Fame and Wuthering Heights. Emily Bronte

to daily lectures on how one could ‘never trust a Frenchman’ because they were ‘all cowards’. The xenophobia was entirely well meant, but Tish found it draining.

      ‘Oh, no fried bread for me please,’ she protested. ‘It gives me dreadful indigestion.’

      ‘Nonsense, lovie. You’re just eating it too quickly,’ said Mrs D, cheerfully dropping two battered slices of Hovis into the heart-attack pan. ‘I’m going into Castleton later. Do you need anything?’

      ‘No thanks,’ said Tish. This was good news, though. She had a string of begging phone calls to make this morning to Loxley’s various creditors, and was relieved Mrs D had errands to run. These things were even harder with an audience.

      Just as Mrs D plopped Tish’s mountainous breakfast down in front of her, the doorbell rang. Both women looked surprised.

      ‘Are we expecting anyone?’ Mrs Drummond sounded faintly accusing, as if Tish were still a teenager and had invited friends over without asking.

      ‘Not that I know of,’ said Tish, getting up. ‘It’s probably just a delivery.’

      ‘Ah ah ah!’ Mrs D held up an admonishing finger. ‘You sit right there and eat, madam. I’ll get the door. Running yourself ragged,’ she muttered, shuffling out into the hallway. ‘It’s no wonder you look like you’re half dead.’

      Tish had taken only two bites of fried egg before she heard the raised voices. One was unmistakably Mrs D’s, shrill and strident, the way she always sounded when she was rattled. The other was also a woman’s voice, but younger, and conciliatory despite the volume. From her nasal tone, it sounded to Tish as if she might be American.

      Tish moved to the door so she could hear what they were saying.

      ‘If I could just speak to the owner,’ the American girl pleaded. ‘I’d only need a few minutes of his time.’

      ‘I’ve told you.’ Mrs Drummond was practically shouting. ‘The owner is busy. And even if she weren’t she would not be interested.’

      ‘She? Oh, I’m sorry. I understood the house belonged to a Mr Jago Crewe.’

      ‘Good day,’ said Mrs Drummond briskly. Tish heard the front door slam. A moment later, Mrs D reappeared in the kitchen looking flustered.

      ‘What on earth was all that about?’ asked Tish.

      ‘Oh, nothing. Some dreadful American woman.’ Mrs Drummond shook her head in disgust. ‘Very pushy. She’s gone now.’

      ‘Well, what did she want?’

      ‘Want? I’ll tell you what she wanted. She wanted to buy the manor! Can you imagine the cheek of it? She kept saying Loxley was “perfect” and she had to have it. As if it were a scarf she’d seen in a shop window! I told her the house wasn’t for sale, and that she was trespassing, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer, cheeky little thing. Kept asking to talk to … oh my good gracious!’

      Tish followed Mrs Drummond’s gaze to the kitchen window. A dark-haired girl had her face pressed to the glass. She was smiling and waving, apparently trying to get Tish’s attention.

      ‘There she is again.’ Picking up a broom, Mrs Drummond waved it at the window as if she were trying to scare away a bat. ‘Shoo! Get out!’

      Tish giggled. She’d had precious few laughs recently, but this was like a scene from a Carry On film. ‘I think I should go and talk to her.’

      ‘Talk to her? Don’t be silly, Letitia. The woman’s plainly a lunatic.’

      Watching Mrs Drummond jabbing her broom at the window, Tish thought it debatable who was the lunatic. Unbolting the scullery door, she walked out into the kitchen garden.

      ‘Can I help you?’

      The girl stepped away from the window. She was extremely pretty, Tish noticed, with a mane of glossy, dark hair that shone like a Herbal Essences advertisement. She was also woefully underdressed for the Derbyshire spring weather, in a thin white cotton blouse, fringed suede miniskirt and bare legs. She looked like an extremely lost Pocahontas.

      ‘Are you the owner?’ she asked, extending an elegant, French-manicured hand.

      ‘Sort of,’ said Tish. ‘Not exactly. It’s a bit complicated. I’m Letitia Crewe.’

      ‘Rainbow,’ said the girl, shaking hands warmly.

      ‘That’s your name?’ said Tish, realizing too late how rude it sounded. Luckily, the girl didn’t seem to mind.

      ‘I know,’ she grinned. ‘What can I say? My parents were Californian hippies. Still are. I actually have a sister called Sunshine, believe it or not.’

      Not sure how she was supposed to react to this piece of information, Tish said nothing.

      ‘Look, do you mind if I come in?’ said Rainbow, breaking the silence. ‘I’ve got a business proposal I’d like to make you and it is super-cold out here.’

      Five minutes later, having convinced a deeply suspicious Mrs Drummond to go into Castleton and leave the two of them alone, Tish made a pot of Lapsang tea and sat down with Rainbow at the kitchen table.

      ‘So, what’s this all about?’

      ‘Simple,’ said Rainbow. ‘I want your house.’

      ‘Oh.’ Tish looked disappointed. ‘I’m sorry but, as I think my housekeeper explained, Loxley isn’t for sale. It’s been in my family for centuries.’

      ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Rainbow, taking a sip of her tea and almost gagging. It tasted like burned rubber. ‘I don’t want to buy it. I want to borrow it.’

      Tish brightened. ‘Lease it, you mean?’ Though she hadn’t intended on doing it so soon, it was certainly part of her plan to find a reliable, paying tenant for Loxley eventually. Admittedly, she hadn’t pictured this person as a squaw-like twenty-something American hippy named Rainbow, but that was no reason to look a gift horse in the mouth.

      ‘Not exactly,’ said Rainbow. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a business card and handed it to Tish.

      ‘FSL Location Scouts,’ Tish read aloud. ‘You work for a film company?’

      ‘We work for a bunch of film companies,’ said Rainbow. ‘Right now I’m working for one of the biggest directors in Hollywood. You’ve heard of Dorian Rasmirez of course?’

      Tish looked blank.

      ‘Oh, come on,’ said Rainbow incredulously. ‘Love and Regrets? Sixteen Days?’ In Rainbow’s world, not having heard of Dorian Rasmirez was like not knowing the Pope or the President of the United States.

      ‘I don’t go to the cinema very often,’ said Tish.

      ‘Well, take my word for it, Rasmirez is huge. He’s about to shoot a remake of Wuthering Heights.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Tish, ‘I adore that book! How wonderful.’

      ‘Uh-huh,’ said Rainbow. ‘His production company, Dracula, hired my company to find him a suitable location for the shoot. I think this place would be perfect as Thrushcross Grange.’

      ‘Really?’ For a moment, Tish was flattered. But reality quickly kicked in. Loxley was already in a serious state of disrepair. The last thing it needed was a film crew running around the place, lugging heavy equipment and ricocheting off the furniture. Tish remembered reading a horror story in one of the Sunday papers about the damage done to stately homes used in film shoots. Groombridge Place in Kent had apparently taken months to restore after Pride and Prejudice.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ she said hesitantly to Rainbow. ‘What would it involve?’

      ‘Well, we’d need the complete run of the house. You’d have to move out. And we’d want to start filming as soon