“What?” Had I blacked out for a second?
“I’m telling you, London’s going to be a nightmare. You don’t want to go back down there, what with the press chasing us. Why don’t you stay here at Buckford after filming finishes? After all, Sunny and Ludo are coming up. And now your parents. Everyone thinks we’re getting married anyway, so staying would be the most natural thing in the world. I can protect you from the paparazzi.”
Something clenched in my chest—not anger, not yet. It was the wordprotect. The way he said it so naturally, like it was obvious I needed protecting. Like it was his job. Like he knew best what was good for me. I knew that tone. I’d grown up with it. I pulled my hands back from his.
“I don’t need your protection, William.”
“But if I can shield you from the worst excesses of the press, why wouldn’t you let me help?”
I stood, anger now rising.
“When the time is right for you to come riding in on your white horse to rescue me, my lord, you’ll know about it. I don’t need a hero.”
William got to his feet, his face pleading.
“Petey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean?—”
“I can look after myself. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. Come to bed. We can cuddle until you fall asleep.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to finish my pitch deck for Indira. She’s expecting me to present to her in two days.”
He grabbed hold of this like a life ring. “Great! Let me help you. Which idea are you going with? We can talk it through.”
“No,” I said, and it came out of my mouth more forcefully than I intended—but I was absolutely raging. “I need to do this by myself.”
The next morning, despite having stayed up half the night, I still didn’t have a big idea I loved enough to present to Indira. I had less than forty-eight hours to go. I walked into the Old Coach House to find her bouncing around like she was in an aerobics class, two lit cigarettes in her mouth and a spare tucked behind her ear. She was wearing the same trainers, black leggings, and oversized chunky knit jumper as yesterday. In her hand, she held a corrugated paper coffee cup. There were at least four empties on the desk. Even for her, she lookedreallyunwell.
“Have you been to bed?” I asked.
Indira picked up the show’s rule book and threw it at me. I caught it against my chest.
“We’re fucked,” she said, out of one side of her mouth.
“Why? What’s happened?”
She pointed at the rule book I was busily trying to straighten out.
“That thing. Is. Fucked.”
“OK,” I said. I was carefully trying to assess the situation. If Indira had a problem, I needed to find a solution. “How can I help?”
“Read page forty-seven.”
I turned the page and started to read it.
“Not out loud, for fuck’s sake. What is this, a kindergarten?”
I slid into a chair in front of one of the computers, eyes not leaving the page. It was the section on deciding the winner. According to the rules, only a married couple could win the prize money—the point being that marriage was the definition of success in the Regency era. We couldn’t have bachelors or spinsters walking away with the loot. In the event the show ended with more than one married couple, all the remaining cast would be invited to vote in a secret ballot. If no couple got more than fifty per cent of the vote in the first ballot, then the couple with the fewest votes would be eliminated until there was only one couple left.
“Do you see it?” Indira said, arms flailing, ash falling like the last days of Pompeii. “Of course you can fucking see it. You’re a bright kid.”
I wasn’t sure I could see it. But Indira praising my abilities was like a shot of whatever they give horses to win races, direct into my arm—and I was determined to see it.
“It’s a bit… dull,” I said.
“Dull? It’s apocalyptically anticlimactic. A secret fucking ballot? In Regency England?”
