Much longer. They might end up like this. No credits but you can probably guess what I don't own (like Irn Bru and Jo Frost). Yeh, school is coming back so probably won't be writing this often.

-pureclass

He woke early the next day and followed the directions she'd given him – he was apparently not to trust his namesake satellite navigation device – and arrived in what appeared like the middle of nowhere. Confident that she would, in fact, come meet him like she promised he lounged beneath an oak just off the roadside. It had been a blizzard yesterday and the snow still lay near a foot deep in a perfect circle around the tree with only a slight covering beneath the canopy.

She arrived – by bike – only a few minutes into his daydream. He broke from his reverie to her picturesque face, framed like a painting by the still landscape behind. Drat, how he wished he'd had his phone out to take a picture.

"I brought an offering of lasagne." He proudly declared, holding out the large casserole dish that he had perfectly balanced on his palm.

"Not exactly traditionally Irish." She giggled and steadied it then took it from him completely, allowing him to get back to the Irn-Bru in his other hand.

"No," he answered honestly, "But it is from my ma's recipe book. Stayed up near all night making that. I mean, from what I hear, you don't just walk into some rich bloke's house virtually unannounced and disturbing on a family affair empty-handed. Then dictate rugby." He now put on his most emphasised, proper, posh accent and stated, "It simply isn't done."

This made her laugh no end, to the point of almost dropping his precious lasagne. He smirked smugly and took a swig from his bottle of pop.

"Come on. They won't approve of my being late." In hysterics she very nearly hopped back onto her bike, casserole dish in tow. "Actually," she asked, "Can I catch a ride with you?" His hire car was really a small truck, a beat up Chevy with a two-seat cab.

"Sure, but you'll have to squish on the drivers' seat with me. I know it's not quite legal but the lasagne has shot-gun priority and it's either that or in the back."

She looked unnerved at the idea of squatting in the tarpaulin covered pen attached to the back of the vehicle.

"It's okay, think I'll live on the wild side just this once. Can my bike take the back, though?"

"Yep, just slide it under the mat. There shouldn't be any snow under there."

Slowing at the gravel drive he decided it would be no use so turned round and parked up where he was absolutely sure there wouldn't be any yellow lines. They walked together the rest of the way, leaving his discarded breakfast containers in the cab and lugging both the generous 'offering' and her bike the rest of the way. Once the 'castle' appeared on the horizon he nearly dropped the still-hot dinner as his jaw fell.

"You never mentioned that your family owned Buckingham Bloody Palace!"

"They don't – it's called Downton Abbey and it's nowhere near the size of Buckingham."

"Nowhere near? Its frickin' huge!"

"Bigger than your holiday home in the country?"

"To say that any holiday home in the country I own is either some B&B I've checked into more than a couple times or that beach loo at Blackpool where I missed the can, 'bigger' is an understatement."

"Ugh, too much detail. Though I guess animals do mark their territory. Oh, speaking of detail, what's our story?"

"Huh?"

"D'ya really expect us to turn up in a few minutes and for me to explain that I met you on a train yesterday and invited you back to watch TV? No, we have to invent something."

"True. How about, wait – do you go to Uni?" Drat, he'd graduated and she seemed so much younger, so much more innocent that maybe she was still in college.

"Yes, I'm graduating this year I hope." Phew.

"Well, er," he was flustered at the stupid question, how young could he think she was, shouldn't he know that she'd nearly graduated, "How about you say that we have a mutual friend wherever. It's probably not a lie, anyway." Did she not want to deceive her parents, just stretch the truth a little – or not even that at all.

"Yeh, but then we'd need a friend readily available to vouch for us and we really don't have time to correlate our phonebooks at the eleventh hour." They'd started walking again.

"Then, er, say we met on a train but not yesterday, a while back."

"And what? We met on a train a while back and now he's here. You don't know my family – they'll drill us both separately like a police interrogation. You'll be hung, drawn and quartered before you know it."

"Nice euphemism."

"Thanks. Oh, I got it, say that you're my boyfriend." He nearly choked.

"What!" What? How many millions of men in the world would love to be in his position right now and he'd choked out the word that sounded like he was appalled at the idea. Damn straight she was forward, but why shouldn't she be? At least she would realise now – if she hadn't already – that he wasn't trying to get close to her because of her money or fame or whatever. Apologise. "Sorry, er, yeh. Okay."

"Good," she replied, taking his available hand in hers, "Because we're at the door now." Oh. Yeah. He glanced up, how could he not have realised they'd arrived at the massive building and had climbed ten steps up to the at least 20 foot tall solid wood door. He swallowed. The whole thing looked taller than the Houses of Parliament, and he should know.

"It's bloody huge." He repeated, managing to stutter nothing but the familiar words, breath taken at the enormous residence. And, as it just so happens, the butler opened the door at the exact moment he did. Not disgruntled, the older man's perfect emotionless composure remained as he held the door open.

"Miss Sybil, Guest." He welcomed them.

"His name's Tom, Carson. Tom Branson."

"Welcome, Mr Branson, to Downton Abbey." Yep, definitely felt like a film.

"Cheers." He said, in a completely different world and barely registering what his senses picked up. He himself stood expressionless, mouth aghast, staring at his surroundings. He slowly did a 360°-take. This point, he thought, would be where they had a camera above him, zooming out, to show him and then widening the shot to show everything he was seeing. But, as it happened, there were no cameras. Story of his life.

"May I show you and your – friend – through to the library?" Carson asked hesitantly, what should he refer to this guest as?

"Library?" Tom woke. Yes, he'd just graduated and worked for the Leader of the Opposition but damn he loved a good library. And this one promised to be huge. Carson appeared to have mistaken his gasp for shock of disbelief at someone having a personal library as opposed to enthusiasm to explore it, but Sybil appeared to know different by the grimace she pulled. Was it right that she could still look so beautiful with the most horrible expression etched onto her perfectly-sculpted features?

"Yes, Mr Branson, right this way." He led them through to the large hall. Is it also possible for a single room in a house to appear that it stretches far further than the confines that said house appears to have from the outside, even when that house seems larger than any other building one has ever seen before anyway? Apparently so. There were no mirrors on the far wall or depth-illusion wallpaper, or even bookshelf wallpaper to make it appear that family owned more First Editions than they already did. Had he been staring? No, no-one was looking at him strangely. So far, so good. Damn. She hadn't primed him on her family.

Let her talk. There were three of them in the room. Another older man, but not as old as the butler, sitting behind a desk. Then there was a woman, a little younger than him, in a long, flowing red dress with her hair strapped to the top of her head in a way that looked painful. Finally, there was a young man, about his age, with blonde hair that darkened slightly near the roots to a strawberry blonde and on the back of his neck to a golden shade. He was in a formal dinner jacket, suit and bow tie. Tom glanced down and noticed, he was in jeans – smart jeans – and a fitted T-shirt with a man's cardigan on top. His coat had been discarded in the hallway, he presumed. Plus the loafers. Tom was pleased with himself, he must have wanted to make an impression or, knowing him, he'd have turned up looking like a hobo. In truth he did, but only in comparison to these people. Did they really need to dress like that for watching rugby? Or would they change?

He now noticed what Sybil was wearing; a low-cut denim skirt and basketball-striped knee socks pulled slightly up her thigh, green Converse without the ankle so they looked like pumps and a girly blouse. Her dark curls had been plaited twice, into pigtails. They were coming undone slightly and whilst one hung over her shoulder, the other was in front and the frayed end was being fidgeted with absentmindedly between her index and middle fingers. The splayed corner edge neared her perfectly rosy lips, accented by peach lip gloss that glittered as it was hit by the overhead light. She was the picture of beauty. What had he done to deserve such a wonderful friend; girlfriend even, even if just for the day.

"Ah, Sybil, and – who's your friend?" The man behind the desk looked up from his papers, who still wrote with a quill and inkpot?

"Papa, mama, this is Tom," she gestured to him, "my boyfriend." He nearly died. How could he have fallen in love with his friend? Friend. Just his friend, he couldn't ruin their friendship. It's just hormones or something, he told himself. Don't be selfish, it'll spoil your friendship for her. He couldn't let that happen. He could never upset her. Drat! He really had fallen in love with her, hadn't he? What she did next didn't help.

She leant up and kissed him on the cheek as if to emphasise further that yes, this new man she'd just introduced was in fact the one who had joined them in the room for the first time ever a minute ago. He blushed and looked down. "Hi." Eegit.

"And, Tom, this is my mother and father." She first waved her arm to the elegant woman on the lounger and then to the man who had just risen from the desk. They both smiled but then her mother interjected.

"I'm Cora. And boyfriend, you say? Why haven't we been introduced earlier?" Though the question appeared like it was intended for him, he knew that it was indeed Sybil who was expected to answer.

"Because," she began, very professionally, "We're trying to keep it quiet. It's bad enough nearly every moment of my life is documented by one paper or another, I really shouldn't drag Tom through all that." She clearly had strong opinions on this subject.

"How thoughtful of you." Her father added, walking round another settee, "Robert." He offered his hand. Tom took it but looked over his own shoulder. The young man seated on the settee opposite seemed to have been overlooked. Sybil followed his line of sight.

"Tom, this is Matthew." She walked behind her mother who had moved to stand next to Tom and used both arms to gesture to the figure that now rose.

"It's good to meet you. I'm afraid I'm quite new to this, too." Well, it certainly didn't sound like it.

The two settees were facing each other and were walled on one side by the longer, which itself was placed about four or five feet in front of the desk, facing the door. There was a mahogany coffee table just inside where the other 'wall' of the square would be and a 'T' shape was formed where a glass coffee table adorned with several magazine was turned lengthways of the settees and placed within. Tom also noticed that a selection of newspapers were bundled untouched with the day's mail on Robert's desk.

"Please," the man offered, "Take a seat." This was it. This was the grilling. He was dead.

Sybil sat next to him on the settee that was left unoccupied as the original tenants of the room returned to their previous seats. She leant in close to his ear and whispered, "You look nervous. Don't be. It's a lucky escape my grandma and sisters aren't here." Was that meant to comfort him? Then, for use of something to do, she kissed him below the earlobe. That certainly did. Was she aware of the effect she was having on him?

Two hours passed and they left the library. Tom had gained permission from Mr Crawley to borrow books if he wished, then him and Matthew went to discuss some legal jargon he didn't really care for. Cora went to, as Sybil put it, probably start an argument with Isobel – Matthew's mother. Apparently, he should try never to find himself in a room with either both her sisters or her mother, grandmother and Isobel. He'd be safer as a gladiator, according to her.

Yes, either of her sisters was good company most of the time but together they were deadly. They had some set-in-stone feud that she'd never understand. This meant that he certainly wouldn't.

The lasagne he had brought was served for lunch in one of their small living rooms as there was only a small gathering. It was set up on a table at the back with some garlic bread and caskets of wine. Apparently, 'serve yourself' wasn't a common term in this house but they did just fine. Sitting with them there was some dark-haired man named Evelyn – seriously – as well as Edith, a blonde woman with a pale, well-defined face. She looked nothing like her sister or her mother but quite resembled her father. She wasn't exactly the picture of beauty Sybil was, either, but still a model he was told.

"Evelyn," he started when the dfs adverts began, "Sybil tells me you're engaged. Would I know the lucky lady?" Well, he might. And, yes, Sybil had told him – very quickly as they entered when she noticed he was in the room and stopped Tom for a moment. He was trying to make conversation, and you couldn't scold him for doing his best.

"I don't think you would, she's foreign." Fair enough.

"Ah, well, shame you couldn't bring her then." For some reason, he felt like the man didn't want to interact as the had grown bitter and cold.

"Yes, she sends her apologies. India is quite her thing now. Just makes me wonder if she'll throw me over for some poor man she rescues from the slums. Speaking of which, they stink worse than you, Tom." Was that meant to be a light joke or a downright insult? Edith, stood at the buffet table loading lasagne and mini sausage rolls onto her plate, certainly laughed but Sybil now pulled a grim expression (though still liked nicer than the cow feasting for England behind him); she wasn't pleased.

"Come on, Tom, we can watch the rest in my room." She practically dragged him off the sofa as he stabbed the offending man with his well-practiced 'look that could kill'. Evelyn gave him evils back. Tom then realised that it probably wasn't his fault – he must have deep rooted parent problems based on his unfortunate naming. Doesn't he realise that you can change your name? Edith snickered and gave a knowing glance at Evelyn. Tom was sure the discriminant stuttered something like 'we all know what that means' but he hadn't the energy to wallop him one.

Was she really taking him to her old room? Clearly as she released his hand – now with nail marks firmly following the line of his forefinger down to his thumb – and turned to present her bedroom. Well, her bedroom door. "This is my room." She said, smiling. She needn't have announced it, though as Tom just stood there, allowing her to open the door and then followed her inside. He sat cross-legged on the foot of her bed as she skipped over and switched the flat-screen on. She plonked down next to him, almost the same but with her near leg trailing, bouncing gently on the cover sheet that trailed to the floor. "Well, it's never really been my room, but it's mine whenever I come stay. There's no reason to change anything now so I really doubt anyone will bother with us being here. Now, do you really want to watch the match or will you give me the time to erase the image of muddied savages cursing in Gaelic from behind my eyelids. I swear, that will haunt me forever." He just smiled, staring at her.

"Whatever you want." Seriously? He was a fool.

"Okay, Gok's 'How to Look Good Naked' it is, then." She giggled at his face. Thankfully he'd stopped drooling but now he was gaping in horror. "My treat. Pretty women modelling nude." How was that a treat?

"It's the Trafford Centre thing all over again. Something a little more traditional, please. If not the rugby then…" he couldn't finish his sentence because something was obstructing his lips – hers. It lasted less than a second but it felt like longer. The peach lingered on and he licked his lips, turning into a tomato, then glanced up. She wasn't laughing at him. "Actually, the naked thing sounds alright." He spoke softly, definitely to her, not releasing her eyed from his strong stare the whole time. It had sounded a whole lot more romantic in his head.

"Tom, it's 2pm." She reprimanded him, but he didn't appear to have blown it; he could save this.

"Then let's talk."

"About what?"

"I dunno, to get to know each other. What was your life like when you were little?"

"Alright I guess, we had a nanny but we weren't exactly angels so as Mary and Edith got older dad called that Jo Frost. I mean, honestly. Just because they bickered and I had my own ideas."

"You are an angel. Not the angel Gabriel, like, but that's where the differences stop." That didn't sound too cheesy, did it. She laughed even if it was and clambered onto his lap.

"So that's a tackle?" he turned to the TV.

"Yep."