The Austen Playbook (London Celebrities #4)(21)
“But—” The man’s protest was cut off by a bright greeting from the direction of the house, and Griff turned as his mother jogged down the front steps.
Skirting past a member of the studio crew with an absent-minded smile, Carolina Griffin joined him by the van. “Oh, good. I didn’t think these would get here until Monday.”
She reached for the box, and Griff put a restraining hand on it to prevent her taking it from the deliveryman’s grasp. His patience was down to a silken thread, and he didn’t bother to keep the edge from his voice. “You’re meant to be on a spending ban until you’ve used up the materials you already have. And this brand is too expensive. You were going to find alternative suppliers for the paint and fabrics.”
“Were we?” Carolina was determinedly vague. “But these ones are just right. We’ve started a new series. Based on the Allegra Hawthorne books. They’re very popular, you know. With adults, too. People will love the new houses.”
Yes, they would. His parents’ dollhouses—and “houses” was a broad term for the castles and cathedrals and intricately detailed worlds they created in their workshop—were pieces of art, that would likely become heirlooms if they weren’t played with into disrepair. There was a waiting list of purchasers, and they always sold. Unfortunately, the high price tags were wiped out by the exorbitant sums Carolina and James spent on materials. In the last series, they’d used semi-precious jewels, handmade Nottingham lace, and Murano glass. Add in the cost of labour, and they were probably paying about fifty quid an hour for the privilege of running their business. He could see where Charlie got his financial nous.
Directing his mother far enough away from the van that they wouldn’t air every detail of their respective bank accounts to a nationwide courier, he kept his words low and cool. “The roof needs fixing. The entire house needs rewiring. The utility bill is increasing every month. Half the place is mortgaged, and most of my assets are invested in the production company, which may or may not pay dividends. Charlie blows his disposable income on cars and nightclubs, and the trust Sir George set up is almost empty. There are no endless vaults of gold for you and Dad to dip into. If we want to keep this property, you need to pull a bank job or exercise some common sense. Either option is fine with me.”
“Oh, these people are paying for the renovation costs.” As usual, Carolina had selective hearing and chose to ignore ninety-percent of what he was saying. It was a technique he frequently utilised himself, and like most things in life, it was extremely irritating when the tables were turned.
“They’re paying to renovate The Henry. They’re not going to patch up the rest of the estate as a goodwill gesture. And as Charlie signed a profit-share contract for the rental of the space, instead of negotiating a fixed fee, any payment we receive beyond that is going to rely on strong audience engagement throughout the broadcast.”
From what he’d seen of the preparation process so far, he wasn’t anticipating a hefty cheque.
“Something always turns up.” Carolina’s gaze had turned inward, which usually meant she was mentally placing tiny artworks and papering miniature walls. “Like last year, when the plumbing went. Or was it the year before? God, wasn’t that ghastly. All those cold showers. But it got sorted.”
“It was three years ago. And it got sorted,” he said crisply, “because I mortgaged my flat. It’s taken me this long to pay it off.”
“That’s wonderful,” his mother murmured. “You’ve always been so clever, Jamie. Oh, brilliant, your father’s finished the new design.”
She patted his arm and made a beeline for the terrace, where his father had just appeared, waving a roll of paper.
With a taut reminder that murder had unpleasant consequences, even if it would solve three of his most pressing problems, Griff turned around and almost bumped into Freddy, who had taken off her shoes and was padding barefoot towards the house.
“The patch job fell apart,” she said, holding up the remains of the cable tie in one hand, “but it did the trick. Thanks again for the save.” Some of the animation had faded from her face, and there was a shadow of trouble in her eyes as she darted a brief glance at his mother’s departing back. She gestured with her shoes at the delivery van, where the driver was still waiting with the overpriced, unnecessary supplies and an increasing air of impatience. “Are you going to accept the shipment?”
“No, I’m not.” Coolly, he steered her around the extension cord some idiot had left on the grass, before she could stand on the plug. “Eavesdropping. What would Jane Austen say?”
A slight smile curled Freddy’s mouth. Without makeup, she still had naturally red lips and doe eyes. She ought to be racking up a stream of Disney musicals on her CV. She was adept at producing that guileless look endemic among fictional princesses and children’s entertainers. “She’d probably be taking notes. Your complex character would appear in her next classic.”
“As the villain, I suppose.” He was already striding towards the van, but he turned back, just for a second, as her words drifted after him.
“Not sure yet,” she said. “Whenever I think I know the story, you turn the page on me.”
“The guy’s bloody minted and she’s already binned him once. He’s at a house party with ten other birds. Just crack on with someone else, you fucking mug.”