Книга - Doubting Abbey

Doubting Abbey
Samantha Tonge


Hilarious and heartwarming, spend your holiday season with Gemma and AbbeySwapping downstairs for upstairs… How hard can it be!?Look up the phrase ordinary girl and you’ll see a picture of me, Gemma Goodwin – I only look half-decent after applying the entire contents of my make-up bag, and my dating track-record includes a man who treated me to dinner…at a kebab shop. No joke!The only extraordinary thing about me is that I look EXACTLY like my BFF, Abbey Croxley. Oh, and that for reasons I can’t explain, I’ve agreed to swap identities and pretend be her to star in the TV show about her aristocratic family’s country estate, Million Dollar Mansion.So now it’s not just my tan I’m faking – it’s Kate Middleton style demure hemlines and lady-like manners too. And amongst the hundreds of fusty etiquette rules I’m trying to cram into my head, there are two I really must remember; 1) No-one can ever find out that I’m just Gemma, who’d be more at home in the servants quarters. And 2) There can be absolutely no flirting with Abbey’s dishy but buttoned-up cousin, Lord Edward.Aaargh, this is going to be harder than I thought…Praise for Samantha Tonge'I was hooked from the start, by this impressive debut novel' – Chicklit Club'This really was a humorous read, Gemma is such a witty character who always seems to get herself into mischief, I never expected this book to be a witty read but it was the humour that kept me hooked.' – Rea Book Reviews' Samantha Tonge has taken an every-day girl and stuck her in this crumbling manor where she has to pretend to be her best friend and help win a reality TV program. She takes all our guilty pleasures and wraps them in one good read.' – Novel Escapes









Swapping downstairs for upstairs… How hard can it be!?


Look up the phrase ordinary girl and you’ll see a picture of me, Gemma Goodwin – I only look half-decent after applying the entire contents of my make-up bag, and my dating track-record includes a man who treated me to dinner…at a kebab shop. No joke!

The only extraordinary thing about me is that I look EXACTLY like my BFF, Abbey Croxley. Oh, and that for reasons I can’t explain, I’ve agreed to swap identities and pretend be her to star in the TV show about her aristocratic family’s country estate, Million Dollar Mansion.

So now it’s not just my tan I’m faking – it’s Kate Middleton style demure hemlines and lady-like manners too. And amongst the hundreds of fusty etiquette rules I’m trying to cram into my head, there are two I really must remember; 1) No-one can ever find out that I’m just Gemma, who’d be more at home in the servants quarters. And 2) There can be absolutely no flirting with Abbey’s dishy but buttoned-up cousin, Lord Edward.

Aaargh, this is going to be harder than I thought…




Doubting Abbey

Samantha Tonge








Copyright (#u6bddc799-ff2a-5280-9d0c-b496f233e783)

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Samantha Tonge 2013

Samantha Tonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for 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, downloaded, 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.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472073778

Version date: 2018-07-23


SAMANTHA TONGE lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and two cats who think they are dogs. Along with writing, her days are spent swimming, willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at the EuroDisney theme park. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels and short stories for women’s magazines is her passion.

http://doubtingabbey.blogspot.co.uk/ (http://doubtingabbey.blogspot.co.uk/)

http://samanthatonge.co.uk/ (http://samanthatonge.co.uk/)


Huge thanks to Lucy Gilmour and the HQ Digital UK team for this opportunity and their enthusiasm. Same to my agent, Kate Nash, for all her hard work. Thanks to those writing friends who have unconditionally supported my journey to publication, in particular Caroline Green and Emma Darwin. I couldn’t have done it either, without the rest of the WriteWords crew, including Jon Gritton with his technical know-how. Plus I’ve appreciated input into my writing career from Shirley Blair at The People’s Friend.


For Martin, Immy and Jay – thanks for never doubting me.




Contents


Cover (#u3871be6b-4de2-59f5-8dc3-eff38f9a59dd)

Blurb (#u479cc9e5-00c7-549e-9adf-ee5ba1b45fac)

Title Page (#ucad8b5e5-74f0-5549-86b6-ae3903939f40)

Copyright

Author Bio (#u87aeb42d-deb3-5983-8a4e-7993381c57d9)

Acknowledgements (#u66ed102f-c032-5931-891f-ceb668488f3d)

Dedication (#u33c4826a-6001-5852-afc6-494c411c2423)

Chapter 1 (#ulink_09fa51d7-0d65-5099-89b4-0491084246b8)

Chapter 2 (#ulink_0d616964-b428-5f54-b57a-0efbd62d279c)

Chapter 3 (#ulink_3e2079c3-8889-5d80-8aaf-9eedb79c3847)

Chapter 4 (#ulink_b549a963-3da1-5fa4-8848-1ff0dcfb0c78)

Chapter 5 (#ulink_d3843e67-abe1-5443-a283-95bbd1e762b2)

Chapter 6 (#ulink_072ca9ca-bb0d-5ffc-b314-0bdb71f4b7c3)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Welcome to this blog. Your visit is appreciated. May I introduce myself – I am Lord Edward, the son of the Earl of Croxley. Our home, Applebridge Hall, is in the final of theMillion Dollar Mansioncompetition. For regular updates of our progress, please do grace this blog with your presence.

Monday 27


August

7p.m. Good evening, readers. Finally I write my first entry. Do bear with me, as I am new to blogging, which I see as a modern twist on my ancestors’ habit of keeping journals. The programme-makers insist you will be interested in my thoughts on the competition, so I shall attempt to bring honesty and some perspective to this diary.

Honest thought number one? Chaos has descended. The film crews arrived again today—cue a refresher course on camera and sound procedures. A national tabloid interviewed Father. To my irritation, the photographer suggested we both wore monocles and borrowed a cluster of the Queen’s corgis. Regardless of the fact I don’t know Her Majesty, my response equalled “over my dead body”.

Some perspective? I await a phone call from my, um, dear cousin, Abigail Croxley who, I’m sure, will confirm her intention to join us imminently. How we intend to beat the other finalist, the Baron of Marwick Castle, is still top secret. However, here is an exclusive clue: my cousin’s cooking knowledge will be an instrumental part of our tactics. I am very much looking forward to seeing her.

Best bit of today? Right now, sitting by myself in our tranquil library.

Worst? Gaynor, the director, handing me a DVD of Pride and Prejudice, along with a frilly white shirt and breeches. I made it quite clear that I am a down-to-earth gentleman who will never, under any circumstances, resemble some sort of romantic hero like Mr Darcy.




Chapter 1 (#ulink_e7875bff-3b5c-5c69-b68e-792cfd1eaf27)


Abbey was born to sophistication, whereas I was more Barbara than Buckingham Palace Windsor. The two of us had just got back from a goodbye lunch with our Pizza Parlour colleagues, and were standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Having toasted each of our redundancies, I felt a bit tiddly, but still sharp enough to realize this idea was bonkers.

‘Look, Abbey, I don’t know what’s behind this plan, but seriously…’ I smiled ‘…wise up. I could never trick people into thinking I was you, a member of the aristocracy. Ask me to mimic a…a pop star or footballer’s wife, then I’d give it a shot, but even then I dunno if I could live a lie for very long.’ With a grin, I shrugged. ‘Run this idea past me again.’ Perhaps I’d misheard.

Abbey’s bottom lip quivered. ‘It’s…um, no joke, Gemma – please, pretend to be me. Just for two weeks.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘Who else could I trust with such a mission?’

My jaw dropped. ‘Are you out of your mind? You know I’d flog all my make-up and fave shoes on eBay if it meant helping you get out of a scrape… But this? Abbey, mate…’ My eyes narrowed for a second. ‘Marcus next door hasn’t given you one of his funny-smelling cigarettes has he?’

‘Goodness, no!’ Abbey’s face broke into a smile. ‘Honestly, I quite understand your apprehension, but…’ She fiddled with the waistband of her skinny white trousers. ‘It’d only be for a fortnight and it is in a good cause.’ She took my hands and squeezed them. ‘Oh, please, Gemma. You’re the only person in the world who can pull this off. Remember when Laurence, the son of one of Mummy’s friends, stayed over a few weeks ago?’

Ooh, yeah. Hotter than Dad’s chilli con carne, he was, in that white scarf and tux.

‘He caught you fresh-faced in the morning,’ she said, ‘and insisted we looked terribly alike. If you dyed your brunette hair blonde, he joked we could pass as sisters, what with the same shape nose and blue eyes.’

‘He must have still had his beer goggles – or champers shades—on.’ I let my hands drop from her grip and looked down at my skimpy skirt, the streak of fake tan and high-heeled shoes. ‘Mind you…’ I giggled ‘…remember my first day at work?’

Abbey leant towards me and joined in the laughter. My chest glowed, glad to have cheered her up – but then it was funny, me being mistaken for her. Several members of staff had thought that Abbey – who already worked there – had suffered some sort of identity crisis and undergone a chavvy makeover. Or, in their opinion, makeunder. I should have been insulted at their relief when she’d turned up looking her usual sophisticated self.

‘Even the regular customers were fooled.’ I turned to the bathroom mirror for a moment. Personally, I couldn’t see a strong resemblance but time had taught me that the world at large occasionally considered us each other’s doppelganger.

Abbey’s grey-haired aunt came in, picked up a bottle of cleanser and passed it to me. ‘Do hurry up, Gemma – we only have ten days to complete your transformation.’

A bubble of laughter tickled the inside of my chest. Really? I mean, really? This wasn’t a wind-up? To humour them, I removed the make-up from half of my face. Minus one false eyelash and a cheek of bronzer, I resembled an unsymmetrical Picasso portrait.

I leant towards Abbey and whispered, ‘Come on, spill—tell me what this is really about and what she’s actually doing here.’

‘She has a name,’ said the old dear, who clearly had bionic hearing and a strict dinner lady stare.

‘How rude of me not to introduce my aunt formally,’ said Abbey with a sheepish smile at the old dear. ‘Gemma, this is Lady Constance Woodfold, my mother’s sister—she used to run her own finishing school.’

‘I’m sure you’ll look delightful without all that bronzer, Gemma,’ said Lady C (posh titles were too long to say in full, unless you were Lady Gaga). ‘Surely your mother would prefer to see your skin au naturel?’

‘No idea. She um…’ I cleared my throat ‘…Mum got ill when I was little and…’

Lady C’s cheeks tinged pink. ‘Do accept my apologies. Of course. Abigail told me of her demise.’ Her wrinkled face softened. ‘Was there no female relative on hand during your formative years?’

I almost chuckled. Didn’t people only speak like that on old BBC news reels?

‘Auntie Jan’s cool. If it wasn’t for her, I’d know nothing about clothes and make-up. People always mistook me for a boy, as a kid. When I hit the teen years, she intervened and even bought my first chicken fillets.’

‘She’s a proficient cook?’ said Lady C, brow furrowed.

I grinned. ‘They’re the inedible kind that you stick down your bra, to up the cup size.’

Lady C pursed her lips. ‘Those fake appendages must disappear, along with your heavy eye-liner. Then we can concentrate on the more important things you need to learn, like the art of good conversation and table manners.’

Huh? What was all this about?

The old woman glanced at Abbey. ‘Does Gemma not know yet that your Uncle James is in the final of Million Dollar Mansion?’

‘Whaaat?’ I almost choked on the word. ‘Your Dad’s brother? The one who inherited the family home—Apple…?’

‘Applebridge Hall?’ said Abbey. ‘Yes. That’s him.’

‘Amaaaaaazin’! I saw a clip of that programme! Castles and Tudor mansions and all sorts competing against each other to win a million dollars to set their place up as… what did they call it? A going concern… The dosh is up for grabs from some American billionaire obsessed with Downton Abbey. But how…? What…?’

‘All you need to know at this stage, dear,’ said Lady C, ‘is that Abigail is expected to help out with some catering project – no doubt serving cream teas in some shop they’ve probably constructed within a converted part of the estate. With its exciting armoury and dungeons, the Earl believes the opposition, Marwick Castle, could win. The Croxleys have owned Applebridge Hall since the sixteenth century, so must build on its strength of history, tradition and… family values.’ She stood up straighter. ‘Abbey is unable to go. That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? On the telly?’ Wow. So it wasn’t a joke. I bit my thumbnail. ‘Much as I love reality shows, the last thing I’d want is to be on screen. It’s bad enough in real life, worrying about spots and bad hair days, let alone in front of the whole nation.’

‘But people won’t know it’s you,’ said Abbey. ‘Not even my uncle, who hasn’t seen me since I was nine, when he and Daddy had words. My parents will be away on a cruise and my friends don’t watch such programmes. Even if they do, more than once, people have mistaken us for each other. It’s a foolproof plan.’

‘What about Rupert?’ I said.

‘I’ve discussed the matter with him,’ said Abbey. ‘You know my little brother – he’s jolly loyal and won’t say a word. He understands my reasons— and, by the way, thinks you’ll do a wonderful job.’

‘Didn’t your uncle ask for him to help as well?’

‘Yes, but Daddy said no way, what with his final year at university coming up. Rupe’s already left for Cambridge early. You know him – never happier than when his head is stuck in some book about the history of art.’

I stared at her. What had happened to my honest flatmate, who was straighter than hair squeezed through ceramic stylers; as upright as a sentry box guard? Although she had a point and, apart from lush Laurence, no one had seen me without make-up, for years—even boyfriends, as I lazily went to bed with my slap on. ‘But why would your dad want you to help, if he and his brother haven’t spoken for so long?’

‘You should have seen Daddy when he asked me – he blew his nose and pretended it was hay fever…’ Abbey’s voice cracked. ‘I suspect he desperately wants to end the estrangement.’

‘So why can’t you take part?’

Subtly made-up eyes all droopy, Abbey sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

I squeezed her arm. Bezzie mates we were, even without much in common, apart from loving novels and Scrabble. A lump formed in my throat. Abbey had never been one to veer from responsibilities, so the reason she couldn’t help her family out had to be a mega-serious one.

‘You… aren’t ill, are you?’ I said, eyes watering, trying to imagine life without my best bud. Who would listen to me wittering on about the latest lad I fancied? Who’d give me the best hugs at moments of true crisis, like last week when I missed out on getting those designer platform boots in the sales?

‘It’s Zak… He wants me to travel to Africa with him immediately. The orphanage he helped build there last year in Rwanda is in turmoil. It’s overflowing after more beastly violence. There are hundreds of children orphaned or who’ve lost their parents. Time is of the essence.’

‘But why you?’

Abbey shrugged. ‘In pockets of the community they speak French, which I’m still almost fluent in, thanks to my finishing school days. I also took a course in childcare. Zak says I’d be a useful member of the team, seeing as I have catering skills as well.’

‘Sounds dangerous to me,’ I said.

‘The organization Zak works for is very well run.’

‘But… but doesn’t Zak understand that sometimes family has to come first?’

Abbey raised an eyebrow. ‘Under these circumstances?’

I sighed. ‘No. You’re right. Most dads would be chuffed that their daughter was keen to do such charitable work.’

‘And anyway…’ oh, no – Abbey’s voice wavered again ‘…Zak already thinks I put him second – like last month when he did that sponsored marathon. I couldn’t support him because Daddy insisted I accompany him instead, on that trip to France to source new cheeses…’

I nodded. As a catering magnate, Abbey’s dad was keen for her to join him in the business. Out of his two children, she was the one interested in cooking. However, it was obvious that the trip had been an excuse. He didn’t think minimum wage Zak was good enough for his daughter.

Abbey threw her hands into the air. ‘If I go to Africa, Daddy will be forever estranged from his brother – yet, if I don’t, Zak might decide his future doesn’t include me.’

‘Look, Gemma, dear…’ Lady C straightened her navy blazer. ‘Why don’t you and I go for a walk and get to know each other? My niece says you were up for promotion at work – that you were quick to learn and showed initiative. We might both be surprised at how easily you could learn our aristocratic code of conduct. Why don’t you pay your parents a visit, Abigail, and find out some more details about this competition?’

Abbey looked at me.

‘Guess it’s only a walk,’ I said and smiled, hoping to see her eyes regain their usual twinkle.

‘Right,’ said Lady C and smoothed down her grey bob as Abbey left the bathroom. ‘You should change before we go out. One’s make-up and outfit should look modest and effortless.’

Surely the aim of looking good was to show you’d gone to a lot of trouble?

With a shrug, I went into my bedroom and browsed through my wardrobe. Little did Lady C know that sometimes I’d dress up in Abbey’s new outfits. My flatmate never minded – said it was a good way of seeing what they looked like on her. KMid (translated: Kate Middleton, now the Duchess of Cambridge) was her fashion hero and, I had to admit, some of her jeans with blazers looked awesome. Also, we both liked our future queen’s knee-high suede boots, high nude shoes and GORGE long layered hair. Plus Abbey had recently bought some amazin’ blusher, supposedly favoured by Kate’s sister, Pippa.

Minutes later, I emerged in old jeans, a T-shirt and my only flat pair of sandals.

‘Well, that’s a slight improvement,’ said Lady C, who was waiting in the open-plan lounge. ‘If you agree to this proposition, tomorrow we’ll go through Abigail’s clothes. You’re roughly the same size and I brought my sewing kit with me.’

Ooh, that would be a plus - perhaps I’d get to wear some of those sparkly evening dresses Abbey owned. One awesome long silver gown was a copy of something KMid had recently worn to a charity ball, following the birth of cute Prince George.

I shook myself. Get a grip, Gemma, this was a ridiculous plan. How could a few glitzy frocks make up for spending every nerve-racking second of two weeks waiting for someone to see through my disguise?

‘Now…’ Lady C put on a bright smile ‘…how about removing the rest of that bronzer?’

I took a deep breath and went back into the bathroom. Five minutes later, just as I was taking off the second eyelash, Lady C joined me.

‘Goodness me! The likeness between you and Abigail is quite extraordinary— before me stands a glowing young woman with a flawless complexion and eyes as blue as periwinkles.’

I shrugged and tried to familiarize myself with the bare face staring back at me from the mirror, which I usually only caught fleetingly in the morning. It was like the younger tomboy me who’d watch footie and climb trees to keep up with her brothers.

‘Auntie Jan wouldn’t approve.’ I shook my head. ‘This goes against everything she taught me. Without Mum, growing up, at least I had her to point me in the right direction.’

Lady C suddenly suffered a coughing fit. I clapped her on the back and eventually she managed a half-smile. Despite her stern words, with her crinkly eyes and lavender smell, Lady C seemed like the kind of aunt the younger me had longed for. Auntie Jan was more like a fun friend who gave mega hugs but never wanted to let go, as if they were more for her.

‘Right, let’s go for that stroll,’ she said and we headed back to the lounge.

‘But what if I bump into a mate, looking like this?’ I said. Not that there was much chance of that – Abbey’s flat was in one of the posher parts of London. And I know it was superficial, worrying about make-up, but the more natural look just wasn’t my thing. Even pets looked better pimped up, in my opinion, like dogs with cute bows and sparkly jackets.

‘True friends don’t care about appearances, Gemma,’ she said and picked up her Margaret Thatcher handbag. ‘What counts is your integrity, honesty and kindness.’

Yeah, right. Tell that to the women’s magazines, who filled their pages with tips on dieting and how to look younger.

We left the flat and entered the lift. Lady C didn’t seem so small now that I’d removed my stilettos. As we exited the building, I squinted in the sunshine, feeling like I was in a bad dream where you wander down the street and suddenly realize you’re naked.

‘Shoulders back, dear,’ said Abbey’s aunt. ‘Chin not too high or low and stomach pulled in. Don’t walk too fast or slow, nor appear aimless – a lady always knows where she is going. These quick tips on deportment will have to do for this excursion. What you’ll need is several hours balancing a book on your head.’

‘That only happens in the movies, right?’ I grinned.

She arched one eyebrow, then, as we passed a hairdressing salon, tested my ability to hold what she called “a suitably civilized conversation”. We started with the weather.

‘Um…hasn’t the sunshine been lovely lately,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you mega hot in those tights and that blazer? After all, we’re still in August.’

Lady C almost choked. ‘Don’t ever mention something so personal and, whilst I think about it, also avoid religion and politics and gossip—’

‘But…’

‘No interrupting either. Remember people’s names, compliment them, don’t raise your voice or ever show emotion.’

Whoa! At this rate, I’d need to take notes.

‘Keep yourself informed, Gemma. Read the papers,’ she said as I stopped to look through the window of my favourite cake shop. ‘Let’s see what you know about this year’s news…’

Reluctantly, I left the yummy chocolate éclairs and we continued along the pavement.

‘Do you remember what happened with Jordan?’ said Lady C.

‘Mega disappointing, wasn’t it, when she didn’t get back with Peter André?’

Her brow wrinkled deeper than usual as we turned a corner. ‘No, Jordan’s in the Middle East; it’s a place, not a person. Let’s try something closer to home… The Double Dip.’

‘That new ride at Alton Towers?’ I said as the cheeky street cleaner pushed his trolley past and gave me polite look instead of his usual leer.

‘I was talking about the recession. Don’t you ever read the papers?’ Lady C let out a sigh as I led her off the main road and through a small park. ‘Failing current affairs, ask people questions about themselves, but nothing too probing.’

Easy. ‘So, did you really own a finishing school when you were mega younger?’

Lady C glanced sideways at me and her eyes narrowed. ‘Never allude to someone’s age. But yes, it was my own business.’

‘Amazin’!’ I said, remembering her advice to compliment people.

‘Amazinggggggg,’ she said and veered to avoid some nettles. ‘Or “wonderful” would be better. Don’t say “mega”, try, “awfully” and, instead of “wow”, how about “goodness”?’

I opened my mouth. Then shut it. Goodbye spontaneity.

‘What a thoroughly delightful place,’ said Lady C as two children ran past with nets and buckets. ‘A pied wagtail and nuthatch…Well, I never.’

Clearly, she was some kind of birdwatching buff. Perspiring now, I spotted an ice cream van. Comfort food might help me forget my nude look.

‘How about a choc ice?’ I said.

‘Goodness, no. It’s highly impolite to eat on the go.’

Instead, we walked onto a bridge. I picked up a twig and threw it into the stream below.

‘Now it’s my turn for some questions,’ said Lady C. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘I am – was—a waitress at Pizza Parlour. We’ve all just been given the boot.’

Lady C raised an eyebrow.

‘Oops, sorry! I mean, made redundant.’ I coughed. ‘Such jolly bad luck but I’m sure, um, another job opportunity will arise soon.’

Lady C’s mouth upturned. ‘Good, although there’s just one problem— remember you are Abbey now. Don’t talk about your own life.’

‘Okay… I was a head chef at Pizza Parlour and, having gained experience out in the real world, will now join Daddy’s company, Croxley Catering. This will offer me a super career.’ Abbey used words like “super”. Plus “terribly”. And “silly sausage”. Lady C beamed and I felt all fuzzy inside, like when Dad gave me the thumbs-up for explaining the offside rule.

‘But what about you, Gemma?’ she said softly. ‘Tell me about your aspirations.’

I picked up another twig and lobbed it into the current. ‘Dunno— never thought about it really. Would love to be able to cook like Abbey, but, well… As long as I earn enough to pay the bills and have a good time, I’m doing okay.’

‘There must be more than that, dear. Self-esteem and self-ambition make a lady. Always aim high; consider the long plan. That’s the trouble with young girls nowadays – there’s too much living for the moment.’ She stared at me. ‘You’ve got a real chance to turn your life around, here, Gemma.’

I couldn’t help snorting. ‘What, in a fortnight?’

‘Life has a habit of throwing opportunities our way.’ She smiled. ‘Who knows what will happen?’

I shrugged and glanced at an oldish woman, further along the stream, who’d stopped to lean on her walking stick. A young teenager approached her and— oh my god! —shoved her to one side, grabbed her handbag and scarpered.

People all around did nothing and acted as if it had happened in their blind spot. Uh oh. Heart racing… I was having one of my adrenaline rushes that made me do something bonkers.

‘Oi!’ I shouted and within seconds my legs were carrying me after him. The teenager jumped over some bushes and headed into a forested area at the end of the stream. Just as I caught up, he tripped and fell. Swearing, he got to his feet.

‘Hand it over!’ I said.

‘Gonna make me, bitch?’

Er… yeah. I lunged forward. Years of wrestling my brothers, Ryan and Tom, had stood me in good stead for dealing with over-friendly blokes and now thieves. Except his eyes looked glazed and with an unexpected strength he pushed me off. I grabbed onto the handbag before tumbling onto a log. A male voice shouted behind me and the teenager swore again before running away.

‘You okay?’

I turned around to see – wow, a total hunk with an athletic build, all wrapped up in a sharp suit. He was pushing forty but flirty eyes never aged. He pulled me to my feet and, with no short skirt or cleavage to distract him, gazed right into my understated face. I held my breath. The hunk didn’t flinch or gasp in horror. In fact, he smiled and carefully examined my forehead.

‘Bit of a graze, there,’ he said and lifted up one trouser leg several inches to reveal a bandage. ‘Sprained my knee yesterday. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have nailed that young bast… basket case.’

Blimey – he hadn’t wanted to swear in front of me.

Fingers curled gently around my elbow, he guided me out of the trees. Lady C and the handbag’s owner were waiting by the edge of the stream.

‘Oh, thanks so much,’ said the woman. ‘I’m so grateful. Let me reward you.’

Yes, please! But I caught Lady C’s eye. No doubt accepting a fiver for my trouble would be the height of bad manners.

‘No, it was my, um, pleasure,’ I said and rubbed my arm.

The hot guy shook his head. ‘I’ll ring the police. I bet that thug wasn’t expecting to be collared by such a charming young lady. Really, well done,’ he said.

Gemma Goodwin, charming, without her boob enhancers and bronzer? My face broke into a grin as Lady C steered me towards a nearby bench, moved a discarded magazine and we sat down. I bit my thumbnail.

‘Mega unladylike, wasn’t it – me running like that, shouting “oi!” I just couldn’t stand by and watch that bug…that loser steal someone’s handbag. I’d do it again.’

‘Jolly glad to hear it. You seem to have this idea that minding one’s manners and dressing modestly equates with being, well, something of a lily-livered wimp.’ Lady C pulled a leaf out of my hair. ‘Whereas ladies display strength of character, they are fair and charitable.’ She beamed. ‘Quite simply, I was impressed.’

‘You, um, aren’t disappointed?’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Gemma, my dear, I’m beginning to understand why you and Abigail are such good friends. With a new hair colour and clothes, you could be in with a real chance of pulling this off. I used to run intensive etiquette courses and might just be able to teach you everything you need in the next ten days until the final. Tonight we’ll start with table manners. I brought some of the more adventurous foods you might encounter, like asparagus, mussels and quail eggs.’

Urgh! She’d better teach me the etiquette for throwing up.

I picked up the magazine. It was a TV guide for next week. Oh my God! Million Dollar Mansion was advertised on the front. I flicked through and came to a full page photo of the Earl of Croxley, a slim, grey-bearded man with a pipe, in a tweed suit. Lord Edward, his son, looked a moody so-and-so, as if the camera was his worst enemy. Yet I could forgive his Victor Meldrew expression because of those tousled honey curls and broad shoulders. Phwoaar!

On the opposite page were the other finalists. With dyed black hair greased back and an expensive suit, the divorced Baron of Marwick was in his sixties and looked like his middle name was Smug. His son, Harry Gainsworth, wore a flash tie and mega gold watch. Their family had owned Marwick Castle for less than a century. Both held glasses of champagne and in their interviews called the Earl of Croxley a ‘boring old fart’.

Whereas the Croxleys… Once more I gazed at the photo of Applebridge Hall. My eye caught tatty gardens and crumbling brickwork – talk about shabby chic. I read the Earl’s warm tales about his grandparents and Elizabethan ancestors—it must be hard for him, all that history suddenly at risk. But could little old me really help save the Croxleys’ mansion?

‘Shame, isn’t it, that Abbey’s dad and the Earl aren’t on talking terms – that Abbey and Rupert aren’t in touch with their cousin,’ I said.

‘It is, dear. I believe Edward made some attempt to contact them when he was…ooh, almost twenty. Abigail and Rupert were still at junior school. He sent them cards and the occasional book. But Richard never passed them on.’

‘That stinks! Does Abbey know?’

‘Yes. Richard told the children it was for the best. That they were too young to understand the reasons for the estrangement and what was really going on. The cards eventually stopped.’

Blimey. This was hardcore falling out, not to let the kids at least have contact. Without warning, I sneezed and sniffed loudly.

Lady C tutted and passed me her dainty lace handkerchief.

‘See?’ I said. ‘We could change my appearance – even with my own style and hair colour, I’ve been mistaken for your niece. But everything else about me is wrong. I talk while I eat and, thanks to Uncle Pete, I know more about brick-laying than cross-stitch or croquet.’

‘Ladies aren’t stuck in the nineteenth century, my dear,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Expert knowledge in any area is admirable.’

At that moment the National Anthem blared out from her handbag. That was some ringtone. Lady C took out her phone.

‘Hello, Abigail… Pardon? School? Oh, dear. Oh dearie, dearie me. No—don’t mention that. Ah, and there’s something else…?’ A pained expression deepened her wrinkles. ‘Yes, quite. What a shame. Leave it with me. Speak later, poppet…’ She ended the call.

‘Bad news?’ I said.

Lady C stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Abigail misunderstood the start date of the final. Filming actually begins on September the first.’

‘This Saturday?’ I squeaked. ‘That only gives us four days! And wasn’t there something else – about a school?’

Lady C’s shoulders sagged. ‘That’s irrelevant now, seeing as your transformation is quite impossible. Poor Abigail. You were her only chance.’

Uh oh – another adrenaline rush as my conscience pricked. Months ago, Abbey had taken me in, after I left Dad’s so that he could turn my bedroom into a nursery for his new girlfriend’s twins. Truth be told, I still owed her big time. My heart raced, meaning I was about to do something stupid… Urgh—like deceiving people and pretending to be posh. An uncomfortable twinge pinched my stomach. Yet just one look at Lady C reminded me just how important this was to Abbey. And if you couldn’t step out of your comfort zone to help mates, then I reckoned it was what Abbey would call ‘a pretty poor show’.

‘What the hell,’ I heard my sing-song voice say. ‘Let’s give it our best shot. Applebridge Hall, here I come!’

If anyone could imitate my best bud, it was me.





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Monday 27


August

‘Comments’

10.30p.m. After several pleasant hours of reading, here in my beloved library, I’ve just bobbed back online to close down the laptop. How extraordinary that already several people have commented—for that I thank you.

Drunkwriter, your poem was…thought-provoking. Historybuff, Applebridge Hall was indeed built almost five hundred years ago—by the first Earl of Croxley, who fought against the Spanish Armada. EtonMess, close as cousin Abigail and myself are, I, um, don’t profess to know any of her personal measurements. Nor whether she prefers tights to stockings… For details regarding her appearance, you must wait to see her on the show. Which reminds me of terrific news, blog-readers—she just rang, to confirm her arrival this Saturday.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_fc2aee7f-a973-5663-b5d5-08464a92e2ce)


Ever wondered how it might feel to go on one of those makeover shows where they revamp your look for The Big Reveal? Well, take it from me, you’re torn between dying to peek and fearing you won’t recognize the reflection at all. Especially when you quite liked the former you—I would miss my rub-in tan and Dairy Milk hair.

I glanced at my packed suitcase as I waited for the Million Dollar Mansion car to drive me the hour’s journey to Applebridge Hall. Lady C had pinned up my newly dyed, strawberry-blonde hair. The nail polish was clear, the chicken fillets gone and the make-up toned down. Nor did my outfit show legs or cleavage.

I hadn’t needed as much help from Lady C as I’d expected, appearance-wise. After all, I’d lived with Abbey for months now and knew just how much mascara she liked to apply to her lashes (think more wiry daddy-long-legs and less furry tarantula).

Lady C yawned and pointed towards Abbey’s full-length mirror. We’d hardly slept for the last four days. It was like suffering from an almighty hangover.

‘Time to take a look, dear,’ she said.

I tiptoed forward. ‘Shiitt!’

‘Gemma! After everything we’ve practised this week. How terribly disappointing that you still use that ghastly word.’

‘What? Oh…Sorry.’ I giggled. ‘But it’s wicked! I do look just like Abbey.’ Apart from my cuddlier tum and freckles. I swivelled from side to side, eyeing the knee-length navy skirt and red polo shirt. I wore KMid high nude shoes and gold stud earrings and a little silk red scarf around my neck… There was a definite classy air hostess vibe going on!

‘Now, you’ll have men fighting to open doors for you.’

I shrugged. ‘Why should they? Guys, girls, we’re all equals.’

‘You think that’s how men treated you, in your old clothes?’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘Right, you’ve got my mobile phone number, dear. Don’t hesitate to ring if you need me. Now, remember, cutlery…’

‘Work from the outside in…’ I said and gave a big yawn, remembering to cover my mouth.

‘And alcohol?’

‘Don’t clink glasses or get drunk.’

Carrying my suitcase, I left Abbey’s bedroom and followed Lady C into the lounge.

‘Pity Abbey couldn’t drop by to see me off,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t believe what I look like now.’

‘Yes, it’s unfortunate she had to take her parents to the airport this morning.’

‘At least we spoke on the phone briefly last night. She couldn’t stop talking about her trip.’ I glanced sideways at Lady C. ‘In fact, I didn’t have time to ask her what she said to you on the phone, when we were in the park – about a school. Seeing as you can’t remember.’

Lady C blushed. ‘Oh, er, never mind. Right, let’s see… If you are expected to help in say a coffee shop,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘don’t hesitate to contact me if you’re expected to bake. I have files of recipes.’

I opened the flat’s front door. Roses in her cheeks, Lady C gave me a quick hug.

‘The best of British, dear. Now remember, most importantly…’

‘The three Ms: Modesty, Manners and no Men.’ For some reason my eyes tingled. ‘Do you, um, think we’ve done enough? In such a short time?’

‘Hard work can achieve great things, Gemma, and I’ve been incredibly impressed by your commitment. As long as you don’t dunk your bread in soup or chew your hair or—’

‘Interrupt people?’ I, um, interrupted.

We both smiled and I made my way to the lift.

Right. Get into character, Gemma. This could, in the words of Abbey, be super fun! Little old me was going to see how the other half lived. I’d ring bells for coffee, eat off silver and servants would have to avoid eye contact and bow. For two whole weeks I wouldn’t have to clean or iron. At the most I’d serve cream teas to the The Little People (previously me!) who, in awe of the Croxley name, would hang on my every word. Although Lady C kept hinting that I might be expected to bake, I was sure the local shops would sell scones and the like – I could just raid their supplies.

As the lift approached the ground floor, I chuckled at the idea of me ordering people around. What was I like? Living like that would be the pits. Hopefully the servants (just saying that word felt wrong) would be like family and I could still make myself Cup-a-Soups and Pot Noodles. The real challenge would be resisting the temptation to tell them who I really was. I took a deep breath. Stiff upper lip, as Lady C would say.

As for servants and bells… well, from what the Earl had told Abbey’s dad, Applebridge Hall had suffered from years of financial problems. Entering this competition was a last drastic measure. For getting to the final, the Earl had already won twenty-five thousand pounds, to put into motion plans for how the place would eventually start earning its own keep. I’d said that was a mega amount of money. Abbey soon put me right.

‘Oh, no, Gemma,’ she’d insisted. ‘That’s nothing, in terms of running a mansion. Maintenance costs for one year would see that gone – and that’s without repairing the roof or completing the rewiring. Then there’s damp, rising gardening costs and, as for the internal renovations… Tapestries and ceilings need refreshing and apparently Uncle’s desperate to reupholster much of the furniture. Metres and metres of brickwork should be re-pointed…’

Still, I couldn’t wait to see the place and strode out into the sunshine.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ called a voice. ‘Abigail Croxley?’

I looked at my watch again.

‘Miss Croxley?’

Eek! That was me. I shook myself to attention and looked up. A skinny woman with red hair, carrying a clipboard, waved from next to a big shiny black car, parked up by the side of the road. Chin not too high or low, shoulders back, I strolled over.

‘How do you do?’ I said in a controlled voice, and held out my hand.

‘Oh, erm, good, thanks.’ She grinned and grasped my fingers, pumping them up and down. ‘I’m Roxy—the production assistant. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’

Stomach twisting, I nodded. What if, face-to-face, my pretend accent sounded weird? But then, after all this time living with Abbey, I stood as good a chance as anyone of mimicking a posh voice.

‘We’d better get a move on,’ she continued, speaking at top-speed. ‘The TV crews at Applebridge Hall are on standby. My boss, Gaynor, the director, hates it if people are late. Footage of your arrival will have to be edited, ready for screening on tomorrow’s Sunday night show.’ She grinned. ‘Welcome aboard the roller coaster that is Million Dollar Mansion!’

She lugged my case over to the car boot. I’d never met anyone who spoke so fast. A chauffeur in a smart cap and suit got out and opened the door for me. The only time I’d seen anyone dressed like that was at a mate’s hen night, but trusted (nay, prayed!) this old codger wouldn’t perform a striptease.

While Roxy got in around the other side, I concentrated hard to get into the car just right. The rules were… legs first, knees closed at all times… Phew. Job done. No knickers flashed.

The door closed behind me. I looked to my left and smiled at Roxy. She ended a phone call as the chauffeur loaded my luggage, got in and we pulled away.

‘When was the last time you visited Applebridge Hall?’ she asked warmly, while scribbling notes.

‘Only last year,’ I said, chest feeling all tight. I wasn’t used to telling such bare-faced lies and in my mind frantically went over what Lady C called my ‘remit’ – a mega fancy word for the task I’ve been given, namely pretending to be one of a happy Croxley clan. In an email to Abbey, Lord Edward said she should act as if the family often met up. All members of staff would play along, as the future of Applebridge Hall – and their jobs – depended on it.

‘Recently, I’ve been terribly busy in catering and am so looking forward to taking time out to visit my uncle again. I’d be interested to know the arrangements for when I arrive,’ I continued, articulating every word as if I was the Speaking Clock.

‘Quite a, erm, character, isn’t he, the Earl?’ she said and glanced sideways at me.

Really? I was dying to probe her further but another of Lady C’s rules was never to appear over-familiar.

‘Although Lord Edward’s not half-bad.’ She winked. ‘Definite eye-candy for the girls.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ I said stiffly. Uncomfortable as it was, good old English reserve was useful if stuck for words.

Roxy rummaged in her jeans pocket and pulled out some fruit pastilles. She held out the packet. ‘I never have time to eat these days – fancy sharing my breakfast?’

‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you,’ I said, remembering what Lady C said about never eating on the go. On the other hand, I didn’t want to offend her…

‘What a, um, charming bracelet,’ I said and pointed to her wrist.

‘Oh, ta.’ She grinned. ‘My fiancé gave it to me.’

‘Fiancé? Oh, of course, I didn’t see the ring.’ It was no Elizabeth Taylor rock, but, nevertheless, a mega diamond to me. ‘Amaaaaazin’,’ I cooed. Oops. I caught Roxy’s eye. Her lip twitched. We giggled and then quickly I recovered my stuffy act. ‘My flatmate… that’s um, one of her words,’ I said. ‘Occasionally, I pick up these things.’

Roxy examined her wedding finger. ‘My boyfriend proposed in New York. Although I don’t suppose this compares to the huge pendants and tiaras you’ve grown up with.’

‘The, um, setting is utterly exquisite,’ I said. ‘It’s a ring I’d be proud to wear.’

Roxy eyes crinkled at the corners. She held up her clipboard and flicked through the paperwork quick-smart. ‘The arrangements, let’s see… Late morning arrival – greetings with family and staff. Then you’ll have a little private time before, at one o’clock, your uncle and cousin make a special announcement.’

‘What about?’ I said.

‘The business idea they’ve come up with, to save Applebridge Hall. Lord Edward has been hinting about it on his blog.’ She grinned. ‘Gaynor had to work on him for ages before he’d agree to spill his thoughts and feelings on-line. But, to be fair, he’s gone for it with gusto and is determined it’ll attract more fans and contribute to Applebridge Hall’s success.’

Ah, yes – Edward’s E-diary. Last night Lady C and I had taken a peek. His tone sounded a bit old-fashioned but, to my surprise, he seemed mega friendly towards the blog-readers.

‘And this announcement…?’ I said airily.

Roxy’s eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t you know anything about it?’

‘No. Cousin Edward, he, um, wanted it to be a surprise.’ Better not mention the coffee shop, seeing as other people didn’t know yet.

She shrugged. ‘Even the crew and I don’t know for sure. We’ve only just returned to the properties, since the preliminary rounds.’ Roxy consulted her clipboard again. ‘Tonight, at seven, you’ll be having dinner…’ She shot me a look. ‘Look, can I give you a tip, Abigail? Woman to woman?’

‘Do call me Abbey,’ I said and squished back into the comfy seat. Thank God these media types didn’t stand on ceremony. In fact, so far, so bloomin’ good. My false accent hadn’t been rumbled. This speaking malarkey was manageable as long as I gave it more Toff than TOWIE.

‘Abbey—you seem pretty down-to-earth. If you really want your family to win…’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘For God’s sake, sex things up!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said in my best plummy voice. Ooh, it was hard not to laugh, but Abbey would have certainly cringed at the S word. Not that she was a prude, but once I’d read out a chapter of Fifty Shades of Grey – her eyes bulged so much, I thought she was going to croak and search for a lily pad.

‘No offence meant,’ she said and shoved another pastille in her mouth. ‘It’s just that word’s out that the Baron of Marwick has something wild planned for this evening. In contrast to your uncle, whose idea of an entertaining Saturday night is sharing good food with friends… That’s fine for an earl pushing eighty, but your average reality show viewer wants arguments, intrigue or, even better, nudity.’

‘Yes, last year’s Big Brother was jolly good,’ I said. ‘Um, so my flatmate told me.’

‘She’s right – viewing figures topped ten million. One of the housemates got pregnant and the police had to break in and stop a brawl.’

I put on a shocked voice. ‘How dreadful.’

Roxy stopped chewing for a moment. ‘As you probably know, your uncle is a bit camera-shy. But, to stand any chance of winning, he’s got to wake up to the fact that Million Dollar Mansion is more than a posh version of Come Dine With Me. Marwick Castle is a strong contender – the Baron is media savvy and doesn’t much care what he has to do to pull in votes.’ Roxy took out another sweet. ‘To be honest, the production team was amazed Applebridge Hall got this far, and can only put it down to your hunky cousin appealing to female viewers.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Not that you heard any of this from me.’

‘You can trust me,’ I said, concentrating now. ‘Thanks awfully, Roxy. I’ll do what I can. Your input’s appreciated.’

As we turned off the motorway and stopped at traffic lights, she consulted her watch. ‘We’ll be there before you know it, so here are a few tips. Try to act natural in front of the cameras—as if us TV folk are invisible. There’s me and the director, Gaynor, various camera operators and sound guys, some set up in the house. Others will follow you Croxleys around the estate doing your daily business. Just consider us part of the scenery, the fittings and fixtures – discreet, unthreatening.’ Roxy gave a wide smile. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. And you look fab – those shoes are to die for…’ Her smile broadened. ‘The viewers are going to love you.’

My stomach relaxed. Perhaps I’d been worrying about nothing, I thought, as we overtook a tractor on the dual carriageway and I took in the quaint countryside.

‘How many episodes will be broadcast each week?’ I asked eventually.

‘Three – Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, at eight p.m. sharp, with the Live Final – a special Saturday show, on the fifteenth, two weeks from today. Cameramen have spent the last five days at both locations, filming a fresh load of stock shots – you know, house exteriors, the grounds…’ Roxy smiled. ‘Don’t be nervous, Abbey. I can tell that you’re really photogenic.’

If only my appearance was the main concern, now. The mega hard part would be keeping my act up from sunrise to sunset, with all those TV people around.

Roxy texted madly on her phone for a while until, about twenty minutes later, a car cut in front of us, just as we turned into a road welcoming us to Applebridge. The chauffeur braked and Roxy’s clipboard fell on the floor. I collected up the papers as the driver sped up once more.

‘Thanks,’ mouthed Roxy, who was now on the phone to Gaynor. I gazed out of the window again. Wow. What a tiny village. At a first glance, there was nothing in Applebridge, apart from a post office, corner shop and pub called The Green Acorn – although the place was famous for staging a rock festival on some of the Earl’s land every summer. According to Lady C, that was at least one source of income for Abbey’s uncle.

I swallowed hard. Not long now to meeting my flatmate’s posh relatives and potentially being discovered, on camera, as a fraud. To distract myself, I glanced at Roxy’s papers and a list of everyone who’d be filmed at Applebridge Hall. With lots of exclamation marks, the names had been divided into two categories: ‘Above’ and ‘Below’ stairs.

I gazed at a photo of sharp-eyed Kathleen, the Scottish cook and housekeeper, and the estate manager, Mr Thompson, with a Sherlock Holmes style hat and hunting gun. Then there was a woman in her thirties, wearing cords and a T-shirt – that was Jean, apparently, the head-gardener. She looked nice. Mmm—her assistant, unshaven Nick, was about the same age as me. Sexy eyes! Not that I’d be able to get to know him well. Imagine the scandal if he and I really hit it off.

Roxy ended her call as the car turned into a drive longer than the street I’d grown up on. We drove past rows of little trees, bearing plump red apples, shinier than Snow White poisoned ones—when we were small, my brothers and I would have had heaps of fun playing hide and seek amongst them. Downhill to the right as the orchards fell behind us, was a pond with tall grasses and bulrushes on the nearside. Even the ducks were a fancy type, with purple chests and red bills.

My throat felt funny. I felt sick. How could I ever have thought this would work? What if the Croxleys saw straight through me? Perhaps they’d laugh at my choice of words or sneer at the way I walked. Or perhaps they’d be over-the-top friendly and I’d feel even worse about fooling them. Either way, I didn’t belong here. Urgh! Deep breaths. Focus, Gemma. You can do this. Think of the positives – it’s lush; what an amazin’ place to be a gardener.

Mmm, yes, talking of gardeners and that photo of Nick, with his short dark hair and eyes, all twinkly…

Oh My God! Forget the nerves for a moment—I’d just thought of an awesome way to sex up Applebridge Hall! That’s what Roxy said I needed to do, right? It was my duty. Sorry, Lady C, but I’d have to ignore the last of the three Ms: ‘No Men’. To beat Marwick Castle, the Croxleys had to keep the viewers glued to their seats and now I had a wicked plan!

Oblivious to the scene ahead, as the car slowed, I worked hard to suppress a chuckle. Above and below stairs…The answer to winning was obvious. The nation had to believe that the Earl’s well-to-do niece and the gardener’s assistant were having a forbidden secret affair!





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Saturday 1


September

11.30a.m. Today is going to be jolly busy and I’ve just been informed that my cousin’s car has pulled into the drive, so quickly… First of all, thank you to everyone who is already ‘following’ this blog. The TV company has linked us to their website and several local stations have kindly spread word of this diary. Do please connect us to other social sites – no doubt many of you belong to Facebook.

Right, on now with the business of the day—I hereby formally announce the beginning of the competition. Let me use this domain to officially throw down the gauntlet to the opposition: Baron Marwick, if you are reading this, I declare our very determined intention to win Million Dollar Mansion. In the tradition of the Croxleys’ duelling ancestors, we challenge you to beat our family’s honourable loyalty and values. Or, as a more modern opponent might say: Game on!

Just to add, I’ve done my research and apparently blogs thrive with plenty of interaction. So what about answering this poser question?

How do you think we have invested our semi-final winnings, in order to defeat Marwick Castle? On…

Machinery to produce our very own ‘Croxley Cider’?

Transforming part of the mansion into kitchens, for the ‘Applebridge Food Academy’?

Converting the old stables into the ‘Croxley Coffee Shop’?

I shall attempt to bob on here later to view responses and briefly comment. On a speedy lighter note, may I respond to bustyfanDownton: no, I don’t dye my hair, nor can I acquire Prince Harry’s phone number – apologies.




Chapter 3 (#ulink_b253fdd1-de01-557e-aada-0ff69c52d990)


Don’t call the police, Uncle… I mean, Earl…There’s a good reason I’m pretending to be your niece. Mr Thompson, put down that gun!

I took a deep breath. There was no point practising in my head what I’d say if found out. Go, girl! You can carry this off.

I looked out of the window as the car ground to a halt. My brow relaxed. Talk about picture perfect. Clearly I’d snuffed it and this was some heavenly palace or, Mary Poppins style, I had jumped into some painting of old England. Looming before me was the mega grand Applebridge Hall.

‘Don’t know how anyone gets used to living in a place like this,’ said Roxy.

‘Me neither,’ I mumbled, eyes transfixed. Although my older brother Ryan’s gaff was a former stately home – he was staying there at, um, Her Majesty’s Pleasure! Mega stupid he’d been, crashing into a parked car while texting.

Wow. Applebridge Hall was huge. Mahoosive. Bigger than Hogwarts. My home for the next week had gardens ten times the size of the sports grounds at my old high school. I fanned myself with Roxy’s clipboard, in anticipation of stepping out of the air-conditioned car and into the sticky end-of-the-summer heat. The mansion stood three storeys high and triangular gables (I knew that word from builder Uncle Pete) lined the top, where parts of the roof came forward. Where each one peaked, twisted ornamental bits rose into the air like mini totem poles. I’d seen similar ones in the book on Elizabethan architecture that Lady C had given me to speed-read.

‘Remember,’ said Roxy. ‘Big smile as soon as the car door opens. Cameras will be rolling.’

I think I nodded in reply. Not sure. I was still gawping. Although, this close, you could see why the Earl needed those million dollars. The building was made from reddish-brown stone wall and needed a mega good clean. Mouldy patches covered large areas – lichen, I think. Slate roof tiles had slipped out of position and several of the chimneys were missing chunks of stonework.

Yet, despite the crumbling brick and odd cracked window, it was pretty impressive, from the outside at least. Green ivy sprawled across the front and around the window frames. There was a protruding arched entrance in the middle, either side of which the building stretched sideways for the length of four window bays. At each end, Applebridge Hall extended forward so that, from the air, the building looked like a capital E. A tribute, perhaps, to the seventeenth century Queen Elizabeth, in which case it was just as well English letters didn’t look like Arabic or Chinese.

‘Ready?’ said Roxy.

I swallowed. ‘What’s Charlie Chingo like?’ A washed-up eighties pop star, with his trademark quiff and Blues Brothers suit, he’d reinvented himself as a chat show host and was presenting the show.

‘A total diamond.’ Roxy grinned. ‘On screen he behaves like a carefree teenager, but no one works harder—he often hovers around our outside broadcast van, helping edit footage for the next show.’

I nodded and stared at the mansion’s many windows. Vertical bars divided them into panes. It would take forever to make them all sparkle. Good thing all I had to do for this fortnight was serve cream teas.

The chauffeur opened my door and, thighs together, I slid out. In front of the car was a three-tiered fountain, overgrown with green slime and moss. Across the lawns, birds chirped and the sound of tinkling water filled the air. A line of people gathered at the entrance. Enough of admiring the estate – it was time to kick off this charade.

The cameraman and sound guy hovered like sprinters waiting for the off. Lord Edward stood in front, looking pretty lush (eek, mustn’t think that, he was supposed to be my cousin). His eyes were fixed on me. Members of staff were just behind him, with the old Earl. Nearby, hovered a tall woman with a shiny Jessie J bob, black-rimmed glasses and clipboard.

‘That’s Gaynor, the director,’ Roxy whispered.

Ooh, look at me, taking directions, eat your heart out, Hollywood. I was in the ideal reality show, where the real me wouldn’t be recognized and I didn’t have to eat kangaroo bottom or witchetty grubs. Deep breaths as I almost hyperventilated when Charlie Chingo appeared.

‘Come, Chat with the Chingo!’ said Charlie and led me towards Lord Edward and his dad.

How could the TV presenter wear a jacket? The forecasters had been right about an Indian summer. Hopefully, I looked around for a tray of refreshing drinks to celebrate my arrival.

‘Welcome, Miss Abigail Croxley, to Million Dollar Mansion! How ya feeling? Nervous? Excited? Thrilled to be back at the ancestral pile?’ Charlie turned to the camera. ‘This is the Earl of Croxley’s niece, the dishy daughter of his younger brother, catering magnate, The Honourable Richard Croxley.’ Charlie raised his eyebrows up and down whilst I tried mega hard not to stare at a furry microphone held above our heads. ‘So tell us, Abigail – you must just lurrrve visiting your uncle and cousin. How does it feel to be back in the bosom of your heritage?’

‘Indeed, it is, um, an enormous pleasure to return,’ I declared. Before my makeover, a friendly man like him would have winked at the word ‘bosom’ and stared at my chest. Instead, Charlie lifted my hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. The Earl stepped forward and took his pipe out of his mouth. He wore tweed trousers, a checked shirt and tweed waistcoat like in that magazine in the park. Wow. Here was a living and breathing member of the aristocracy. The only group of people I belonged to was the Facebook Primark fan club.

‘Welcome to Applebridge Hall, Abigail,’ he said gruffly.

A whiff of tobacco reminded me of visits to the pub when I was little, watching Dad play darts and fighting Tom and Ryan for the last pork scratching or peanut.

‘Um, hello,’ I muttered, feeling like FRAUD was my middle name.

‘Speak up, girl,’ he said.

‘How nice to see you again, Uncle. I do hope you are well. Mummy and Daddy send their lo—’ better not overdo it ‘—their good wishes.’ Before I knew it, I’d planted a kiss on the old man’s bristly beard.

He grunted, lifted his pipe and inhaled, then about-turned and headed into the house. Oh, dear – but surely a friendly kiss was the right move for meeting a relative? I smiled at Edward, wondering how many female viewers would swap places with me right at this moment. Not that I’d risk getting close enough to kiss his cheek – it would look so wrong, if his supposed cousin couldn’t stop herself from stroking his tousled honey hair.

My mind went blank as he approached me. If only I’d paid more attention to Lady C’s every word. Should I call him by his full title? What was short for Edward? Ted? Was that too casual?

‘Hello, Teddy,’ I stuttered. Crap! How did that nickname slip out? His cheeks flashed red before he held out his hand and squeezed my fingers a little too tight. ‘I mean… I do hope you are well. The estate looks marvellous.’

‘Pleasant journey, Cousin?’ he said, still studying my face. It was weird. He kind of had the same nose as Abbey.

‘Very, um, nice, thank you,’ I said, squirming under his intense gaze. He had the tiniest green specks in his blue eyes… Ahem. Right. Concentrate. Now, what did Lady C say about conversation? Talk about the weather…

‘No blinding blizzards or black ice, if that’s what you mean,’ I said, my voice giving a little wobble.

‘Hardly,’ he replied dryly. ‘We’re only just in September.’

Charlie came in between us and put his arms around my shoulder. ‘What a family resemblance!’ he said. ‘Honey hair! Blue eyes! And Teddy! I like it, Lord Edward! You kept that name from us. Let’s hope that Abigail—’

‘Abbey,’ I said, breaking the rule on interrupting.

Charlie grinned. ‘Let’s hope that Abbey reveals more family secrets.’

By now Lord Edward’s face had turned an ugly shade of purple. Swiftly, I moved onto the line-up of staff that stood to attention outside the arched entrance.

‘Och, it’s lovely to meet you again, Miss Croxley,’ said Kathleen, the cook. She wore a bright apron and sensible lace-up shoes. Awkwardly, she curtsied. I smiled at her, both of us knowing she’d never previously met the grown-up Abigail Croxley. It didn’t feel right, a top cook like her kowtowing to a pizza waitress.

Next were two chambermaids in black dresses and white hats, only hired for my arrival, apparently. Each one curtsied in turn until I came to the estate manager, hunting gun slung over his shoulder. He nodded, looked at his watch and seemed on the verge of leaving before he gazed behind me. I wondered if he’d caught Lord Edward’s eye.

‘Ahem, welcome back, Miss Croxley,’ he said in a voice deeper than Barry White’s.

‘Thank you, Mr Thompson,’ I said, pleased at remembering his name. Then I smiled at the gardener. ‘I hope you are keeping well, um, Jean, and look forward to a stroll around the estate with you later.’

‘Of course, Miss,’ she said. ‘We’ve worked hard on the vegetable patch this year.’

I turned to her assistant, Nick, with his twinkly eyes and David Beckham stubble. Little did he know it, but we were actually going to be red-hot lovers! Not that I felt remotely kissable without my tan.

‘How splendid to see you again, Nick,’ I murmured, standing upright to make sure the fluffy mike caught every word. ‘I did so enjoy the weeks we spent together last year. Our time amongst the flower beds was delightful and you, um, sowed your seeds so well.’

Charlie snorted whilst Nick raised one eyebrow. I held his hand just a bit longer than Lady C would have deemed decent. His shake was firm, and his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. Nick was going to be a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the Croxleys.

With a smile, I turned to Charlie. Drama was like my worst subject at school and I just hoped my aristocratic character came across as believable. Although a small part of me irrationally hoped to be found out, cos Jean, Nick and Kathleen seemed lovely. If only they could know the truth – but that was never going to happen. Truth, honour and loyalty were obviously important to the traditional Croxleys… I couldn’t ever imagine the old Earl being in on my secret and agreeing to fool the nation – not even to save his mansion.

‘Looks like Abigail has very fond memories of the gardens,’ said Charlie with a wink at the camera.

Lord Edward glared at me and rubbed the palm of his hand against the back of his neck.

‘And, with that, folks,’ said Charlie to the camera, ‘may I announce the start of the final. Two weeks from today I shall proudly announce the winner of Million Dollar Mansion. You’ve now met the cast from both here and Marwick Castle. So ready, steady go! Let the battle begin!’

He stood grinning at the camera for several seconds before Gaynor gave him the thumbs-up.

‘That’s a wrap, darlings,’ she said and lit a fag.

Charlie turned to me. ‘Good on ya, Abbey, you’re a natural in front of the camera. Once you’re settled, Bob, the sound operator will fit you up with a lapel mic.’ He turned to Edward. ‘See you at one then, Lord Edward, for your special announcement. I believe we’ll be filming it in the orchards. You and your cousin have just got time to stretch your legs.’

Charlie bowed and headed for Gaynor, taking a notebook out of his pocket. The staff had already gone back indoors. I glanced at Edward.

‘Um…pleasant enough man,’ I said and jerked my head towards Charlie, hands feeling clammy.

Edward scowled. ‘Don’t be naïve, cousin. These media types are only after one thing —a cheap story. Watch what you say to them. Now, come, we’ll walk to the pond. There’s a bench in the shade. I shall fill you in on today’s schedule. And it’s not Teddy. Nor Ted.’

‘So what should I call you?’

‘Edward is my name, Abigail.’

‘As you wish, but please – call me Abbey.’

I followed him down the path to the main drive and we headed across the lawns. Hands in pockets, he sauntered towards the pond.

‘Amaaazin’,’ I murmured, taking in my surroundings. ‘ggg,’ I added, hoping the end of the word didn’t arrive too late.

‘Landscaping costs a fortune nowadays,’ said Edward. ‘Jean was quite a find.’

We skirted the pond and headed for a bench.

‘And how long has Nick been in your employment?’ I asked. Ooh, listen to me, all formal. I was kind of getting the hang of talking posh, remembering everything Lady C had told me and trying to speak just like Abbey did.

Edward gave me a stare, as if to say: why so interested?

‘Don’t we all need to get our stories straight?’ I stuttered. Looked like he might already suspect something was afoot between me and Nick – I wanted the public to do that, not disapproving Teddy.

Quick. Change the subject. ‘Goodness, it’s hot.’ Without thinking, I kicked off my KMid shoes and headed towards a patch of bulrushes. I dipped a toe in the water, which was so clear it looked good enough to drink. A few small fish darted among the reeds. I plunged in the rest of my foot and squidged the sand on the bottom between my toes, just like I used to when me and Dad went fishing for tiddlers.

Ahhhh—bliss. Perhaps this would stop me feeling as if the midday sun was frazzling my brain. Lady C had offered me her sunhat, but per-lease. Wide-rimmed? Floral? Nothing was going to get me into that. Although perhaps I should have protected my grey cells, cos, aargh! What was I thinking? A lady would never complain about how she was feeling, let alone strip off and paddle in front of someone she didn’t know well. In fact, Abbey once had toothache for a whole weekend without telling me. Stoical…that was the word Lady C mentioned. Brave face. Stiff upper lip and all that.

Quickly, I headed back to the bench and slipped on my shoes. The tall grasses hid us from the TV people hovering outside Applebridge Hall. I sat down. Edward gazed at me, a strange expression on his face.

‘Apologies,’ I muttered. ‘I think the sun has gone to my head.’

‘Don’t stop paddling on my account,’ he said, arms folded, the flicker of a smile on his lips.

‘So, about this Nick…’ I said, ignoring his comment.

‘Only just joined us,’ replied Edward. ‘As you know, Father and I have had to run the estate on a tight budget and only employed a gardening assistant for Jean temporarily, to spruce up the old place for the show. He’s a bit young. Lacks experience, but he’s all we could get at short notice.’

I bit my thumbnail – oops, better drop that unladylike habit—and admired the scenery while we sat in silence. ‘Do you think the Baron is in with a good chance?’ I said eventually.

Edward frowned. ‘Half glass full, Abbey. We have to believe we can win. One mustn’t let the ancestors down. That’s why I’m doing everything I can – like the blog. Whatever it takes…’ His shoulders sagged and he stared across the pond, all of a sudden looking older than the Earl. I wanted to hug him. No… random thought. I mean, he really wasn’t my type.

‘I’d better watch how I behave if you’re writing this online diary,’ I said and smiled.

‘Only if you are worried what people think about you. But yes, I will be doing my best to give a truthful account of what’s going on. People may not like my honesty, but I think it’s only fair to our supporters to tell it how it is.’

I tried to imagine his position. His home, his whole way of life was at stake. If the Croxleys lost this competition – everything he knew, everything he believed in would disappear.

‘I’m sure you won’t let anyone down,’ I murmured.

Another of those piercing gazes. ‘It’s…jolly good to have you here, Cousin.’ Then the brief glimpse of someone actually human disappeared and his voice hardened. ‘It doesn’t help anyone to get sentimental, though. We have our heritage to protect. Responsibilities to fulfil. Starting with an on-camera dinner at seven. Family friends are joining us – Viscount Hamilton-Brown, his wife and their daughter. Kathleen suggested Nick help her serve the food, for the cameras. We found tailcoats and a butler’s jacket in the attic that he can wear. It’s formal dress tonight.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘“Larger-than-life” seems to be Gaynor’s motto. I believe Mr Thompson shot some rabbits yesterday and, of course, dessert will include apples from the estate.’ He cleared his throat and stood up. ‘To the orchards. Father and the cameras will be waiting.’

I got to my feet. ‘Can you let me in on the secret announcement?’

‘Haven’t I already explained everything to your father?’ He shook his head and strode off.

My mouth fell open. Almost tripping over clumps of grass, I caught him up.

‘Hey!’

He stopped and turned around, a bemused look on his face. Oh, dear. I’d raised my voice.

‘Um, I mean…’ I grabbed some long grass. ‘Hay… this will make excellent hay… And, talking of rabbits, did you know eating hay prevents them from getting fur balls in their stomach? I, um, watch a lot of nature programmes.’

The top button of Edward’s shirt had pinged open and I wondered how smooth his chest would feel if I slipped a finger through the gap. With a sigh, I realized I’d have to try a lot harder to get into character.

‘Remember, cousin, I’m here to help,’ I said, more softly. ‘If we are to carry on this pretence that the family is close, despite the Earl having banished Daddy from the estate and…’

‘Whoa! Is that what your father told you?’ His face screwed up into a frown.

‘Um, not exactly,’ I said sheepishly.

‘Then you should keep your misguided opinions to yourself.’

‘But, wait a minute… Edward… The fact is, we haven’t seen each other since I was nine. I demand that you keep me informed – Daddy… Daddy’s been very busy lately and probably just forgot to tell me about your plans. Remember, I’m here to do you a favour. Applebridge Hall has little to do with my life. This charade is for your benefit alone.’ Oops. I hadn’t meant to sound that harsh.

His mouth twitched. Was he bemused? Appalled? Spoilt and too used to having his own way?

‘Your father’s company, Croxley Catering, trades off our family name, doesn’t it?’ he finally muttered. ‘All things considered, helping us is the least you can do.’

Touché. Still, Edward could have shown a little gratitude if we were to get on well over the next two weeks.

‘Anyway,’ he said, a muscle in his cheek twitching, ‘I tried to keep in touch with you, years ago – sent you and Rupert gifts. Yet I never received a reply.’

‘Daddy wouldn’t let us see them – said we were too young to understand the estrangement.’ Thank God Lady C had told me about that.

Edward’s brow smoothed out for a minute. ‘Really? I mean…’ His voice kind of wavered. ‘You would have been interested in receiving them?’

I nodded. Abbey had often said what a pity it was she hardly knew Edward or the Earl – growing up, she wished they’d sometimes met up. ‘I never forgot about my cousin Edward,’ I said. ‘And Rupe would have fitted right in here. He’s studying history of art and dreams of working for the National Trust one day.’

The strangest look crossed Edward’s face and then his brow once again furrowed.

‘Let’s get going; we’ll be late,’ he muttered and headed off. Jeez! He was the one who needed a crash course in politeness. I wondered if there was a male noble’s version of PMT. The best way to get through the next fortnight was probably going to be to avoid Edward at all costs.

His stupid announcement could wait a few minutes. I’d find myself a welcome drink. No doubt Kathleen had a jug of homemade lemonade or some country punch. However, Lord Edward had other plans.

‘This way, old girl,’ he called after me as I veered towards Applebridge Hall. ‘Do keep up.’

Cheek! He’d call me to ‘heel’ next.

Wiping perspiration from my forehead, I decided to follow him. No point causing upset on the first day of my stay. The lawns soon gave way to a path lined by brambles and nettles, as we left the overgrown area to the more orderly rows of apple trees. Out of nowhere, Roxy appeared by my side and Charlie, Gaynor and the camera crew came into view. They were set up, halfway down one row. Roxy stopped me for a moment and, before I knew it, had fitted a mic onto the collar of my blouse, threaded the wire underneath and clipped the battery pack onto the belt of my skirt.

‘Gaynor wants you to keep this on for the afternoon,’ she said, as quickly as ever. ‘The crew will follow you around while the Earl gives you a tour of the house. It’s a chance for the viewers to see all the rooms again.’

Ahead, Gaynor fitted Edward with the same equipment – except she seemed to take longer, especially threading the wire into place under his shirt, and, to my annoyance, I felt an urge to do the same.

The Earl appeared and headed over to me, puffing on his pipe.

‘Lunch will be served after this, Abigail,’ he said. ‘It will give us the opportunity to exchange news.’ There was no smile, no crinkly smiley eyes. He looked as if I was the last person he wanted here.

‘Thank you, Uncle,’ I said and breathed in the smell of tobacco, glad I’d not said ‘ace’ or ‘ta’. Gaynor positioned me in between him and his son. I swatted away a cloud of tiny fruit flies.

‘Big smiles, everyone,’ ordered Gaynor, before giving a rusty smoker’s cough. ‘Abbey, darling, if you could pick one of those apples and hold it in front of you… Fabulous. Right, Charlie, let’s roll.’

Charlie gazed into the camera. ‘And here we are, folks, once again back at Applebridge Hall. Teddy, here…’ Edward bristled ‘… Teddy has an announcement to make. Over to you, Lord Edward,’ he said with a big smile.

The camera panned over to me, Edward and his dad.

‘The prize money we won for reaching the final has gone towards extending the kitchens, at the front of the left wing on the ground floor,’ said Edward calmly. ‘We’ve built five work-stations to start with, that will enable us to run top-notch cookery classes – residential ones eventually, we hope, that will accommodate ten students at a time.’

The Earl muttered something about not having strangers kipping in his home.

‘We already have three locals eager to be the first students,’ continued Edward. ‘On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays the doors shall open to… Applebridge Food Academy.’

‘Classy stuff, Teddy,’ said Charlie and clapped him on the back ‘So, a kind of cookery school. And where does your cousin fit into this plan?’

‘With renowned caterer, the Honourable Richard Croxley, as her father,’ he said, ‘Abbey has culinary talent in her blood. Applebridge Food Academy will be a traditional, family-run affair with her at the helm.’

‘A kind of Mansion Masterchef,’ said Charlie. ‘I love it! After all, cooking is the new sex! Viewers love gastronomy programmes. Your cousin could be the next Nigella, perhaps. So, Abbey, Chat with the Chingo – tell me what you think to teaching people how to cook posh nosh.’

Huh? I felt dizzy. They’d got it wrong. I was only here to serve scones in a coffee shop. Waitressing, that was my experience – plus I could nuke food in the microwave, prepare cold snacks and order takeaway. But wait a minute… Cookery school? That’s what Abbey must have told Lady C about on the phone, that day in the park. The two of them knew!

My mouth went dry, knees weak, heart fast… Me, cook from scratch and instruct other people? Please don’t say the future of Applebridge Hall depended on that!





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Saturday 1


September

‘Comments’

3p.m. Good afternoon. Time for a quick appearance whilst my, um, cousin… recuperates after her journey. Naturally, I am pleased to see her. It means…an awful lot. Family is of paramount importance to Father and me. Indeed, it is with amusement and a touch of family pride that I can again observe Abigail’s… outspokenness—a true Croxley trait. However, it’s her cooking skills which shall be most significant over the next two weeks, and I’m interested to see your comments about this morning’s poser question – do keep them coming until you discover the answer in tomorrow evening’s programme.

Some of you have even put forward your own entrepreneurial concepts for us to follow. Knityourownmansion, I’m intrigued by your idea of producing woollen earmuffs in the shape of apples. Tiarablogger, I like the idea of those cider flavours you suggested – although, utterly English as it sounds, I’m not sure about apple, sage and onion.

Time to dash, but Lovehotnoble, let me first decline your kind gift proposal. On a purely practical note, I suspect the sequinned trim would chafe in all the wrong places. I do hope my frankness isn’t offensive. I…where possible…always aim to tell the truth.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_bfc5160d-204e-5202-86cc-326e1178da88)


Within minutes of this announcement I had one of my funny turns. Unsteadily, I wavered from side to side, before my body went into spasm. There was no need to call the doctor. I’d suffered this before. The remedy was an afternoon in bed. Otherwise, I might have had to pull out of the show…

Sounded believable, didn’t it? And, sure enough, everyone in the orchard fell for my act, which was the only way I could cope with Edward’s terrifying announcement about me being some cookery teacher—distraction was the key, before Charlie asked me any awkward questions.

Yet I felt bad, putting on such a performance, which even Edward fell for after I’d writhed for a few seconds in the soil. He and Kathleen whisked me into the house, my eyes half-shut but still managing to goggle at some fancy staircase leading up to the first floor. Once left alone in my bedroom, I turned on my front and groaned into the pillow.

Urgh. Cringe. Blush. Poor Kathleen had seemed mega concerned, deep lines forming around her eyes as she’d tucked me in. But there was no way I could just stand in front of the camera after Edward dropped that bombshell. Gemma Goodwin run some cookery school? No way. After a minute or so, I sat up in bed and opened my eyes.

Forget my planned tour around Applebridge Hall. I needed the rest of the day to phone Lady C. I tugged off my mic. It was dark. Before leaving, Edward had gently pulled thick curtains around the – listen to this—four-poster bed. Stifled in the enclosed space, I drew them back.

Wow. The room was amazzzzzzin’, with the walls’ bottom half wood-panelled and the top painted plain red. In contrast, the ceiling was white and ornate. I bounced up and down for a moment. Talk about The Princess and the Pea - I’d never been on such a high mattress. To my left was the door and opposite an en suite. I gazed around at a floral tapestry and an intricately carved fireplace. On the right was one of the huge windows I’d seen from outside.

I picked up a glass of water from the bedside table. Mmm. I needed that.

Right. Time to ring Lady C. I reached for my handbag, which was on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed, next to a bowl of smelly pot pourri. On Lady C’s advice, I’d bought a cheap phone and set it up with the name ‘Abbey Croxley’ for her, as my supposed aunt, to contact me. Plus that meant I had a mobile to use out in the open, around Applebridge Hall. My real phone – my life! – with all of Gemma Goodwin’s contacts, was hidden in a pair of socks.

‘Please pick up,’ I whispered, which she did, within seconds.

‘Hello, Gemma,’ said Lady C in a small voice.

‘You knew! All about Applebridge Food Academy!’

‘Now, calm down, dear, you see…’

‘And Abbey! How could she not tell me, at least?’

‘Abigail only found out that day in the park – her father failed to mention the details previously. He has such faith – quite rightly – in my niece’s culinary talents that he didn’t think it would be a big deal. Which, of course, it wouldn’t, if it was actually her staying at Applebridge Hall…’

‘But why didn’t she warn me?’

Lady C sighed. ‘I, um, might have persuaded her not to – played down the whole “school” bit. I said you’d no doubt have cooks doing the real work… And she was so wrapped up preparing for her African trip…’ Another sigh came down the line. ‘Frankly, dear, I didn’t want you to change your mind. I apologise. That was selfish.’

‘But how did you think I’d cope, once here?’

‘Well, surely you can cook a bit, dear. I’ll help you choose the recipes. We’ll keep them simple…’

I shook my head in disbelief. Didn’t she know that, nowadays, it wasn’t the goal of every young woman to be a domestic goddess? That plenty, like me, considered the microwave a more important invention than the wheel?

‘We’ve got tomorrow to plan the recipes, then?’ she said, more firmly. ‘Your first class is on Monday?’

I gasped. ‘What… No… I mean…You’re taking this seriously? But I can’t cook, let alone teach. We need to think up some excuse, a good reason why I can’t possibly do that job.’

‘Keep calm and carry on,’ was the answer that came down the line. ‘Don’t arouse suspicion.’

‘But I can’t—’

‘No such word as “can’t” in a lady’s vocabulary,’ she interrupted – naughty! ‘I’m sure your culinary knowledge is better than you think.’

‘Okay. Test me on a few cookery terms,’ I said, determined to prove her wrong.

‘Bake blind.’

‘With my eyes shut?’ I replied.

‘Beat eggs,’ Lady C ventured.

‘That seems mega cruel.’

‘Skin a banana?’

‘Barbaric!’ I declared.

‘Follow the recipe,’ she said, hopefully.

‘Where’s it going?’

‘Turn on the oven, Gemma?’

‘How? Call it hot stuff and flourish a whisk?’

A sigh came down the phone.

‘Look, I can scramble eggs and bake a potato,’ I said, ‘but, honestly, that’s about it.’

‘Have they suspected you’re not Abigail yet?’

‘I don’t think so…’

‘There you go,’ said Lady C, voice brighter. ‘Things are off to a jolly good start. All we need to do is talk through some simple recipes.’

Which we did, for what felt like hours. The trouble was, I’d never baked a cake and bought pastry ready-made. I got white sauce out of a jar and mistook broccoli for cauliflower. Finally, Lady C gave up and said she’d call me early the following day. Overnight, she’d study her cookery books, determined to find some impressive dishes that looked more complicated than they actually were.

My stomach gurgled loudly. I wasn’t used to missing lunch and suddenly craved a kebab with a triple chocolate milkshake. Someone rapped at the door. I smoothed down my polo shirt.

‘Enter,’ I said, my voice a bit wobbly. Perhaps they’d sussed out my fake collapse.

The door opened. Honey curls appeared and Edward walked in with my suitcase.

‘You look better,’ he said, a brief flash of relief in his eyes. He put down my luggage. ‘No doubt Kathleen will insist you have some of her Scotch Broth.’

‘Thank you, Cousin.’ My cheeks burned. ‘Um, apologies for before…’

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t happen again. Health problems don’t make for good television. The Croxleys are old school. We don’t get ill—certainly not in public.’

Huh? For a second, my shame evaporated! ‘Thanks for the concern,’ I said, unable to hide a strong hint of sarcasm that I’d never heard Abbey use.

‘You might mean that when you hear I’ve persuaded Gaynor to cut that unsavoury scene from tomorrow night’s show.’

Was he bonkers? That was good telly. ‘Um, Teddy…’

He scowled.

‘Edward… That’s just the sort of footage that makes a reality show – according to my lodger, Gemma,’ I hastened to add. ‘She’s a big fan of that genre. From what I can gather, it’s the dramatic bits that gain viewers. It’s not a serious illness and my, um, medication helps. Don’t edit it out on my behalf.’

‘I didn’t, Abigail. It’s to uphold the family reputation.’

‘It’s Abbey,’ I said, meeting his scowl.

‘Throughout history, Croxley women have been strong,’ he said and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘They are stoic in the midst of war, resourceful during economic downturns, uncomplaining in the face of disease…’ His voice wavered. ‘You only had to see the way my mother carried herself during her last months. It does our image no good to have you drop to the floor because you… you felt out of sorts.’

It could have been some serious brain condition, for all he cared. Yet my fists didn’t curl for long as I reminded myself that I had been acting, plus I’d noticed how the mention of his mum made his chin give a teeny wobble.

‘You must miss the Countess terribly,’ I said. ‘When did she…?’

‘Die?’ His body stiffened. ‘I’m sorry that part of our family history has slipped your memory. Or perhaps your father never found it important enough to explain.’

Of course—Abbey would have at least known that. Urgh. Poor bloke. My stomach twisted really tight.

‘No… I mean…’ I cleared my throat. ‘I was just going to ask: when did she first receive the diagnosis?’ I guessed she’d had the Big C. ‘Father didn’t give me many details and, as you know…’ blagging for my life, here ‘… with the estrangement between our parents, attending the funeral proved to be, sadly, quite impossible.’

‘Granted.’ His cheek twitched. ‘From start to finish, the cancer took three years to take her from Father and me. Two years next month she’s been gone. Mother was only fifty-five.’

A lump rose in my throat as Edward’s eyes looked all dull. Wow. How tragic. Nowadays, fifty-five was like the new forty. And if anyone knew what life was like without a mum it was me.

‘How old was she when your parents married?’ I tucked a loose dyed blonde curl behind my ear. The Earl must have been a right sugar daddy.

‘Twenty-three, I think. Father was forty-two.’

We sat in silence for a few seconds, before I rummaged in my handbag.

‘My hairbrush—it was in here earlier…’ I must have looked a right mess and totally unladylike. With a sigh, I pulled out all the pins, and locks of hair dropped around my face. Lady C would not have been impressed.

‘Here,’ said Edward in a gruff voice as he approached and slipped an elastic band from his wrist. He sat on the bed, turned me away from him and deftly twisted my hair at either side before tying it all together at the back with the elastic band.

‘Um…thank you so much,’ I said and turned back to him, wondering why tingles ran up and down my spine.

‘I used to do that for Mother,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Especially at the end, when she was bed-bound.’ He stood up and cleared his throat. ‘Kathleen will be up in a minute. Please be in formal dress and downstairs for seven sharp at the latest. Viscount Hamilton-Brown and his family will be here at six-thirty for drinks.’ The door shut behind him.

What an oddball he was – one minute so gentle, the next abrupt and stand-offish.

I leapt off the bed to gaze out of the window. My bedroom was at the back of the house and looked down onto the cutest courtyard with fancy flower pots and intricate metal benches. Jean stood in the ornamental gardens, weeding flower beds. Nick was further away, working in a regimented vegetable patch. To the left was the maze Abbey had mentioned and in the distance was a forested area, just in front of which was… I squinted…grey headstones, fenced off. Aha—the family cemetery.

My eyes headed back to Nick. He looked shorter than Edward, with a stockier build and more cheerful face – less typically attractive than my supposed cousin, but there was a certain charisma, an air of being confident with women.

He called out something to Jean. She laughed and he grinned back. Nick would need a sense of humour if he was going to agree to my plan. How on earth was I going to catch the gardener alone and put forward my mega idea ASAP, i.e. before dinner tonight?

Another knock at the door interrupted my plotting and Kathleen entered with her yummy broth. Weird it was, calling her by her first name while she addressed me as Miss Croxley, but Lady C had drilled into me that etiquette about names and titles was especially important with staff. So, after I’d done my best to convince her I felt fine and there was no need to worry, we talked about the evening’s dinner. Like a nanny, Kathleen hovered until I’d cleared the soup bowl and, thanks to her warm down-to-earth chat, tension seeped out of my shoulders and my bedroom began to feel more homely. For the first time I felt I could cope with two weeks living in this building.

After she left, I took a leisurely shower and changed into one of Abbey’s smart black dresses. Its round neckline was modest but low enough to show a little shoulder. Freakily, it went down to the ground, covering every inch of my legs, although it had always looked kind of classy on Abbey. At least it had short sleeves, otherwise I might have really fainted from the heat.

I pinned up my hair again and put on Abbey’s crystal necklace and matching earrings. I applied a small squirt of perfume and a subtle shade of eyeshadow, just like my best bud would. It was six-fifteen. My mouth felt dry. Ahead of me was a whole evening of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Inhale. Exhale. Feeling calmer, I left my bedroom and headed along a high ceilinged corridor, actually feeling rather grown-up and glamorous. Halfway down the winding mahogany staircase—yay!—I bumped into Nick!

‘Miss Croxley,’ he said and gave a smile. Flecks of soil covered his T-shirt. ‘Nice to see you’ve recovered,’ he said in a concerned voice.

‘Thank you. Kathleen’s broth has revived me.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, I was hoping to catch you.’

He raised one eyebrow.

‘About earlier,’ I said. ‘Me pretending that you and I spent time together last year…’

Nick held up the palm of his hand. ‘Please, Miss Croxley. I get it. We’ve all been briefed about how we need to make it look as if you are a regular visitor.’

‘It’s not just that… Can I be quite frank? May I speak to you in confidence?’

‘No problem, Miss.’ Nick’s eyes twinkled and I couldn’t help smiling – which was great. I’d always been won over by blokes who could make me laugh. A good sense of humour beat looks for me every time. I mean, there was only so much a six-pack could do after a crap day at work, whereas a joke…

‘Thank you, Nick. It’s just that… According to Roxy, Applebridge Hall isn’t the favourite to win. She suggested… Please do excuse the phrase…that somehow the Croxley family…forgive me, but, um, sex things up.’

His eyes widened.

A bubble of laughter tickled inside my chest. Oh, God—mustn’t laugh. In fact, thinking about it, this wasn’t funny at all. I was putting myself on the line here – my true identity might well and truly be rumbled. ‘I know – it’s a terribly crass idea, but I want to do everything possible to help my family. So, I was thinking that, well…’ How would he take this? Be offended? Amused? Or suss out straight away that I’m no real aristocrat? ‘… a secret affair between a Croxley and a member of staff might improve ratings.’

Nick’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you proposing, Miss, that you and I…?’

My heart raced. ‘Exactly. It would be purely for the cameras, of course, and more suggestion than action. It pains me to resort to such tactics, but my family’s heritage is at stake.’

I waited, imagining the disdain of Edward if he’d been listening, hoping that I was right in thinking that good-humoured Nick was the opposite of judgemental. The gardener stared for a moment and scratched his unshaven chin, which was kind of sexy and something you’d never find on Lord Clean-cut, Edward.

‘The Baron of Marwick sure is tough competition,’ said Nick. ‘He also announced his plans to win this afternoon. The Castle has been set up to host weekend medieval hen and stag nights, with banquets held in the dungeons. I bet they’ll get pretty crazy. During the week, he’ll host corporate team-building trips, incorporating archery and shooting. It all sounds…’

I sighed. ‘Awfully sexy.’ Oops – that wasn’t something Abbey would ever say.

‘Yeah, but… A Croxley mixing it up with a gardener? Someone who works on the land?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You can’t possibly be related to Lord Edward if you’re suggesting such a thing.’

I swallowed hard. Surely I hadn’t misjudged Nick so badly…

‘You’d better show me some form of ID, Miss,’ he said, ‘before I say something to the Earl.’





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Saturday 1


September

‘Comments’

6.15p.m. Thank you, but no, Lovehotnoble—rubber trim would probably be equally uncomfortable.

Now, duty calls – I must hurry to greet our guests. Just a quick word to say that Abigail… How long I’ve waited to see her face. I mean, erm, of course, it’s only been months since our last meeting, but nevertheless… To have her here finally… At Applebridge… It’s smashing.

Right. Anyway. Really must go. Dinner awaits.




Chapter 5 (#ulink_0eb9d863-14ff-5697-a2eb-db6ed5c3ae06)


Nick and I couldn’t stop laughing. Mega phew! For one minute I really believed he’d seen through my disguise and was after a peek at my passport.

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures,’ I said eventually. ‘But honestly, Nick, I perfectly understand if you think this idea…improper.’ After all, laughs aside, this was all an act to me but it was Nick’s real life – he could lose his job.

I caught sight of a designer logo on the bottom of his T-shirt and recognized his cologne as an expensive brand I’d once sniffed when out with a boyfriend. Nick struck me as a bit glam for a gardener.

‘Consider me in, Miss,’ he said.

‘You’re sure?’ I raised my eyebrows, giving him one last chance to back out. Although I could sense that, unlike Edward, a major drive in Nick’s life was fun; I reckoned we would really get along.

‘One hundred per cent!’ he said. ‘How do you suggest we get things started?’

‘Slowly.’ I backed up against the crimson-painted wall, as Nick had leant forward to keep our voices and plans ultra secret. ‘Perhaps a look here, a touch there – although, having said that, we only have two weeks.’ Footsteps sounded from the bottom of the staircase.

‘Better get things moving, then,’ whispered Nick. ‘A friend of mine knows a Z-list celebrity who trades off winding up photographers that he’s having all sorts of affairs. His specialty is this dud kiss – I can show you if you like. We’ll need to practice…’

Before I knew it, he’d placed a hand over my mouth and bowed forward to snog his knuckles. But still, it wasn’t a bad idea—from behind him it must have looked mega realistic. And Nick did smell good. It was a while since I’d been this close to a man, especially one who had no ulterior motive. With easy-going Nick, it felt kind of comfortable, until…. uh oh! I could hardly breathe now, seeing as he’d taken me by surprise and I’d had no time to fill my lungs with air.

‘Unhand her, you scoundrel!’ hissed Edward, who’d appeared from downstairs. He climbed the steps towards us, two at a time, appearing even taller than usual. Nick backed off immediately and I gasped for breath.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, man?’ Eyes blazing, Edward grabbed the gardener’s shoulder. ‘Pack your things this instant and leave. I won’t have you disrespect my cousin!’

‘Look, Edward,’ I said, heart thumping, ‘let me explain…’ Wow, no one had ever rushed to my side to protect me. My brothers and dad thought me well capable of looking after myself—which I was. But still… This mansion must have brought out the damsel in me!

A few minutes later a snarl still crossed Edward’s lips as he stared at Nick. ‘Tell me that again, Cousin. And you’d better hurry up…’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost six-thirty. Our dinner guests have been shown in and are waiting for us.’

‘Nick, um, used to be a dental technician,’ I said, repeating the rapidly made-up excuse while trying not to ogle my supposed cousin in his tux. ‘One of my teeth was hurting and Nick very kindly agreed to take a look.’

Knights in shining armour were all very well, but jeez, Edward obviously didn’t believe in the process of verbal or written warnings before firing staff members. Although it was kind of sweet. My heart still beat madly. I’d always found loyalty to family and friends mega attractive.

I stared from Edward to Nick, who stood like two spitting hyenas. Perhaps they had more in common than I suspected. Yet, heroics aside, I reckoned Edward would be much harder to live with than laidback, up-for-a-laugh Nick.

‘Yep, Miss Croxley’s, erm, got an ulcer,’ said the gardener and folded his arms. ‘Seems like Your Lordship got the wrong end of the stick. So, if you’ll excuse me, I must change into my outfit to help out at dinner.’ Nick turned to me and winked. ‘I’d gargle with salt water, miss,’ he said, and disappeared up the stairs.

‘Was he bothering you?’ said Edward.

‘Not at all.’ I moved away from the wall and brushed down my dress.

‘Stay away from Nick,’ said Edward. ‘He’s a shifty chap.’

‘With respect, Cousin, who are you to order me around?’ Well, Abbey often demonstrated that being a lady wasn’t about being a doormat. It was awesome, listening to her on the phone if someone dared call pretending to be our energy company or acting as if they could give her a better mortgage deal.

Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s something in his expression—a total lack of respect.’

Yeah, well, not everyone’s in awe of the aristocracy.

‘Right, Abigail, let’s go downstairs,’ he said, his tone bringing an abrupt end to the incident. ‘Viscount Hamilton-Brown and his family have waited long enough…along with the camera crew and production staff,’ he added, a hint of resignation tainting his voice.

I took a deep breath. This dinner party was the first real test of whether I could behave like a lady. If I couldn’t get through this evening without embarrassing myself, then there was no point carrying on with the whole charade. We walked down to the ground floor and came to a door at the front right hand side of the house. It seemed strange, Nick going to the top floor to change, but Lady C had explained that, despite the phrase ‘upstairs and downstairs’, at different points in history it was nothing strange for servants to live ‘up in the gods’. In fact she’d crammed a lot of information into a few days, including a summary of European royals – ooh, of all the places to live, glam Monaco was now top of my list.

‘That’s the Low Drawing Room,’ said Edward. ‘Perhaps you remember it from your last visit.’

‘Cousin— I was only nine.’ Without asking, I ducked inside for a moment and spied furniture with carved animal legs – how amazin’! And just look at the mega detailed fireplace and classy chandelier… However, the spooky grandfather clock creeped me out and seemed better suited to the set of a haunted house horror film.

On closer inspection, I could see that the rugs were worn and wall carvings chipped. Plus the tiled floor was cracked, the tapestries faded and one corner of the ceiling showed signs of damp. It was like stepping back in time, what with no telly or computer and no comfy bean bag or gaming chair to chill out on.

‘This used to be where the Croxleys received run-of-the-mill guests,’ he said. ‘VIPs were received upstairs, in the High Drawing Room.’

‘Like who?’ I said.

‘Depends on the era— military men, politicians, foreign statesmen, people from the world of entertainment… Noel Coward, the playwright, visited my great-grandparents – like him, they adored jazz.’

We left the room and made our way down a dark mahogany-panelled corridor, eventually coming to another door, on the right.

‘That leads to the library,’ said Edward, ‘which is opposite…’ we entered a room on the left ‘…the Drake Diner.’

Wow. It stretched across the back of the house, with patio doors opening onto the cute courtyard. I gawped at the oak panelling all the way up to the ornate ceiling and admired the family coat of arms and gold-framed landscapes… I’d never been in a place like this without a ticket and tour guide. Feeling as out of place as a pop star at the Proms, I fiddled with my watch. Edward glanced sideways.

‘You look, um, quite satisfactory, Cousin,’ he said. ‘Come on—let me introduce you to our friends.’

Jeez, Edward was in no danger of overdoing the compliments! But I was beginning to realize that, with him, less was more. And at least he was no different with anyone else. This included the gushing Mrs Viscount – yes, I really did call her that – well, I’d never come across the word, apart from when Dad used to buy these wrapped minty chocolate biscuits. How was I supposed to know it was ‘Viscountess’? Edward announced that her brooch was ‘an interesting size’ and then commented on the Viscount’s ‘unusual’ tie. Yet a large dollop of charm did appear when he talked to their sophisticated daughter, the Honourable Henrietta Hamilton-Brown. Edward admired her brunette hair, swept up into a high bun. He said it looked ‘delightful’—then ruined it by chatting to her about the state of the Euro. Borrrrrring.

‘It’s super to meet some of your wider family, James,’ said the Viscountess to the Earl as we sat at the long dining table in padded tapestry chairs.

I squished back comfortably and did my best not to stare at the big fluffy mic the sound guy had just manoeuvred over our heads. ‘James’ sat at one end of the table, in between the Viscount – Ernest, as he insisted I call him – and his wife, Annabel. Next to her was Henrietta, with me and Edward opposite. My Uncle Pete would have loved this table for pasting his wallpaper on. It must have seated, ooh… at least twenty toffs.

I tipped my chair back (a habit I’ve always had) and smiled across at Annabel. Right, time to have a crack at conversation. I didn’t fancy politics or the recession. That left personal stuff and the weather.

‘Have you had to travel far this evening?’ I asked.

‘Only for an hour,’ she said. ‘The last half of the journey was through such heavenly countryside.’

‘We adore visiting here,’ said Henrietta and beamed at Edward. ‘Tell me, what’s the state of apple prices this year? Are they still in the doldrums because of the economic downturn?’

I did my best to look brainy as they discussed, in great detail, when it would be best to bring contract workers into the orchards. Henrietta’s comments sounded so eloquent. How delicately she sipped her wine. He even let her straighten his tie. Jeez, she was like some automated Stepford wife!

‘And how’s the car boot business?’ she said.

‘Not bad,’ said Edward. He caught my eye. ‘I rent out the acres of land that stretch to the left, behind the maze.’

‘Ah, for that summer rock festival?’ I said.

‘Yes. Plus several funfairs that tour through here each year.’

‘And a bloomin’ mess they make as well,’ interrupted the Earl, a grimace contorting his jowls.

Edward sighed. ‘But needs must, Father. Along with renting out the land for car boot sales, it brings in something of a steady income.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work to organise,’ I said.

‘When it comes to this estate, Edward is terribly industrious.’ Henrietta smiled. ‘When he inherits, there’s no doubt in my mind that he will do his ancestors and the Croxley tradition proud.’

You’d think such a compliment would bring a smile to his face. Instead, Edward loosened his tie and bit his lip, his eyes dulling for a second. However, the moment soon passed and, as the two friends chatted, my ears perked up at the mention of a Lieutenant Robert Mayhew.

‘Is that the Lieutenant Robert Mayhew?’ I said, interrupting their conversation – soz, Lady C, but I couldn’t contain my interest. ‘My, um… flatmate Gemma calls him “the Forces Pin-up”. Didn’t he make it back from Afghanistan, despite gun wounds and second degree burns?’

Henrietta smiled. ‘Edward went to school with Robert. They are the best of friends.’

‘Such a courageous—’ read that as gorgeous ‘—person,’ I said, ‘returning to that burning vehicle.’

Edward smiled. ‘Only a madman like Rob would go back in when he was drenched in fuel. Apart from his helmet, Rob’s uniform was in ashes by the time he’d hauled everyone else out.’

‘Terribly modest about it all, wasn’t he?’ I said.

Edward shrugged. ‘He says, just like thousands of other troops, he was simply doing his job.’

‘He’s organized a big charity ball next month,’ said Henrietta, ‘to raise money for injured soldiers. He’ll be pleased to see you there, Edward.’

‘It should be a wonderful evening,’ said Annabel.

‘Damn brave lad,’ said the Earl. Ernest grunted his agreement.

‘I remember the first time I met him,’ said Henrietta. ‘It was at your twenty-first birthday party, Edward; do you remember?’

‘Rob was home on leave and danced with anything in a skirt. Even Dundee Douglas, who’d put on his kilt.’

‘Your mother always thought him a decent chap,’ said the Earl to Edward, ‘even when he led you astray at school by suggesting you skip school for the cinema. Rosemary wouldn’t hear a bad word against him.’

Henrietta put her hand on Edward’s. A display of emotion like that, in public, must have meant they were really good friends, or even…? For some reason, an uncomfortable twinge niggled my stomach.

‘Poor you, Edward,’ she said. ‘Those afternoons at the pictures couldn’t have possibly been your idea.’

‘Son?’ The Earl raised his eyebrows. ‘All these years poor Robert took the blame?’

Edward grinned and rubbed the back of his neck.

My stomach tingled. A smile on Edward’s lips was a rare thing and, for a few seconds, made him look a decade younger. Just then, in tailcoats and a butler’s jacket, Nick entered through a door from the left hand side and the pantry, cellars and kitchens. He’d combed his hair over into a greased-down side-parting and winked at me as if to say: ‘this geeky look is deliberate’. His hand brushed against mine as he poured my wine. Clearly, he took my Plan Sex-up seriously. Edward stared at me, only turning away when the starter arrived. I swallowed. This was going to be hard – clinically putting on a show, pretending not to care what other people thought about my actions or about me.

‘Asparagus?’ Henrietta put her napkin on her lap. ‘My favourite. Kathleen really is a treasure. I assume she froze these, freshly picked from your garden. What a joy to eat them out of season.’

Phew! Good thing Lady C had taught me how to eat these green monstrosities that looked like witch’s fingers. They lay on a bed of lettuce and were sprinkled with chopped red stuff. I picked one up. Euw. There was only meant to be sauce on the ends but these were slippery all over and had obviously been…’

‘Marinated,’ said Henrietta, daintily cutting them up with a knife and fork. ‘Quite lovely.’

‘Have you been away on holiday this year, Annabel?’ I said, hoping no one saw me quickly wipe my fingers on a napkin.

While she described her mega Caribbean cruise, I dug into my starter, suddenly starving, doing my best to chew with my mouth closed and not talk with it full. My only faux pas (impressive, eh? Lady C even taught me French) was eating the bed of lettuce. Well, how was I to know it was a garnish? Perhaps the rabbit dish would be easier. Certainly it smelt yummy, with gravy-covered chunks of meat, served with mushrooms, roasted cherry tomatoes and baby onions.

‘No haggis tonight, then? That’s a change,’ said Annabel. Eyes twinkling, she glanced at me. ‘Kathleen is fiercely proud of her Scottish roots.’

‘She is making a special effort to cook English meals for the cameras,’ said the Earl. ‘No doubt in two weeks it will be back to normal.’

‘Whatever that will be,’ muttered Edward. He cleared his throat. ‘So, tell me, Henrietta, all about this local animal charity you have recently become patron of.’

Carefully I chewed each morsel and, without dribbling, managed to chat to the Viscountess (Mrs Minty Chocolate Biscuit). We swapped opinions about the Royals (K-Mid of course and the awesome Diamond Jubilee celebrations). It couldn’t have gone better until I plunged my fork into one of the tiny onions.

I caught its side and the shiny ball flew into the air, at speed, across the table. Shiiit. It landed right on top of Henrietta’s head and, like an egg in a nest, settled in her bun. The camera zoomed in. Eerily, everyone stayed silent. No one swore or shrieked. Clearly, they knew Lady C’s rule about staying as cool as a cucumber. I glanced at the Earl, who had put down his pipe.

It was no good. If I suppressed the gigantic giggle inside me any longer I’d spontaneously explode. Oh, God… Here it came… A snort escaped my lips. Then, nearby, Nick cracked and that really set me off as I spied his crinkly, watering-with-laughter eyes. For several seconds we were the only ones laughing, until Henrietta’s face scrunched up to release a high-pitched giggle. Next, Ernest and Annabel crumbled. Even Edward’s face broke into a grin. He removed the onion while Henrietta whispered something to him about not making a fuss. The Earl shook his head.

‘I can’t apologize enough,’ I stuttered. Must control myself in front of the camera.

‘Do you play golf, Abigail?’ said the Earl. ‘Because I suspect you’d be a whizz at landing a hole-in-one.’ For the first time since my arrival he smiled at me properly, eyes all shiny.

Nick cleared away the plates and announced pudding would be simple apple pie – cue a massive sigh of relief from me. However, the Hamilton-Browns teased me relentlessly and ducked for cover when I reached for coffee sugar lumps. Even Henrietta kept giving me grins, so perhaps I could forgive her for being perfect and not spilling a drop of gravy on her silk blouse.

‘How wonderful that you are heading up the Applebridge Food Academy, Abigail,’ said Annabel as she unwrapped an after-dinner mint.

‘Please – call me Abbey.’ I tipped my chair backwards. ‘Yes, it’s, um, a challenge, no doubt about that.’ One that I’d rather block out, for the moment. Otherwise, the temptation to go on the run would win.

‘Our last chance, that’s what it is,’ muttered the Earl and puffed on his pipe. ‘A great deal is hanging on Abigail’s expertise.’

No pressure, then.

‘Reverend White is attending Monday’s first course, as well as a teacher from the high school in town,’ continued the Earl. ‘Also, my accountant—an enthusiastic woman… We thought just three students was a sensible number for starters.’

Roxy walked past in the background and stopped chewing sweets long enough to pull a face. She was right. I needed to focus. Catapulted onions were hardly sexy. The camera crew had gone into the kitchens to film the staff. This was my chance to find Nick, get him on camera next to me and instigate Plan Sex-up. Deep in thought, I tipped back on my chair again.

There was an ear-splitting crack as the wooden legs collapsed. Ankles over head, I crashed onto my back. Fuck! I must have flashed my sequinned scarlet thong, having refused, point blank, to borrow Abbey’s big pants. This was more Porno than Sex-up.

‘Are you all right, Abbey?’ asked Henrietta, on her feet. ‘Poor you – I bet that hurt. At least the cameras have gone.’

Edward reached my side quicker than a bullet out of Mr Thompson’s gun. Gently he sat me up and made sure no bones were broken. Then, straight away, cheeks flushed, he backed off and examined the chair. Nick helped me to my feet.

‘The two back legs are completely ruined,’ Edward announced after a quick glance at me rubbing my back. ‘It’s a shame. This is a matching antique set.’

For some reason, my eyes felt all watery. I couldn’t help thinking he was more worried about permanent damage to the furniture than me.

‘I’m okay,’ I mumbled to everyone else. Lady C hadn’t prepared me for such a situation and I’d never seen Abbey spreadeagle her legs in the air.

Edward didn’t look at me again, cos I was probably some mega embarrassment – one that felt about as small as the flying onion.

‘Although my back is, um, a tad sore,’ I said, annoyed at the wobble in my voice.

‘You’ve probably bruised it,’ said Henrietta, voice still full of concern.

‘Do we keep painkillers in the house, Uncle?’ My cheeks burnt. I had to get out of here. This bonkers pretence was over. It would be best to quit before I let Abbey down any more. I couldn’t even behave like a lady for the length of one fancy dinner.

‘Kathleen has a supply in the kitchen,’ he said and nodded in that direction. ‘Shall I ring for a couple?’

‘No, I’ll, um, stretch my back and walk the long way around, through the front of the house. Please, everyone, do excuse me. Apologies, once again, for the disturbance.’

Still rubbing my back, I left the dining room and headed along the dark corridor, back past the Low Drawing room. With a groan, I slumped at the bottom of the staircase. Aarghh! That could not have been more humiliating. Actually, it could – thank God I’d not gone commando to avoid visible panty lines. But then maybe that would have got some reaction out of those po-faced Croxley men. So much for Edward being a knight in shining armour.

With a sigh, I stood up and walked to the other side of the building, past another winding staircase. Edward had told me that here was the newly converted kitchen area installed for the Food Academy and, curiously, I went in. Talk about fancy.

With a sniff, I inspected the white-washed room and its five new workstations, one extra at the front where the teacher (that’s me) would demonstrate her skills. They were basic, each with a silver sink, cooker and cutlery, plus cupboards well stocked with pans, sieves and graters. It was the only part of the house I’d seen, so far, that showed no hint of its noble status. A door at the back must have led to the pantry and cellars and real kitchen, where Kathleen cooked for the house. On tiptoe, I let myself in.

Sure enough, Kathleen and Mr Thompson sat at a large table, mugs in front of them, dead pheasants by the estate manager’s feet. In front of a rolling camera, they chatted about how self-sufficient the estate was. Elvis Presley music played from an old-fashioned tape cassette machine on one of the units. Whilst huge, this kitchen was much more homely, with pine units, a huge scratched table and cross-stitch pictures on the walls. A whiff of baked pastry and fruit cut through the air. It was dark outside now. Nick had taken off his butler’s coat and was downing a glass of water. He winked and joined me at the back of the kitchen, by the dishwasher. The cameraman and sound guy faced our direction but remained focused on Mr Thompson and the cook.

‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, ‘this is an ideal opportunity to do something romantic – we’ll get caught in the background of this shot.’

‘No, you see… It’s all a mistake, me at Applebridge Hall, and I’ve changed my mi—’

‘Shh!’ said Nick, eyes a-twinkle, and crept behind me, expensive cologne overpowering the smell of apple pie. He snaked his arms around my waist, before nuzzling my neck. Ooh—spiky unshaven cheeks. I’d always liked the feel of that… Finally, the gardener drew away and winked as he walked back to Kathleen and Mr Thompson. Back to my senses, I hurtled out of the room.

So much for Lady C’s Three Ms – Modesty (thong flashed), Manners (rocketing onion) and No Men (unsightly stubble marks on my neck). At this rate I’d leave Abbey’s reputation in tatters. It was over. I’d leave Applebridge tonight, before I made an even bigger fool of myself and lost lovely Nick his job. Run, girl, run!





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Saturday 1


September

‘Comments’

11.45p.m. Thank you for your interest today, blog-readers. Here’s one last comment from me before hitting the hay. This evening’s dinner has not been without incident and, after an hour or so of reflection, I can only conclude that my cousin will bring more to Million Dollar Mansion than I ever imagined.

Of course, I knew she would as we, um, are a jolly close family. However, I’d forgotten the more…spontaneous side to her nature. It’s reminiscent of my dear mother, who used to say, like sweet apple with pork, like cranberry jelly with turkey, she compensated for the stodgier aspects of my father and me.

However, what has flummoxed me is that an accident occurred tonight – nothing serious – but it surprised me how much I… If anything bad had happened to… Forgive me – the extra glass of port I drank must be responsible for this rambling. It’s just that the power of shared DNA has a lot to answer for—nothing else could explain the strength of a new, unexpected feeling…

Knityourownmansion, many thanks – there’s no doubt the Earl would very much like to receive a knitted mohair pipe through the post.

Drunkwriter, thank you for gracing us with your presence again, and I’m sure you’ll understand why I had to moderate your comment – references to parts of the anatomy aren’t for the everyone, however poetic.

Cupcakesrock, you hope that the answer to my poser question is the Croxley Coffee Shop? And Blogger569, I like your suggestion of us producing cider with cloves and orange – no doubt it would sell well at Christmas. I hope you both watch tomorrow’s show and approve of the poser question’s answer.

Right. Good. Done for the day. Sleep well, all.




Chapter 6 (#ulink_7d9b9299-2ad2-582f-aae0-79731251d8cd)


Ever declared to the world that you’re starting a diet, but then eaten three bacon sarnies, one multi-pack of crisps, two pizzas and a family-sized tube of cookies? Then you’ll understand why I didn’t leave Applebridge Hall last night, despite my, um, dramatic announcement. As I was about to go upstairs, the Earl appeared. In a gruff voice, he asked how I was and patted my shoulder. Apparently, everyone was worried I’d feel too embarrassed to return to the dinner table. Mouth open, I listened as he muttered some story about his trousers falling down at a charity fund-raiser. It was nineteen ninety-five and gave him the push to finally ditch braces. Perhaps these Croxley men did have more running through their veins than stand-offish, cool tradition.

I yawned, having just got up, showered and carefully selected one of Abbey’s outfits. It had a definite KMid feel, with the immaculate skinny jeans (okay, a bit of a squeeze on me) and white T-shirt. If I went out later, there was a short grey jacket to go with it, which was okay, but I was already missing wearing black – and especially my face bronzer.

My phone rang. I sat down on the four-poster bed (love saying that) and grabbed my mobile from the bedside table.

‘Hiya. Yeah, I’m okay. Dinner? Um…Fine—there were no problems.’ Hope Lady C didn’t notice my voice suddenly squeak. Even though the truth would worry her, there was clearly no way she’d agree to me leaving the mansion now. So it was best to spare her the gory details of the astronaut onion and dress-above-waist faux pas. ‘So have you chosen the menu I should demonstrate tomorrow, in my first lesson?’ I grabbed my handbag from the foot of the bed and rummaged inside it. Finally, I pulled out a pen and a scrunched up tissue – that would have to do for writing down the ingredients.

‘Right… An apple theme? What a mega idea, what with the orchards! Okay, Apple and English blue cheese salad to start…’ I said, scribbling furiously. Yay for ingredients that wouldn’t even need cooking! ‘Pork and apple stew for the main, okay…’ Chucking everything into a pot seemed doable. ‘And baked apples for pudding?’ Lady C said I should avoid cake or pastry-making for my first session and to say I’d chosen something less challenging, for ‘the sake of the students’.

I kept the call brief, worried I might let slip about my kitchen-smooch with Nick. Also, I had a mega busy day ahead – the Earl was giving me an on-camera tour of the top floor late afternoon, then, at eight, we’d all watch the first Sunday episode of Million Dollar Mansion: the Final. It was the first opportunity the Croxleys had to see exactly how the smarmy Baron of Marwick had spent his twenty-five thousand quid. And it was my first chance to get a good look at the opposition.

Ingredients list in hand, I headed down to the kitchens to see if I would need to visit a supermarket. Kathleen greeted me with a warm smile. I felt bad tweaking the truth and telling her I was late up due to my back still aching. Despite her motherly protests, I insisted on simply munching an apple for breakfast (I couldn’t face the Croxleys’ usual sausage and black pudding). The cook took the piece of tissue and skimmed the items.

‘Not bad choices,’ she said, ‘although I could recommend some hearty Scottish dishes. I mean, if they were good enough for the Queen Mother…’ Ten minutes later she was still describing weird-sounding dishes like Skink Soup and Clap shot! I smiled sheepishly. That Queen Mum thing was a random comment. Perhaps even the staff here were posh and she used to know royalty.

With a flourish, she opened the pantry door and seemed pleased with my gasp of amazement.

‘We never run out of anything here,’ she said and wiggled her generous bosom.

It was as if the Croxleys had their own corner shop, what with the massive bags of flour, tubs of seasoning, rows of cereals, pickles and preserves… The freezers were chock-full of meat they’d bought from local farmers. Kathleen took out some pork and showed me all the fruit and veg I needed. Plus the fridge’s selection of cheese was awesome and even included the English blue for my salad, which was apparently Viscount Hamilton-Brown’s favourite.

‘Right… I’ll lunch alone, downstairs with the computer,’ I told her as she shut the fridge door. ‘I must brush up my knowledge of, um, reality TV shows and how they work.’

‘Och, that’s true dedication – good on you,’ she said, eyes crinkling at the corners.

I smiled back, having bent the truth again. More likely I’d be surfing YouTube clips about the basics of cooking. Part of the twenty-five thousand the Croxleys won had been spent on a long-awaited Internet connection. Although Kathleen tutted at the idea of on-line shopping, proudly declaring that Mr Thompson drove her into town twice a week and that the fishmonger and milkman delivered to the doorstep.

Several hours later, eyes twitching from staring at the screen and the artificial light in the cellars, I leant back in the chair – then immediately leant forward again, not wanting to risk snapping another piece of furniture. The time jumped out at me from the bottom of the screen – eek! Quarter to five already. I logged off and scurried past racks of wine, up the whitewashed stairs and into the kitchen.

‘I’d better get upstairs for this tour,’ I said to Kathleen who, wooden spoon in hand, was swaying to her Elvis Presley music. I glanced down at my culottes. ‘Do you think I should change into something…grander?’

‘Och, lassie, you look lovely,’ said Kathleen and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I don’t think the viewers expect us to look too glamorous.’ She pulled a face. ‘We’ll leave anything tacky, like that to that pompous numpty, the Baron of Marwick. Ee, I cannot think of anyone less aristocratic…’

My stomach twinged. Try the real me for starters.

I left the smell of baking biscuits, headed out of the kitchen and towards the staircase. Then I climbed the steps, trying to get my bearings. As I’d found out yesterday, the ground floor housed the Low Drawing Room and library on the right, the Drake Diner in the middle and on the left, the kitchens. On the middle floor, were the family dining room and their lounge, known as the Parlour, then family and guest bedrooms and the High Drawing Room.

Panting slightly, I climbed another flight of stairs, right up to the second floor, at the top. This was where my tour would start and was home to something called the Long Gallery, plus the rooms where the staff slept.

‘Good afternoon, Abbey,’ said the Earl, in his tweed suit. He stood next to Gaynor and Roxy, who chatted to the cameraman. ‘I do hope you slept well. Kathleen said you were spending the day preparing for tomorrow.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘That’s the attitude. Jolly good show, girl. Although I still think this cookery school idea is a load of nonsense…’

I smiled though his smoke and gazed the length of what was a mega wide corridor. In fact, it was more like a room, really, with doors to the staff bedrooms lining one side, on the left, and large windows on the right—the very back of the house. Plus there were a lot of pictures hanging.

‘Right, darlings, let’s get this show on the road,’ said Gaynor in her husky smoker’s voice, with a determined flick of her black bob. ‘Lord Croxley, if you could remember that this tour is for the viewers as well, that would be fab…’

He pursed his mouth. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll try to make it interesting.’

Roxy managed to smile at me while still chewing the sweet she’d just popped in her mouth and gave the thumbs-up as the Earl started walking.

‘I’ve never cared much for this marble fireplace,’ he said gruffly and pointed to a middle section of the long wall, in between two bedrooms. ‘Although Trigger, my father’s gundog, loved nothing better than to stretch out in front of it, following an afternoon at the shoot– a treat for the old mutt as he was rarely allowed in the house.’

I nodded, adjusting the mic’s battery pack clipped onto my culottes, under my blouse, that Roxy had quickly helped me fit. Apparently the lapel mics were better if you were walking about.

‘So, this is the Long Gallery?’ I said – cue the Earl to duly chat about its features. At the far end stood two buckets and there was a slightly musty whiff in the air.

‘A couple of the bedrooms up here don’t belong to the staff and haven’t been entered for years,’ muttered the Earl. I waited for some mysterious reason as to why not but he just carried on walking—Roxy pulled a face and yawned.

Urgh – she was right, this footage would be mind-numbingly boring. Shame, cos I thought this floor was pretty amazin’. The windows were mega, with shelves below them for seats. In between hung portraits of all sorts of people. Impressive chandeliers dangled from the ceiling and gave me a sudden urge to swing on them. I shivered, despite the summer temperature outside, wondering how many thousands of pounds it would cost to install central heating. The Earl was making points about the history of the interior design, which wouldn’t grab the attention of your average viewer. Finally, he stopped still in front of a portrait and puffed on his pipe. It was of a middle-aged bloke in a dinner suit, who sat by bookshelves, dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. The man’s shoulders sagged as if someone had anchored his cuffs into stormy waters.

‘Goodness, he looks, um, terribly serious,’ I said. ‘Who was he, Uncle? Some important politician who knew our ancestors? Or perhaps a film star who visited? He looks as if he could play a believable stern villain.’

The Earl’s cheeks flushed. ‘That’s Papa.’

‘Oh…um…’ I stuttered.

‘Really, Abigail,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised you don’t recognize your grandfather.’

Suddenly desperate to bite my thumbnail, I swallowed hard.

‘This was painted just after the Second World War,’ he continued. ‘I was only eight but remember it like yesterday. Papa didn’t budge an inch for hours, when he sat for the artist. Impressive—but then he was made of strong stuff.’

I studied the man’s hair, greased above the ears and black. Perhaps the Earl had looked like this as a young man.

‘It was painted just after Applebridge Hall returned to our possession. As you know, this place was requisitioned as a home for children during the war. We still lived here as a family, but evacuees from London were billeted with us.’

Abbey hadn’t told me that! Wow. Awesome.

‘The family struggled to bring it back to its former glory after those little blighters spent six years running riot. In fact, one of the lads caused a fire,’ he said, as if talking to no one in particular. ‘Dennis Smith was his name. Always up to no good. He swore blind he hadn’t been playing with matches, but none of us children believed him as we’d often catch him in the forest with a lit roll-up of paper, pretending to smoke.’

Rolled up paper? As children, my brothers had bought the real McCoy. The ice cream man got done for selling us single fags from his van.

The Earl turned to the camera and raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps, if he’s watching, Dennis would like to confess his crime. But there—stiff upper lip and all that, my family simply had to tolerate the intrusion and damage. If truth be told, Mama enjoyed doing her bit and I made the most of the company. It was for the good of the country. The real villain was Hitler.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘After the war, Papa did his best to restore our home to its former glory.’

Blimey, for a man of few words, that was quite a speech. Sweet – he’d clearly adored his dad.

One thing Abbey had mentioned was this grandfather’s failed business dealings. He died from a heart attack, mega young – well, if, unlike me, you don’t consider being fifty- something totally ancient. Her dad, Richard, was only a teen. In the days following his death, the Earl and his brother must have become close, which made their fall-out all the more random.

‘It must have been a shock when he, um, passed on.’ Okay, so a lady wasn’t supposed to make such personal comments but, for Gawd’s sake, how would viewers warm to the Croxleys if they came across as such cardboard cut-out, unemotional aristocratic figures?

‘Epiccccc,’ I said as we moved to the next portrait—a woman in a fancy dress, with geisha-white skin and caramel hair swept up. Jewels dangled from her ears and hung around her neck… Crap! Had I really laxed into Gemma mode and really said ‘epic’? ‘I mean, um…a picccccture one could stare at all day. What an extraordinarily good-looking woman.’

‘Mama,’ he said and his face went all squishy for a second, before he stared at me. ‘Once more, you talk as if you’ve never seen a picture of her.’

I forced a laugh. ‘Apologies, Uncle – Grandmother looks quite, um, different from the photos Father has shown me.’

The Earl gazed back at the portrait. ‘During inclement weather, when Papa was away on business, she’d smuggle my pony up here and let me ride the length of the Long Gallery. I loved her for that,’ he said softly.

‘How, um, enchanting.’ I glanced at Gaynor, who’d looked up from her clipboard to listen. Roxy had even stopped chewing. Blimey, the Earl had let his gruff mask slip for a minute.

A smile flickered across his face. ‘Well, that’s what the Long Gallery was sometimes used for—exercise in bad weather. Up and down we’d go. Our indoor constitutional, Mama used to call it – but she always made it seem jolly.’

He scratched his bristly beard and headed for the next picture. It was a couple, smartly dressed on a fancy sofa. The man had on a cravat and a pocket watch hung out of his waistcoat. I glanced sideways at the Earl. A pocket watch dangled from his tweed waistcoat – perhaps it was the same one. The woman was dressed in a vertically striped blouse and broad-brimmed hat. The couple looked happy and fancy-free, eyes twinkly and mouths upturned.

‘My great-grandparents,’ he said. ‘Terribly well-known for their partying. Splendid hosts, according to one and all. The Drake Diner was home to many a ball. In those days the servants slept in the kitchens and pantry. Up here was for guests.’

We moved onto the next frame. ‘My grandparents,’ he murmured. ‘They were also significant players on the social scene. We believe a young Noel Coward stayed here once.’

‘Ah, yes, my dear cousin mentioned that,’ I said.

‘Your father never told you?’ he said abruptly.

Roxy and Gaynor glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows.

‘But, erm, of course,’ the Earl said after a quick glare at me, ‘Richard never was much interested in celebrity. But he must have told you about our great-grandfather’s party trick? Papa used to creep down and peek at him doing it in the Drake Diner.’

My cheeks flamed. ‘Um, yes, he could make, um, coins appear from people’s ears…?’

‘That wasn’t the one I was thinking of,’ he said in a measured voice. ‘Apparently, drinking out of his wife’s shoe was considered a jolly jape. He’d announce to the room that it made the champagne taste absolutely divine. Papa got into trouble when he was a little boy for trying the same with his bedtime milk.’

Gaynor and Roxy smiled.

As we came to the end of the Long Gallery, on the right hand side of the house, we stood and gazed up at a ginormous gold-framed portrait of a man. Around his neck was an amazin’ ruffle, he had a moustache, beard and wore a feathered hat. His expression looked kind of laid-back, as if not a thing could surprise him. Upright and confident, he seemed like the complete opposite of the bespectacled, world-weary-looking Earl’s dad.

‘The very first Earl of Croxley,’ said the old man and straightened his back. ‘Elizabeth the First awarded him the estate of Applebridge for his role in defeating the Spanish Armada, in 1588. The Drake Diner was named after his good friend…’

‘Sir Francis Drake,’ I mumbled. Even I could work that out.

I exchanged glances with Roxy, who’d was clearly rapt. This tour had turned into a live history lesson. I gazed at the man on the canvas and tried to imagine him on some ship or proudly bowing before the Queen. He must have been one of the celebrities of the day. Mega important. Probably had his pick of the women, ate the finest food without having to worry about paparazzi and Twitter trolls, like today’s celebs.

‘Did he build Applebridge Hall?’ I asked.

‘You don’t even know that!’ he spluttered, yet within seconds obviously remembered that we were supposed to promote this cuddly image of a close family. He forced a chuckle. ‘Ah, my scoundrel of a younger brother… Richard was never much of a historian. Yes. His family lived in a small country house on the estate – since knocked down—whilst the architects and builders set to work.’

Footsteps sounded up the stairwell nearest to us. Honey curls appeared.

‘Good day, Abbey,’ Edward said. ‘I trust that, um, your back no longer hurts.’

Blimey. He was making an effort for the cameras. ‘Good afternoon. Yes, tickety-boo now, thank you,’ I replied. It was weird living somewhere so big that a whole day might pass before you bump into the other housemates.

‘Father, the first episode of Million Dollar Mansion: the Final will be on in around an hour,’ said Edward. ‘Members of staff are congregating in the Parlour. I believe Kathleen has prepared tea and your favourite lemon crumb biscuits for everyone. We could all go over the plans for tomorrow before the beginning of the programme.’

‘Aaaaand cut,’ said Gaynor and gave a rusty cough. ‘No problem, darlings. We can continue the tour tomorrow, Lord Croxley – we’ll still have time to edit it for Tuesday’s show. And yes, fab work, everyone—those tales made Applebridge Hall come to life; made the whole place less…grey.’

However, the old man wasn’t listening.

‘Right, young lady…’ he hissed to me and unplugged his mic, before doing the same to mine. ‘Let’s walk back the length of the Gallery and downstairs to the Parlour. On the way, you can explain to me why you know so little about the Croxley ancestors. Let’s hope to God that your cookery knowledge is better than your history.’

Crap. I took off my mic and we handed them to the cameraman. Gaynor and Roxy were still staring up at the ginormous portrait. Edward had disappeared, having muttered something about his blog.

‘It’s as if you’re a complete stranger, Abigail,’ said the Earl and glared. ‘The Richard I used to know loved these old anecdotes. Estrangement or not, I’m sure any daughter of his would be familiar with what her ancestors looked like and, in God’s name, know the origins of how this place was built!’

‘I… Yes… You see…’ I stuttered.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I’m waiting for what had better be a damn good explanation.’





LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY


Sunday 2nd September

7p.m. Good evening, blog-readers, I trust you will soon settle down to watch this evening’s show. No doubt you shall find footage of yesterday’s events, including dinner, entertaining. Of course, it is somewhat edited, especially during these early days, whilst we get used to the cameras. And not everything is caught on film. As I suggested to you last night, Cousin Abigail is quite the dark horse – for a lady—and even made Father chuckle. Erm, I’ve always thought this, of course





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