The Show

  ‘Yes, but are you with him? Really?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Macy snapped, trying to extricate herself from Santiago’s grip. ‘I don’t have time for riddles.’

  ‘I’ll spell it out then,’ Santiago whispered in her ear. ‘I think you’re in love with Gabriel Baxter.’

  Macy laughed derisively.

  ‘It won’t come to anything, you know. Gabe might flirt, but he loves his wife.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ said Macy. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go of me.’

  Santiago released her arm. ‘Fine. But what you’re doing is unfair to James. Not to mention poor Laura.’

  ‘I’m not doing anything,’ Macy said indignantly. ‘For your information, James and I are very happy together. Very. And as for “poor Laura”, I’d save your sympathy if I were you. Believe me, that woman can stick up for herself. If anyone’s suffering in that marriage, it’s Gabe, not her.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Santiago.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ James came over, wrapping both arms around Macy’s waist. ‘You two aren’t arguing, are you? Santi can be a pig when he’s been drinking.’ He smiled.

  ‘We’re not arguing.’ Macy shot Santiago a frosty look. ‘Everything’s fine.’ Turning round she stood up on tiptoes, coiling herself about James’s neck and kissing him passionately on the mouth. ‘Let’s go home,’ she said huskily.

  James lit up like a light bulb. ‘I’d love to. But are you sure? This is your wrap party, after all.’

  ‘Positive,’ purred Macy. ‘I’m tired of all these people. I just want you.’ She turned to Santiago. ‘If you’ll excuse us.’

  James grinned over his shoulder at his friend as Macy pulled him away, like a cavewoman dragging home her kill.

  ‘There you go,’ said Penny, reappearing at Santiago’s side. ‘I saw that kiss. You have nothing to worry about.’

  Santiago thought: I’m not so sure.

  Macy and James went back to James’s place, a rented gamekeeper’s cottage overlooking the river at Brockhurst. From the bedroom window you could see the gabled roof of Riverside Hall. The lights were still on upstairs.

  ‘Cruella’s still up,’ said Macy. Stripped down to her Elle Macpherson underwear she was kneeling on the window seat, gazing out across the valley. ‘Probably devising some elaborate torture for poor Eddie when he gets home.’

  ‘Annabel is a witch, isn’t she?’ agreed James. Walking up behind Macy he leaned down and nuzzled her neck. He could feel his dick start to harden instantly. How had he ever managed to land himself such a stunning, incredible girl? She looked insanely sexy in her white lace bra and knickers.

  ‘Why do you think he married her?’ asked Macy, sighing contentedly as James unhooked her bra and cupped both her breasts with his warm, rough hands.

  ‘She probably cast a spell on him,’ murmured James, who was rapidly losing interest in the Wellesley marriage. ‘Something involving frogs and eyes of newt.’

  Macy giggled.

  ‘Or maybe it’s all an act and she’s red-hot in bed,’ James whispered, moving his hands down and slipping beneath the flimsy lace fabric of her underwear, expertly caressing her clitoris. ‘Maybe they’re fucking like stoats up there every night. Although at his age I doubt it.’

  ‘He’s not that old,’ said Macy defensively, as an unwanted memory of Eddie making love to her in Los Angeles flashed into her brain. She’d enjoyed it at the time, but now the thought of having ever been with Eddie felt obscene.

  ‘He’s not that young,’ James said reasonably.

  Turning round, Macy wriggled out of her underwear completely and slid naked into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist like a rainforest native about to shimmy up a palm tree. ‘I’m kinda done talking.’

  Grinning, James staggered backwards onto the bed with Macy still on top of him. His hard-on was so big now it was tricky to get his jeans off, like taking down a tent with the poles still up. But finally he too was naked. Gasping with pleasure he slid inside her, watching while she arched and bucked and moaned on top of him like the world’s hottest rodeo rider.

  Macy closed her eyes and immediately saw Gabe Baxter’s face. She opened them again, panicked.

  ‘You OK, babe?’ asked James.

  ‘Mmm-hmmm,’ Macy nodded, forcing herself to focus on the present and the incredible sensations flooding through her body.

  Bloody Santiago de la Cruz! Why did he have to put dumb ideas into her head? She was not in love with Gabe. Attracted, maybe, in an idle, offhand way. But everyone had people they were attracted to, besides their partner, didn’t they?

  Scared he was going to come too soon, James suddenly pulled out of her and flipped her over onto her stomach. Relieved he could no longer see her face, Macy buried her head in the pillow. Propping himself up on his elbows so that only part of his weight was on her, James nudged her legs wider before pushing inside her once again, forcing himself to slow his thrusts into a calmer, more controlled rhythm. It was torturous and wonderful. Macy groaned. Waves of pleasure lapped all around her, never quite breaking on the shore.

  ‘I love you,’ James murmured in her ear.

  ‘I love you too.’ The words were out before she knew she’d said them. Macy felt her hips move faster and faster with a mind of their own, willing her body towards orgasm and release. But if her body was in heaven, her mind was in hell. Images of Eddie Wellesley and Gabe Baxter continued to jump out of her like ghouls on a ghost-train ride, tormenting her, making her doubt everything. And Santiago’s voice: ‘I think you’re in love with Gabriel Baxter’ playing like a stuck record, over and over, until she wanted to scream. Then suddenly, too quickly, James exploded inside her, clinging onto the headboard for support as his whole body shot forwards like a torpedo. Macy’s own climax came then, too, wave after wave, each one bigger and harder than the last. The faces and voices were finally gone.

  ‘Jesus.’ James collapsed on the bed beside her, gasping for breath. He was drenched in sweat, as if he’d just been swimming.

  ‘Yeah.’ Macy lay beside him, her own heart pounding. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I meant it, you know,’ said James, once he’d finally got his breath back. ‘I do love you.’

  Macy stared at the ceiling, trying not to cry. She didn’t know if she felt wildly happy or desperately sad. Only that the maelstrom of emotion inside her was too much to bear. And that she didn’t want to be alone in this world any more.

  ‘James?’ Her voice rang out in the still night air. ‘Will you marry me?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Eddie Wellesley lay in bed feeling profoundly happy. It was November, not yet a whole year since he’d walked out of Farndale, but it felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened in that time – moving to the Swell Valley, meeting the Baxters and Macy, becoming a television producer, and now, launching his memoirs. Outside, a chill wind rattled against the windowpane. But the dreary weather could do nothing to dampen Eddie’s spirits this morning.

  Annabel lay in his arms, warm and naked and happy, something Eddie had feared she might never be again. Last night, after Eddie’s appearance on a new Channel 4 chat show to promote his memoirs, he and Annabel had driven back to Riverside Hall and had had the best, most passionate sex they’d had in years. Decades, probably. Eddie hadn’t realized quite how much he’d missed it – missed her – till now. Nothing meant anything compared to this. To the two of them being together and happy and a team.

  ‘I adore you,’ he whispered in her ear.

  Turning round, Annabel kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Good.’

  Annabel was happy too. Despite what people thought, she’d always loved Eddie. His affairs had hurt her, but she’d stayed because, in the end, she’d never stopped loving him or feeling loved by him. And because he said he was sorry, and she believed him. She knew she could come across as cold and unfeeling. It was one of the reasons why s
o many strangers blamed her for Eddie’s infidelity. She’s so cold, she’s such a snob, she drove him to it.

  But Eddie had always seen past that. He’d seen the warmth in Annabel where no one else had – perhaps he’d even created it? – and that private understanding had made him feel special. In Eddie’s eyes, Annabel was something rare and wonderful, a secret treasure chest to which only he had the key. She loved him for that more than anything.

  Even so, it had been a long road back to their old intimacy. When Eddie had got involved in Valley Farm, and started hanging out with all those television people, especially Laura Baxter, Annabel had been terrified of losing him all over again. In television, Annabel felt excluded. But politics? That was a world where they both belonged, for better or worse. A world where Annabel had an important role to play, as wife, hostess, team mate. With the memoirs finally finished and publication scheduled for next week, last night’s television appearance had been the first concrete step in Eddie’s political comeback. That alone had been a huge boost to Annabel’s spirits. The fact that it had been such a triumph made her positively giddy with hope, and renewed love for her husband.

  ‘What’s your greatest regret?’ the chat-show host had asked Eddie.

  ‘I don’t believe in regrets,’ Eddie said briskly. ‘I broke the law and I paid the price. But I’m not complaining. I learned a lot in prison, and I made some great friends.’

  ‘Still, if you could turn back the clock, surely there are things you would have done differently? That you wish you hadn’t done?’

  Eddie had thought about it for a long time. Then, with disarming sincerity, he’d said: ‘I wish I hadn’t hurt my wife.’ Zooming in, the camera caught the tears in his eyes. ‘But that’s a private matter between the two of us.’

  Watching in the green room, Annabel had fought back tears of her own. Eddie had said sorry countless times. But last night, for the first time, she had known he really meant it.

  She met him in the corridor as soon as he walked off stage.

  ‘Did I do all right?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘You were wonderful.’

  He pulled her to him, pushing her hair back tenderly behind one ear and locking his eyes onto hers. ‘You’re wonderful. It’s all going to be different this time round, you’ll see. I love you and I’m going to protect you. From everything.’

  This transformative moment in Eddie and Annabel’s relationship had turned out to be transformative for Eddie’s career too. According to this morning’s viewing figures and reviews, the public had been deeply moved by his marital remorse. Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, had called at crack of dawn, waking them both up.

  ‘You went down a storm,’ Kevin gushed. ‘Huge ratings for last night’s show. Over eighty per cent of viewers found you “sincere and credible”. Ninety per cent liked you! That’s unheard of for a politician.’

  ‘Especially a bent one,’ quipped Eddie.

  Kevin laughed. ‘No one cares any more.’

  ‘Except David Carlyle.’

  ‘David who?’ the agent scoffed. ‘Get Annabel to serve the party chairman a few bottles of really good burgundy at tonight’s book launch and, I’m telling you, you’re home and dry. They’ll be throwing safe seats at you like girls chucking their knickers at a One Direction concert.’

  Now, lying in bed next to Annabel, Eddie ran a hand lovingly down her bare back. ‘Can I do anything for you?’ he asked.

  ‘Such as what?’ she asked archly.

  ‘Anything you like,’ Eddie grinned. ‘We don’t have much to do today before the party, do we?’

  ‘Not much to do?’ Annabel rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, Eddie, these things don’t magically happen by themselves, you know. It’s not just a book launch; it’s the rebirth of your political career. The Home Secretary’s coming, and the party chairman. This is a crucial evening for us. Crucial.’

  ‘I know that,’ Eddie said gently.

  ‘Then there’s the spin doctor, speech writer, or whatever he is. The bald chap with the permanent sneer and the American wife.’

  ‘You mean Phil Blaize?’

  ‘Yes. Him. The wife’s bound to have “allergies”.’

  ‘Why is she bound to have allergies?’ Eddie laughed.

  ‘Because they always do. American women are so tiresome about their eating habits.’ Annabel sighed heavily. ‘Really, Eddie, I’ve been run off my feet for months preparing for this damn party and I’m still nowhere near ready.’

  ‘I thought Magda was supposed to be doing most of the legwork?’

  ‘Magda?’ Annabel rolled her eyes extravagantly. ‘Don’t get me started. Honestly, if I had a pound for every time I’ve had to correct that girl, or go back and do a job myself because she simply cannot follow simple instructions …’

  Eddie stopped her with a kiss. He knew the postcoital glow wouldn’t last for ever, but he wanted a few more hours of it at least.

  ‘I’ll make breakfast,’ he said brightly. ‘How about pancakes? Thinking of American eating habits.’

  Annabel burst out laughing. ‘Edward! You have no idea how to make a pancake.’

  ‘Yes I have.’ Eddie pulled on a dressing gown. ‘You use eggs and … things.’

  ‘What things?’

  Eddie looked vague. ‘Milk? Look, I can make a fucking pancake, all right. I’m not an imbecile. You just relax and leave it to me.’

  Milo Wellesley hopped down from the passenger seat of the cab and waved cheerily to the lorry driver as he drove away.

  He’d been lucky to get a lift almost all the way from Heathrow to Brockhurst. Gary, the jovial, enormously fat driver, was taking a load of Topps Tiles to a warehouse in Chichester and was happy to have the tanned, skinny blond boy along for the ride. Having been dropped at the top of the hill, by the side of the A27, Milo had less than two miles to walk down into the valley till he reached Riverside Hall.

  Before Africa, he would never have hitchhiked. But a lot of things had changed for Milo in the last few months. He’d returned to England happier, healthier and immeasurably more resourceful. He was determined to prove to his parents – and certain other people – that he was no longer the needy, entitled public schoolboy of old. He was a man of the world now. A man with opinions and ambitions and plans for the future – a future that lay spread out before him, just like the glorious patchwork of fields, woods and streams he stood gazing at now.

  Hoisting his backpack onto his skinny shoulders, he started down the hill at a jog. It was still only nine in the morning and the air was cold enough for him to see his breath. After the dryness of Sudan, the sense of damp in the air felt wonderful. Milo drank in the mist and the breeze and the promise of rain or even snow like a bumblebee gorging itself on nectar after a long spell in the wilderness. But it wasn’t only England he was pleased to see, or his home, or his family. It was Magda.

  He’d gone to look for her the morning after his leaving party, to say goodbye, but she’d taken Wilf out for an early walk and he’d missed her. At the time he’d been so caught up with the Roxanne drama – Roxie had hooked up with his friend Will Cooper that night deliberately to bait him – and he hadn’t thought much about missing his parents’ home help. But being away had changed all that.

  Out in Africa, as the days and weeks rolled past, Roxanne had faded from his memory and Milo’s thoughts had turned more and more to Magda. He pictured her giving him a stern talking-to on their walk to The Fox a few days before the party, the night he’d met Emma Harwich for a drink. It wasn’t just that Magda was beautiful, although she was certainly that. It was her combination of strength and vulnerability, her quiet dignity that had begun to give her an almost mystical aura in Milo’s memory. He’d been too blind to see it back in England. Too caught up in his own shit, chasing girls like Emma and Roxanne for no better reason than that they were sexy. But after long, gruelling days lugging bricks in the African sun, the long nights had given him plenty of time for reflection.


  He’d been blind. Blind and stupid. Roxanne was a nice enough girl, but she had never inspired him to become a better person the way that Magda did. Nor, despite her antics with Will, had she ever presented much of a challenge. Magda, on the other hand, was nothing but challenge. She was a grown woman, an intelligent woman, a woman to be conquered. A woman worth conquering.

  Not that he was obsessed or anything.

  Milo was going to show Magda that he was a changed man. It made him cringe to think about that night outside The Fox now, when he’d still been mooning over Emma Harwich. Emma Harwich! How pointless and vacuous his fling with Emma seemed now. Although, in a roundabout way, it had turned out to be a good thing, as he’d never have been sent to Africa if it weren’t for Emma.

  Bizarrely, Emma’s face had been one of the first things Milo had seen when he’d landed this morning. She and her ancient boyfriend, the Tory donor, were on the front page of the Daily Mail, shaking hands with some movie star or other. Milo had found himself staring at Emma’s image like a man who has just realized his old master painting is actually nothing but a cheap fake. She was pretty enough, of course, in a regular-featured, generic, model-y sort of way. But, next to Magda, her beauty was as lifeless and blank as the painted face of a doll.

  The closer he came to Riverside Hall, the more excited Milo felt. As the lane twisted and turned, and the ground seemed to fall away beneath his feet, familiar smells joined forces with the sights and sounds of the valley. Wet grass and mulch and wood smoke and horse manure, all mingled together into an intoxicating soup of home and countryside and belonging. Suddenly Milo realized he was starving. A mental picture of a warm bacon sandwich shimmered before his eyes like a mirage in the Sahara. He broke into a jog, then a run.

  Both his parents’ cars were parked in the drive at Riverside Hall, although he couldn’t see Magda’s rickety old Ford Fiesta. An awful thought struck him. What if Magda had left while he’d been gone? What if his mother had fired her? Or she’d grown tired of Annabel’s ceaseless, unreasonable demands and taken off, leaving no contact number or forwarding address?