Shownotes Transcript
Wondery Plus subscribers can binge entire seasons of British Scandal early and ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. What have you got your nose in there, Matt? It's quite worrying, actually. It's a legal letter. Oh, yeah? It says I've got to sign it and I hereby surrender all right to be paid by the show. Don't get any pension or anything like that. I'll never get paid again for working on it. Right. I mean, it's...
It just sounds like one of those unfortunate things. I'd just get it signed and just, like, get on with your life. Yeah. It says that you'll get everything, so now you'll get paid double and I won't get anything. Right. I mean, that's probably a technicality, to be honest. That's probably just something they have to put in. I mean, it's got a logo. Lawyers Inc. looks the business. Why don't you sign that, get it off your desk, and me and you just go to the pub and you can stop worrying about it. Just...
You're probably right. It's just that there's a few things that don't add up. Lawyer's ink feels a bit odd, and then it just makes me worry that maybe someone who works on the show is trying to swindle me. But you're the only person who stands to benefit. Okay, okay, okay. I didn't want to say anything, but when Phil Wang filled in for you, he was shifty. Phil fucking Wang. 1955, Margaret's Flat, Upper Grosvenor Street, London.
Margaret peers out of her living room curtains, looks up and down the rain-slicked street. It's dark. The weather is atrocious. And he's late. She glances over at the clock, then back at the street. Something must have happened. He's been spotted, or changed his mind. Margaret jumps as she hears a gentle knock. She rushes down the grand stairwell, skittering on the balls of her feet. Her hands can barely get the door open. She's so flustered.
It's him, soaked to the bone, but smiling. Did anyone see you? The man shakes his head. Margaret grabs his sleeve, yanks him into the hallway. She watches as he slips off his sodden coat, removes his camera from its pouch. So what was it you wanted me to shoot? Margaret feels her stomach flutter. It's upstairs. In her bedroom, she sits him on her chaise longue.
then motions for him to stay while she slips into her en suite. A jitter runs up her spine. She hasn't felt this alive in years. She walks to her mirror, picks up a lipstick, examines her reflection as she reapplies. It's a crime her husband no longer appreciates her. Even now, in her 40s, she's as beautiful as ever. Even in her 40s? Can you imagine? As ancient as that.
The anticipation of what she's about to do has her feeling 20 years younger. Is everything all right? Blotting her lips on a tissue, she pouts at the mirror. Everything's perfect. Margaret slips the strap of her dress off one shoulder, then the other. It falls silently to the floor. Naked but for her signature string of pearls, she studies herself in the mirror, smiles, then reopens the door. The photographer gasps. His camera clicks.
then spits out a small, squarish slip. She makes her way towards him, slowly, sensually, a new pose with every step, until she's sat on his lap. She undoes a button on his shirt, places a hand on his chest, feels his beating heart, looks deep into his eyes. Margaret knows this is madness. If she's caught, she risks losing everything she's worked so hard to gain.
The castle. Her title. Her reputation. Her clothes. But as she feels his breath rushing against her lips, she knows she doesn't want to stop. She kisses the photographer, undoes the rest of his shirt. Then, hooking a finger under his belt, she pulls him to his feet and leads him to the bathroom, taking his camera with her.
Raise your hand if you want your nails to look perfect all the time. Me too. I'm Sarah Gibson Tuttle from Olive and June, and this is exactly why we created the Manny System. We wanted to make it possible for everyone everywhere to give themselves a beautiful manicure at home. With our tools and our long-lasting polish, each manicure with our Manny System comes out to just $2. That's right, $2.
No more 30, 40, $50 manis that you get at a salon and they take hours. Now you can paint your nails on your time and love them more than ever. And by the way, when people ask, who did your nails? Where did you get them done? You're going to proudly say, I did them myself. Get 20% off your first mani system with code FRESHMANI20 at oliveandjune.com slash FRESHMANI20.
That's code FRESHMANNY20 for 20% off at oliveandjune.com slash FRESHMANNY20. Let's get you nails you can brag to all your friends about, shall we?
Today, the beverage aisle looks a lot different than it used to. America's beverage companies are working together. We're delivering the options everyone wants. In fact, nearly 60% of beverages Americans buy have zero sugar. You'll find more variety than ever, including more of your favorites, now available with zero sugar. You'll also find more sizes and clear calorie information on the front of every can, bottle, and pack.
We know when it comes to finding balance, the more choices, the better. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal. British Scandal
OK, Matt, let me start with a question that I feel as a married person you might be able to answer. What do you think of Margaret Campbell's taste in husbands so far? Well, as a husband myself, I think I can agree that her first husband, Charlie Sweeney, was not ideal. He was cheating on her. Then she marries Ian Campbell and he's not perfect. But there are pros and cons. On the one hand, in Ian, she gets a title, which is basically a free pass to all the best parties. And then she gets a title, which is basically a free pass to all the best parties.
She also gets a castle, so at least he's not living with his parents. But on the downside, he is a raging drunk. She's also just learned that the castle actually isn't going to be hers because despite her having sunk hundreds of thousands of pounds into doing it up, he's just revealed that his ex-wife Louise will actually get it because she's the mother of his kids. Okay, so as I understand it, on the plus side, getting a castle, but as you've just said...
That's invalidated because it's not going to go to her. So not so much on the plus side. And on the negative side, he's a nasty bastard. Okay, the balance is not feeling completely in check for me. No, you're right. It's one of those situations where the positives actually are also negatives. So it's just two columns of negatives. And the warning signs are not good, really, from either side. There's a fair amount of tonking. LAUGHTER
But you can't really see monogamy in their future because their relationship is too transactional. He just wants her money and she just wants his prestige. In the words of the Black Eyed Peas, where is the love? One of the great thinkers, philosophers of our time, Will.i.am quoted there. Let's find out. This is episode two, Heirs and Affairs. Three months earlier, Harley Street, London. Margaret shivers slightly as the stethoscope brushes her skin.
Well, it suddenly sounds as though the country air is doing you good. How are you finding Scotland? Still enjoying the life of a duchess? Margaret buttons her blouse back up. She's awfully fond of Dr Griffiths. She doesn't want to tell him she's finding Scotland suffocating. Ever since she learned the castle she spent hundreds of thousands of pounds restoring will be left to her husband's ex-wife. Actually, I was hoping to ask your advice. Thinking about maybe trying...
You know, for a baby. Dr. Griffiths picks up his pen. I see. And are you sexually active? Well, I mean, yes. Margaret shrinks at the question. She can barely remember the last time she and Ian slept in the same bed, much less had sex. He's always away. Or drunk. But she doesn't wish to burden Dr. Griffiths with those woes either. Somewhat. Dr. Griffiths' manner turns solemn. Margaret, I must be frank.
Given your age and history of miscarriage, I'm not at all confident you could carry a child to term. The words pinch at her heart. Even if a child was to survive delivery, I'm afraid I could not guarantee the same for you. Margaret exhales. Producing a male heir is the only way she can secure her future. Secure her right to the castle. She grips the edge of the examination table, shuts her eyes.
tries to find some equilibrium. Her reply comes out harsher than she intends. I wonder if you remember my accident when I fell 40 feet to the bottom of a lift shaft, broke my back, shattered my knees. The surgeon said I'd never walk again. Yet, here I am.
Hang on. What? Okay, this is such a bizarre incident. So Margaret went to a chiropodist's appointment. That's not the bizarre bit. Weirdo. Then she went to get into a lift. The doors opened. She stepped forward, but there was no lift there. Literally a nightmare. And then she went to get into a lift.
She fell 40 feet. She should have died, obviously. A horrible detail of it is that she lost most of her fingernails because she was trying to grab at things to stop her fall. Inevitably, she was horribly injured. Charlie, her ex-husband, who you will remember, said that the knock on the head that she received changed her personality entirely and it's what made her a nymphomaniac, which I think is probably a little bit of...
maybe sour grapes, and also misogyny and slut-shaming of the time. But it is very possible that it changed her outlook and encouraged her to live life more fully. It's a heck of an origin story. It really is. Also, obviously, if you think you're going to die and then you don't, you live life with a renewed vigour. And I can speak with some authority on this. You know, Margaret obviously chose to live life her way. A period of time I thought I was going to die and didn't, and I've now got into cushions and pillows. So I think...
You can go one way or the other. People are going to ask what you mean by got into cushions and pillows. Did you always sleep on a mattress without any head support? I always slept on a cold stone floor. I believe that's what I deserved. LAUGHTER
Basically, I sleep with a pillow between my legs every night now because that's how I slept in hospital. And it's the best way to sleep. It just elevates your experience of the physical realm. I'm hoping we're going to get some emails, before and after emails, about people's insomnia cured by the knee pillow. Try it. See how you feel. Get in touch. BritishScandalAtWondery.com Margaret Stans slips her coat on. I've been counted out before, Dr Griffiths, but my body is strong.
The doctor looks at her with infinite kindness. That is my professional opinion. But as a friend, I want to be sure you understand what I'm telling you. Childbirth could kill you. Outside, Margaret fights back a silly little tear. This shouldn't have shocked her. She's 42 years old, endured eight miscarriages, but she doesn't know what else to do. She knows she can't put her life on the line for this, but she needs a baby.
If she doesn't produce an heir, she's going to lose everything. Margaret has really been through it. Big time. And can you imagine the support for that kind of experience then? Yes, I imagine it was pretty comprehensive. What we know from previous series of British Scandal is that certainly in the past, women were treated with respect. There was abundance of resources to help them physically and mentally. Sometimes I worry you've learnt nothing from this show. And then you say something like that, and I feel reassured.
Back at her flat, Margaret slumps on the sofa. As she does, she notices her blouse ride up, billowing out. Sighing, she smooths it down. And as her palm brushes her belly, she's struck by an idea. It's ambitious, crazy even. But if there's any chance this might work, she has to try. Margaret grabs the phone up from the side table. Diana, it's me. Are you free this afternoon?
I need your help with something. One hour later, Margaret's flat, Mayfair. Ian Campbell bursts through the front door, much, much later than he's meant to, and heads straight for the downstairs loo to freshen up. He swirls his mouth out with water, takes in his pallid, unshaven reflection, rubs a little soap around his face and neck.
Normally, he'd try for a hot shower before seeing Maggie. Scrub the smell of booze and perfume off him properly, so as not to start a fight. But he doesn't have time for that today. He has to be on the next train to Scotland. And there's something he needs to take care of before he can leave. Bounding up the stairs, he strolls straight into Maggie's room without knocking. And stops dead in his tracks as he sees her. Stood, staring into her full-length mirror...
What on earth are you doing? No, no, nothing. Just laundry. When have you ever done laundry? Maggie's become increasingly erratic these past few weeks.
Anyway, listen. I got speaking to some of the boys at the club last night. Apparently there's big money in letting rich Americans blast deer around the grounds from spot to spot. So I wanted you to put the idea of opening a hunting lodge to your old man. See if he'll spring for the starting capital. Margaret scowls. I'm sick of being your messenger girl. If you want it so badly, you ask him. Ian grinds his teeth.
Ever since the castle restoration was completed, getting money from Maggie has been like getting blood out of a stone. I can't. I'm already late for my train. I said I'd take some of the boys up to Inverary. Scout it out. She blinks. I can't leave. I haven't... I'm seeing Diana for tea. I... Ian waves a hand to cut her off. You're not invited. The wives are staying home. Inverary is my home, Ian. Christ!
It's bad enough I'm getting kicked out when you die. Now you're evicting me early. Ian glowers. Inverary is my home, Maggie. You're nothing more than a glorified lodger. But do ask your dad about that money, yeah? Love you. Bye. He storms out, bounds back down the stairs as she calls after him. A penny more into that place. Do you hear me? Ian seethes as he steps out onto the street, his nerves wound tight.
He knows she could solve all his money woes with a snap of her fingers if she wanted. He's tried asking nicely, but if Maggie won't give him the cash he's asking for, then he's got no choice but to find a way of taking it instead. Later that afternoon, Diana's house. Margaret presses the doorbell of her old friend's house and waits. It's a bright afternoon.
And in the gloss paint of the front door, Margaret spots something strange in the reflection. Her belly. It's lopsided. Hurriedly, she pats at the pair of stockings she stuffed up her blouse, trying to round them back into a convincing baby bump, just in time for the door to click open and Diana to appear in the doorway. Margaret, darling! Margaret throws her arms wide and moves in for a hug. But Diana stops, stunned.
Oh my God, are you... Margaret gives an impish grin. Margaret, how wonderful! They embrace. Diana squeezing so tight, it barely leaves Margaret room to slip her hand up and fish the stockings out. As they break apart, Margaret dangles the hosiery from her finger. Fooled you, didn't I? She waits for Diana to laugh, but Diana doesn't. She looks baffled, unnerved.
Don't worry, I'll explain. Margaret fixes a grin on her face as she pushes past her friend. Sitting for tea in Diana's front room, it dawns on Margaret she hasn't actually thought how to raise the subject she's come here to discuss. Margaret, is everything okay? Margaret decides just to dive straight in. I need you to help me buy a baby. Diana almost launches the teapot across the table. I'm sorry, what? You have family in Poland, don't you?
I gather there's quite a market out there for unwanted babies. I wonder if you maybe had any contacts? I mean, without sounding like the hopeless patriot that I am, surely there are some British babies. For God's sake! You don't have to go to Poland. That's your concern. Look, Polish babies deserve a good life as well. All I'm saying is support your local British babies. Diana goggles. Have you lost your mind? Buy a baby?
"'Whatever for?' "'To raise, of course.' Margaret nibbles at a salmon sandwich. "'I'd like to provide Ian with an heir. "'Sadly, personal circumstances make that impossible. "'So I plan to pad my tummy like this for a few weeks, "'be seen out and about, let the gossip mill do its thing, "'then pop off to some private Swiss health farm, "'return home with a babe in arms six months later, "'and let everybody join the dots.'
I mean, as far as a mad plan goes, that's really good. It is a good conundrum, though. What would you do for a castle? More than this. I'd be all across the continent buying shedloads of babies. I'd be like, yes, I've had a hundred babies and I birthed them personally. Diana shakes her head slowly. But why, Margaret? Ian already has sons, doesn't he? Well, yes, with Louise.
But I want one. To secure the castle. And to love. And I'm passionate about the next generation. Polish or British. That's not how it works, though. Ian's eldest will inherit in Verrary. Any child you had would be, what, third in line? And that's only if you do it through the proper channels. OK, right, OK. So the plan, I'll slightly change it. I'll get a Polish baby. I'll kill his kids.
They get the castle. Okay, yeah, good amendment. Are you in now, Diana? Margaret puts her plate down. Now she's the one confused. She'd thought, as the sitting duchess, the line of succession ran through her, that her descendants would take precedence and the stepsons would only be called up as reserves. She brushes a crumb from her skirt, stares at her knees, tries to think. Darling, this is insanity.
You can't buy a baby. And even if you could, what would be the point? Something awful would have to happen for any son of yours to become next in line. Margaret looks up at Diana, considers what she just said, and the flicker of possibility sparks in her once again. She's had another idea, one that's crazier, but much, much cleaner. ♪
Two weeks later, in Verary Castle, Scotland. Margaret skulks along the hallway, listening to Ian in the boot room getting ready to leave. She's anxious for him to go. As she spies him reaching for his coat and hat, she calls out, "'Darling, where are you going?' Ian doesn't even turn to face her. "'Business in town. I'll be back late.' Margaret winces. The word business cuts through her like ice."
Even after all these years, it still reminds her of her ex-husband's infidelities. But she tries to focus on the important part of what he just said, that he'll be back late. The second she hears Ian's car disappearing out of the grounds, Margaret runs through the castle to Ian's study, starts rooting through his shelves, pulling down box after box until she finds what she's looking for, a cache of letters written in a flowing feminine hand, letters from Louise.
There are dozens of them stacked up, more material than she could ever possibly need to forge a short, handwritten note. Okay, so she's not just being nosy. There's more of a plan here. And I'm slightly relieved to hear it doesn't start with killing any of the kids. Doesn't start with that. She pauses as she hears a door open in the hall. Ian can't be back.
She stares at the stack of letters in panic, starts to push them back onto the shelves when she hears the familiar voice of the chambermaid. Taking the box of letters, she darts across the hall to her own room. She gently closes the door, starts to lay them all out on her writing desk. Reading through them, she develops a feel for Louise's voice and phrases begin to form. Scissors in hand, she scans the letters for usable words and snips them out.
Words like regret, terrible, heart, confess. Each flutters down to a growing pile. She begins pushing the words around, laying them out in sentences before gluing them to a sheet of paper. After an hour of meticulous sticking, Margaret has what looks like a ransom note, but is in fact a blueprint.
She takes a fresh sheet of paper, lays it over the template and begins to trace. This is genius. So good. Although, why has he kept all the letters? Do you not have a box of mementos from past moments in your life? Yes, a sign for every member of Tony Blair's 1997 cabinet. She lifts the paper from the template, holds it to the light. It's convincing.
but still needs one finishing touch. Margaret slides open her bureau drawer, finds a sheet of headed notepaper she once took from a hotel in Paris, Le Chateau Argent, French, to really make it look like Louise's handiwork. Tracing the words one final time, she reads along. My love, it fills my heart with such joy to know the boys are yours, not Ian's. My only regret is that I can never confess it to anyone but you.
It gives me a terrible thrill to think of. All my love, Louise. So this is going to be a letter from Louise to someone else, basically making out that Ian's kids aren't his, so he has no heirs. It's devilish. And no one has to die. Dastardly. Margaret looks at the finished version. It's identical, indistinguishable from the real thing. Margaret folds the letter, slips it into an envelope.
Then catches sight of a photo of Ian and his two boys on the mantelpiece. She takes in their innocent faces, their beaming smiles. It will dog them for the rest of their lives. She glances again at the letter in its envelope as she slowly takes out a stamp, fixes it in place. Starts to wonder if she can really go through with this because she knows if she posts this letter, there's no turning back for any of them.
Craving your next action-packed adventure? Audible delivers thrills of every kind on your command, like Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir, where a lone astronaut must save humanity from extinction, narrated with stunning intensity by Ray Porter. From electrifying suspense and daring quests to spine-tingling horror and Rome
That's audible.com slash Wondery U.S.
We see you getting after your fitness goals, but what about those money goals? You can count on Credit Karma for a clear view of your finances and your progress, helping you see results so you can keep checking off those financial personal vests and find your way to money. Progress never felt so good. Download the Intuit Credit Karma app and start achieving your money goals today. Intuit Credit Karma. Karma you can count on. Two months later in Verreri Castle.
Ian lumbers into the dining room, hungover and ravenous. His mood plummets further when he spots Maggie there, sat at the table, writing in her diary. She looks up at him wordlessly. He looks back. He glances at her fountain pen. It's fancy. Would fetch a decent price were he to pawn it. Not that he needs to right now. He's already made a nice little bundle, offering up some of Maggie's pricier belongings to the bank as collateral for a loan.
He smiles at his own duplicity. Okay, so that's how he's going to get her money. Not by nicking her stuff, but by using it to get a loan that he then can't pay back and has no intention of paying back. And then the bank is going to seize all her prized possessions. Imagine your own husband doing that. You know when you live with someone and sometimes you're like, have you moved my stuff? Imagine that plus money.
Have you secured a loan against my hair wax? Where is it? Ian takes a seat at the opposite end of the long oak table, plucks a piece of toast from the rack, then picks up the post by his plate. The usual parade of bills and bank statements, all printed in a familiar red.
He's about to toss the entire pile aside when he spots a curiously fancy envelope, expensive looking and feminine, with a London postmark. What a great way for the bank to get you to open the letter. So good. And it smells of roses. It's got a lipstick kiss on the back. That's genius. I think they should start doing that for final demands. As he pulls out the letter, a covering note flutters out with it, reading, Keep this safe.
He stares at it in confusion, turns his attention to the letter. His brow furrows as he recognizes Louise's handwriting. His eyes widen at the opening line. My love, it fills my heart with such joy. Before he feels his blood turn cold, to know the boys are yours, not Ian's. A short wheeze escapes him, like he's taken a punch to the ribs. He blinks, re-reads it,
his head swimming, when a hand on his shoulder snaps him back to his senses. What is it, darling? You look like you've seen a ghost. Ian distractedly hands her the letter, stares into the middle distance, a thousand thoughts tumbling around in his mind. Oh, this is preposterous, Ian. Surely you can't be taking this seriously. Ian keeps staring. It's the work of a crank, darling. Honestly, pay it no mind.
She is playing an absolute blinder. But it's too late. His imagination is running away with itself. I mean, when did Louise ever venture up to Paris? You always used to complain how boring she was never to leave Biarritz. Ian snatches the letter back, looks at the hotel's letterhead. Louise did always say how she hated to travel, but maybe she lied.
Could he really have been hoodwinked into raising two bastard boys? Two cuckoos in the nest, looking to steal the Campbell estate out from under him? He stumbles to the phone, begins to dial Louise's number, but his hand is stopped by Maggie. Ian, don't be absurd. Don't say something you might regret. He stops, hangs up. Maggie's right. He can't do this over the phone.
He needs to confront Louise face to face. See the look in her eye when she answers him. That's the only way he can know for sure. He decides he's going to Biarritz. Two days later, Biarritz, France. Ian's cab pulls up outside his old house. Stepping out under the blue sky and golden sun of southern France, it's a world away from the moody, moss-beaten hills of Scotland.
But his foul temper has travelled with him every inch of the way, and the sunny surroundings do nothing to lighten it. He storms up the garden path, fixes his eyes on Louise as she opens the door. Confusion on her face. Ian, what in God's name? Ian pushes past her, into the sitting room, heads immediately to the drinks cabinet, grabs a tumbler, pours himself a generous brandy, then sinks into an armchair.
Ian, what's happened? Is everything okay? He takes a long slug of his drink. Where are the boys? At school. Ian, what is this about? He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, staring at the amber brandy as he speaks. Are they mine? There's silence. Ian raises his eyes to meet Louise's, but he can't read anything in them.
He tries to keep his voice calm as his stare intensifies. The boys, I want to know if they're mine. He watches Louise stagger slightly, shift her weight from foot to foot. I can't believe you'd ask me that. Ian slams his drink down.
That isn't an answer, Louise. Tell me, are they mine? Louise fires back immediately. Of course they are. My God, why would you even think that? Ian delves into his jacket, pulls out the letter, holds it at arm's length for her to take. He watches as she reads.
studies her expression closely as her face flits through a gamut of emotion. Confusion, astonishment, disgust. What is this? Ian shrugs. You tell me. You wrote it. No, I didn't. I've never seen this before in my life. Ian grunts. I mean it.
Who's this supposed to be to? There's no name, no date. I've never even heard of this Chateau Arjean place. It's to your lover. And Chateau Arjean is where the two of you fixed up your disgusting trysts. Louise slams the letter into his chest, pushing him back.
How dare you? I was always faithful to you. I don't doubt you have some illegitimate offspring milling about somewhere the way you used to carry on. But not my boys. They're yours. Ian sees the steel in her eyes, the fury animating her. Well, who sent this? And why? Louise fixes herself a drink, her hand shaking as she pours.
If you're planning on working through your list of enemies one by one, you're going to be a hell of a time. Ian drains his glass and thinks. He looks at her again. Starts to think. She's telling the truth. Yeah, everyone does hate me. He re-reads the letter. It's so specific. So intimate. It has to be the work of someone he knows. Someone close to him. He smashes his fist on the table.
He isn't going to be able to rest until he finds out who's toying with him like this. And when he does, he's going to eviscerate them. The next night, a shadow society party, Chelsea, London. Margaret raises her glass to Diana, proposes a toast to friendship and forgiveness. Diana smiles, raises hers. Then they clink, relaxing back into the plush sofa they've secured in a corner of the room.
For the first time in months, Margaret finally feels as though she has a handle on her situation. Ian's reaction to the letter has been perfection, but there's a phase two to this plan, which is why she's cosying back up with Diana at another of Diana's secret society soirees. I can't believe I've managed to smuggle an actual duchess into one of these parties. Honestly, they'll let anyone in these days. Margaret laughs. I'm honoured.
I've always had a spot in my heart for these naughty little events. And with all that's been going on with Ian recently, this is just the tonic. Diana sips her champagne, intrigued. Oh, where is Ian? Margaret spins her glass between her fingers. Officially, on business in France. Unofficially, he's seeing Louise. Diana's mouth falls open. His ex-wife?
Margaret nods. Diana bolts upright. Drama in the dukedom. Margaret spies her chance. It's no use her going to all this trouble to inspire a succession crisis if it can be covered up as a Campbell family secret. Margaret needs the rumour to take hold a little more publicly. Just a little society chatter. But she can't be seen to be the one behind it. Margaret leans close, whispers conspiratorially.
I have to swear you to absolute secrecy. Which is the best start to any rumour. Fantastic. You can't tell anyone else this, right? That's the combustion engine that drives it. Oh my God, I'm going to tell everyone. But yeah, tell me first. Diana's eyes sparkle at the prospect of gossip. There's been some very sordid rumours going around recently, casting doubt on the paternity of Ian's sons. Diana gasps. No way.
Louise had a lover? Yeah, possibly more than one, but like I say, don't tell anyone.
Margaret puts a discreet finger to her lips. Bloody hell. So that's why you came up with that dotty scheme about buying a baby. It's terribly complicated. I really must insist on your discretion. Margaret smiles inwardly as she watches Diana adopt her most earnest expression. Knowing full well that the second her back is turned, Diana will blab this all around the party.
And Margaret's back turns almost immediately when she feels a tap on her shoulder. A handsome man standing over her, a camera in his hand. Excuse me, Your Grace, I was just wondering if I might get a picture. She smiles, hears his camera click, then stares in amazement as the man begins pulling something out of it. Goodness, what is that? The man comes to sit next to her, shows her the slip he took from the camera.
A Polaroid. Here. Keep watching. He holds it in front of her, shakes it gently, and Margaret squeals as she sees herself emerging from the glossy, inky blackness. Entranced by this sorcery, she takes it from him. You can have that one if you like. You just have to promise you'll pose for me again. Uh...
That can't be the deal. I'll keep it, no strings attached. Perfect. Margaret looks up from the photo, sees a charming twinkle in his smile. So she nods. I'd be happy to. OK, she went the other way. One week later, White's Club, Mayfair. Ian signals to the bartender for another whiskey. He's back in Britain, determined to track down the traitor in his midst. But his search has stalled this evening, here at the bar of his club.
He wraps a sloppy hand around his glass, about to get stuck in, when a voice booms from across the room. Campbell! Just the man. A few of the lads are getting a game of rummy going next door and need someone to fleece. You in? I hate this man. Same. Although I fear he was probably a senior cabinet minister. Ian turns, flicks the man a friendly V as he approaches.
Actually, I'm glad I bumped into you. Wanted a quiet word. Mind if I... Ian gestures for him to sit. Dashed delicate situation, I realise, so my sympathies and all that. But I thought I should say, I had a similar difficulty myself a few years ago, so if you're in the market for a lawyer... Ian frowns, narrows his eyes.
"'No need to be coy, old horse. It's surprisingly common. Half the fellows in here have been through much the same. A ghastly business, of course. Cost an arm and a leg to put right, too, but worth it to keep the family silver in the right hands.' Ian's frown deepens. "'What the hell are you babbling about?' His friend looks puzzled. "'Your boys. Well, you know, the boys.'
Yeah, not yours. Just the lads, you know, God knows who they are, right? I mean, it could be mine. But anyway, you know what I'm on about. Some boys. Ian's back straightens, a horrible clarity cutting through his drunkenness. What? Who told you about that? Ah, now, not really cricket to divulge sources, old bean. But Ian has stopped listening. His mind is too busy reeling. So what do you say? Should we deal you in?
Ian shakes his head distractedly, waves him away. There are only two people who know about him receiving that letter. Louise is hardly likely to spread gossip like that about herself, and that can only mean one thing. Fifteen minutes later, Ian is on Upper Grosvenor Street, his key in the front door of Margaret's flat. "Maggie!" His voice echoes around the dark hall. He hangs his coat and hat and stumbles upstairs.
pours himself a whiskey, throws it back in one, then pours another. This is an excellent basis for decision-making. Starts poking around the room to find a cigarette, then remembers Maggie keeps some in her bedside cabinet. Staggering to the bedroom, he pulls her drawer open. A small brass lighter clatters its way down to the front, catching on a folded piece of paper. And as Ian picks up the lighter, he catches a glimpse of the paper's content.
Intrigued, he picks it up and a horrible chill soaks into his bones as he opens it. His chest constricts as he takes in the individually chopped up words. All stuck in place. All in order. It looks, in the half-light, like a ransom note. All in Louise's handwriting.
Why didn't Margaret burn it or chuck it away? Why, why, why? If you're going to forge a letter, dispense with the evidence. And people say that we don't give out useful daily advice on this show. You'll remember this next time you're in that position. Pritt stick out. You'll be like, there was something Matt said. What was it? A wave of nausea hits him. He runs to Margaret's en suite, clutches the sides of the sink and wretches dryly into it.
From downstairs, he hears the sound of a key in the lock. It's Margaret. She's home. And she's got some questions to answer. Mochi Health is here to help you start your weight loss journey with caring, personal,
personalized support. Meet one-on-one with board-certified obesity doctors and registered dietitians who truly listen and understand your unique needs. Eligible patients can access affordable GLP-1 medications delivered right to their door each month. No insurance? No problem. Mochi Health accepts FSA and HSA.
making care accessible and affordable. And with 24-7 customer service, you'll never feel alone on your path to better health. Get started with Mochi Health today. Take the free quiz at joinmochi.com and use code AUDIO40 at checkout for $40 off your first month of membership. That's joinmochi.com with promo code AUDIO40.
Claude is the AI assistant from Anthropic that millions of people have turned to just because it feels different. We've all tried AIs that come across a little robotic, but Claude gets it when it comes to empathy and emotional intelligence. That's why Claude has become the if-you-know-you-know companion for
For tasks like vision boarding, self-reflection, planning a move to a new city, plotting out scenarios for a big life decision, and more. Give Claude a try for free at claude.com. That's C-L-A-U-D-E dot com. And let us know how you feel the difference. A few seconds later, outside Margaret's flat...
Margaret stops turning the key in her front door, bats away the playful hands creeping around her hips. Not where people can see. She opens the door, gives a quick look over her shoulder. Then, for the second time this week, yanks the photographer into her hallway. This time, he's on her before the door is shut, kissing her, running his hands up and down her back.
She slithers out of her coat, tries to hang it without breaking from the kiss, but stops as she feels something on the rack. Her eyes shoot open. Ian's coat. Oh no. Her body goes tense. He said he'd be in France until the end of the week. Then, by her feet, she spots his hat, fallen to the floor. He's here.
She pushes the photographer off her, tries to spin him round and shove him back out the door, shushing his protests. But it's too late. She can hear footsteps overhead. Good evening, Maggie. Hi, darling. Margaret looks up to see him craning over the balcony, hovering above them both, confusion etched on his drunken face. Who the fuck is this? Margaret feels her palms getting clammy.
Friend? He was just escorting me home. Friend! How nice. What are you doing here? I thought you were still in France. Sorry to cramp your style.
I foolishly thought my wife might be happy to see me, especially as you've been taking such an interest in my personal life recently. She narrows her eyes, takes half a step back as he reaches the top of the stairs. You've been quite the chatterbox, haven't you? Have you told your f-f-friend here yet? Her stomach lurches.
Diana was only supposed to tell a few people, not everyone she's ever met. Oh, come on, Margaret. Diana's gonna Diana. Ian turns his attention to the photographer. She's been telling everyone I'm a cuckold, that my boys are the fruit of another man's loins. No, I haven't. Don't be absurd. Ian takes a slow step forward.
Margaret's scalp gets hot, begins to itch. She watches as he descends another step, then lets out a scream as Ian lunges towards her.
She freezes in terror, thinking he's diving down the stairs to pounce on her. But then she sees his body twisting, his head tucked under his chest, his feet fly into the air, his drunken body tumble down the rest of the stairs like a rag doll. And finally, she sees his head smack against the floor with a sickening thud. For a second, she stands still, looks at his body, splayed out on the floor like a corpse.
Her heart hitting her ribs like a woodpecker. Then she runs to him, kneels by his side. She places a trembling hand to his face. She can hear rasping breath. He's alive, just unconscious. She lets out a huge sigh of relief. Margaret has been granted a last-minute reprieve, but she knows it won't last forever. He could come round any moment, and when he does, she's going to have to explain everything.
The following morning, Ian wakes in the spare room, his head pounding. His entire body roars with pain. As visions of last night come flooding back, the tumble he took down the stairs, confronting Maggie and her mystery man, finding that template. Panic grips him. The template. He'd put it in his jacket pocket, but he isn't wearing his jacket anymore. In agony, he bolts up,
Pats around the bed for his clothes, but finds nothing. Then he sees them draped over a nearby chair. He dives for them, grabbing at the jacket's insides. Relief as his hand hits paper. It's still there. From the corridor, he hears a clanking tea tray making its way towards the door. He slips the template and letter from his pocket, crawls back under the bedsheets, and waits with bated breath.
He listens as the door brushes open, tracks Maggie's movement as she tentatively tiptoes across the carpet, places the tray on his side table, then starts to tiptoe back. He counts her footsteps, and just as she's about to leave, he mutters darkly, I know. The footsteps stop. The silence thrills him.
I told you, he's just a friend, and I can hardly be blamed for talking to my best friend. Ian lets out a low chuckle. So you're not having an affair? Slowly, stiffly, he emerges from the bedsheets to face her. Louise wasn't having an affair. You're not having an affair. Gosh, how lucky I am to inspire such loyalty. He grins a menacing grin.
"'And loyalty is so important. Especially now I'm the target of a vicious smear campaign.' He watches Margaret's chin judder, a sure sign her stammer is bothering her. "'I t-told you. That's all n-n-nonsense.' "'Oh, I know. The work of a crank. It takes a very diseased mind to spread lies about innocent children.' "'Wouldn't you say?'
Reaching over to his clothes, he pulls his trousers onto the bed, retrieves a cigarette. I couldn't fathom what kind of person would be sick enough to do something like that. He takes Margaret's brass lighter from his pocket, waits until she spots it, flicks it open, lets the flame linger around his face as he lights up. The tobacco crackles as he inhales. And then I found this.
Where did you get that? Louise is going to have your guts when she finds out it was you who forged this letter.
And I'm going to take everything else. He stands. Even though it's excruciating, he pulls his trousers on. If you thought your first divorce was bad, you have got no conception of the hell that awaits you now. As Margaret looks on, helplessly and hopelessly, he slips the template back into his pocket. I am going to ruin you, Margaret Campbell. And I'm going to relish every second of it.
Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
At 24, I lost my narrative, or rather it was stolen from me. And the Monica Lewinsky that my friends and family knew was usurped by false narratives, callous jokes, and politics. I
I would define reclaiming as to take back what was yours. Something you possess is lost or stolen, and ultimately you triumph in finding it again. So I think listeners can expect me to be chatting with folks, both recognizable and unrecognizable names, about the way that people have navigated roads to triumph.
My hope is that people will finish an episode of Reclaiming and feel like they filled their tank up. They connected with the people that I'm talking to and leave with maybe some nuggets that help them feel a little more hopeful. Follow Reclaiming with Monica Lewinsky on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Reclaiming early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
From Wondery and Sammersdat Audio, this is the second episode in our series, The Dirty Duchess. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read The Grit in the Pearl by Lindsay Spence.
The Duchess Who Dared by Charles Castle. And you can watch A Very British Scandal from the BBC and Amazon. If you've got a scandal you'd like us to cover, get in touch. BritishScandal at Wondery.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Chris Lockery. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac. Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer is Jaya Williams.
For Samizdat, our producer is Redzi Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisitsina. For Wondry, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis. And our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondry are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis.
At the start of the 1970s, rookie entrepreneur Richard Branson was on a quest to make a million, and he was prepared to break the rules to get ahead of the competition. His company, Virgin Records, exploited a loophole in Britain's export regulations, but the plot came to a sudden halt when Richard was arrested and thrown in jail for tax evasion.
Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that define their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young British businessman's get-rich-quick schemes land him in trouble with the law. But while behind bars, he changes course to increase his revenue in legal ways.
and finds a winning formula, diversifying his brand. Soon, his new approach to business grows into a multi-billion dollar corporate empire, and it's all done under the Virgin name. Follow Business Movers wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad-free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app.
Everyone has that friend who seems kind of perfect. For Patty, that friend was Desiree. Until one day... I texted her and she was not getting the text. So I went to Instagram, she has no Instagram anymore. And Facebook, no Facebook anymore. Desiree was gone. And there was one person who knew the answer. I am a spiritual person, a magical person.
A gorgeous Brazilian influencer called Cat Torres, but who was hiding a secret.
From Wondery, based on my smash hit podcast from Brazil, comes a new series, Don't Cross Cat, about a search that led me to a mystery in a Texas suburb. I'm calling to check on the two missing Brazilian girls. Maybe get some undercover crew there. The family are freaking out. They are lost. I'm Chico Felitti. You can listen to Don't Cross Cat on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.