Chapter 7
Petey
The taxi rumbled down the drive, and Buckford Hall came into view.
It was far from the poshest stately home I’d ever seen.
Angelica and Edward had dragged us all around every Treasure House in Britain when we were kids, so I knew at a glance this Leicestershire manor was no Blenheim Palace.
But Buckford Hall, with its red brick, creamy sandstone, and Dutch gables, was undeniably charming.
Like, if you saw it standing alone in the corner of a bar, you’d definitely walk up to it and ask if it wanted a drink, before subtly prodding to see if it was a top.
Whereas the architecture of Blenheim Palace leaves you in no doubt.
It grabs you by the throat and calls you its little bitch.
The cabby took my case out of the boot, and I said my thanks.
“Sorry about the scorch marks, bruv,” I said. “No idea what that madwoman was thinking.”
He grunted, got back in the car, and drove off. I was smoothing out the creases in the legs of my favourite boiler suit when Indira Murray came marching across the gravel towards me with a folder in her hand.
“Peter, not before time.”
“My call time was five o’clock, wasn’t it?” I asked, worried I’d already screwed up somehow.
“The secret to being a successful assistant producer is anticipating the needs of the production. I could have used you by two.”
My stomach dropped. “Sorry. I had Sunday lunch with my family and—”
She raised a hand. “Say no more. Last time I had Sunday lunch with my family, I spent my entire afternoon in the emergency department waiting for my nephew to have baked beans scooped out of his ear. You’re here now.
That’s what matters.” She passed me the folder.
“Here’s your production bible. Shooting schedule, photos and bios of the cast—it’s all there.
Don’t lose it, and don’t let the cast see it. ”
I flicked through the folder while Indira lit a cigarette. The page fell open to a photo of a face I recognised.
“Oh, hello! That’s Jonty Boche.”
“You know him?”
I nodded. “His brother, Ludo, is a good mate.”
“Is this going to be a problem?”
Only in the sense that he’s mad as a march hare, I thought.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good.” Indira blew out a heavy nicotine fug.
“Because he’s one of your charges. You’re going to be looking after the twelve servants.
Six of each. All their pronouns are listed.
Everyone’s cisgendered, obviously. This is Channel Three, not Channel Four.
They’re all absolute twats, of course. Sorry, no offence to your twat friend.
They’re used to living the high life.” She pointed at a photo.
“That blonde one with the tits hasn’t so much as rustled out a sneaky queef in the last two years without Instagramming it.
This is going to be murder for the lot of them, but they’ve all signed up for it.
Which reminds me, there’s no reception, so we’re on walkie-talkies and headsets.
Go pick yourself up a set from the production office in the Old Coach House. ”
“Gotcha.”
“There’s a map of the house and grounds in the back of your bible,” Indira said, anticipating my next question the way only someone who has spent a career as a producer can.
“The servants’ quarters are highlighted in pink.
You’ve got your own small production office off to the side.
I think it used to be a cleaning cupboard or something.
That’s where you’re kipping too. Go familiarise yourself with your patch. ”
“Roger!” I said, trying to sound both as keen as I felt and as efficient as Indira expected. Then, to my eternal shame, I saluted. She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll crack on then, shall I?”
“If you would.”
I smiled.
“You’ve got a lot riding on this,” Indira said. “Don’t make me regret giving you a shot.”
Brutal. I nodded, pretending she hadn’t winded me completely. I was going to have to work hard to earn her respect. I turned to walk into the house.
The bathrooms in the servants’ quarters were completely flooded.
“You have got to be kidding!” I had been on the job less than ten minutes, and there was already a disaster.
Rapid-fire cursing echoed out of one of the stalls.
I walked along the row until I found a man standing on a toilet seat, arms reaching into a cistern high up on the wall, apparently screwing in some kind of black plastic ball.
He was wearing a pair of brown loafers, obscenely tiny shorts, and a tattered old Polo Ralph Lauren rugby shirt. He was drenched.
“You’re making a right mess, mate,” I said.
“Hang on.”
“Have you got any idea what you’re doing there?”
“I said hang on.”
The plumber finished playing with his little ball and turned to look at me over his shoulder. His face was as wet as the rest of him. Strands of his mid-length auburn hair were stuck to his forehead and cheeks. He was, to be clear, bloody gorgeous.
“Who the hell are you?” he said.
His rudeness jogged me out of my trance. I had a job to do.
“I’m the bloke whose job it is to make sure the toilet’s fixed!”
He turned back to what he was doing. “Well, it’s fixed. I’ve just fixed it. Probably.”
Water sploshed over the side of the cistern and onto his shirt. It ran in rivers down his legs. His thighs were so meaty they belonged in a butcher’s window. Frankly, he did not look like a professional plumber.
“Mate, are you even qualified to fix that?”
“Qualified?” He laughed. “I have a degree in English lit. I’m singularly unqualified to fix this. I’m unqualified to do anything remotely useful at all, truth be told. But it’s never stopped me fixing the plumbing in this house before.”
I was shocked, to be honest. “Breaks down regularly, does it?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“I don’t think I would.” Not if this was the quality of the tradesman sent to fix it.
The plumber sighed, stood upright, and cricked his back.
His wet clothes were clinging to him like he’d been vacuum-sealed into them.
He turned to look at me, and his face, still ridiculously gorgeous, looked seriously annoyed.
His cheeks were as red as apples. He had an extremely wet cloth in his fist, which was dripping water as he jabbed a finger in my direction.
“I told Bramley not to call you,” he said. “Sorry, but you’ve had a wasted trip. I don’t need your help. You can leave.”
“Pardon?”
“And don’t even think about charging a call-out fee, because I’m not paying it. I didn’t call you out.”
He’d lost me now. “Why would I charge you a call-out fee?”
He sighed. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I’ve fixed it. I don’t need any help.”
I roared in frustration. “You do need help. Blind Freddie can see this job needs an actual qualified plumber.”
“I’m not paying you to do a job I can do perfectly well myself.”
“Why would you pay me to do it?”
“Because I’ve never heard of a plumber working for free. Unless you’re some magical plumbing fairy my mother has accidentally summoned with one of her ridiculous herbal concoctions?”
He was winding me up now. “I’m not the plumber. You’re the plumber.”
“No, you’re the plumber.”
“I am not!”
“Well, you’re dressed like a bloody plumber,” he said.
I looked down at my boiler suit. “This is fashion. This is my signature look.”
The plumber looked exasperated. “This is insane. I’m going insane. If you’re not the plumber, then who are you, and why are you up here badgering me about needing a plumber?”
That was it. If my whole future in TV depended on this job going well, I wasn’t going to fail in my first ten minutes on set.
“Who am I?” I raged. “I’m the bloke who’s going to report you to Trading Standards, bruv.”
The plumber frowned. “Now listen here—”
“Yeah, that’s got you worried, hasn’t it?” I felt myself grow two inches taller. “Got your attention now, haven’t I? You’ve got no business calling yourself a plumber if you’re not even qualified.”
“I never claimed to be a plumber.”
“Look, I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “If you immediately pack up your things and leave quietly, I won’t call the authorities.
But if you don’t leave, I’ll have no choice but to get my boss up here to sort you out—and she’s a very angry Scotswoman with the temper of a chain-smoking Chihuahua.
Believe me, that’s the last thing you want. ”
The man’s face cracked into an enormous, shit-eating grin. Then he roared with laughter. I couldn’t believe it.
“You must be one of the crew!” He stepped down from the toilet and extended a hand. “I’m Wi—”
“You’re a con artist, mate,” I said. “I’ve got your number.”
The plumber was grinning like an idiot. “Actually, I’m Will—”
“You think this is funny? You’re putting a two-and-a-half-million-quid production at risk,” I growled. I was in full flight now, giving him a real piece of my mind. “That’s it. If you don’t leave this property immediately, I’m calling the police. You’ve got no business being here.”
“No, you’re quite right,” he said, leaning against the wall of the toilet stall. “Please, be my guest. Do call the police.”
“I will!”
“Oh, good. This should be fun.”
I pulled my mobile phone out of my pocket.
“Oh, there’s no coverage anywhere in the house,” he said, smiling.
“You’ll have to use the landline. It’s in the kitchen.
You go out this door, turn right, go down three flights of stairs, turn left, go all the way down the hall, and the kitchen is on your right.
The phone is on the wall by the refrigerator.
Alternatively, the Wi-Fi code is ‘Buckford1485,’ with a capital B.
But at this time on a Sunday, the cops will have to come all the way in from Leicester, so it might be a bit of a wait.
We could always go direct to the local magistrate to sort this out instead, I suppose.
Although as she’s my mother, she might need to recuse herself from passing judgement.
Alternatively, how about we, you know, sort this out like gentlemen? ”
Oh God. Realisation dawned. Heat flushed my face. The silence between us was so far beyond pregnant it had already been sewn back up and was cracking on with the breastfeeding.
“You’re… not a plumber, are you?” I said, swallowing.
“Afraid not.” A disarming smile lit his face, and his grey eyes sparkled with mischief.
He was staring at me through the silence, smirking.
His skin was unbelievably clear and smooth.
A vision of ruddy good health. His auburn hair was bouncing into curls as it dried.
His lips were plump and pink. He was built like he’d spent his whole life on a rugby field. Which, I now realised, he had.
“You’re… going to make me ask, aren’t you?” I said.
“Oh, I absolutely am.” He threw the wet cloth he’d been holding across the room and into the sink. It landed with a splat.
My courage failed me. I decided to build up to the inevitable humiliation, bit by bit.
“So, do you… live here, then?”
“I do!” He folded his arms and leant against the stall wall, a broad smile across his face.
“Is this… your gaff?”
He shrugged. “We’re only ever custodians of the house for our lifetimes. It’s never really ours, you know? We keep it in trust, for the next generation… and the nation.”
I swallowed so deeply my Adam’s apple plunged all the way into the pit of my stomach and had to take the elevator back up.
“Keep going,” he said, nodding enthusiastically. His loose curls bobbed around his face. “You’re doing so well. You’re nearly there.”
I took a deep breath to summon my courage and closed my eyes. “Are you… Baron Buckford?” I squinted through one eye.
“Got it in one!” His hand shot out once again. “And you are?”
“Peter Topham,” I said, sheepishly. I grabbed his hand. “But you can call me Petey Boy.”
Why did I say that? The Bisexual Baron Buckford’s eyebrows shot up. The mischievous sparkle was back in his eyes. My hand was still in his.
“I’m William,” he said, his gaze holding mine.
I faked a smile. I was dying inside.
“But you can call me ‘my lord.’”
Jesus, that was hot.