Chapter 2 #2
I’d worked at so many events before where there were famous people, but this was on another scale. If Carston Manor were to blow up this afternoon, half of Britain’s acting royalty would be wiped out. That must have been why everything was so secret squirrel about who was attending.
I drilled my eyes into the glasses of bubbling, pale gold I was carrying.
It was no good. I had to star spot. I couldn’t help myself.
Making my way through the grand hall, I spied Dame Judi Dench, Sir Ian McKellan, Dame Joan Collins and Hannah Waddingham. I wheeled this way and that, proffering the champagne flutes from the tray.
Hannah bloody Waddingham!
Oh God… I loved that woman!
I gripped my tray tighter and headed down the chequered hallway to where the humungous garden room was decked out with row upon row of gigantic silver balloons. The number 60 bobbed in front of the windows.
I glanced back.
Aiden, Iris and Jasmine were bringing up the rear, each with platters of coronation chicken sandwiches, miniature venison pies, caviar crackers, egg mayonnaise with truffle and mustard cress, as well as a tower of crumpets, laden with pale pink smoked salmon and cream cheese.
Sue was taking care of the cakes, which ranged from traditional Victorian style fare to mini sticky toffee puddings, vanilla and passionfruit bites, rich slices of chocolate cake and apricot and almond tarts.
Then there were the obligatory flour-dusted fruit, plain, cinnamon, cheese, treacle and coconut scones.
Over by the floating balloons were a couple of TV directors I recognised from the stream of auditions I had attended, engaged in animated conversation. The Saturday sunshine outside was playing hide and seek amongst the trees.
I was smiled at and thanked for the champagne, and not acknowledged at all by only a very small minority.
The atmosphere was jovial and relaxed as we ferried glasses to and from the kitchen and slithered around with the sumptuous food.
In the kitchen, it was a throbbing hive of activity, with clattering crockery and the Armand de Brignac flowing like a river.
My feet were beginning to sting thanks to the endless walking up and down, but I kept reminding myself of the generous paycheque to come, and that I’d soon be jumping into Marlene and making my way back up to Strath Ross to see Grandpa.
I had a fresh tray of bubbling champagne and was weaving in and out of the chattering bodies when two sparkling morganite cufflinks and a hand appeared and took one of the flutes. ‘Thank you,’ rumbled a male voice. ‘I bet you’ll be glad to finish after pandering to this lot.’
I looked up.
A pair of dark chocolate eyes were regarding me, framed with black lashes.
They belonged to a tall, well-built man with thick, floppy, blueberry black hair. He was very imposing – and very handsome.
‘Yes,’ I faltered, trying to gather myself. ‘It has been rather non-stop.’
‘Well, thank you again for the champagne and for all your hard work.’ His voice was deep, with an educated Anglicised accent.
My cheeks pinged with colour. ‘You’re very welcome.’
I grabbed the opportunity to take another look at him. He had a regal-looking, Grecian nose and a strong jaw, brushed with stubble.
I whirled away, hoping he wouldn’t notice my cheeks were now puce. Whoever he was, he’d taken me by surprise.
The endless pouring of champagne was beginning to have an effect on some of the partygoers. Certain voices were growing more and more animated.
I glided around the rest of the garden room, with its panoramic views of the grounds and its sumptuous lemon and tangerine furnishings.
I’d gathered up a few abandoned glasses and was about to proffer some more champagne when I noticed out of the corner of my eye three men huddled together over by the open double doors.
The guy in the middle was letting out barks of laughter like a drunk seal.
I moved closer to them, clutching my tray bearing the flutes. I couldn’t help but overhear what he was saying. Folks in the Outer Hebrides would’ve been able to make him out.
‘The standard of drama on TV in this country at the moment is appalling. Take that recent disaster, Sinister. Jesus! Just dreadful.’
My loafers froze on the polished, blonde wood floor.
‘Awful bloody script. Shocking, really, when you take into account the supposed quality of those involved. The girl who played the sister was competent, but that was all.’
The cool, silver tray stilled in my hands.
I knew I should move off. I was working. But it was as if my legs weren’t listening to common sense. They refused to move.
I attempted to refocus on the sweeping lawns outside and the tangle of shadows in the sunshine. No. It was no good. My head was already replaying over what he’d just said about Sinister. And what he’d just said was exactly what that idiot newspaper critic Fox had written in his column.
It was too much of a coincidence. It must be. It was practically word-for-word. This man, with the cropped red hair and smug grin, must be him. He must be Fox.
It made sense, his attendance at a high profile do like this with so many famous actors.
I gave my head a mental wobble. Come on, Daisy. Be professional. Just head back to the kitchen. Forget about the prick.
I tried to take a calming breath and began to tap my way past him. There was a stunning woman in a long, red, floaty dress who seemed to have overheard his booming tones too, because she kept glancing over at him from under her hair.
I thought he might have finished verbally lambasting the TV drama I’d just appeared in.
Some hope. His verbal diatribe continued.
‘Well, when I say competent, I was rather distracted by those gorgeous legs of hers. I think in all likelihood they got her in there as eye candy for the dads, rather than her acting abilities!’
My hand froze as I reached out to collect a couple of abandoned champagne flutes. Fury burned inside me. What?! The sodding cheek! Nice to know Neanderthal Man was alive and well after all. I thought about how hard I’d worked to get that role. I’d thrown everything I had at it.
I could feel my throat constricting with temper. I told myself not to look over at him, but my eyes disobeyed me. He was ruddy-faced and sniggering into his champagne glass. So pleased with himself.
Warming to his theme, he carried on. ‘It’s all about inclusion these days, though at the expense of talent. I suppose they have to get their working-class actor quota up somehow.’
It was like time had screeched to a halt.
My breathing caught in my chest in appalled, ragged gasps.
I couldn’t believe he’d actually turned around and said that.
Who the hell did he think he was? What talent or ability did he have?
Visions of him crucifying other performers as he sat hunched over his laptop filed through my mind.
Did he have any idea what his wounding words could do to people?
What effect they could have on their confidence? Their careers?
I was all for free speech and reviews, but Fox was deliberately cruel.
I knew I shouldn’t give him another thought, but I couldn’t help it. I knew I should just march past him and carry on with what I was doing. Ignore him. Inwardly seethe, recognise him for the ignorant git he was and go take five.
But it was no good.
His self-satisfied grin and boozy, red cheeks were sending my emotions into a frenzy.
Refusing to think about what I was about to do and where, I gripped the loaded tray I was carrying.
Ok. So I was in a posh stately home, surrounded by a lot of very talented people who I’d admired for years.
But this man… I was proud of my background and where I came from.
It sounded crazy, but his poisonous words felt like a slight against my darling grandparents and anybody else like me, who chased their dreams no matter what.
Everyone was entitled to a chance at success.
Acting shouldn’t be for the exclusive elite.
Refusing to listen to the warning voice in my head, I found myself putting one dark loafer in front of the other. The guests around me continued to laugh and exchange pleasantries; their champagne glittered pale gold in their glasses and the food was being consumed with appreciative relish.
Before I had a chance to consider what I was doing, I found myself standing in front of him, still holding the tray of champagne.
My knuckles were turning white with rage.
He was still flanked on either side by his two associates, but all I could see was this braying character, holding court in the middle of them.
I swallowed and jutted out my chin. My voice sounded alien to my ears. It carried a hint of menace. ‘Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt. Actually, no, scrub that; I’m not sorry.’
Their conversation drew to a sharp halt.
I could feel three sets of bemused eyes resting on me.
Fox looked me up and down. ‘Pardon?’
My hard stare bored into him. My initial feeling of apprehension was gone as I surveyed him from head to toe in his herringbone suit.
‘I don’t know if you recognise me, but I’m the working-class quota you were just talking about.’
‘Sorry?’ His freckled brow frowned.
I didn’t even try to keep my voice on an even keel. My words were finding their momentum. ‘My name is Daisy Madden. I played Tammy in Sinister, remember?’
Fox’s thin brows jumped.
Adrenaline accelerated in my chest. ‘Do you have any idea the effect your poisonous words can have on someone? You write all this bile in that tawdry newspaper column of yours.’
A ghost of a smirk pulled at his mouth, which riled me even more.
‘Well, I can tell you that I’m proud to be working class. I’m also proud to be an actor.’
I tried not to recoil backwards as, still clutching his champagne flute, he took a few sudden steps towards me. ‘Looks like you’re not doing much acting at the moment, Miss.’ His cold, pale eyes raked over me. ‘Looks like you’re the hired help.’