I shrugged and glanced at an oldish woman, further along the stream, who’d stopped to lean on her walking stick. A young teenager approached her and— oh my god! —shoved her to one side, grabbed her handbag and scarpered.
People all around did nothing and acted as if it had happened in their blind spot. Uh oh. Heart racing… I was having one of my adrenaline rushes that made me do something bonkers.
‘Oi!’ I shouted and within seconds my legs were carrying me after him. The teenager jumped over some bushes and headed into a forested area at the end of the stream. Just as I caught up, he tripped and fell. Swearing, he got to his feet.
‘Hand it over!’ I said.
‘Gonna make me, bitch?’
Er… yeah. I lunged forward. Years of wrestling my brothers, Ryan and Tom, had stood me in good stead for dealing with over-friendly blokes and now thieves. Except his eyes looked glazed and with an unexpected strength he pushed me off. I grabbed onto the handbag before tumbling onto a log. A male voice shouted behind me and the teenager swore again before running away.
‘You okay?’
I turned around to see – wow, a total hunk with an athletic build, all wrapped up in a sharp suit. He was pushing forty but flirty eyes never aged. He pulled me to my feet and, with no short skirt or cleavage to distract him, gazed right into my understated face. I held my breath. The hunk didn’t flinch or gasp in horror. In fact, he smiled and carefully examined my forehead.
‘Bit of a graze, there,’ he said and lifted up one trouser leg several inches to reveal a bandage. ‘Sprained my knee yesterday. If it wasn’t for that, I’d have nailed that young bast… basket case.’
Blimey – he hadn’t wanted to swear in front of me.
Fingers curled gently around my elbow, he guided me out of the trees. Lady C and the handbag’s owner were waiting by the edge of the stream.
‘Oh, thanks so much,’ said the woman. ‘I’m so grateful. Let me reward you.’
Yes, please! But I caught Lady C’s eye. No doubt accepting a fiver for my trouble would be the height of bad manners.
‘No, it was my, um, pleasure,’ I said and rubbed my arm.
The hot guy shook his head. ‘I’ll ring the police. I bet that thug wasn’t expecting to be collared by such a charming young lady. Really, well done,’ he said.
Gemma Goodwin, charming, without her boob enhancers and bronzer? My face broke into a grin as Lady C steered me towards a nearby bench, moved a discarded magazine and we sat down. I bit my thumbnail.
‘Mega unladylike, wasn’t it – me running like that, shouting “oi!” I just couldn’t stand by and watch that bug…that loser steal someone’s handbag. I’d do it again.’
‘Jolly glad to hear it. You seem to have this idea that minding one’s manners and dressing modestly equates with being, well, something of a lily-livered wimp.’ Lady C pulled a leaf out of my hair. ‘Whereas ladies display strength of character, they are fair and charitable.’ She beamed. ‘Quite simply, I was impressed.’
‘You, um, aren’t disappointed?’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Gemma, my dear, I’m beginning to understand why you and Abigail are such good friends. With a new hair colour and clothes, you could be in with a real chance of pulling this off. I used to run intensive etiquette courses and might just be able to teach you everything you need in the next ten days until the final. Tonight we’ll start with table manners. I brought some of the more adventurous foods you might encounter, like asparagus, mussels and quail eggs.’
Urgh! She’d better teach me the etiquette for throwing up.
I picked up the magazine. It was a TV guide for next week. Oh my God! Million Dollar Mansion was advertised on the front. I flicked through and came to a full page photo of the Earl of Croxley, a slim, grey-bearded man with a pipe, in a tweed suit. Lord Edward, his son, looked a moody so-and-so, as if the camera was his worst enemy. Yet I could forgive his Victor Meldrew expression because of those tousled honey curls and broad shoulders. Phwoaar!
On the opposite page were the other finalists. With dyed black hair greased back and an expensive suit, the divorced Baron of Marwick was in his sixties and looked like his middle name was Smug. His son, Harry Gainsworth, wore a flash tie and mega gold watch. Their family had owned Marwick Castle for less than a century. Both held glasses of champagne and in their interviews called the Earl of Croxley a ‘boring old fart’.
Whereas the Croxleys… Once more I gazed at the photo of Applebridge Hall. My eye caught tatty gardens and crumbling brickwork – talk about shabby chic. I read the Earl’s warm tales about his grandparents and Elizabethan ancestors—it must be hard for him, all that history suddenly at risk. But could little old me really help save the Croxleys’ mansion?
‘Shame, isn’t it, that Abbey’s dad and the Earl aren’t on talking terms – that Abbey and Rupert aren’t in touch with their cousin,’ I said.
‘It is, dear. I believe Edward made some attempt to contact them when he was…ooh, almost twenty. Abigail and Rupert were still at junior school. He sent them cards and the occasional book. But Richard never passed them on.’
‘That stinks! Does Abbey know?’
‘Yes. Richard told the children it was for the best. That they were too young to understand the reasons for the estrangement and what was really going on. The cards eventually stopped.’
Blimey. This was hardcore falling out, not to let the kids at least have contact. Without warning, I sneezed and sniffed loudly.
Lady C tutted and passed me her dainty lace handkerchief.
‘See?’ I said. ‘We could change my appearance – even with my own style and hair colour, I’ve been mistaken for your niece. But everything else about me is wrong. I talk while I eat and, thanks to Uncle Pete, I know more about brick-laying than cross-stitch or croquet.’
‘Ladies aren’t stuck in the nineteenth century, my dear,’ said Lady Constance. ‘Expert knowledge in any area is admirable.’
At that moment the National Anthem blared out from her handbag. That was some ringtone. Lady C took out her phone.
‘Hello, Abigail… Pardon? School? Oh, dear. Oh dearie, dearie me. No—don’t mention that. Ah, and there’s something else…?’ A pained expression deepened her wrinkles. ‘Yes, quite. What a shame. Leave it with me. Speak later, poppet…’ She ended the call.
‘Bad news?’ I said.
Lady C stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Abigail misunderstood the start date of the final. Filming actually begins on September the first.’
‘This Saturday?’ I squeaked. ‘That only gives us four days! And wasn’t there something else – about a school?’
Lady C’s shoulders sagged. ‘That’s irrelevant now, seeing as your transformation is quite impossible. Poor Abigail. You were her only chance.’
Uh oh – another adrenaline rush as my conscience pricked. Months ago, Abbey had taken me in, after I left Dad’s so that he could turn my bedroom into a nursery for his new girlfriend’s twins. Truth be told, I still owed her big time. My heart raced, meaning I was about to do something stupid… Urgh—like deceiving people and pretending to be posh. An uncomfortable twinge pinched my stomach. Yet just one look at Lady C reminded me just how important this was to Abbey. And if you couldn’t step out of your comfort zone to help mates, then I reckoned it was what Abbey would call ‘a pretty poor show’.
‘What the hell,’ I heard my sing-song voice say. ‘Let’s give it our best shot. Applebridge Hall, here I come!’
If anyone could imitate my best bud, it was me.
CARINA™
ISBN: 978 1 474 03402 9
Game of Scones
Copyright © 2015 Samantha Tonge
Published in Great Britain (2015)
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