Doubting Abbey

‘Do call me Abbey,’ I said and squished back into the comfy seat. Thank God these media types didn’t stand on ceremony. In fact, so far, so bloomin’ good. My false accent hadn’t been rumbled. This speaking malarkey was manageable as long as I gave it more Toff than TOWIE.

‘Abbey—you seem pretty down-to-earth. If you really want your family to win…’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘For God’s sake, sex things up!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ I said in my best plummy voice. Ooh, it was hard not to laugh, but Abbey would have certainly cringed at the S word. Not that she was a prude, but once I’d read out a chapter of Fifty Shades of Grey – her eyes bulged so much, I thought she was going to croak and search for a lily pad.

‘No offence meant,’ she said and shoved another pastille in her mouth. ‘It’s just that word’s out that the Baron of Marwick has something wild planned for this evening. In contrast to your uncle, whose idea of an entertaining Saturday night is sharing good food with friends… That’s fine for an earl pushing eighty, but your average reality show viewer wants arguments, intrigue or, even better, nudity.’

‘Yes, last year’s Big Brother was jolly good,’ I said. ‘Um, so my flatmate told me.’

‘She’s right – viewing figures topped ten million. One of the housemates got pregnant and the police had to break in and stop a brawl.’

I put on a shocked voice. ‘How dreadful.’

Roxy stopped chewing for a moment. ‘As you probably know, your uncle is a bit camera-shy. But, to stand any chance of winning, he’s got to wake up to the fact that Million Dollar Mansion is more than a posh version of Come Dine With Me. Marwick Castle is a strong contender – the Baron is media savvy and doesn’t much care what he has to do to pull in votes.’ Roxy took out another sweet. ‘To be honest, the production team was amazed Applebridge Hall got this far, and can only put it down to your hunky cousin appealing to female viewers.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Not that you heard any of this from me.’

‘You can trust me,’ I said, concentrating now. ‘Thanks awfully, Roxy. I’ll do what I can. Your input’s appreciated.’

As we turned off the motorway and stopped at traffic lights, she consulted her watch. ‘We’ll be there before you know it, so here are a few tips. Try to act natural in front of the cameras—as if us TV folk are invisible. There’s me and the director, Gaynor, various camera operators and sound guys, some set up in the house. Others will follow you Croxleys around the estate doing your daily business. Just consider us part of the scenery, the fittings and fixtures – discreet, unthreatening.’ Roxy gave a wide smile. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. And you look fab – those shoes are to die for…’ Her smile broadened. ‘The viewers are going to love you.’

My stomach relaxed. Perhaps I’d been worrying about nothing, I thought, as we overtook a tractor on the dual carriageway and I took in the quaint countryside.

‘How many episodes will be broadcast each week?’ I asked eventually.

‘Three – Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, at eight p.m. sharp, with the Live Final – a special Saturday show, on the fifteenth, two weeks from today. Cameramen have spent the last five days at both locations, filming a fresh load of stock shots – you know, house exteriors, the grounds…’ Roxy smiled. ‘Don’t be nervous, Abbey. I can tell that you’re really photogenic.’

If only my appearance was the main concern, now. The mega hard part would be keeping my act up from sunrise to sunset, with all those TV people around.

Roxy texted madly on her phone for a while until, about twenty minutes later, a car cut in front of us, just as we turned into a road welcoming us to Applebridge. The chauffeur braked and Roxy’s clipboard fell on the floor. I collected up the papers as the driver sped up once more.

‘Thanks,’ mouthed Roxy, who was now on the phone to Gaynor. I gazed out of the window again. Wow. What a tiny village. At a first glance, there was nothing in Applebridge, apart from a post office, corner shop and pub called The Green Acorn – although the place was famous for staging a rock festival on some of the Earl’s land every summer. According to Lady C, that was at least one source of income for Abbey’s uncle.

I swallowed hard. Not long now to meeting my flatmate’s posh relatives and potentially being discovered, on camera, as a fraud. To distract myself, I glanced at Roxy’s papers and a list of everyone who’d be filmed at Applebridge Hall. With lots of exclamation marks, the names had been divided into two categories: ‘Above’ and ‘Below’ stairs.

I gazed at a photo of sharp-eyed Kathleen, the Scottish cook and housekeeper, and the estate manager, Mr Thompson, with a Sherlock Holmes style hat and hunting gun. Then there was a woman in her thirties, wearing cords and a T-shirt – that was Jean, apparently, the head-gardener. She looked nice. Mmm—her assistant, unshaven Nick, was about the same age as me. Sexy eyes! Not that I’d be able to get to know him well. Imagine the scandal if he and I really hit it off.

Roxy ended her call as the car turned into a drive longer than the street I’d grown up on. We drove past rows of little trees, bearing plump red apples, shinier than Snow White poisoned ones—when we were small, my brothers and I would have had heaps of fun playing hide and seek amongst them. Downhill to the right as the orchards fell behind us, was a pond with tall grasses and bulrushes on the nearside. Even the ducks were a fancy type, with purple chests and red bills.

My throat felt funny. I felt sick. How could I ever have thought this would work? What if the Croxleys saw straight through me? Perhaps they’d laugh at my choice of words or sneer at the way I walked. Or perhaps they’d be over-the-top friendly and I’d feel even worse about fooling them. Either way, I didn’t belong here. Urgh! Deep breaths. Focus, Gemma. You can do this. Think of the positives – it’s lush; what an amazin’ place to be a gardener.

Mmm, yes, talking of gardeners and that photo of Nick, with his short dark hair and eyes, all twinkly…

Oh My God! Forget the nerves for a moment—I’d just thought of an awesome way to sex up Applebridge Hall! That’s what Roxy said I needed to do, right? It was my duty. Sorry, Lady C, but I’d have to ignore the last of the three Ms: ‘No Men’. To beat Marwick Castle, the Croxleys had to keep the viewers glued to their seats and now I had a wicked plan!

Oblivious to the scene ahead, as the car slowed, I worked hard to suppress a chuckle. Above and below stairs…The answer to winning was obvious. The nation had to believe that the Earl’s well-to-do niece and the gardener’s assistant were having a forbidden secret affair!

LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

Saturday 1st September

11.30a.m. Today is going to be jolly busy and I’ve just been informed that my cousin’s car has pulled into the drive, so quickly… First of all, thank you to everyone who is already ‘following’ this blog. The TV company has linked us to their website and several local stations have kindly spread word of this diary. Do please connect us to other social sites – no doubt many of you belong to Facebook.

Right, on now with the business of the day—I hereby formally announce the beginning of the competition. Let me use this domain to officially throw down the gauntlet to the opposition: Baron Marwick, if you are reading this, I declare our very determined intention to win Million Dollar Mansion. In the tradition of the Croxleys’ duelling ancestors, we challenge you to beat our family’s honourable loyalty and values. Or, as a more modern opponent might say: Game on!

Just to add, I’ve done my research and apparently blogs thrive with plenty of interaction. So what about answering this poser question?

How do you think we have invested our semi-final winnings, in order to defeat Marwick Castle? On…

Machinery to produce our very own ‘Croxley Cider’?

Transforming part of the mansion into kitchens, for the ‘Applebridge Food Academy’?

Converting the old stables into the ‘Croxley Coffee Shop’?

I shall attempt to bob on here later to view responses and briefly comment. On a speedy lighter note, may I respond to bustyfanDownton: no, I don’t dye my hair, nor can I acquire Prince Harry’s phone number – apologies.

Chapter 3

Don’t call the police, Uncle… I mean, Earl…There’s a good reason I’m pretending to be your niece. Mr Thompson, put down that gun!

I took a deep breath. There was no point practising in my head what I’d say if found out. Go, girl! You can carry this off.

I looked out of the window as the car ground to a halt. My brow relaxed. Talk about picture perfect. Clearly I’d snuffed it and this was some heavenly palace or, Mary Poppins style, I had jumped into some painting of old England. Looming before me was the mega grand Applebridge Hall.

‘Don’t know how anyone gets used to living in a place like this,’ said Roxy.

‘Me neither,’ I mumbled, eyes transfixed. Although my older brother Ryan’s gaff was a former stately home – he was staying there at, um, Her Majesty’s Pleasure! Mega stupid he’d been, crashing into a parked car while texting.

Wow. Applebridge Hall was huge. Mahoosive. Bigger than Hogwarts. My home for the next week had gardens ten times the size of the sports grounds at my old high school. I fanned myself with Roxy’s clipboard, in anticipation of stepping out of the air-conditioned car and into the sticky end-of-the-summer heat. The mansion stood three storeys high and triangular gables (I knew that word from builder Uncle Pete) lined the top, where parts of the roof came forward. Where each one peaked, twisted ornamental bits rose into the air like mini totem poles. I’d seen similar ones in the book on Elizabethan architecture that Lady C had given me to speed-read.

‘Remember,’ said Roxy. ‘Big smile as soon as the car door opens. Cameras will be rolling.’

I think I nodded in reply. Not sure. I was still gawping. Although, this close, you could see why the Earl needed those million dollars. The building was made from reddish-brown stone wall and needed a mega good clean. Mouldy patches covered large areas – lichen, I think. Slate roof tiles had slipped out of position and several of the chimneys were missing chunks of stonework.

Yet, despite the crumbling brick and odd cracked window, it was pretty impressive, from the outside at least. Green ivy sprawled across the front and around the window frames. There was a protruding arched entrance in the middle, either side of which the building stretched sideways for the length of four window bays. At each end, Applebridge Hall extended forward so that, from the air, the building looked like a capital E. A tribute, perhaps, to the seventeenth century Queen Elizabeth, in which case it was just as well English letters didn’t look like Arabic or Chinese.

‘Ready?’ said Roxy.

I swallowed. ‘What’s Charlie Chingo like?’ A washed-up eighties pop star, with his trademark quiff and Blues Brothers suit, he’d reinvented himself as a chat show host and was presenting the show.

‘A total diamond.’ Roxy grinned. ‘On screen he behaves like a carefree teenager, but no one works harder—he often hovers around our outside broadcast van, helping edit footage for the next show.’

I nodded and stared at the mansion’s many windows. Vertical bars divided them into panes. It would take forever to make them all sparkle. Good thing all I had to do for this fortnight was serve cream teas.

The chauffeur opened my door and, thighs together, I slid out. In front of the car was a three-tiered fountain, overgrown with green slime and moss. Across the lawns, birds chirped and the sound of tinkling water filled the air. A line of people gathered at the entrance. Enough of admiring the estate – it was time to kick off this charade.

The cameraman and sound guy hovered like sprinters waiting for the off. Lord Edward stood in front, looking pretty lush (eek, mustn’t think that, he was supposed to be my cousin). His eyes were fixed on me. Members of staff were just behind him, with the old Earl. Nearby, hovered a tall woman with a shiny Jessie J bob, black-rimmed glasses and clipboard.

‘That’s Gaynor, the director,’ Roxy whispered.

Ooh, look at me, taking directions, eat your heart out, Hollywood. I was in the ideal reality show, where the real me wouldn’t be recognized and I didn’t have to eat kangaroo bottom or witchetty grubs. Deep breaths as I almost hyperventilated when Charlie Chingo appeared.

‘Come, Chat with the Chingo!’ said Charlie and led me towards Lord Edward and his dad.

How could the TV presenter wear a jacket? The forecasters had been right about an Indian summer. Hopefully, I looked around for a tray of refreshing drinks to celebrate my arrival.

‘Welcome, Miss Abigail Croxley, to Million Dollar Mansion! How ya feeling? Nervous? Excited? Thrilled to be back at the ancestral pile?’ Charlie turned to the camera. ‘This is the Earl of Croxley’s niece, the dishy daughter of his younger brother, catering magnate, The Honourable Richard Croxley.’ Charlie raised his eyebrows up and down whilst I tried mega hard not to stare at a furry microphone held above our heads. ‘So tell us, Abigail – you must just lurrrve visiting your uncle and cousin. How does it feel to be back in the bosom of your heritage?’

‘Indeed, it is, um, an enormous pleasure to return,’ I declared. Before my makeover, a friendly man like him would have winked at the word ‘bosom’ and stared at my chest. Instead, Charlie lifted my hand to his lips and gave it a kiss. The Earl stepped forward and took his pipe out of his mouth. He wore tweed trousers, a checked shirt and tweed waistcoat like in that magazine in the park. Wow. Here was a living and breathing member of the aristocracy. The only group of people I belonged to was the Facebook Primark fan club.

‘Welcome to Applebridge Hall, Abigail,’ he said gruffly.

A whiff of tobacco reminded me of visits to the pub when I was little, watching Dad play darts and fighting Tom and Ryan for the last pork scratching or peanut.

‘Um, hello,’ I muttered, feeling like FRAUD was my middle name.

‘Speak up, girl,’ he said.

‘How nice to see you again, Uncle. I do hope you are well. Mummy and Daddy send their lo—’ better not overdo it ‘—their good wishes.’ Before I knew it, I’d planted a kiss on the old man’s bristly beard.

He grunted, lifted his pipe and inhaled, then about-turned and headed into the house. Oh, dear – but surely a friendly kiss was the right move for meeting a relative? I smiled at Edward, wondering how many female viewers would swap places with me right at this moment. Not that I’d risk getting close enough to kiss his cheek – it would look so wrong, if his supposed cousin couldn’t stop herself from stroking his tousled honey hair.

My mind went blank as he approached me. If only I’d paid more attention to Lady C’s every word. Should I call him by his full title? What was short for Edward? Ted? Was that too casual?

‘Hello, Teddy,’ I stuttered. Crap! How did that nickname slip out? His cheeks flashed red before he held out his hand and squeezed my fingers a little too tight. ‘I mean… I do hope you are well. The estate looks marvellous.’

‘Pleasant journey, Cousin?’ he said, still studying my face. It was weird. He kind of had the same nose as Abbey.

‘Very, um, nice, thank you,’ I said, squirming under his intense gaze. He had the tiniest green specks in his blue eyes… Ahem. Right. Concentrate. Now, what did Lady C say about conversation? Talk about the weather…

‘No blinding blizzards or black ice, if that’s what you mean,’ I said, my voice giving a little wobble.

‘Hardly,’ he replied dryly. ‘We’re only just in September.’

Charlie came in between us and put his arms around my shoulder. ‘What a family resemblance!’ he said. ‘Honey hair! Blue eyes! And Teddy! I like it, Lord Edward! You kept that name from us. Let’s hope that Abigail—’

‘Abbey,’ I said, breaking the rule on interrupting.

Charlie grinned. ‘Let’s hope that Abbey reveals more family secrets.’

By now Lord Edward’s face had turned an ugly shade of purple. Swiftly, I moved onto the line-up of staff that stood to attention outside the arched entrance.

‘Och, it’s lovely to meet you again, Miss Croxley,’ said Kathleen, the cook. She wore a bright apron and sensible lace-up shoes. Awkwardly, she curtsied. I smiled at her, both of us knowing she’d never previously met the grown-up Abigail Croxley. It didn’t feel right, a top cook like her kowtowing to a pizza waitress.

Next were two chambermaids in black dresses and white hats, only hired for my arrival, apparently. Each one curtsied in turn until I came to the estate manager, hunting gun slung over his shoulder. He nodded, looked at his watch and seemed on the verge of leaving before he gazed behind me. I wondered if he’d caught Lord Edward’s eye.

‘Ahem, welcome back, Miss Croxley,’ he said in a voice deeper than Barry White’s.

‘Thank you, Mr Thompson,’ I said, pleased at remembering his name. Then I smiled at the gardener. ‘I hope you are keeping well, um, Jean, and look forward to a stroll around the estate with you later.’

‘Of course, Miss,’ she said. ‘We’ve worked hard on the vegetable patch this year.’

I turned to her assistant, Nick, with his twinkly eyes and David Beckham stubble. Little did he know it, but we were actually going to be red-hot lovers! Not that I felt remotely kissable without my tan.

‘How splendid to see you again, Nick,’ I murmured, standing upright to make sure the fluffy mike caught every word. ‘I did so enjoy the weeks we spent together last year. Our time amongst the flower beds was delightful and you, um, sowed your seeds so well.’

Charlie snorted whilst Nick raised one eyebrow. I held his hand just a bit longer than Lady C would have deemed decent. His shake was firm, and his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. Nick was going to be a welcome contrast to the stuffiness of the Croxleys.

With a smile, I turned to Charlie. Drama was like my worst subject at school and I just hoped my aristocratic character came across as believable. Although a small part of me irrationally hoped to be found out, cos Jean, Nick and Kathleen seemed lovely. If only they could know the truth – but that was never going to happen. Truth, honour and loyalty were obviously important to the traditional Croxleys… I couldn’t ever imagine the old Earl being in on my secret and agreeing to fool the nation – not even to save his mansion.

‘Looks like Abigail has very fond memories of the gardens,’ said Charlie with a wink at the camera.

Lord Edward glared at me and rubbed the palm of his hand against the back of his neck.

‘And, with that, folks,’ said Charlie to the camera, ‘may I announce the start of the final. Two weeks from today I shall proudly announce the winner of Million Dollar Mansion. You’ve now met the cast from both here and Marwick Castle. So ready, steady go! Let the battle begin!’

He stood grinning at the camera for several seconds before Gaynor gave him the thumbs-up.

‘That’s a wrap, darlings,’ she said and lit a fag.

Charlie turned to me. ‘Good on ya, Abbey, you’re a natural in front of the camera. Once you’re settled, Bob, the sound operator will fit you up with a lapel mic.’ He turned to Edward. ‘See you at one then, Lord Edward, for your special announcement. I believe we’ll be filming it in the orchards. You and your cousin have just got time to stretch your legs.’

Charlie bowed and headed for Gaynor, taking a notebook out of his pocket. The staff had already gone back indoors. I glanced at Edward.

‘Um…pleasant enough man,’ I said and jerked my head towards Charlie, hands feeling clammy.

Edward scowled. ‘Don’t be naïve, cousin. These media types are only after one thing —a cheap story. Watch what you say to them. Now, come, we’ll walk to the pond. There’s a bench in the shade. I shall fill you in on today’s schedule. And it’s not Teddy. Nor Ted.’

‘So what should I call you?’

‘Edward is my name, Abigail.’

‘As you wish, but please – call me Abbey.’

I followed him down the path to the main drive and we headed across the lawns. Hands in pockets, he sauntered towards the pond.

‘Amaaazin’,’ I murmured, taking in my surroundings. ‘ggg,’ I added, hoping the end of the word didn’t arrive too late.

‘Landscaping costs a fortune nowadays,’ said Edward. ‘Jean was quite a find.’

We skirted the pond and headed for a bench.

‘And how long has Nick been in your employment?’ I asked. Ooh, listen to me, all formal. I was kind of getting the hang of talking posh, remembering everything Lady C had told me and trying to speak just like Abbey did.

Edward gave me a stare, as if to say: why so interested?

‘Don’t we all need to get our stories straight?’ I stuttered. Looked like he might already suspect something was afoot between me and Nick – I wanted the public to do that, not disapproving Teddy.

Quick. Change the subject. ‘Goodness, it’s hot.’ Without thinking, I kicked off my KMid shoes and headed towards a patch of bulrushes. I dipped a toe in the water, which was so clear it looked good enough to drink. A few small fish darted among the reeds. I plunged in the rest of my foot and squidged the sand on the bottom between my toes, just like I used to when me and Dad went fishing for tiddlers.

Ahhhh—bliss. Perhaps this would stop me feeling as if the midday sun was frazzling my brain. Lady C had offered me her sunhat, but per-lease. Wide-rimmed? Floral? Nothing was going to get me into that. Although perhaps I should have protected my grey cells, cos, aargh! What was I thinking? A lady would never complain about how she was feeling, let alone strip off and paddle in front of someone she didn’t know well. In fact, Abbey once had toothache for a whole weekend without telling me. Stoical…that was the word Lady C mentioned. Brave face. Stiff upper lip and all that.

Quickly, I headed back to the bench and slipped on my shoes. The tall grasses hid us from the TV people hovering outside Applebridge Hall. I sat down. Edward gazed at me, a strange expression on his face.

‘Apologies,’ I muttered. ‘I think the sun has gone to my head.’

‘Don’t stop paddling on my account,’ he said, arms folded, the flicker of a smile on his lips.

‘So, about this Nick…’ I said, ignoring his comment.

‘Only just joined us,’ replied Edward. ‘As you know, Father and I have had to run the estate on a tight budget and only employed a gardening assistant for Jean temporarily, to spruce up the old place for the show. He’s a bit young. Lacks experience, but he’s all we could get at short notice.’

I bit my thumbnail – oops, better drop that unladylike habit—and admired the scenery while we sat in silence. ‘Do you think the Baron is in with a good chance?’ I said eventually.