“Mixed results, then. Shame. It all looked so promising.”
I ushered Jonty into the marquee and gave him the onboarding spiel I’d been giving all the others. Turn your phone off and put it in this paper bag. You’ll get it back at the end of the show. There’s no contact with the outside world during filming. Did you tell anyone other than your emergency contact where you are? No taking any personal belongings with you onto the set. While on set, please ensure you’re wearing your microphone pack at all times, except when bathing. And so on.
“Do you have any questions?” I asked.
“Actually, I do.” He was perched against a trestle table with his arms folded. “Do I get a title? Because I’m an ambassador for the Hazel Dormouse Protection Trust…”
Chapter 10
William
The buzz in the carriage court as filming got underway was absolutely electric. It was like those tense few minutes before you run out onto the rugby pitch—anticipation in the air, grunts of encouragement flying around everywhere, adrenaline pumping through your veins, and tears streaming down your face because you were careless about where you put your hands after slapping on the Tiger Balm. Well, maybe not the last bit. It was a bright sunny day, right after luncheon, and I was standing well back, under a tree, where Indira was staring at a bank of monitors. I was under strict instructions to remain totally silent.
“It’s costing sixty grand to film this one sequence,” Indira explained. “So you’re welcome to stand here and watch. But if you fuck this up for me in any way, I’ll pluck your family jewels from betwixt your impossibly thicc thighs and I’ll crush them with my bare hands until they turn into diamonds. Your future baroness will think you’ve had a fucking vajazzle. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” I swallowed. “You won’t hear a peep. We’re on the same team. I’m here to make sure this whole thing goes as smoothly as possible.”
Indira did not look convinced.
Members of the crew were zipping around everywhere, all wearing headsets with little microphones. At least five cameras were set up on tripods around the carriage court, the operators standing on boxes, heads bowed downwards, staring intently into their viewfinders. There was a bloke with a big boom microphone who, on closer inspection, I realised was carrying a duck in a baby sling. There was absolutely no sign of Petey Boy, thank God. I wasn’t sure I was ready to see him again, knowing he must have thought I was a bumbling incompetent. But in the centre of the carriage court, standing on a small stage covered in red velvet, was someone I was thrilled to see—The Love Manorhost, and national treasure, Dorinda Carter. Big, Black, and Brummie, she looked like a queen in a massive hooped dress of electric blue silk. She was glittering with diamonds (acquired, I imagined, from Indira’s previous victims). A stylist bustled around her, adjusting a tiara sparkling out from an improbably tall afro puff.
“Right, let’s go,” Indira said into her headset. “Get the drone up.”
Someone yelled, “Places, everybody!”
The stylist bolted from the set. Dorinda stood a little taller.
Indira, eyes flicking between the monitors, nodded and pressed the button on her headset. “Action!”
“Wait!” someone shouted from behind us. “I’ve brought acorns!”
“CUT!”
I turned to see Mum and Bramley running towards us across the lawn from the Dower House, carrying wicker baskets.
“Reset, everybody.” I could feel Indira’s eyes boring into the back of my head. “Lord Buckford…”
If I didn’t turn around, I couldn’t meet her gaze and she couldn’t turn me to stone.
“I’ll handle it.”
Mum pulled up in front of us, huffing and puffing.
“Gosh, you don’t realise how big that lawn really is until you try running across it,” Mum said. “I guess that’s why we call it the Great Lawn.”
Over her shoulder, I could see Bramley about twenty feet back, bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “If you’ve killed Bramley?—”
“Oi,” Indira barked. “I’m trying to make a fucking TV show here. Do you know how much it costs per minute to keep thirty crew standing around doing bugger all?”
“Well, exactly,” Mum said. “That’s why I’ve bought acorns for everybody.”
“Mum, that’s enough,” I said through gritted teeth.
“They’re a symbol of good luck,” she continued. “Only they’re not fresh. I collected these last year, obviously, because acorns are out of season right now. But I thought if everyone had an acorn in their pocket, it might?—”
“Is she a fucking squirrel?” Indira muttered.
Mum blinked, clearly taken aback. “I’m sensing some negative energy. Perhaps some pranic breathing exercises, as a group, might be in order?”
