Viola lay all the photographs out on her bed yet again. This was more than just research, it was becoming an obsession. Since Marcus had confirmed that they would definitely be filming inside Treweham Hall, and more importantly, that Tobias Cavendish-Blake had actually agreed to being interviewed, Viola’s anticipation had reached fever pitch. Never had she been so focused on an interviewee. This was the one. This was going to be the interview that made her. How many interviews had the devilishly handsome Lord Cavendish-Blake given? None. That’s how many, and she was about to be the first. This was a momentous occasion – well, for her, anyway – and, she suspected, for all those ladies out there that had secretly lusted after him for years. Now they were about to see him up front and personal, if she had her way.
The interview had come at a price, quite a hefty one, apparently, but nothing Marcus couldn’t deal with. The powers that be at the BBC were more than happy to meet Tobias’ demands, not only on the cost, but also on the format of the interview. Lord Cavendish-Blake was to be consulted on every question beforehand. Anything he didn’t like the look of was to be deleted and replaced with one of his own choice. Hardly an open, candid approach, thought Viola with disappointment, but still, an interview was an interview, and a long-sought-after one at that. Tobias Cavendish-Blake was notorious for hating the media, after they had chased him relentlessly, and shamefully in some instances, over the years. The fact he was prepared to appear in front of a camera at all was a miracle. Viola thought that Finula had played a large part in securing this; Finula and Tobias’ wet wife, she presumed with spite.
Viola homed in on her favourite picture of him again, the most recent one, taken on his wedding day. She sighed out loud at his relaxed, smiling face, green eyes crinkled with laughter, his dimpled chin and long, dark hair. Absolute perfection. She began to feel hot inside. The need to nail this interview was of paramount importance. Her career was hinging on it. If she messed up this unique opportunity, nobody would touch her again.
*
Marcus was in the bedroom next door. He should have been preparing the schedule for the shoot at Treweham Hall, but in truth, he was unable to apply his mind to anything but the chilling words of Lola Burrax. After all, it hadn’t been just some random information she’d thrown at him. It was quite specific. Your revenge will not be sweet. It had hit a nerve instantly, because Marcus really did intend to seek revenge, big time. He fully meant to expose the Cavendish-Blakes for what they were: high-handed, overindulged, pompous bastards. The worst of all being the late Lord Richard Cavendish-Blake, his own father. How would the current Lord Cavendish-Blake react on learning he wasn’t actually the rightful heir? That in fact he had an older brother? Not that Marcus envied Tobias his standing, and all that came with it, but the principle mattered greatly. It killed him to think of his mother being banished to Ireland carrying Richard Cavendish-Blake’s child, never to be heard of again. He obviously hadn’t paid a penny towards their upkeep. Even as a small child, Marcus had known that money was tight.
His hand curled into a fist. Tobias thought he was in control of the interview; well, let him think that if that’s what it took to get the bastard in front of a camera. What Tobias couldn’t manipulate was the way Marcus would oversee the editing and the whole production. That’s where it was all won and lost. Even the saintliest of people could be portrayed as the devil incarnate with clever editing: speeches cut off to deliberately misconstrue, losing all of the positive comments and homing in on the negative, pausing over an awkward moment for emphasis, close-ups of any make-up or costume malfunction, filming before the ‘action’ and after the ‘cut’ calls to catch anything the interviewee wouldn’t want to display on air. Marcus knew every trick in the book and he was going to use them all. His ultimate trump card would be to disclose his own parentage, but he was fully aware that, without proof, it was futile.
He gave a heavy sigh and turned his head towards a magazine opened out on the desk. To his shame, he had succumbed and bought a copy of Psychic Intelligence. As he’d flicked through the glossy pages, various adverts had leapt out at him, offering, ‘personal, accurate readings’, or ‘guidance from the grave’, or telephoned ‘star sign direction’. There was even a ‘white witch’ selling love potions and curses. It was incredible how much business there was in this mumbo-jumbo. At the back of the magazine, there was an article warning people about fake psychics, and the irony made Marcus laugh.
A genuine psychic will give you some personal information about yourself that is not common knowledge to prove they are truly connected with you.
He stopped laughing when he read that. Up until Lola Burrax had actually spoken to him, he had thought her a phoney. To him it was so transparent, the way she had read and manipulated her audience. Just a person’s age and sex could tell clairvoyants things about their general lifestyles, interests and sometimes the status of relationships. Even where you lived could reveal a lot about a person’s life, education and social background. So-called mystics would examine the way you sat, talked, the clothes and jewellery you wore, all these telltale signs offered clues in how to exploit vulnerable people who wanted some form of reassurance. It disgusted Marcus and yet… what clues had he given Lola Burrax? None. He hadn’t even given her eye contact before she picked him out. It baffled him. Telling himself it was just the power of charisma and suggestion he closed the magazine with force and turned his thoughts to the far more pleasant side of his day with Finula. They’d got on well, just as he had anticipated. Finula was easy to be around. She had a natural openness about her, which he didn’t often find in people. Maybe it was because of the type of characters he worked with, all of whom were a little self-centred and too ambitious for their own good. In Finula he suspected what you saw was what you got. She had an innate honesty, and it was apparent she wore her heart on her sleeve. The attraction was definitely reciprocated, of that he had no doubt.
Many women had thrown themselves at Marcus over the years and he had hated the unwanted attention. He secretly thought the interest was more due to his job as a producer than anything else, but he was wrong. Without his realising it, Marcus’ quiet, reserved, almost cool exterior left many a female hungry for more. They wanted to ‘crack’ his armour and familiarise themselves with the inner man. The more they pressed, the more he retreated. Marcus always used his demanding career as an excuse to hide behind. If he didn’t particularly fancy socialising – or, indeed, the woman herself – he would make a hectic work schedule the ideal apology for opting out.
He had married years ago when he was twenty-one, fresh out of university. Niamh had been his girlfriend of two years and, on discovering she was pregnant they both panicked and did what was expected of them. Niamh had miscarried a month after their wedding. At first they tried to carry on as normal, pretending they would have married anyway, but inevitably each found his and her own way and parted as good friends. Niamh was now a researcher for a television company in Ireland, and was married with two boys. She and Marcus still remained in contact, never having really fallen out, and their work had sometimes meant they met up.
Marcus found Finula refreshing, a far cry from the vain, go-getter girls he was surrounded by. She was happy in her own skin, without any hidden agenda.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Could the same be said about him? Yes, he definitely was drawn to Finula, and yes, he’d absolutely enjoyed her company the other day, but hadn’t he used her just a little? He had manipulated Finula to persuade Tobias Cavendish-Blake to take part in the documentary. Was this fair? After giving it some thought, he convinced himself it was. After all, Finula was desperate to tag along with the crew at Treweham Hall and experience the filming. He’d make sure she enjoyed herself, involve her with the team, rather than detaching himself as he usually did.
On their date, Marcus hadn’t allowed Lola Burrax to ruin the evening. He had made a swift recovery after her words of doom and soon afterwards he and Finula had slipped back into cheerful banter.
On the ride home he talked about his childhood in Ireland, but was guarded in giving too much detail. Finula, having had quite a few glasses of wine, had opened up far more, telling him about her friendship with Megan, and her previous relationship with Nick. Marcus sat driving in stunned silence as she regaled him with her ex-boyfriend’s antics. She finished her story off by telling him how Tobias had finally given Nick his just deserts at the Landlord’s Supper. Marcus had turned sharply.
‘Why, what happened?’
Finula explained the traditional event. ‘Nowadays it’s just a good excuse for a piss-up,’ she concluded. ‘Anyway, Nick turned up absolutely hammered and tried to kiss Megan, who was working behind the bar at the time. Tobias came over and smacked him one!’ She fell into giggles, then hiccupped. Marcus smirked to himself. Interesting. That story held all the qualities he was looking for: custom, tradition and the Lord of the Manor battering a villager.
Once he had pulled up outside The Templar, Finula was practically asleep. He gently stirred her.
‘We’re home, Finula,’ he whispered.
She opened her eyes and looked into his face. ‘What killer cheekbones you have. Do you know who you remind me of?’
‘Who?’ He laughed softly.
‘That Irish actor, Ci… Cil… Cilli…’ she struggled pronouncing his name.
‘Cillian Murphy,’ he supplied with a grin.
‘Yes! That’s the chap.’
‘Come on, you, let’s get you to bed.’ He helped her out of the car and led her inside. Once in The Templar she turned to him.
‘Fancy a nightcap?’
Marcus shook his head, ‘No thanks, Finula, and neither should you,’ he gently warned. ‘Your father will have my guts for garters, returning you in this state.’
‘What state?’ Finula exclaimed indignantly.
‘Shush!’ He put his finger over her mouth. Their eyes suddenly locked. Marcus leant forward and kissed her on the lips. She tasted of dark berries from the red wine. He pulled away and smiled.
‘Good night, Finula. Thanks for a great day.’
‘Good night, Marcus,’ she replied hoarsely, the kiss having sobered her up in an instant.