“Wait, what aboutThe Love Manor?” I said, terrified of the answer.
“I won’t be pitching a second season to Channel Three.”
“But… what about William? He’s relying on that show for the income, for the estate.”
“Look, I’m sorry for your boyfriend. If Channel Three is willing to cough up two hundred grand for the format, they can have it. But I won’t be making it. I’m sorry, Petey.”
The room seemed to tilt.The Love Manorwas my only logical route back to William. What now?
“You need to tell him,” I said.
“William? Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Petey. I know none of this is what you wanted to hear.”
I walked out of Indira’s offices into a rainy summer’s day in London’s Soho. I felt empty. As I drifted along a wet Brewer Street without an umbrella, past the boutiques and red telephone boxes, reality hit me like a flood. I’d violated William’s trust for a pitch I couldn’t use, I’d run away to sell an ideaIndira didn’t want, and now the one show that could have taken me home to Buckford was cancelled. I’d lost everything. William hadn’t called. Maybe he was relieved I’d gone? I’d spent the past few days replaying the fight—the look on his face when he’d said he was disappointed. Still, it had been gutless to run away. Now I had no William, no prospects, no opportunities, and nothing on the horizon except lunch with my parents on Sunday. The answer, clearly, was drink. At least I was in London. I pulled out my phone and messaged the Brent Boys group chat.
Petey Boy:Heading to Miss Timmy’s for cocktails and a fat slice of occasion cake. Get. Your. Arses. There.
Jumaane:Will be with you in ten. xxx
Sunny:Will be shitfaced with you in twenty. xx
Nick:Drinking while gay? I’m in. xx
Chapter 52
William
Iwas miserable. It was Friday night, and I was bunkered down in the Dower House. Mother and I had eaten an unholy amount of chocolate, and I was lying on her couch in my boxers, my head in her lap, surrounded by discarded Lindt ball wrappers, while she gently stroked my hair. That great goddess of hers was suspiciously quiet, precisely when I could have used an insight or two. That Petey had left without saying goodbye had hurt, but at least we’d had the promise of him returning in a year for the next season ofThe Love Manor. Then a call from Indira, and even that small hope vanished. I couldn’t have been more gutted if I’d had my brains dashed out against a rock and been filleted by a fastidious angler. I’d read Petey’s note a thousand times. He must have pitched his idea by now. That was meant to be today. I’d thought I might hear from him, but I hadn’t. I’d picked up the phone to call him a dozen times, but I couldn’t imagine how to get the words right. We had too much to say.
“You know, you could always sell the place, darling,” Mum said.
I was so shocked I put my chocolate back in its wrapper and placed it on the coffee table. “You can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious. You can take the money, buy a lovely flat in London, and be young, with your lover. Build a life together.”
“But… Buckford is our family history. Our legacy.”
“It’s the past, darling,” she said, still stroking my hair. “The past is gone. It’s not coming back. The world has moved on from this place and what it represents. It’s just stuff. It doesn’t matter.”
Was she short-circuiting or something? Did she need switching off and on again? My father and brother were interred in the mausoleum. I’d grown up here. She’d raised her family here.
“But it’s our home.”
“It’s been a wonderful home. A fabulous adventure. But if it’s over, we’ll survive. We don’t need it.”
I sat up and looked at her in astonishment.
“I have a duty to preserve it.”
“Do you?”
“What about Callum?” My nephew would expect to inherit.
“Life offers no guarantees. Callum is part of a future that hasn’t happened yet,” Mum said, plucking my chocolate from its wrapper. “You don’t know what he’ll want. He might want it less than you do. Lord knows your father never wanted it. How long does this go on for? How many generations must carry this burden?”
Mum popped the chocolate in her mouth, her eyebrows raised in expectation of an answer. I didn’t have one. I lay back down on her lap, and her hands returned to combing through my hair. Silence fell between us, interrupted only by the gentle clatter of a Scrabble tile coming loose from its hiding place under the dining table.
“I can’t be apart from him,” I said, after a few minutes. “This is killing me.”
