“Do you, Gran?” Kathy said, without looking up from her carrots.
“It’s not too late, Peter,” my father barked. “You could go back to law school now. I’ll pay for it. I’d be willing to let you specialise in media law, if you like. Best of both worlds. What do you say?”
I could feel tears trying to well, but I would have died before I let my family see me buckle. I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. No one else said anything either. The table was unbearably quiet.
Finally, my sister cleared her throat. “What’s the show about, Pete?”
I explained the Regency dating premise. The whole table fell about laughing—except for my mother, who looked like she’d found a turd in her Riesling. Gran, forever Team Petey Boy, loved the idea.
“It’s being filmed at Buckford Hall in Leicestershire,” I added, hoping this detail might appeal to my parents’ entrenched snobbery. “I’m going to be living in a real-life manor house for the next month, how cool is that?”
My father’s eyes boggled. “The family are letting you film this… this…nonsense… in their ancestral home?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“This country is going to the dogs,” my mother declared.
My father shook his head, poured himself another glass of red, and turned to my brother-in-law. “Did I tell you we’re taking the Jag’ Club on a drive up to Chatsworth House for the annual Father’s Day run next month? Now,there’sa stately home…”
And just like that, the conversation moved on. After a few minutes, my mother got up and started clearing the table. I sat there in silence, stewing inside, listening to my father witter on about his beloved North London Jaguar Car Club—the onlysubject on which he was more tedious than the law. My sister, apparently also bored by the subject, turned to Gran.
“How’s the new home, Gran? Are you settling in all right?”
“It’s marvellous, Kathy,” Gran said. “The lads in the kitchen are magicians with a blender. It’s so secure too. I ain’t seen security like that since I used to visit your Great-Uncle Frank when he was doing seven years in Wormwood Scrubs.”
“Well, that’s… good,” Kathy said, unsure.
The noise of my family babbling away washed over me. The faint clattering and clanking of my mother stacking the dishwasher drifted through from the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I stared at the clock on the mantel. Every second was a minute, every minute an hour. I couldn’t bear it. Mum hadn’t even come in with the coffees when Gran leant over and whispered in my ear.
“You do whatever you have to do to prove ’em wrong, Petey Boy,” she said. “You show them.”
My jaw tightened. A rod of steel seemed to slide up my spine and click into place. I sat taller. Gran was right. Nothing was going to stop me getting my own reality show and proving my family wrong.Nothing. It was my first and last priority. My family might not approve of what I did for a living, but I was going to make bloody sure they had to at least respect me for it.
“And get me out of here, will you, Petey Boy?” Gran said. “Before I lose the sodding will to live.”
Gran was right. Even prison was better than this. I had to get to work.
Chapter 6
William
The carriage court hadn’t seen this much action since my parents turned Buckford Hall into a base camp for fox hunt saboteurs in the early 2000s. There were lorries and vans everywhere and dozens of people dashing about, lugging everything from lighting rigs to period dresses into the house. In the middle of all this organised chaos stood the four-foot-nothing mini firecracker who’d sold me on the idea of filming a TV show at Buckford in the first place, Indira Murray. She was, in turns, barking orders at her underlings and sucking on a cigarette like she was extracting its soul. Desperate to make sure she felt welcomed, I marched towards her with my hand outstretched and professed how glad I was to see her.
“There’s a madwoman by your front gate whacking our vehicles with flaming tree branches as we drive in,” Indira said.
“Ah, that’ll be Mother.”
“Has she escaped from somewhere?”
“The Dower House.” I nodded. “I’m not technically allowed to lock her in. Fire regulations, and all that.”
“What the fuck is she doing?”
I grimaced. “She’ll be burning sage. It’s meant to cleanse you of negative energy.”
“Well, can you put a fucking stop to it? Because half my team are burnt-out millennials and the other half are permanently freaked-out Gen Z, and we’re already filming around forty different fucking mental health diagnoses. One of the sound technicians has brought his emotional support duck with him. Some of these kids have never been outside the M25, so having an actual witch greet them at the front gate is going to cause permanent fucking trauma, and I don’t want that on my conscience. More to the point, I don’t want it on my insurance.”
The sage wasn’t working, then.
