Page 54 of A Very Irish Christmas
He roots around in his camera bag, and pulls out a print. It’s a picture – of me. I’m staring intently at something, a look of delight on my face, my hair bright red against the snowy landscape. Like most women, I don’t always love pictures of myself – but this, I have to say, is beautiful. I just look so happy.
‘The robin,’ he says simply, ‘you’re looking at that robin we saw, on our way to the tower.’
I nod, and smile at the memory.
‘Thank you!’ I say sincerely. ‘I’ll treasure it. I didn’t even know you’d taken one of me.’
‘I’m sneaky like that. Right, I’m done out here – didn’t want to get going inside until you were here to stage manage.’
We head inside, and I see the Christmas tree has had a mini makeover. The cherry has been replaced with a more traditional star, and the hand-made ornaments have been shifted to the back. It looks a lot more glossy, and Ryan tells me he’s already taken some great shots – including one where they actually managed to make Jasper sit still for a minute. Christmas treesand Spaniel puppies, I think, making my way through to the library – a sure-fire hit.
Charles is in there, his favourite room, laughing at something that Jack Mullaney – the wizard man-cum-poet – has just said to him. Jack has been dressed in a tweed suit that Georgie found upstairs, and Orla is combing out his beard, tutting at every tangle. Several of the villagers are lurking around, dressed as I’ve asked in smart casual clothes.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, making my way over to Charles.
‘You’re not. It’s just that everyone else turned up early. I think they’re all pretty excited about their moment in the spotlight.’
I look around at the eager faces, and realise he’s right – there’s a real air of jollity in the room.
Once Jack is camera-ready, objecting fiercely to the little brush of powder Orla insists on applying, I arrange everyone in their seats. They’re given notebooks and pens, and jugs of water are scattered around. Jack has a little podium, and stands before reading from a book of his own poems. Georgie is here, taking video on her phone – Ryan inspected it and declared it fit for purpose, saying it would produce footage that was plenty good enough for the little snippets we need. She looks thrilled, buzzing with energy.
Leonora did indeed leave the day after she arrived, sneaking off at the crack of dawn without even telling anybody. If any of this has had a negative impact on her daughter, she definitely isn’t showing it now.
Ryan checks the lighting, and after a few false starts where people giggle or crack jokes, we get going. The end result is perfect – they look for all the world like a group of eager literature fans, come to hear a masterclass in the glorious surrounds of the Bancroft library.
I leave them all cheering, and head into the kitchen. This too has been transformed – Ryan and some of the other men-folk fixed the dents in the fridge, patched up the neglected plasterwork, and painted the walls with a fresh coat of white. The Aga has been cleaned, and new, shiny copper pots and pans are hanging from the hooks on the ceiling, along with braided bunches of garlic and herbs. The windowsill is full of fresh flowers, and the big old pine table is covered in bowls, mixers and ingredients.
I move some of it around – taking away branded packets that look a little tacky, adding a big bowl of fresh fruit, pouring the milk into a pottery jug rather than leaving it in its plastic container. The eggs are stored in a container in the shape of a hen, and a big wooden chopping board is coated with flour. It couldn’t look more wholesome if it tried.
Eileen bustles into the room, bearing a magnificent layer cake that is topped with fresh berries and meringue. She places it carefully on the table, curtsies, and says: ‘Here’s one I made earlier!’
‘It looks like heaven in a cake, Eileen.’
She nods, and wipes her hands on her blue-and-white striped apron, telling me she’s ‘ready for her close-up’.
Once Ryan’s set up his lights, we let her have free rein – I ask for a few specifics, like a shot of her plunging her hands into a big bowl of flour, white clouds wisping into the air. We have her cracking eggs and whisking, and ones of her opening and closing the Aga. After we’ve got the first few, I bring in a small group of villagers, and we get pictures of them watching her while holding their own bowls, as though they’re at a cookery lesson. At the end, we take snaps of Eileen slicing the beautiful cake, and everyone eating a piece. The expressions of ecstasy are not faked, and I grab myself a little slice – it’s going to be a long day.
We move from room to room doing similar things – the fake business meeting, the art class, the luxury suite upstairs. For that one we have Sarah again, sitting at the dresser in front of the mirror. She’s wearing a white robe, and we repeatedly get her to take her diamond earrings on and off while she looks at her reflection. We also do some of her in the four-poster bed, very demurely lying in the arms of her real-life husband, Paddy, both of them gazing across at the roaring fire.
In between takes, she swears like a trooper, swats Paddy across the head for ‘groping me arse under the covers, dirty thing’, and swigs more Champagne.
Orla has borrowed massage tables from one of her hair and beauty friends, and we’ve set them up in one of the better rooms. There are scented candles and incense burning, some kind of weird new-age music is playing, and Emily the fashion student and one of her friends are lying face down with stones on their backs. There is, of course, no spa at Bancroft Manor – but if Charles gets the investment he’s looking for, who knows?
This is all about showing the potential – and it is exhausting, especially for Ryan, who is involved in every single set-up. By the time we break for a late lunch, he looks tired, sitting on the steps of the terrace despite the cold weather, eating a plate of sandwiches.
‘You okay?’ I ask, popping my head around the door to check on him.
‘Sure. I’d just forgotten that this is actually hard work. Suppose I’ve got used to a life of manual labour, which is tougher on the body but way easier on the mind.’
‘Well, tell me if you need a break later, all right? You’re the most important person here and I can’t have you passing out on us. Let me know if it’s too much, Ryan?’
He shrugs, and says: ‘I will, yeah,’ in a tone that implies the absolute opposite. I roll my eyes and leave him to it. We’rebuilding up to what will be the biggest shoot of the day – the ballroom.
We start while it’s still light, with a table set up to host a bride, groom and their family. It’s cheap plywood beneath, but the crisp white linens cover that up, and the whole length of it is draped in exquisite flowers – a centrepiece of roses and hydrangeas in pretty shades of pink and lilac, and scattered smaller arrangements in the same colours. There was plenty of high-class tableware and silverware in storage in the house, and Eileen and Roberts have been busy preparing the wedding meal.
I bustle along the table, making a few adjustments that help it all look more real – as though the shots were taken in the middle of an actual wedding celebration. I move glasses, half fill some and top up others, scatter the surface with a few handfuls of confetti.
The food on the plates looks great – slices of roast beef, roast potatoes, fresh vegetables – but is stone cold by now. Luckily nobody has to actually eat it, just pretend.
