“Absolutely not!”
It was bad enough I’d had to stump up to pay the electrician.
Chapter 7
Petey
The taxi rumbled down the drive, and Buckford Hall came into view. It was far from the poshest stately home I’d ever seen. Angelica and Edward had dragged us all around every Treasure House in Britain when we were kids, so I knew at a glance this Leicestershire manor was no Blenheim Palace. But Buckford Hall, with its red brick, creamy sandstone, and Dutch gables, was undeniably charming. Like, if you saw it standing alone in the corner of a bar, you’d definitely walk up to it and ask if it wanted a drink, before subtly prodding to see if it was a top. Whereas the architecture of Blenheim Palace leaves you in no doubt. It grabs you by the throat and calls you its little bitch.
The cabby took my case out of the boot, and I said my thanks.
“Sorry about the scorch marks, bruv,” I said. “No idea what that madwoman was thinking.”
He grunted, got back in the car, and drove off. I was smoothing out the creases in the legs of my favourite boiler suit when Indira Murray came marching across the gravel towards me with a folder in her hand.
“Peter, not before time.”
“My call time was five o’clock, wasn’t it?” I asked, worried I’d already screwed up somehow.
“The secret to being a successful assistant producer is anticipating the needs of the production. I could have used you by two.”
My stomach dropped. “Sorry. I had Sunday lunch with my family and?—”
She raised a hand. “Say no more. Last time I had Sunday lunch with my family, I spent my entire afternoon in the emergency department waiting for my nephew to have baked beans scooped out of his ear. You’re here now. That’s what matters.” She passed me the folder. “Here’s your production bible. Shooting schedule, photos and bios of the cast—it’s all there. Don’t lose it, anddon’tlet the cast see it.”
I flicked through the folder while Indira lit a cigarette. The page fell open to a photo of a face I recognised.
“Oh, hello! That’s Jonty Boche.”
“You know him?”
I nodded. “His brother, Ludo, is a good mate.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
Only in the sense that he’s mad as a march hare, I thought.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good.” Indira blew out a heavy nicotine fug. “Because he’s one of your charges. You’re going to be looking after the twelve servants. Six of each. All their pronouns are listed. Everyone’s cisgendered, obviously. This is Channel Three, not Channel Four. They’re all absolute twats, of course. Sorry, no offence to your twat friend. They’re used to living the high life.” She pointed at a photo. “That blonde one with the tits hasn’t so much as rustled out a sneaky queef in the last two years without Instagramming it. This is going to be murder for the lot of them, but they’ve all signed up for it. Which reminds me, there’s no reception, so we’re on walkie-talkies and headsets. Go pickyourself up a set from the production office in the Old Coach House.”
“Gotcha.”
“There’s a map of the house and grounds in the back of your bible,” Indira said, anticipating my next question the way only someone who has spent a career as a producer can. “The servants’ quarters are highlighted in pink. You’ve got your own small production office off to the side. I think it used to be a cleaning cupboard or something. That’s where you’re kipping too. Go familiarise yourself with your patch.”
“Roger!” I said, trying to sound both as keen as I felt and as efficient as Indira expected. Then, to my eternal shame, I saluted. She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll crack on then, shall I?”
“If you would.”
I smiled.
“You’ve got a lot riding on this,” Indira said. “Don’t make me regret giving you a shot.”
Brutal. I nodded, pretending she hadn’t winded me completely. I was going to have to work hard to earn her respect. I turned to walk into the house.
The bathrooms in the servants’ quarters were completely flooded.
