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‘Does it bother you, what other people say? What newspapers say?’

‘It would be a lie if I said that it didn’t. Sometimes it does. But then you just have to remind yourself that they don’t know the real story.’

‘Which is?’

He sighed. ‘Oh, I suppose that we’re a bunch of dysfunctional misfits trying to muddle through like everyone else. Just… in a bigger house. But you can’t say that,’ he said, inclining his head towards my phone, still recording on the table. ‘I’ll get in trouble. More trouble. “Poor little rich boy”, they’ll all say.’

‘It’s quite a defence plea though.’ I said this smiling at him. I couldn’t take his sob story that seriously but I still felt a twinge of sympathy. A very tiny one.

‘Nope,’ he said, ‘Sorry. Can’t use it. That was just for you to know. Not everyone else. And what about you, anyway?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What’s your story? Why are you here interviewing me?’

I felt awkward. ‘Erm, it’s not very exciting. I grew up in Surrey, then my dad died, so Mum and I moved to Battersea where she’s lived ever since. I was all right at English at school so my teacher said I should think about becoming a journalist. I think he meant more politics and news than castles and Labradors, though, no offence.’

‘None taken.’

‘But this is good for now.’

He nodded in silence. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

I laughed. ‘I’m supposed to be asking the questions.’

‘You are. I’m just being nosy.’

‘No, as it happens. I don’t. A bit like you, I guess, relationships aren’t my thing.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t imagine you with an Ed or a James, living in some terribly poky flat in Wandsworth.’

‘Oh, I see. You’re not a man of the people at all. You’re a snob?’

‘I’m teasing. Some of my closest friends are called Ed and James. But come on, Polly, you really must lighten up or we’ll never get anywhere. If we’re going to get married one day, you’ll need to stop being so stern.’

‘You’re ridiculous,’ I said. But I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. He was clearly the boy your mother warned you about but he was also charming. More charming than I’d thought earlier that day. More charming than the papers made out. Or maybe it was the wine?

‘Why shouldn’t we get married? I think you’re terribly sweet. And funny. And you clearly know nothing about horses which is also a bonus.’

And then he leaned forward and kissed me. Briefly. His lips brushed mine for two or three seconds, tops, before I pulled my head back. Slow reflexes, admittedly. But, in my defence, I was very drunk.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said in my most matronly voice, pulling away.

‘No?’

‘No. This is work. For me anyway. And just when I was starting to like you.’

‘Have I ruined it?’ he said, still leaning forward, still smiling at me.

I ignored the question. ‘Your seduction techniques might have worked on Lala, but not me.’

He sighed and sat back in his seat. ‘Good old Lala. How is she, anyway?’

‘She’s very well. Well… kind of. You know Lala.’

‘I did like her,’ he said, staring at the table as if in a trance. ‘It just wasn’t the right timing again.’ He paused. ‘Or it was something else. I don’t know.’ He looked up at me. ‘You won’t write about me and her though, will you?’

‘You and Lala? No. Don’t worry.’

‘Good. I don’t mind being written about that much but I don’t want to cause trouble for anyone else. I mean, I ask for it, I know. Others don’t.’

He threw back his wine glass and I tried to think of something to say, but I couldn’t. So, we sat for a few moments in silence while ancestors in wigs frowned down from the walls. The mood had changed but I wasn’t sure why.

‘Bedtime, I think,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Let me show you the way to your room.’

I followed him in silence back down the long corridor and up the stairs. I felt awkward about things. About the whole day. The entire family should be in an asylum. I knew Peregrine would expect my piece on the family to be glowing, to talk about how upstanding they all were. To put a gloss on life in the castle and be as flattering as I could about the Duke and Duchess. But the truth was they all seemed a bit lost. Trapped. Although, having met Jasper, I could at least write about how much more self-aware he was in real life, as opposed to how he was portrayed in the papers. I could definitely bring myself to do that, I thought, as I reached for the zip on the back of my dress. For God’s sake, it was going to take me about five hours to get out of this thing.

4

‘GOOD TIME THEN?’ ASKED the taxi driver as I got back into his car early the next morning, having fished out his card and decided I would sneak out early before breakfast, before any more awkwardness over bacon and eggs. I didn’t want to talk to anyone because I had the kind of hangover that I thought I might die from.

‘Mmmm, kind of,’ I replied, shutting my eyes.

‘See much of the Duke?’

‘A bit.’ Eyes still closed.

‘And the Duchess?’

‘I saw a bit more of her actually.’ I had to silence this. How could I silence him?

‘So you’re back to London then?’

‘Yup.’

‘Back to the Big Smoke. I don’t know how you do it. I like the quiet life myself.’

‘Mmmm.’ Could have fooled me.

‘Can’t be doing with all the stress of London, do y’know what I mean? People rushin’ about all the time. And all that noise. How d’you sleep at night with all that noise? All them buses and cars. And people.’

‘I can sort of sleep anywhere,’ I muttered. Like right now, I thought to myself, literally right this very second.

‘Nope, not for me. I’m happier up here. Just me and my Marjorie. I drive my car, she works in the local library. Loves it there, she does. Says she likes the peace.’

‘Mmm. I can imagine.’

‘Not much of a reader myself. But she loves it. Always got her head in a book, has my Marjorie.’

‘Mmm. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude but do you mind if I have a quick doze? I’m just a bit tired.’

‘No, no, right you are. You have a doze. I read an article the other day about sleep. What was it called?’ He paused. ‘“The Power of the Nap”, I think, something like that. I have trouble sleeping myself, do you ever find that? Not every night, just sometimes. My head hits the pillow and the brain’s still going, d’you know what I mean?’

I didn’t reply. My brain felt like it was about to dribble out through my nose. I was worrying about whether I was going to say anything to Lala about the kiss. Not that you could even call it a kiss really. But, still, did I have to mention it?

Half an hour later, I’d reached the station, paid off the most talkative taxi driver in Yorkshire and installed myself in the Quiet Carriage with provisions for the journey: one large latte, a Diet Coke, a large bottle of still water, two plain croissants and a packet of salt and vinegar McCoy’s crisps.

‘Ladies and gentleman, welcome to York. This train is for London King’s Cross, calling at all stations to Peterborough, where there is a bus replacement service to…’

Fuck’s sake. I scrolled through my phone. Three emails from Peregrine asking how the weekend was going, a text from Mum saying that Jeremy Paxman was very poor on Celebrity Bake Off last night and she thought he might get the boot, a message from Bill with the link to a review for a new French restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush and a message from Lex saying could I ring her ‘immediately’. Some sort of sordid sex story, probably. Strangled with courgetti. Spanked with a spatula. That sort of thing. It could wait. I was in no way strong enough for that discussion, and anyway I was in the Quiet Carriage. I fell asleep before I’d even had a sip of coffee.

The flat smelt when I opened the door. It was the sort of smell you know if you’ve ever ventured into the bedroom of a teenage boy. A musty, stale odour. In the sitting room, Joe lay on the sofa in his boxer shorts and a t-shirt watching Antiques Roadshow, empty packets of crisps scattered around him. A large bottle of Lucozade stood propped on his belly like a cairn on top of a hill.

‘My angel is home!’ he said, swivelling his head towards the door.

‘I’m not feeling very angelic, I can tell you that for free.’

‘Oh dear. Did it not go well?’

‘It went… Erm… How did it go?’ I dropped my bags by the kitchen table and flopped on the opposite sofa. ‘For starters, I probably shouldn’t have kissed my interview subject.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Not really. I mean he tried to, but I said no.’

‘Pols! What on earth? That’s unlike you.’

‘I know, I know. But I was trying to be professional. Or something.’

‘Did you fancy him?’

‘No. Not my type. He’s kind of hot, but in a very obvious way. Tall. Blond hair, sort of… athletic, you know. Blah blah.’

Joe rolled his eyes. ‘Those are the worst. The ones who are obviously hot.’

‘Don’t be mean, I’m not strong enough. I nearly died from my hangover on the train.’

‘Here, have some Lucozade. And then sit down and tell me everything.’

‘No, no, I’m good. I think I need a hot bath and bed.’

Joe sighed and turned his head back to the telly. ‘You’re so boring. I tell you everything.’

‘Too much sometimes, I’d say. Anyway, what have you been doing all weekend? Apart from marinating on the sofa.’

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