By the time Amy had descended the two flights of stairs from her room the following morning and made it into the breakfast room, Billie was already there. And by the looks of things, she hadn’t taken long to gain an avid audience.
‘I’m here to fine tune my skills, like everyone else. Writing about it for an article in a broadsheet – it’s going to be in their glossy magazine,’ she was saying, rather more loudly than was strictly necessary. ‘I certainly don’t want any special treatment.’
Billie’s voice echoed loudly, and her wide smile beamed lighthouse-bright at the couple who had stopped at her table. A portly, middle-aged man wearing a bright orange polo shirt and safari shorts – which looked rather incongruous alongside the easy elegance of the other people already in the room – was doing his best to monopolise Billie’s attention. Malcolm peered out from behind the man, raising his eyebrows at Amy and beckoning her over to the spare setting at their table.
‘We weren’t expecting a celebrity week when we booked,’ the man in orange was saying, partly to Billie and partly to the woman at his side – his wife, Amy presumed. ‘I’ve got all your books; we love them. This is so exciting, isn’t it, Laura?’
The woman nodded, although Amy thought she looked rather less impressed than her hubby to find that Billie Forsythe-Rogers was sharing their vacation.
‘You might have heard of me, too,’ the man continued, as Amy slid into her seat and Malcolm poured her a cup of what smelt like strong Italian coffee. She sipped it black, taking a proper look at the guy, jowly and red-cheeked but with an expression of genuine enthusiasm fixed on Billie. ‘I’m a fellow writer. Thrillers are my game. Do you read thrillers?’
Amy took another sip, partly to hide her grin. Billie didn’t read anything other than posts on social media. And although Billie had her name plastered all over the series of travel cookery books, she hadn’t written any more of the copy than the dedications in the front of each edition. It had been Amy who had collated Billie’s thoughts and opinions on each of those trips, and a ghost writer who had made sense out of it all and turned it into easily digested prose. Excuse the food pun.
‘A fellow wordsmith,’ Billie said, her smile remaining as bright as today’s choice of cerise lipstick. ‘How lovely.’
‘I should probably introduce myself properly. I’m Ron Penhallon.’ He turned to the woman standing patiently at his side. ‘And this is my wife, Laura. I write under a pen name, though. Thought it would be fun, what with my surname beingPenhallon. You’ll find my books by searching for R I Penningham.’ He grinned even harder.
Amy glanced at Malcolm; the frown already lodged on his forehead deepening as he listened.
Billie soldiered on. ‘Sounds wonderful. Although, apologies, thrillers aren’t completely my bag. I did get halfway through something by Dan Brown, then watched the movie to find out how it ended. Quite enjoyed it. Does that count?’
Ron Penhallon’s grin slipped. ‘My thrillers are set in and around Port Isaac, in Cornwall. It’s where they set Doc Martin. They called it something different of course, but I wanted to use it as it really is. Although I’ve had to make up most of the murders, obviously.’ He reached into one of the many pockets of his safari shorts and pulled out a bookmark emblazoned with the covers of his books. ‘Here, take this. It’ll make it easier to look me up.’
Billie took the card, placing it beside her cutlery. ‘Thanks so much. I’ll be sure to take a look, Ron. Now, don’t let me keep you from your breakfast.’
‘I wish we’d known you would be here. I would have broughtBillie Does Texasfor you to sign – always been my favourite, that one.’
‘Mine too,’ Billie said, her smile remaining rictus-hard until Ron and Laura had taken their seats across the room. ‘Fuck me, this is going to be a long week,’ she muttered, the words hidden behind her hastily lifted coffee cup.
Malcolm guffawed, then elbowed Amy. ‘You OK today? Not bored with those jeans yet, then?’
‘Like I’ve got a choice. Fresh T-shirt though, and…’
‘We don’t need to know about the state of your underwear, Amelia,’ Billie said, clattering her coffee cup back against its saucer.
‘I was actually going to say the shower in my room is great. How’s yours?’
Amy aimed the question at bathroom connoisseur, Malcolm, but before he could get into full swing extolling the virtues of his ensuite, Tad was heading for their table bearing a dish laden with pieces of cut fruit. Other members of staff were delivering similar platters to Ron and Laura’s table, and the single older lady seated by the bifold doors leading to the garden. They were followed into the room by Gianna, the other member of the cookery school staff Amy had spoken to directly, who went to the remaining pair of tables: two fifty-something women and an elderly gentleman alone at a table and thus far hidden behind a newspaper.
‘Some fruit to start,’ Tad said, his attention all for Billie. ‘Someone will come and take your breakfast orders shortly.’ He gestured to the menu card on the table, and with barely more than a glance in Amy’s direction, he was gone.
‘I was telling Malc before you came down, I went for a drink with Tad last night – he took me to a little bar down by the lake.’ Billie leant forward, as though sharing a secret. ‘It was a bit characterless, truth be told, but Tad was fun. A bit flirty, actually.’
Amy was reeling. ‘I’m sorry, what? Last I knew, you’d gone to bed.’
‘Yes, well. After a while I realised how ridiculous I’m being – about Kelly, I mean. And last time I checked, you’re not my mother, so I didn’t think I needed permission to go out. Come to think of it, I never asked my actual mother’s permission for much either. Just did it. And look, I’ve turned out fine.’ She winked at Malcolm, who laughed again. ‘I was going to head out alone, but the doors were locked, and then Tad appeared, all dishevelled and post-cooking sweaty. He looked rather attractive, actually. Bit young for me I suppose, but…’ She shrugged. ‘Might serve Kelly right, if I shagged some random bloke. Might make the Straker reconsider his behaviour.’
Amy studied Billie’s expression. Was she being serious? There was no doubt that Billie’s looks were enough to catch more than casual attention. She might be chasing down her fortieth birthday, but Billie knew how to stay in shape. In the many TV studios Amy had frequented, the make-up artists would always fawn over Billie’s glossy dark hair; her cheekbones; her wide-set, large eyes. Apparently, she was a make-up artist’s dream, and Amy had to concede Billie always looked fabulous whenever she’d made appearances on TV. Managed to deliver her acerbic opinion while looking a million dollars.
But this was unusual. A deliberate move to grab Tad’s attention. Was it genuine? A real reaction to Billie’s situation with Kelly? Or was she playing games with Tad, using him to influence the way this week would pan out?
If it was the latter, Amy wondered how long it would take Tad to work out he was a mouse in a game of catch, with Billie sharpening her cougar claws in preparation.
As Amy speared a piece of melon, chewing at it absently, her overwhelming feeling though was one of a weighty disappointment. Because if Billie had her sights set on monopolising Tad, Amy might as well bury right now the way Tad had started to make her feel.
* * *
As Tad made his final preparations for the first official lesson of the week, he did his best to push away the sting he still felt at Amy’s dismissive comments to Billie about him being Scottish. To be pigeonholed in that way was irritating. And it wasn’t even accurate – not that he was about to spill his guts about his parentage in an attempt to grab the attention of a woman who seemed so keen on stereotypes. She might have taken his attention in a way he’d doubted he’d ever feel again, but he had far more important aspects of this week to focus on.
