[Churchminster #3] Wild Things by Jo Carnegie

shut.
    Outside, the driver of the double-decker bus taking extras to the film set re-started his stalled engine and drove off.
    At Clanfield Hall, Frances gazed out of her own bedroom window at the melee below. She’d known that it was a big production, but she had had no idea just how many
people
there would be. Girls in black with clipboards, men in overalls lugging toolboxes, white vans lined up side by side, from which a startling array of things – from lighting equipment to a life-sized pair of stocks – were being carried out. Frances found it all rather fascinating, but was equally apprehensive about Ambrose’s reaction when he returned from visiting his sister in Scotland – to find his estate taken over by men shouting into megaphones and gaggles of filthy fake peasants with pustules and brown teeth. Even more so when he had to get through the paparazzi who had clustered at the front gates, hoping to get an off-guard shot of one of the cast.
    For a moment Frances questioned her judgement in letting the film crew in. She wondered if her longing for a change of routine had influenced her decision. Seraphina Inc. were taking over the little-used east wing of the house, and the shoot was scheduled to last three weeks. The Frasers’ fee for filming was going straight to the village fund, which would add much needed cash to the kitty.
    Frances was roused from her thoughts by her mobile ringing. It was probably Harriet, for whom Frances had left a voicemail earlier. She picked it up and was surprised that rather than her daughter’s number, the word ‘call’ was flashing up on the screen.
    Maybe she’s calling from work
, Frances thought. She pressed the answer button. ‘Darling?’
    There was a chuckle down the phone. ‘That’s a helluva of a greeting.’
    ‘Devon! Is that you?’ Frances sat down in the chair heavily. Her hands started shaking.
    The familiar cockney voice. ‘The one and only, princess. How yer doin’?’
    ‘Fine, thank you,’ she replied awkwardly. Instinctively Frances ran her hand over her chignon to compose herself.
    There was a pause. ‘What’s wrong, Frannie?’ Devon Cornwall asked. ‘You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.’
    ‘Oh I am! You just caught me off guard.’ Frances couldn’t keep the smile out of her voice. ‘Oh, Devon, it really is marvellous to hear from you!’
    Another throaty chuckle. ‘That’s more like it. You know, I’m sitting here on some rich git’s yacht having a bit of chill time, and you came into my mind. So I said to myself: “Sod it, Devon, get on the old dog and bone and give the lady a tinkle.”’
    Frances laughed. ‘Where
are
you?’
    ‘Somewhere bloody hot in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Don’t ask me where, I’ve done eight countries in as many days.’
    ‘I assume the tour is going well, then?’
    ‘Going a blinder, but I don’t want to talk all about me, princess. Tell me what you’ve been up to, and all the Churchminster news.’
    They chatted for several minutes and Frances filled him in on the Britain’s Best Village competition and the film.
    Devon sounded impressed. ‘Blimey, it’s all going on there. Makes me quite nostalgic for the place.’
    There was another pause, in which Frances didn’t quite know what to say.
    ‘Anyway, I’d better shoot. I’m on stage later.’
    Frances was dismayed at the disappointment she felt. ‘Of course, I won’t keep you. It was lovely to hear from you.’
    ‘You too, princess. I miss that lovely Joanna Lumley voice of yours. Take good care of yourself.’
    She could hear a motor being started in the background. Frances hesitated. ‘Devon, was there any particular reason …’
    ‘I called? No Frannie, I was just thinking about you. Wanted to say hi.’ His voice changed. ‘I do miss you, you know.’
    Frances felt a lump in her throat and swallowed it down. ‘Well, I better let you go! It sounds very busy there.’
    He reverted back to his normal chipper self.