Doubting Abbey (26 page)
‘The TV company did a bit of research – mentioned something about an industrialist and a distant relative of Henry VIII.’
‘That’s exciting!’
‘Is it?’ The Baron stood up and wavered on his feet. ‘There’s a picture of William the Conqueror in the Throne Room – I guess you might like to see that.’
‘Throne room? That sounds posh,’ I said.
He beamed. ‘Yeah. One thing I’ll give my ex-wife – she thought up some glamorous names for the rooms once my dad died and she wanted to put her own stamp on the place. The Throne Room is where we hold dinners – it’s the main reception area and home to our collection of stuffed animals. Then there’s the Gold Room—our family lounge—and the Nightery where we play music on a jukebox. It’s got a dance floor and bar. Talking of which, come on, little lady, let’s get you a proper drink – the Marwick Cocktail. Thursday night, the cameras aren’t around, so it’s our turn to let our hair down before weekend guests turn up tomorrow.’
We went back upstairs and through the door leading to the right, his arm tightly around my shoulders, as if I was helping him keep upright. Apparently, family bedrooms were at the far end, opposite the entrance, and the left side of the castle housed the kitchens, Throne Room and the ‘Chophouse’.
‘That’s where the family eat. Brill name, right?’ boomed the Baron as we entered the Nightery. Bodies sprawled over sofas and a disco ball lit up the room. Harry danced with the blonde PA. They both held bright blue cocktails, cherries and pineapple threatening to fall out with every sway of their hips. Timber beams crossed the ceiling and lances and helmets were attached to the whitewashed walls.
‘Here, get a few of these down that pretty little neck,’ said the Baron and passed me one of the fancy drinks. He knocked back a short and put down the glass.
‘Yo, boss,’ said a man in his twenties, behind the bar. ‘The cellar is running low. We’ve plenty of beer and wine for tomorrow night but if your celebrity guests want cocktails at the weekend, we’re almost out of vodka, Tequila and gin.’
The Baron tugged a crisp white hanky out of his shirt pocket and dabbed his face.
‘Do you want me to get Harry to sort it?’ asked the man.
We all looked across the room at the Baron’s son, who sat on a leather (probably faux) armchair, being given a lap dance by several girls wearing nothing much more than bodices and heels.
‘Nah, Mike, I’ll sort it. Just…give me a tick. We’ll…do a proper stock-take,’ he said, words slurring even more now. He lifted my hand to his mouth again and gave it another slobbery kiss. ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. Make yourself comfortable. My bedroom’s the one with the mirror on the ceiling. And if you hunt around, you’ll be sure to find a whip and pair of handcuffs.’
With a belch, the Baron smiled and staggered away. Seconds later, my phone vibrated. I took it out from the pocket of my short denim coat. It was a text message from Edward. Oh my God. He wanted to join me in the cellar with his laptop, so that we could brainstorm further ideas for the evacuee lunch! I wasn’t even in the cellar, let alone in Applebridge. How on earth was I going to stop him discovering that ‘Abbey’ had disappeared?
LORD EDWARD’S E-DIARY
Thursday 6th September
‘Comments’
11.30p.m.
What a response to tonight’s show—thank you all, for your comments. I’ll briefly reply whilst waiting for a text from my cousin.
Knityourownmansion
, no, I hadn’t heard of Second World War ‘Bundles for Britain’. How kind of American women to knit clothes and post them to British soldiers. Goodness,
Historybuff
, were nearly two million children really evacuated?
Blogger 569
, I agree, your great-aunt had an intolerable experience. Father told of a similar story, where one of the evacuee’s friends was sent to live with shopkeepers who fed him nothing but their out-of-date stock.
As for Lady Constance’s poser question: no doubt I could improve myself by mastering the art of conversation. I’ve never been one for polite chit-chat. Mother used to tut and say it was of vital importance – that meaningless talk about the weather put people at ease and represented the first steps to getting to know someone. Whereas Father has always thought ‘mindless prattle’ is ‘pure poppycock’.
Drunkwriter
, just a suggestion, drinking less alcohol might enhance your deportment.
EtonMess
, agreed, not, erm, gawping at a woman’s “m*l*ns” (I’ve edited your fruity word) would undoubtedly constitute improving your manners.
Ah, a text reply. Excuse me, for a while, kind blog-readers – but do keep the comments coming.
Writing lies in a text seemed even worse than speaking false stuff. I replied to Edward not to go to the cellar, cos I was tired and had already gone to bed – but would get up ridiculously early to keep going through Mrs Raynor’s list.
Phone away, I then left my drink at the bar and headed out into the courtyard and straight over to a door opposite. I entered the Throne Room. A man was slumped under a window in there, smoking something that smelt a bit dodgy. He tried to focus but gave up and sang some reggae music, before shutting his eyes again.
I gazed around the room and couldn’t resist a chuckle. Despite the name, I hadn’t believed there would actually be a throne. It stood at the far end, on a podium, at the top of red-carpeted stairs. A gold and orange curtain hung behind it, from the ceiling. The throne was high-backed and upholstered, unlike the rest of the chairs along the dining table that stretched the length of the room.
A massive wooden shield bearing a coat of arms was at the other end, near a door presumably leading to the Chophouse. Tapestries of flowers and fruit and vegetables decorated the walls. I went up to one. It looked brand new and I lifted up the bottom to see a very modern white label. It said ‘Made in China’.
‘No medieval weaver wove that,’ said a familiar quick voice.
I swung around to a flash of red hair and gum-chewing mouth, at the top of a floral green dress. What was Roxy doing here?
‘Um, hi,’ I squeaked, mouth suddenly dry. Would she recognize the shape of my face or eyes? ‘Mega good party, isn’t it? You’re a friend of the Baron’s?’
‘Not really.’ Roxy walked past me and towards the podium. She went up the red-carpeted steps and sat in the throne.
‘Won’t he mind?’ I said, squeak gone, pulse back to its usual rhythm. Phew.
Roxy looked at me and chuckled.
‘No. The Baron’s a cool dude,’ said Roxy. ‘It’s open house as far as he’s concerned.
‘Yeah, he’s a pretty chilled guy,’ I said, ‘and doesn’t hide the fact that most of this stuff hasn’t been in the Castle longer than a few months.’
‘Why should he?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s not born and bred aristocrat or serious renovator or historian. I think that’s why the public warm to him – he doesn’t pretend to be someone he isn’t.’
They wouldn’t warm much to Gemma Goodwin, then.
She stood up and smiled. ‘I’m Roxy. Part of the
Million Dollar Mansion
crew—the director’s assistant. I mainly work at Applebridge Hall but sometimes assist the team here.’
‘I’m Gemma. Love your dress.’ It was strange to see Roxy out of jeans and a T-shirt, and not carrying a clipboard or running around to fulfil Gaynor’s every need. ‘So, um, aren’t you supposed to remain objective? Should you really be here, out of hours?’
Roxy sat down at the long table and yawned, before speaking at her usual top speed. ‘What, because I’m at one of his parties, the Baron’s my favourite to win? No, I’m here for the free booze and he’s an okay bloke if you can get past his outdated flirting. Harry’s pretty harmless too.’ Roxy offered me some gum and I shook my head. ‘They’re both very confident of their brand and concept,’ she continued.
‘Are they right to feel so optimistic?’
Roxy stopped chewing for a moment. ‘Presumably you’ve seen the show?’
I nodded.
‘Then as a viewer, tell me what you think.’
‘Marwick Castle has…a mega appeal. The fun factor – I’ll give it that. But, like with the hare and tortoise, I reckon Applebridge Hall might overtake them in the popularity stakes over the next week.’
‘You actually believe the Earl is in with a chance?’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Do you?’
Roxy shrugged. ‘On paper, the Baron should win hands down… But…I don’t know. There’s something about the Croxleys… When I visit this castle it feels just like a hotel but at Applebridge Hall, it’s like…I’ve just walked into my parents’ pad. There’s an atmosphere there of… family…care… trust—or something.’ She grinned. ‘Do I sound like a complete wuss?’
A lump swelled in my throat. She’d just put into words exactly how I felt.
Roxy gazed around the room. ‘I guess it all depends on whether that atmosphere transmits itself across to the audience at home.’ She took out her car keys. ‘Right. Time for bed. Busy day tomorrow. You’re friends with Harry?’
‘Not really. I just met him in a pub. What’s, um, Lord Edward Croxley really like, then?’ I asked innocently.
‘Even hotter in the flesh, but impossibly hard to talk to. He doesn’t do chit-chat, rarely smiles, is arrogant, uptight—yet chivalrous and polite.’ She winked. ‘I wonder if he’s such a gentleman between the sheets… Miss Croxley’s nice, though,’ she added.
‘At least her cooking went better yesterday.’ I grinned.
‘She’s a real sport and a lot easier to talk to than her cousin. There’s a Facebook group obsessed with her high-jinks on the lawnmower. Did you see tonight’s show?’ Roxy’s eyes twinkled. ‘I still can’t make up my mind as to whether there’s something going on between her and the gardener or not. Her Facebook fans are convinced they’re the
Dirty Dancing
intruders.’
Yay! Another mission accomplished. Nick and I would have to plan our next movie tribute, although I already had a thousand things to do tomorrow, and would have to get up mega early to ring those names on my half of Mrs Raynor’s list…
Eek. Better get back and start washing out red hair dye.
‘Are you travelling back to the village?’ I asked. ‘Is there any chance you could drop me off? I’m not in the party mood any more…’
‘Sure thing – but have you had a look around?’
I shook my head.
‘Gemma, this is too good an opportunity to miss. The Baron won’t mind – let me give you a quick tour!’
I followed her out of the Throne Room and through the Chophouse (what an awesome indoor barbecue and chocolate fountain). We passed along a corridor, with doors opening to various bedrooms. The majority were unlocked as most of the corporate guests had left. We peeked in a couple. Sheets were strewn everywhere. There was a lot of work to be done before the weekend party guests arrived tomorrow night. Each was identically kitted out with crossed swords (plastic, no doubt) above the headboards and tapestries of unicorns. Then we came to a door with a dagger mounted in the middle.
‘This is the Baron’s,’ said Roxy.
We pushed open the heavy door and went in. Sure enough, above the bed was the huge mirror he’d boasted about. The bed sheets were gold and folded down over a burgundy blanket which matched lush pillows. Ornamental black iron light fittings were decked around the room and opposite the bed was a huge wall hanging of soldiers on horseback. Two animal skins lay on the wooden floor.
‘Even I know that zebras and lions didn’t roam Medieval England,’ I said and giggled.
‘Fancy a quick scoot up one of the towers?’ said Roxy.
‘You bet!’
I followed her along to the end of the corridor, past two more bedrooms, and she pulled open an oak door to the left. Wow. The tower was bigger than I expected, with stone stairs going up in circles, the small windows simply paned. Out of breath, we climbed past a door opening onto the first floor until we were right at the top and came out into the night air. I ran across to look out through one of the turrets at the back of the castle.
‘Is that a digger?’ I said and squinted, through the darkness, at a vehicle at the foot of the hill.
‘Sure is. The Baron didn’t have enough of the twenty-five grand left to finish the job – he’s hoping to build a go-karting track.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
We returned to the courtyard and picked our way across, avoiding drunken guests crashed out on the floor. The Baron stood at the bar. Harry gyrated across to us.
‘Surely you ain’t leaving already, girls?’
‘I, um, have got to get up early for work,’ I said, ‘but thanks for the invitation.’
‘So, babe, have we won you over? Can I count on your vote?’
‘Let’s see what next week brings,’ I said.
Harry smirked. ‘I can tell you there’ll be no surprises from Applebridge Hall, just more of the same: like apples, old-fashioned tweed clothes and wacky relatives on lawnmowers; like moody Lords who think they are better than everyone else; like estate managers in stupid hats and cooks with the weirdest accent.’
‘Ciao, Harry,’ said Roxy brightly, while I took some deep breaths. ‘Good luck with the party on Saturday.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Cheers, doll – no luck needed, though. Not with my new celebrity mates. Just hope you don’t die of boredom at that war fogies’ reunion thing.’ He gave us the thumbs-up and headed back to a brunette who was calling his name.
‘Arsehole,’ I muttered under my breath as we crossed the drawbridge and headed for the road leading to the double garage.
Roxy chuckled. We got into her red Mini and chatted about other reality shows all the way back to Applebridge.
‘Where would you like me to drop you?’ asked Roxy as we eventually drove into the village. We’d just finished a heated discussion about whether Channel Five had done a good job of reinventing
Big Brother
.
‘By The Green Acorn is great, ta,’ I said.
Roxy pulled up. ‘You’re sure I can’t take you to your front door? It’s two o’clock in the morning.’
‘This is Applebridge,’ I said and smiled. ‘Not inner city London.’