Page 13 of The Perfect Gift

There was something so natural about the way Rick referred to himself as Freya’s dad, it touched Ed deeply. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’

‘I’m even luckier to have them, not that it’s all plain sailing,’ Rick replied. ‘Freya’s such a little sweetheart most of the time, but she has her moments. When she’s kicking off about something I wonder how the hell Mum and Dad survived the four of us hellions.’

Ed laughed. ‘There are not enough apologies in the world for what we put them through. I should definitely find something nice for Mum while we’re in town so I’m not turning up at their place later empty-handed.’

‘I think that would be a very sensible idea.’

While he was at it, Ed decided he should look for something for Frankie. He knew Harry thought he should stay away, but it didn’t sit right with Ed not to at least try and apologise for scaring her, and something pretty might make that easier for Frankie to accept. There was a florist in Port Petroc his dad always used for special occasions like his mum’s birthday and their anniversary. He could get a nice festive basket for his mum and some flowers for Frankie.

All women liked flowers, didn’t they?

9

‘Ouch.’ Frankie winced and shied away as the sharp end of a hair pin jabbed into her scalp.

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Through the reflection in the huge mirror running the length of the caravan wall, Jessie, Frankie’s hair and make-up assistant, pulled a face in apology.

Frankie straightened in her seat and smiled back at the contrite-looking young woman. ‘It’s fine. I know you’re up against it.’ The morning’s shooting hadn’t gone well, thanks to a series of small errors and problems that taken in isolation would’ve been fine but, coming as they had one after the other, had pushed them further and further behind schedule. Everyone was so desperate to wrap things up on time and head home to their families for Christmas, but that eagerness was working against them. Frankie reached behind her and patted Jessie’s arm. ‘Come on, let’s get the bloody thing on.’

Frankie’s wig might look stunning on film but she hated everything about it. It was hot and cumbersome and the weight of it made her neck and shoulders ache. The ridiculous things women did in the name of fashion was an unbreakable thread that tied the past to the current age. As Jessie repositioned the wig, Frankie braced her hands on the arms of her chair and held herself as still as possible. Dozens of pins and several curse words – from both of them – later and it was done. Jessie turned Frankie’s chair to face her and carefully added the final touch-ups to her make-up. ‘You’ll do,’ Jessie declared, stepping back to run a final critical eye over her expert handiwork.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Becca, Frankie’s dresser, declared with an encouraging smile. She was a blessed ray of sunshine and nothing seemed to deflate the older woman’s good mood. ‘Let’s get you dressed and out there so the plank can sweep you off your feet.’

‘You shouldn’t call him that,’ Frankie said, with a frown. As unfortunate as it was accurate, the nickname was one everyone used to refer to her co-star, Dalton McGrievy. A social media sensation with no real acting experience, Dalton had been foisted on the director and producers by the executives at the streaming company that were backing the production. In the never-ending ratings chase, the power of the viral clip was a marketing tool that even the best-cut teaser trailer couldn’t hope to match. With his stunning good looks and several million eager followers, Dalton was worth his weight in gold as far as the money men were concerned.

Having looked him up after she’d found out who she’d be playing against, Frankie hadn’t been able to work out what the fuss was all about. Dalton didn’t seem to do anything other than film himself hanging out with his friends. He spoke in clichés and platitudes that were treated like profound philosophical statements. Worst of all, he couldn’t act to save his life, much to the disgust of the other casting coup for the series, Daphne Beauchamp.

A veteran of the UK stage and screen, Daphne was a NATIONAL TREASURE, capital letters very much intended. She’d earned her acting chops through youthful stints with the Royal Shakespeare Company and had become a household name thanks to a long-running TV sitcom in the eighties. She’d won every award going, including for best supporting actress. Acid-tongued and completely unfazed by anything, Daffy – as she insisted everyone call her – had absolutely no filter and zero shits to give. She’d been cast as the dowager duchess and Dalton as a long-lost relative and unexpected heir to the family title following the unfortunate death of the current duke in a riding accident. After the twentieth time Dalton had messed up his lines in their opening shoot, Daffy had turned to Brian, their director, and asked him in her most strident tones whether a plank of wood could be found to replace Dalton as surely it couldn’t be any worse. Dalton had stormed off set and refused to come out of his trailer for the rest of the day and the nickname ‘plank’ had stuck.

Things had gone downhill from there. Dalton had demanded Daffy be sacked and when he’d been told that wasn’t possible, he’d insisted they minimise the amount of time the pair filmed together for the sake of his mental health. Daffy had declared him a waste of her valuable time and refused to have anything to do with him. Hasty rewrites had followed and Brian had worked miracles with clever scene cuts and the use of stand-ins and somehow they’d got to the end of filming Daffy’s scenes without the pair ever appearing on set together. The first time she’d had to film a scene with a stand-in for Dalton, the grip had presented her with an actual plank of wood, complete with a caricature face and one of Dalton’s spare wigs. Without blinking, Daffy had performed the scene with her plank stand-in. It was one of the best performances Frankie had ever seen, but the take had been unusable due to the gales of laughter from everyone behind the cameras.

Frankie had hoped to learn as much as she could from Daffy, but Dalton wasn’t the only one to receive the sharp end of her tongue. The first time they’d filmed a scene together, Daffy had taken one look at Frankie and rolled her eyes. ‘You can take the girl out of the council estate, et cetera, et cetera,’ she’d declared, before turning her back.

Shocked at the older woman’s nastiness, Frankie had needed all of her inner strength to get through the scene without breaking down. She’d held it together until she’d reached the privacy of her little caravan, then burst into tears. Jessie had had a real job on her hands to repair Frankie’s make-up, much to her embarrassment. Jessie had confided that while the public might adore Daffy, she had a terrible reputation in the industry and the crew couldn’t abide her. She and one of the other make-up girls, Michelle, had drawn straws to see who’d work with Daffy. ‘God, I was so glad when I won and I got to work with you instead,’ Jessie had declared, patting Frankie’s shoulder in reassurance.

The production team ran around after Daffy like the servants who ran around after the rich people they were portraying on set. Daffy treated them as though they were invisible for most of the time, engaging with them only when she required an audience. She was forever regaling them with some story or other, always about the famous people she’d worked with over the years. She didn’t seem to care about holding things up, either, and for the two weeks she’d been on set, everything had run to Daffy time. Brian seemed incapable of exerting any kind of control over her, so they’d slipped further behind on the schedule because Daffy spent more time acting up than acting. When she’d left set a couple of weeks ago, everyone had breathed a sigh of relief.

Determined to be the polar opposite, Frankie had done everything she could to make life as easy as possible. She made a point of thanking everyone and rarely turned up for the day without some treat or other for the crew – a tub of sweets, a tray of cakes from Issy’s café, a slab of beers for the key grip on his birthday. It hadn’t taken much to find out Jessie’s and Becca’s drink preferences and they started every day on a good footing with takeout coffee and pastries Frankie picked up from The Cosy Coffee Pot on her way in. She’d encouraged them to make the caravan into their own little haven, and the edges of the mirrors were full of silly photos they’d taken to memorialise their time together.

With Jessie and Becca’s help, Frankie was ready to go when the runner knocked on the caravan door to summon her. ‘Once more unto the breach,’ Frankie muttered half under her breath, making Becca grin as she helped her into the thick padded coat that would protect her on the short walk from the caravan to set. With her skirts safely tucked over one arm and her feet tucked into a pair of sheepskin-lined boots, Frankie stepped out of the cosy cocoon and into the cold afternoon air. She paused at the bottom of the steps as she always did, the magnificent, foreboding sight of Boscowen Castle stealing her breath for a second. It was still a pinch-me moment to be filming in a place of such incredible history and a million miles from the cramped terraces and 1930s-style semi-detached houses she’d spent her youth bouncing between.

Beyond the brooding hulk of the castle, the sky was the delicate blue of a bird’s egg, marked here and there by wispy white clouds that echoed her own breath crystallising in the cold air. It was a beautiful day and for a moment Frankie wished she was walking along the beach, hunting for shells and bits of driftwood rather than trussed up in all her fake finery. If things went well today, maybe they’d escape while it was still light and Frankie could sit on the sand behind her little cottage and watch the sunset. Best stop daydreaming and get on with it, then.

Within moments of her entering the grand sitting room where they would be filming that day, Frankie’s hopes of an early escape dissolved like the clouds of her breath outside. The planned scene was a double-header between her and Dalton, full of tension as their characters tried – and failed – to maintain the façade of their fake romance. Dalton was there, looking ridiculously handsome in severe black evening wear. The only thing spoiling the effect was the way he tugged and fiddled at the high collar as he talked to Brian. Their poor, harassed director looked ready to tear out what was left of his hair. Beside him, Melinda, the script supervisor, was talking in a low, earnest voice as she tried to explain something to Dalton. Various members of the crew were standing around the room, their expressions a mixture of boredom and annoyance.

Frankie perched on a spare chair out of the way and held her skirts up so Becca could swap Frankie’s cosy boots for the pair of bronze silk slippers that had been dyed to match the material of her dress. ‘Thanks, B,’ Frankie said with a grateful smile as Becca offered her a hand while she stood, then helped her out of her jacket.

A tall, dark-haired man walked over and greeted Frankie with a tentative smile. ‘Is it possible to have a quick word?’ Frankie recognised him as Chloe’s brother, Matt. He and his father were part of the crew. They’d said hello in passing but this was the first time he’d approached her directly.

‘Sure.’ Frankie exchanged a quick look with Becca, who moved away to give them some space.

Matt smiled again. ‘I just wanted to check how you are after last night. Ed turning up in the middle of the night must’ve been scary.’

‘He did give me a bit of a fright, but I’m okay now. I appreciate you checking up on me.’ She laughed. ‘You and all the rest of your family.’

Matt grinned a little sheepishly. ‘I think everyone is feeling a bit responsible. I’m glad you’re okay. I know the security could be better there. Fitting new locks was on the to-do list, but I never quite got around to it. I had a look in the van this morning and we’ve got a spare security bolt and chain if you wanted me to pop over and fit one for you.’

The out of the blue offer took Frankie by surprise. ‘You don’t have to do that.’ She frowned, wondering how he knew what the cottage’s security was like. Something tickled at the back of her mind, something Ed had said, but she couldn’t quite remember. ‘I didn’t realise you were so familiar with the place.’