Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2018

Copyright © Fern Britton 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Fern Britton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008264611

Ebook Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008264628

Version: 2018-02-16

Dedication

To all new readers,

I hope you have fun x

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Read on for an extract of Fern’s new novel, Coming Home

About the Author

By the same author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Richard was cold.

Cold and wet.

His silver hair, wet with raindrops, flopped over his forehead as he hunched into his tweed overcoat, and turned against the wind and penetrating rain. God, but England could be miserable in the winter.

He should be in Massachusetts, but here he was, spending ten days in the UK. A very old friend had persuaded him to make a cameo appearance in a film directed by a young whizz-kid who needed a leg up the Hollywood ladder.

He hadn’t wanted to do it. He’d had a busy year and was in need of a break.

Physically and mentally.

It was a mess.

The director didn’t know her arse from her elbow and the crew were just as clueless. He was losing patience, and his cold, which had set in on the flight over from LA, filled his nose, ears and brains.

He was not a happy man.

Tizzy, the director, had finished bossing everyone around and was ready at last.

‘Here we go and … action.’

Richard opened his mouth but, to his embarrassment, no words came out.

‘Cut!’ shouted Tizzy impatiently. She stomped up to him. ‘What is the matter?’

He smiled as nicely as he could. ‘Sorry, I forgot the line.’

‘Got it now? Or do you want Sadie to give you the script, again?’

‘No, no. It’s fine.’ His patience was almost lost, but he hung onto it.

She turned and walked quickly back to her position. He heard her tutting to Jango, ‘He forgot his fricking lines. I knew we should have got Jim Broadbent.’ She looked at Richard as if he was stupid. ‘Sure you’re OK, Rich?’

He smiled tightly.

‘Good. And, action.’

He delivered the line, and he knew he’d got the thought behind it and the delivery spot on.

‘Keep rolling and let’s do it again, before we lose the light. Try and give us a smile at the end of the line, Rich,’ Tizzy shouted.

They did it seven more times. Each time she asked for a different tone or expression. At last the crew told her the light had gone for the day.

Richard gladly put on his coat and headed back towards his trailer.

Instead of following the path to his trailer, though, he turned his collar up and looked for the footpath he knew would get him to the main road.

It ran between two high hedges and smelt of rotting greenery.

Walking now down the dark road, Richard tried to get his brain to think sensibly and make a plan. But it was impossible. He just knew he had to get as far away from the set as possible.

When he heard a car coming from behind, he pulled his collar up and walked into the shadows.

The car slowed, moving at his pace. He heard the purr of an electric window.

‘Mr Gere? Richard? You OK?’

Richard stopped walking and the car stopped too. He looked at his driver, Kevin, sitting warm in his comfortable car.

‘I don’t want to go back,’ he said.

‘To the hotel?’ Kevin asked.

Richard looked at his shoes and didn’t answer.

‘Where do you want to go?’ Kevin said.

‘Away from here.’

‘Fair enough. Any ideas?’

‘How far are we from Cornwall?’ Richard asked after a pause.

Kevin laughed. ‘A bloody long way.’

Just before midnight, June, Kevin’s wife, saw her husband’s car turn onto the driveway of their neat 1930s semi. She watched as Kevin got out and opened the back door for his passenger.

‘Oh, blimey, Butler,’ June said to her little dog as the passenger got out. ‘It bloody well is Richard Gere.’

She ran to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and then to the front door to let Kevin and their visitor in.

‘Hello. Do come in. Make yourself at home. I’ve got the kettle on.’

Richard shook her hand. ‘I’m so sorry to land on you like this, but Kevin insisted it would be OK.’

The boiled kettle beeped from the kitchen. ‘Of course it’s OK. We’re not the Dorchester but I do a nice pot of tea. Give me your coat.’

Richard walked into the homely comfort of the living room. Family photos on the mantelpiece. A large chintz sofa and two matching armchairs. An enormous television in the corner and a pair of glamorous velvet curtains at the bay window.

June came in, carrying a tray crammed with small side plates, dainty sandwiches and a Battenberg cake. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but you’ll sleep better with a full tummy. Kevin, come and get the tea tray, would you, please?’

Sitting on the sofa and taking in the wonderful normality, Richard began to relax. Tomorrow he’d call his agent and tell her he was fine. He just needed to take some time out. No big deal. Actors walked off films all the time.

June sat back with her best cup and saucer. ‘Kev says you want to go to Cornwall.’

‘I have old friends there who I haven’t seen for far too long.’

‘Of course, you helped to save the old Pavilions theatre with that film. We’ve been once or twice since it was renovated, haven’t we, Kev? It’s really special now. Your photo is up on the wall in the foyer. Pride of place.’

‘You’ve been to Trevay?’ Richard asked, amazed.

‘Well, yes.’ June passed him a plate of chocolate biscuits. ‘Kev and I have a caravan just about ten minutes away. Rocky Cliffs Holiday Park. It’s lovely. We bought it when the kids were small. Do you know Rocky Cliffs?’

Kevin tutted. ‘Why would he know a caravan park? I expect he stayed at the Starfish.’

Richard munched his biscuit and tickled the dog, Butler. ‘I have stayed at the Starfish. A lovely hotel.’

‘Well, you can’t stay at the Starfish this time, can you?’ said Kevin. ‘Not if you want to stay away from people and cameras. Can you stay with your friends?’

June suddenly clutched Kevin’s arm. ‘I’ve had a thought. Why don’t you take Richard down to the caravan? No one will go looking for him there. It’s ever so quiet at this time of year. It’s the last place they’d think of.’

‘I’d love to stay there.’

‘Are you sure?’ Kevin asked uncertainly.

June stopped him. ‘It’s just what he needs. Look how relaxed you get when you’re there. I reckon a bit of sea air away from the nutters will do you good.’ She looked from one man to the other and made their minds up for them. ‘That’s sorted then. You can go tomorrow. You need a good night’s sleep first, though. You’ve both had a long day, and look at the time! The middle of the night. Kev, take Richard up to his room and show him the bathroom.’

Richard stood up. ‘I can’t thank you enough, June. I feel better than I have for days.’ He gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. She noted his distinctive scent of cologne. Heavenly.

‘Oh. Well. It’s our pleasure,’ she said.

‘Can I help you with these trays and the washing-up?’ he asked.

‘No, no. Off to bed with you. Go on. I won’t be long.’

June watched as her husband and the handsome film star climbed the stairs. Then she went to the kitchen to load the dishwasher. Finally she let Butler out for a last wee, and saw her reflection in the kitchen window. ‘Oh, June,’ she said, touching her cheek. ‘You’ve just been kissed by Richard Gere.’

Chapter 2

In the Cornish village of Pendruggan, the early morning sun was shining brightly.

At the Dolphin pub, the landlady, Dorrie, had cleaned the bar and the lavatories. She was now upstairs in her favourite armchair with a cup of coffee and the newspaper waiting by her side. This was one of her favourite times in the day; the place was her own, at least until the lunchtime drinkers arrived.

The old pub settled around her as she closed her eyes and sipped her coffee.

Her two boys were at sea working on the fishing boats. They wouldn’t be home until the end of the week. Don, her husband, was building a conservatory for some second-home owners in Trevay.

She opened her eyes and looked happily on the lane winding down to the village. Twists of woodsmoke came from several chimneys, and a couple were walking their dogs on the green. The Atlantic Ocean sparkled beyond. All was well with the world.

She picked up the day’s paper by her side and took another sip of coffee before reading the headline:

FILM ACTOR RICHARD GERE IS

MISSING

She almost choked.

At the vicarage, on the other side of the village green, Penny was enjoying the quiet of her kitchen. Her husband, Simon, was across the hall in his study asking for divine guidance as he typed out his Sunday sermon. She should be in her own office, opposite Simon’s, working on the budget for a new project.

But instead she rummaged in her bag for her phone and gave in to the guilty pleasure of checking Twitter. She checked her news app first.

Moments later she crashed open Simon’s office door.

‘Richard 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.’

Chapter 3

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 tried them on. He was a little smaller than Kevin, which gave the whole outfit a better look. ‘I love this hat.’

‘It’s my fishing hat. Don’t lose it. It has sentimental value,’ Kevin joked.

Richard adjusted the clothes and hat, and then put on his glasses. ‘There, how do I look?’

‘Like a local.’

‘Do you think people will recognise me?’

Kevin gave him a full head-to-toe survey.

‘As long as you don’t speak, you’ll be fine.’

‘Have you forgotten I’m an actor?’ asked Richard. ‘Listen.’ He cleared his throat and then said in a West London voice, ‘How now, brown cow.’

Kevin was amazed. ‘Not bad. Not bad at all. Where did you learn that?’

‘I lived in London in 1973. Worked in the West End doing Grease.’

‘Grease?’

‘The musical. Before John Travolta made the movie, I played his part. Danny Zuko.’

‘You did?’

‘Yep, and while I was over here I practised the accent. It’s come in useful once or twice.’

‘Blimey, mate, it had bloody better do the job now, or you’re busted.’

‘OK, let’s go to Trevay and grab a coffee.’

As Kevin picked up his car keys, Richard asked, ‘Can you teach me how to talk like you? Some of that cockney slang?’

‘Of course, me old china plate. Lesson one starts as soon as we get on the frog and toad.’

As Kevin and Richard drove to Trevay, the rest of the country was waking up to newspapers running pages and pages of photos of Richard; then and now. Details of his work and love affairs. Comments from ‘film buffs’, ‘close friends’ and leggy young women – all keen to get themselves in the paper whether they had met him or not.

Chapter 4

A gang of reporters arrived outside the vicarage, taking it in turns to bang on the door and shout through the letter box.

Dorrie was furious. ‘I’m ringing Don. He’ll come and thump them.’

Simon was alarmed. ‘No need for that. I’ll go out and reason with them.’

Penny was alarmed now. ‘No, you won’t. Anyway, it’s cold out there.’

‘Penny, it’ll be fine.’ He reached for his fleece. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

As Simon opened the front door, he was met by a storm of questions from the pack outside. Penny and Dorrie dodged out of sight into his office and peeked through the curtains.

Simon was holding his hands up to silence the gang. ‘Good morning …’

But before he could go on, a voice shouted, ‘What’s your name?’

‘I am Simon Canter. Vicar of this parish. I assume you want to know where Richard Gere is?’

‘Is he hiding in the church?’ called an old hack from the back. The others sniggered.

Simon tried to regain control. ‘My wife and I have no idea where Richard is, but he is most definitely not here.’

‘Are you concerned about his disappearance?’ asked a wide-eyed young reporter from the Daily Mirror holding a tape recorder towards Simon.

‘Well, of course we are worried, but he has many friends and he knows he’s welcome here.’

A television cameraman was standing at the back of the small crowd and filming everything.

‘And your wife?’ asked the girl from the Daily Mirror again. ‘How is she?’ she asked with a suspicious tone, unaware of the simple friendship between Penny and Richard.

‘Like anyone, she is very concerned and upset.’

‘Do you have a message for Mr Gere if he’s watching?’ shouted a voice.

Simon hesitated. ‘Richard, wherever you are, I hope you know that a lot of people are worried for you and …’ He hadn’t time to finish. The front door behind him flew open and Penny grabbed his arms. She pulled him back into the house and slammed the door in the faces of the press.

‘Ow,’ he said, rubbing his arms. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘There’s a television camera shooting the whole thing. You’ve just given the press the best soundbite they’ll get today. How could you?’

Simon’s expression turned from pain to horror to apology. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes, OH!’ shouted Penny. ‘I told you not to go out there.’

Dorrie looked at her watch. ‘I’d better get back to the pub for opening. I’ll go out the back way. Call me if you get any news.’

‘Likewise,’ said Penny, kissing her friend.

As she watched Dorrie climbing over the garden wall and edging around the graveyard to avoid the press, her mobile pinged with a text. It was from her best and oldest friend, Helen:

I’ve just seen the news. I’m coming over.

Penny replied: Come through the back door. Reporters at the front. We are under siege!!!!

Helen shut the front door of her cottage – which was called Gull’s Cry – and looked across the village green to the vicarage. There were several strange cars, a couple of Range Rovers and a BBC Cornwall radio car. By the front gate a group of men and women were either on their phones, stamping their feet, smoking, or doing all three.

Penny was waiting for her in the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please. How long have those idiots been outside for?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Really? What do they think they’re going to get?’

‘God knows. Come into the lounge. Simon may be on the telly in a minute.’

On the sofa, Simon was sitting, ashen-faced, watching himself give his surprise press conference.

‘Oh, God,’ said Penny, sitting down heavily next to him.

‘Shit,’ said Helen under her breath as she sat in an armchair.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Simon blinked behind his glasses.

Penny put an arm around him and squeezed. ‘You weren’t to know,’ she said, aware of how her relationship with Richard may have been misjudged.

Chapter 5

Just below the Starfish Hotel, Kevin was parking the car in the harbour car park. Richard nudged Kevin and pointed up to the headland above the village. ‘There she is. The reason I came here in the first place.’

Kevin looked at the familiar silver dome of the 1950s ice-cream coloured theatre. ‘The old Pavilions,’ he said, smiling. ‘June and I went last summer. The local theatre group put on Annie Get Your Gun. Really good, it was.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Give me some change and I’ll get a parking ticket.’

‘You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. Who’d recognise me with this haircut and outfit?’

Kevin watched as Richard strolled to the ticket machine. The harbour master and another man were walking towards the harbour master’s office. They looked at Richard and then ignored him.

Kevin relaxed, and then watched as Richard fumbled with the unfamiliar coins and the machine. Successful, he returned smiling and gave the ticket to Kevin. ‘That’s for the jar parking.’

Kevin shook his head. ‘Haven’t you been listening to me? You don’t say “jar”, you say “jam”. Car rhymes with jar, but to confuse the old bill you say “jam” for jam jar.’

‘The old bill?’ asked Richard.

‘Shut your gob and cover your barnet and your boat with my titfer.’

Richard stopped in his tracks and started to laugh. ‘Stop, stop. What are you saying to me? You’re making it up.’

Kevin sighed. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ he said. ‘Come and get a coffee and stop drawing attention to yourself.’

They walked towards the Sail Loft café, a new coffee house and wine bar on a side street away from the harbour. On the way Richard pulled out his phone and saw he had a signal. Kevin was outside the newsagent’s and about to go in. ‘I’ll wait for you out here,’ said Richard. ‘Just going to make a call.’

Richard scrolled down his contacts list. He was going to try phoning Simon and Penny again. When he’d phoned earlier he’d been put off by the answer phone. Maybe they were away? He’d try again. But before he could, Kevin came out of the newsagent’s looking worried, with several newspapers in his hand. Richard hung up without leaving a message. ‘What’s the matter, Kev?’

Kevin unfolded two of the front pages while looking around to make sure no one was watching. ‘You’re on every bloody front page, mate.’

Richard felt the world tilt a little under his feet. What had he started? All he’d wanted was some peace and a moment to step out of his life, and now he was being hunted? He drew a deep breath. He had three choices. Run and hide. Turn up again and apologise. Get a coffee and think.

‘Come on, let’s get that coffee.’ He slung his arm around Kevin’s shoulder and together they walked to the Sail Loft.

Inside it was warm and comforting. A group of young women with babies was at one table juggling cappuccinos with breastfeeding. The women glanced up to check out the two older men as they came in.

What they saw was a bald man with a beer belly and a scarf wrapped around his cheery face, and his unshaven companion with very short, scruffy white hair poking out from under a baseball cap. They quickly dismissed them and went on with their chatter.

A young waiter approached. He wore tight black jeans over his skinny legs and his hair was half shaved and half in a ponytail. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Can I take your order?’

Richard kept his head down and looked at the front page of the Daily Mail. Kevin ordered two lattes with extra shots.

The waiter wrote the order down. ‘Anything to eat? Toasted teacake?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Kevin.

The waiter peered over Richard’s shoulder and read the headline. ‘I wonder what’s happened to him. He came down here once. I never saw him but my mum did.’

‘What was he like?’ asked Richard in his English accent.

‘She said he looked old but still nice.’ The boy pushed his notebook into the front pocket of his low-slung apron. ‘Two coffees coming up.’

When the waiter had left them, Richard asked, ‘How bad are the other papers?’

‘Pretty bad. Front page of all the tabloids, the Telegraph and the Guardian.’

‘What’s the mood?’

Kevin opened the Mirror and scanned the story inside.

‘They’re saying your disappearance is the biggest mystery since Agatha Christie ran off. They’re concerned about you. They think you might have had a breakdown, or run off with a lover, or gone stark staring mad.’ He put the paper down and picked up another. ‘The Sun has a reward for information leading to your discovery.’

Richard perked up. ‘Really? How much?’

‘Two tickets to your new film and dinner at Gordon Ramsay’s place with the Sun’s film critic.’

The waiter arrived with their coffees. As Richard stirred his, Kevin asked, ‘Look, mate, if you want to go back, just say the word. But for what it’s worth, I think you need this time just to get real again. I’ll stay with you as long as you need me and do whatever you want.’

Richard looked up from his coffee. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I like a little adventure in my life. Something to tell the grandchildren. And anyway, you can’t go anywhere until your hair has grown back again.’

Richard was grateful for the friendship of this kind and honest man and began to relax again. So far no one had noticed him, so maybe he could just disappear for a little while longer. ‘I owe you, Kevin,’ he said.

‘You sure bloody do. Fish and chips, clothes shop and this coffee.’

Kevin reached over and swatted Richard with the rolled-up Mirror. ‘I’m joking, you silly sod. What are friends for?’

Richard smiled. ‘You’ve saved my sanity.’

‘Oh, don’t go bleeding soft on me. There are mackerel to catch and pints to be drunk, and they aren’t going to do it by themselves.’

Kevin left some money on the table with a hefty tip to avoid any chat with the waiter and got Richard outside.

‘Have you ever had a pasty?’ he asked.

‘My friends Penny and Simon tried to feed me one once, but I managed to dodge it.’

‘You don’t know what you’ve missed.’

They walked down the narrow cobbled street that led to the harbour, following the smell of onions, warm pastry and butter as they got closer to the Trevay Pasty Shop.

The front window was piled high with pasties of every size and flavour. Vegetarian, curry, lamb and mint, cheese and onion. Kevin pulled Richard in.

‘Two large traditional steak pasties, please,’ he said to the lady behind the counter.

‘Anything else, my love?’ she asked as she expertly slipped them into two paper bags and twisted the ends.

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