Indira shuffled through a pile of papers, pulling out a booklet in a plastic cover. It landed with a slap on the desk in front of me.
“The Love Manor. Shit name, but then it’s a shit concept. Can’t believe Channel Three went for it, to be honest with you.”
The cover showed a group of people in Regency costumes standing in front of a very grand manor house.
“It’s basicallyLove Islandin fancy dress,” Indira said. “Pride and Prejudicewith promiscuity.”
I snorted.
“I’ve got twenty-four spoilt-brat twenty-somethings signed on to do it. They’re all absolutely fucking stunning and Instagram famous. Thick as shit, obviously. They’re descending on an old manor house in the middle of buttfuck nowhere on Monday. Twelve lads. Twelve lassies. The lads all think they’re Mr Darcy. The lassies all think they’re Daddy’s fucking princess. What they don’t know is we’re splitting them into upstairs and downstairs.” Indira pointed at the booklet. “You can take that with you, it explains everything. But the gist is, we’re putting a heap of horny models into a castle together, making half of them pretend lords and ladies, half of them pretend maids and menservants, providing them with a bucket full of johnnies, and giving them a list of rules about who’s allowed to bang who. Then we’re going to film them breaking the rules and put it all on the telly.”
I flicked through the booklet. This could be either television’s lemon of the year or an absolute winner. But it was also a chance to work with Indira Murray—the best in the business. I’d be mad to turn it down.
“I mean, I wouldliterallywatch this,” I said.
Indira smiled. “Do you want the gig?”
It would mean either begging my boss for a month off with zero notice or quitting my job with zero notice. Either way, I would be leaving my team high and dry, and I might have nothing to come back to after filming finished. My heart was thudding so loudly it was rattling the window. I tried to slow down my breathing. This was a major decision.
I put the booklet down. “What about my ideas?”
“Your ideas need work.” Indira leant forward and stubbed out her cigarette. “But that’s precisely why you’re in the right place. You do this job for me, keep working on your ideas, and in a month’s time, when filming is over, come back to me with the best idea you’ve got. We’ll see if we can do business.”
I was so excited I had to clench every clenchable body part I had. This was an incredible opportunity. This was my dream. My boss atWake Up Britainwould have to find someone else. It was the risk employers took when they kept you rolling along on exploitative casual contracts, year after year, rather than providing job security. Flexibility cut both ways, I decided. I really wanted to do this. But I had to play it right. Indira clearly respected ballsy, so I went with ballsy.
“If you accept my idea, I want an original concept credit and I want to be an executive producer on the show. A real one. Not just a name on the screen.”
Indira tapped a finger against her cigarette packet, eyes never leaving mine.
“Can you be in Leicester by Sunday night?”
“I can.”
Indira stood and extended her hand.
“Then we have a deal, Peter.”
Chapter 2
William
Iwas the wrong way up in the toilet when I smelt smoke.
“Bramley!”
No reply.
“Bramley!”
That’s the trouble with having seventy-eight rooms. It can be terribly hard to locate your staff. Harder still when you only have one member of staff. Until my great-grandfather’s day, we had a bell system for this kind of thing. But even if it still worked, it would have been useless to me. I was in the lavatory in the old servants’ quarters—the end where the bell rings, not the end where the button is pressed to ring the bell. I took my frustration out on the toilet, jabbing the plunger at the ancient porcelain like the blockage was personal and I could beat it into submission. To my surprise, the toilet fought back. As I thrust forward, the rubber slipped, spraying foul, stinking water all over my face and shirt.
“Bastard!”
“You called, my lord?”
I slumped against the wall of the water closet and came to a rest on the filthy tiled floor. Eyes closed against whatever muck I was covered in, I wiped my face on my shirtsleeve.
“Ah, Bramley. Just the man. Can you smell smoke? Tell me, are we finally burning the place down? Only the artwork is no longer insured, so we might want to save the Holbeins. You know, for the nation. Or whatever.”
