Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Ryan keeps his distance for the next few days, and I let him. I think he needs it, and I don’t want to push him away by trying to get too close, which makes no sense at all but somehow feels right.
I’m flat-out busy, all the time, with a million and one details skittering around my mind – things to do, things to order, things to check. But when I’m still and quiet, and lying with Eejit in my green bedroom beneath the arch of flowers that Ryan painted for me, my thoughts inevitably go to him.
I have stayed true to my word, and not googled him, but in my head I have visualised his wife and his daughter. The wife was, I’d bet good money, a stunner, and Mia – well, Mia would have been perfect. She’d have his dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, and even though she was only four, she’d already have been able to charm the birds from the sky. She almost feels real to me, this ghost-child of Ryan’s, and I can only imagine the inconsolable pain that he carries around with him.
Suddenly everything becomes far more clear: why he abandoned his career, why he moved here, why he is determined to live his simple life as a full-time handyman and part-time feckless playboy.
The night before the photo shoot, I am still thinking about it. Still drenched in second-hand sadness. I’m up late, and Eejit keeps looking at me balefully as I toss and turn, unable to drift off to sleep. I guess it’s a combination of Ryan’s story and the busy day ahead.
Eventually, I sit up straight, and grab my phone from the bedside cabinet. We talked to Nanna Nora about a lot of things in those video interviews, and one of the conversations was about loss – because at her age, she’d experienced a fair deal of it.
I find the clip, and remember the morning it was taken. It was a beautiful spring day, and she was sitting outside in her beloved garden, surrounded by her flowers and her pots of tomatoes.
‘Loss is part of life, Cassie,’ she says, her crinkled face looking right at the camera. ‘Nothing is permanent, all of it is on borrowed time. Everything passes, everything changes – love and pain and people. It’s just the way of the world, and nothing we do can prevent that. But some losses… well, some losses are terrible hard. Some losses steal a part of your soul, so, and you never feel the same again. You go on, and you find happiness, and you do your best with life. But a piece is always missing, and you never quite heal…’
She drifts off a little, staring into the distance, a glaze of tears on her blue eyes. She’s clearly in another place entirely.
‘Is that how it was for you after Granddad died?’ I ask, off camera. I don’t really remember him – I was only four when he passed.
She looks back at me, almost seeming shocked to see me there. She gives me a sweet smile, and says: ‘Of course, yes. Your granddad.’
I close down the phone, and lie back in the darkness. That must be how Ryan feels – like there is a piece missing from his soul. Like he’ll never heal.
I sigh, and roll over yet again. I slip into sleep gradually, my dreams wild and random, full of people from my past who I haven’t even thought about in years. A girl called Courtney who was my lab partner at high school; Ted’s cousin from Boston; Mrs Gregory, who lived next door to us when I was a kid. They all pop up, weirdly vivid, as though simply saying hello and reminding me that they once existed in my life. Maybe it was because of what Nanna Nora said – that everything is change.
It’s not the most restful night’s sleep I’ve had since I arrived here, and I abandon my newly adopted ritual of tea in the morning for good old-fashioned coffee. It’s going to be a caffeine kind of day, I think, glancing out of the window.
It isn’t snowing, although more is forecast for later, and the skies are clear and blue. Having been in England during their rainy season – in other words most of the year – I’m delighted. Everything will be much easier without rain and mud, and look so much better as well.
I decide to walk up the hill to Bancroft Manor, which takes a good twenty minutes or so. Everything’s set up and ready to go, and I need the time to clear my head, sip my go-cup of coffee, and be alone. I need the thinking time, rather than making conversation in a car while my head is spinning.
By the time I get there, I feel calmer. I’ve had a message from June, along the lines of ‘You go, girl’, and I’ve also had one from my dad asking me to bring some of Eileen’s soda bread home with me. Life goes on back in New York, I know, but these days it all feels very distant.
The house is a hive of activity by the time I get there, and I suspect that Eejit was wise to stay behind. Too much chaos for him – but Jasper will undoubtedly relish it.
Outside on the driveway, I see a selection of cars parked in front of the grand fa?ade of the manor. They include Charles’s green Jag, but also a red Porsche, a silver Aston Martin straight from a James Bond movie and an old-fashioned Rolls-Royce complete with its famous hood mascot, the shining Spirit of Ecstasy. It looks like a classic car rally out here, which is exactly what we’d been aiming for. Charles called in a few favours from his friends and family, and I see that pictures are already being taken.
Sarah – willowy and gorgeous despite having had four kids – is dressed to kill in a sleek black gown that must have come from the Dressing Room. Her hair is done in an exquisite up-do, and she’s wearing a necklace that is dripping with what may or may not be diamonds. She’s leaning against the Rolls-Royce, pretending to sip a glass of Champagne, looking every inch the elegant lady as Ryan works around her, giving her direction and snapping away.
As soon as he says he has what he needs, she exclaims: ‘Thank the baby Jesus for that! These shoes are fecking killing me!’
She gulps down the whole glass of Champagne in one go, then belches. Class comes in many forms.
I’d recommended filling the glasses with fizzy apple juice, but that seems to have been predictably ignored – I suspect everyone will be drunk as skunks by the end of the day.
‘Look sharp,’ someone shouts. ‘The boss is here!’
It takes me a few moments to realise they’re talking about me, and I give a cheery wave.
Ryan notices me walking towards him, and calls me over to look at his shots.
‘They’re perfect,’ I say, as he scoots through them. ‘Who knew that Sarah was actually a supermodel?’
‘You did, apparently. You should see her fella, Paddy, now – dressed up in his penguin suit, handsome as you like, no clue from the outside that he’s a mechanic and usually in greasy overalls!’
‘Well, that’s the idea, I guess. How are you? I haven’t seen much of you.’
He nods, and gives me one of his feral grins. The ones that go straight to my guts.
‘I know. That’ll be because I’ve been avoiding you.’
‘Ah. I see. And now you’re not?’
‘Don’t think it’ll be possible today, and besides, I decided it was time to catch myself on. I have a present for you, also.’
‘Oooh. I like presents!’
He gives me a pitying look, and adds: ‘Don’t get too excited, there. It’s not a pony.’
He roots around in his camera bag, and pulls out a print. It’s a picture – of me. I’m staring intently at something, a look of delight on my face, my hair bright red against the snowy landscape. Like most women, I don’t always love pictures of myself – but this, I have to say, is beautiful. I just look so happy.
‘The robin,’ he says simply, ‘you’re looking at that robin we saw, on our way to the tower.’
I nod, and smile at the memory.
‘Thank you!’ I say sincerely. ‘I’ll treasure it. I didn’t even know you’d taken one of me.’
‘I’m sneaky like that. Right, I’m done out here – didn’t want to get going inside until you were here to stage manage.’
We head inside, and I see the Christmas tree has had a mini makeover. The cherry has been replaced with a more traditional star, and the hand-made ornaments have been shifted to the back. It looks a lot more glossy, and Ryan tells me he’s already taken some great shots – including one where they actually managed to make Jasper sit still for a minute. Christmas trees and Spaniel puppies, I think, making my way through to the library – a sure-fire hit.
Charles is in there, his favourite room, laughing at something that Jack Mullaney – the wizard man-cum-poet – has just said to him. Jack has been dressed in a tweed suit that Georgie found upstairs, and Orla is combing out his beard, tutting at every tangle. Several of the villagers are lurking around, dressed as I’ve asked in smart casual clothes.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, making my way over to Charles.
‘You’re not. It’s just that everyone else turned up early. I think they’re all pretty excited about their moment in the spotlight.’
I look around at the eager faces, and realise he’s right – there’s a real air of jollity in the room.
Once Jack is camera-ready, objecting fiercely to the little brush of powder Orla insists on applying, I arrange everyone in their seats. They’re given notebooks and pens, and jugs of water are scattered around. Jack has a little podium, and stands before reading from a book of his own poems. Georgie is here, taking video on her phone – Ryan inspected it and declared it fit for purpose, saying it would produce footage that was plenty good enough for the little snippets we need. She looks thrilled, buzzing with energy.
Leonora did indeed leave the day after she arrived, sneaking off at the crack of dawn without even telling anybody. If any of this has had a negative impact on her daughter, she definitely isn’t showing it now.
Ryan checks the lighting, and after a few false starts where people giggle or crack jokes, we get going. The end result is perfect – they look for all the world like a group of eager literature fans, come to hear a masterclass in the glorious surrounds of the Bancroft library.
I leave them all cheering, and head into the kitchen. This too has been transformed – Ryan and some of the other men-folk fixed the dents in the fridge, patched up the neglected plasterwork, and painted the walls with a fresh coat of white. The Aga has been cleaned, and new, shiny copper pots and pans are hanging from the hooks on the ceiling, along with braided bunches of garlic and herbs. The windowsill is full of fresh flowers, and the big old pine table is covered in bowls, mixers and ingredients.
I move some of it around – taking away branded packets that look a little tacky, adding a big bowl of fresh fruit, pouring the milk into a pottery jug rather than leaving it in its plastic container. The eggs are stored in a container in the shape of a hen, and a big wooden chopping board is coated with flour. It couldn’t look more wholesome if it tried.
Eileen bustles into the room, bearing a magnificent layer cake that is topped with fresh berries and meringue. She places it carefully on the table, curtsies, and says: ‘Here’s one I made earlier!’
‘It looks like heaven in a cake, Eileen.’
She nods, and wipes her hands on her blue-and-white striped apron, telling me she’s ‘ready for her close-up’.
Once Ryan’s set up his lights, we let her have free rein – I ask for a few specifics, like a shot of her plunging her hands into a big bowl of flour, white clouds wisping into the air. We have her cracking eggs and whisking, and ones of her opening and closing the Aga. After we’ve got the first few, I bring in a small group of villagers, and we get pictures of them watching her while holding their own bowls, as though they’re at a cookery lesson. At the end, we take snaps of Eileen slicing the beautiful cake, and everyone eating a piece. The expressions of ecstasy are not faked, and I grab myself a little slice – it’s going to be a long day.
We move from room to room doing similar things – the fake business meeting, the art class, the luxury suite upstairs. For that one we have Sarah again, sitting at the dresser in front of the mirror. She’s wearing a white robe, and we repeatedly get her to take her diamond earrings on and off while she looks at her reflection. We also do some of her in the four-poster bed, very demurely lying in the arms of her real-life husband, Paddy, both of them gazing across at the roaring fire.
In between takes, she swears like a trooper, swats Paddy across the head for ‘groping me arse under the covers, dirty thing’, and swigs more Champagne.
Orla has borrowed massage tables from one of her hair and beauty friends, and we’ve set them up in one of the better rooms. There are scented candles and incense burning, some kind of weird new-age music is playing, and Emily the fashion student and one of her friends are lying face down with stones on their backs. There is, of course, no spa at Bancroft Manor – but if Charles gets the investment he’s looking for, who knows?
This is all about showing the potential – and it is exhausting, especially for Ryan, who is involved in every single set-up. By the time we break for a late lunch, he looks tired, sitting on the steps of the terrace despite the cold weather, eating a plate of sandwiches.
‘You okay?’ I ask, popping my head around the door to check on him.
‘Sure. I’d just forgotten that this is actually hard work. Suppose I’ve got used to a life of manual labour, which is tougher on the body but way easier on the mind.’
‘Well, tell me if you need a break later, all right? You’re the most important person here and I can’t have you passing out on us. Let me know if it’s too much, Ryan?’
He shrugs, and says: ‘I will, yeah,’ in a tone that implies the absolute opposite. I roll my eyes and leave him to it. We’re building up to what will be the biggest shoot of the day – the ballroom.
We start while it’s still light, with a table set up to host a bride, groom and their family. It’s cheap plywood beneath, but the crisp white linens cover that up, and the whole length of it is draped in exquisite flowers – a centrepiece of roses and hydrangeas in pretty shades of pink and lilac, and scattered smaller arrangements in the same colours. There was plenty of high-class tableware and silverware in storage in the house, and Eileen and Roberts have been busy preparing the wedding meal.
I bustle along the table, making a few adjustments that help it all look more real – as though the shots were taken in the middle of an actual wedding celebration. I move glasses, half fill some and top up others, scatter the surface with a few handfuls of confetti.
The food on the plates looks great – slices of roast beef, roast potatoes, fresh vegetables – but is stone cold by now. Luckily nobody has to actually eat it, just pretend.
A young couple from the village volunteered to be our happy newlyweds, and Emily added to her actual dress with a few lace panels and a stunning train. It all looks good, and when Ryan comes back in, we get what we need – oh-so-spontaneous shots of the perfect wedding dinner.
It’s all moving quickly now, and everyone seems to have got the hang of what’s needed. Charles gets stuck in with everything, shifting tables, moving furniture, shepherding villagers, fixing a plug when Orla’s precious hair curlers blow a fuse.
The hardest work is changing the scenes in the ballroom, trying to show its versatility. We do a full dinner scene, with all the round hired tables set, happy diners sipping their wine and chatting as Roberts, in a full traditional butler’s outfit, makes his way around the room carrying drinks on a silver tray. Once that’s done, we fold all the tables down, and set it up as a party – the guests standing and chatting, spilling out onto the terrace.
The final shots take the most work – but are also the most fun. We’re staging an actual ball in the ballroom. The people taking part are all outfitted in either costumes from upstairs, or formal wear we hired in just in case. It’s kind of weird, seeing all these now-familiar people gussied up like extras in a glossy period drama.
The chandeliers have been cleaned and the bust bulbs replaced, and I’ve gone around the room adding large silver candelabras, now all flickering beautifully away. Night has fallen outside, and we leave the French doors open – the starlight and the silvery glow of the moon are shining through the now-falling snowflakes, and the contrast between that and the warm radiance of the ballroom is strikingly beautiful.
Allegra and Roberts are joining in for this one, and I smile as I see them together – definitely of the generation who learned how to dance, looking every inch the part as they stand in hold. Charles has donned a dinner suit and he wears it well – in fact he looks incredibly handsome as he walks towards the dancefloor.
‘Now, everyone,’ I shout, getting their attention, ‘look at Roberts and Allegra! See how they’re standing? Aim for something like that! It doesn’t need to be perfect, nobody is going to be marking you at the end! Don’t move too quickly, and please don’t worry – just try and enjoy yourselves!’
There’s a lot of shuffling while people figure out what hands go where, and Charles strolls around helping out where he needs to. He meets my eyes as he passes, holds out his arms and says: ‘Can I tempt you, Cassie?’
Yep, I think, in all kinds of ways. But now is not the time for shenanigans. Now is the time for action. I glance over to Ryan and check if he’s ready. When he gives me the thumbs-up, I wave over to Georgie.
She’s on the piano, joined by the musicians from the village, who are pretending to be a string quartet. She nods, and the music starts – a kind of stripped back version of a piece I recognise as the waltz from Swan Lake. It’s not a full orchestra, and the guy playing the cello has never really used one before so he’s only pretending to bow, but somehow it works.
I can’t help laughing as everyone starts to dance – truthfully, it’s a scene that has all the jerky elegance of a zombie apocalypse. Ryan is whirring around the room taking multiple shots from different perspectives, and I can only hope that he’ll manage to get something we can use. If not, I tell myself, it isn’t a disaster – we have enough. Everyone has been so willing and worked so hard that I don’t have the heart to direct them any differently.
After maybe half an hour, Ryan finally signals to me that he’s got what he needs – or, I suspect, his shrug means he’s got as much as he’s likely to get. I walk over to Georgie and the musicians and tell them to wind things up, as Charles joins me by the piano.
‘Everybody, hello!’ he shouts, waiting for a few of the more enthusiastic feet to notice the music has stopped.
‘I’m told we have everything we need, ladies and gentlemen – that it’s a wrap! I can’t thank you all enough for your help today. It’s been humbling, it’s been hard work, but most of all it’s been an absolute hoot – so again, thank you! Now, Cormac tells me that against all odds, there is still some Champagne left, so please, feel free to stay for a while and simply enjoy yourselves! If I had a glass to hand, I’d raise it, and make a toast to us – to the Bancroft Estate, to the residents of Campton St George, and to a long and prosperous partnership!’
A round of cheers goes up as he finishes, and the musicians immediately switch tempos to something much livelier and more appropriate for a jig. The waltz holds are abandoned, along with all pretence at formality.
I breathe out with relief as I watch them, seeing Ryan jump right in, Georgie shrieking with delight as she joins him. Within minutes everybody else floods into the room, and pretty soon it’s booming to the sound of both the music and the dancing. Some people are dressed in ballgowns, some in jeans, but everyone looks happy.
I sag a little inside as I realise it’s done. It’s really done – we put together this whole amazing thing in a week. I can’t quite believe it, and I feel exhilarated by what we’ve managed.
I also feel suddenly very, very tired – I had a rough night, and today has been hard work, and now the relief of it all being over and done is finishing me off. It’s as though now I know I can stop, I’ve run out of all energy at once.
I slip outside into the night, welcoming the chill of the cold air against my cheeks – it was roasting in there by the end.
I walk down the terrace steps, and stand at the edge of the long, landscaped grounds. I gaze around – snow, stars, and serenity in one direction, madness in the other. I look up at the ballroom, now full of light and life, and smile. We did it. We really did it.
In the big scheme of things, it’s not much – it’s taking some pretty pictures to convince millionaires to part with money – but it still feels like a win, not just for me, but for everyone. I can’t remember the last time I felt like I had a win, and I know that it’s not just Bancroft Manor that’s been brought back to life – it’s me as well.