhere but a small stool to perch on. She perched.
The three men discussed business over the top of her head for the next hour. Brooke tried to listen enthusiastically – active listening, she’d heard it called – but the three men seemed to be treating her like a hired servant and it was starting to irritate her. Three times she got up and refreshed their glasses. Not one of them addressed her. Councillor Bedford was an odious creep who hadn’t stopped leering at her all evening, staring at her thighs when she crossed her legs and straining his neck to peer down the front of her dress when she stooped to set the drinks on the table. She was so fed up with the whole business it was tempting to tune out completely, but her ears pricked up when talk turned to the Pavilions.
‘So, Bedford, you’re absolutely sure that we’ve got this in the bag?’ pressed Michael, the PR man. ‘We don’t want any more interference from those local busybodies. From hereon there must be nothing but positive press – we’ve got our image to protect, remember.’