Gabe found it amazing how he could miss a person so much, and love them so much and yet at the same time be so furiously angry with them. Or perhaps it was himself he was angry at? At this point, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that for the last six months his life had felt like a particularly vivid, terrible dream, from which he kept expecting to wake up, but never quite could. Were they really getting divorced? Was he really never going to be with Laura again? Never live under the same roof as his children?
He and Laura were getting along well. They were being terribly polite and respectful and all the rest of it – not just in front of the boys, but all the time. Everybody told him this was a good thing. And yet Gabe couldn’t quite shake the feeling that all the politeness was actually the death knell for the marriage. That every smile and every kind, restrained word were nails being hammered into the coffin of his old life. Which wouldn’t be so bad, of course. If only the love were dead.
He suddenly found himself turning onto Laura’s street. The little yellow house was only a mile and a half from Victoria, but even so the walk seemed to have taken no time at all. Children, still in their smart school uniforms, were playing in the road, scooting perilously close to the parked Mercedes and Porsche SUVs. It struck Gabe how posh they all looked – little Tarquins and Sebastians and Arabellas. Then again, this was Chelsea. He and Laura used to argue about class all the time before they were married. Back then, Gabe thought she was a stuck-up cow, and Laura accused him of being a champagne socialist, which infuriated him, not least because he worried it might be true. Now he found himself wondering whether Hugh would be considered posh. He had a posh name, but did that matter? Back in Fittlescombe it didn’t seem to. Everyone went to the same school and the village kids all mucked in together. But here in London, in the real world, the lines felt sharper, more dangerous somehow. In some undefined way, it made Gabe feel depressed. As if he were losing his sons even more.
He rang the doorbell. As soon as Laura answered, the polite smile that Gabe had come to hate himself for spread across his face. ‘Hi!’
‘Hi!’ Laura returned the smile, feeling equally bleak. ‘The boys are just getting changed. Come in.’
Gabe followed her into the kitchen. Already the place looked like a home, with the boys’ artwork plastered all over the fridge and a cork pin-board covered with party invitations and lesson timetables from their new school and nursery. In the playroom opposite he could see the Thomas table already set up and tracks and trains everywhere. It was the first thing Laura had bought when she’d moved out, before beds, so Hugh and Luca could have their beloved trains in London as well as at Wraggsbottom. The children’s priorities, at least, hadn’t changed.
‘Cup of tea?’
The brightness in her voice was painful.
‘Thanks.’
‘I think I’ve got some Jaffa Cakes somewhere.’
Gabe watched as she flitted around the room, getting out plates and mugs and shoving tea bags into a new, Emma Bridgewater teapot. She was wearing a yellow cotton sundress and flip-flops and her hair was still damp, as if she’d recently had a shower. Suddenly he felt a surge of longing so strong he had to grip the kitchen table for support.
‘Laura.’
‘Mmm-hm?’ She was pouring milk into a jug and didn’t look up at first. But when Gabe didn’t speak again she looked at him. Instantly she felt her own knees give way. His face! She would never forget it. The sadness. The sorrow. The utter desolation.
‘Laura.’ His voice cracked when he said her name again.
‘Don’t, Gabe. Please.’ Laura started to panic. If she let the maelstrom of emotions inside her come out now, she’d be drowned in the flood. All her hard-won equilibrium would be swept away, like so many straw houses on a storm-tossed beach.
‘This is madness.’ Gabe moved towards her.
Laura honestly thought she might faint.
‘Hugh’ll be down any minute,’ she said desperately, looking anywhere but into Gabe’s eyes.
‘I don’t care,’ said Gabe angrily.
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Daddy!’ Hugh raced into the kitchen and launched himself into Gabe’s arms like an Exocet. Behind him toddled Luca, impossibly sweet in his favourite dinosaur T-shirt and a pair of striped shorts pulled on backwards.
‘Going country?’ he beamed up at Gabe. ‘Going farm?’
‘We certainly are!’ Gabe painted the smile back on his face. His jaw was set so tightly he felt like he had rictus. He no longer had the strength to look at Laura. ‘Have you got your stuff?’
Both boys pointed proudly to their new pull-along suitcases standing in the hallway. Luca’s was a ladybird and Hugh’s a spider.
‘Right then. Let’s give Mummy a kiss and we’ll see her on Sunday.’
After they left, Laura walked straight to the drinks cupboard and poured herself an enormous gin. The tonic was flat and there was no ice, but she gulped it down anyway like medicine, waiting for the tears to come.
They didn’t.
Apparently she didn’t have any more left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘And, cut!’ Mike Briarson’s distinctive Brummie accent rang out through the barn. ‘That was lovely, everyone. Well done. Let’s break for lunch.’
Jennifer Lee wiped the sweat off her forehead with her T-shirt and took a swig from her bottle of water. De-horning the spring-born calves was a backbreaking job. She’d done it last year at Wraggsbottom, and the year before on the Yorkshire hill farm where she’d done her placement at veterinary college. But the animals’ distress still bothered her. Combined with the unseasonal heat and the pressure of having cameras following your every move, it made for an unpleasant and exhausting morning.
Walking off towards the orchard, so she could eat her sandwiches in peace, Jen caught a snatch of Gabe and Macy’s conversation as she passed.
‘What time are you meeting him?’ Gabe’s question was casual, but there was an edge to his tone.
‘He’s picking me up at seven.’ Macy was almost gloating.
Trying to make him jealous?
Jen walked on. She’d grown fond of just about everyone she worked with on Valley Farm, but sometimes the personal dramas could get draining. Jen felt bad for Laura, but even so she’d been relieved when Laura and the boys had moved to London and Mike Briarson had taken over as director. Compared to Laura’s increasingly strained, dictatorial style, Mike’s gentle, cheerful presence had made a huge difference to the atmosphere on set. Mike was the calm after the storms of last winter’s scandals. But, even now, it occurred to Jennifer that just about everybody on Valley Farm was involved in some sort of romantic drama except for her. While Macy’s and Gabe’s and Eddie’s sex lives had been splashed all over the tabloids in the past year, her own had remained pathetically non-existent. So much for TV stardom getting you laid.
It was depressing, watching Gabe and Macy dance around one another on set like a pair of nervously courting birds of paradise. There was obviously an attraction there, but Gabe remained firmly in denial about the reality of his divorce. Macy, tired of waiting, had a date with a rich banker tonight and had made sure the whole world (but especially Gabe) knew about it. Meanwhile, Jen was looking at another night at home in her cottage in Brockhurst, watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory and eating more Haribos washed down with red wine than was probably medically advisable.
Just as she was indulging in this little moment of self-pity, she caught sight of Bill Clempson running down the lane. Jen hadn’t seen Fittlescombe’s vicar since last Christmas, when she’d presented him with her peace offering bottle of sloe gin. They’d talked about getting together in the New Year, but it had never happened. Now that the local protests against Valley Farm had faded to a whimper, there was no reason for their paths to cross. Unless Jen were to suddenly become a churchgoer, and things hadn’t got that desperate – yet.
Looking at Bill now, it was hard not to laugh. To say he was not naturall
y athletic would be an understatement. Watching him run reminded Jen sharply of Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory attempting the same feat. The way his knees turned in and his arms flapped about gave him the look of a particularly camp penguin.
‘Hello!’ She waved. ‘You look like you’re in a hurry.’
Bill stopped and walked over to the hedge, panting, but clearly thrilled to see her.
‘Jennifer!’ His face was a deep, crimson red. Jen couldn’t tell if this was pure exertion, or whether he was blushing. ‘How are you? You never came for that drink.’
‘No.’ Jen looked down. ‘Sorry.’
Now she was blushing. It was odd. He really wasn’t attractive. And yet, standing still at least, there was something very endearing about him. Possibly it was the way he looked at her as if she were Angelina Jolie on an especially good hair day, and didn’t seem to notice her filthy T-shirt, the spot on her forehead or the sweat patches under her arms.
‘Maybe we could try again,’ Bill said shyly.
‘Do you still have any left?’ asked Jen.
The vicar looked confused.
‘The sloe gin.’
‘Ah! Er, no. I drank it all ages ago, I’m afraid. It was delicious. But I’ve got plenty of other things I can offer you.’
Jen raised an eyebrow teasingly.
‘Oh, no! Oh dear, I didn’t mean …’ Poor Bill looked as if he wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. ‘Actually,’ he composed himself, ‘I’m glad I ran into you. I was hoping to pick your brains about something work-related.’
Now it was Jen’s turn to look confused. Work-related? Wasn’t his work being a vicar? She wasn’t sure how much she could contribute in terms of baptizing babies or hearing confessions or whatever else it was that Bill did.
‘I’ll explain when I see you. How about Saturday?’ He looked at his watch, in a hurry again suddenly. ‘I’m sorry to rush, but Brett Cranley’s in the village, you’ve probably heard.’
Jen hadn’t.
‘He’s staying up at Furlings. I’m hoping to catch him before he leaves for London, to see if I can’t wangle a donation for St Hilda’s benevolent fund.’
‘Is Brett Cranley terribly benevolent?’ Jen asked sceptically.
‘Probably not!’ Bill said cheerfully. ‘But the Lord helps those who help themselves. I’m hoping if I turn up there in person and ask him in front of Angela and Max, he’ll be shamed into giving something.’
Jen laughed. ‘That’s not very ethical!’
‘Nor’s dumping silage all over somebody’s car,’ said the vicar with a wink. ‘Let she who is without sin, and all that … See you Saturday, I hope.’
He flapped off.
Jen watched him go, feeling suddenly, stupidly happy.
Not a rich banker, perhaps. But it was nice to have a little romantic drama of her own for a change.
Macy swept taupe shadow over her eyelids and brushed a single coat of true black mascara through her long lashes.
It felt odd, going through the motions of getting dolled up for a date. Truth be told, she had about as much interest in Warren Hansen, the über-wealthy banker taking her out tonight, as she did in beginning a course on bee-keeping. Possibly less, as bees at least produced honey and didn’t expect you to waste an evening making small talk or to wash and blow-dry your hair when you could be watching E! news on your computer or fantasizing about Gabe.
On the other hand, Macy knew she was spending too much time fantasizing about Gabe. If things were ever going to move forward between them, she needed to jolt him out of his complacency, to make him jealous – hence her acceptance of Warren’s dinner invitation. And if they weren’t going to move forward, then she needed to start meeting new men.
Of course the problem was that she didn’t fancy anyone. She and James had had a great sex life, but even that had been tainted by the shadow of Gabe. The only other man Macy could remember being attracted to since she’d met Gabe was Austin Jamet, her father’s lawyer back in LA. Her dinner date with Austin had ended on a tense note, but things had improved between them since then, and over the past few months they’d become friends of a sort over email.
Since she’d forbidden Austin to contact her about her father, he’d taken to sending her funny snippets about LA life or gossip or current affairs instead. Macy responded in kind, and their on-line banter had become one of the highlights of her day. She liked the way they competed with one another. It was similar to the on-screen relationship she had with Gabe, except that this was private, and real, not for any audience. There was also something American about her relationship with Austin, something that made her feel at home in a way that Gabe never quite could. Not that Macy was remotely in love with Austin Jamet. She’d only met the man once, and besides, Gabe Baxter was the love of her life.
Thinking about Austin reminded her. She owed him a response to his last email, which had made her laugh out loud last night.
Pulling on a red cocktail dress that would send Warren all the right signals, none of which Macy had any intention of following through on, and spritzing herself with Chanel No. 19, she pulled out her phone and read Austin’s latest note again. God, he was funny. It was lovely to have a fellow American to share a laugh with every now and then.
Warren’s American, Macy reminded herself, as she tapped out a suitably pithy one-line response to Austin’s note and hit send. Perhaps she should give Warren a chance?
Gabe peeled back the clingfilm on the bowl of leftover lasagne and wrinkled his nose. It looked like something the dog had thrown up. In fairness, it hadn’t been particularly appetizing the first time around. Like everything else Gabe had eaten since Laura left, it had come out of a Tesco box. If there were an Olympic team for ‘piercing the film lid several times’, Gabe would have been a shoo-in. Not that the standard of cuisine had been much to write home about when Laura had lived here, he reminded himself ruefully. Thrusting the lasagne into the microwave, he heated it up anyway and opened a cheap bottle of wine. It was either the dog-sick lasagne or a bowl of Frosties, and he’d had Frosties for breakfast. I really must sign up for an Ocado delivery, he thought for the millionth time.
Laying the kitchen table for one, he wondered idly what Macy would be having tonight with this tosser from Morgan Stanley. Oysters and osso buco, probably. Warren Hansen. What the fuck kind of a name was that?
Gabe didn’t want to be with Macy. But it still irked him to think of her throwing herself away on someone so obviously unworthy of her. He imagined Warren as a typical lantern-jawed, white-toothed American wearing an expensive suit and too much aftershave, boring on about Harvard Business School.
On balance, a night on his own eating dog-sick lasagne seemed preferable.
Actually, once he’d smothered it in ketchup and washed it down with plonk, the lasagne wasn’t that bad. Flipping through Horse & Hound as he ate, Gabe was actually starting to enjoy his evening when a lawyer’s letter fluttered out from between the magazine’s pages. Norma, the current cleaner, must have slipped it in there by mistake when she was tidying up the kitchen table.
‘Leigh & Graylings, Solicitors.’
How Gabe had come to hate that letterhead! A date had been set for the divorce hearing. Gabe’s lawyers had done all they could to delay things. But with Gabe’s unwillingness to fight with Laura over either custody or finances, he hadn’t left them much wiggle room.
In a few weeks, they’d be in court. In a few months at most, the divorce would be finalized. No going back.
It still didn’t feel real. But it was. The letter in front of him spelled out that fact in ugly black letters.
The ringing phone jolted him momentarily out of his dark mood. As always when the phone rang, a part of him hoped it might be Laura. But saying what? That she’d changed her mind? It’s not going to happen, you moron, Gabe scolded himself.
‘Hello?’
‘Gabe. It’s Brett.’
Brett Cranley’s deep, gravelly Australian voice bo
omed out of the receiver, as punchily confident as ever.
‘Brett! I heard you were in town. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. Better than you, I guess. Sorry to hear about Laura.’
Gabe liked the easy way Brett talked, as if the two of them spoke all the time. In fact, Gabe hadn’t heard from Brett in well over a year.
‘Look, mate, are you busy?’
‘Busy?’ Gabe looked down at his sorry supper and the lawyer’s letter. ‘No. Not remotely. You?’
‘I’m going stir-crazy up at Furlings,’ Brett confided. ‘I’ve only been here a day and already I feel like the walls are closing in. I need to escape. You don’t fancy a pint, do you?’
In the bar at The Fox ten minutes later, Gabe and Brett sat nursing pints of Guinness and sharing a side of chips.
Brett looked older than Gabe remembered him. The grey that had once dusted his temples had now spread everywhere, and the fan of lines around his eyes had become deep grooves. Then again, he was older. Gabe calculated that he must be in his early to mid-sixties. But he still had that incredible dynamism; that raw, masculine energy that was part ambition, part testosterone and that had always drawn women to him like waves to the shore.
‘How’s Tati?’ Gabe asked. ‘Is she here?’
‘No, not this time, thank God.’
Gabe raised an eyebrow. ‘Are things not good with you two?’
Brett took a long, deep draught of his beer. ‘Things are fine. You know us. We still fight like two cats in a bag.’ He grinned. ‘But I love her.’
It struck Gabe that the old Brett Cranley would never have made such an admission openly, despite its obvious truth. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had tamed him. Or perhaps age had done that?
‘I just hate bringing her back to Furlings,’ Brett went on. ‘It’s the same every time: “You stole my house.” “If you loved me, you’d get Furlings back.”’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The truth is, Tati’s really happy in the States. But she’d rather die than admit it.’