Debutantes Don’t Date (27 page)

People all around did nothing and acted as if it had happened in their blind spot.
Uh oh. Heart racing… I was having one of my adrenaline rushes that made me do something
bonkers.

‘Oi!’ I shouted and within seconds my legs were carrying me after him. The teenager
jumped over some bushes and headed into a forested area at the end of the stream.
Just as I caught up, he tripped and fell. Swearing, he got to his feet.

‘Hand it over!’ I said.

‘Gonna make me, bitch?’

Er… yeah. I lunged forward. Years of wrestling my brothers, Ryan and Tom, had stood
me in good stead for dealing with over-friendly blokes and now thieves. Except his
eyes looked glazed and with an unexpected strength he pushed me off. I grabbed onto
the handbag before tumbling onto a log. A male voice shouted behind me and the teenager
swore again before running away.

‘You okay?’

I turned around to see – wow, a total hunk with an athletic build, all wrapped up
in a sharp suit. He was pushing forty but flirty eyes never aged. He pulled me to
my feet and, with no short skirt or cleavage to distract him, gazed right into my
understated face. I held my breath. The hunk didn’t flinch or gasp in horror. In fact,
he smiled and carefully examined my forehead.

‘Bit of a graze, there,’ he said and lifted up one trouser leg several inches to reveal
a bandage. ‘Sprained my knee yesterday. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have nailed that
young bast… basket case.’

Blimey – he hadn’t wanted to swear in front of me.

Fingers curled gently around my elbow, he guided me out of the trees. Lady C and the
handbag’s owner were waiting by the edge of the stream.

‘Oh, thanks so much,’ said the woman. ‘I’m so grateful. Let me reward you.’

Yes, please! But I caught Lady C’s eye. No doubt accepting a fiver for my trouble
would be the height of bad manners.

‘No, it was my, um, pleasure,’ I said and rubbed my arm.

The hot guy shook his head. ‘I’ll ring the police. I bet that thug wasn’t expecting
to be collared by such a charming young lady. Really, well done,’ he said.

Gemma Goodwin, charming, without her boob enhancers and bronzer? My face broke into
a grin as Lady C steered me towards a nearby bench, moved a discarded magazine and
we sat down. I bit my thumbnail.

‘Mega unladylike, wasn’t it – me running like that, shouting “oi!” I just couldn’t
stand by and watch that bug…that loser steal someone’s handbag. I’d do it again.’

‘Jolly glad to hear it. You seem to have this idea that minding one’s manners and
dressing modestly equates with being, well, something of a lily-livered wimp.’ Lady
C pulled a leaf out of my hair. ‘Whereas ladies display strength of character, they
are fair and charitable.’ She beamed. ‘Quite simply, I was impressed.’

‘You, um, aren’t disappointed?’

Her eyes sparkled. ‘Gemma, my dear, I’m beginning to understand why you and Abigail
are such good friends. With a new hair colour and clothes, you could be in with a
real chance of pulling this off. I used to run intensive etiquette courses and might
just be able to teach you everything you need in the next ten days until the final.
Tonight we’ll start with table manners. I brought some of the more adventurous foods
you might encounter, like asparagus, mussels and quail eggs.’

Urgh! She’d better teach me the etiquette for throwing up.

I picked up the magazine. It was a TV guide for next week. Oh my God!
Million Dollar Mansion
was advertised on the front. I flicked through and came to a full page photo of the
Earl of Croxley, a slim, grey-bearded man with a pipe, in a tweed suit. Lord Edward,
his son, looked a moody so-and-so, as if the camera was his worst enemy. Yet I could
forgive his Victor Meldrew expression because of those tousled honey curls and broad
shoulders.
Phwoaar!

On the opposite page were the other finalists. With dyed black hair greased back and
an expensive suit, the divorced Baron of Marwick was in his sixties and looked like
his middle name was Smug. His son, Harry Gainsworth, wore a flash tie and mega gold
watch. Their family had owned Marwick Castle for less than a century. Both held glasses
of champagne and in their interviews called the Earl of Croxley a ‘boring old fart’.

Whereas the Croxleys… Once more I gazed at the photo of Applebridge Hall. My eye caught
tatty gardens and crumbling brickwork – talk about shabby chic. I read the Earl’s
warm tales about his grandparents and Elizabethan ancestors—it must be hard for him,
all that history suddenly at risk. But could little old me really help save the Croxleys’
mansion?

‘Shame, isn’t it, that Abbey’s dad and the Earl aren’t on talking terms – that Abbey
and Rupert aren’t in touch with their cousin,’ I said.

‘It is, dear. I believe Edward made some attempt to contact them when he was…ooh,
almost twenty. Abigail and Rupert were still at junior school. He sent them cards
and the occasional book. But Richard never passed them on.’

‘That stinks! Does Abbey know?’

‘Yes. Richard told the children it was for the best. That they were too young to understand
the reasons for the estrangement and what was really going on. The cards eventually
stopped.’

Blimey. This was hardcore falling out, not to let the kids at least have contact.
Without warning, I sneezed and sniffed loudly.

Lady C tutted and passed me her dainty lace handkerchief.

‘See?’ I said. ‘We could change my appearance – even with my own style and hair colour,
I’ve been mistaken for your niece. But everything else about me is wrong. I talk while
I eat and, thanks to Uncle Pete, I know more about brick-laying than cross-stitch
or croquet.’

‘Ladies aren’t stuck in the nineteenth century, my dear,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Expert
knowledge in any area is admirable.’

At that moment the National Anthem blared out from her handbag. That was some ringtone.
Lady C took out her phone.

‘Hello, Abigail… Pardon? School? Oh, dear. Oh dearie, dearie me. No—don’t mention
that. Ah, and there’s something else…?’ A pained expression deepened her wrinkles.
‘Yes, quite. What a shame. Leave it with me. Speak later, poppet…’ She ended the call.

‘Bad news?’ I said.

Lady C stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Abigail misunderstood the start date of the
final. Filming actually begins on September the first.’

‘This Saturday?’ I squeaked. ‘That only gives us four days! And wasn’t there something
else – about a school?’

Lady C’s shoulders sagged. ‘That’s irrelevant now, seeing as your transformation is
quite impossible. Poor Abigail. You were her only chance.’

Uh oh – another adrenaline rush as my conscience pricked. Months ago, Abbey had taken
me in, after I left Dad’s so that he could turn my bedroom into a nursery for his
new girlfriend’s twins. Truth be told, I still owed her big time. My heart raced,
meaning I was about to do something stupid… Urgh—like deceiving people and pretending
to be posh. An uncomfortable twinge pinched my stomach. Yet just one look at Lady
C reminded me just how important this was to Abbey. And if you couldn’t step out of
your comfort zone to help mates, then I reckoned it was what Abbey would call ‘a pretty
poor show’.

‘What the hell,’ I heard my sing-song voice say. ‘Let’s give it our best shot. Applebridge
Hall, here I come!’

If anyone could imitate my best bud, it was me.

LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY

Monday 27
^th
August

‘Comments’

10.30p.m
. After several pleasant hours of reading, here in my beloved library, I’ve just bobbed
back online to close down the laptop. How extraordinary that already several people
have commented—for that I thank you.

Drunkwriter
, your poem was…thought-provoking.
Historybuff
, Applebridge Hall was indeed built almost five hundred years ago—by the first Earl
of Croxley, who fought against the Spanish Armada.
EtonMess
, close as cousin Abigail and myself are, I, um, don’t profess to know
any
of her personal measurements. Nor whether she prefers tights to stockings… For details
regarding her appearance, you must wait to see her on the show. Which reminds me of
terrific news, blog-readers—she just rang, to confirm her arrival this Saturday.

Chapter 2

Ever wondered how it might feel to go on one of those makeover shows where they revamp
your look for The Big Reveal? Well, take it from me, you’re torn between dying to
peek and fearing you won’t recognize the reflection at all. Especially when you quite
liked the former you—I would miss my rub-in tan and Dairy Milk hair.

I glanced at my packed suitcase as I waited for the
Million Dollar Mansion
car to drive me the hour’s journey to Applebridge Hall. Lady C had pinned up my newly
dyed, strawberry-blonde hair. The nail polish was clear, the chicken fillets gone
and the make-up toned down. Nor did my outfit show legs or cleavage.

I hadn’t needed as much help from Lady C as I’d expected, appearance-wise. After all,
I’d lived with Abbey for months now and knew just how much mascara she liked to apply
to her lashes (think more wiry daddy-long-legs and less furry tarantula).

Lady C yawned and pointed towards Abbey’s full-length mirror. We’d hardly slept for
the last four days. It was like suffering from an almighty hangover.

‘Time to take a look, dear,’ she said.

I tiptoed forward. ‘Shiitt!’

‘Gemma! After everything we’ve practised this week. How terribly disappointing that
you still use that ghastly word.’

‘What? Oh…Sorry.’ I giggled. ‘But it’s wicked! I
do
look just like Abbey.’ Apart from my cuddlier tum and freckles. I swivelled from
side to side, eyeing the knee-length navy skirt and red polo shirt. I wore KMid high
nude shoes and gold stud earrings and a little silk red scarf around my neck… There
was a definite classy air hostess vibe going on!

‘Now, you’ll have men fighting to open doors for you.’

I shrugged. ‘Why should they? Guys, girls, we’re all equals.’

‘You think that’s how men treated you, in your old clothes?’ She smiled and shook
her head. ‘Right, you’ve got my mobile phone number, dear. Don’t hesitate to ring
if you need me. Now, remember, cutlery…’

‘Work from the outside in…’ I said and gave a big yawn, remembering to cover my mouth.

‘And alcohol?’

‘Don’t clink glasses or get drunk.’

Carrying my suitcase, I left Abbey’s bedroom and followed Lady C into the lounge.

‘Pity Abbey couldn’t drop by to see me off,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t believe what I
look like now.’

‘Yes, it’s unfortunate she had to take her parents to the airport this morning.’

‘At least we spoke on the phone briefly last night. She couldn’t stop talking about
her trip.’ I glanced sideways at Lady C. ‘In fact, I didn’t have time to ask her what
she said to you on the phone, when we were in the park – about a school. Seeing as
you can’t remember.’

Lady C blushed. ‘Oh, er, never mind. Right, let’s see… If you are expected to help
in say a coffee shop,’ she said, changing the subject, ‘don’t hesitate to contact
me if you’re expected to bake. I have files of recipes.’

I opened the flat’s front door. Roses in her cheeks, Lady C gave me a quick hug.

‘The best of British, dear. Now remember, most importantly…’

‘The three Ms: Modesty, Manners and no Men.’ For some reason my eyes tingled. ‘Do
you, um, think we’ve done enough? In such a short time?’

‘Hard work can achieve great things, Gemma, and I’ve been incredibly impressed by
your commitment. As long as you don’t dunk your bread in soup or chew your hair or—’

‘Interrupt people?’ I, um, interrupted.

We both smiled and I made my way to the lift.

Right. Get into character, Gemma. This could, in the words of Abbey, be
super fun
! Little old me was going to see how the other half lived. I’d ring bells for coffee,
eat off silver and servants would have to avoid eye contact and bow. For two whole
weeks I wouldn’t have to clean or iron. At the most I’d serve cream teas to the The
Little People (previously me!) who, in awe of the Croxley name, would hang on my every
word. Although Lady C kept hinting that I might be expected to bake, I was sure the
local shops would sell scones and the like – I could just raid their supplies.

As the lift approached the ground floor, I chuckled at the idea of me ordering people
around. What was I like? Living like that would be the pits. Hopefully the servants
(just saying that word felt wrong) would be like family and I could still make myself
Cup-a-Soups and Pot Noodles. The real challenge would be resisting the temptation
to tell them who I really was. I took a deep breath. Stiff upper lip, as Lady C would
say.

As for servants and bells… well, from what the Earl had told Abbey’s dad, Applebridge
Hall had suffered from years of financial problems. Entering this competition was
a last drastic measure. For getting to the final, the Earl had already won twenty-five
thousand pounds, to put into motion plans for how the place would eventually start
earning its own keep. I’d said that was a mega amount of money. Abbey soon put me
right.

‘Oh, no, Gemma,’ she’d insisted. ‘That’s nothing, in terms of running a mansion. Maintenance
costs for one year would see that gone – and that’s without repairing the roof or
completing the rewiring. Then there’s damp, rising gardening costs and, as for the
internal renovations… Tapestries and ceilings need refreshing and apparently Uncle’s
desperate to reupholster much of the furniture. Metres and metres of brickwork should
be re-pointed…’

Still, I couldn’t wait to see the place and strode out into the sunshine.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ called a voice. ‘Abigail Croxley?’

I looked at my watch again.

‘Miss Croxley?’

Eek! That was me. I shook myself to attention and looked up. A skinny woman with red
hair, carrying a clipboard, waved from next to a big shiny black car, parked up by
the side of the road. Chin not too high or low, shoulders back, I strolled over.