He sploshed the lake of water on the floor with the toe of his boot. “What about this situation makes you think you’ve got this?”
“I know how to fix a toilet. It’s not hard.”
That was the precise moment the ball float shot loose from the ballcock, opening the valve and sending litres of water shooting out across the room—again. The water hit the stall wall and showered down on me like a thunderstorm.
“The phone?” Petey Boy said.
“In the kitchen,” I said, staring at the floor, letting the water run down my back.
Chapter 9
Petey
Early next morning a fleet of taxis collected the first nine contestants from the world’s ugliest Travelodge (quite an achievement) and took them to a marquee on the edge of the Buckford Estate. Here, they would be ushered through a well-ordered production line of costumiers and hair and make-up artists until their transformations into Regency-era maids and menservants were complete. The first to arrive was Liverpudlian fashion TikToker Kiki Galapagos, who couldn’t say her own name without covering you in spit. I checked her arrival on my clipboard and asked her to follow me into the marquee.
“Is it you I need to speak to about my lady name?” she asked as we stepped inside the big white tent.
“Sorry?”
“Don’t I get to be the duchess of somewhere?”
“You’re asking if you get a title?”
This was awkward. Not only did she not get to be the duchess of anywhere, in about three hours’ time, she was going to learn she was a servant. Those destined to be lords and ladies weren’t arriving until this afternoon. (Indira had decided to hold backsix of the twenty-four contestants to sprinkle them in later, to stir things up.)
“Only, I’m a brand ambassador for Amphora, you see, so I wanted to be the Duchess of Amphora.” She extended a wrist, jangling with bracelets. “They’ve got this gorgeous new jewellery range?—”
“It ain’t possible, babes,” I said, shutting her down firmly but politely. Kiki looked hacked off, but I didn’t have time to deal with her now—another taxi was already pulling up outside.
“What about the Duchess of Clermont-Ferrand, then?” she asked. “I’ve been representing their new range of heels for summ?—”
“You won’t be the duchess of anything,” I snapped. She straightened, like she was preparing either to ask to speak to the manager or to punch my teeth down the back of my throat.
“Not until you marry a duke,” I said, in a brainwave. “It’s a dating show, that’s the whole point, innit?”
I ushered her in the direction of the costumier and raced out the door to greet the next taxi. That was close. I needed to be more careful. I’d already made an idiot of myself with the baron, I couldn’t afford to mess up with the cast as well.
“Can I at least wear the bangles?” Kiki shouted after me.
The next to arrive was Lola Q, an English Korean YouTuber who did make-up tutorials. She screamed when she saw the three gold-trimmed horse-drawn carriages lined up to take the contestants down the drive to Buckford Hall, then she screamed again when she got into the marquee and saw Kiki. Then Kiki screamed when she saw Lola. Then the two of them screamed together, and I felt a trickle of blood roll from my ear.
The cast started to arrive thick and fast. The first of the lads was Theo, a carpenter from Luton, whose social media content suggested he didn’t own a shirt and who took me aside to ask if anyone had bagsied being “the Lord of Carhartt” yet. Nextwas a travel blogger called Zoë, whose social accounts indicated her wardrobe was entirely bathing suits and things that wrap around bathing suits and who demanded to be Lady Lauren by Ralph Lauren. It was about then I realised I’d crossed an invisible bridge into a bizarre new world. Ellie from Essex, who had her own vegan cooking channel, arrived and asked to be the Comtesse Le Creuset. For a moment, I thought things might be getting back to something like normal when “hot farm boy” Tom, from Somerset, turned up and beelined for the horses like it was 4:00 a.m. and the club was closing and he still had a few chat-up lines ready to go. But then he quietly pulled me aside and suggested he’d like to be “the Earl of G. W. Gimpson and Sons Saddlery and Stock Feeders Taunton” and I realised we’d hit peak batshit. It was a relief when the next taxi door finally opened to reveal Ludo’s little brother.
“As I live and breathe!” Jonty Boche said, pulling off his sunglasses. “First the taxi flies past a sign for Buckford Hall, and I think, oh hello, it couldn’t possibly be, could it? And sure enough, it turns out we’re filming this whole shebang at old Dub-Dub’s place. Then whose is the first face I see but none other than that scandalous homosexual Petey BoyDoesn’tTopham.”
“Surprise!” I said, meekly. Jonty threw his arms around me, wrapping me up in a bear hug. Then he stood back, held my elbows firmly, and shook his head in what seemed to be genuine disbelief.
“The last time I saw you, I was falling out of the Ritz at one in the morning, and you were being carried off into Green Park by an off-duty Grenadier Guardsman.”
“I remember.”
“With your legs wrapped around his face.”
“I recall.”
“How’d that all end up?”
“With a Distinguished Service Medal for him and a visit to a clinic for me,” I said.
