A Sprinkle of Sabotage Fiona Leitch (best business books of all time txt) 📖

how could I turn down that amount of money, just for putting on a posh dress and standing around looking posh in a posh house? – filled in the form, and waited my turn. The casting people finally got to us, looked the four of us over, nodded, and sent us away with a promise that they’d be in touch with a shooting schedule. Even Daisy was told she’d get a call, although they’d probably only need her for one day.

‘So that’s that, then,’ said Mum. ‘I’m ready for my toasted teacake, Mr DeMille.’

Chapter Two

It was just over a week later that I got the call. Daisy was at school and Mum wasn’t needed on set (I was already getting the lingo down), so I left her dog-sitting and made my way to Polvarrow House.

‘YES!’ My friend Debbie pounced on me the minute I got out of the car. She was a loud (very loud) Mancunian, and she’d married my high-school crush (who was still a lovely bloke, although not quite the stud muffin at forty that he’d been at sixteen), but she was a lot of fun and I’d been very happy when she’d moved down to Penstowan with Callum and their two children after Tony’s ill-fated wedding a few months ago.

‘Tony said you were signed up for this,’ she said, pulling me in for a quick hug and then releasing me, smoothing out the material of her dress. ‘This is gonna be a right laugh, innit? What do you think of the threads?’

She gave me a quick twirl. I had to admit she looked amazing in her costume. It was a long silk gown in a peacock-blue-green shade – my favourite colour. It was an Empire cut, the type that fits tightly under your boobs and then flares out, hiding any chubby bits. And it enhanced a couple of areas that on Debbie really didn’t need enhancing. I nodded towards her impressive cleavage.

‘You could park a bike in that,’ I said, and she giggled.

‘I know! Good, innit? I sent Callum a selfie and he was all for rushing over here and loosening me corsets.’

‘So when’re you getting into costume?’ I said, and she laughed again.

‘Mate, we are going to have so much fun… Go on, go and get your frock on!’ She pushed me towards a large trailer that was parked next to the old stable block.

The trailer was a scene of organised chaos. The wardrobe mistress, a woman in her fifties with a mass of frizzy hair, tiny glasses on her nose, and a tape measure around her neck, ploughed through a crowd of extras who were all squirming into their dresses and zipping each other up.

‘Don’t tug at it; you’ll rip the fabric,’ she said to one woman, whom I recognised from the local supermarket. ‘Breathe in.’

‘If I breathe in any more I’ll turn blue,’ muttered the woman under her breath. I smiled at her sympathetically.

‘Then at least you’ll match the dress,’ said the wardrobe mistress. She turned to me. ‘Name?’

‘Jodie Parker,’ I said, reaching out for a dress that was hanging on a rail near me. She snatched the dress away.

‘Hold on…’ She consulted the clipboard in her hand, then looked me up and down with a thin smile. ‘Ah yes, you’re not with this lot. Over here.’ She led me away from the rack of beautiful silk dresses to another one that looked like a rail of potato sacks.

You have got to be kidding me, I thought, as she handed me my outfit…

‘Oh dear Lord!’ Tony was the last person I wanted to see while I was in this get-up, so of course he was the first one I met when I left the tent. I scowled at him.

‘Don’t say a word,’ I growled. He wiped the smile off his face, but it didn’t stay off for long.

‘I’m sorry, I just… I can’t believe you got the washerwoman part again!’ He laughed, but it was more sympathetic than mocking.

‘It’s not fair,’ I grumbled, fully aware that I sounded like Daisy being told she couldn’t stay up past 9 p.m. on a school night. ‘I mean, have you seen Debbie? She looks gorgeous. That dress of hers—’

‘I didn’t think you were a dress person?’ asked Tony reasonably enough, as he’d only ever really seen me in jeans and T-shirts, as an adult anyway.

‘I’m not. I’m not a flipping potato-sack person either, though.’ I flopped down on a bench. ‘I am never going to live this down. All you lot are the aristocracy and I’m a maid.’

Tony smiled and sat next to me. ‘If it’s any consolation this isn’t the most comfortable outfit I’ve ever worn.’ He tugged at the neckline of his shirt. It had ruffles on it.

‘That is a smashing blouse you’re wearing,’ I said, giggling.

‘Yeah, I can see this style really catching on down the King’s Arms on a Friday night. All the lads coming in for a pint after being out fishing all day, they go wild for a frilly shirt.’ He smiled at me and I felt better, even though the fabric of my horrible brown dress felt like hessian and I could already feel it chafing under my arms.

‘You do realise I’m going to take loads of photos of you in that blouse – and those trousers! How tight are those trousers?’

‘My meat and two veg feel like they’ve been vacuum-packed,’ said Tony, getting to his feet to show me exactly how tight they were. Good Lord, they were rather tight. I swallowed hard. What had I been saying? Oh yes.

‘I’m going to take loads of photos of you in that get-up and whenever you annoy me, a new one’s going online…’

We sat and watched as members of the crew scuttled back and forth across the grounds, darting in and out of the trailers that were parked along the gravel drive. Tony pointed to one.

‘See that big one there? That’s Faith Mackenzie’s trailer.’

‘Faith Mackenzie? I didn’t