Sabrina took a gulp of her iced cold coke. ‘I take it that’s the bald man who runs the fruit and veg stall?’
‘The very person…and my dad.’ The ferryman added and laughed. ‘Of course, you two have met already. He never misses a pretty lady.’ Sabrina felt herself blushing to her dyed-blonde roots. ‘Billy Dillon. Son of Charlie and Pat, husband to Kerry– or Kara, as you may know her– and your charming ferryman, at your service.’ He doffed a pretend cap.
‘Hi… I’m Jilly… and I’m sorry to be rude about your dad.’
‘Well, a big hello Jilly, from Billy.’ They both laughed. ‘And please don’t apologise– my old man, well he taught me everything I know. And you’re right, he does need to rein in that tongue of his, sometimes.’ He looked from Sabrina to Frank. ‘Sorry to interrupt, mate, but can you do me a couple of coffees pronto, please? Extra shot in one of them.’ He yawned noisily. ‘Both my little angels were up at four thirty!’
Sabrina took in the ferryman who was only a couple of inches taller than her, his tight black t-shirt highlighting his toned chest, back and arms. He looked noticeably young to be a father of two. But was there ever a right time for anything, especially where babies were concerned? She often got frustrated with workaholic Dom’s constant mantra of ‘when I retire, this will all change’. After him refusing another holiday with her due to work commitments, a lightbulb moment of an old drama teacher telling her, “You think you’re being selective in your search for a partner, but everyone ends up marrying their father anyway”, had sprung to mind. And that was exactly what she had done. Nearly married a man who for whatever reason didn’t want to ever sit long in his own reality. Would rarely enjoy ‘the now’ and like a lot of people who didn’t stop working, thought that when they did, that would be the answer to all happiness. When in fact, the reason they were workaholics was so that they never had to sit down and face life’s realities, which usually equated to facing their demons.
A smiling Billy waved his goodbyes and hurried back to theHappy Hartand its attached car ferry. Taking in his tanned, hairy legs and cheeky face, she made a mental note to tell Dee that for some reason the “allure” percentage in this town was off the scale.
At home, the circles she mixed in were hardly full of ‘real’ people. Instead, they were full of preening men and ‘plastic fantastic’ women, with designer clothes andTurkey teeth–the expression for someone whose teeth were as perfect and white as fresh snow following a trip overseas to get them fixed for a whole lot cheaper than in the UK. People, whose social media profiles were more important to them than them sitting in the now and experiencing life with their loved ones. Where they felt like they had to share everything, even what they were having for breakfast, with the world. She could slate Dom for not being present, but she knew that sadly she had fallen into the trap of social media acceptance, too. Before the wedding, her selfie-taking had been off the scale. As an actress, she loved to be adored. Until she had been faced with this scandal, that was. Being photographed was the price you paid for fame and on a night out she was so used to what she called the PPR cycle– Pout, Pose, Repeat– that she quite often would whisper it to herself as she continued it. She often wondered what the public expected her life to be like behind the scenes. Did they imagine that her hair was always beautifully blow dried and that she wore a full face of make up to bed?
In reality, five days out of the six that she was on set, she would come home absolutely shattered. She would immediately take her bra off, cleanse herself of makeup, put on a tracksuit and throw herself on the sofa. If Dom wasn’t at one of his fat cat dinners, they would have food delivered. Lights would be off by ten or sometimes before, as quite often Dom headed off before the sun was up. He would never leave without kissing her goodbye– a selfish as much as sweet act, as it always woke her.
Yes, she did a job where millions saw her as a character in their homes and yes, she was on the odd TV show to promote her storyline, but other than that and the Soap Awards once a year, in essence, she felt that her life was pretty ordinary.
And the more time she spent in this beautiful setting, the more she realised that ordinary was OK. More than OK, in fact. She was finding it joyous not to be recognised. That she could sit here and stuff her breakfast in, knowing that someone wasn’t going to take a sly photo of her with egg on her face. And more importantly, that Lowen’s attraction towards her was more for her fanny than her fame! And that was alright, because in this instance, shallow was a good thing. No complication. Plain old-fashioned sex with a fun, handsome man who had made her smile again; what wasn’t there to like, really?
She also loved the friendliness of everyone in the community. It was so refreshing that everyone seemed to talk to each other. It was as if an invisible line of respect and kindness to fellow man was the norm.
‘So, where were we?’ Frank picked up the empty shot glass, and Sabrina shook herself from her thoughts. ‘Next Friday, from six, outside on the deck area.’
Sabrina stuffed in her last bit of toast. ‘Sorry?’
‘My extravaganza, of course!’
Sabrina hurriedly finished her last mouthful and laughed. ‘I’m so not with it. But I do have to say, after that feast, my hangover will soon be running for the hills. And, yes, of course I would love to come. It’ll be good for me to meet everyone before I get up and running.’
‘Or not.’ Frank winked. ‘It’s a mixed bag of folk down here I tell you.’
‘And there’s nought stranger than folk,’ they said in unison, then laughed. He wiped his right hand on his apron and held it out to her. A huge smile lit up the gentle giant’s face, a face that looked like it had seen more criminality and violence in the past than most good cop dramas. ‘I’m Frank Brady, but everyone down here calls me Big Frank.’
She replicated his strong handshake. ‘Jilly Dickens. Pleased to meet you, Big Frank.’
‘Grand, grand. And I hope that both Hartmouth and Ferry Lane Market bring you great happiness and good fortune.’
Chapter Fifteen
The quayside was buzzing with an electric atmosphere when Sabrina arrived at Frank’s end-of-season party. Music was blasting out from the two big speakers set up by the outside seating area and the murmur of celebratory chatter hung on the evening air like a light fog. Strings of warm white fairy lights lit up the gloaming and the mid-September evening chill and heady smell of Autumn felt refreshing after the recent humid days.
Belle had kindly dropped Sabrina off at the top car park and had handed her a card with a taxi number on it, and reminded her that the last bus was at nine p.m.
Sabrina reached the edge of Ferry Lane and viewing the party from across the street, took a deep breath and centred herself. Here she was, for the first time in a long time, in a social situation where she was not hiding behind the façade of Polly Malone. She was not even able to act on the character of Sabrina Swift, well known soap actress. Here she was, just plain old Jilly Dickens, market stall holder. It was going to be an experience that was totally alien to her.
She had asked Lowen if he had been invited, but he had replied that because he was new to the role, he probably wasn’t on anyone’s radar yet. She had said that maybe it was a good chance to get to know everyone and he could go with her as a guest, but he had politely declined, citing that he had just remembered his sister was coming back from Ibiza and he said that he’d pick her up from the station.
At first, she had been a bit annoyed at his dismissal of her invitation, but she guessed that maybe a market inspector wasn’t everyone’s friend and it wasn’t really her place to invite him if Frank hadn’t, anyway. She also found it endearing that he clearly had a great relationship with his sibling. Something now, she sadly would never experience in the same way.
Feeling slightly anxious and suddenly alone, she started to walk across the street. Being here as just herself had highlighted the fact that when you’re famous, you’re never alone, in the physical sense anyway. Someone is always there to talk to, to sit with you, to make you feel wanted, validated. If she were given a pound every time someone had said to her “I recognise you from somewhere, but I don’t know where,” she would never have to work again. It was also strange that people thought they actually knew her, when they clearly didn’t know her at all and as she was so far removed from the tough Liverpudlian character she played, it was quite funny. The only bit of Polly Malone she could relate to was that she too had the heart of a lion, and she would fight for her family and friends and be by their sides whenever they needed her. Fierce matriarch Polly’s world had been broken when she was imprisoned for taking the rap for one of her son’s crimes. Sabrina’s world had not only been broken by the tragedy of her mother and brother, but now by the betrayal of someone whom she loved and thought she could trust.
On hearing Tina Turner’s ‘Simply the Best’ blaring out over the outdoor speakers, a wave of sadness engulfed her. A reminder of another great woman sadly passed, but also the song that had accompanied her on her walk down the makeshift floral aisle at Soho Farmhouse with her lovely, dad. Before the French stick had arrived and blown up her world, that was!
Thinking of her dad reminded Sabrina that she must give him a call to thank him for both putting her in touch with and paying for a designer from one of the many companies he owned. They had made a cracking job of the drawings of how she wanted her outdoor stall to look on market days, and she wanted to show her father the result. Tony Swift had also been really helpful suggesting what he thought might work stock-wise for a small seaside town demographic with just a short selling window.
On the strength of his advice, she had already ordered quite a few pieces, on which she had put an expedited delivery date. There were some gorgeous candles that she had particularly loved the look of. And the sample of the one she had been sent had made the little bathroom at the apartment smell like a Christmas tree forest. Bless her dear dad– despite him being so busy with work since the wedding day debacle, he had made a point of checking in with her once a week. Once she had straightened her head, she really must go and see him. He was living in Twickenham now. Just five miles from Simon. When she last spoke to him, he had sounded animated that she was doing something different for herself and had assured her that he was always at the end of the phone should she have any business questions, however small.
The business questions were easy for them both. This was her father’s love language to her and she knew that. They hadn’t talked about Dom or her future with him. In the same way that their small family unit had not talked about the death of her mother or about Simon’s accident. But that was how the pair of them rolled, muddling on as best as they could, with the strength of their love, somehow diffusing the intensity of the pain that grief, loss and what-could-have-beens had thrown up.
