Doubting Abbey

Swapping downstairs for upstairs… How hard can it be!?

Look up the phrase ordinary girl and you’ll see a picture of me, Gemma Goodwin – I only look half-decent after applying the entire contents of my make-up bag, and my dating track-record includes a man who treated me to dinner…at a kebab shop. No joke!

The only extraordinary thing about me is that I look EXACTLY like my BFF, Abbey Croxley. Oh, and that for reasons I can’t explain, I’ve agreed to swap identities and pretend be her to star in the TV show about her aristocratic family’s country estate, Million Dollar Mansion.

So now it’s not just my tan I’m faking – it’s Kate Middleton style demure hemlines and lady-like manners too. And amongst the hundreds of fusty etiquette rules I’m trying to cram into my head, there are two I really must remember; 1) No-one can ever find out that I’m just Gemma, who’d be more at home in the servants quarters. And 2) There can be absolutely no flirting with Abbey’s dishy but buttoned-up cousin, Lord Edward.

Aaargh, this is going to be harder than I thought…

Doubting Abbey

Samantha Tonge

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Samantha Tonge 2013

Samantha Tonge asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472073778

Version date: 2018-07-23

SAMANTHA TONGE lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and two cats who think they are dogs. Along with writing, her days are spent swimming, willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at the EuroDisney theme park. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels and short stories for women’s magazines is her passion.

http://doubtingabbey.blogspot.co.uk/

http://samanthatonge.co.uk/

Huge thanks to Lucy Gilmour and the HQ Digital UK team for this opportunity and their enthusiasm. Same to my agent, Kate Nash, for all her hard work. Thanks to those writing friends who have unconditionally supported my journey to publication, in particular Caroline Green and Emma Darwin. I couldn’t have done it either, without the rest of the WriteWords crew, including Jon Gritton with his technical know-how. Plus I’ve appreciated input into my writing career from Shirley Blair at The People’s Friend.

For Martin, Immy and Jay – thanks for never doubting me.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

Welcome to this blog. Your visit is appreciated. May I introduce myself – I am Lord Edward, the son of the Earl of Croxley. Our home, Applebridge Hall, is in the final of the Million Dollar Mansion competition. For regular updates of our progress, please do grace this blog with your presence.

Monday 27th August

7p.m. Good evening, readers. Finally I write my first entry. Do bear with me, as I am new to blogging, which I see as a modern twist on my ancestors’ habit of keeping journals. The programme-makers insist you will be interested in my thoughts on the competition, so I shall attempt to bring honesty and some perspective to this diary.

Honest thought number one? Chaos has descended. The film crews arrived again today—cue a refresher course on camera and sound procedures. A national tabloid interviewed Father. To my irritation, the photographer suggested we both wore monocles and borrowed a cluster of the Queen’s corgis. Regardless of the fact I don’t know Her Majesty, my response equalled “over my dead body”.

Some perspective? I await a phone call from my, um, dear cousin, Abigail Croxley who, I’m sure, will confirm her intention to join us imminently. How we intend to beat the other finalist, the Baron of Marwick Castle, is still top secret. However, here is an exclusive clue: my cousin’s cooking knowledge will be an instrumental part of our tactics. I am very much looking forward to seeing her.

Best bit of today? Right now, sitting by myself in our tranquil library.

Worst? Gaynor, the director, handing me a DVD of Pride and Prejudice, along with a frilly white shirt and breeches. I made it quite clear that I am a down-to-earth gentleman who will never, under any circumstances, resemble some sort of romantic hero like Mr Darcy.

Chapter 1

Abbey was born to sophistication, whereas I was more Barbara than Buckingham Palace Windsor. The two of us had just got back from a goodbye lunch with our Pizza Parlour colleagues, and were standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Having toasted each of our redundancies, I felt a bit tiddly, but still sharp enough to realize this idea was bonkers.

‘Look, Abbey, I don’t know what’s behind this plan, but seriously…’ I smiled ‘…wise up. I could never trick people into thinking I was you, a member of the aristocracy. Ask me to mimic a…a pop star or footballer’s wife, then I’d give it a shot, but even then I dunno if I could live a lie for very long.’ With a grin, I shrugged. ‘Run this idea past me again.’ Perhaps I’d misheard.

Abbey’s bottom lip quivered. ‘It’s…um, no joke, Gemma – please, pretend to be me. Just for two weeks.’ Her cheeks flushed. ‘Who else could I trust with such a mission?’

My jaw dropped. ‘Are you out of your mind? You know I’d flog all my make-up and fave shoes on eBay if it meant helping you get out of a scrape… But this? Abbey, mate…’ My eyes narrowed for a second. ‘Marcus next door hasn’t given you one of his funny-smelling cigarettes has he?’

‘Goodness, no!’ Abbey’s face broke into a smile. ‘Honestly, I quite understand your apprehension, but…’ She fiddled with the waistband of her skinny white trousers. ‘It’d only be for a fortnight and it is in a good cause.’ She took my hands and squeezed them. ‘Oh, please, Gemma. You’re the only person in the world who can pull this off. Remember when Laurence, the son of one of Mummy’s friends, stayed over a few weeks ago?’

Ooh, yeah. Hotter than Dad’s chilli con carne, he was, in that white scarf and tux.

‘He caught you fresh-faced in the morning,’ she said, ‘and insisted we looked terribly alike. If you dyed your brunette hair blonde, he joked we could pass as sisters, what with the same shape nose and blue eyes.’

‘He must have still had his beer goggles – or champers shades—on.’ I let my hands drop from her grip and looked down at my skimpy skirt, the streak of fake tan and high-heeled shoes. ‘Mind you…’ I giggled ‘…remember my first day at work?’

Abbey leant towards me and joined in the laughter. My chest glowed, glad to have cheered her up – but then it was funny, me being mistaken for her. Several members of staff had thought that Abbey – who already worked there – had suffered some sort of identity crisis and undergone a chavvy makeover. Or, in their opinion, makeunder. I should have been insulted at their relief when she’d turned up looking her usual sophisticated self.

‘Even the regular customers were fooled.’ I turned to the bathroom mirror for a moment. Personally, I couldn’t see a strong resemblance but time had taught me that the world at large occasionally considered us each other’s doppelganger.

Abbey’s grey-haired aunt came in, picked up a bottle of cleanser and passed it to me. ‘Do hurry up, Gemma – we only have ten days to complete your transformation.’

A bubble of laughter tickled the inside of my chest. Really? I mean, really? This wasn’t a wind-up? To humour them, I removed the make-up from half of my face. Minus one false eyelash and a cheek of bronzer, I resembled an unsymmetrical Picasso portrait.

I leant towards Abbey and whispered, ‘Come on, spill—tell me what this is really about and what she’s actually doing here.’

‘She has a name,’ said the old dear, who clearly had bionic hearing and a strict dinner lady stare.

‘How rude of me not to introduce my aunt formally,’ said Abbey with a sheepish smile at the old dear. ‘Gemma, this is Lady Constance Woodfold, my mother’s sister—she used to run her own finishing school.’

‘I’m sure you’ll look delightful without all that bronzer, Gemma,’ said Lady C (posh titles were too long to say in full, unless you were Lady Gaga). ‘Surely your mother would prefer to see your skin au naturel?’

‘No idea. She um…’ I cleared my throat ‘…Mum got ill when I was little and…’

Lady C’s cheeks tinged pink. ‘Do accept my apologies. Of course. Abigail told me of her demise.’ Her wrinkled face softened. ‘Was there no female relative on hand during your formative years?’

I almost chuckled. Didn’t people only speak like that on old BBC news reels?

‘Auntie Jan’s cool. If it wasn’t for her, I’d know nothing about clothes and make-up. People always mistook me for a boy, as a kid. When I hit the teen years, she intervened and even bought my first chicken fillets.’

‘She’s a proficient cook?’ said Lady C, brow furrowed.

I grinned. ‘They’re the inedible kind that you stick down your bra, to up the cup size.’

Lady C pursed her lips. ‘Those fake appendages must disappear, along with your heavy eye-liner. Then we can concentrate on the more important things you need to learn, like the art of good conversation and table manners.’

Huh? What was all this about?

The old woman glanced at Abbey. ‘Does Gemma not know yet that your Uncle James is in the final of Million Dollar Mansion?’

‘Whaaat?’ I almost choked on the word. ‘Your Dad’s brother? The one who inherited the family home—Apple…?’

‘Applebridge Hall?’ said Abbey. ‘Yes. That’s him.’

‘Amaaaaaazin’! I saw a clip of that programme! Castles and Tudor mansions and all sorts competing against each other to win a million dollars to set their place up as… what did they call it? A going concern… The dosh is up for grabs from some American billionaire obsessed with Downton Abbey. But how…? What…?’

‘All you need to know at this stage, dear,’ said Lady C, ‘is that Abigail is expected to help out with some catering project – no doubt serving cream teas in some shop they’ve probably constructed within a converted part of the estate. With its exciting armoury and dungeons, the Earl believes the opposition, Marwick Castle, could win. The Croxleys have owned Applebridge Hall since the sixteenth century, so must build on its strength of history, tradition and… family values.’ She stood up straighter. ‘Abbey is unable to go. That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? On the telly?’ Wow. So it wasn’t a joke. I bit my thumbnail. ‘Much as I love reality shows, the last thing I’d want is to be on screen. It’s bad enough in real life, worrying about spots and bad hair days, let alone in front of the whole nation.’

‘But people won’t know it’s you,’ said Abbey. ‘Not even my uncle, who hasn’t seen me since I was nine, when he and Daddy had words. My parents will be away on a cruise and my friends don’t watch such programmes. Even if they do, more than once, people have mistaken us for each other. It’s a foolproof plan.’

‘What about Rupert?’ I said.

‘I’ve discussed the matter with him,’ said Abbey. ‘You know my little brother – he’s jolly loyal and won’t say a word. He understands my reasons— and, by the way, thinks you’ll do a wonderful job.’

‘Didn’t your uncle ask for him to help as well?’

‘Yes, but Daddy said no way, what with his final year at university coming up. Rupe’s already left for Cambridge early. You know him – never happier than when his head is stuck in some book about the history of art.’

I stared at her. What had happened to my honest flatmate, who was straighter than hair squeezed through ceramic stylers; as upright as a sentry box guard? Although she had a point and, apart from lush Laurence, no one had seen me without make-up, for years—even boyfriends, as I lazily went to bed with my slap on. ‘But why would your dad want you to help, if he and his brother haven’t spoken for so long?’

‘You should have seen Daddy when he asked me – he blew his nose and pretended it was hay fever…’ Abbey’s voice cracked. ‘I suspect he desperately wants to end the estrangement.’

‘So why can’t you take part?’

Subtly made-up eyes all droopy, Abbey sighed. ‘It’s a long story.’

I squeezed her arm. Bezzie mates we were, even without much in common, apart from loving novels and Scrabble. A lump formed in my throat. Abbey had never been one to veer from responsibilities, so the reason she couldn’t help her family out had to be a mega-serious one.

‘You… aren’t ill, are you?’ I said, eyes watering, trying to imagine life without my best bud. Who would listen to me wittering on about the latest lad I fancied? Who’d give me the best hugs at moments of true crisis, like last week when I missed out on getting those designer platform boots in the sales?

‘It’s Zak… He wants me to travel to Africa with him immediately. The orphanage he helped build there last year in Rwanda is in turmoil. It’s overflowing after more beastly violence. There are hundreds of children orphaned or who’ve lost their parents. Time is of the essence.’

‘But why you?’

Abbey shrugged. ‘In pockets of the community they speak French, which I’m still almost fluent in, thanks to my finishing school days. I also took a course in childcare. Zak says I’d be a useful member of the team, seeing as I have catering skills as well.’

‘Sounds dangerous to me,’ I said.

‘The organization Zak works for is very well run.’

‘But… but doesn’t Zak understand that sometimes family has to come first?’

Abbey raised an eyebrow. ‘Under these circumstances?’

I sighed. ‘No. You’re right. Most dads would be chuffed that their daughter was keen to do such charitable work.’

‘And anyway…’ oh, no – Abbey’s voice wavered again ‘…Zak already thinks I put him second – like last month when he did that sponsored marathon. I couldn’t support him because Daddy insisted I accompany him instead, on that trip to France to source new cheeses…’

I nodded. As a catering magnate, Abbey’s dad was keen for her to join him in the business. Out of his two children, she was the one interested in cooking. However, it was obvious that the trip had been an excuse. He didn’t think minimum wage Zak was good enough for his daughter.

Abbey threw her hands into the air. ‘If I go to Africa, Daddy will be forever estranged from his brother – yet, if I don’t, Zak might decide his future doesn’t include me.’

‘Look, Gemma, dear…’ Lady C straightened her navy blazer. ‘Why don’t you and I go for a walk and get to know each other? My niece says you were up for promotion at work – that you were quick to learn and showed initiative. We might both be surprised at how easily you could learn our aristocratic code of conduct. Why don’t you pay your parents a visit, Abigail, and find out some more details about this competition?’

Abbey looked at me.

‘Guess it’s only a walk,’ I said and smiled, hoping to see her eyes regain their usual twinkle.

‘Right,’ said Lady C and smoothed down her grey bob as Abbey left the bathroom. ‘You should change before we go out. One’s make-up and outfit should look modest and effortless.’

Surely the aim of looking good was to show you’d gone to a lot of trouble?

With a shrug, I went into my bedroom and browsed through my wardrobe. Little did Lady C know that sometimes I’d dress up in Abbey’s new outfits. My flatmate never minded – said it was a good way of seeing what they looked like on her. KMid (translated: Kate Middleton, now the Duchess of Cambridge) was her fashion hero and, I had to admit, some of her jeans with blazers looked awesome. Also, we both liked our future queen’s knee-high suede boots, high nude shoes and GORGE long layered hair. Plus Abbey had recently bought some amazin’ blusher, supposedly favoured by Kate’s sister, Pippa.

Minutes later, I emerged in old jeans, a T-shirt and my only flat pair of sandals.

‘Well, that’s a slight improvement,’ said Lady C, who was waiting in the open-plan lounge. ‘If you agree to this proposition, tomorrow we’ll go through Abigail’s clothes. You’re roughly the same size and I brought my sewing kit with me.’

Ooh, that would be a plus - perhaps I’d get to wear some of those sparkly evening dresses Abbey owned. One awesome long silver gown was a copy of something KMid had recently worn to a charity ball, following the birth of cute Prince George.

I shook myself. Get a grip, Gemma, this was a ridiculous plan. How could a few glitzy frocks make up for spending every nerve-racking second of two weeks waiting for someone to see through my disguise?

‘Now…’ Lady C put on a bright smile ‘…how about removing the rest of that bronzer?’

I took a deep breath and went back into the bathroom. Five minutes later, just as I was taking off the second eyelash, Lady C joined me.

‘Goodness me! The likeness between you and Abigail is quite extraordinary— before me stands a glowing young woman with a flawless complexion and eyes as blue as periwinkles.’

I shrugged and tried to familiarize myself with the bare face staring back at me from the mirror, which I usually only caught fleetingly in the morning. It was like the younger tomboy me who’d watch footie and climb trees to keep up with her brothers.

‘Auntie Jan wouldn’t approve.’ I shook my head. ‘This goes against everything she taught me. Without Mum, growing up, at least I had her to point me in the right direction.’

Lady C suddenly suffered a coughing fit. I clapped her on the back and eventually she managed a half-smile. Despite her stern words, with her crinkly eyes and lavender smell, Lady C seemed like the kind of aunt the younger me had longed for. Auntie Jan was more like a fun friend who gave mega hugs but never wanted to let go, as if they were more for her.

‘Right, let’s go for that stroll,’ she said and we headed back to the lounge.

‘But what if I bump into a mate, looking like this?’ I said. Not that there was much chance of that – Abbey’s flat was in one of the posher parts of London. And I know it was superficial, worrying about make-up, but the more natural look just wasn’t my thing. Even pets looked better pimped up, in my opinion, like dogs with cute bows and sparkly jackets.

‘True friends don’t care about appearances, Gemma,’ she said and picked up her Margaret Thatcher handbag. ‘What counts is your integrity, honesty and kindness.’

Yeah, right. Tell that to the women’s magazines, who filled their pages with tips on dieting and how to look younger.

We left the flat and entered the lift. Lady C didn’t seem so small now that I’d removed my stilettos. As we exited the building, I squinted in the sunshine, feeling like I was in a bad dream where you wander down the street and suddenly realize you’re naked.

‘Shoulders back, dear,’ said Abbey’s aunt. ‘Chin not too high or low and stomach pulled in. Don’t walk too fast or slow, nor appear aimless – a lady always knows where she is going. These quick tips on deportment will have to do for this excursion. What you’ll need is several hours balancing a book on your head.’

‘That only happens in the movies, right?’ I grinned.

She arched one eyebrow, then, as we passed a hairdressing salon, tested my ability to hold what she called “a suitably civilized conversation”. We started with the weather.

‘Um…hasn’t the sunshine been lovely lately,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you mega hot in those tights and that blazer? After all, we’re still in August.’

Lady C almost choked. ‘Don’t ever mention something so personal and, whilst I think about it, also avoid religion and politics and gossip—’

‘But…’

‘No interrupting either. Remember people’s names, compliment them, don’t raise your voice or ever show emotion.’

Whoa! At this rate, I’d need to take notes.

‘Keep yourself informed, Gemma. Read the papers,’ she said as I stopped to look through the window of my favourite cake shop. ‘Let’s see what you know about this year’s news…’

Reluctantly, I left the yummy chocolate éclairs and we continued along the pavement.