The Show

by Tilly Bagshawe

‘Pretty good, thanks for asking,’ Eddie beamed.

  ‘Nice motor.’ Luke Heaton from the BBC, a weaselly, chinless little leftie in Eddie’s opinion, raised an eyebrow archly. ‘It doesn’t exactly scream “contrition”, though, does it? Given that you were convicted of fraud whilst in high office, do you not feel such an ostentatious show of wealth might be considered in bad taste?’

  Eddie’s smile didn’t waver. ‘No.’

  Eddie’s driver, dressed in full livery, stepped forward to take his case.

  ‘Ah, Haddon. Good to see you.’

  ‘And you, sir. Welcome back.’

  He opened the rear door and Eddie stepped inside. Scores of cameras flashed.

  A girl from the Daily Mail called out from the crowd: ‘What are you most looking forward to?’

  ‘Seeing my dog,’ Eddie answered without equivocation. ‘And my wife, of course,’ he added as an afterthought, to ripples of laughter.

  ‘What about David Carlyle?’ A lone voice Eddie couldn’t place drifted across the melee. ‘Do you have anything you’d like to say to him this morning?’

  ‘Nothing that you can print,’ Eddie said succinctly.

  ‘Do you blame Carlyle for your incarceration?’

  Eddie smiled, pulling the door closed behind him.

  It wasn’t until they reached open countryside, crossing the border from Hampshire into Sussex, that he started to relax. He was excited to see his wife again. Whatever outsiders might think about the Wellesley marriage, Eddie loved Annabel deeply. But it was an excitement tinged with nerves. He’d put his wife through hell. He knew that. Annabel loved their life at Westminster and the kudos she’d enjoyed as a senior minister’s wife. When it had all come crashing down, she’d been devastated. It wasn’t just Eddie’s fall from grace and two-year sentence for tax evasion. It was the horrendous publicity of the trial, the humiliation of seeing Eddie’s mistresses crawl out of the woodwork one by one, like so many maggots. David Carlyle and his newspaper, the Echo, had seen to it that every skeleton in Eddie’s closet was dragged out and rattled loudly before the British public. Including Eddie’s devastated wife.

  They hadn’t really talked about any of it during Annabel’s prison visits. Not properly. Now they would have to. Despite having had a year and a half to work on his apology, Eddie still didn’t fully know what he was going to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed so feeble. Annabel wasn’t keen on feeble. He wanted to thank her for standing by him, but that just sounded patronizing.

  As for the new house, their ‘fresh start’ far from London, Eddie had mixed feelings about it. It looked nice enough in the photos. But now that he was actually on his way there it felt surreal.

  What if we’re not happy there?

  What if we hate living in the country?

  Annabel had demanded a move, and he was hardly in a position to refuse her. But when she settled on the Swell Valley, Eddie’s heart had tightened. David Carlyle had a place there, a ghastly, overgrown Wimpey home on the edge of the golf course at Hinton. They wouldn’t be close neighbours. But the thought of living within even a ten-mile radius of the man who had single-handedly wiped out his career and demolished his reputation did not fill Eddie with joy.

  ‘Can’t we try somewhere else?’ he asked Annabel. ‘The country’s full of pretty villages.’

  But it was no good. This was the house she wanted. The deal was done.

  It’s up to me to make us happy, he told himself firmly. To make things up to her. The house will be fine. We will be fine.

  ‘Would you like to listen to the Test Match, sir?’ The driver’s voice drifted into the back seat. ‘Coverage is on Five Live, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Haddon, that is an inspired suggestion.’

  Eddie closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

  He was a free man in a free world, listening to the cricket.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Wilf! God help me, if you don’t stop that racket this instant I will have you put down!’

  Annabel Wellesley looked daggers at the scruffy border terrier with his snout pressed against the window halfway up the stairs. He’d been howling, interspersed with the occasional growl, for the last hour straight. Perhaps it was the presence of all the television crews at the end of the drive that had so discombobulated him. Or perhaps the little dog had a sixth sense and somehow knew that his master was coming home today. Either way, the constant noise was threatening to stretch Annabel’s already strained nerves to breaking point.

  She’d have liked to go out for a walk. To get some air and clear her head. But there was no way on earth she was going to run the gauntlet of all those vile reporters. Besides which, there was still such a vast amount to do in the house, to make things perfect for Eddie’s arrival.

  Moving in to Riverside Hall with no help, not even a cleaner, had been one of the most stressful experiences of Annabel’s life. A naturally gifted homemaker with a flair for interior design, Lady Wellesley was also a perfectionist and a woman who was used to delegating. In London, she and Eddie had had a full-time staff of three, including a cook and a butler, as well as a veritable fleet of ‘dailies’. Here, once the awful, gawping removal men had driven away, she had nobody but herself to turn to. Every surface to be polished, crate to be unpacked and drawer to be filled, Annabel had polished, unpacked and filled herself. Part of her had welcomed the distraction. But another part resented – with every fibre of her tiny, perfectly honed body – being reduced to such menial tasks.

  She could perfectly well have afforded servants. It was an issue of trust. After the humiliation, the shame, of Eddie’s trial and incarceration, Annabel trusted nobody. Convinced people were laughing at her behind her back; or worse, that journalists posing as potential chefs or housemaids might weasel their way into the house under the pretext of coming to interview for the jobs, she had put off hiring anybody until Eddie was home and things were ‘settled’. Whatever that might mean.

  Walking into the drawing room – anything to get away from the bloody dog – she looked at the two remaining unpacked crates with despair. How was it that every time she unpacked one box another seemed to pop up out of thin air to demand her attention?

  In reality, Annabel was being far too hard on herself. It was less than two months since she’d first seen the house. Back then it had been as cold and unwelcoming as a grave. As its name suggested, Riverside Hall sat right on the River Swell. Scenic and inviting in summer, after a long, wet winter the river was swollen, grey and ugly, a fat, wet snake encircling the house. Damp, or a sense of damp, had pervaded everything. The flagstone floors had been as cold as ice, and every window draped with cobwebs.

  Today, the house looked like something out of Homes & Gardens. Understated antiques and Wellesley family heirlooms – mostly simple Jacobean oak pieces with the odd Georgian bow-fronted chest of drawers thrown in for good measure – combined effortlessly with classic modern designs like the B&B Italia sofa in pale pink linen or the upholstered coffee table from Designers Guild shaped like a slightly off-kilter kidney bean. Huge vases of flowers plonked everywhere gave the house a casual, inviting air. Annabel had made sure that all the chimneys had been swept and the fires lit, transforming the gloomy rooms she’d visited back in November into welcoming havens of warmth and light. Faded Persian carpets covered all the floors, and an old pine dresser full of cheerful mismatched crockery made the kitchen look as if the family had lived there for years.

  But Annabel didn’t see any of that. All she saw were the unpacked boxes. Combined with Wilf’s incessant howling, the fact that she was effectively a prisoner in her own home, and her mounting nerves about facing Eddie again (what was she going to say when he walked in the door, for God’s sake?), she felt close to tears.

  The grandfather clock behind her struck twelve.

  Noon. He’ll be home soon, surely?

  Grimly she cut open another crate of books and set to work.


  Penny de la Cruz trudged across the sodden fields, her wellies squelching into the mud with every step. Today was dry and bright, a glorious change from the relentless rain of previous weeks. But the once-green pastures between Woodside Hall – Penny’s idyllic medieval manor on the outskirts of the village – and Riverside Hall remained a slick, brown quagmire.

  Not that Penny minded. It was lovely to be outside, although she felt guilty and strange going for a walk without the dog. Delilah, the de la Cruzes’ wire-haired dachshund bitch, had given her a thoroughly reproachful look as she set off with a basket of home-baked goodies under her arm, a welcome present for the Wellesleys. Everybody knew that Delilah was the naughtiest, randiest dog in Brockhurst. If Sir Eddie and Lady Wellesey had a dog, she would be bound to start dry-humping it embarrassingly the minute she got in the door. Best to make this a solo mission.

  Like everybody else in England, Penny knew the sordid tale of Fast Eddie Wellesley’s fall from grace. Unlike everybody else, however, she didn’t rush to judgement, either of Eddie or of his wife, a woman the British public loved to hate.

  ‘She’s so stuck up, she needs surgery,’ Santiago commented over breakfast this morning.

  ‘How can you say that?’ Penny asked indignantly. ‘You’ve never even met her!’

  ‘I’ve seen her, though. On TV at Eddie’s trial, looking down her nose at everyone. She’s like Victoria Beckham, that one. She never smiles.’

  ‘I’m sure she smiles as much as the next person,’ said Penny. ‘Just not at the press. After the way they treated her, can you blame her? Anyone would have thought it was her on trial, not him. And can you imagine, coming face to face with all his girlfriends?’

  Santiago slathered marmalade on a third slice of toast. ‘With a wife like that, I’m not surprised he played away. She looks about as much fun as a bag of nails.’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you that having a lying, philandering husband might not make a person feel full of the joys of spring?’ Penny said crossly, clearing away Santiago’s plate before he’d finished. ‘Eddie’s the one who behaved badly, but Lady Wellesley gets the blame. It’s sexist and it’s awful. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’

  ‘You’re a lovely person.’ Grabbing his wife around the waist, Santiago pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her neck and deftly retrieving his plate of toast at the same time. ‘You always see the good in everyone. It’s one of the many things I adore about you.’

  Penny smiled to herself as Riverside Hall loomed into view, thinking for the millionth time how ridiculously gorgeous her husband was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Women half her age and with much flatter stomachs and perkier boobs still fell over themselves to try to get Santiago into bed. But for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t interested. He loves me. Idly she wondered whether Fast Eddie Wellesley loved his wife, and what had really gone on in that marriage. Perhaps we’ll all become friends and I’ll find out? The Swell Valley was a small community. It was hard to imagine a family as high profile as the Wellesleys not becoming an integral part of it.

  Seeing the scrum of press gathered around the gates, Penny slipped down to the river. Hopping across the stepping stones at the back of the house, she found it easy enough to worm her way through the thinning hedge and emerge into the kitchen garden. She knocked cheerfully on the back door.

  ‘Hello? Anybody home?’

  When there was no answer she tried the latch. It was open. Stepping into the kitchen, she immediately felt a pang of envy. The room was gorgeous, bright and colourful and tidy, with pretty cushions and china scattered around in that effortless way that Penny herself could never quite get right at Woodside. A real fire crackled in a wood-burner in the corner. Everything smelled of something amazing. Cloves or cinnamon or … something.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Lady Wellesley had appeared in the doorway with a face like fury. In a black polo-neck sweater and chic cigarette trousers, with her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, she looked elegant, thin and utterly terrifying.

  ‘I’m so sorry to startle you.’ Penny proffered her basket of biscuits and cakes nervously, like a peace offering. ‘I’m Penny.’

  ‘You’re trespassing.’

  ‘Oh, no no no.’ Penny blushed. ‘My husband, Santiago, and I live over at Woodside Hall. We’re your neighbours.’

  Clearly this explanation did nothing to ease Lady Wellesley’s fury.

  ‘The door was open,’ Penny continued sheepishly. ‘I didn’t want to come round the front in case those reporters … I brought you some goodies. A sort of “Welcome to Brockhurst”.’

  ‘You came to snoop, more like,’ Annabel said rudely. ‘Report back to the village gossips. Or to the press, I dare say.’

  Penny looked horrified. ‘I would never do that! I just thought …’

  The words trailed off lamely. Looking down at her boots, she realized belatedly that she’d made a line of muddy footprints all over the beautiful flagstone floor.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You should be. We moved here for a bit of privacy. Walking into someone’s property uninvited! It’s outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Penny sounded close to tears. ‘I truly didn’t mean … I’ll go.’

  She turned and fled, slamming the kitchen door shut with a clatter behind her.

  A momentary frown flickered across Max Bingley’s face as Angela Cranley handed him a magazine.

  ‘Hello!? Really, darling. Must you?’

  ‘I’m afraid I must.’ Angela smiled sweetly as Max slipped the offending gossip rag underneath his armful of newspapers. ‘Man cannot live by the Financial Times alone. Or, at least, woman can’t. Don’t you agree, Mrs Preedy?’

  ‘I do indeed.’ The proprietress of Fittlescombe Village Stores smiled broadly. Partly because she liked Mrs Cranley – everybody liked Mrs Cranley, and Max Bingley, headmaster of the village school and Mrs C’s husband in all but name. And partly because today had been quite marvellous for business. What with the sun coming out, and the disgraced Eddie Wellesley on his way home from prison to his new house in Brockhurst, it seemed the entire Swell Valley had made a collective decision to go forth and gossip. Everybody knew that the Preedys’ store was the epicentre of Swell Valley gossip. And so here they came, buying their papers and magazines and Bounty bars and home-made coffee and walnut cakes while they were about it. ‘That’ll be seven pounds and eight pence in total, please, Mr Bingley.’

  Max handed over a twenty. At the back of the store there was an almighty crash as a shelf-ful of baked-bean cans clattered onto the floor.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Gabe Baxter’s voice rose above the din. ‘Hugh! How many times have I told you to look where you’re going?’

  Max and Angela walked over to where a frazzled Gabe had started picking up the mess. Next to him a dirty-faced toddler babbled happily in his stroller, while his four-year-old brother clutched a die-cast Thomas the Tank Engine toy and surveyed the chaos he had created in a nonchalant manner.

  ‘I did look where I was going,’ said the four-year-old. ‘I was going over there.’ He pointed to the sweetie aisle. ‘The cans were in the way.’

  ‘Yes, but you can’t just knock them over, Hugh.’ Gabe sounded exasperated.

  The little boy sighed and said sweetly, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

  Angela giggled. ‘Hello Gabe.’

  He looked up at her ruefully. ‘Tell your husband he’s not allowed to exclude children from St Hilda’s just because they’ve got bloody awful language.’

  ‘If I did that we’d have no kids left,’ Max grinned. ‘They’ve all got mouths like French truck drivers.’

  ‘I blame the mothers,’ said Gabe.

  ‘Where is Laura?’ asked Angela, deftly removing a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Hugh’s greasy little hands and placing it out of reach.

  ‘Working.’ Gabe put the last of the tins back and sto
od up. ‘Unfortunately we need the money, but I’m going out of my mind with these two.’ He looked at his sons with a mixture of affection and despair. Changing the subject, he asked Angela, ‘Has he arrived yet, then?’

  ‘Fast Eddie, you mean?’

  ‘Who else?’

  Max Bingley looked disapproving. ‘Honestly, listen to yourselves. Like a couple of gossiping fishwives.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Angela told Gabe, ignoring her other half. ‘Apparently there are scores of reporters lying in wait for him. They’re practically lining the High Street at Brockhurst. It’s like the royal wedding.’

  The shop door burst open and Penny de la Cruz walked in, looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair swirled behind her in one giant, windswept tangle, her gypsy skirt was more mud splatters than fabric and her various layers of mismatched cardigans hung off her slim frame at a dizzying array of angles. She was also out of breath, and had clearly been running, quite some distance and for quite some time.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Angela Cranley looked concerned. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ Penny panted. ‘I’ve just made a fool of myself, that’s all. Not for the first time.’

  Slowly, she recounted her earlier excruciating encounter with Annabel Wellesley.

  ‘I should have gone straight home I suppose,’ she said, pulling a chilled bottle of fresh-pressed apple juice out of Mrs Preedy’s fridge and swigging from it thirstily. ‘But I couldn’t face Santiago’s smugness. He warned me not to go over there. He thinks Lady Wellesley’s a bit of a harridan.’

  ‘She sounds worse than that,’ said Gabe, furiously. Being mean to Penny was like kicking a puppy. Totally unacceptable. ‘She sounds like a complete bitch.’

  ‘Colm-peat bitch,’ Hugh repeated emphatically.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gabe shrugged. ‘I’m starting to think he was fathered by a parrot.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Penny. ‘I surprised her. And she must be so stressed out, with those vultures circling at the end of her drive. You can’t blame her for being distrustful of outsiders.’