The rabbit sleepily rolls an eye.

Danny sulks. ‘What if he makes a mess?’

‘Charge it to Mr Chapel’s account.’ I get out of the car and pat the roof. ‘Thank you, Branson, that will be all.’

Pushing the doorbell, I ready myself to play hardball. Old Clover would be quaking at the prospect of rescuing a million-pound show, but she was a wet blanket, and New Clover is made of sterner stuff. Like weak beer versus hard liquor. Cheap plonk versus finest Cristal.

The housekeeper answers the door, and I manage to refrain from curtsying and asking if the master be in. She shows me to the drawing room, which I’ve seen before, but am happy to see again, as I like ogling how the other half lives. It has parquet floors and heavy drapes, several camelback sofas and numerous oils on the eggshell-blue walls. It’s very tasteful, but I couldn’t live here. How would you settle down to a night of Netflix and salted caramel Lindors in a room like this? It’s more the kind of room where you sit bolt upright reading Keats. I wonder if they’ve got a secret lounge where you can loll and fart and leave remote controls lying about.

The door flies open and my series producer, Caroline, barrels in.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ she pants. ‘It’s all gone to shit.’

Caroline is thirty-two, with a blunt-cut fringe and an attitude. She was great in her interview – frank and friendly, with just the right balance of go-getting and submitting. You want someone driven but not too aggressive, who can give orders but also take them. Once she’d got the job though, it turned out Caroline didn’t really like the submitting/taking orders bit. She frequently goes rogue and does it her own way, blaming underlings when anything goes wrong. Also, I’ve noticed she’s only nice to people above her in the pecking order, and despite the fact that I clearly outrank her, somewhere along the line she decided she doesn’t need to be nice to me – probably as a result of all the bagels I bought her. The further we got into pre-production, the more her manner edged towards truculent, pushing back on my decisions or ignoring them entirely. Well, Princess Caroline’s about to get her comeuppance.

‘David’s thrown his toys out the pram,’ she begins. ‘You need to get him back on board, and also tell the casting team to stop giving me all these character profiles because they’re doing my head in. Then you need to—’

She falters as I hold up a hand. ‘Let’s not talk about what I need to do, Caroline. Let’s talk about what you need to do, which is stop addressing me like I’m your servant. The casting APs are sending you profiles because that’s their job, and it’s your job to stay on top of it, not come bleating to me every time you’re required to lift a finger.’

For a second she gapes at me, then collects herself. ‘I . . . I . . . didn’t mean to . . . It’s just been very stressful out here, trying to organize everything.’

I blink conspicuously. ‘Caroline, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you an SP? It stands for series . . . producer. Isn’t organizing everything . . . your thing? Otherwise, you’re in the wrong career, and should change tack pronto. Maybe you’d be more suited as a hand model or a mattress-tester or something.’

My series producer’s neck is now bright red, and she looks as if she’s struggling to speak. ‘I’m sorry if I . . . I’m doing my best.’

‘That’s the trouble: I don’t think you are. I think you’re leaning very heavily on the team, making them do all the hard work, while you swan around issuing orders. I heard you last week having a go at Flora because she hadn’t sent the latest treatment to the channel commissioner, but that was supposed to come from you, wasn’t it?’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m sorry about that. I’m having a difficult time at the moment. My boyfriend—’

‘I’m afraid I don’t want to hear about how your boyfriend made you be rude to a colleague. We all have our personal issues, but we don’t have to bring them into the office.’ No, I think – when we have personal issues, we make sure we’re nowhere near the office. ‘Now, run along, and see if you can’t be a bit nicer to everyone on less money than you. I’m going to talk to David.’

Flushed and teary, Caroline scuttles off, while I take a turn about the room to inspect the portraits. Frederick Lyon-James looks like he’s half man, half pig. Arthur Lyon-James definitely had the pox. Geraldine Lyon was clearly a mad old battle-axe, and on closer inspection is wearing a locket with what looks like her own face on it. Saluting her, I move on. Charles Rupert Lyon is surrounded by his own kills, pheasant and partridge draped all around him. I wonder if I had a portrait done, what I would be surrounded by? Washing, probably. A fully loaded Lakeland air dryer.

‘Clover, how good to see you.’

The latest in the Lyon-James line enters, giving me a neat little bow. He really is quite dashing, in a silver fox kind of way, though I guess his family are fox-killing types. So, more of a distinguished deerhound – gentle, polite, dignified . . . but destructive if not treated in the right manner.

‘David, thank you so much for sparing the time.’

‘Shall we go outside? It’s so hot today.’

Oh goody-goody, I’m going to get a nice cold glass of something. Sure enough, out on the terrace, the table is already set with a bottle in a terracotta cooler and two glasses. David is an excellent host.

‘This is a Domaine Servin chablis,’ he says. ‘Not one of ours, of course, but it’s a tolerable vintage for a sweltering afternoon.’

‘I adore chablis,’ I reply. I do. And chardonnay, and châteauneuf, and champagne, and anything he wants to pour down my throat. He hands me a vessel as delicate as Cinderella’s slipper, filled with heaven’s juice. Taking that first, luscious sip, I sigh, soaking up the glorious view of the valley. This is the life. If only David wasn’t already married, he might want to marry me and make me lady of this manor. But I’ve met his wife Isabelle, who is also charming in a fragile, ethereal way, as breakable as this glass. I can’t imagine her stamping on grapes, whereas I would get stuck in. I’d make David a fine wife.

‘So, I gather Vincent has spoken to you about my concerns?’

I rearrange my face in a serious expression. ‘Yes, I came down as soon as I heard. What can we do to reassure you?’

David pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says eventually. ‘I was a trifle perturbed anyway, but then I watched that . . . that meat thing.’

There was no television in the portrait parlour, so he must have a secret lolling room after all. Why on earth did he choose to watch Oz’s telly guff, of all things?

‘Would Like to Meat? But Oswald’s show is an entirely different genre,’ I say. ‘That was a reality series, whereas ours is a formatted documentary.’ People always hear the word documentary and think high-brow. Sure enough, David nods encouragingly.

‘Yes, of course, and you were saying your director . . .?’

Last time, I waxed less than lyrical about Tristram because I didn’t want to overegg the pudding. But now it’s time for lashings of egg.

‘It’s no exaggeration to say he’s one of the true greats,’ I say. ‘Right up there with Jackson Bezalel, Teresa-Ann Sutcliffe, Samuel J. Allen . . .’ He won’t have heard of any of them, because I’d guess that, unlike Danny the driver, he watches very little television – probably just listens to Front Row, and only watched Oz’s show for research because he had the jitters. If he were to look them up, he’d find out that they’re mighty filmmakers, and way out of Tristram’s league, but he won’t, because in about five minutes’ time, his mind will be at rest, and he won’t need to.

‘Last of the Summer Vine is a truly great opportunity to share Chew Hill with the nation, show the public the backbreaking work and expertise involved in creating world-class English wines.’ I’m pleased with the bullshit title I’ve just come up with though there’s no way we’d be allowed to call it that – it’ll probably end up being called something shouty and on-the-nose like Binge-Drinkers’ Vineyard or Good Drunk, Bad Drunk. ‘With a renowned director on board, and a cutting-edge independent production company behind it, this show has the potential to be a breakout hit.’ I take a gulp of my wine; delicious. ‘The channel heads are already talking about awards. BAFTA, Rose d’Or, maybe even an Emmy . . .’ That’s going to be a major talking point at future Lyon-James dinner parties, I’m sure.

‘It does all sound rather impressive,’ says David, taking a pensive sip. ‘You’re very persuasive, I must admit, but . . .’

But what? Just pocket the location fee and spend it on more noble grapes or trellises or whatever. David obviously isn’t short of a bob or two, but in my experience rich people always want to be richer and no vintage bouquet is as aromatic as the smell of hard cash.

‘What about the, er, youngsters who’ll be staying here?’ His brow wrinkles. ‘Izzy is worried they’ll be . . . high-spirited.’

That’s one way of putting it. One of the ‘youngsters’ we’ve cast likes to drink a four-pack of Diamond White prior to a night on the town. Then it’s beers at the local, followed by Goldschläger shots in a club called ‘Dixy’s Lyrix’, rounded off with kebabs and a tactical vomit before bed. Izzy’s going to have the biggest migraine of her life.

I press David’s arm reassuringly. ‘I understand absolutely, but we have a wealth of experience in finding contributors for upmarket documentary formats like this. Our casting producers have found a wonderfully diverse group of young people who are eager to learn all they can about vinification and your successful business here. Think of it as having a team of unpaid work experience students!’ The yummy wine is going down very easily, and I’m absolutely nailing this.

‘And I suppose your vetting process is rigorous?’

I nod solemnly. ‘We cast very carefully.’ That much is true. We have to cast incredibly carefully to hit that sweet spot of contributors who are borderline insane enough to be entertaining, without actually being certifiable. Our psych evaluations are on a knife-edge. If only I’d known it was this easy, to say what needs to be said, what people need to hear, without a care in the world. I’m even starting to believe it myself. Maybe we will win an Emmy.

David sits back, cradling his glass in his palm. ‘Well, I know about the director, who sounds terrific, and I know about your very talented casting team, but there’s one more thing I’d like to know.’

‘Of course!’ I beam, ready to lay it on with a trowel. I’m prepared to say that Caroline is the industry’s most dedicated series producer, Vince is a TV guru, and Red Eye is the UK’s most dynamic, ground-breaking indie. I’ll tell him the cameras we use are made of gold.

‘I’d like to know about you, Clover. You’re the mother of this show. Tell me about yourself.’

22

I got my second job in television via the first. That’s often how it happens – word of mouth, recommendations, ears to the ground. So, a producer on Ghostly Goings On put me in touch with someone in HR at the production company, who found me another show they were making, and the producer of that show found me another, and before I knew it, I was a working junior researcher specializing in the paranormal. I met a lot of psychics, who were mostly useless apart from one who told me to look under the bed for the missing item – I found a pair of socks which weren’t necessarily missing, but which were useful all the same. I met many, many people who believed they’d been taken by UFOs, which only led me to wonder why aliens choose to abduct such dim specimens, and don’t look further afield for superior samples of the human race, like Barack Obama or Paul Rudd. I attended several séances, and found it extremely hard to stop myself giggling and disrupting the spirit communication. Everyone (living) was so earnest, and all the mediums wore scarves and big earrings.

It might seem strange that such a resolute non-believer would find herself in this murky sphere, but firstly, it was really good fun, and secondly, a deeper part of me wanted to be proved wrong. I wanted to believe, to be convinced that there was something else out there beyond my basement flat and fractious calls from my mother. Maybe one day a medium would help me make sense of it all, or a ghost would at least prove death wasn’t the end. All the hokum gave me hope.

By early 2001, I was a researcher (no longer junior) finding contributors for a show called Bump in the Night, which was about people doing house renovations who were finding disturbing things behind plasterwork, or having their home makeover disrupted by unwelcome apparitions. It was a difficult job, because it loaded extra layers on the casting process – house refurbs AND supernatural claptrap. Plus, Susie wasn’t there any more, having picked up a gig on Songs of Praise – one of the resident exorcists on Ghostly Goings On was also a vicar who asked for her number. She was busy finding bell ringers to take part in some competition they were running, and had developed tinnitus as a result. Whenever I called her, she just shouted down the phone about how the reverend was a real letch, but couldn’t hear anything I said in reply.

So, this time round I was on my own, pretty much, touring the country by train and in taxis, trying to find fixer-uppers fed up with their phantoms. I was also writing treatments for the production company, Beatnik Media, and found I’d started talking in the same style when I pitched the show, using a lot of alliteration on doorsteps. Because I was often crippled with embarrassment, I’d write myself a little script to parrot, to stop myself stammering and petering out on the phone, and it carried on when I got over the threshold, a steady format-patter that ensured there were no awkward silences or tricky questions.

Luckily, I hit the jackpot early on, finding a couple who were renovating an old vicarage outside Chipping Norton and had encountered all sorts of freaky things. Re-laying the lawn, they’d discovered a strange air raid shelter in the garden which led to a network of dripping tunnels. When they started converting the attic, they found a crawl space which may or may not have been a priest hole, but had unnerving child-like drawings on the walls. Finally, they were pretty sure there was a partition in the cellar that led to a hidden room. I’d persuaded them to let us film them knocking it through, just in case there was anything juicy behind it. I was very pleased with myself for securing them, and it made up for the lacklustre semi in Woking whose loft renovation had unearthed a mysterious locked box labelled ‘Do Not Open’ which, when we filmed them opening it, turned out to be completely empty. Mysterious, but not in an interesting way. As my series producer, Sharon, said, ‘That’s two minutes’ footage, max. Move on.’

The vicarage rapidly became the focus of the show, as more and more ghoulish stuff started happening. One of the garden’s underground tunnels had a pentacle drawn on the wall, and when the builders knocked through the house’s cellar partition, they found an old iron bed behind it, which really freaked everyone out, and when we researched the history of the site, it turned out that one of the previous residents was a vicar called Humphrey Ecclestone, who killed his entire family, followed by himself, in one of the bedrooms. The new owners, Jillian and Edgar, were no longer as keen on their new property after that. They were renting a cottage in the nearby town while they did the works, and decided to put the vicarage back on the market, so then the story became them trying to find a buyer for their creepy-as-fuck house. By this point, the entire staff of Beatnik Media were obsessed, all angling to come up and have a poke around. Personally, I didn’t ever see anything spooky there, but there was no doubt the place had a bad feeling. The best way of describing it was there was a sort of echo. Like the silence after an unearthly scream. But I’m aware that sounds fanciful to the point of foolish.