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 the Million
Dollar Mansion competition. For regular updates of our progress, please do
grace this blog with your presence.
Monday 27th
August
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.
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
‘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 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
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 27th
August
‘Comments’
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
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
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 1st
September
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
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
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
‘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
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
‘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 1st
September
‘Comments’
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.
