Doubting Abbey (3 page)
‘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.
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.
‘How do you do?’ I said in a controlled voice, and held out my hand.
‘Oh, erm, good, thanks.’ She grinned and grasped my fingers, pumping them up and down. ‘I’m Roxy—the production assistant. We spoke on the phone yesterday.’
Stomach twisting, I nodded. What if, face-to-face, my pretend accent sounded weird? But then, after all this time living with Abbey, I stood as good a chance as anyone of mimicking a posh voice.
‘We’d better get a move on,’ she continued, speaking at top-speed. ‘The TV crews at Applebridge Hall are on standby. My boss, Gaynor, the director, hates it if people are late. Footage of your arrival will have to be edited, ready for screening on tomorrow’s Sunday night show.’ She grinned. ‘Welcome aboard the roller coaster that is
Million Dollar Mansion
!’
She lugged my case over to the car boot. I’d never met anyone who spoke so fast. A chauffeur in a smart cap and suit got out and opened the door for me. The only time I’d seen anyone dressed like that was at a mate’s hen night, but trusted (nay, prayed!) this old codger wouldn’t perform a striptease.
While Roxy got in around the other side, I concentrated hard to get into the car just right. The rules were… legs first, knees closed at all times… Phew. Job done. No knickers flashed.
The door closed behind me. I looked to my left and smiled at Roxy. She ended a phone call as the chauffeur loaded my luggage, got in and we pulled away.
‘When was the last time you visited Applebridge Hall?’ she asked warmly, while scribbling notes.
‘Only last year,’ I said, chest feeling all tight. I wasn’t used to telling such bare-faced lies and in my mind frantically went over what Lady C called my ‘remit’ – a mega fancy word for the task I’ve been given, namely pretending to be one of a happy Croxley clan. In an email to Abbey, Lord Edward said she should act as if the family often met up. All members of staff would play along, as the future of Applebridge Hall – and their jobs – depended on it.
‘Recently, I’ve been terribly busy in catering and am so looking forward to taking time out to visit my uncle again. I’d be interested to know the arrangements for when I arrive,’ I continued, articulating every word as if I was the Speaking Clock.
‘Quite a, erm, character, isn’t he, the Earl?’ she said and glanced sideways at me.
Really? I was dying to probe her further but another of Lady C’s rules was never to appear over-familiar.
‘Although Lord Edward’s not half-bad.’ She winked. ‘Definite eye-candy for the girls.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ I said stiffly. Uncomfortable as it was, good old English reserve was useful if stuck for words.
Roxy rummaged in her jeans pocket and pulled out some fruit pastilles. She held out the packet. ‘I never have time to eat these days – fancy sharing my breakfast?’
‘That’s very kind, but no, thank you,’ I said, remembering what Lady C said about never eating on the go. On the other hand, I didn’t want to offend her…
