Jonty frowned. “This is the same Petey Boy we’re talking about?”
“Yes.”
“Tall bloke? Bleached hair? Built like a biro?”
I nodded.
“And there you were, all chiselled and as naked as Michaelangelo’s David, and you say he couldn’t get out of there fast enough?”
I shrugged. “Yes. It’s hard to believe it could be the same guy who runs around with a clipboard putting the fear of God into people all day.”
“We all contain multitudes.” Jonty shook his head. “Petey has certainly contained multitudes. Often in the course of a single evening.”
I had no idea what Jonty meant and I didn’t really care to ask in case I looked stupid. We sat there in silence for a moment.
“So, what’shis‘deal,’ then?” I asked.
Jonty sipped his tea.
“Well, he’s the black sheep of a massively overachieving family—the affliction of so many of us—so he’s got a huge chip on his shoulder. He’s cursed to spend forever trying to prove himself. He trawls all the wrong places looking for love when what he’s really looking for is approval. But he has the brains, drive, and energy of a border collie, and he’s every bit as smart, loving, and loyal. No idea if he’s any good with sheep, mind you.”
I don’t think I’d taken a breath the whole time Jonty was speaking. “Golly, that’s quite the review.”
“Plus, he’s widely regarded as the best two-door ride Vauxhall has produced in a century.”
I spat my tea out across the coffee table.
Jonty’s eyebrows waggled in a disconcerting manner. “Shall I tell him you’re interested, then?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? You are. It’s as plain as the tea running down your face.”
I wiped my chin with my wrist and shook my head.
“Come on, Dub-Dub, a little summer fling would do you good. Throw your leg over a few times and give the old glutes a workout.”
“I don’t want a fling, I wan?—”
There was an angry thump at the door, and a Scottish voice boomed from beyond it.
“If this meeting of the Incompetent Nepo Baby Society is finished, I’d quite like a fucking word.”
Chapter 13
Petey
By day four it was all kicking off atThe Love Manor. It was a bright sunny morning, and I was standing on the Great Lawn with one of our roving outdoor camera crews watching three of the female contestants rip each other to shreds.
“Why is you disrespecting her, though?” Lady Cristina, a fitness Instagrammer from London, screeched.
Ellie from Essex raised a hand. “No offence, but it’s none of your business, babes.”
“Don’t ‘babes’ me,babes, I saw what I saw. I’m sticking up for what’s right.”
Indira was back in our production office, in the Old Coach House, watching the footage roll in. She had to be loving every second. This was TV gold. It was also how I could prove her faith in me was warranted.
The Bookstagrammer, Lady Ridhi, was crying—long manicured nails quivering as she wiped her tears. “But why would you evenaskArmando to go into the hedge maze with you? He’s with me.”
