Chapter One

‘Home can be a sanctuary or a prison, a haven or a horror,’ Dahlia said, sipping thoughtfully on her White Lady cocktail. ‘It all depends on who you have to share it with.’

Dahlia Lively in A Lady’s Place by Lettice Davenport, 1934

ROSALIND

The last of the late August sunshine slid away behind the alder trees by the river as Rosalind watched, Amaretto in hand, leaning against the windowsill to take the weight off her aching knee. Outside, crickets chirped in the darkness, and a cooler breeze swept in from the east. Her eyes felt droopy; the drive from London had taken it out of her in a way it never used to.

Aldermere House wasn’t ready for sleep yet, even if she was. Beyond the miniature box hedges, fading lavender and – of course – bright dahlia flowers of the formal gardens, the South Lawn already hosted a giant, white marquee that shone in the fading light. Tomorrow, there’d be stalls and people and activity everywhere.

Even now, the house was busier than Rosalind was used to. But then, she hadn’t been back for a while. How long had it been since she’d been to stay with Isobel and Hugh? She shook her head. Too long to remember.

So why did she remember her first visit, almost forty years ago, like it was yesterday? She could still feel the thrumming excitement in her chest as Hugh’s Rolls Royce Silver Spirit had pulled into the driveway of his family estate, knowing that she was going to meet not just his parents, but his famous Aunt Letty, too.

Everything had felt so new, then. They’d only just begun filming The Lady Detective, and playing Dahlia Lively, the detective of the title, still seemed more like a dream than reality. Meeting Hugh on the set, there as the family representative to see that his aunt’s books were treated faithfully, was another piece of the fairy tale. Falling in love with him? Inevitable.

Especially after he’d brought her to Aldermere.

Because for Rosalind, Aldermere had been more than some old English manor house. It was a place of stories, and mystery, and possibility, and she’d experienced the strangest sense that a secret world had been opened up for her, and she had to hurry in before the door shut behind her.

She’d visited Aldermere House on countless occasions in the decades that followed, but it hadn’t given her that feeling in a long, long time.

Behind her, Isobel bustled around the library, her powder-blue dress and matching cardigan almost glowing in the sunlight from the window, her pale pink lipstick still perfect as she pursed her lips, considering the glass jug in her hands, before placing it on a high-up shelf. Rosalind watched as she locked the drinks cabinet, and pock- eted the small silver key.

‘Worried about the hoi polloi getting in?’ Rosalind joked. Isobel had embraced the Lady of the Manor role, the moment she’d gone from being Rosalind’s flatmate and friend to being Hugh’s wife. And now she’d had decades to perfect it.

Isobel rolled her eyes and groaned good-naturedly. ‘When we started talking about this whole convention thing, it was only in the grounds. But then suddenly Marcus – that’s the organiser, have you met him yet? He’s around here somewhere.’ Rosalind shook her head, and Isobel continued. ‘Anyhow, suddenly he was selling VIP tickets for people to stay here, and I was organising dinners and fork lunch buffets and all sorts. Honestly, I don’t know why Hugh agreed to it in the first place. He hates this sort of thing!’

‘Probably because he knows he can hide out in his study while you deal with all the Lettice Davenport fans descending on the place.’

‘True.’ Isobel sighed, but managed a smile all the same. Isobel was always smiling. While Rosalind had one of those faces that made people ask why she was scowling at them, Isobel’s lips seemed to naturally fall into a delighted smile without her thinking about it. ‘Still, at least it has been a good excuse to get you here for a visit, at last! Juliette’s been asking for ages when you’d be coming again.’

‘Juliette likes to grill me for backstage gossip about famous people,’ Rosalind said with a flap of her hand. Otherwise, being all of eight- een – no, nineteen now, wasn’t it? – Rosalind was sure that Isobel’s granddaughter had more important things to do than hang out with her grandma’s friends.

‘The perils of being a “national treasure”, I suppose.’ Isobel flashed her a teasing smile, as she quoted that damn magazine article from last month back at her. For a moment it could have been forty years ago, with them in their trailer on the set of The Lady Detective, Rosalind dressed in her best Dahlia Lively wide-legged trousers, tailored shirt and ropes of pearls, and Isobel decked out as her trusty maid and sidekick, Bess.

The film that had made them friends. That had introduced them both to Hugh. That had set up Rosalind’s career – and Isobel’s marriage. But it wasn’t the early eighties any longer – or even the 1930s, whatever the set-up at Aldermere seemed to suggest. They were firmly in the twenty-first century now, and her life and Isobel’s had split onto their own paths a long time ago.

‘And anyway, I’d rather Juliette be gossiping with you than on the phone to that awful boyfriend of hers.’ Isobel shuddered. ‘Not the right sort, I’m afraid.’

‘Do you think he had something to do with her leaving university?’ Rosalind asked.

‘Probably. She says she left because it wasn’t going to teach her anything useful, and she’d rather be back here at Aldermere working in the family business. She’s been on at Hugh for months to let her do more work on Letty’s estate – compiling her old notebooks, that sort of thing. There’s a publisher who’s interested, but the notes are so scattered . . . Anyway, I rather suspect that’s just the excuse, and she’s back here for that boy, even though she claims they’re not really together. But what can I do? She thinks she’s too adult to listen to her grandmother, and her mother—’

The silence after Isobel broke off hung in the air.

‘How is Serena?’ A delicate subject, always. But Rosalind was one of the few who could get away with addressing it. Not just as Serena’s godmother, but as the friend who had seen Isobel through the morning sickness on set, had helped her hide the growing bump as filming drew to a close, and the flatmate who’d helped with the middle of the night feeds and a cot and all the other baby stuff in the too small two-bed they shared, before Hugh and Isobel met and fell in love, marrying when Serena was two.

Isobel’s heavy sigh said more than her answer could. ‘She’s in the right place, at least.’

Rehab again then, Rosalind assumed. Maybe this time it would stick.

‘You and Hugh have done all you can for her.’ Rosalind wasn’t sure that was true, but it felt like the sort of thing a friend would say. ‘You’ve got her help. Now she just needs to accept it.’

Isobel’s wobbly smile was grateful. She moved away to brush a few specks of dust from the nearest bronze bust, and Rosalind knew the discussion was over. Casting around for a new subject, she took in the room anew. She’d spent so many hours in the library and adjoining Sun Room at Aldermere – the favourite place for after- dinner drinks – that her memory filled in her surroundings more than her eyes.

But now she really looked, she could see the changes. The painting by a middling-famous impressionist that Hugh’s father had always been so proud of had been replaced by the local landscape that used to hang in Hugh’s study. The leather wingback chairs looked tired and worn, the rug almost threadbare.

Had Isobel moved the better things to where they couldn’t be damaged by the guests? Except Rosalind was sure that rug was the same one she’d been walking on since her first visit. The chairs, too, were familiar old friends.

Rehab, Rosalind knew from the experiences of friends, wasn’t cheap.

‘Why did Hugh agree to hold this thing here at Aldermere? He normally dismisses all those sorts of events requests from the fans, doesn’t he?’ Rosalind had seen him rip up requests to visit the house at the breakfast table, dropping the shredded paper beside the shred- less marmalade. But if they needed the money . . .

‘Oh, goodness only knows. Marcus was more persuasive than most, I suppose. He’s head of the Lettice Davenport fan club, you know? Of course you do. Anyway, we’ve worked with him on a few bits and pieces before. Nothing like this weekend, though. And then there’s the new film – Hugh is discussing letting them film here, if you can believe it.’ Frowning, Isobel surveyed the room with its priceless heirlooms and well-stocked cocktail cabinet. ‘Maybe we’ll keep everyone except those staying at the house out of here altogether. We can do coffee in the front drawing room. It’s next to the ballroom for lunch, anyway, so that will be easier for everyone. I can lock this room during the day. Yes, that would be better.’

The front drawing room was also furnished with the pieces of Hugh’s family furniture that Isobel had never been entirely compli- mentary about, if Rosalind remembered correctly.

‘Still, Marcus is thrilled to have all three of you here for this weekend,’ Isobel went on. ‘Three Dahlias at the same convention! Last- minute ticket sales went through the roof when that was announced, I believe.’

‘Heaven knows why,’ Rosalind grumbled, glancing out of the window at the giant marquee, squatting on the South Lawn. ‘I haven’t played Dahlia in thirty-five years, and even the TV series has been off air for the last three or four. The new movie hasn’t even started filming. Besides, you’d think fans would be coming to see the place where Letty wrote her books, not us.’

Isobel gave her a fond smile. ‘They are, I’m sure. But to so many fans you – and Caro Hooper, and whoever this new girl is, too – you’re Dahlia Lively, brought to life. Of course they want to see you. And all three of you together? That’s a real coup for Marcus.’

‘I suppose.’ Rosalind didn’t much like the reminder that she wasn’t the only Dahlia, to be frank. For so long, she’d been the only one to grace the screen and give those perfectly crafted putdowns, to raise that solitary eyebrow at a murderer and have them crumble into a confession.

She always tried to be honest with herself, though, even when others weren’t. She knew she was the old guard, now. There were newer, younger actresses ready to take her place.

But they’d never take her crown. She would forever be the first Dahlia Lively on the silver screen, and that counted for something. The only actress Lettice Davenport had lived to see play her greatest creation. And Letty had loved her in the role.

‘Now, what next?’ Isobel placed her hands on her still slender hips and surveyed the room, one low-heeled shoe tapping against the wooden floor where the worn rug didn’t cover it. The frown line between her perfectly arched eyebrows deepened. ‘This weekend has to go perfectly.’

Her tone gave Rosalind pause. She seemed . . . stressed. She’d never seen Isobel stressed before. Even as a single mother in the early eighties she’d been an oasis of calm.

‘Isobel?’ she said, softly. ‘Is everything okay? I mean, is it just the convention tomorrow that has you . . . a little worked up?’ She couldn’t ask about money outright, of course. Isobel would be horri- fied at the implication and clam up completely. Still, if she needed to talk . . .

Isobel’s shoulders stiffened even more.

‘It’s nothing. Well, not nothing. But nothing we need to talk about.’ Her words were clipped, almost as if she were talking to a stranger, rather than her oldest friend.

‘Are you sure?’ Rosalind stepped closer, awkwardly placing a hand on her friend’s shoulder. They weren’t the touchy-feely types, never had been. But she’d never seen Isobel like this, either. Not when she found out she was pregnant, not when Serena’s father ran off at the news. Not even when Hugh broke his engagement to Rosalind to marry Isobel instead. Never. ‘You know you can talk to me about anything.’ That was the advantage of a long history together. Context and understanding.

Isobel hiccupped a laugh that was almost a sob. ‘You’ll say I deserve it.’

‘I wouldn’t.’ Rosalind admitted to herself that there was a chance she might think it, under the right circumstances. But she wouldn’t say it. Their friendship had only survived as long as it had by both of them not saying the things they were thinking, when it mattered.

‘I think . . . no, I’m sure.’ Isobel checked over her shoulder at the library door, then met Rosalind’s gaze, her blue eyes wide and wet, and Rosalind felt time slowing, never quite enough to halt what was coming next. ‘Hugh is having an affair.’

Rosalind’s heart stopped beating, the sound of the mantel clock replacing its steady thump with its own sluggish tick. None of the clocks in this house were ever right, Rosalind remembered, as if that mattered at all. Time wasn’t important in a house stuck forever in the golden age of crime.

Her senses caught up with her in a whoosh, carrying her heartbeat along with it.

‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she said, shaking her head as if to rid it of the very idea. ‘Besides, aren’t we too old for all that nonsense now?’

Isobel snorted. ‘You and I might be, but you know it’s always different for men.’

Everything was, in Rosalind’s experience. But especially this.

‘Hugh loves you. He chose you.’ Rosalind swallowed the pain in the words. Isobel was her friend and it was almost forty years ago, now. ‘You have the perfect life here together. Why would he cheat?’

Isobel didn’t answer immediately, and before Rosalind could press her, there was a knock on the library door.

‘Mrs Davenport?’ A pretty twenty-something in jeans and a t-shirt appeared in the doorway, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She had a clipboard in her hands, and a harried look about her. Rosalind recognised her as the convention assistant Marcus had sent to sweet- talk her into taking part in the event, way back in the spring.

‘Yes, Clementine?’ Isobel turned, her smile back in place, even if her eyes were still sad. ‘What is it?’

‘So sorry to disturb you, but the catering staff would like to run through the menus for tomorrow’s dinner with you, if you have the time? There have been a few last-minute changes, I believe, and there are some questions about the wine pairings, particularly.’ Her soft, Scottish accent was apologetic, but insistent.

Isobel sighed, her smile never wavering. ‘Of course. I’ll come now. Sorry, Rosalind, I won’t be long. Perhaps you could go and bother Hugh in his study? If it’s wine pairings they want to talk about, he’ll be far more use than me.’

‘Of course.’ Rosalind watched her friend walk away with the younger woman before she followed her out, through the doors that led to the dining room.

Aldermere felt less welcoming alone. Despite all the activity she knew was going on outside, and down in the lower ground-floor kitchens, as she moved through the empty dining room – its table already set for sixteen – she felt alone in the house. A ghost, trapped in her own history.

She remembered so many days here.

That first dinner, when Hugh had introduced her to his family as the woman he intended to marry. Or the day, less than a year later, when they’d ended their relationship down by the folly, and she’d still had to sit down at this damn mahogany table for dinner afterwards.

Was he really having an affair with someone else? Rosalind wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Through the dining-room door, she passed into the grand entrance hall, with its sweeping staircase and imposing family portraits. The golden dinner gong, set in a recess beside the door, trembled a little as she let the door fall closed, and she reached out to steady it.

Beneath it, on the telephone table, was an envelope addressed to Hugh. She picked it up, to take to him in his study.

The light was poor, the wall lamps more for atmosphere than practicality, and in the semi-darkness she could almost imagine that she saw Lettice Davenport herself – not as the mischievous elderly aunt she’d met in the eighties, but as a young woman – descending that curved staircase. A man’s white shirt tucked into her skirt, short bobbed hair and that ever-present grey felt hat she wore in photos. The epitome of the 1930s woman who made her own rules.

Or was that Dahlia Lively, not Lettice? Rosalind had asked her once, if Dahlia did all the things that Letty herself wasn’t allowed to. Letty had grinned, and replied, ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps the things I got up to were too scandalous even for Dahlia.’

Rosalind hoped that was true. Everyone needed a touch of scandal in their lives, didn’t they?

At the foot of the stairs stood a dollhouse replica of Aldermere House, and Rosalind lingered to examine it. It was like looking into a miniature world. The rooms flowed from one to another just as they did in the real house, and Rosalind picked out Letty’s attic room study, her own assigned guest room looking out over the front drive- way, even the tiny gong beside the dining room with its table set with minuscule knives and forks. And there, beside the replica staircase, was another dollhouse, with ever smaller rooms and features.

‘Lettice was a very visual writer, you know.’

Rosalind started at the unexpected, unfamiliar voice. ‘She used this dollhouse to plot out her murder mysteries – who was where when the murder was committed, and with whom. That sort of thing. Every book she ever wrote started here, with this model.’

Trying to calm her breathing, Rosalind straightened again, but didn’t turn away from the dollhouse.

‘Apart from all the ones that weren’t set in stately homes,’ she said. Really, was there anything more annoying than a man assuming they knew more than you? ‘She used maps for those. Letty told me herself, many years ago. The dollhouse was up in her study then, of course.’

She turned, at last, and found herself glaring at a large, florid man wearing a sports jacket over a stained white shirt, who appeared to have come from the front drawing room. His face turned a little pucer as he recognised her.

‘Ah, of course. The celebrated Dahlia Lively herself, Rosalind King. So glad you were able to join us this weekend. Of course, you’re an old friend of the family, aren’t you? You must come here all the time.’ With an amiable smile, he made his way over to stand beside her in front of the model.

‘Sometimes,’ Rosalind said, shortly.

Her tone didn’t put him off, or slow the wide, knowing smirk that spread across his face. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’ He held out a hand and, reluctantly, Rosalind shook it – only to have him bring it to his lips for a kiss instead. She held back a shudder, and snatched it back.

She wouldn’t have done, back in the day. But times had changed. And besides, there had to be some advantages to growing older. Caring less about offending other people was one of them.

‘I’m Marcus. The organiser of this whole carnival!’ He spread his arms wide as if Aldermere itself was in his domain, his control. ‘We have actually met before, although I don’t imagine you remember. I played one of the teenage members of the criminal gang in the third Dahlia Lively movie with you!’

He gave her a hopeful look, for all his words about not expecting her to remember. Which she didn’t. ‘Did you really? Imagine that.’

‘Long time ago now. Anyway, I look forward to getting to know you better this weekend. I have a feeling it’s going to be the sort of event that goes down in Dahlia Lively history.’

‘For the right reasons, I hope.’ After forty-plus years in the entertainment industry, Rosalind liked to think she’d developed a good sense for people. And Marcus vibrated with the sort of energy she went out of her way to avoid. He’d made a good choice sending Clementine to persuade her to attend, she decided, as he headed for the stairs. If he’d come himself, she was certain she’d have said no, however much she was needed.

Mostly certain, anyway. Aldermere had a strange way of drawing her back in, even when she intended to stay away.

‘Of course, of course.’ Marcus chuckled to himself as he thumped up the stairs, one heavy footstep after another, his plump hand grasping the bannister. ‘I’m sure Lettice herself would approve of every- thing I have planned.’

Rosalind wasn’t sure that was altogether reassuring.

As Marcus’s footsteps faded, she glanced around to ensure that she really was alone, and unobserved, this time. Her knees cracked as she bent in front of the dollhouse again – daily yoga could only do so much – and looked inside.

There, lying on the dining table, was a miniature figure – one she was almost certain hadn’t been there before. A frown creased her fore- head as she reached in to pick it up. It looked like one of Letty’s dolls from the study, the ones she’d used to plot out her mysteries. But Rosalind had never noticed this one on any of her previous visits.

Waxy pale skin. Closed eyes.
And a tiny bottle marked Poison clutched in its hand.

Chapter Two

‘As a general rule, Detective Inspector, I assume that everyone is lying to me until they can prove otherwise.’

Dahlia Lively in The Lady Detective by Lettice Davenport, 1929

POSY

Posy Starling grabbed hold of the rail beside the luggage rack as the train lurched out of Kings Cross station, its wheels squealing against the tracks as if it resented having to leave London at all.

She knew how it felt.

London had been her safety net ever since she left LA – and her parents – behind. Now, she was headed out into the wilds of the English countryside, with no idea what to expect.

She’d officially been cast as the latest Dahlia Lively for less than twenty-four hours, and she was already out of her depth.

Posy held back as the others stashed their weekend bags and took their seats. Anton, their director, took the longest, which didn’t surprise her since he had a massive suitcase with him. She’d only met him a few times, but he’d been wearing basically the same thing at every one of her auditions – scuffed-up jeans and an open-collared shirt. She’d got the impression that he was too busy thinking about more important things to care what he looked like.

But as she watched him try to heft the huge case onto the rack, she took in the well-tailored, dark grey trousers he was wearing today, and wondered if she might have been wrong.

‘I’ve got it.’ Kit Lewis, her new co-star, reached back and took the handle of the suitcase from Anton, swinging it up onto the rack with surprising ease for someone of his slender build. He didn’t make a big deal of it, though, which Posy liked. He grinned at Anton, then went back to stashing his own stuff and finding his seat.

There’d been a lot of articles written about Kit’s casting – the usual ‘political correctness gone mad’ brigade, pointing out that since every other iteration of Detective Inspector Johnnie Swain in print and on screen had been white, this one should be too. But watching Kit take his seat opposite Libby, their scriptwriter, Posy thought he had just the right feel about him. Policemen were supposed to be helpful and make you feel secure. She didn’t know Kit well – outside the chemistry read they’d done together, they’d hardly met – but she already sensed he’d be able to pull that off well.

Ahead of her, Anton opened the battered leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder and flicked through the contents to retrieve his mobile phone. Posy watched him idly, the thick stack of paper filling the bag catching her attention. Could that be the new script?

She looked away as Anton’s head jerked up and the flap of the satchel fell closed. Wouldn’t be good to be caught spying on the boss. Posy shoved her old duffle bag on the rack beside Anton’s case.

‘So, is everybody ready for our weekend of murder and mayhem?’ Anton rubbed his hands together, a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, as he took his seat beside Libby. The elderly couple in the seats across the aisle shot them a concerned look. Obviously they hadn’t watched Kit in the Sunday-night period drama he was starring in currently. Or maybe they didn’t recognise him in street clothes. Out of costume, actors always looked different. Since moving to London, Posy could count on her fingers the number of times she’d been recognised.

Maybe that was a sign of how long it had been since she’d had a role that mattered.

But actually, now Kit had taken off his jacket – even in August, London was cold in the early morning – Posy could see he’d dressed up for the occasion. Brown cords, braces and a shirt, unlike the ratty jeans and tee he’d worn when she’d auditioned opposite him.

‘Born ready,’ he said, shooting Anton a grin. ‘Can’t beat a bit of mayhem on a bank holiday, can you?’

Posy took the seat beside him. ‘Depends on the kind of mayhem, I guess.’

‘Spoilsport,’ Kit teased, tilting his head closer to hers, and Posy couldn’t help but smile. ‘How about you, Libby?’

‘You know me, Kit. I’m all about the murder, not the mayhem.’ Libby’s voice was as dry as the straw hat she held in her lap.

‘That’s true.’ Kit leant across the gap between the seats, his arms resting on his knees. ‘And does that mean you’ve finished writing all our murder and mayhem for us? Only it’s getting kinda close to our shooting dates and all . . .’

Anton reached out to cuff Kit’s shoulder with the novel in his hand – not a Lettice Davenport, Posy noticed. ‘Have faith, man! Don’t you know, this woman here has saved more movie scripts than you’ve had overpriced pints in London pubs.’

‘Yeah, she’s a script doctor extraordinaire, I know.’ Kit gave Libby an apologetic smile. ‘It’s just… you know. There’s still a lot of talk about . . .’

‘The curse.’ Anton groaned, and tipped his head back against the headrest with a despairing eye roll. ‘Kit, how many projects have we worked on together?’

‘Three.’

‘And how many of them have people said were cursed?’
‘Just this one, actually.’ Posy hid a smile at the mischievous grin on Kit’s face as he spoke. ‘And you have to admit, they’re not exactly lacking evidence.’

The supposed curse was something Posy only knew about from internet rumours, googled on the way to and from her audition, but there were plenty of those to choose from. Starting with the reason that Posy had been brought on board as Dahlia Lively in the first place. If it hadn’t been for a traffic accident that put the original actress in hospital – and plaster and physiotherapy for months to come – Posy’s agent would never have got the call about the audition.

Then there was the investor who pulled out after a fraud investigation was launched into them, the fire at the stately home they’d originally planned to film at . . .

And then there was the script.

The first script, as Posy understood it, had caused a row between the production team and the Davenport family. The team loved it, the family thought it was ‘a travesty of everything Lettice Davenport stood for’, according to one report.

To make things worse, it had then been leaked by someone connected with the film – accounts varied on who – and released on the internet. Where hardcore Dahlia Lively fans and newcomers alike had panned it so completely that the original head writer had quit the business and disappeared indefinitely into the wilderness on some retreat – after being summarily fired.

That was when Anton had brought Libby on board to fix it. Or, Posy guessed, rewrite it from scratch.

She’d never heard of Libby McKinley before, despite all her years in the industry, but when she googled her last night, after Anton told her about the weekend and who’d be attending with her, it became clear that was because she hadn’t been paying attention. Libby might not make a big deal about it, or seek the spotlight or the media inter- views, but she’d worked as a script doctor on scripts for seven out of ten of the biggest movies that had come out in the last decade. She was usually uncredited, but the internet knew everything.

‘Look, if everything goes well this weekend, we’ll have the script approved and be able to film at Aldermere House itself. Home of Lettice Davenport, people.’ Anton looked between them, apparently searching their faces for an appropriate level of excitement. Posy smiled and nodded in return, and saw the others do the same. ‘There’s no curse here! We are on the up. Okay?’

‘Right, boss,’ Kit said, still looking unconvinced, while Posy nodded again.

She needed this film. Cursed or not. But she’d really rather it wasn’t, when it came down to it.

‘Of course we are,’ Libby added. ‘The script is done, Kit. It’s with Hugh Davenport right now. That’s why I’m here – to iron out any last issues with the family so we can start filming. Don’t worry so much. I’ve done this before, you know.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ Kit looked more reassured by Libby’s words than Anton’s.

At least that cleared up one mystery for Posy. It had been a while since she’d done an event like this, for sure, but even so, she knew they would normally be travelling with a publicist. Given all the negative press swirling around the movie, she’d found it even stranger when she arrived at the station to discover it was just the four of them facing the hordes of rabid fans alone.

She’d tried to ask Anton about it, but he’d shrugged and said that there were only four rooms available at Aldermere House for them, and Libby had wanted to come. And since he wasn’t about to leave his two stars at home, there wasn’t room for a publicist.

It hadn’t rung true, at the time. But if he needed Libby there to get the script approved, well, that made sense. And Anton had told her that the presence of a new Dahlia Lively had been confirmed for the convention weeks before she was actually cast in the role. She hoped nobody would be too disappointed when they found out it was her.

Posy glanced at Libby again. She must be about the same age as Anton, late thirties Posy guessed, and despite her quiet, reserved demeanour, was obviously capable of holding her own in front of directors, actors and Davenport family members alike. Even if she looked like she was heading to a WI afternoon tea in her floral tea dress and cardigan.

Wait.

Dread mounting inside her, Posy looked from Libby, to Kit, to Anton and back again.

Anton’s dark grey trousers and sports jacket could have been him making an effort. Same for Kit’s slightly baggy brown cords and braces. But put together with Libby’s village fete chic? Posy stared at her denim-clad knees, and felt the weight of her pale suede moto jacket on her shoulders as she imagined the write-ups on the fashion blogs.

‘Posy Starling made another sartorial error over the August bank holiday weekend, almost as awful as the dress she wore to the 2014 Oscars ceremony (her movie, you’ll recall, did not win, which was just as well as she’d never have made it up the stairs in those glass shoes. Or possibly it was something else impairing her balance . . .)’

‘Did I miss a costume memo?’ she asked, bluntly.

Anton gave her a faintly patronising smile. ‘Not at all. But yes, the Aldermere convention will be, well, period themed, so we all dressed accordingly.’

She would have dressed accordingly, if anyone had bothered to warn her. Anton had barely told her more than the name of the place they were going when he called last night to formally offer her the role and invite her. ‘Aldermere House, home of Lettice Davenport herself! Nothing to stress about, it’s a bit of a photo op for the fans, really,’ he’d told her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said again now, still smiling in spite of the scowl she knew had settled onto her face. ‘I did bring a few things along for you, in case you wanted to join in the spirit of things a little more.’

‘That would be . . . good,’ she said, watching doubtfully as he jumped up and headed for the luggage rack. Why had he assumed she wouldn’t want to join in?

Okay, she could probably guess why. Even if she hoped that she – and the world – had moved past all that when she left LA, Posy knew it wasn’t really the case. When people looked at her, they didn’t see a twenty-nine-year-old actress who was serious about her career. Some of them saw the know-nothing child star, or the awkward young teen who couldn’t quite grow into her looks.

But that was if she was lucky. Most of the time, if you said the name Posy Starling, people only got one mental image – and it wasn’t from any of her films.

When they thought of Posy Starling, people instantly saw that intrusive, hideous photo of her unconscious on the sidewalk outside the Magpie Club in LA, waiting for the ambulance and the paramedics that would save her life. They saw her vomit-slicked hair and grey skin, the tiny snakeskin dress pushed too far up her thighs. Her bare shoulders, caught mid-shudder as the drugs wreaked havoc in her body.

It didn’t matter that it was over five years ago now. That she’d been through rehab and come out the other side. That she’d changed continents, changed her life, changed everything.

She couldn’t change how the world saw her.

Until now. This film was her chance to show everyone another side to her. The grown-up, professional side.

She wished she’d had more time to prepare.

Posy watched Anton bob and weave with the movement of the train as he rifled through the contents of his suitcase. He emerged holding a floral tea dress, not unlike Libby’s in style, but with pastel, watercolour flowers where Libby’s were crisp-edged browns and reds.

‘What do you think?’ He gave the dress a little shake, so she could fully appreciate its awfulness. Beside her, Kit raised his eyebrows, then turned to look out of the window.

‘It’s not very . . . me, is it?’ That was about as much diplomacy as Posy could manage at this time in the morning.

‘Well, you’re not supposed to be you this weekend, Posy. That’s what acting is all about.’ Anton took his seat, placing the dress on her lap, along with a pair of vintage-style shoes in her size to match. ‘This weekend you’re Dahlia Lively, the Lady Detective.’

She looked at the dress again. It didn’t look particularly Dahlia- like either, in Posy’s opinion. But then, what did she know? She’d picked up the first book in the series to read but she still hadn’t had the chance to start it. All she had to go on was re-runs of the old TV series with Caro Hooper, that she used to watch at her gran’s on a Sunday afternoon.

That Dahlia had been all men’s clothes, cigarette holders and sass. Not floral tea dresses.

‘Posy . . . listen.’ Anton leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice soft so they all had to lean in to listen. Kit drew his attention from the window, and even Libby looked up from her phone. ‘I know you’re new to the project, that you haven’t had a lot of time to sit with the role yet. But if there’s one thing I want you to know before we go into this weekend, it’s this. This film is going to be seminal. Important.’

Up close, Posy could see the crow’s feet forming around his eyes on his tanned face, and the lines that started by his nose and disap- peared into the dark thatch of his beard. She mentally revised her estimate of his age up by a few years. Early forties, she decided, for sure. The media always described Anton Martinez as a young and up-and-coming director, but she supposed he’d been up-and-coming for a while now. Shouldn’t he have, well, up-and-come already?

Posy twisted the fabric of the tea dress between her fingers, and stayed silent.

‘We’re doing something new with the Lettice Davenport novels,’ Anton went on. ‘We’re bringing them into the twenty-first century! It’s not just the non-traditional casting, or the filming techniques – or even Libby’s new script. It’s the feel of the whole thing. And the fans won’t get that until they can see the finished product.’

‘Which they won’t have done this weekend.’ Kit folded his arms behind his head and sat back, one ankle resting on his knee. ‘So I guess we’ll have to rely on natural charm and wit. Good job you brought me along.’

Anton rolled his eyes. ‘What you need to do, all of you, is stop worrying about the script, or talk about curses, or what other people think, and trust the process.’

Kit’s mouth curved into a wry half-smile. ‘Ah, but that’s the actor’s bane, isn’t it? We’re only ever worth what other people think of us.’

‘Dahlia Lively never cared what other people thought,’ Libby said, her tone thoughtful. ‘She cared about the truth.’

Which effectively put an end to that conversation.

Posy leapt to her feet, then reached out to grab the rail as the train took a corner, the world suddenly unstable beneath her feet. ‘I’d better go and get changed into this.’

Wriggling out of jeans and into a dress in the filthy, tiny train toilet wasn’t an experience she’d recommend to others. And some- how, the dress itself looked worse on her body than off. The mirror was grimy, so she fished her phone out of her jeans pocket and took a top-down selfie, studying it in the poor light.

Damon would love me in this dress.

The thought flickered through her head before she could stop it. She tried not to think of Damon these days. Still, when he turned up and started occupying her headspace, she did what her therapist had told her to do, and examined whether the things he was saying or doing in there were true.

Damon wouldn’t love her because, as far as she’d been able to ascertain, Damon was incapable of love. He would approve of the dress, though, because it was exactly what he’d always hoped she’d wear. Feminine, soft, malleable.

All the things that Posy wasn’t.

And neither was Dahlia Lively, by all accounts.

At least that was something they had in common.

With a sigh, Posy unlocked the door and headed out into the carriage.

‘What do you think?’ She struck a pose. ‘Will I do?’

Kit winced. Libby looked like she thought Dahlia’s creator was probably rolling in her grave somewhere.

‘Perfectly Dahlia!’ Anton grinned. ‘The fans are going to love you.’

To keep reading…