Page 8 of Rescuing Rosie
Rosie nodded. ‘The top influencers have many people. It takes a lot of work to create the perfect Instagram reel.’
‘Who knew?’ said Ashley. He counted under his breath, lifting his fingers one by one from the steering wheel. Rosie noticed his nicely manicured nails. ‘Five of them,’ he said, ‘not counting Madison herself. And they’re so …’
Rosie grinned. ‘Annoying?’
‘Did I say that?’
‘Demanding? Disruptive?’
‘Not at all,’ said Ashley, with a laugh that was slightly panicked. ‘“Could you dry off the daffodils so Madison can lie down in them?” is a perfectly normal request, surely.’
Rosie snorted. ‘Are you making that up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Is it okay if I use that in my piece?’
‘You won’t say who snitched?’
‘I always protect my sources.’
He sighed. ‘I see you’re familiar with this madness, Rosie.’
She smiled at him. ‘I am. Mega-influencers are …’ She searched for the right word, but there really wasn’t one. ‘I feel your pain,’ she said instead.
He nodded. ‘I should’ve got Gaz, our barman, to come and collect you, but to be honest I needed to get away before I lost it with Madison’s manager. Guy. Do you know him?’
Rosie didn’t – this was her first encounter with the Madison Tyler machine – but she remembered the comment Amara had added to Lucy’s briefing notes:Her manager’s a pain, but humour him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Were the daffodils his idea?’
‘Yes, and the Vybe publicist’s – Veronica? They had Madison prancing about by the lake à la Wordsworth. They ignored me when I pointed out that it was only Wordsworth’sheartthat danced with the daffodils. Then Guy suggested she should lie down and do a starfish, and that they should send up a drone to get the overhead shot. Luckily the photographer – Jono –’ He paused, and quickly glanced at Rosie again. ‘Heseems quite normal, and very nice …’
‘Yes, he’s a freelancer, we use him a lot,’ said Rosie. ‘Top bloke.’
Ashley had gone slightly pink.Ah, should’ve guessed.
‘Jono said,’ he continued, ‘in this wind, it would have taken him so long to get the drone into position, Madison would have been at risk of hypothermia. She was in theskimpiestlittle top and shorts and was actually turning blue while Jono and Guy were conferring. But luckily the gardener – he was panicking about his daffs – suggested swapping the lakeside shoot with tomorrow’s Gingerbread Shop visit. And the light wasn’t great anyway, and then it started to rain again.’
He lifted a hand and pointed. ‘On your left, Windermere. It’s England’s biggest lake, and many say the most beautiful.’
Rosie peered out of the window and glimpsed water beyond the trees. It was grey, choppy, and bleak. ‘Is it?’ she said, doubtfully.
‘On a good day. Although everyone has their personal fave.’
‘How many lakes are there? asked Rosie, with her research hat on.
‘Just over a hundred, if you count the tarns. A tarn’s a smallish lake.’
‘That’s a lot of lakes. Which isyourfavourite?’
‘Oh, I love a bit of drama, me, so that’d be Wastwater, over to the west.’ He waved a hand in what she supposed was a westerly direction.
‘Why is it dramatic?’
‘Dark, foreboding,’ he said. ‘It’s surrounded by the highest fells; great slopes of scree plunging into its depths – it’s England’s deepest lake and local legend says it’s bottomless.’
‘It has no bottom?’
