by Jemma Harvey
When I explained my idea I could tell she was pleased, though of course she couldn’t commit herself without Crusty’s say-so. ‘I’m not sure,’ she temporised. ‘Alex may be a bit dark. I’ve seen a picture of Alasdair and he had light brown hair.’
‘Minor details,’ I said largely. ‘The important thing is that Alex is stunning. I’ll talk to Crusty myself.’
We opened a bottle of champagne in anticipation of success and drank to Alex’s and my future as great lovers on the small screen. Then we drank to our wedding, to the bridesmaid, to Maddalena’s designs – and somewhere towards the bottom of the bottle the second half of my brainwave kicked in.
‘Brie!’ I cried. ‘We need someone to play the local girl Alasdair rejected. How about Brie de Meaux?’
It was a stroke of genius. Roo seemed unenthused – I didn’t blame her; Brie isn’t much of an actress – but the more I thought about my idea, the better I liked it. As I said to Roo, it wasn’t a demanding role: all Brie had to do was stand around looking deserted. She would have few lines, if any (the spotlight would be on me) but we could call it a Special Guest Appearance, like Jordan on Footballers’ Wives, and it would bring us an audience who normally got no further than Page 3. ‘She won’t do it,’ Roo said, but I knew she was wrong. Brie would never be able to resist the lure of Dunblair and HG, not to mention the chance to appear in a show that would be watched by millions and might give her public image some much-needed gravitarse. I’d be doing her a favour, which gave me a lovely warm benevolent feeling. (It also meant she’d owe me one, which could come in handy some time.) And it would provide me with the perfect opportunity to build bridges between her and Alex so she could walk up the aisle in my wake.
I telephoned Crusty on Sunday morning. Despite Roo’s reservations, he went for it immediately.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said. ‘Won’t be able to pay them much of a fee, though. Spent most of the budget on you! Still, if you think they’d be prepared to appear anyway – jump on board for the fun of the ride, you might say . . .’
‘Of course they will,’ I said. Alex would come because of me, Brie because she pounced on every second of possible TV exposure in a panic that it might get away. ‘I’ll talk to them now.’
Alex grumbled a bit, but only because of his ego.
‘Look, if you really don’t fancy the idea, forget it,’ I said as a clincher. ‘We’ll find someone else. I know things like that don’t matter to you, but most actors would be queuing up for the chance to stay with Hot God. Not to mention the possibility of a screen kiss with me.’
I know I wasn’t being very subtle, but Alex is a man: subtlety tends to pass him by.
‘Suppose I should do it,’ he said. ‘For your sake. Although I still think that a minimal fee isn’t enough . . .’
‘No, no. If you’re not keen it really isn’t important. Roo says there’s a guy from some fringe production at the Bush who’d be ideal – major sex appeal, definitely going places, just needs a few cameos to boost his career. Apparently he’s half Scots too.’
Alex bristled. ‘I said I’d do it, okay? I simply feel the payment should, you know, reflect my talent and the level of my contribution.’
‘Artistically,’ I said loftily and untruthfully, ‘mere money is irrelevant. It’s participation that counts.’
I knew I’d won. Five minutes later, he was packing.
Brie made even more difficulties, but she’s a celeb, in a D-list sort of way, so making difficulties is obligatory. Underneath, I knew she would never let slip an opportunity like this, and she knew that I knew, and I knew she knew I knew, but I was very, very diplomatic and took care not to show it.
She was in the middle of colonic irrigation when I called.
‘This is wonderful,’ she declared. ‘Honestly, Delphi, you should try it. I feel, like, totally purified. I bet the ancient Romans had this.’
I’d asked Roo about Tiberius, and she’d confirmed that he was a bisexual sex maniac and cross-dresser with psychopathic tendencies and a taste for paedophilia on the side. Colonic irrigation didn’t get a look-in.
‘I’m sure they did,’ I said, and proceeded to explain my brainwave, keeping to myself the fact that it came from me and dangling it like an offhand carrot in front of a temperamental donkey.
‘Sounds quite fun,’ Brie said nonchalantly. ‘But I’d want serious money. Like somebody or other once said, I don’t put my clothes on for less than ten grand a day.’
In view of her career history, that remark was a bit ambidextrous, but I let it go.
‘That’s what I told them,’ I responded promptly. ‘I said, she’ll never do it. The thing is, this whole historical re-enactment business has been put together at the last minute and there isn’t much slack in the budget. After all, HG’s appearing for nothing – he’s so famous we could never afford to pay him anyway! Don’t worry, I’ll say you weren’t interested. I promised to mention it to you, but . . .’
‘Hold on. I didn’t say definitely . . . I mean, it could be quite a laugh, really. The castle and Hot God and everything. I’ve got this film role coming up –’ like hell – ‘but there are no dates yet, so I’m free for a bit. I suppose it’s kind of like doing a charity thing. I could look at it that way.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘You’re doing your bit for the restoration of our national heritage.’
‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’
We faffed about for a bit longer, then Brie said she would consult her agent and get back to me. As I cut the call, I allowed myself a gleeful smirk. I knew she’d taken the bait. Everything was working out the way I’d planned . . .
(Who was it who kept saying that? Oh yes – the evil Emperor in Star Wars . . .)
It was Easter Sunday, and I’d decided to take my egg to Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital. With any luck, someone would leak my generosity to the press. (I wouldn’t do it myself: that would be crass.) I wasn’t pleased when I discovered Alex had already started eating it. I couldn’t present a ward full of sick children with a half-eaten Easter egg, and there were no shops open to buy a replacement. To annoy Alex, I spent much of the day training Fenny to get in touch with his inner Rottweiler, and respond to the command kill! by violently attacking a rubber ball.
Chapter 5:
Past Imperfect
Ruth
I wasn’t at all happy with the inclusion of Alex Russo and Brie de Meaux in the Dunblair project. Alex read the part well enough and looked impossibly handsome, in an extremely un-Gaelic way, but I knew he had the attention span of a delinquent child and an equally limited capacity for hard work – should any be required. As for Brie, she was a smart bimbo who’d capitalised on her looks to launch a precarious career, and was now established tabloid fodder. She probably couldn’t act, which didn’t matter much as very little was necessary for her role, but it meant another overgrown ego on the loose and we already had too many of those. I’d met her several times with Delphi, but as I was neither male nor well-known I had no claim on her interest and she had virtually ignored me. As we would be working together, not to mention fellow bridesmaids, she would presumably have to notice my existence, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
I confided some of my misgivings to Russell, who was philosophical. With a track record in makeover shows he was used to unpredictable behaviour and recurring disaster, and clearly took it in his stride. ‘First law of television,’ he reminded me. ‘If it can go wrong, it will. Why worry?’
‘So you don’t?’ I said.
‘Never. The nervous twitch and palsied hands are just indications of years of inner calm.’
We got through the remaining auditions pretty briskly and I made travel arrangements for all and sundry and fixed up B&B accommodation in the village. On Tuesday, Delphi and I had another session with Maddalena Cascara, this time involving bolts of material and, worst of all, tape measures. I was appalled to see how large the measurements were for my waist
and hips, though Delphi said comfortingly that they always held the tape loose. (Then she flipped when her waist came out at twenty-five.)
‘You have a good figure,’ Maddalena assured me. ‘Womanly.’
Help! Who wants to be womanly nowadays? It’s one step from matronly, and we all know what that means.
No wonder Kyle had married someone else.
By the time I flew back to Scotland on Saturday – alone since Russell was playing golf and Delphi wanted a weekend for her social life – I was back to gloom and depression. I hadn’t arranged to be met, so I got an expensive taxi, and Morag welcomed me to the castle. If welcome was the word.
‘I hear ye’ve been in London,’ she said darkly.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, hoping this wouldn’t incriminate me.
‘Sod ’em!’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Soddom!’ she declared. ‘The city o’ sin and corruption. May the Lord strike them down in the midst o’ their wicked ways!’
‘It wasn’t that much fun,’ I murmured.
‘Give it a rest, Morag.’ Harry walked in, patted her bottom with a chutzpah which took my breath, got away with it (she looked at once shocked, disapproving, and slightly tickled) and picked up my bag. ‘I’ll take this. You look bushed. Bad journey?’
‘Bad everything,’ I sighed. He was easy to talk to, and as we went upstairs I poured out some of my woes.
‘So the fair Delphinium is getting married,’ he said. ‘What’s he like, the lucky groom-to-be?’
‘A high-society rich kid,’ I said. ‘Very good-looking, very charming, very sweet. He dabbles in various career options without really getting anywhere and likes to hang out with the stars. He hasn’t needed rehab yet so I suppose you could say he’s dependable. Shit, I don’t mean to sound so . . . disparaging. He’s okay, really. It’s just—’
‘He’s not up to her weight?’ Harry supplied.
She isn’t madly in love with him. But I couldn’t say that.
‘Mm.’
‘How come you two are such friends? You’re a nice girl, and Delphinium is a self-centred ego on legs. Pretty good legs, but doesn’t she know it.’
‘Are butlers supposed to talk like this?’ I retorted.
He grinned the irrepressible grin. ‘Probably not.’
‘There’s a lot more to Delphi than that,’ I told him. ‘Don’t judge her on externals – underneath, she’s a really loyal friend and a good person. We grew up together. My mother died and my dad used to leave me with the Dacres when he went away for work. Delphi’s father ran off not long after. Everyone said he was an attractive rogue, but I thought he was a total bastard. Delphi adored him, but after he left he hardly even bothered to write to her.’
‘That,’ said Harry, ‘explains a lot. She demands the adulation of all around her in an attempt to make up for it.’
‘She doesn’t demand adulation,’ I said indignantly. ‘She just enjoys being a star. Who wouldn’t? And she’s incredibly generous and loving to the people she cares for. You’re just determined to dislike her.’
‘She’s very lucky to have you,’ Harry said. ‘I’d better get back to butlering. How about some tea, or do you want to have a zizz?’
‘Tea would be great,’ I said.
‘Cedric’s made some fabulous coffee cake . . .’
‘God, no. Not with my waistline.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
That evening, I sat down to dinner with Crusty, Mortimer Sparrow and Nigel. Ash was eating in the Dirk and Sporran for local background and HG was out visiting some other celebrity who had a mansion within driving distance. Dorian was probably communing with the Internet: he wasn’t a great one for sit-down dinners.
‘I’m off tomorrow,’ Crusty told me. ‘After that, you’re on your own. Keep the team together – don’t be afraid to crack the whip. You’re the one in charge. Call me if the manure starts to fly.’
‘We’ll give her plenty of back-up,’ Mortimer said. ‘She knows she can rely on us.’
Delphi was wrong about him, I decided. He might be a bit of a lech, but he was kind at heart. He was looking at me with the glow of kindliness in his eyes – and it couldn’t be lust, not with my waistline. (Twenty-seven inches, according to Maddalena.) The thought of being without Crusty’s support scared me rigid, but perhaps with the help of Morty’s kindness and Russell’s inner calm I would get by.
To cement good relations, I sat with Mortimer over a brandy after the others had gone to bed.
‘How did you get interested in gardens?’ I asked. It was a conversational gambit: I knew quite well that he’d been an all-purpose TV presenter who’d gone in for gardening because there was an opening.
‘Always was, always was,’ he said expansively. ‘It’s the English thing, isn’t it? The French have cuisine, the Italians have art, but we have gardens.’ It was plainly a line he’d used before. ‘When I was a kid in a suburban semi in Bristol I had my own little patch out the back. Grew snapdragons – lovely things. Antirrhinum, to give them their proper name – but I prefer ‘snapdragon’. Much more evocative. I used to like pushing my finger into the flower and feeling the petals close over it.’ His smile invested the image with sexual undertones, but that might have been my imagination. I hoped so. I wasn’t feeling up to sex, even in an undertone. ‘I like to get close to nature. Nowadays we’re surrounded by technology, even here. Plumbing, central heating, electricity, computers. It’s all man-made, artificial. We need to reconnect with the natural world. We’re all too busy to get out into the wide open spaces, but a garden is a little piece of nature on your doorstep.’
‘What about decking?’ I said. ‘All gardening shows used to promote decking, but that’s hardly natural.’
‘I’ve gone beyond decking,’ Mortimer said, rather as Picasso might have declared he had outgrown his Blue Period. ‘Actually, I’m into the meadow garden now: wild flowers, tall grasses, a stream winding through. We’re going to do something like that along the edge of the loch. It should make a great contrast to the formality of the maze and the more contrived layout of the cultivated areas.’
I made appreciative noises.
‘Of course, my interests cover a much wider spectrum than just gardening,’ Mortimer continued, happily swigging brandy. ‘I’m working on a book right now.’
‘A gardening book?’ I enquired.
‘No, no. I’ve already done several of those. This is a novel.’ Oh dear. Delphi had told me Nigel was doing a piece of historical faction. Now Mortimer . . . ‘It’s the story of a TV presenter: attractive, successful, young middle age. He meets this girl in her early twenties – a brilliant mind, stunningly beautiful. She becomes completely obsessed with him. He’s married, but she has no scruples, she’s determined to seduce him. He struggles to resist her but his marriage has gone stale and he feels alienated from his children: the temptation is too much. They go away for a week of passionate sex – or possibly a fortnight, I haven’t decided. Then his daughter takes an overdose and he realises he must sacrifice his happiness and return to his family. In the end, the girl kills herself because he has abandoned her.’
He stopped, obviously awaiting applause. ‘It sounds wonderful,’ I said.
‘Ransome Harber have already paid me a six-figure advance for it. I’m looking forward to writing the sex scenes – but perhaps I need to do some more research.’
Bugger.
As soon as it was diplomatically possible I put down my brandy, excused myself on the grounds of jet-lag – ‘London to Glasgow?’ Mortimer queried – and bolted to my room.
Delphi and Russell returned on Monday with Alex and the other actors. Brie, who had little to do but stand around looking tragic – Russell hoped it wouldn’t be beyond her range – was due a couple of days later. Wardrobe supplied costumes which Nigel declared were from the wrong period, Delphi complained her neckline wasn’t sufficiently low-cut and then, when it had been altered, decided it was too revealing, one of
the extras inadvertently quoted Macbeth, causing a universal panic attack, and another fell down the steps when we were filming in the oldest part of the castle and declared he had seen a ghost. Ash proved unexpectedly helpful here, listening politely to a melodramatic account of the incident and pointing out that the dead, if they are still around, have little power compared to the living. ‘A draught – a whisper – a transparent form – what harm can they do you? The dead are ineffectual: it is our fears which give them strength.’
‘The show is cursed,’ maintained the injured actor, but the conviction was gone from his voice, and he sounded merely petulant.
‘Can’t you do an exorcism?’ asked Wardrobe.
‘I’m not a priest,’ Ash said. ‘But why? If there are ghosts, they aren’t in the way.’
‘Something pushed me down the steps . . .’
‘Lay off the Scotch,’ Ash said. ‘I saw your hip flask.’
As Russell said later, ‘Nothing gets past him. I hadn’t noticed the hip flask.’
‘Elf eyes,’ I said.
Matters were further complicated by the presence of Fenris, whom Alex had insisted on bringing with him. The puppy was so traumatised by the journey and the change of location that he crapped on several of the Basilisk’s rugs, twice rushed on to the set when we were filming, and insisted on leaping into Alex’s arms every time Elton and Sting appeared, from which vantage point he would do a volte-face and bark aggressively at them until forcibly muzzled. The two German shepherds, having checked him out with a thorough sniff, paid him no further attention, but Alex was convinced they were out to devour him and wouldn’t let Fenny out of his sight.
‘Maybe we could turn him into a sporran,’ Russell muttered savagely after a third canine invasion made it necessary to reshoot yet another scene.