Chapter 50
William
Petey came bounding into the folly and up the stairs, face as bright and flushed as a freshly smacked arse.
“Check your email,” he said.
“Is it finished?” I asked.
Petey nodded. Well, I didn’t need to be told twice. I stood decisively, yanked the cable out, snapped the laptop shut.
“I think this deserves a bigger screen, don’t you?” I said, tucking the computer under my arm.
I grabbed Petey’s hand, and we dashed barefoot through the house to the East Drawing Room, where after five minutes faffing about with cables, I was finally able to share my screen on the big TV.
Then we sank into the sofa, bodies tight together, holding each other’s hands, arseholes clenched in vivid anticipation, and pressed play on the promo video.
As a drone shot coming down the drive towards the house filled the screen, I was fizzing with so much excitement I farted.
Two minutes later, I was so completely convinced Buckford was the ideal place for a fun family day out, I wished I had a family I could take along to see it myself.
“Well, what do you think?”
“It’s fabulous. Beyond fabulous. You can barely tell the house is a rapidly deteriorating death trap.”
“Good, because I have another surprise for you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see. Give me a sec.”
Petey disappeared into his phone, then told me to check my email again.
“A second video?” I said. “You really are value for money. You’ve just earned yourself an excellent Google review.”
I pressed play. Buckford appeared on the screen again—this time a drone shot along the Long Water. Rousing string music filled the room, followed by a voice-over extolling the house’s five-hundred-year history, its royal visitors and Capability Brown landscape.
“That voice-over artist sounds sexy as hell.”
“It’s me.”
“Oh, I thought it was Attenborough.”
Petey punched me playfully in the arm.
The voice-over continued: “But Buckford Hall carries a secret.”
I looked at Petey, a tad confused. “What is this?”
“You’ll see.”
The screen filled with various broken and battered bits of the house—leaky taps, buckets catching drips, caution tape on the cellar door.
“Who put that there?”
“It’s for effect.”
“It’s a Halloween decoration.”
“Listen.”
The voice-over lowered in pitch. “After centuries as a great glory of England, Buckford Hall has run out of money. It’s up to one man to save it.”
It was like a boot to the solar plexus.
I appeared on screen in full armour, doing battle with Horatio Blunt.
“William Winters is the seventeenth Baron Buckford,” the voice-over said. “And he’ll do anything to save his family’s home. Literally anything. No matter how outrageous.”
What followed was a montage of the events of the weekend, with cameos from my mother, Aunty Karma, Bramley, and even Sir Edward. There was footage of Peggy dancing on the kitchen table, leading volunteers in a chorus of “Knees Up Mother Brown.”
I frowned at the angle and realised the footage had been taken from one of the fixed cameras in the ceiling.
“Are they still on?”
Petey looked sheepish. “I turned them back on. Only for the weekend. The footage was too incredible to lose.”
The air in the room turned cold.
“So, they didn’t know they were on camera?”
“Everyone signed a release form—”
“For the promotional video. Not for whatever this is.”
The video cut to Aunty Karma on the staircase with her arm around Derek, who was bawling his eyes out into her shoulder. I whacked the space bar on my computer so hard the video not only stopped, it cowered in the corner.
“That’s a private conversation,” I said. “A counselling session with an unwell man.” Petey’s eyes flicked away, unable to meet mine. “What have you done?”
He retreated to the end of the couch.
“What else is in this video?”
“Nothing! I’m sorry.”
But I could tell from his eyes he was lying. I restarted the video. The footage cut to me fighting with Petey’s father.
“Really? You put that in there?”
“William, I’m sorry.” His eyes were wet. “I know it was private, but… no one has ever stood up for me like that. You look amazing. Like a real hero.”
I crossed the room, steadying myself on the mantel.
“I was trying to make your father understand who you are. And you not only recorded it, you edited it into, into—oh my God, this is your pitch, isn’t it?”
On screen, the video was building to a crescendo. Me slaughtering Horatio Blunt, Edward’s Jag sinking into the lake, Peggy accepting rousing applause from the kitchen volunteers.
The voice-over continued: “Join the dashing Lord Buckford, and a cast of colourful characters, as he channels the fighting spirit of his ancestors to save his family home—penny by penny, brick by brick, battle by battle.”
The words Saving the Love Manor flashed up on the screen over footage of me in my armour, the wind lightly tickling my hair.
The screen went black.
I couldn’t speak.
It was easier to breathe at the bottom of a ruck than it was right now.
“Well, what do you think?” Petey asked, his voice small.
I turned to look at him.
“What do I think?” The words cracked. “You secretly filmed me. My family. Your family. The entire community. Everyone I care about. You recorded private conversations.” I pointed at the blank screen of the TV. “This is exactly what The Bulletin does. Violates privacy for entertainment.”
Petey’s face went white.
“That’s not… I’m not…”
“How is it any different?”
“Because I love you!” Petey was on his feet, his voice breaking. “I was trying to find a way for us to be together. This is it. If Indira goes for this, I can be here during filming. We can be together. This is me fighting for us, William.”
“If this is you fighting for us, what does you fighting against us look like? Volunteering the house as a nuclear testing sight? Ripping my heart out to make a casserole?”
“William—”
“You’ve violated everyone’s trust.”
“It’s just a pitch. None of this goes on TV. But I can take anything you want out of this edit. Anything anyone’s uncomfortable with. I’ll destroy the footage. I promise. No one will ever see it.”
It wasn’t enough.
“You can’t pitch this show. I can’t do this show.”
Petey’s face crumpled. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t want to live my life on camera. I don’t want to live in public.”
“But we’d have control. Don’t you see? We’d control the narrative. We’d have a PR team.”
“Why didn’t you ask me before you did all this?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“By making a major decision about my life without asking me?” Tears were streaming down Petey’s face.
“Please, don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m just… really disappointed.”
The words hung in the air. Petey’s face changed. His eyes shuttered. He dashed out of the room. I started to give chase, then stopped. He needed space. We both did. I stood there, feeling completely empty. My hands were shaking. I meant everything I’d said. But I still loved him.
I needed to clear my head. I needed Achilles.
Two hours later, my stallion was exhausted and I had calmed down.
Petey had made a mess of things, but at least he was trying—and he was trying for us.
I could see why he might think the show was a good idea.
It was a very Petey solution. I just wished he’d spoken to me about it first. I felt terrible about where we’d left things.
It was time to have a proper conversation.
I bounded up to the folly, but Petey wasn’t there.
I tried his bathroom, the East Drawing Room, the kitchen. Nothing.
“Can I help you, my lord,” Bramley asked, one hand up the arse of a dead pheasant.
“Have you seen Petey anywhere?”
“Mr Topham has returned to London, my lord.”
My stomach hollowed. “What?”
“He said he left you a note.”
I bolted upstairs to Father’s desk and bashed away at it, trying to get the mechanism to work.
“Bastard thing!” I shoved it but it wouldn’t open, so I kicked the desk—then fell to the floor, gripping my foot in agony.
My father’s voice drifted through my head: The drawer required gentle coaxing, you had to caress it.
I took three long breaths and tried again.
The drawer popped open. My hand shook as I extracted the note:
William,
You were right. I should have asked you before making you the centre of my pitch. I should have asked before turning on the cameras. I violated your trust. I am no better than the Bulletin. I am sorry.
I know I promised I wouldn’t disappear again but I can’t stay at Buckford knowing you’re disappointed in me. I’ve spent my whole life hearing that word from my parents. Hearing it from you was more than I could bear.
I’ve gone back to London. I don’t know what the future holds for us, William. But I know I love you. I’m sorry I let you down.
PB. xxx
A tear fell onto the paper, and the ink began to smear.
How could I have been so stupid? Petey had spent his whole life hearing I’m disappointed from his parents, and I’d said exactly the same thing. Now he was gone. I’d let him slip through my fingers.