Even Gabe had to admit that their arch-enemies, the WI protestors, had done a spectacular job with the festive decorations. Heavy garlands of greenery – ivy and dark holly and incredibly scented fir – hung beneath each of the ancient stained-glass windows. Bright sprigs of berries clashed gloriously with the wreaths of white roses pinned to the crumbling stone walls, and simple stacks of beeswax candles burned cheerfully on each of the deep window ledges and along the nave. On the altar, four taller Advent candles in deep red flickered over a beautifully carved Nativity scene. Both Gabe and Laura remembered the same wooden figures of Mary and Joseph and the three kings from their own childhood Christmases. This year, the local children had made Victorian decorations of cinnamon sticks and oranges tied with gold ribbon and studded with cloves. Hung from the altar and the ends of the pews, and mingling with the scent from the pine garlands, they made the church smell wonderful, like sitting inside a freshly baked Christmas pudding.
On the other side of the church, the smell was making Santiago de la Cruz feel sick.
‘I may have to go home,’ he whispered to Penny, as the organist struck up the opening bars of ‘Hark! the herald-angels sing’. ‘I seriously think I might throw up.’
‘You can’t,’ she whispered back. ‘Louise Carlyle’s solo’s up next, “I Saw Three Ships”. The poor thing’s terrified. We must stay and support her.’
‘Can’t you support her?’
Penny frowned. ‘It’s not just Louise. You promised to drive old Mrs Cole back to her cottage after church, remember? It’s your good deed for the day.’
Santiago groaned.
‘It’s your own fault for drinking so much last night. Honestly, drinking crème de menthe at your age …’
Seb, Santiago’s stepson, had proposed an ill-advised Christmas Eve game of ‘Spin the Bottle’, in which forfeits were to be alternate shots of crème de menthe and Baileys. Unfortunately for Santiago, at twenty-five Seb Harwich had the constitution of an ox and, like a lot of young investment bankers, the alcohol tolerance of a Russian sailor. After a couple of Alka-Seltzers and a bacon sandwich, the boy looked as fit as a fiddle this morning, and was singing lustily on the other side of his mother.
The service cracked on, with Louise Carlyle’s solo performance widely considered a great success. Her husband might be a polarizing figure in the valley, but people had come to love Louise. She was so kind to everyone, and so modest, and she tried so hard to fit in, it was impossible not to root for her. The Reverend Clempson was also at a good pace for once, keeping his sermon short but sweet. Bill wasn’t so old that he’d forgotten what it was like to be a child himself, itching to get home to unwrap his presents. He hadn’t the heart to torture people with a long sermon on Christmas Day. On a rather more selfish note, he’d been invited up to Furlings for lunch by Max Bingley and Angela Cranley, and was looking forward to sinking into their grand Knole sofa with a glass of vintage champagne and the Times Christmas jumbo crossword in front of a roaring log fire.
The Baxter children were out of their seats and running for the door before the last strains of ‘Deck the Halls’ had finished playing. In the front pew, Angela and Max chatted and exchanged Christmas greetings with the Wellesleys and their son, Milo, who seemed to have turned into a grown man overnight. Angela was in particularly good spirits, as both Logan and Jason had come home for Christmas with their respective husbands, as well as Max’s daughters, Rosie and May, and their husbands and children, transforming Furlings back into a family home, if only for a few glorious days.
‘I hadn’t realized how maternal you are,’ said Max, kissing her with evident pride. Everyone knew that Max Bingley and Angela Cranley were the happiest unmarried couple in the entire Swell Valley.
‘Grand-maternal at this point,’ joked Angela. ‘I wish Logie would hurry up and get pregnant.’
‘Give her a chance,’ laughed Max, taking her hand and leading her down the aisle. ‘They’ve only been married five minutes.’
Penny de la Cruz rushed past, a blur of flowing orange sweater and rather odd dark green knitted skirt. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed to Angela. ‘Rushing. I’ve got Macy Johanssen coming for lunch and I forgot to defrost the pecan pie!’
Outside in the snow, Bill Clempson was smiling and shaking hands with everyone, even Gabe Baxter. Christmas was a time for reconciliation, after all, and it was a joy to see the whole village coming together. He was particularly touched when Jennifer Lee, the young vet who’d argued with him so bitterly during filming, thrust a gaudily wrapped bottle of sloe gin into his hands.
‘It’s home-made,’ she blurted, clearly rather embarrassed at her own boldness. ‘It’s sort of an apology present.’
‘An apology?’ Bill looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure that’s necessary, Miss Lee. We haven’t seen eye to eye about Valley Farm, it’s true. But there’s no crime in having different opinions.’
‘Yes, but I was mean to you. At Milo Wellesley’s leaving party. You were trying to be nice and I was … annoying.’
‘I don’t remember that,’ Bill muttered awkwardly. He’d always been a rotten liar.
‘I’m afraid there’s more.’ Jen blushed scarlet. ‘The silage. On your car.’
Bill’s eyes widened.
‘That was me.’
‘You?’
Jen nodded, biting her lower lip. ‘I was so cross with you at the time. For scaring the animals. But it was awfully childish and, well … I’m sorry.’
‘Oh. Well.’ Now it was Bill’s turn to blush. ‘Apology accepted.’
The car incident had been mortifying at the time, but it was a long time ago now. He’d always assumed that Gabe was behind it and was astonished to learn that it had in fact been this really rather pretty young woman, who had such a passionate love for animals. Watching Jen hopping from foot to foot in the snow, her marvellously ample bosom heaving beneath a plum-coloured cashmere sweater that clashed with her flushed cheeks, he wondered why he’d never before noticed how attractive she was.
‘Perhaps, in the New Year, you’ll come and have a glass with me?’ he heard himself saying. ‘We can bury the hatchet properly.’
‘I’d like that,’ Jen smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Vicar.’
‘Please. Call me Bill.’
‘All right, Bill. And I’m Jen.’
‘Merry Christmas, Jen.’
Watching her scurry off to her car, Bill Clempson decided this was turning out to be quite the merriest Christmas he could remember.
Magda closed her eyes and let the enchanting sounds of the King’s College Choir wash over her. The tiny CD player in her cottage sitting room was not exactly the height of acoustic sophistication. But Sir Edward had kindly lent her a Carols from King’s collection, assuring her that it was the sound of a traditional English Christmas. With its simple, unaccompanied boys’ voices, ‘Jesus Christ the Apple Tree’ didn’t require Bose speakers or surround-sound. Its purity rang out as crisply and clearly as a church bell on the still morning air.
Magda cherished her moment of peace, knowing it would probably be the last of the day. She was officially ‘off’ for Christmas, but with nowhere to go and no one to see, she had agreed to cook for the family. Incredibly, it would just be Sir Edward, Lady Wellesley and Milo at Riverside Hall this Christmas. Since Eddie’s book had been published, and his political comeback launched, he and Annabel had dived headlong into a positive orgy of entertaining. Occasionally, for the bigger weekend parties, they brought in extra help. But it was always Magda who bore the brunt of the work, with one long weekend blurring into the next in a constant round of laundry, cooking, bed-making, fireplace-sweeping and general exhaustion. Desperate to be forgiven after the soup incident – apparently the poor party chairman had suffered second-degree burns to his scrotum and had needed a partial skin graft – and still insecure about her position, Magda had worked without complaint. But she’d been delighted and astonished in equal measure to hear that Christmas week was going to be ‘fa
mily only’, with Milo coming back from his London internship but no other guests expected.
The carol ended. With a sigh Magda got up and turned off the CD player. It was past eleven, time for her to return to the kitchen and put the potatoes she’d basted with goose fat earlier into the oven. Grabbing her apron from the hook by the door, she was surprised to hear a knock. Lady Wellesley usually marched right in, and Sir Edward never came to the cottage.
‘Merry Christmas!’ Milo, just returned from church, stood on the doorstep. He was holding a parcel, beautifully wrapped in striped green and gold paper and with a big red bow on the top. Dressed formally in a dark suit and tie, and with his hair cut shorter (much to his mother’s delight, presumably), it struck Magda how much older he looked than the last time he was home. In a good way.
‘For you.’ He held out the present eagerly. ‘I do hope you like it.’
‘I didn’t get you anything,’ Magda said awkwardly. ‘I wasn’t expecting …’
‘I don’t want anything,’ said Milo. ‘Except for you to take this before my arm drops off.’
Belatedly, Magda took the gift, setting it down on the hall table. He followed her inside.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’
‘Not now,’ said Magda. ‘Later. I have to put the roast potatoes on and start trimming the Brussels sprouts. I was just on my way back to the house.’
Milo looked crestfallen, but he didn’t press her. Since landing the internship at the Home Office he’d been staying with his godfather Charles Murray-Gordon in a flat on Cadogan Square. Charles M-G was an ex-Flemings banker and terrible old roué, who’d taken it upon himself to provide his godson with a wealth of unsolicited advice on how to charm the opposite sex. As this was a field in which his godfather had a proven track record of success (three wives to date and a string of decades-younger girlfriends accompanying him to Annabel’s every night), Milo had decided to heed his words of wisdom, among which were: ‘Never chase a girl when she says “no”. Doesn’t matter if it’s sex or a cheese sandwich. Don’t chase.’
Milo offered Magda his arm. ‘I’ll walk you over.’
She smiled playfully. ‘I think I can find my way across the lawn.’
‘Are you always so independent?’ said Milo.
‘Always.’
‘Well, it’s Christmas, and you selfishly failed to get me a present, so you can jolly well humour me,’ said Milo, taking her hand and forcibly linking her arm with his. ‘That was a joke by the way. About the present.’
‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘I got it.’
It was nice to be flirted with, even if it was by a boy barely out of school and someone who, she knew for a fact, had flirted with every female, young or old, within a twenty-mile radius.
But still. It was nice.
Back at the house, Eddie helped Annabel out of her coat, a sumptuous vintage fox fur that had once been his grandmother’s, and tuned the Sonos system to the Sinatra station.
‘Oh, Gawd. Must we have Frank and Bing again?’ Annabel rolled her eyes. ‘How about some lovely carols?’
‘We just had carols at church,’ said Eddie. ‘I want something I can dance to.’
Grabbing her hand and slipping one arm around her waist, he twirled Annabel around the hall, gliding across the parquet flooring like a very British Fred Astaire. Annabel tutted and mumbled ‘don’t be so ridiculous’ a few times, but deep down she felt profoundly happy. The fact that Eddie had kept Christmas sacrosanct and just for them this year felt hugely symbolic. Since Milo’s return from Africa, a little of the old strain had crept back into their relationship. And even though Eddie’s political comeback meant an enormous amount to both of them, Annabel felt relieved and grateful that, for the first time, he seemed to be putting their marriage first. Putting her first. It was the best Christmas present she could have wished for.
The phone rang. Reluctantly, Eddie released her. ‘If it’s my mother, you’ll have to talk to her,’ he told Annabel. ‘I have an urgent appointment in the log shed.’
‘Why should I have to talk to her?’ Annabel began. But Eddie had already answered. It wasn’t his mother. It was Kevin Unger, his political agent. Even in the 24/7 world of politics, a call on Christmas morning was rare.
‘I see.’ Eddie nodded stiffly, hunched over the phone. ‘Hmmm. Hmmm. I see.’
Annabel watched and listened, so still she was barely breathing. After what seemed like an eternity, he hung up.
‘What’s happened?’ Her throat was dry with nerves.
Eddie turned and looked at her solemnly. ‘Well …’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m back in.’ His face erupted into a smile so broad it looked painful. ‘They won’t announce anything officially before the New Year. But Piers Renton-Chambers is standing down. I’ve got unanimous support to replace him amongst the local constituency party. You’re looking at the new Tory candidate for Chichester and Swell Valley.’
‘Oh, Eddie!’ Annabel flung her arms around his neck.
‘What are we celebrating?’ Milo emerged from the kitchen, chased out by a distracted Magda.
‘Your father’s been selected as an MP,’ his mother gushed.
‘Almost,’ said Eddie.
‘We’re officially back in politics! Or we will be in January.’
‘Congratulations, Dad.’ He shook Eddie’s hand. It seemed like the manly thing to do. ‘That’s brilliant news.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Annabel said delightedly.
Milo was on the straight and narrow. Eddie was heading back to politics. The ghastly world of television could be left behind them, as could the scandal that had nearly destroyed them all. At last, at long last, everything was coming right.
What a difference a year could make!
Unlike the Wellesleys, David Carlyle had had a very social Christmas. Following the Echo’s official, star-studded bash at the Savoy on the 20th, David and his wife, Louise, had hosted Christmas drinks for three hundred at Millstones, their grotesquely huge McMansion on the edge of Hinton golf course. Fully staffed with a fleet of caterers, waiters, butlers and valet parking, and complete with a twenty-foot artificial tree, tastefully decorated in blue and silver and surrounded by mechanical elves, the event had – in David’s eyes at least – been a triumph. Lou looked gorgeous in her lilac gown with all the Swarovski crystals. And not one person had mentioned the name Eddie Wellesley to David throughout the entire evening.
Now, on Christmas Day itself, they’d just finished a sumptuous six-course lunch, attended by twenty of the most influential people in British media, including Laura Baxter’s ex and ITV’s head of Drama, John Bingham, with his wife, Abigail, and Murray Wylie, CEO and owner of Wylie Pike, the most successful literary agency in London. If Louise was tired she didn’t show it, graciously smiling at all her guests’ jokes, flattering the men and complimenting the women on their clothes, or their various children’s achievements. Not for the first time, David felt immensely proud of her, and pleased with himself for marrying her. Sitting down alone at the kitchen island once all the guests had gone, treating himself to a small bowl of leftover Christmas pudding, David Carlyle thought in contrast about Eddie Wellesley’s wife – the snobby, poisonous Annabel. She was almost as bad as her husband. Those two deserved each other.
Louise, changed into her favourite velour tracksuit and Ugg boots, wandered in and smiled at him. ‘You must be shattered, darling,’ she said. ‘I know I am.’
‘Actually I feel great,’ said David, stifling a satisfied burp. ‘Lunch went brilliantly. You were amazing. We should celebrate.’
Getting up, he mooched over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier.
‘Brandy? It’s four o’clock,’ protested Louise.
‘It’s Christmas,’ said David.
‘Exactly. Time for a cup of tea, a mince pie and Only Fools and Horses.’
‘I’m serious,’ said David. ‘I want to celebrate.’
A shadow of apprehension passed
across Louise Carlyle’s face. ‘Why? What is it? Why are you grinning like that? Has something happened?’
‘Not yet.’
David filled two cut-crystal tumblers with the smooth, amber liquid. Handing one to his wife, he raised the other in a toast.
‘To the New Year! And everything it might bring.’
Louise’s frown deepened. She didn’t like it when David got all cryptic. Please God let this not be about Eddie Wellesley again. Louise, too, had enjoyed hosting a party where, for once, that name hadn’t been mentioned. She’d dared to hope that, at last, that particular ghost was buried. But David’s tone worried her. David sat back down and pulled her onto his lap. ‘Just drink with me, will you? Be happy.’
David himself was deeply happy. That smug bastard Wellesley thought everything was coming up roses. Whereas, in fact, he was standing on the train tracks about to get hit – and neither he, nor anyone else, had the slightest inkling. There were few things in life more satisfying than successfully keeping a secret. But David Carlyle had done it. All he had to do now was sit back and watch the fireworks, with his lovely Louise by his side.
‘I am happy,’ said Louise cautiously ‘I just want to stay that way. It’s been a lovely Christmas, David. Let’s not ruin it, eh? Let’s not stir things up again.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Louise. All of a sudden she decided she needed that brandy after all.
Macy pushed open the gate wearily and walked up the path to Cranbourne House. Thank God I ignored the neighbours and put those uplighters in, she thought, as the warm glow from the garden lights led her safely to the door, in what otherwise would have been pitch-darkness. The lamps were beautiful as well as practical, turning the higgledy-piggledy tile-hung building into something out of Grimms’ Fairy Tales, warm and welcoming and inviting amid the bare trees and snow. Macy felt like Snow White, coming home to the dwarfs after a long day wandering in the woods.
Not that there were any dwarf. Or that Christmas Day at the De la Cruz’s had been like being lost, or anything other than lovely. Penny, as always, had made a huge effort and been as kind and generous and thoughtful a hostess as it was humanly possible to be. She’d even gone to the trouble of getting in a pecan pie for pudding, ‘so that Macy can have her traditions, too.’ Macy was really touched, and grateful to have been invited, especially as she only really knew Penny and Santiago through James, who’d had to go abroad again for yet another charity cricket thing in Dubai and couldn’t make it.