The Show

  ‘No she can’t,’ Milo snapped back. ‘Open your eyes!’

  The guests were all staring at her now. Magda could feel their eyes on her; her heart was hammering against her ribs like a jumping bean in a cage. Why did Milo have to make a scene? Lady Wellesley hated scenes. In a rush, she reached forwards to set the dish on the table, but lost her footing. After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion. There was a collective gasp from around the table as the silver lid clattered to the ground and the tureen tumbled forwards, depositing a cascade of scalding bouillabaisse directly into William Berkeley’s lap.

  ‘FUUUUCK!’ The chairman of the Conservative Party let out a roar of pain, leaping to his feet and scrambling to undo his trousers. Seconds later they were around his ankles, along with his underpants, as he hopped from foot to foot, naked and howling. While most of the guests stared transfixed at this unexpected display of burned wedding tackle, Lisa Unger, thinking quickly, whipped the champagne bottle out of a nearby ice bucket, ran around the table and emptied the icy water directly onto the chairman’s crotch.

  ‘I think he might need to go to hospital,’ said Philip Blaize, the first words he’d spoken since he sat down.

  ‘Somebody call an ambulance!’ boomed Camilla.

  Annabel turned on Magda, tight-lipped and furious. ‘Clean it up,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I—’

  ‘Now!’

  With a sob, Magda ran from the room.

  As the ambulance carted away poor William, it was hard to tell what distressed him more: the blistering pain in his balls or the prospect of being ushered into a confined space with his drunken bore of a wife. In any event, with the Berkeleys gone, dinner continued, with conversation considerably more lively following the unexpected drama.

  ‘That’s a nice way to launch a comeback,’ Philip Blaize teased Eddie. ‘Maiming the party chairman!’

  ‘I expect it’s the most action William’s had in the trouser department in many a long year,’ Eddie cracked back.

  Annabel laughed along – Eddie had always been better at handling these things than she was, and would no doubt pluck victory from the jaws of disaster. But she remained livid with Magda for her clumsiness, and with Milo for setting the whole thing off, trying to play Prince Charming to the maid’s Cinderella.

  Magda went through the motions, serving the beef and the pudding and coffee, moving silently around the room like a wraith. Eddie tried to smile at her reassuringly, but she didn’t dare to meet his eye, or anyone’s.

  Later, when the guests had retired to the drawing room for cognac, Milo found her in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, staring dumbly into space, she still looked shell shocked.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, pulling up a chair beside her.

  ‘She’ll fire me. I know it. I’m going to lose my place.’

  ‘She won’t fire you,’ said Milo. ‘I know my mother. She might rant and rave a bit, but she won’t want to start again with someone new. Anyway,’ he looked at Magda questioningly, ‘would it be the end of the world if she did fire you? You can’t like working for her. You’re much too good for this job.’

  Magda shook her head. ‘Life isn’t about what you “like”. It’s about what you need.’

  ‘OK. But why do you need this job so badly?’

  Magda opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. It was a good question, a fair question. But she couldn’t answer it. Not without lying, and she wasn’t prepared to do that, not to Milo.

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  It came out like an accusation. Milo looked hurt. ‘Explain to me, then.’

  I want to, thought Magda. I really do. But if she told Milo the truth, there was a chance that he’d let something slip, that eventually his parents would find out. And she couldn’t risk that. For their sake as much as her own.

  ‘Forget it. Forget I said anything.’

  Reaching out, Milo took her hand. Not questioningly or tentatively, but firmly, with a confidence Magda hadn’t seen in him before. ‘I’m not a kid, Magda. I’m not the boy I was before I left. I want to help you.’

  For the briefest of moments their eyes met. He was so earnest, so endearing. For the first time in a long time, Magda realized, she had made a true friend.

  ‘I’m happy you’re home, Milo,’ she said truthfully. ‘I just pray to God you’re right about your mother.’

  It was nearly two in the morning by the time the last guests left. To Eddie’s amazement, it was the Home Secretary, James Garforth, and his wife, who were the last to stagger to their car.

  ‘Terrific evening.’ James patted Eddie warmly on the back. ‘Shame about poor old Berkeley,’ he added, in a tone that clearly implied it wasn’t a shame at all. ‘Your boy, Milo’s, very impressive, by the way. Wonderful to meet a young person who cares about today’s big issues.’

  ‘Milo?’ Eddie failed to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  ‘Yes. You can tell him I’ll look into that internship. We need to expand our bandwidth over at the Home Office; get some young blood flowing, new ideas.’

  Eddie looked at him blankly. Bandwidth? He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Tristram Hambly to promote a man who spewed out such a ceaseless flow of twaddle.

  ‘Jolly good,’ he said blithely, helping Garforth into his car. ‘Thanks again for coming. Drive safely.’

  Back inside, he cornered Milo on the stairs on his way up to bed.

  ‘Did you ask the Home Secretary about an internship?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Milo. ‘I thought, you know, one might as well ask. There’s so much reform needed in immigration,’ he added seriously. ‘They could probably use an extra pair of hands.’

  Eddie rubbed his eyes in disbelief. ‘You’re interested in immigration?’

  ‘Well. A bit. And, you know, it’s all good for the CV,’ he added sheepishly. ‘Night, Dad.’

  Eddie gazed after him in wonder as he went to his room. Whatever Dominic Veesey had been putting in Milo’s water out in Africa, he and Annabel had better order a job lot.

  Upstairs in bed, Milo lay awake, his mind racing. The truth was he couldn’t care less about immigration, or his CV. But he needed a job, a real job, something important and meaningful that would impress Magda.

  Before tonight, he’d imagined that he loved her.

  Now, he knew.

  It was time for the rest of his life to begin.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Macy Johanssen pulled her cashmere scarf more tightly around as she strolled along Walton Street. It was December, and with Christmas just round the corner, London had been transformed into a fairy-tale city, a gloriously kitsch and glowing version of its usual self. Tiny stores – to Macy’s American eyes they literally looked like dolls’ houses – had stuffed their window displays with every kind of festive delight: trays of sweet frosted marzipan fruits, bright baubles in every shape and colour, clockwork toys, pretty knitted children’s dresses and coats and brightly wrapped boxes garnished with holly and ruby-red berries. After a morning spent trying on wedding dresses in Notting Hill, Macy had decided to walk to her lunch date at Scalini through Kensington Gardens, transformed into a wonderland overnight by the sort of heavy frost that left everything white and sparkling beneath a dazzling blue winter sky.

  It was impossible not to feel happy on a day like today. Hope hung in the air like the sweet cinnamon spice wafting out of Patisserie Valerie’s. Not that Macy had any reasons to feel unhappy. Being engaged to James was more enjoyable than she’d thought it would be. Random strangers would rush up to Macy on the street and congratulate her, which was disconcerting at first, but in the end she’d come to quite enjoy. Then there were the wedding magazines to pore over. Nothing fed Macy’s perfectionist, homemaker obsession quite like the prospect of organizing a wedding. For months now she’d gone to bed dreaming of hand-tied posies and The Wedding Company table arrangements and Alice Temperley dresses with ju
st the perfect amount of lace detailing. James, needless to say, was unmoved by all of the above and happy to leave it all to Macy. He was also away a lot with his cricket, most recently on a tour of Sri Lanka, in which England were leading a triumphant 3–1 in the five-match Test series. While his long absences were regrettable, they did at least mean that Macy could get on with things unhindered by tiresome male meddling. Of course, there were still some things they needed to talk about – not least their future living arrangements. James’s cricket effectively tied him to England while Macy still had her long-term sights set on a US TV comeback – but Macy was enjoying this period of calm before the storm, and in no rush to emerge from her fantasy-wedding stupor.

  At Scalini, she peeled off her coat and scarf and let the maître d’ lead her to her table. Eddie Wellesley was already seated and armed with what looked like a large G&T.

  ‘My dear,’ he beamed. ‘You look as lovely as ever.’

  ‘Thanks. You look like you just bought a dollar for ninety cents.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You look pleased with yourself!’ Macy explained.

  ‘Oh, I see. A bit like “you lost a shilling and found sixpence”, but the other way round.’

  ‘If you say so. So what happened? D’you sell another million copies of your book?’

  Eddie’s prison diaries-cum-autobiography had been this Christmas’s surprise smash hit, an instant runaway bestseller. Suddenly his face was everywhere, on buses and billboards, or laughing jovially from the couches of countless chat shows. Everybody, it seemed, had missed Fast Eddie Wellesley.

  ‘Not yet. But I’m working on it,’ he grinned. ‘Of course if the bloody publishers had let me call it Fast & Furious like I wanted, we’d have sold loads more.’

  ‘Of course you would,’ Macy laughed. ‘Cowards!’

  They ordered pasta and lots of delicious-looking things involving cheese and truffles. Eddie insisted on wine, but Macy only sipped at hers. They were here to talk business. She wasn’t about to let Eddie charm her into something she might regret, or get her too pissed to ask him the tough questions she needed to.

  ‘How’s the Christmas Special coming along?’ Eddie kicked things off innocuously enough. ‘Is it all peace and goodwill down at Valley Farm?’

  Macy raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Hardly. When is it ever? There are fewer protestors now. The poor old vicar shows up from time to time with a couple of old biddies from the WI, but that’s about it. But the dragon’s still as demanding as ever.’

  ‘By the “dragon” we mean the lovely Laura?’

  Macy rolled her eyes. ‘Lovely to you, maybe. She’s a harridan to everyone else. I suggested to Gabe that we get the kids involved in the Christmas show somehow. They’re great boys and I think it’d be cute to see them spraying glitter trees on their bedroom windows or making holly wreaths with the farm hands. Plus it’s a half-hour longer than usual, so we have airtime to fill.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Eddie. ‘Did Laura say no?’

  ‘No one’s asked her yet. Everyone’s afraid of her, Eddie, even her own husband. Gabe promised me he’d broach the idea with her but, so far, nothing. We film tomorrow.’

  ‘You can hardly blame Laura for not agreeing to something she hasn’t even been asked about,’ Eddie pointed out reasonably.

  ‘Sure I can. She’s so busy yelling at poor Gabe, I suspect he hasn’t been able to get a word in edgeways.’

  Eddie looked at Macy thoughtfully. England had changed her, he decided, and for the better. She was softer now than when he’d first met her in LA, less brittle and highly strung. She’d gained a little weight too. Not much, just enough to give her a more contented, womanly glow. It suited her. He hoped that part of her happiness was due to her engagement to James Craven. But he couldn’t help but notice that, since they’d sat down, she’d mentioned Gabe’s name scores of times and her fiancé’s not at all. He decided to cast a fly over the water.

  ‘I’m surprised to hear that,’ he said. ‘The Baxters seem to have a very happy marriage to me.’

  Macy took the bait instantly.

  ‘That’s because you barely know them,’ she said sourly. ‘I see them every day.’

  ‘And it still hurts, does it?’ Eddie probed gently.

  Macy blushed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  Stretching out her left arm, Macy flashed her engagement ring pointedly in Eddie’s direction.

  ‘In case you haven’t noticed, I’m off the market. I’ve already found my handsome prince.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said defensively. ‘For your information, it is. Speaking of happy endings, how’s your marriage going? You’ve been keeping your extra-curricular activities very quiet lately.’

  ‘I haven’t had any,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Is that so?’ Macy mimicked him snidely.

  ‘It is,’ said Eddie. ‘Not since you.’

  There was an awkward moment when neither of them quite knew what to say. It was an unspoken rule between them that their one-night stand was never brought up, and it irritated Macy that Eddie had broken it now. Then again, she had pushed him. But she didn’t appreciate Eddie grilling her about Gabe, or doubting her relationship with James. Hearing your own, hidden thoughts exposed is never pleasant. Eddie Wellesley had always had an uncanny and disconcerting habit of seeing right through her.

  ‘Anyway. Enough chit-chat,’ she said brusquely. ‘You promised me if the first season went well we would take the show to the States and try to raise some interest back home.’

  ‘I did,’ Eddie conceded.

  ‘Well, the first season went well. Better than well.’

  ‘It did,’ he agreed again.

  ‘So …?’

  ‘So, I’m happy to do another trip to your illustrious homeland.’

  Macy looked surprised. ‘You still want to sell the format? I figured, with your book and getting back into politics and all, you’d kinda lost interest.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Eddie. ‘Although, once you’re Mrs Craven, won’t you be rather tied to living here? You are marrying an English sporting hero, you know.’

  ‘Yes. And he’s marrying an American TV presenter with a career and a life of her own.’ Macy smiled, but there was a defiant gleam in her eye that did not bode well for marital harmony, in Eddie’s view.

  ‘You’ve discussed it then?’ he asked. ‘Because you know you already have a profit share if we sell the format. Your Rottweiler of an agent did a good job for you there. You don’t have to present if you don’t want to. You could continue presenting here.’

  ‘And here was I thinking you wanted me to stay away from Gabriel Baxter?’ Macy said archly.

  Eddie topped up her glass and raised his own. ‘To America. And the future.’

  Macy tapped her glass against his. ‘To America.’

  ‘You are kidding?’ Laura Baxter put her head in her hands, leaving a sticky residue of marzipan frosting all over her hair. ‘I actually need to know that this is a joke.’

  It had been a long and stressful day. With filming due to start on the Valley Farm Christmas Special tomorrow, Laura had a mountain of work to do, but had done none of it, thanks to having rashly agreed to produce thirty miniature Christmas puddings for the St Hilda’s Primary School Festive Fayre. Gabe’s suggestion this morning, that she simply buy them from M&S in Chichester, had put Laura in a foul mood. Partly because she wished she’d thought of it herself (ideally before she’d spent a small fortune on ingredients and waxed thirty miniature pudding bowls). And partly because it strongly implied that Gabe thought her culinary skills weren’t up to it (true but annoying.) And partly because her PMT had now reached levels that were the hormonal equivalent of weapons-grade plutonium. They’d had a horrible row and then Gabe had sodded off to London and some swanky Christmas party at the Chiltern Firehouse, which had been in the diary for ever but which Laura had complete
ly forgotten about and which meant she was also left juggling the boys solo for an entire day.

  Now Gabe had returned, made an ill-advised joke about King Alfred after taking one look at Laura’s disastrously charred efforts, and then casually dropped the bombshell about Hugh and Luca being filmed tomorrow.

  ‘Why should it be a joke?’ he asked, standing back slightly so Laura wouldn’t smell the booze on his breath. ‘I think it’s a great idea and so did Mike Briarson.’

  ‘Mike? You discussed this with Channel 5 already?’

  ‘Not formally,’ Gabe backtracked. ‘Mike happened to be at the Firehouse party and I … mentioned it.’

  ‘You didn’t agree we’d do it, though?’ Laura pressed him.

  ‘Erm …’

  ‘Gabe! We agreed, right at the beginning, no filming the children.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘You were even more insistent about it than I was, if I remember. You said you didn’t want them turning into the Osbournes. No filming, No exceptions.’

  ‘Yes, but that was before.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Before everything! Before the show started, before we knew anybody. The production crew are like family now.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Laura closed her eyes and wiped a sticky hand across her brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see what’s so terrible about Dave and Dean doing a few takes of Hugh making a Frostie the Snowman card, or taking feed out to the sheep pens.’

  ‘Then you’re a bloody idiot,’ Laura snapped. ‘And you’re not sorry.’

  ‘It’s a one-off, for fuck’s sake,’ Gabe snapped back.

  ‘It’s the thin end of the wedge.’

  ‘Why do you have to be so bloody negative about everything?’

  Behind them, Luca – sitting on the kitchen floor with his face covered in icing sugar – started to cry. ‘Don’t shouting!’

  ‘You see?’ said Gabe, scooping his son up into his arms and placating him with a Thomas train and a handful of Smarties from the bowl on the table. ‘You’re upsetting the kids.’

  ‘Me?’ Laura looked at him, incredulous. It took every ounce of her willpower to take Luca and Hugh calmly into the other room and settle them both down in front of a DVD before returning to the kitchen and exploding at their father.