Kissing Toads (17 page)

‘I don't look Scottish,' he objected, obviously attracted by the idea but determined not to show it. ‘They're all ginger and hairy.'

‘Not
all
of them. Anyway, Alasdair was frightfully handsome, so he can't have been. It'll be
perfect
. We'll look wonderful on screen together and it'll be fantastic PR for our wedding. I'll talk to Roo about it as soon as we get home.'

‘I can't leave Fenny.' Alex was evidently panicking at the notion of a real job, even one this glamorous, but I'd made up my mind.

‘You can bring him with you.' I was very nearly sure Elton and Sting wouldn't eat him.

‘I don't know . . . Will there be sex scenes?'

‘Not on a gardening programme. Even if there were, wouldn't you rather I did them with you than somebody else?'

To my annoyance, Alex didn't look convinced about that.

‘HG's going to be in it too,' I said. ‘He's playing the laird who planted the lost maze. You'll be his descendant.'

That did it. Alex's face lit up, though he took care to stay cool. ‘I suppose it might be fun . . .'

We'd been planning to drop in on Chinawhite later, but I wanted to see Roo and tell her my brainwave so we went straight home. Fenny raced three times round the room and leaped up and down like a fluffy yo-yo by way of greeting. He was adorable, especially when Roo confirmed that he'd peed on the newspaper and done a poo when she'd walked him round the mews, which she'd scooped up in a bag and popped in a bin. As we were saddled with a dog in London I was determined we were going to be environmental about it. Being in a gardening programme it's very important to be conscientious about all that eco stuff.

When I explained my idea I could tell she was pleased, though of course she couldn't commit herself without Crusty's say-so. ‘I'm not sure,' she temporised. ‘Alex may be a bit dark. I've seen a picture of Alasdair and he had light brown hair.'

‘Minor details,' I said largely. ‘The important thing is that Alex is stunning. I'll talk to Crusty myself.'

We opened a bottle of champagne in anticipation of success and drank to Alex's and my future as great lovers on the small screen. Then we drank to our wedding, to the bridesmaid, to Maddalena's designs – and somewhere towards the bottom of the bottle the second half of my brainwave kicked in.

‘Brie!' I cried. ‘We need someone to play the local girl Alasdair rejected. How about Brie de Meaux?'

It was a stroke of genius. Roo seemed unenthused – I didn't blame her; Brie isn't much of an actress – but the more I thought about my idea, the better I liked it. As I said to Roo, it wasn't a demanding role: all Brie had to do was stand around looking deserted. She would have few lines, if any (the spotlight would be on me) but we could call it a Special Guest Appearance, like Jordan on
Footballers' Wives
, and it would bring us an audience who normally got no further than Page 3. ‘She won't do it,' Roo said, but I knew she was wrong. Brie would never be able to resist the lure of Dunblair and HG, not to mention the chance to appear in a show that would be watched by millions and might give her public image some much-needed gravitarse. I'd be doing her a favour, which gave me a lovely warm benevolent feeling. (It also meant she'd owe me one, which could come in handy some time.) And it would provide me with the perfect opportunity to build bridges between her and Alex so she could walk up the aisle in my wake.

I telephoned Crusty on Sunday morning. Despite Roo's reservations, he went for it immediately.

‘Sounds like a good idea,' he said. ‘Won't be able to pay them much of a fee, though. Spent most of the budget on you! Still, if you think they'd be prepared to appear anyway – jump on board for the fun of the ride, you might say . . .'

‘Of course they will,' I said. Alex would come because of me, Brie because she pounced on every second of possible TV exposure in a panic that it might get away. ‘I'll talk to them now.'

Alex grumbled a bit, but only because of his ego.

‘Look, if you really don't fancy the idea, forget it,' I said as a clincher. ‘We'll find someone else. I know things like that don't matter to you, but most actors would be queuing up for the chance to stay with Hot God. Not to mention the possibility of a screen kiss with me.'

I know I wasn't being very subtle, but Alex is a man: subtlety tends to pass him by.

‘Suppose I should do it,' he said. ‘For your sake. Although I still think that a minimal fee isn't enough . . .'

‘No, no. If you're not keen it really isn't important. Roo says there's a guy from some fringe production at the Bush who'd be ideal – major sex appeal, definitely going places, just needs a few cameos to boost his career. Apparently he's half Scots too.'

Alex bristled. ‘I said I'd do it, okay? I simply feel the payment should, you know, reflect my talent and the level of my contribution.'

‘Artistically,' I said loftily and untruthfully, ‘mere money is irrelevant. It's participation that counts.'

I knew I'd won. Five minutes later, he was packing.

Brie made even more difficulties, but she's a celeb, in a D-list sort of way, so making difficulties is obligatory. Underneath, I knew she would never let slip an opportunity like this, and she knew that I knew, and I knew she knew I knew, but I was very, very diplomatic and took care not to show it.

She was in the middle of colonic irrigation when I called.

‘This is wonderful,' she declared. ‘Honestly, Delphi, you should try it. I feel, like, totally purified. I bet the ancient Romans had this.'

I'd asked Roo about Tiberius, and she'd confirmed that he was a bisexual sex maniac and cross-dresser with psychopathic tendencies and a taste for paedophilia on the side. Colonic irrigation didn't get a look-in.

‘I'm sure they did,' I said, and proceeded to explain my brainwave, keeping to myself the fact that it came from me and dangling it like an offhand carrot in front of a temperamental donkey.

‘Sounds quite fun,' Brie said nonchalantly. ‘But I'd want serious money. Like somebody or other once said, I don't put my clothes on for less than ten grand a day.'

In view of her career history, that remark was a bit ambidextrous, but I let it go.

‘That's what I told them,' I responded promptly. ‘I said, she'll never do it. The thing is, this whole historical re-enactment business has been put together at the last minute and there isn't much slack in the budget. After all, HG's appearing for nothing – he's so famous we could never afford to pay him anyway! Don't worry, I'll say you weren't interested. I promised to mention it to you, but . . .'

‘Hold on. I didn't say
definitely
 . . . I mean, it could be quite a laugh, really. The castle and Hot God and everything. I've got this film role coming up –' like hell – ‘but there are no dates yet, so I'm free for a bit. I suppose it's kind of like doing a charity thing. I
could
look at it that way.'

‘Absolutely,' I said. ‘You're doing your bit for the restoration of our national heritage.'

‘I haven't made up my mind yet.'

We faffed about for a bit longer, then Brie said she would consult her agent and get back to me. As I cut the call, I allowed myself a gleeful smirk. I knew she'd taken the bait. Everything was working out the way I'd planned . . .

(Who was it who kept saying that? Oh yes – the evil Emperor in
Star Wars
 . . .)

It was Easter Sunday, and I'd decided to take my egg to Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital. With any luck, someone would leak my generosity to the press. (I wouldn't do it myself: that would be crass.) I wasn't pleased when I discovered Alex had already started eating it. I couldn't present a ward full of sick children with a half-eaten Easter egg, and there were no shops open to buy a replacement. To annoy Alex, I spent much of the day training Fenny to get in touch with his inner Rottweiler, and respond to the command
kill!
by violently attacking a rubber ball.

Chapter 5:

Past Imperfect

I wasn't at all happy with the inclusion of Alex Russo and Brie de Meaux in the Dunblair project. Alex read the part well enough and looked impossibly handsome, in an extremely un-Gaelic way, but I knew he had the attention span of a delinquent child and an equally limited capacity for hard work – should any be required. As for Brie, she was a smart bimbo who'd capitalised on her looks to launch a precarious career, and was now established tabloid fodder. She probably couldn't act, which didn't matter much as very little was necessary for her role, but it meant another overgrown ego on the loose and we already had too many of those. I'd met her several times with Delphi, but as I was neither male nor well-known I had no claim on her interest and she had virtually ignored me. As we would be working together, not to mention fellow bridesmaids, she would presumably have to notice my existence, but I wasn't looking forward to it.

I confided some of my misgivings to Russell, who was philosophical. With a track record in makeover shows he was used to unpredictable behaviour and recurring disaster, and clearly took it in his stride. ‘First law of television,' he reminded me. ‘If it can go wrong, it will. Why worry?'

‘So you don't?' I said.

‘Never. The nervous twitch and palsied hands are just indications of years of inner calm.'

We got through the remaining auditions pretty briskly and I made travel arrangements for all and sundry and fixed up B&B accommodation in the village. On Tuesday, Delphi and I had another session with Maddalena Cascara, this time involving bolts of material and, worst of all, tape measures. I was appalled to see how large the measurements were for my waist and hips, though Delphi said comfortingly that they always held the tape loose. (Then she flipped when her waist came out at twenty-five.)

‘You have a good figure,' Maddalena assured me. ‘Womanly.'

Help! Who wants to be
womanly
nowadays? It's one step from matronly, and we all know what
that
means.

No wonder Kyle had married someone else.

By the time I flew back to Scotland on Saturday – alone since Russell was playing golf and Delphi wanted a weekend for her social life – I was back to gloom and depression. I hadn't arranged to be met, so I got an expensive taxi, and Morag welcomed me to the castle. If welcome was the word.

‘I hear ye've been in London,' she said darkly.

‘Yes,' I admitted, hoping this wouldn't incriminate me.

‘Sod 'em!'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Soddom!' she declared. ‘The city o' sin and corruption. May the Lord strike them down in the midst o' their wicked ways!'

‘It wasn't that much fun,' I murmured.

‘Give it a rest, Morag.' Harry walked in, patted her bottom with a chutzpah which took my breath, got away with it (she looked at once shocked, disapproving, and slightly tickled) and picked up my bag. ‘I'll take this. You look bushed. Bad journey?'

‘Bad everything,' I sighed. He was easy to talk to, and as we went upstairs I poured out some of my woes.

‘So the fair Delphinium is getting married,' he said. ‘What's he like, the lucky groom-to-be?'

‘A high-society rich kid,' I said. ‘Very good-looking, very charming, very sweet. He dabbles in various career options without really getting anywhere and likes to hang out with the stars. He hasn't needed rehab yet so I suppose you could say he's dependable. Shit, I don't mean to sound so . . . disparaging. He's okay, really. It's just—'

‘He's not up to her weight?' Harry supplied.

She isn't madly in love with him. But I couldn't say that.

‘Mm.'

‘How come you two are such friends? You're a nice girl, and Delphinium is a self-centred ego on legs. Pretty good legs, but doesn't she know it.'

‘Are butlers supposed to talk like this?' I retorted.

He grinned the irrepressible grin. ‘Probably not.'

‘There's a lot more to Delphi than that,' I told him. ‘Don't judge her on externals – underneath, she's a really loyal friend and a good person. We grew up together. My mother died and my dad used to leave me with the Dacres when he went away for work. Delphi's father ran off not long after. Everyone said he was an attractive rogue, but I thought he was a total bastard. Delphi adored him, but after he left he hardly even bothered to write to her.'

‘That,' said Harry, ‘explains a lot. She demands the adulation of all around her in an attempt to make up for it.'

‘She doesn't
demand adulation
,' I said indignantly. ‘She just enjoys being a star. Who wouldn't? And she's incredibly generous and loving to the people she cares for. You're just determined to dislike her.'

‘She's very lucky to have you,' Harry said. ‘I'd better get back to butlering. How about some tea, or do you want to have a zizz?'

‘Tea would be great,' I said.

‘Cedric's made some fabulous coffee cake . . .'

‘God, no. Not with my waistline.'

‘Don't be silly.'

That evening, I sat down to dinner with Crusty, Mortimer Sparrow and Nigel. Ash was eating in the Dirk and Sporran for local background and HG was out visiting some other celebrity who had a mansion within driving distance. Dorian was probably communing with the Internet: he wasn't a great one for sit-down dinners.

‘I'm off tomorrow,' Crusty told me. ‘After that, you're on your own. Keep the team together – don't be afraid to crack the whip. You're the one in charge. Call me if the manure starts to fly.'