Chapter Four

There’s nothing that Alice and I love more than a party. They’ve always been rather sophisticated soirées, if I do say so myself. We were trained up by our mum, who was always trying to encourage our gruff father to re-invent himself as a social animal. It was a fruitless task, so instead she poured her gregarious streak into us. We made our hostessing debut at five, when she threw us an elaborate fancy dress birthday party. We came as our favourite ‘Grange Hill’ characters, Roland and Janet, which led to a full-scale fight over who got to wear Roland’s thick black glasses. For our tenth birthday, Mum baked us a Battenberg replica of Ramsay Street, complete with tiny marzipan Kylie and Jason figures. Little did we know that it would be our last birthday with her, but her devotion to the cause of entertainment lives on through us.

‘We’ve got to have a theme, Lulu. It’ll give it purpose.’

Alice is making us a round of toasted sandwiches while we try to nail down the plan for our house-warming. I do love hot, melted cheese for breakfast. Another reason why Charles and I are perfect for each other. Put him out of your mind, Lulu, for the love of God.

‘But it might be more relaxing for people to feel they can just come and chill out. We don’t have to make it some kind of social assault course.’

‘I’m not saying it should be,’ says Alice irritably. ‘I just want to make it feel like an event.’

That’s when it suddenly hits me.

‘Valentine’s Day is a Friday this year. We can do pink cocktails and have heart-shaped fairy lights. It’ll feel like it’s got a theme without everyone having to hire Elvis costumes or come as tropical fruits.’

‘Maybe,’ says Alice, mulling it over. ‘Though I don’t want it to be all icky.’

‘I’m not saying it should…’

‘At least it’d give us an excuse to invite someone for Rufus,’ she continues. ‘There’s this teaching assistant at school who seems really, really obsessed by Facebook.’

‘He thinks Facebook’s for total losers. Besides, I think we should start accepting the fact that he’s gay. Him and Nigel are probably at it like rabbits.’

‘If he was gay, why wouldn’t he tell us?’ says Alice, flipping the sandwiches out of the machine. ‘It’s not like we’re Texan bible bashers.’

My mind flits momentarily to the sexy but aggravating policeman I promised I’d make the Highway Code my bible. He’d be great eye candy for the party, but I don’t think 999 was invented for quite this kind of emergency.

‘I’ll invite Gareth. His gaydar’s supersonic. I don’t know why MI5 haven’t recruited him yet.’

Gareth is my and Zelda’s dresser: the poshest, gayest man you could ever imagine. If you ask him which knife you should use to eat trout or where best to score GHB in Soho on a Friday night, he’ll answer either enquiry with complete confidence.

‘Maybe because homosexuality’s been legal for more than forty years?’

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ I say. ‘What about us though? It’s going to be kind of grim if everyone’s completely loved up and we’re like a couple of dried-up old maiden aunts.’

‘Maybe we should invite some of the neighbours for company,’ says Alice, biting into her oozing toastie. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, smiling slyly, ‘it’s not as bleak as all that.’

Has she divined my feelings for Charles? I’m trying so hard to squash them down before shooting starts next Monday and I’m forced to see him again. The fact I haven’t heard from him since Cheese-gate has convinced me that he must be married and I’m nothing but an unhinged fantasist.

‘What do you mean?’ I ask her anxiously.

‘I’ve got a certain sizzle going on in the off-licence,’ says Alice, looking coy.

‘What, that lanky bloke who owns it? That explains why you left me on trauma detail with Jenna all that time.’

He’s certainly not unattractive – youngish and personable, with a real passion for what he does – but Alice’s taste is so uniformly flawed that alarm bells immediately start pealing in my head.

‘He’s really funny, Lulu. There’s a definite zing. He carried a box of wine round for me the other day when you were stuck at work and we were chatting for ages.’

‘Well, if we get the wine from him we’ve got the perfect excuse to invite him,’ I say encouragingly, determined to believe the best until proven otherwise.

‘But if he’s got a girlfriend tucked away in the cellar it could be totally humiliating,’ says Alice, and I think welcome to the next three months of my life. ‘I’d never be able to go in there again.’

Maybe that’s what I should do: throw a sickie for the next three months. Then I remember that Zelda’s genuinely sick and feel instantly guilty. She lives to work, and I know the fact that the job’s kicking off without her will frustrate her beyond measure.

Determined to keep Zelda feeling as involved as possible, I have roped Gareth into a trip round to her house for a pre-shoot debrief. I want her to feel like she’s still at the helm, not least because it might encourage her to come back on board. Besides, if I could hide behind her I could maintain an alluring and mysterious distance from Charles.

‘Why so mute?’ asks Gareth, who’s in charge of driving the van. There’s no way I’m risking anything bigger than a Cinquecento after my brush with the law, particularly on such a foul February day.

‘Oh, nothing… or maybe everything,’ I say, smiling ruefully. I consider telling him about Charles, but I’m stymied by how pathetic it sounds.

‘She will be all right, you know, she’s as tough as old boots. She’s like Granny Gareth.’ Gareth has a bizarre habit of characterizing his multifarious relations as though they’re extensions of himself. ‘She virtually contracted consumption because Mummy Gareth refused to turn on the heating at The Friars. There’d be full-scale fisticuffs over the thermostat. The doctors gave her a matter of weeks, but she was so determined to spite Mummy Gareth that she outlived her by a decade. There she was at the millennium, resplendent in her chair, cackling away.’

Gareth’s stories about his psychotic relatives never fail to entertain. Indeed, the tale of how his father built a palatial kennel complex for his gun dog, Brutus, while the East Wing of The Friars collapsed around the family’s ears keeps me distracted for the rest of the journey. We race from the van, laden with clothes, rain bucketing down. Zelda flings open the door, clad in a bizarre velvet turban, and immediately starts trying to ply us with hot toddies.

‘We can’t drink like you, Zelda,’ I protest. ‘We’ve got lily-livered livers, not like you baby boomers.’

I can hear myself talking up her stamina in an attempt to will her back to health. She dodges any attempts to broach the subject, fiercely focused on the costumes we’ve brought. She fingers the fabric of Charles’s frock coat, looking distinctly unimpressed.

‘I wouldn’t have given this house room fifteen years ago.’

‘I know,’ I say pleadingly. ‘But times are tough. We’re working our arses off to make the money stretch.’

I look to Gareth, silently appealing for support. Zelda’s much more prone to sharpness with me, and I know how much she trusts his taste. He can always be relied on to be dressed top to toe in this season’s hottest pieces, although it does mean he’s often dressed in styles more suited to a younger man. Needs must: in the style-obsessed hinterland of gay clubbing it pays to knock a few years off. He grabs her hand.

‘Oh, Zelda, the man’s a fox. He’ll be able to carry anything off with aplomb. I could barely tear my eyes away when we met.’

I ran the coat up from Charles’s measurements and forced Gareth to do the final fitting. Since then I’ve been studiously avoiding any chat about him, knowing my tendency to blush would get me busted. And who knows how Gareth would react? He’s got an acidic streak and the potential for on-set humiliation is uncomfortably high.

‘Is he?’ says Zelda, turning to me. ‘From the little I’ve seen of him he strikes me as rather weak chinned.’

I’m squirming now, desperate to manufacture a casual nonchalance I don’t possess.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ I say, sounding like a sullen teenager. ‘If you like that kind of thing.’

‘If he doesn’t have charisma, he’s simply not going to cut it,’ snaps Zelda. ‘The whole thing will look tawdry and we’ll all be damned.’

‘Zelda, he’s gorgeous,’ I say, emotion bursting forth. ‘Even better, he’s quirky gorgeous, not all sculpted and vain. He’ll light up the screen and no one will notice any of the compromises.’ I’m shaking now, professional and personal pressure hammering down hard.

‘OK, Lulu, simmer down,’ says Zelda. ‘I know you’ll do a marvellous job. I just wish this business hadn’t been taken over by penny-pinching charlatans.’ Gareth is looking askance, but I stubbornly refuse to meet his gaze. ‘Talk me through your plans for the sea rescue,’ prompts Zelda.

This is Charles’s great moment of heroism. In episodes one to three Lord Percival Lambert fights his feelings for his sister’s comely maid, Bertha, despite their unwarranted attraction to one another. He’s engaged to a haughty aristo who is deemed a perfect match. But when Bertha gets into difficulties while she’s swimming, he races into the water, risking his life in a desperate attempt to rescue her. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation follows and the floodgates of lust burst forth. Cue another ten episodes of breast beating, duelling and galloping hooves as Percy veers between love and duty – although if the horse budget is anything like the costume budget they’ll probably be trying to lure piebald New Forest ponies into the back of the catering van.

‘We need just the right degree of cling,’ I tell Zelda, digging out my sketches.

‘I bet he’s got an enormous todger,’ says Gareth dreamily.

‘Why do you say that?’ I demand, forgetting to self-censor.

‘Oh, you can just tell,’ he says airily. ‘He’s got the confidence of a man who knows he’s well hung.’

‘Gareth, behave yourself,’ admonishes Zelda. ‘It’s impossible to do your job properly if you’re leading from the crotch. Did I ever tell you about my tête-à-tête with Peter O’Toole?’

‘Yes, Zelda,’ we chorus, knowing that her trips down memory lane can last an aeon. I carry on quickly, cutting her off at the pass.

‘I’m going to run up some duplicate breeches in something that’ll tighten up in the water. Maybe something with a bit of Lycra.’

‘They’ll be like cycling shorts by the time we’re finished,’ says Gareth, clapping excitedly.

‘Fine,’ says Zelda. ‘It’s his key scene, don’t forget. This is the point where we should all fall in love with him.’ Too late, I think, and then chastise myself for being ridiculous. We talk Zelda through our plans for the rest of the leads, earning her grudging approval. I try not to be exasperated by her faint praise, aware of how hard it is for a person as driven as her to be relegated to the subs bench. Work complete, I risk a tentative enquiry.

‘So do you think you’ll be back on side soonish?’

‘Oh, undoubtedly,’ she says. ‘These stupid doctors insist I need longer to rest, but they’re professional neurotics.’

‘How did the tests go?’ asks Gareth. ‘Have they found anything to give them cause for concern?’

‘It’s inconclusive,’ says Zelda dismissively, standing up. ‘Now surely the troops need sustenance?’

She turns her back on us, shoving a selection of M&S packets into the Aga. This is so un-Zelda – she’s the culinary queen – but there’s nothing I can say which won’t sound ungracious. She turns back, looking at me searchingly.

‘How’s the heart, Lulu? I do hope you’re not still pining for that idiot boy.’

‘I’m not, I promise,’ I tell her, which is true. Instead I’m pining for someone most likely married. Doh! If Gareth wasn’t here, I might tell her the whole sorry tale; despite her flinty moments, Zelda is someone who cares deeply about those she loves. But the work aspect means that I cannot afford to give it any oxygen whatsoever. ‘My heart’s a barren wasteland,’ I tell her, ‘but maybe our Valentine’s party will change everything.’

I tell them all about it, explaining that its partial purpose is getting Gareth to scrutinize Rufus.

‘Do you really think he’s gay?’ asks Gareth. ‘Why wouldn’t he share? Is your dad some kind of prejudiced Victorian patriarch?’

I wonder how Dad would react if Rufus was gay. Or if I was gay. Or if Alice was into bestiality. He’s so remote that it’s difficult to tell. When Mum died, he became more distant than ever, handing us over to the care of a series of au pairs. We pretty much looked after ourselves, with Alice taking command of whichever mousy Swede was nominally in charge. Dad was always at university, jiggling test tubes or firing up Bunsen burners or whatever it is that chemistry professors do. After a respectable two years he introduced us to our stepmother-to-be, the youngish sister of one of his colleagues. Julia’s perfectly nice, but she’s no Mum, and nor did she ever try to be. Me and Alice were such a unit by the time she pitched up – insolent pre-teens with too much to prove – and she never attempted to go head to head. Instead she popped out Rufus and our higgledy-piggledy family limped on like two separate battalions in a single barracks. It was only once we hit our twenties and got over ourselves that we were won over by Rufus’s toothy charm. Dad’s taken a fellowship in Boston so we’re allowed to enjoy Rufus without having to take him or Julia into account. He’s coming home for a conference soon, a prospect I feel stupidly nervous about.

‘Dunno,’ I say. ‘What might the clues be?’

‘Oh, don’t be so facetious,’ snarls Gareth, who’s drearily defensive about gender politics. ‘Do you think gays all worship at the temple of Dolly Parton and have their balls waxed weekly?’

‘Oh, yuck, I’m imagining Elton John’s undercarriage now. And no, I totally don’t think that.’

‘Does he like rugby?’ says Gareth, softening.

‘I think so. Don’t all men like rugby? It’s one of the many reasons I don’t understand them.’

‘Hmm, you need to see where his priorities lie – with the score or the players. My floor-to-ceiling posters of Will Carling were the only thing which got me through the ignominy of boarding school.’

As Rufus would most definitely smell a rat if Alice and I suddenly developed a passion for rugby, I tell him we’ll have to stick with Plan A. Mind you, it’s pretty much impossible to engage with anything beyond week one of filming right now. Every time I think about Monday, my whole body clenches up with terror. As I hug Zelda goodbye I fake a confidence that I just don’t feel, determined not to give her anything else to worry about beyond her own recovery. I can get through this – can’t I?