Hidden Treasures by Fern Britton

Author:Fern Britton [Britton, Fern]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780007362721
Google: Jg_AXZkUZdQC
Amazon: 0007362722
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2012-03-28T23:00:00+00:00

28

The world of a film set is a magical universe, Helen thought as she stood staring out of her bedroom window, drinking her morning tea. It was only 7.30 a.m. but through the winter gloom she could just make out the goings on around the village green.

The council houses to her left had disappeared behind a massive timber wall on which the scenic artists had painted two beautiful thatched and terraced eighteenth-century cottages. Next door to them was painted Mr Tibbs’ bank, the South-West Friendly, an imposing Edwardian red-brick building with a pillared entrance and curlicued window sills. Next to that were a couple of Victorian buildings: the post office and the village shop.

Helen watched Queenie as she collared a young male crew member carrying a walkie-talkie. Whatever she was saying to him, he clearly couldn’t help her. Shaking his head in apology, he moved away, leaving Queenie to walk as quickly as her rolling gait would allow back to her shop. Apparently it was there her problem lay: two red double-decker buses had been parked right in front of her entrance. As Helen looked on, a breathless Queenie reached the buses and started gesticulating at the bus drivers. Though they were smiling and piling on the charm for her, it didn’t look as if they were going to budge.

Smiling, Helen checked her reflection in her cheval mirror. She hoped she’d chosen the right image for her first real day on set. Her skinny black jeans, black suede trainers and black cashmere roll-neck jumper set her newly bobbed auburn hair off well. Her eyebrows had new definition and her top lip and chin were as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom.

Penny had apologised for speaking the truth so cruelly and had treated Helen to a day at the Starfish spa to make it up to her.

Downstairs, she collected her all-weather anorak from the hook by the back door, a large cardboard box from the front door and went out into the biting late January air.

She didn’t have far to go. Turning right out of her gate, she had only to walk the fifty paces to one of the two holiday cottages next door.

The front door was wide open to reveal the Mavis Crewe location production office. Booking the cottage had been one of the last things Charlie had managed to arrange before the disastrous events of the skiing weekend.

A couple of young men were huddled round the tea urn chatting and waiting for orders. Helen recognised the director, Sven, whom Penny had introduced to her the night she’d volunteered to fill in for Charlie. He was sitting in an armchair with his feet up on a low coffee table, stroking his wispy beard and listening intently to a young woman with Titian hair wound up on her head and secured with a bulldog clip. She was wearing baggy jeans with a walkie-talkie radio clipped on to the back pocket and her small feet were clad in green Doc Martens. The whole look was topped off with a short, navy quilted jacket.

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