The Show (15 page)

‘Don’t be snobby,’ said Angela. ‘It doesn’t suit you. If you must know, I invited him.’

Max looked at her in astonishment. ‘You? Why?’

‘Why not?’ said Angela. ‘He’s local … ish; he knows Brett socially and his wife, Louise, is a sweetheart.’

‘Maybe, but he’s baying for Eddie Wellesley’s blood in a most unpleasant fashion. Did you know he’s been offering money to people in the village to dig up dirt on the Wellesley marriage?’

‘Are you sure?’ Angela frowned. ‘I can’t imagine people here would go for that sort of thing.’

‘So far they haven’t. But
Valley Farm
is so unpopular, you never know what might happen eventually. It’s not only this TV show that Carlyle wants to scupper. It’s everything Wellesley touches.’

‘Well, I think the whole thing’s too childish and silly for words,’ said Angela. ‘They’re both grown men. They should work it out. As for
Valley Farm,
I’m not thrilled about it either, but it’s hardly a good enough reason to have the entire village set at one another’s throats.’

Max kissed the top of her head. ‘I agree, my darling.’

‘If you really want to know why I asked so many people, that’s why,’ said Angela, her voice suddenly hoarse with emotion. ‘I wanted today to be about coming together, and healing old wounds. Brett and Tatiana coming back here, Jason and George, you and me, all happy for Logan and for each other. I thought, if we can do it, why can’t the village? I’m so tired of everybody fighting and shouting all the time. Truly, if I hear one more person bitch about the bloody television cameras, I’m going to move back to Sydney and be done with it.’

‘You don’t mean that.’ Max hugged her tightly.

‘No,’ said Angela. ‘I don’t. I just think life’s too short for all this tension. Besides, I’m sure David Carlyle’s got a nice side. He must do, to have such a sweet wife.’

Gabe made the mistake of standing up when Santiago and James Craven came over to his table. ‘Mate!’

Stumbling forwards, he almost collapsed on top of Macy. Only James’s quick reactions, inserting himself between the two of them, prevented her from being knocked to the ground. Instead Gabe slammed into James like a falling tree, before rocking back upright, where he was ‘caught’ by Santiago.

‘I think maybe it’s time to go home,’ said Santiago, pulling Gabe’s arm tightly around his shoulder and propping him upright, like a human splint. ‘I’ll drive you back to the farm.’

‘Macy, y’know Santiago?’ Gabe slurred. ‘Santiago this-zzz Macy Yo hands … Yo handsome.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Macy, getting up. ‘I’m heading home too. I can get my cab to drop him off on the way.’

Santiago gave her a knowing look. ‘I’ll take him,’ he said firmly. ‘You two stay here and enjoy yourselves.’

James seized the moment, holding out his hand for Macy to shake.

‘James Craven.’

‘Macy Johanssen.’

‘I think you’ll find it’s pronounced “Yo Handsome”,’ James quipped. ‘Although Yo Drop-Dead Gorgeous might be more accurate. Today was the first time I’ve been to church since Christmas and, thanks to you, I was sinning through the whole service. If I end up burning in eternal hellfire, I’ll know who to blame.’

Macy laughed. She was annoyed with Santiago for kidnapping Gabe, not to mention implying that she’d been planning to molest him during the cab-ride home. But it was hard to stay mad whilst being chatted up by an amusing and really quite sexy man.

‘I saw you in church too,’ she said. ‘With your girlfriend.’

‘Ah! Luisa,’ said James. ‘Not my girlfriend.’

Macy raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’

‘No. Easy mistake to make. She’s my er … my …’

‘Niece?’

‘Goddaughter, actually,’ James grinned. ‘Terribly badly behaved. Her parents despair of her.’

‘I’ll bet they do.’

‘They brought me in to provide some moral guidance.’

‘Perhaps she needs it now,’ said Macy. ‘Isn’t that her over there, eating the best man alive?’

She pointed to the dance floor, where James’s neglected date was indeed comprehensively exploring the tonsils of Tom’s best friend, Matthew Reed.

James shook his head. ‘Tragic. A lost cause.’

‘So, James, what do you do?’ asked Macy.

‘Me?’ James was momentarily taken aback. As one of England’s best-known cricketers, and with a slew of sponsorship deals under his belt, he hadn’t been asked this question in quite a while. ‘I do lots of things. I play a bit of cricket,’ he said modestly.

‘Really? I’ve always thought that looked like such a boring sport. Nothing happens! I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’

James laughed loudly. ‘I think I might be a tiny bit in love with you. Can I get you a drink?’

As the evening wore on, most of the older guests drifted away, leaving only Tom and Logan’s friends, family members and a few serious drinkers on the dance floor or propping up the bar. Just before 1 a.m., everyone spilled out into the driveway to wave off the bride and groom.

Eddie Wellesley swayed unsteadily as the young couple pulled away. He’d had too much to drink, and the sight of so much youth and happiness had made him feel uncharacte‌ristically morose. He and Annabel had been like that once. Adoring. Contented. Complete. But he’d fucked it all up. Sometimes he felt that the only thing they still shared was their political ambitions. That and their love for Milo, although God knows that was being tested to the limit right now. They needed some time alone, really alone. A chance to get things back to the way they used to be. But right now there seemed to be precious little chance of that.

Annabel had been even angrier than Eddie when he told her about what had happened in Furlings’ laundry room. But somehow her anger had veered off course and become directed at Eddie.

‘What is he, some sort of sex addict?’ she hissed. ‘I suppose the apple never falls very far from the tree, does it?’

She’d driven home in a whirlwind of bitterness. The Duke of Moncreith had also made an early exit with Emma Harwich, probably wisely given her tendency to drop her knickers for any man who smiled in her general direction. After that, Eddie had talked briefly to Jason Cranley and his husband, a perfectly charming art dealer named George Wilkes, and then spent most of the night avoiding the vicar and his posse of angry locals, all of whom seemed intent on haranguing him about Monday’s pilot of
Valley Farm.

Now it really was time to go. Fumbling in his inside jacket pocket for his mobile phone, he ordered a cab back to Brockhurst. He was just considering popping back into the house for a last pee when he suddenly found himself face to face with David Carlyle.

‘Hello, Eddie. Long time no see.’

Eddie had shown remarkable restraint so far, scrupulously avoiding bumping into David, or being drawn into any sort of drama. But now that Carlyle’s smug, fake-tanned face was inches from his own, the urge to smash his fist into it was almost overwhelming.

He started to walk away. David called after him.

‘How was prison?’

‘It was all right,’ said Eddie, his eyes narrowed. ‘A better class of person than you meet at Westminster, most of the time.’

‘Well, of course you’d know all about class,’ said David, smiling nastily. ‘You and your Old Etonian chums. It must have been quite a wake-up call, realizing that us plebs aren’t the only ones who have to obey the laws of the land.’

‘
We
plebs,’ Eddie corrected him. ‘Honestly, what
do
they teach one in comprehensive schools?’

The smile died on David’s lips. He pushed Eddie hard, backing him up against the kitchen garden wall. Putting his face so close to Eddie’s that Eddie could smell the onion on his breath, he whispered, ‘I’ll
finish
you, Wellesley. Do you hear me? First I’m going to sink your crappy reality show. And then I’m going to sink
you
.’

Eddie yawned. ‘You know, David, you’ve become a ghastly bore since Tristram fired you. I mean, you were always were a bully and an all-round toerag. That’s why the PM got rid of you. But at least you used to be
interesting
. What happened, old boy?’

David drew back his fist to an audible gasp. A crowd of onlookers had gathered around to watch the showdown between Fast Eddie and his nemesis.

‘Be my guest,’ drawled Eddie. ‘It’s known as assault. I believe it’s considered a crime, even when horrid, common little nobodies do it.’

David hesitated, then stepped back. Straightening his hair, he smiled again.

‘You have no idea what I’ve got on you, Wellesley.
No idea.
That’s the best part. Our campaign against your show is just a little teaser. But I’m going to make sure my readers and everyone in this country gets to know who you and your family
really
are. You take care now.’

Turning on his heel, he walked back into the house.

Macy came rushing over to Eddie with James Craven. ‘Are you all right? Did he threaten you?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Eddie, dusting himself off. He noticed Macy and the England all-rounder were holding hands. ‘How about you, my dear. Having fun?’

‘Never mind me. I want to talk about you,’ said Macy. ‘What did Carlyle say?’

‘Nothing important,’ said Eddie. ‘He’s full of hot air, as usual. Ah, that’s my cab. I must go.’

Taking his leave of Macy and James – another young couple with their whole futures ahead of them – Eddie looked back at Furlings as he drove away. Lit up like a magical palace in the darkness, it truly was the most stunning house, perfect in every way.

He wondered what David Carlyle had meant by his last threat.
To let people know who you and your family
really
are?
It was the ‘family’ part that worried him. Was it just hot air? Or was Carlyle alluding to something real, something tangible? All of Eddie’s own skeletons were well and truly out of the closet. But the horrible thought struck him that Carlyle might have something on Milo. The boy had been running terribly wild lately, with tonight’s debacle only the latest in a long line of potentially highly embarrassing antics. What if David knew something – something that Eddie didn’t? Most people might consider a politician’s child to be off limits, but not David Carlyle. There were no depths to which that man wouldn’t sink, no fetid gutter in which he would not be quite happy to abase himself in pursuit of a story. Despite himself, Eddie felt a sharp pang of fear run through him.

Watching Eddie’s car pull away, Macy leaned into James like a sapling propped against a giant oak. He smelled incredible – of cologne and desire – and his fingers were stroking the back of her neck. Macy closed her eyes. Something had been holding her back up till now, but she suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of arousal.

‘Let’s go to bed.’

James grinned, letting his hand slide down from her neck to her bottom.

‘What a marvellous idea. My place or yours?’

‘Mine,’ said Macy firmly. James was cute, but not cute enough for her to do the walk of shame down Fittlescombe High Street tomorrow morning. ‘We can christen my new bed.’

‘A wedding and a christening in one day. We’re quite the Christian soldiers, aren’t we?’

‘Mmmmm,’ Macy kissed him. ‘We should start a Sunday school.’

Gabe Baxter might be spoken for. But he wasn’t the only fish in the sea. England, Macy decided, was turning out to be a lot more fun than she’d imagined.

Milo Wellesley had taken the long way home, via the Black Swan in Brockhurst, where the landlord took a relaxed view of both underage drinking and timekeeping, with last orders regularly called well after eleven.

As he staggered out onto the High Street at midnight, the cool night air and sudden total darkness both came as a shock. It was an effort to remember the direction of Mill Lane, and for a few moments Milo stood swaying uncertainly, coming to terms with how very, very drunk he was.

Eventually he pulled himself together sufficiently to find his way home, turning into the drive just in time to see his father speed past in a cab. Milo watched from the shadows as his mother opened the front door, stiff backed and brittle. He saw his father follow her inside, slowly, his shoulders slumped. They’d obviously had a row. Milo hoped it wasn’t about him and Emma Harwich, but decided to loiter for a bit before going inside, just in case.

Noticing a light still on in Magda’s cottage, he headed towards it, like a befuddled moth towards the moon. Unfortunately, a few yards from the front door, he tripped and hurtled headlong into a metal dustbin, sending it crashing noisily to the ground and spraining his ankle badly.

Seconds later the door flew open. Magda stood on the threshold in a dressing gown and wellington boots. Her pale skin looked almost translucent in the moonlight, like a beautiful ghost. ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, brandishing a frying pan menacingly in the darkness.

‘It’s only me. Milo.’ He peered up at her. ‘Sorry.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Magda lowered the pan.

‘Hiding from Mum and Dad,’ said Milo. His voice was still slurred with drink and his hair and clothes were all over the place.

‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Er …’

‘You’d better come in.’

Five minutes later, sitting in Magda’s tiny kitchen with a packet of frozen peas on his ankle and a glass of Alka-Seltzer fizzing in his hand, Milo recounted what had happened earlier up at Furlings with Emma.

‘Dad went ballistic.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Magda.

‘I didn’t know her boyfriend was some bigwig,’ Milo protested.

‘But you knew she had a boyfriend.’

‘Hardly a boy. He’s about a hundred and five,’ Milo said bitterly.

‘And what about Roxanne?’ asked Magda archly. ‘I thought you two were in love. Isn’t that what you told me, when I covered for you the day I arrived?’

‘We grew apart.’ Milo smiled sheepishly from beneath a his floppy blond fringe.

Magda thought,
Gosh, he’s good looking. No wonder Emma Harwich dumped her Tory grandee.

Walking to the window, she saw the lights in Eddie and Annabel’s bedroom go off.

‘They’re in bed,’ she told Milo. ‘You can sneak back in now.’