Master of the House. Justine Elyot

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       Chapter One

      A village fete. That was the best they could find for me.

      ‘It’s being opened by a celebrity,’ the editor had said, as if this made it more like a summit of world leaders.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Forget his name – bloke off that talent show, the one with the mad sideburns.’

      ‘Right.’

      So there I was, with a photographer who looked about twelve, interviewing people who were betting on which would be the first ferret to pop its head out of a length of plastic piping. Me, Lucy Miles, who once had a byline on the international news pages of the Correspondent.

      The elderberry fizz I was sipping from a paper cup might have won a prize, but as far as I was concerned it tasted of abject failure.

      ‘I need a proper drink,’ I told teen-snapper, eyeing up the bunting-strewn beer tent. ‘Before I go insane.’

      He happily went along with this, shambling after me into the sanctuary.

      ‘Not what you’re used to, I s’pose,’ he offered, by way of conversation, once we had our plastic half-pints of Randy Old Shagger, or whatever it was called.

      ‘Hardly. Back in Hungary I was covering human rights abuses, anti-government protests, racially-motivated murders, political skulduggery and intrigue.’ I enumerated these shiny nuggets on my fingers, then sighed. What was the point of dwelling on it?

      ‘Shame they cut your budget,’ offered teen-snapper.

      ‘Yeah. Hungary got lumped in with Romania, Slovakia and the Czech Republic and they gave oversight of the lot to the Prague guy. Even though Prague is nothing like Budapest, and even less like Bucharest. But they don’t care about cultural nuance, so back to the Vale for me.’

      ‘The Vale of Tears.’ Teen-snapper did a sort of snuffly chuckle at the hoary old local joke. I fished a wasp out of my beer.

      ‘Vale of Tylney versus Budapest. Not comparable at all. Still, I don’t really envy the guy in Prague. He’s got his work cut out for him with the way everything’s going over there.’

      ‘You’re better off at the Vale Voice,’ said – was his name Kai? – with a wink.

      I didn’t want tiny little boys winking at me, so I gave him a hard look and pushed the rather over-treacly beer aside.

      ‘Whatever,’ I said. Ugh, there was a lump in my throat. An accordion struck up outside, closely followed by the jingle of bells and clatter of batons. Just what I needed to cheer me up. Fucking morris dancing.

      Kai got busy with the camera while I stood at the beer-tent flap, trying so hard not to cry that I gave myself a headache.

       I’m twenty-seven and my life is over. Living with my mum in the town that time forgot, back at the paper I did my work experience for. And I hope Károly is having a nice time with that bitch he was shagging behind my back. Fuck him, fuck her, fuck everything.

      The morris music mocked me and I stormed away over the grass, intent on hiding out in the car until the prize draw was announced.

      ‘Lucy! Lucy Miles!’

      It took me a moment to work out where the voice was coming from, but eventually I traced it to a bric-a-brac stall, presided over by an old schoolfriend.

      ‘Jamila. What are you doing in … what’s this place called?’