57
‘It’s good. Very good. As expected,’ said the bigwig from the BBC sat opposite Marcus. He’d been called to see the chief executive producer in London to discuss the documentary being aired in the autumn. Marcus nodded and averted his gaze. He always found praise difficult to take. ‘Must admit though, the revelation you dropped was a bit of a shocker,’ he continued with a wry smile.
Marcus remained silent. He knew to expect this kind of reaction and was dreading it. After a short silence, feeling obliged to say something he spoke. ‘Yes, it came as a shock to me too when I was told.’
‘Hmm, by your mother—’
‘Yes, by my mam,’ interrupted Marcus with force. He wasn’t prepared to talk about her, not in this situation, here with a virtual stranger.
‘Yet there’s only one reference to her in the documentary,’ he pressed, clearly not picking up on the vibe Marcus had sent. ‘Could you not have elaborated a little more, shown photographs of her and you in your childhood?’
‘No. Absolutely not.’
The chief executive’s head turned sharply, finally getting his drift. He stared at Marcus’ defiant face, knowing any suggestions he may have had would be non-negotiable.
‘Right,’ he replied, realising when he was beaten. He’d been warned about Marcus Devlin and what a prickly fellow he could be. Still, if tolerating a temperamental, obstinate TV producer meant obtaining a first-class documentary into the bargain, then so be it; because this documentary was red-hot. A real show stopper. The ratings would soar; he was totally convinced. It had everything, not just the twee country setting, but the rich and varied characters within the idyllic lifestyle, making it not so twee and idyllic. It had stark contrast, depicting the homeless and poor families’ plight living off the streets and food banks. It contained age-old traditions, which hinted to a darker, mysterious side of village life; vendettas between residents, rivalry between the classes, and ultimately the bombshell announcing the documentary’s own producer was in fact the illegitimate son of the late Lord of the Manor.
It didn’t get much better than that. No, putting up with an awkward young man like Marcus Devlin was well worth it. He had talent and that’s all that concerned him. The last thing he wanted was this gifted chap to take his work elsewhere. Who knows what else he could come up with? One thingdidconcern him, or at least baffled him though. Shifting in his chair he coughed and stared directly at Marcus. Sensing his unease, Marcus returned the stare.
‘What?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Marcus, have you considered how this is going to affect you?’
Had he ever. Truth be told, he hadn’t thought about much else lately. To the point where he had contacted Tobias to voice them. They’d both agreed that he and Finula staying at Treweham Hall for the foreseeable future was the most sensible course of action.
‘Yes, I have,’ he answered, still looking him in the eye. Well, what was he to do about it now? The documentary had been made, submitted and was being aired in a few short months. What options did he have but to press on and brace himself for the media onslaught?
‘And… you’re quite happy about the intrusion this will inevitably cause?’ The chief executive frowned. It perplexed him, how a private, introverted man like Marcus Devlin notoriously was, would agree to disclose such personal details. It didn’t add up. Marcus intrigued him; he wasn’t the norm.
‘No, I’m not happy about the attention this will bring.’
‘Then why did you reveal your parentage?’ he shot back, getting a touch tired of Marcus’ manner.
‘Because it makes good TV.’
‘At the cost of having your life changed so dramatically?’ he replied incredulously. Marcus too, was growing a little impatient at this fecker who was digging far too deep for his liking. The honest answer to his question would be that it had been revenge originally that had driven him to these lengths, so intent had he been to blacken the Cavendish-Blake name. Marcus believed his mam had been cast away, pregnant and shamed, only to learn that in fact that hadn’t been the case. Far from it. Diaries of the late Lord Cavendish-Blake proved that he had been totally oblivious of his firstborn son. His mam had bolted and fled to Ireland in despair.
Once the truth was out, Marcus’ revenge had died, along with any plans to discredit what had since become his family. But he was damned if he was telling all this to the man sat opposite him – bigwig or not.
‘I know what to expect. I’m prepared.’ He gave a cool look. ‘Now, if that completes everything, I’ve a train to catch.’ He stood up.
The chief executive slowly looked him up and down. Who did he think he was? A skilful TV producer who had just made him an explosive piece of viewing, he reminded himself. ‘Yes, thank you, Marcus.’ He managed a rigid smile, while standing to shake hands. ‘All the best.’
Marcus gave a curt nod and strode out, never looking back.
