I walk back to the house. With Luke off the premises, the fight has gone out of me. I apologise to John J and offer to make a pot of coffee. There’s coffee in the marquee, but the water is a little tepid, and the coffee is instant. He takes me up on it – which I’m glad of. I like the crew and I’m grateful that they’ve so far treated my house and me with respect.
As I go into the kitchen, I find Phillipa King sitting at the kitchen table, writing something in a small notebook. Before I can decide whether or not to get on with disturbing the muse at work, she looks up at me and smiles.
‘Lizzie,’ she says, ‘sorry – do you mind my sitting here? I needed a quiet moment. It’s so hectic around here.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s no trouble.’ I’m relieved that although she set her book here, she’s not acting like she owns the place. Also, if she’s heard about my altercation with Luke, she’s too polite to let on. ‘If you want somewhere really quiet, you can go upstairs – to my son’s room maybe. They aren’t using that for any filming.’ I’m surprised at myself for making the offer.
‘Thank you, Lizzie, that’s kind – and I may take you up on it. I’m used to working in peace and quiet. I haven’t done a screenplay before, and I’m finding it a little tricky, to be honest.’ Her eyes widen in mock distress. ‘The leading man isn’t happy with his bedroom dialogue. What will I do?’
I laugh. ‘I’m sure Dominic would be happy to rehearse whatever you end up writing.’
She laughs too – a merry but still dignified sound. ‘Ah, so the rumours are true. But I fear that I’m probably far too old for him.’
‘I thought I was too!’ I grin. Now that we’re on our own, I find myself warming to her. I go over to the coffee machine and start making a fresh pot.
‘I’m so glad you’re here, Lizzie,’ she says. ‘I mean, I was a little daunted by the idea of all the stars, and the crew. I know it’s my book and it’s very exciting, but I still feel like a bit of an outsider.’
‘Really,’ I say, unable to hide my surprise. ‘I feel like an outsider too. But they’ve all been very nice so far,’ I reassure her. ‘Everyone except—’ I catch myself. The kiss, the smile… Luke and Pippa; Pippa and Luke.
She glances at me like she can read my mind. ‘Don’t tell me… Luke’s been giving you trouble – is that it? Shame on him.’
Something in the way she says it makes me bristle. The self-assurance, the possession. But I’m determined to take a charitable view of her. At the end of the day, the fact that her book is being filmed at my house is a godsend. Phillipa King is helping me to save Tanglewild. For that alone, she deserves a chance.
‘You and he are old friends?’ I say, hoping she’ll elaborate.
‘Yes. We go way back.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘We knew each other when we were kids. I suppose you could say that he was my first real love.’
‘Really?’ I try to sound neutral. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘Oh, it was donkey’s years ago. He was what? Fifteen maybe? It was so long ago. But it was…’ she pauses, choosing her words, ‘instrumental in my life. We’ve encountered each other off and on since then. I was married; he was married. Never the twain shall meet, if you like.’
‘Yeah.’ I pour the coffee into the filter. ‘I understand.’
‘But who knows? Maybe this time the planets will finally be aligned.’ She smiles, her teeth small and straight. And I want to be happy for her – and Luke, goddamn him.
‘That’s… good.’
‘Yes, well…’ She scribbles something down in her notebook. I worry that maybe I’m disturbing her after all. But then she looks up at me again. ‘Theo told me how you came to own the house,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I was interested.’
‘No, I don’t mind. As he probably told you, we bought the house about eight years ago. I’m kind of ashamed to say that I know very little about its history. I did go to the museum, though. I saw the story about the smugglers and the woman – Veronica Jones?’
‘Yes,’ Phillipa says. ‘I used it for one of the subplots. They never did find her body, you know.’
The room suddenly feels chilly. ‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘Oh, I’m sure the husband probably did her in. The simplest explanation is usually the right one.’
‘It’s sad,’ I say. ‘But you’re probably right.’
‘Obviously, though, I had to change the ending. I couldn’t have the hero as the murderer. People expect a happy ending – both on the page and in real life. In my genre, no one wants to know the truth.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘Romance novels are about escape,’ she says. ‘Escape from the mundane, from the pain – and the little annoyances – of everyday life. I’m like an abstract impressionist who tries to paint a beautiful view, embellishing reality until it no longer is reality. Catching a dream and putting it down on paper.’
I nod, thinking of how unwittingly involved in Victoria’s story I’ve become. How glad I am to know in the back of my mind that despite the twists and turns in the plot, she’ll have a happy ending. Unlike real life, where twists and turns are all too painful and real.
‘Did you always want to be a writer?’ I ask her.
‘I suppose I did.’ And as the coffee machine burbles in the background, she tells me more about herself and her inspirations – the romantic suspense novels she read when she was young, and how much she loved Tanglewild when she stayed here as a teenager. How she’d set some of her earlier novels in more usual places like Cornwall and the Scottish Highlands. But she always knew that one day, she’d set a book at Tanglewild.
As I finish making the coffee, she asks me about myself. At first I feel a little daunted – like she couldn’t possibly be interested. She asks me questions about my job and the children, and I find myself telling her briefly about Dave, and about my struggle to get back on my feet after his death. I tell her how the film project has truly been a blessing, and even mention the idea of turning the house into a B&B.
‘That would be wonderful!’ she enthuses. ‘I’m sure it would be very successful. And such fun.’
‘Yes,’ I say, buoyed by her reaction. ‘I think it would be.’
We keep talking, have another coffee. She tells me about her two marriages, and two divorces, and how she’s struggled with depression. And whether her books are Booker Prize material or 3 for 2 at an airport WHSmith, I find myself empathising with the ups and downs that she’s suffered in her life. I’m also a little bit spellbound by her passion and her drive to succeed. Part of me wants to hate her – for turning the men in the room into a pack of feral dogs, bringing a smile to the face of Luke Thornton, and making Theo hero-worship her. But I find myself taking pleasure in her company and the fact that she’s so much more down-to-earth than I expected. She’s charismatic and easy to talk to, but it’s more than that. It’s the feeling I get that, for Phillipa King, finding a kindred spirit is as important to her as it is to me.
*
Eventually, I tear myself away. John J’s coffee is long cold and I’ve forgotten how he takes it. Worse, in between my encounter with Dominic Kennedy, smacking Luke in the face, and hobnobbing with a famous author, I’ve completely neglected the fact that, technically, I’m supposed to be working.
I have just enough time to go back up to the guest room and check my emails (thirty-six new in the last two hours). I have three missed calls from Harry, and one missed call from Theo.
I can’t face speaking to either of them, but I decide to text Theo. Yes, he acted a little starstruck today around his mentor, but then again, so did all the others. I type in:
Had a great time the other night. L.
As I press send, I wonder if I’m just being polite; going through the motions. Maybe I’m not ready for a relationship. Or maybe Theo’s not the right one. Either way, I decide I’d better call Harry back. Because ultimately, when the film people leave, I’ll be back to square one. Until I can get the B&B up and running, I need a job – and I have a job. The Lady’s Secret is pure fantasy, none of it is real.
Harry’s PA puts me through to him, and I spend several minutes assuring him that, under normal circumstances, of course I usually answer emails within the hour – a ten-minute interval, even. I tell him that things have been a little bit crazy (and to my infinite shame, make up a phantom case of chickenpox for Jack that is taking all my time and energy), but that all my work is under control. I say that I’m SO looking forward to The Lawyer Awards and am flattered to have a place at the firm table. By the time I hang up, I feel utterly sick from the lies and platitudes. With all the turmoil and excitement going on here, real life can’t compete.
Unfortunately, it’s real life that pays the bills.
I spend the rest of the afternoon working until it’s time to pick up the kids. When I go downstairs to the main hall, I discover that the workmen have cleared out the painting equipment, and laid the rubber floor. The room is dazzling with the walls and ceiling freshly painted. The dark panelling has been cleaned and smells of linseed oil, the fireplace has been laid with a huge bank of wood and twigs. I can picture the Lady of the Manor walking through the house on the day it was completed 400 years ago.
The drawing room facing the lake and the library have all been similarly transformed. It’s amazing, but also a little disconcerting. I feel a heightened sense of responsibility towards this new Tanglewild. If – when – I do turn it into a B&B, this is the house that I want my guests to see. But I also want my children to be happy in their home. I don’t have all the answers yet, but as I walk through the rooms seeing them with new eyes, I feel a new sense of energy and possibility. Two months ago, at the estate agents, I’d wished for my own home to become a blank canvas for the future. And here it is, right before me. It’s even better than I could have dreamed.
*
The house may look brilliant inside, but the chaos has spread outside. When I go out to my car, there’s a commotion as all three Johns are trying to help guide the lorry with the cameras and electronic equipment through the narrow lane past the garage and into the field behind. I feel a little pang of guilt – it would have been easier if Connie had moved the caravan, but luckily, just as I’m standing there debating whether to offer, the lorry makes an almighty lurch, taking out a few bricks, but getting past.
John J comes over to me and assures me they will replace the bricks, and I assure him that it’s fine. He also, however, recites a litany of other issues that have cropped up. A neighbour has complained about the traffic on the lane, someone let the dog out and she ate a plate of biscuits in the tent, the TV aerial is going to have to come down, they need to get a digger for the dock excavations…
I give him free rein to do whatever is necessary to sort everything. My life already feels like it’s been turned upside down, so a few issues more or less are just par for the course. I leave to get the children from school and to drop Katie’s friend Flora off at home. Now that I’m not doing the collection every day, it’s rather a novelty. I’m thankful that Connie has been true to her word and done the school run on days I’m working, still alternating with Hannah. In fact, the two of them, both being grandmas, have become a bit too close for comfort. I know that Connie’s gone out with ‘the girls’ from Hannah’s work a few times – something I never did. I’m not vain enough to think that the two of them are standing around with their G&Ts gossiping about me the whole time, but I have a sneaking suspicion that information is being exchanged.
Slightly more worrying, however, is what the kids might or might not be getting up to after school while I’m at work. To her credit, Connie’s been pretty strict so far on Katie’s homework (whereas I tended to be too lax), and Jack’s potty training still seems to be on track. But when the film people arrived in force, I asked Connie to leave the kids in afterschool club or take them to the library or the park until six o’clock when the crew leaves. I don’t want the children to get in the way, break something, get hurt, or otherwise be a bother.
But I know that she’s been bringing them back here because all Katie can talk about in the car is how Chloe, one of the costume crew, allowed her into the trailer to see the costumes, and even try some things on. As soon as I pull the car into the garage, she runs off to try to find her again. I call out after her that she can’t be disturbing the crew at work, but she’s long gone.
I get Jack out of his car seat, determined just to go with the flow and stop worrying about everything. If the kids are in the way, I’m sure someone will tell me. Still, I wish I was here more often so that I could keep a closer eye on things.
The men begin unloading the cables, dollies, and large black cases that I assume contain cameras, lights and sound equipment. All the hubbub seems to worry Jack, and as we get out of the car, he clings to my leg.
‘It’s OK,’ I say, leading him by the hand. ‘They’re moving in cameras and stuff.’
‘Why?’
‘So they can catch Superman on film when he gets here.’
‘Really?’ His little face is so earnest that I instantly regret lying. But at least it calms him down. I take him into the marquee to get him a snack from the food table. We’ve been told that we can help ourselves to the spread – plates full of biscuits, croissants and protein bars; bowls of fruit, platters of sandwiches. There are at least a dozen people inside going about various tasks – from typing out call sheets, to setting up monitors, to cleaning camera lenses. I spot two of the neighbours at the food table chatting to Annie and a few of the other assistants. I’m relieved that John J must have sorted them out with a bribe of tepid coffee and biscuits. As I’m about to go over to them, Jack pulls on my trouser leg.
‘Where’s Luke?’ he says.
I look down at him, stunned. ‘What’s that?’
‘He said we could kick a ball again.’
‘Again?’ My voice rises unnaturally. ‘Are you saying that Luke—’
‘Jack?’
At the sound of the voice from outside, Jack runs out the door of the tent.
‘Sorry I’m late, fella. Where’s your grandma?’
I detour to the door of the tent. Outside on the lawn, Luke Thornton is bent down level with Jack. He’s holding a small soccer ball. He puts it down at Jack’s feet and straightens up, raking back his unruly blond hair.
I stand there staring, feeling a pulsing wave of anxiety going through me.
Luke turns and catches sight of me. For an instant he looks like a deer in the headlights. ‘Oh. Lizzie. I thought Connie was here. Um, we were just…’
‘Come on!’ Jack picks up the ball and throws it at Luke.
‘Hey, mate, no handball, remember?’ Luke passes it to him, gently with his foot. Jack kicks it back, hard and high, straight at Luke’s face. The ball smacks him in the forehead.
I gasp.
‘Great!’ Luke says, a little shakily. ‘But pass to the feet, OK?’
‘OK!’ he yells excitedly.
‘Over here!’ John C calls to Jack for the ball. My son makes a feeble attempt to kick it to him. A few of the other assistants come out of the tent to join the game.
I can feel unwanted tears burbling up inside of me like an underground spring as I watch my son running around on the lawn, laughing and happy.