‘I don’t care how handsome he was,’ a fan might say, ‘he was not my idea of Mr Darcy.’
‘Her hair! Did you see Fanny Price’s hair? What were they thinking?’
Gemma sighed. Adapting a classic novel was a minefield, and taking on the role of its heroine was fraught with potential disasters.
As Gemma got up to leave the relative warmth of the van and was rudely accosted by the wind, which quickly whipped around her thin muslin dress, she could only hope that her performance wouldn’t disappoint the legion of fans out there.
She was trying to take shelter in the curve of the Cobb until she was needed, when a dark-haired man walked past her. It was the man from the bar at The Three Palms—the one on whom she’d turned her back.
‘Hello,’ he said.
Gemma nodded.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘You look cold.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Gemma said politely, half expecting him to move on to wherever he had to move on to. But he didn’t.
‘That dress doesn’t look very substantial,’ he said.
‘It isn’t,’ Gemma said and then blushed as she saw his eyes sweep over her exposed bosom.
‘Rob?’ a voice yelled from the other end of the Cobb. ‘Get over here, will you?’
The man shrugged. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said, and as quickly as he’d appeared, he disappeared, leaving Gemma with the impression that he was, indeed, very wicked. Rather cute, too.
***
Adam always felt like a bit of a spare part when he was on set. For a start, he wasn’t really needed. Nobody asked him his opinion about the way a scene should be shot, and if there were any questions about the script, they were always directed to Teresa. He didn’t mind, though. He quite liked being in the background. It gave him a chance to observe everything that was going on around him. He loved the bustle of film sets; the excitement had never waned over the years. No matter how many he’d been on, there was always something different to experience. For the Persuasion shoot, it was the transformation of the Cobb. There were canteen trucks, trucks for the actors full of costumes and makeup, vans full of cables, dolly tracks for the camera, and ropes cordoning off several streets, with notices apologising for any inconvenience. He’d been working on a film up in Scotland when the 2006 production of Persuasion had been shooting in Lyme Regis, and he’d been gutted to miss it. Now he took a step back and gloried in the chaos that he caused by sitting down to write a script one day.
He’d been told about the burst pipe at The Three Palms and how Teresa had managed to find Wentworth House. Adam smiled as he thought about its new owner. It had been her, hadn’t it? The girl with the toffee-coloured hair he’d seen outside the estate agents. She hadn’t recognised him, but how could she have? He hadn’t exactly made his presence known that day, had he? But he remembered her. There’d been something about her that captivated him immediately. She had a sweetness about her the like of which he’d never seen before, and it had been easy to talk to her. He’d been surprised at how at ease he felt in her company. Women usually had the effect of tying him up in knots, but Kay loosened him. Gemma was the same. He adored Gemma and cared enormously about her, but she didn’t give him the fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach that Kay did.
Adam took a deep breath of salty air. Now was not a good time to fall in love. He’d just started a new screenplay and was up to his eyeballs in ideas, plus there was still much to sort out with the film. His phone never stopped ringing, unless he switched it off, which he often did when he was writing. His imagination was working at full capacity at the moment, and there wasn’t room to start imagining romantic scenarios in his own life. He had to write those of his characters’ first, but that was easier said than done, wasn’t it?
A sudden gust of wind buffeted Adam, and he buttoned his coat. It was cold for May, and the sea was a menacing grey to match the sky. He watched as the actresses left the safety of the makeup vans, the fine fabric of their dresses whipping around their legs. They were all wearing coats, and he could see strands of hair desperately trying to escape from the confines of their bonnets.
‘It’s impossible!’ Beth shouted above the wind. ‘I can hardly get my breath.’
Sophie and Gemma linked arms and struggled along behind Beth as they approached the Cobb. The sea was whipping up some alarming waves, and they hit the Cobb on the far side and sprayed over the top, soaking anyone who dared to stand nearby.
Teresa shook her head. ‘It’s no good,’ she bellowed. ‘We can’t shoot in this.’
‘I told you,’ Beth bellowed back. ‘We should have had that lie-in.’
‘Best hangover cure, though,’ Oli said with a laugh. He was wearing an enormous coat over his Captain Wentworth clothes, and his face was damp with sea spray. The other actors who were part of the Cobb scene were similarly attired, and most were bent double to try to cope with the ever-increasing wind.
Then the rain came. There was no buildup—no hesitant drops to warn of an impending downpour—the heavens just opened and dumped their load onto the poor unfortunates below.
Adam pulled up the hood of his coat and ran towards the nearest van for cover, as did everyone else. Bonnets and hair were flattened in an instant, and makeup rivered down each actor’s face. Dampened dresses clung to the actresses’ legs, and everyone’s face was as glum as Les Miserable’s.
Towels were quickly passed around and the makeup girls went into standby to repair the damage, but Teresa shook her head.
‘Get out of those wet things,’ she shouted. ‘Get dried, and then we’re heading out to do the Uppercross scenes.’
Adam saw Gemma’s face fall, and he could guess why. She’d psyched herself up for the Cobb scene, and now the weather had put paid to that.
‘Hey,’ he said, sidling up to her, ‘you’ll be fine.’
She looked up at him with wide eyes, reminding him of a traffic-startled deer, but then she nodded.
‘Come on, everyone,’ Teresa suddenly bellowed. ‘Get moving!’
Adam knew that they’d hired a minibus, and it wasn’t long before the cast were battling their way along the windy Cobb and boarding the vehicle. Nobody asked him if he wanted to join them, but he hadn’t expected that they would, and he didn’t mind. He had his own wheels, and he also had an idea brewing.
‘Kay,’ he said quietly to himself as he left the Cobb. Kay could come with him. She was reading Persuasion. She was bound to want to see it being filmed, and it would be the perfect opportunity to get to know her.
Bowing his head against the wind, he walked along Marine Parade towards Wentworth House, making a couple of quick calls to the production team first, so he couldn’t be accused of skiving.
This is a good idea, isn’t it? a little voice inside him said as he approached Kay’s. He cleared his throat and pulled down his hood, raking a hand through his hair, which he feared was even more tousled than usual, with the wind he’d been battling. Before he could change his mind, he knocked on the door.
And waited.
He knocked again, rapping the knocker as loudly as he could.
He waited some more. Lucky there was a porch, he thought; otherwise he would have been soaked to the skin by then.
Finally the door opened. ‘Oh!’ Kay said.
‘Hello,’ Adam said, noticing her face was flushed and her long toffee-coloured hair had been piled on top of her head in a funny sort of bun.
‘I was under the bed,’ she said.
He gave her a quizzical look.
‘Vacuuming,’ she explained. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘No. Can I come in?’ he asked, knowing he was the kind of guy who girls didn’t automatically invite into their homes. ‘It’s a bit blustery out here.’
‘Oh, right,’ Kay said.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ he said as he walked inside, waiting for her to close the door behind them. ‘They’ve broken off filming at the Cobb. The weather�
��s too bad. They’re going to do some of the Uppercross scenes—up in the Marshwood Vale.’
‘Where you live?’
‘Nearby, yes. I was going to drive up there and wondered if you wanted to come along.’ He paused, his heart thudding in his chest. This isn’t a date, he told himself. There’s no need to get tied up into nervous knots about it.
‘Right now?’ she asked, her bright eyes widening.
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know,’ Kay said. ‘There’s so much to do here. I’ve got beds to make and towels to wash and carpets to vacuum and sinks to clean. And I’ve got to prepare a meal for tonight.’
Adam watched as she puffed out her cheeks.
‘Okay,’ he said.
‘Maybe another time?’
‘No. I mean—okay—I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘I’ll make the beds and wash the towels and vacuum anything that needs vacuuming.’
She gave him a quizzical look. ‘Why?’
‘Because I think you should come and see Persuasion being filmed, and I want to show you the Marshwood Vale.’
Kay looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘All the cast will be there. I’m sure they’d be happy to see you,’ he added, and he watched as Kay’s expression changed.
‘You’ll really help out here?’ she asked.
‘Of course. Just point me to the nearest sink that needs scrubbing.’
A smile broke across Kay’s face, and Adam found himself mirroring it. He’d known this would be a good idea.
Chapter 12
There followed a mad frenzy of vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing as Adam and Kay worked their way around the bedrooms of Wentworth House. Bed sheets were straightened and tucked, pillows and duvets were shaken and fluffed, towels were swapped and washed, and everything else was cleaned until it shone.
Finally, when Kay was quite sure everything looked perfect, she turned to Adam. He was ready with a smile for her.
‘I think we deserve the rest of the day off, don’t you?’
Kay nodded. ‘That’s certainly a job well done,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much for helping. If you ever give up the film world, there’s a job for you right here.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ he said, thinking how wonderful it would be to work alongside Kay all day. How distracting it would be too. No, he decided, he probably wouldn’t get any work done at all, if he knew she was just in the next room, because the temptation to down tools and take her in his arms and—well, it just wouldn’t be viable, would it?
‘Let’s get going, shall we?’
‘I’ll just get changed,’ Kay said.
Adam nodded and decided to take himself downstairs to the living room. Being on the same floor as Kay getting changed was more than any sane man could bear.
It was a funny little room with its nicotine-coloured wallpaper and flowery carpet, but Kay had made it wonderfully homey. There was a glass vase of freesias on the windowsill, and two big lamps promised a warm glow once evening set in. She’d also filled the shelves in the alcoves with books, and he couldn’t resist looking at them as he waited for her. He smiled to himself as he saw a row of jewel-bright Regency romances by Lorna Warwick. Hadn’t the author recently been revealed to be a man? Adam was sure he’d read something somewhere.
Nestling alongside the Lorna Warwick titles were the obligatory Jane Austen novels—an impressive three copies of each title, all with different covers. Then there was the nonfiction associated with the great woman—the biographies, the histories of England in the time of the writer, collections of her letters, and new critical studies of her work. It was a collection worthy of any Janeite, he thought as he pulled out one of the collections of her letters.
‘They’re wonderful, aren’t they?’ Kay asked.
Adam spun around and saw Kay standing in the doorway. She’d untied her hair, and it cascaded around her shoulders in light waves, making Adam want to reach out and touch it. She’d changed out of her jeans too and was wearing a long pink dress with a berry-red jacket over it.
‘I love Jane Austen’s letters,’ she said. ‘Her humour is wonderful. She’s so naughty—just what a younger sister should be.’
Adam nodded, realising he was staring like a mad man. ‘Do you have any younger sisters?’
‘No,’ Kay said, and her smile instantly vanished. ‘No brothers and no sisters. Just me.’
‘That must have been a bit lonely growing up,’ he said.
‘Oh, I had my books,’ she said. ‘My fictional families.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’re an only child?’
‘Perhaps that’s why I’m a writer. I was always creating fictional families.’
Kay smiled. ‘I think onlys have a tendency to hide within their imaginations.’
‘I think so too,’ he said, ‘but it’s not a bad place to be.’
‘No,’ Kay said, ‘especially when things get to be too much.’ She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to say so much, but there was something about Adam that made it easy for her to talk. ‘So are we going to Uppercross?’ she added, quickly changing the subject before she inflicted her whole past on the poor man.
‘Absolutely,’ Adam said, grabbing his coat from the hallway.
The rain had stopped by the time they left the bed and breakfast, but the sky was still a deep bruised purple and the waves looked angry and threatening, as if they were plotting something.
‘Wow,’ Kay said. ‘I’ve never seen it like this.’
‘Get used to it,’ Adam said. ‘Winters can be pretty tough on the coast.’
‘I guess we only think of these places as being filled with summer sunshine and tourists.’
‘But that’s one of the benefits of winter,’ Adam said. ‘The tourists go home, and you have it to yourself.’
‘Don’t you like tourists?’ Kay said. They reached the end of Marine Parade and crossed the road towards the parking lot. ‘Jane Austen was a tourist, and you wouldn’t have a film being made of your screenplay if she hadn’t visited Lyme.’
Adam grinned. ‘Of course, but there are tourists and there are tourists. I object only to the ones who come to Lyme and aren’t inspired to write great literature.’
They walked on, and Adam finally pointed to his car and unlocked it. It was an old Volvo that had a pair of wellingtons on the back seat that had seen better days. The Volvo had seen better days too, and Adam knew it.
‘Sorry about the dog hair,’ he said, getting in beside her. ‘I was looking after somebody’s German shepherd, and he seemed to be moulting. He was even worse than my cat.’
‘You have a cat?’ Kay asked.
‘Sir Walter. After Anne Elliot’s father, because he’s a terrible snob who’s forever looking down his little pink nose at me.’
Kay laughed. ‘I’d like to meet him.’
Adam swallowed. Things didn’t normally happen that easily for him. Women didn’t usually just invite themselves to his house. If he’d known that all he had to do to get a woman to come home with him was mention his cat, he would have done it years before. Who would have thought that dear old Sir Walter would earn his keep?
‘But first, Uppercross.’
***
It had been a pleasant enough drive from Lyme Regis into the Marshwood Vale. The film crew left the worst of the weather behind them at the coast, but Teresa was still looking anxious about things. Gemma had been watching her closely, wondering which scenes they would be filming in the course of the day. The sky was still dark, and large clouds scuddied their way across it like malevolent phantoms. It was very unlikely that they’d be filming anything outdoors that day.
Gemma stole a glance at Beth and Sophie. They were both joking about something, and Sophie was laughing. Gemma adored Sophie. She was always happy. Nothing seemed to faze her. If only I could be like that, Gemma thought. Why do I have to worry so much? Why can’t I just look out of the window and enjoy the day or be able to tell silly jokes? Why does
my stomach always have to be doing the cancan?
For a moment she wondered whether she could get her knitting out and try to settle her nerves, but the twisting country lanes would turn her needles into instruments of danger, and she didn’t want to risk injuring anyone, not even Beth.
Teresa was on her phone, barking a list of instructions to some poor soul at the other end. Gemma bit her lip. She was glad she wasn’t a member of the crew. Teresa seemed to handle the actors with kid gloves in comparison to how she handled the crew, although she seemed to take exception with Oli. For some reason, he seemed to wind her up constantly. Gemma knew that they had worked together before and often wondered why they agreed to work together again, if that was the way they felt about each other. Maybe it was one of those funny relationships where their passion for the art they were creating overruled anything personal. They knew that what they were producing would be a little bit of screen magic, and they were willing to put up with all the irritation that went with it.
When she was quite sure nobody was looking, Gemma surreptitiously opened her bag and fished out her copy of the script. It was getting battered, with its curling pages and bashed-in spine, but it still served its purpose well, and Gemma soon found the scenes she needed for the day ahead. Anxiously her eyes cast over the lines that weren’t completely new to her but seemed like a memory of a distant dream, and her heart beat faster. She didn’t feel ready. She wanted more time, needed more time, but before she had time to read more than three pages, the minibus slowed down to turn into a long tree-lined driveway.
Beyond the trees, there was a field full of sheep, and then the countryside rolled away into the distance. As the bus made a final turn, the house was revealed to them.
Marlcombe Manor was a Grade I Jacobean house that sprawled across an immaculate lawn like a sleeping dragon. It was built in glorious honey-coloured stone and looked as if it housed at least three ghosts, with its enormous mullioned windows and barley-twist chimneys. Swallows swooped across the lawn, and a po-faced peacock made its sedate way up the driveway.
Dreaming of Mr. Darcy Page 7