The next few days are chaos as I try to get things sorted for the film crew’s visit. I make a list of tasks – from replacing light bulbs, to polishing the woodwork, to moving the kid’s trampoline out of the sight line of the house. Things that might improve the film team’s first impression. I add move caravan to the list but scribble it out again. By helping out with the kids and the list of odd jobs, Connie and Simon are helping me save my home. I’m not going to make them move theirs. The good thing about the visit is that it’s scheduled for a Wednesday, which is my day off. So at least I don’t have to skive off work.
On the morning of the visit, Connie takes the kids to school. (To their delight, the caravan is hooked up to get some air in the tyres, so although they can’t ride in the back, it gets to come along). Simon uses my car to haul some old junk to the tip. I spend the morning dusting cobwebs, hoovering up dog hair, and doing a final tidy-up. We may succeed or we may fail, but we’ve tried our best.
Theo had texted me that the crew would arrive at two o’clock. At half one, I turn the heating on, at ten minutes to two, I go outside and put the dog in her run. At a quarter past two, there’s still no sign of them. I pace the floor of the hall that I mopped earlier, and now smells of lemon. I could make a cup of tea, clean something else, try to calm down—
A text pings on my phone. This is it then. My heart sinks. They’re cancelling… I bite my lip and force myself to open the message. It is indeed from Theo.
Sorry, stopped off at a pub for lunch. See you around 3?
I text back:
Fine
I’m annoyed with them and ashamed of myself for being so available. I guess because they’re in the film industry, they feel that they’re important and the rest of us will dance to their tune. And in this case, they’re right. I give Hannah a quick ring and ask if she can pick up the kids – it’s supposed to be my day. She’s working so she can’t. I’ve no choice, therefore, but to ask Connie.
The caravan has been returned to the drive in all its silver glory, and the Defender is there too so I know someone’s home. I knock on the door and wait for her to answer. I stand outside, shivering, as it takes her well over a minute to open up. I’ve clearly interrupted her in the middle of something, because there are papers scattered all over the fold-down table, and the Apple logo of her laptop is lit up.
‘Sorry to disturb you.’ I launch into an account of the film people’s lateness, along with a plea to pick up the children. Luckily, though, it seems I’ve caught her in a good mood.
‘Sure, no problem. I’ll take them to the park.’
‘OK thanks.’ I turn to leave.
‘Lizzie.’ Connie stops me.
‘Yes?’
‘Relax. You’re a wreck.’
‘Thanks, Connie,’ I say through my teeth.
As I walk back to the house, I try taking deep breaths. It doesn’t work. I can’t relax. I tidy the kitchen for the fifth time, checking my phone periodically to make sure there are no new texts. There aren’t.
I check my watch. I’ve killed fifteen minutes. I go upstairs to Katie’s room – which does nothing to improve my mood. Although I begged her last night to tidy it up, she hasn’t lifted a finger – or any of the knickers, socks, pens, books, crisp packets or pieces of balled-up paper that make her room look like the cage of a bored zoo animal. I sink against the door frame. Why is my daughter genetically incapable of putting anything in its place? I take the pink princess laundry basket (empty except for a clean pair of jeans and a top she wore at the weekend for about five minutes) and start blitzing the room.
I dig under the bed, down the side of the bed, behind the radiator. I find knickers and socks; a school blouse shoved behind the dresser; a trainer that’s been missing on the bookshelf. When I can’t take it anymore, I tackle Jack’s room, finding that he knows the difference between wet and dry, at least to the extent it takes to put a pair of wee-soaked pants under his pillow. I heft the laundry basket and move on to my own room. The film people may have time for a nice long boozy pub lunch, but some of us have things to do. Like laundry. I’ve already wasted my whole day preparing for them, and they can’t even show up on time?
I throw my laundry in with the rest. There are mum-bras – shapeless with no underwire – and high-waisted pants. It’s not like anyone cares if I’m dressed for comfort, or run around wearing nothing at all. I used to have fancy matching bras and knickers back in the day. I should find them and flog them on eBay.
The basket is overflowing as I go down the stairs. The aged washer/dryer does little more than wash and spin round the wet clothes, so this lot will probably take—
The doorbell rings. My thoughts fly away. I stagger over to the door, trying to free a hand. This is it, my one big chance…
I manage to pull the door open. Standing there in front of me is Luke Thornton, big-shot Hollywood director.
‘Oh, hi,’ I say, completely flustered. A mum bra and pair of pants fall off the top of the laundry pile and land at his feet. He looks down. I look down. Then he looks up at me. I’m so embarrassed that I feel like my face is on fire.
‘Sorry we’re late.’ Theo steps forward like a knight-in-Puffa jacket and skilfully clears the bra and pants with his smart leather shoe. I’m so grateful (and glad that he’s here) that I feel like hugging him. Behind him and Luke there are four other people standing at my door.
‘Uhh… no problem.’ I try to bend over to get the errant laundry. The whole top of the pile falls to the floor, wee-soaked pants and all. ‘No problem at all.’
He steps past me and the laundry. Luke Thornton is next, his nose twitching like there’s a bad smell. He’s taller and thinner than Theo, wearing jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt and a suede jacket. He takes no further notice of me as he walks into my house.
For some irrational reason, I feel little bubbles of anger form in my chest. I know from Theo’s first message that Luke Thornton was the one who rejected my house and wanted to go with the other location. I guess he’s used to people swanning around, kowtowing to his every whim. How disappointing this must be for him if he’d been set on making his precious film somewhere else.
The others trip in behind him. There’s a middle-aged woman with big orange hair, and a petite blonde woman who, despite my effort to heat the house, pulls her woolly scarf more tightly around her neck as she enters. There’s a bearded man in a bobble hat and sandals with socks. The last man is bald with pasty slug-like skin. He’s wearing small wire-rimmed glasses, and a black turtle-neck and jeans. If Lord Voldemort worked in the film industry, this could be him.
When they’re all inside, Theo makes some introductions. Voldemort is Richard Silverman, the producer, Bobble Hat is John C, the location manager. The two women are Claire and Phoebe in charge of properties and set design, or maybe the other way around. The names exit my brain as quickly as they arrive. I hate the way that I’m feeling intimidated by having these people in my home. I’m powerless to influence their decision, and don’t even know the criteria they’ll be using to decide. Luke and Theo wander into the kitchen, and the two women and Bobble Hat chat amongst each other convivially in the great hall. It doesn’t take long to get the gist – it’s way too small for their set-up, the modern radiators, the antiquated electrics, the configuration of the windows – all these things are a problem. And the track lighting under the minstrel gallery – well… Voldemort aka Richard, standing somewhat apart from the others, glares at me like it’s my fault and he’s about to invoke cruciatus.
I pick up the laundry and stand awkwardly in the corner of the hall. I’m wondering if I should leave the room so they can talk more freely (not that my presence seems to be putting them off), when Bobble Hat asks to see the drawing room on the lake side. ‘It’s this way,’ I say with a smile, thrilled to finally be of use.
He even rewards me with a ‘nice house’, mumbled under his breath.
I stay in the room with him, scurrying around tidying TV remotes and sofa cushions. Most of the back of the room is covered with shelves full of toys, so it’s just as well that the rest of the team doesn’t bother to come in.
Eventually, Theo finds me again. ‘I tried to fight your corner,’ he says. His accent is homely and comforting. ‘I think the house is perfect. And you seemed to really want this.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, both flustered and pleased that he thought of me. ‘It sounds like such a fun project.’
‘It should be. But the schedule is getting tight now. It will be good to get the details sorted.’
‘What happened with the other location?’ I’m almost afraid to ask.
‘Well…’ As Theo hesitates for a second, Luke Thornton comes into the room. Maybe he’s stressed about the schedule, or maybe he’s still pissed off about the other location falling through. Either way, I feel like an icy wind has found its way in through a crack in the walls.
‘Theo,’ he says, ‘I need to go now.’ He lifts his arm and glances down at an expensive gold watch. ‘The Tate Modern reception is tonight.’
‘Of course,’ Theo says like he’s addressing a deity.
I feel the anger rising again as Luke stares at me for a second, like I’m a piece of furniture that doesn’t belong in the room. Then he turns and walks out.
‘Sorry,’ Theo says, sounding a little embarrassed, ‘looks like we’re going.’
‘But you just got here!’ I say. ‘Don’t they want to see the rest of the house – or the dovecote – I can get the key right now.’
‘I guess not. Sorry.’
My breath shortens in panic. This is not going to plan, and I have no idea why. I’ve spent days preparing for the visit, and before that, riding a roller coaster of hope and disappointment. And now, it’s all slipping away. I can’t let that happen.
Leaving Theo to follow me, I go out of the drawing room back to the hall where the group is still assembled. I stand at the edge of the group and try to feign an air of confidence. ‘Thank you for coming to my home,’ I say, keeping my voice even.
A few of them turn, looking startled, like I’m a rusty suit of armour that’s suddenly come to life.
‘I’d be very happy to welcome you here for your project, provided…’ I stare at Luke Thornton, then turn to the next person like he’s beneath my notice ‘…we can come to adequate arrangements.’ I walk across the huge expanse of floor towards the front door, pausing only to turn briefly to Theo. ‘I look forward to hearing from you in due course.’
Theo gives me a surreptitious little thumbs up like I’ve done the right thing in asserting myself – showing that I’m interested but am not going to be a doormat. I turn the heavy iron latch, and hold the front door open for them.
‘Goodbye,’ I say in my best ‘you-are-the-weakest-link’ voice. As they file past me one by one, the ice seems to have melted a little.
‘Thank you for showing us your home,’ the orange-haired woman says.
‘Yes,’ the blonde woman echoes. ‘It seems like a very special place – good energy.’
Bobble Hat gives me a pleasant ‘cheerio’; Voldemort doesn’t speak, but his lips curl back in a rictus smile and he inclines his head as he passes me.
The last to leave is Luke Thornton. As I’m about to shut the door, he stops and turns to me, his brow creased in a frown. ‘The author is quite taken with your house,’ he says, a hint of northern accent coming through.
‘The author?’ I gape at him. ‘Phillipa King saw the photos?’
‘She’s been… involved,’ he says coolly. ‘Which is usually a recipe for disaster. But for now, at least, it looks like you’ve got friends in high places.’
As I’m trying to process this new information that’s come completely out of the blue, he turns and walks up the stone path to the gate. I close the door and lean against it, emotions churning inside me. I’m annoyed with the way I’ve been taken for granted, and yet, delighted that whatever this lot thinks may not matter. Because, totally unbeknownst to me, I’ve acquired a new ally. Phillipa King, international bestselling author. Who on earth would have thought?