The Show

  ‘And what brings you back this time?’ asked Gabe.

  ‘The usual. Work,’ said Brett, greedily stuffing chips into his mouth. The Fox’s chips were the best in the world, bar none: salty and fatty and perfect. ‘And some family stuff. Jason and George are adopting another kid.’

  ‘That’s great,’ said Gabe. Then, seeing Brett’s frown added, ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Brett.

  Brett had had a tough time when his son came out as gay, and an even tougher one when Jason got married. Perhaps he was still struggling with it?

  ‘It’s not about them being nancies,’ said Brett, reading Gabe’s thoughts. ‘I just think George is too old. Tati still talks about us adopting, but at my age I think it’s crazy. Still. Jason’s a good father. A thousand times better than I was.’

  Brett noticed that Gabe had turned away slightly, lost in his own thoughts.

  ‘How are your boys?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re good.’ Gabe forced a smile. ‘They’re in London with Laura during the week. I get them weekends and holidays. But I think they’re happy.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  Brett gave him a look that clearly said he wasn’t buying it.

  Gabe sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair. ‘All right then. I’m shit. Life is shit. And, the worst part is, it’s all my fault.’

  He poured out the whole story to Brett. How he and Laura had been arguing for months. How Laura felt that Valley Farm’s success and Gabe’s small taste of fame had turned his head.

  ‘And had they?’ asked Brett.

  Gabe shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I could be a bit of a knob.’

  Brett laughed.

  ‘But then, you know, I was a bit of a knob when she married me. It seems harsh to suddenly start using it against me now.’

  Brett laughed again. ‘And Macy Johanssen? Gorgeous girl, by the way.’

  ‘Macy was there,’ said Gabe. ‘I know it sounds awful to say it like that, but it’s the truth. We were in LA, we were pissed as farts, Laura and I had had another barney on the phone. It happened.’

  ‘So you don’t have any feelings for her? For Macy?’

  Gabe stared into his Guinness, as if the swirling black liquid might hold the answer to Brett’s question. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he said softly.

  And then he started to talk to Brett about Macy. Thoughts and feelings he didn’t know he had until he started saying them out loud. How she’d been a great friend through a terrible time. How he always had so much fun in her company, while he and Laura always seemed to be at odds. How attractive she was. And how he was pretty sure she was in love with him.

  ‘How was the sex?’ Brett asked bluntly.

  ‘It was great,’ Gabe replied, equally bluntly.

  ‘Have you done it again?’

  ‘No,’ said Gabe. The ‘Not yet’ hung heavily in the air between them. ‘The thing is, I still love Laura. I don’t know how to stop loving her. I don’t think I want to stop.’

  ‘You don’t have to stop,’ said Brett. ‘And you won’t. I still love Ange.’

  ‘Really?’ Gabe sounded astonished.

  ‘Of course. She’s the mother of my children. We were married for twenty years – twenty good years. She’s family. Even if she weren’t, she’s the loveliest woman on earth. Always has been.’

  ‘So why did you get divorced?’

  ‘Well, firstly, she divorced me. A bit like you and Laura. I fought it in the beginning. I was miserable. I didn’t want to lose my family – nobody does. I was scared shitless, if you want the truth.’

  ‘But you loved Tatiana?’

  Brett nodded. ‘I did, yes. But if you think that takes away the pain, you’re wrong.’

  ‘What does take away the pain?’ Gabe asked despairingly.

  ‘Time,’ said Brett, with reassuring confidence. ‘I’m staying up at Furlings now, under my ex-roof, with my ex-wife and her fella. And it’s fine. I’m happy, she’s happy, everybody’s happy. Life moves on, and it should move on. My marriage with Ange was a wonderful chapter in my life and a long one. But being with Tatiana is a new chapter, and that’s great too. Do you want my advice?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Gabe. ‘I want my life back.’

  ‘Well you can’t have it,’ said Brett. ‘Not your old life, anyway. Let it go, and give things a shot with Macy.’

  Gabe shook his head. Hearing Brett say it out loud like that was shocking.

  ‘I can’t. I’m still in love with my wife.’

  Brett looked him in the eye. ‘I’m saying this as a friend, mate. But she’s not coming back. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can all get on with your lives.’

  They ordered more drinks, and Brett dragged the conversation back to less emotive topics. He quizzed him in detail on the ongoing negotiations with Fox, and the complicated finances of syndication. After that they got back to Swell Valley gossip. Before long Gabe had Brett laughing again, filling him in on all the salacious Valley Farm rumours, the latest with the Wellesley family soap opera, and hilarious stories about the vicar, ‘Call-me-Bill’ Clempson.

  ‘I think Jen, the young vet on our show, fancies him,’ Gabe told Brett, through tears of laughter. ‘Can you imagine? If I sleep with anyone it really ought to be her. Purely as an act of public service. She clearly needs saving from herself.’

  ‘I need saving!’ said Brett. ‘The vicar was round at Furlings today, hitting me up for money before I’d got my suitcase upstairs! I don’t even bloody live here any more.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I’m not sleeping with you.’ Gabe downed the last of his drink.

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Brett.

  The bell rang for last orders.

  ‘One more for the road?’ said Gabe. He was already happily drunk and saw no reason to stop now.

  ‘Nah,’ said Brett, getting to his feet. ‘Hell hath no fury like an ex-wife woken up by her drunk former husband. Good to see you, though, mate. And good luck.’

  Weaving his way home along the dark lane ten minutes later, Gabe thought about everything Brett had said. His deep, gravelly voice drifted back to Gabe now, ringing in his ears in the stillness.

  You can be happy again. And you will.

  All you have to do is let go …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bill Clempson pedalled harder up Wincombe Hill, sweating profusely. It was almost noon on a hot, windless day in the valley, and the sights and smells of summer were everywhere. To the vicar’s left and right, hedgerows erupted with honeysuckle and overblown Queen Anne’s lace, with bright red poppies and blue cornflowers injecting a welcome pop of colour. Sparrows twittered and swallows swooped low over the fields, like miniature, feathered kamikaze pilots bombing the hay bales.

  Rounding the top of the hill, Bill stopped to catch his breath and admire the view of Fittlescombe village, spread out below him like a child’s toy town. How beautiful it was here! How easy to believe in God, and goodness and a divine order. Of course recently village life – Bill’s life anyway – had been given an added frisson by the possibility of running into the lovely Jennifer Lee. Last week, Valley Farm’s vet-in-residence had finally taken the vicar up on his offer of a drink. Although the evening had ended with a platonic, even reverend kiss on the cheek, Bill flattered himself that there was something there. A spark, for want of a better word. Just knowing that he might run into Jennifer – outside Wraggsbottom Farm or in the village stores – injected a little kick of excitement and happiness into Bill’s days.

  It was much needed, to be honest. Having given his all to the campaign against the reality show cameras, Bill felt lost now that local interest in the protest had tailed off. Worse, by continuing to take a moral stand on the issue, frequently referencing the importance of community and of privacy in his Sunday sermons, he feared he might have alienated many of the Fittlescombe flock. And yet, wasn’t it a vicar’s job to be principled? To stic
k by what was right, even after it had ceased to be popular?

  He felt particularly betrayed by David Carlyle, whose newspaper, the Echo, had dropped the anti-Valley Farm campaign like a stone the moment it acquired juicier stories about Eddie Wellesley and Gabriel Baxter. The Echo’s mean-spirited smear campaigns against both families had left Fittlescombe’s vicar looking tainted by association, and had seriously undermined the credibility of the ‘Save Our Village’ message. To add insult to injury, David had long since stopped returning Bill Clempson’s calls, and almost never showed his face in the valley any more, preferring to spend all his time up in London, no doubt plotting more dastardly acts against Fast Eddie Wellesley. It’s never pleasant to realize that one has been used. Bill’s challenge now was not just to forgive, but to find a new path forward, as Fittlescombe’s spiritual leader. Not easy.

  Pushing off, Bill whizzed down the other side of the hill, sticking his legs out on either side of him like a little boy and grinning as the wind swept his hair back off his face and the meadows and woods flew by. It was so exhilarating, he quite forgot how fast he was going until he turned the corner at the bottom of the High Street and almost knocked a man flying.

  ‘Oh my goodness! I am so sorry.’

  Screeching to an ignominious halt, he propped his bike against the wall and rushed over to the man, only to find it was none other than Eddie Wellesley himself.

  ‘Sir Edward!’ Bill dusted himself down. ‘I do apologize. I was going far too fast, I’m afraid. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Vicar. In the pink, in fact!’ He was smiling so broadly, he looked as though his face might split in two. ‘Another assassination attempt avoided and it’s not even lunchtime. That was a joke,’ he added, watching Bill’s face drain of colour. ‘You really should learn to relax a bit, Vicar, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘Er, no. I mean, I don’t mind. Ha, ha!’ Bill laughed weakly. ‘How, er … how are things? How’s Lady Wellesley?’

  ‘Lady Wellesley is marvellous, thank you,’ said Eddie. Even by his own standards, he was unusually chirpy this morning. ‘As it happens I’ve just this second had some rather wonderful news.’ He waved his mobile phone vaguely in Bill’s direction. ‘Piers Renton-Chambers has just resigned his seat.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Bill.

  Renton-Chambers’ resignation had been on the cards for a while. Deeply unpopular locally (even by Tory standards he was seen as wildly out of touch, and lazy with it, with one of the worst voting records in the south of England), he’d been expected to make way for Eddie Wellesley quietly in the New Year. But then had come the bombshell of David Carlyle’s book and Lady Wellesley’s scandalous past, and the idea had been discreetly dropped. Of course, since then, Fast Eddie’s public popularity had peaked to record highs, and even his wife was getting far higher approval ratings than she had done in her former snob/ice-queen/dignified-victim persona. Rumours had been swirling for months about a return to politics, but Eddie had denied them all. No more, apparently.

  ‘There’ll be a by-election in due course,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘The local chairman just called me to say they want me as the new Tory candidate. Isn’t that marvellous?’

  Bill Clempson blinked, like a mole emerging into the sunshine. Was it marvellous? He wasn’t sure. Around here, Tory candidate meant Tory MP. Chichester and Swell Valley was about as unassailable a Conservative stronghold as you could hope to find in England.

  So the rumours were true. Fast Eddie was going to be their new representative in Parliament. Whether that was a good thing, for Eddie or for Fittlescombe, remained to be seen. If nothing else it meant that there was no chance of an exit from the public spotlight any time soon. If Eddie was going back into politics, he wasn’t going to be content as a lowly MP. He’d be a minister before you could say ‘knife’, with the newspapers dissecting his every move.

  ‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Of course,’ the vicar smiled dutifully. ‘Congratulations.’

  He wondered how Lady Wellesley was going to take the news? Or David Carlyle, for that matter.

  Armed with this new, explosive piece of gossip, he pedalled on.

  Magda plumped up the pillows in the blue guest bedroom. Throwing open the windows, she let a blast of warm summer air into the room and sighed happily, closing her eyes as the smell of newly mown grass mingled with jasmine joyously assailed her senses.

  Life was good now. Better than good. This time last year, she’d wondered if she could face working for Lady Wellesley indefinitely. As much as she loved the Swell Valley and her little cottage and Wilf, and as much as she valued having a steady job that meant she would never have to go back to Poland again, back then everything she did seemed to be wrong. But, ever since her overdose, Lady Wellesley had been a changed person. Happier, kinder, infinitely more relaxed. She still had her moments, of course. Snobbery, in particular, was proving a hard habit to break and Magda still overheard bitchy asides about ‘naff’ neighbours or ‘ghastly little men’, whose only crime appeared to be that they wore white socks or used the word ‘toilet’. But the old, mean-spirited, toxic, permanently aggrieved Lady Wellesley appeared to have gone for good. More than that, she and Sir Edward seemed madly in love. That was nice to be around. Yesterday Lady Wellesley had even gone out of her way to praise Magda’s work, complimenting her on the gleaming silverware.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen it shine like that since Eddie’s mother had it. Magda, you’re a miracle worker!’

  Tucking in the bedspreads, Magda smiled. It was amazing how far a few positive words could go. She did get lonely sometimes, with only the Wellesleys and Wilf for company. Milo came down from time to time, and his visits were always highlights. There was something about his energy and sense of humour that never failed to lift Magda’s spirits, a bit like having a rambunctious puppy in the house. Milo was always laughing. He made Magda realize that she didn’t laugh enough.

  The sound of a car engine made her look up. Sir Edward brought his Bentley screeching to a halt in a spray of gravel, hopping out of the car in high excitement.

  A few minutes later, Magda heard animated voices coming from the library. Lady Wellesley let out a little scream. Not more bad news, surely? Magda panicked. She couldn’t take it if things went back to the way they were before. But before she could indulge her dark imaginings any further, the library door burst open and both her employers emerged, hugging one another and smiling broadly.

  ‘Magda!’ Sir Edward walked towards her. ‘We need champagne! What do we have in the house?’

  ‘And you must join us for a toast,’ Lady Wellesley added.

  Me? Join you? This must be good news.

  Magda scurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two bottles of champagne wedged on the top shelf. A bottle of Tesco’s finest rosé, which her bosses drank like water, and a bottle of Pol Roger Brut 1998. Whatever the occasion was, it seemed to warrant the latter. Tentatively setting it on a tray with three glasses, she walked back into the drawing room. Eddie was reclining on the red brocade sofa with his long legs outstretched and his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Lady Wellesley had her legs tucked up under her. She looked awfully young, Magda thought, and was leaning into her husband in a manner that was almost doting.

  ‘Is this all right?’

  She set the tray down on the vintage naval chest that served as a coffee table.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Eddie, who was already de-corking.

  ‘What are you celebrating?’ Magda asked.

  ‘We,’ Eddie corrected her, ‘are celebrating my return to politics. There’s going to be a by-election.’

  ‘And Sir Edward’s going to stand and he’s going to walk it,’ Lady Wellesley announced proudly. ‘There are no more skeletons left in the Wellesley cupboard. Nothing left to hide. It’s time to reclaim our lives.’

  ‘Of course, it does mean the house’ll get busy again,’ said Edd
ie, handing Magda a glass of ice-cold champagne. ‘Lots more entertaining, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you’ll probably have to get used to the press sniffing around again too, making nuisances of themselves,’ added Annabel. ‘We’ll get you some more help if you need it,’ she added, misinterpreting Magda’s pained expression.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Magda said automatically. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

  Privately she thought: No more skeletons in the Wellesley closet. Are you sure about that?

  ‘Cheers!’ Eddie raised his glass to hers.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Magda.

  She was filled with a deep sense of foreboding.

  David Carlyle stood on the platform at Victoria looking impatiently at his watch. It was hot, he was late, and he’d promised Louise he’d be home in time to change before her bloody bridge club dinner tonight. A bunch of old Swell Valley biddies, gossiping about village tittle-tattle like so many twittering birds was not David’s idea of a fun night out. But Louise had taken him to task last week for spending so little time down in the country, and he’d promised to make more of an effort.

  ‘I barely see you any more,’ his wife complained. ‘You’re always in London, always working. We’re becoming strangers.’

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ David said brusquely. ‘I’ve just been busy, that’s all. It happens.’

  But part of him feared she was right. Ever since Fast Eddie had emerged yet again, phoenix-like, from what ought to have been the ruined ashes of his marriage and career, David had thrown himself into his work, desperate to fill the void. Staff at the Echo had never known him to be around so much, breathing down their necks, obsessing about every little detail of every day’s copy.

  So lost was he in his own, irritated thoughts, at first David didn’t catch the conversation going on next to him. But as soon as he heard Wellesley’s name, his ears pricked up.

  ‘Weren’t there any other names in the running?’ a fat, middle-aged man with a plummy accent asked his friend.