Falling In Love. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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shoot at Castle Howard!’ panted Barry.
‘What about it?’
‘The girls will finish there at eleven-thirty and have to be back in York by twelve-thirty to start shooting in the Shambles by one, but their driver has broken down on the road and I can’t get another taxi out there in time. Saturday is always a busy day for them.’
‘Haven’t any of the girls got a car, for heaven’s sake? Why did you have to lay on a taxi?’
‘It’s safer,’ mumbled Barry. ‘Then they can’t plead they got stuck in traffic or their car wouldn’t start. The taxi goes round and picks them all up, drops them at wherever they’re shooting, then goes back for them...only this time the taxi broke down en route and there isn’t another free for ages.’
‘What about the photographer?’
‘He only has a small two-seater van; his equipment takes up most of the space in the back, and he has that hulking great assistant in the front with him. I’d go myself, but I’m due at my sister’s wedding in Durham at three; I’ve got to leave right away, then I thought of you...’
‘Oh, did you?’ she retorted. ‘I’m busy too, Barry! I’ve got better things to do with my time than play chauffeur to your girls!’
‘But you did say you were going that way this morning and might look in on the Castle Howard shoot!’ he protested, wounded innocence in his tones.
Laura had to admit that. Still frowning, she did some quick calculations. ‘Yes, OK, I’ll pick them up. How many girls was it? Four? Yes, I can just about squeeze them into my Mini. I have to be at Malton by eleven, and should be at Castle Howard at around eleven-thirty. The timing will be tight—I have to see a cottage—but supposing that we leave there at twelve...yes, I can do it. Will you be able to talk to the girls first?’
‘Yes, they’re going to ring me back.’
‘Well, tell them to meet me at the main gate, at eleven-thirty. Will they have much stuff with them?’
‘Clothes, make-up, shoes, the usual stuff. They might be able to stow some of that in the photographer’s van, if it helps.’
‘Well, I should have room in my car. Now, I’d better go or I’ll be late too.’
The drive to Malton was quite a rapid run, in spite of the traffic going from and coming to York, and she reached the estate agent’s office exactly on time. As she pulled up outside, the estate agent emerged, smiling.
Mr Dale was a broad, short Yorkshire man with a face like a well-weathered prune. He shook hands with a firm grip, giving her the grimace which passed for a smile with him.
‘Well, I think we’ve finally come up with exactly what you’ve been wanting, Miss Grainger. Nice little property, needs the odd job done to it, mind—lick of paint, some work on the roof—but it could be made very comfortable without costing an arm and a leg. It’s not an easy trip from here; do you want to come with me, or will you take your own car?’
‘I’ll take my own car, then I can drive straight back to York,’ she decided, and he nodded.
‘Follow me close, then, Miss Grainger; don’t get yourself lost. Remember, we’re turning off at the Castle Howard road.’
He was about to climb into his car, but she stopped him. ‘Mr Dale, I have to pick some girls up from Castle Howard on our way. It won’t take a minute; they should be waiting for us at the main gates.’
‘Work there, do they?’ he asked, looking interested.
‘No, they’re models; they’ve been working in the grounds, with a photographer.’
The drive back towards York was easier because the roads were not quite so crowded now. The road which led to Castle Howard had once been the private road of the family who owned the castle; they had built it in the days long before cars. About seven miles long, it ran across country, between green fields, and wasn’t busy, so they were able to drive fast. It was just after half-past eleven when they arrived at Castle Howard’s main gate, and to Laura’s relief the girls were waiting as arranged.
‘This is ace of you, Laura,’ a skinny black-haired girl said, clambering in beside her, folding her long, long legs somehow into the limited space available. The other girls climbed into the back and settled themselves, pushing and giggling.
Mr Dale had drawn up in front of Laura’s car and was waiting, watching in his driving mirror as the models one by one vanished into the little Mini. Laura could see his bemused expression in his mirror.
‘Thought we were going to have to walk!’ one of the girls in the back said. ‘Thanks, Laura.’
‘That’s OK, I was passing the gates anyway. All in? Then off we go.’ Laura waved to Mr Dale, who started his engine again and moved away with her car following him.
‘Barry’s such a skinflint,’ the black-haired girl said crossly. ‘He always books the cheapest transport—he gets block bookings for half the price and they send their oldest car or coach, and it’s always breaking down. I’m fed up with him—I’m moving to another agency down south as soon as I can get placed.’
The girls in the back made mocking noises. One of them drawled, ‘That’ll be the day! You’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember, Suzy.’
‘I mean it this time!’
‘Sure you do!’ the other girls drawled, and her friends in the back seat giggled.
‘It’s like driving around with a lot of kids; stop squabbling,’ Laura said, then ruefully realised that kids were what most of them were. Suzy was twenty-one now, Yasmin nineteen, but the others were mostly sixteen or seventeen.
Mr Dale had turned off the road now on to a rough, bumpy track between wire fences which clearly led eventually to a farm. Laura followed him; the car bumped and grated over ruts in the track. Laura hated to think what this was doing to her tyres. Surely this wasn’t the only road to this cottage?
Then she saw it and her green eyes widened, glowing. In one glance she saw that it was the sort of place she had always dreamt of living in. An old flint and stone-built cottage with a slate roof, set in a walled garden with an apple tree leaning over the gate, it stood alone with fields all round it, and Laura loved it at sight.
She pulled up behind Mr Dale’s car and got out, slamming her door. The models fell out, chattering excitedly.
‘Oh, isn’t it sweet? You going to buy it, Laura?’ Yasmin asked, walking with difficulty on the rough surface of the track in her stilt-like heels.
‘Is this where you and Patrick are going to live when you’re married?’ asked Suzy.
‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ cooed Yasmin. ‘You are lucky, Laura. Mind if we gatecrash the church? I’d love to see you getting married.’
‘I’ll send you an invitation,’ promised Laura, and the other girls excitedly chattered to her.
‘For all of us? Can we all come to the wedding? Oh, great, thanks, Laura.’
‘Want a bridesmaid?’ Yasmin asked wistfully. ‘I’ve never been a real bridesmaid. I dressed up as one, once, for that bridal shop advert—ever so pretty the dress was, sort of peach satin, lots of lace, too, and I carried a little round bouquet of creamy rosebuds with a silver foil backing. I kept it afterwards, got it hanging on my dressing-table; it dried lovely, the roses still smell nice. But I’ve never been a real bridesmaid.’
Two girls were tottering along the track, giggling. ‘Ooh, look, there’s cows in this field...black and white ones! Moo, moo, come here, moos! Look at them staring; what a hoot... I’ve never seen one this close, have you, Yaz? Come and look! Haven’t they got big heads...oh, look at that one’s tongue—all rough, like sandpaper...Hello, moos...’
Mr Dale watched them with a mixture