What Happened to Fan Fic Phoebe: A Doc Martin Mystery
Khyber Love, its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Poppyfield Productions. We are grateful to Ramint Slunec and Tabitha Wire Alipphi, the co-creators and producers of Khyber Love, for allowing us to play about with their brilliant story.
Previously in Fac Fic Phoebe: Inspired by Anthony - the imaginary squirrel disguised as a rat - David, Babs, India, Stewart and Louisa freed Phoebe Nielsen from the clutches of her former Broadmoor patient, Billy Chumley. The rescue was not without incident as Billy slashed David's shoulder, Stewart's arm and the botulinum toxin-filled cheek belonging to Babs. We now join Martin Ellingham nearly six months later.
Chapter 12 – Saint Martin de Clunes
Eventually, the Khyber Love cast and crew left our village, taking with them annoying fans from around the world. Families on holiday soon replaced them, and it wasn't until late September that I was able to enjoy the peace of Portwenn. Tom Giddens had finally allowed a return to our leptospirosis-free home, and we were settled before Louisa resumed her headmistress duties.
Foolish Halloween celebrations were followed by the ridiculous Guy Fawkes bonfires. As Christmas approached, Louisa was excited by James Henry's enchantment with Father Christmas. Unfortunately, she was equally excited about the last episode of Khyber Love set to be shown on Boxing Day. I had avoided the show as it was nothing more than time-wasting television.
"Martin," Louisa waited until I was deep into an article about bacterial vaginosis, "would you mind if I had a few friends over to watch the last episode of Khyber Love? Perhaps have a buffet of savouries and sweets as well. It would be no bother to you. Stay in your study if you like."
"Fine with me, but it's only the first of December. You'll have time enough to organise later. Now look over the plans for the Orangerie on the south side. You've been promising that for weeks." Louisa still had difficulty following my suggestions, but I was learning patience had its merits.
Christmas was a revelation for James as he wondered over the new toys brought by this magical Father Christmas. We arrived at Aunt Ruth's for an early dinner to find David Rhys and my assistant, Archibald McGwethey moping about like scorned schoolboys. Phoebe Nielsen had seemingly dropped Rhys, and McGwethey moaned that his fiancé was off to Thailand without him. Over a second glass of port, Aunt Ruth casually mentioned that Scotland Yard had no further interest in Dr. Nielsen nor did the Devon & Cornwall inspectors. After questioning her at the Royal Cornwall Hospital, Phoebe had unceremoniously returned to London. Ruth received only a gracious bread and butter note from her old friend and colleague, but no one had heard from Phoebe in half a year.
Had I been paying more attention to Louisa's chattering instead of James Henry's messy eating habits, I would have learned that India and Danny Steel had a house party of guests, including Babs, Nigel Lockhart and – most amazingly - Tabitha Wire Alipphi. In lieu of imprisonment under the Criminal Damages Act, Danko and Ramint Slunec had paid steep fines for their role in the St. Endilenta bombing. They were living in a London flat let by Babs whilst Tabitha remained at the terrace house in Ealing. Divorce was imminent.
My interest in the conversation was piqued only when Louisa authoritatively declared: "Poor Tabitha had no idea what Ramint was up to. Of course, you never know the man you marry until it's too late." I made a mental note to discuss that comment with Louisa rather than ignore it and let my insecurity get the best of me.
During the short drive to our home, Louisa entertained James with music from the Christmas film, Nativity 3, so there was no chance to talk A few answerphone messages had to be returned, and Louisa was nearly asleep when I joined her in bed. "Don't forget the party tomorrow night, Martin. You can cry away if you like. Night now."
I thought nothing more of Louisa's comment during the next day's home visits to elderly patients and obligatory stops at Boxing Day gatherings. Villagers were eagerly anticipating the Khyber Love Christmas special which would have numerous scenes filmed in the Portwenn area. I had what Aunt Ruth described as "people exhaustion" on arriving home. The first hint of trouble was the decrepit red van from Large's Restaurant parked in the road. Even with a plumbing emergency, Louisa could find someone better than Bert Large to repair our delicate water and sewer lines.
"Oh, well now, there he is. Our genial host, Doc Martin. Come into the kitchen with me Doc. I've an assortment of Afghan specialties you'll want to try – kebabs, qabeli palow and these flat little breads Jenny found at the Tesco's in Delabole. Of course, your missus has gone the traditional way with roast beef, miniature pasties, and let's not forget her delectable Cornish buns. This time she's been careful of the nutmeg."
"Louisa," I called, fleeing Bert and moving about the chairs crowding our home.
"Hello, darling. Al's helping me set up the tellies. I've borrowed one from him and one from Ruth. We'll have them in here, the dining room and hall, so that everyone may watch. Crikey, two hours before the show! We must finish before the guests arrive. Martin could you see to James Henry's bedtime. He's in the nursery with his new toys."
Fearful that Louisa had left my son unattended, I rushed up the stairs to find James jabbering away with Barbara Bosley Bournham and – of all people - the renowned plastic surgeon, Abbas Bashiri. The two were sitting on the floor with James, taking turns rolling a bright red ball to him. His squeals of delight were heightened when he saw me and lifted his arms to be held.
"Here, let me hand him to you Ellingham. Bloody good to see you. It's been forever." Bashiri had been a surgical registrar with me at St. John's before we declared our specialties – I entered vascular and he the more lucrative field of cosmetics. "When Babs told me you'd be our host, I couldn't resist. What an idyllic life you have. This quiet village, wonderful home, beautiful wife and brilliant son. You've done well, Ellingham."
"Dearest," Babs could not be long without attention, "give a girl a hand."
After helping Babs to her feet, Bashiri kissed her now flawless right cheek: "Martin, you turn a woman from a scar faced monster into a beauty and she bewitches you. Makes you fall in love with her. You never had that problem with Louisa. She's perfection itself."
"Not true. Louisa has suffered glaucoma, oesophageal issues, anaemia, de Clerambault's syndrome, a broken collarbone, an arteriovenous malformation – and then there was the perineal tearing . . . "
"Martin!" Louisa had appeared at the door. "I'm certain our guests don't need a recitation of my medical history. I'll give James a cuddle and kiss and then see to the buffet. Babs could you help with the cakes and Abbas the drinks?"
"The three went off in a cloud of social self-importance as I confided to James Henry: "That poor sod, Bashiri, has no idea what he's gotten into with Babs." James frowned and whinged "Baa, Baa, Baa." Of course, Babs had similarly bewitched my son in a previous visit to Portwenn, and he was quick to defend her. Perhaps my old colleague was the one who had done well.
By the time James was settled for the night, I braced myself for a rapid walk through the main floor to my study. Ursula and a pack of Fan Fic writers spotted me and insisted I greet Tabitha Wire Alipphi. She stood near the kitchen, a dark haired man attentively at her side. Surprised that she recognized me, Tabitha smiled warmly: "Dominic, this is Doctor Martin Ellingham who was terribly helpful during our stay in Portwenn. Dominic and his sister are developing a new show to be commissioned by VTI. It's to be called Love Cornwall Cottage and will be set in the West Country, likely Portwenn. The scenery is splendid, and Louisa adores the concept."
Spare me. We had only rid Portwenn of the Khyber Love hordes, and now my wife wanted more filming! "I'm certain she does. She is very fond of her village. If you'll excuse me."
I carefully made my way through a throng of strangers carrying plates piled with unhealthy and ill-smelling food. Louisa stopped me and offered a tray of starters. I held up my hands in horror at its overly-salted contents. "Oh Martin, have a taste. It's in keeping with the show."
"I'll have not so much as an Olive Louisa. Now I have work in my study."
Louisa treated me to the look I remembered from the night Phoebe Nielsen first appeared in my surgery kitchen: "Please stay. Be one of us." Alright then, I would watch the bloody, horrid Khyber Love!
Louisa kissed my flawless right cheek in thanks, then exclaimed: "Five minutes to the start. Gather your food and drink, find a comfortable spot and quiet down for Portwenn's television debut!" Applause greeted her announcement followed by the quick silence only a teacher can command with one well-directed look. Pauline and Al scurried about switching on the tellies and dimming lights.
Fanfare for Fenella opened the episode, accompanied by the stirring view of Simon Siddiqi astride his white horse, galloping across the poppy fields of Afghanistan. Some Portwenn scenes were familiar: the arrival of the red-sailed dhow bearing Simon's parents, his clambering up the rope ladder, riding a horse to the Platt where he met his two love interests.
Indoor scenes between Simon and Jennifer or Fenella were much more intense. They argued fiercely and with much petulance from each woman. Anyone to dare even sneeze during one of their rows was hushed by the multitudes. After two long adverts, the next bit began at St. Endielenta's Parish with the warlord and baroness greeting their son's guests. When the wedding party moved inside, I realised that the filming had been completed at St Enfyslords Church where James Henry had been christened.
Simon, his best man and the vicar entered the sanctuary as the organ swelled with I Vow to Thee, My Country, an odd choice for a wedding processional. The bride appeared at the vestibule, but the camera captured only a rear view as she swayed down the aisle wrapped in a cocoon of dense white netting. The scene then shifted to the maid of honour who decorously dabbed at her eyes with a hankie proffered by Nigel Lockhart's partner, Gerhardt, who took the role of best man.
"Well who's the maid of honour then? I've never seen her before. No clue there." Louisa hissed to quiet Morwenna Newcross, but not before Babs added: "That's an appallingly ugly dress she's wearing. Whoever the bride may be, she won't be upstaged as Kate was by Pippa!"
Laughter overcame the group and even Louisa could not stop the fevered speculation. "Is it the blonde Jennifer? Or the ginger, Fenella?" Bodies moved forward trying to identify the bride. During the marriage vows, Simon appeared in close up, then the camera cut away to an older couple - presumably the bride's parents. We saw their daughter again only from the back as she left the church on Simon's arm.
I did not recognize the melodic recessional and looked questioningly to Roger Fenn, slouching next to me: "Miss Fantasy. Lindsey Buckingham wrote it about Stevie Nicks. Strange song for a wedding because they never got together." I nodded, thankful that Louisa had consulted Fenn's blog, BeatlesLover123, for our wedding music. Perhaps Tabitha and Ramint should have done the same.
"Hold on, mate, here's my bit," Roger pointed to the telly.
A familiar red Bentley arrived at the church yard, and Fenn - looking quite smart in chauffeur's kit - opened the rear door for the couple. Simon gallantly handed his bride into the car, and Roger whisked them away. Silence fell over the stunned audience until I stood and proclaimed: "Well there you have it. Time to go. Please don't spill any food or drink as you leave. Hurry on then." I couldn't wait to be rid of the lot.
The only response was jeering voices ordering me to shush as another advert ended and the word "Epilogue" danced across the telly screens. "Good evening to all the loyal Khyber Love fans. I am Ramint Slunec, and I wish to thank you on behalf of Poppyfield Productions and VTI for this phenomenal success. As the show's creator and producer, I am pleased to share some fantastic plans with you."
"What's that tosser doing," Tabitha shouted angrily. "It's bad enough he cocked up the ending, now this 'epilogue' business? And who's that blonde tart?"
Slunec continued: "Allow me to introduce Pamela Needham who will be writing a smashing sequel to Khyber Love. As you know, Nigel Lockhart has joined the cast of Dr. Who, and we wish him well in his new endeavour. We wanted to spare you a Downton Abbey-type scene in which a major character dies in an automobile accident. Alas, that is the fate of Simon Siddiqi. In fact, it happens during his Cornish honeymoon.
"Simon's bride is so taken with the countryside that she remains in the fictitious fishing village of Saint Martin de Clunes. Apparently there is an irascible GP in the actual village of Portwenn, and Pamela believes we can develop quite a story arc along those lines. Simon's widow is young, spirited and outgoing. She is easily able to change the grumpy physician. Other than that, we will aim for realism, and much of the show will be filmed in Cornwall. You will also learn whether it is Jennifer or Fenella who becomes Simon's widow and the GP's love interest."
"What the bloody hell? He's nicked the sequel to my show! Love CCxxxx belongs to me. I'm Poppyfield Productions and he's - nothing. Diane A call my solicitor ASAP."
"But Tabitha - we're trending on Twitter." The assistant held her mobile aloft.
"Do as I say and make it ASAP." Tabitha was furious. "Dominic can write circles around that Pamela person – whoever she might be."
"Uhm, I may know her," Abbas Bashiri offered quietly. "Well, I don't really know who she is, but I did her work. Her face was truly a fright, and she asked to look twenty years younger."
"You did a wonderful job, darling. Now tell us more." Babs was the first to ask but a chorus of "who is she, who is she" followed.
"I've no idea. It was my understanding that she was in some sort of witness protection program. I think the Americans call it a Chapin Protocol. I saw her only once after removing the dressings, but even I'm impressed with how good she looks. The puncture wounds to her face were hideous but now she's quite lovely."
"I turned my attention from Bashiri to the nearest telly where Slunec prattled on and the camera occasionally focused on a silent Pamela Needham. "Wait a minute, what's that," I pointed to the screen. "Her left eye. It's milky. She has a cataract. I remember seeing it . . ." and then I stopped.
"What do you mean, Martin? Seeing it when," my wife frowned. I had been repeatedly warned by Louisa not to comment on medical issues I spotted in random strangers.
"Uhm, never mind. I was mistaken."
Pamela Needham was not a registered patient, but - like Abbas Bashiri - I had treated her. My old colleague could not identify Miss Needham, but I could. But then, why should I? It would only cause more distress for Aunt Ruth, David Rhys, Tabitha, the fans and writers who had invested so much in the Khyber Love saga.
I could keep a secret. I would let it rest. Not even Louisa could pry it from me.
I knew what happened to Fan Fic Phoebe!
The End
Author's Note: Like the anagrammed "Ramint Slunec," I would like to thank the loyal readers who followed a tale that was more fun to write than to read. Another Fan Fic writer did not want the character of "Barbara Bosley Bournham" to disappear. So this story is dedicated to Snowsie, a writer of great talent, who may now imagine Babs Bashiri's new adventures as the wife of a prominent London surgeon.
As an homage to my fellow Fan Fiction writers, I mentioned most in the various chapters. I left the dubious honor of being the last named to Chapin, who once worried that I would be forced into a witness protection program because of a controversial Fan Fic I had written. Perhaps I will go into a Chapin Protocol or I may just "Dance Me to the End of Love." But that's another story.