I needed to clear my head. I needed Achilles.
Two hours later, my stallion was exhausted and I had calmed down. Petey had made a mess of things, but at least he was trying—and he was tryingfor us. I could see why he might think the show was a good idea. It was a very Petey solution. I just wished he’d spoken to me about it first. I felt terrible about where we’d left things. It was time to have a proper conversation. I bounded up to the folly, but Petey wasn’t there. I tried his bathroom, the East Drawing Room, the kitchen. Nothing.
“Can I help you, my lord,” Bramley asked, one hand up the arse of a dead pheasant.
“Have you seen Petey anywhere?”
“Mr Topham has returned to London, my lord.”
My stomach hollowed. “What?”
“He said he left you a note.”
I bolted upstairs to Father’s desk and bashed away at it, trying to get the mechanism to work.
“Bastard thing!” I shoved it but it wouldn’t open, so I kicked the desk—then fell to the floor, gripping my foot in agony. My father’s voice drifted through my head: The drawer required gentle coaxing, you had to caress it. I took three long breaths and tried again. The drawer popped open. My hand shook as I extracted the note:
William,
You were right. I should have asked you before making you the centre of my pitch. I should have asked before turning on the cameras. I violated your trust. I am no better than the Bulletin. I am sorry.
I know I promised I wouldn’t disappear again but I can’t stay at Buckford knowing you’re disappointed in me. I’ve spent my whole life hearing that word from my parents. Hearing it from you was more than I could bear.
I’ve gone back to London. I don’t know what the future holds for us, William. But I know I love you. I’m sorry I let you down.
PB. xxx
A tear fell onto the paper, and the ink began to smear.
How could I have been so stupid? Petey had spent his whole life hearingI’m disappointedfrom his parents, and I’d said exactly the same thing. Now he was gone. I’d let him slip through my fingers.
Chapter 51
Petey
Ten minutes into my pitch, Indira hadn’t lit a single cigarette.
“…then, when the couples think they understand the rules, we pull the rug out from under them completely with something I like to call ‘The One-Armed Budget.’ Instead of the ten grand they think they’re getting to renovate their bathrooms, we pull out a slot machine. They pull the lever, whatever it lands on, that’s how much they’re working with.”
Indira sat opposite me in the Monkey Ginger offices, leaning across her desk, face resting on one hand. She looked bored. It was terrifying.
“So, let me get this right,” Indira said. “At the end of this, we’re left trying to flog six really ugly, poorly renovated flats?” Put like that, it didn’t sound great. “With the country in a housing crisis?”
Indira’s face scrunched. This was a bad sign.
“Wait, it gets better. So, the couples can all sabotage each other?—”
“Listen, Petey Boy.” She closed my laptop and slid it across her desk towards me. “I don’t want to make programmes like this anymore.”
“Huh?”
“I want to make programmes that do lessharm. Narrowboat holidays with ageing national treasures, that kind of thing. Film theWomen’s Institute Cookbookbeing cooked by women from the Women’s Institute. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t. She’d lost the plot.
“Gentle television,” she said. “This type of show—shows that exploit people or pit them against one another—it isn’t for me anymore. It’s not the kind of energy I want to put out into the world.”
What the hell had Karma done to her at that retreat? I sat upright. This was potentially a massive problem.
