After a week of solid unpacking, plumping up cushions, making beds and arranging treasures old and new, Cranbourne House was finally coming together. And what a house it was.
Eddie hadn’t been exaggerating about the picture-postcard prettiness of the Swell Valley. If anything he’d played down the majesty of the ancient rolling chalk hills that locals called ‘the Downs’ – it seemed to Macy they went up as well as down, but who was quibbling? – and the quaint loveliness of the villages. Even the names sounded like something out of a storybook: Fittlescombe, Brockhurst, Hinton Down, Lower Cricksmere. As for Cranbourne House, the property Eddie and the network had rented for Macy on the edge of Fittlescombe, it was really more of a large cottage – three cottages knocked together, in fact. It was all Macy could do not to cry when she saw the flint and tile-hung beauty, peeking out coyly from behind its veil of ivy and climbing roses. The garden was small but perfectly formed, and complete with both a pear and a walnut tree, as well as a buddleia smothered in butterflies. Whatever happened with the show, Macy was glad she’d taken a leap of faith and come to England. How could wonderful, happy things not happen to a girl in a place like this?
A loud knocking on the front door broke her reverie. Macy opened it to find Eddie standing on the doorstep with a very pretty woman. She was at least ten years older than Macy, yet there was something appealingly youthful about her. Possibly it was her wild mane of blue-black curls, or the lack of make-up on her pale skin, or the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She wore jeans and a chocolate-brown sweater, and was clutching a laptop and phone in a rather businesslike manner.
‘This is Laura Baxter, our producer, director, creator and all-round wonder-woman.’ Eddie beamed.
‘My boss, you mean?’ Macy looked at Laura appraisingly. She’d never worked for a woman before and wondered whether she was going to like it.
‘Exactly.’ Laura smiled. Macy instantly liked her less. Laura might be the boss on paper, but Macy was the star of the show. She resented Laura’s natural assertion of authority. And she wasn’t keen on the doe-eyed way Eddie looked at her, either. Macy wasn’t at all sure there was room for two beautiful women on the Valley Farm set.
‘I thought it was time the two of you met,’ said Eddie. ‘As you know, we have our first official on-set meeting tomorrow morning at the farm. But we ought to put faces to names before then. May we come in?’
‘Of course.’
Macy led them through to the drawing room, a small but pretty space overlooking the rear garden. It struck Laura how perfect the room looked already, all white linen sofas and artlessly arranged crystal. Clearly Macy had the same flair for decor as Lady Wellesley. Is that what Eddie goes for, I wonder? she thought idly. The perfect homemaker, china-doll look? He wouldn’t last long with me.
‘Tea?’ Macy offered. ‘Or fresh juice? I made some kale-ade this morning, it’s delicious.’
‘Sounds disgusting,’ Eddie said cheerfully. ‘I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Me too,’ said Laura. ‘How are you finding England so far?’
‘So far so good,’ Macy said warily.
‘Have you read over your script for the pilot?’
‘Sure,’ Macy lied. Evidently the small-talk part of the visit was already over. ‘Eddie tells me you’ve never done scripted reality.’
‘Funny,’ Macy shot back. ‘He said the same about you.’
Laura looked up sharply, as if seeing Macy for the first time.
‘It’s true, my background is in drama. To be honest, from a writing perspective, this is easier. But it presents other challenges. A lot rests on the interaction between you and Gabe, your chemistry on screen.’
‘I don’t usually have a problem with chemistry,’ said Macy, catching Eddie’s eye for the most fleeting of moments.
‘Good,’ said Laura.
She didn’t warm to this girl. Eddie had described Macy as ‘very ambitious’ – not a bad thing in itself, as long as she remembered who was boss. Laura had seen Grapevine. Macy was a talented presenter, no doubt about that. But Laura wondered how easy she was going to be to manage. She was clearly used to getting her own way. There would be no room for any diva antics on Valley Farm.
Laura stood up. ‘Do you have any questions for me, before tomorrow?’
Macy stifled a yawn. ‘No. I’m good.’
‘In that case, I look forward to seeing you bright and early up at Wraggsbottom.’
Macy giggled. ‘I still can’t get over that name. It’s like calling your house Ass-wipe. No offence.’
‘None taken,’ Laura said frostily. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
After they left, Eddie turned to Laura as they drove down the lane.
‘You don’t like her.’
Laura kept her eyes on the road. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘You weren’t exactly friendly.’
‘Nor was she. And I wasn’t unfriendly. Anyway, I’m not her friend. I’m her producer. This is my show, Eddie. I want to set the right tone, that’s all.’
Eddie put a hand over Laura’s and patted it reassuringly. ‘I understand. But there’s no need to hit back first. We’re all on the same team here, Laura. We all need Valley Farm to succeed.’
No you don’t, thought Laura. You want it to succeed. That’s a very different thing. Gabe and I need this money.
The truth was, the set-to at the school gates had shaken Laura up more than she cared to admit. With each passing day she found her own confidence in the show’s success waning, to the point where she was finding it really hard to sleep at night. While Gabe snored loudly beside her, Laura’s mind was whirring. My neighbours hate me, the bills keep rolling in, and I’ve staked my entire professional reputation on a reality show, a format about which I know precisely nothing. Macy’s quip just now about her lack of experience had hit home. Suddenly Laura felt desperately out of her depth. She knew she mustn’t let Macy see that. Or Eddie, for that matter.
‘OK,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll ease up. I just hope she cuts out the attitude with Gabe. He’s not big on stroppy women.’
Eddie looked at her and grinned, but wisely said nothing.
‘I can’t believe this.’ Laura ran an exasperated hand through her hair. ‘I seriously can’t believe it.’
It was the morning the film crew were supposed to come to see the farm for the first time, and a small but determined group of Fittlescombe villagers had gathered in the lane outside Wraggsbottom Farm to stage a protest. While Laura looked around a kitchen still littered with the detritus of yesterday’s cake-baking efforts (stupidly, she’d thought a bit of home cooking might make a nice welcome for the crew, temporarily forgetting that her culinary prowess was very much on the King Alfred end of the scale), shouts of ‘No TV in our Vall-ey!’ drifted noxiously in through the open window.
‘They’re driving me mad.’ She looked at Gabe despairingly. ‘Should we call the police?’
Gabe poured himself another coffee, his third of the morning, and frowned. ‘And say what? Unfortunately, it’s a free country. People are allowed to protest about things.’
‘Yes, but not at six in the morning, surely?’ said Laura. ‘That’s when they started.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ said Gabe.
Laura sighed heavily. ‘Look at this sodding mess. Why didn’t we clean it up last night?’
Gabe wrapped his arms around her. ‘Because I was too busy disabling the smoke alarms.’ Laura giggled. ‘And you were hitting the gin.’
Through the kitchen window, they could see the tops of the protestors’ placards, emblazoned with such cheery slogans as: ‘GO HOME CHANNEL 5!’ and ‘SAVE OUR VILLAGE!’
‘At least the kids aren’t here,’ said Laura.
‘Exactly,’ said Gabe. ‘Look on the bright side.’
Greta, the Baxters’ part-time nanny, had taken Hugh and Luca out to Drusillas Zoo earlier, with both the boys cheerfully chanting ‘No TV!’ as they got into the
car.
It was now nine o’clock. The production team and Macy were due at the farm by ten, to do some walk-throughs of the property and set up for next week’s pilot episode. Laura had a headache that could have felled an elephant, and Gabe’s nerves, already frayed at the prospect of meeting his co-presenter and performing on camera for the first time, had not been helped by the relentless cacophony.
Opening the kitchen cupboards, he began pulling out a teapot, mugs, a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a tray.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Laura.
‘Loving my neighbour. I’m going to disarm them with the power of McVitie’s.’
Laura’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious? You’re taking them tea?’
‘It’s either that or spray them with slurry.’
Laura knew which option she preferred. But five minutes later, Gabe was outside the farm gates, tray in hand, smiling warmly at the sea of scowling faces.
‘Tea, anyone? I’d offer you a home-made cake, but unfortunately my wife is a shit cook and they all turned out like charcoal.’
Reverend Clempson’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Oh come on, Vicar. All that shouting must be thirsty work.’ Gabe’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Can’t I tempt you with a Jaffa Cake?’
‘He can tempt me with a Jaffa Cake,’ one of the younger, female protestors whispered to her friend.
‘Or without,’ her friend sighed.
In faded jeans, wellington boots and a checked white and brown shirt rolled up to the elbows, Gabe looked fit and tanned and disgustingly rugged. One by one the female protestors put down their placards and accepted mugs of tea. By the time Macy Johanssen arrived at the farm, the scene outside looked more like a picnic than a picket line. Only the vicar and a few older men were still marching and chanting.
‘Gabriel?’ Macy offered her hand to the handsome, wellbuilt blond man holding court among the women.
No wonder they picked him to present, she thought. If all farmers looked like that, Dorothy would never have left Kansas.
Gabe turned away from his admirers and fixed his eyes appreciatively on the petite, attractive girl in front of him. She had Laura’s colouring, very pale skin with strikingly dark hair. But unlike Laura she was tiny and doll-like and immaculately well-groomed, all sleek hair and expensive clothes and perfectly manicured nails. You could tell in an instant that she didn’t have children.
‘You must be Macy,’ he beamed. ‘Lovely to finally meet you. Come on in.’
Macy followed him into the kitchen. In the ten minutes since Gabe had been outside, Laura had made valiant efforts to clean up. Gabe was relieved to see the kitchen looking almost habitable again and to hear the low hum of the dishwasher getting to work.
‘Darling,’ said Gabe. ‘Macy’s arrived.’
Laura, now sitting at the table engrossed by her laptop, didn’t look up.
This woman’s really beginning to annoy me, thought Macy, who’d been in a great mood up till then. She’d walked down the lane from Cranbourne House this morning. The sun was out, the meadows were full of wild flowers and the tall hedgerows teemed with butterflies and bees and twittering birds like something out of a Disney cartoon. But Laura Baxter was the ultimate buzz-kill.
‘Sorry.’ Gabe apologized for his wife’s rudeness. ‘We’ve had a bit of a crazy morning. Can I get you anything?’
‘Tea would be lovely.’
Seconds later the first of the TV crew vans pulled into the farmyard and the chanting began again. Laura slammed shut her laptop with a clatter.
‘No time for that, I’m afraid,’ she said briskly. ‘We have a ton to do today. Let’s get to work.’
The rest of the morning passed in a whirl of activity, confusion and stress. While Laura and the film crew hotly debated set-ups and camera angles, Gabe and Macy were made to do take after take after take, some ad-libbed and some scripted. Macy was kicked in the shin by a lamb, urinated on by a piglet and yelled at countless times by Laura, who was distracted by the increasing din of the protestors. At some point a minivan had pulled up outside the gates, depositing at least twenty rent-a-mobbers, none of whom Laura or Gabe recognized. Soon afterwards, reporters from the Echo started taking pictures, climbing up onto walls and farm buildings and into trees like an unwelcome swarm of ants.
‘Bloody David Carlyle,’ Gabe seethed. ‘He’s orchestrating this whole thing, the little shit.’
‘Who’s David Carlyle?’ asked Macy. Her eye make-up was starting to run and she was already regretting the black, long-sleeved dress with a low ‘V’ at the front that was far too hot and making her sweat unpleasantly under the arms and between her breasts.
‘A shit-stirrer,’ said Gabe. ‘The Vladimir Putin of Swell Valley. I’ll explain at lunch.’
Laura overheard them. ‘We’re not breaking for lunch, I’m afraid. We are way, way behind.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ said Gabe robustly. He understood Laura was stressed. A lot rested on all this. But people had to eat. ‘Macy and I are starving. I’m taking her to The Fox for a bite.’
Macy waited for Laura to lose her temper, but instead she merely shrugged. ‘All right. Work on your lines while you’re there, then. And be back by two.’
Gabe kissed his wife lovingly on the cheek. ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n. Come on,’ he turned to Macy. ‘Let’s get out of here before the black hole sucks us back in.’
The Fox was unusually busy for a Monday lunchtime. People came to Fittlescombe’s quaint, riverside pub as much for the gossip as the fare, and this week there were two exciting events to talk about: Gabe and Laura Baxter’s new TV show, and next weekend’s big wedding.
Logan Cranley, the stunning daughter of Brett and Angela Cranley, was marrying her long-term boyfriend, Tom Hargreaves, this Saturday in St Hilda’s Church. Logan’s parents had divorced in a blaze of publicity three years ago. Her father, Brett, had moved to America with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, the former wild-child heiress of Furlings turned international business phenomenon. Tatiana also happened to be Brett’s daughter-in-law at the time, so it was something of a scandal all around. Supposedly, Cranley family relations were now cordial. But where Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was concerned, there was always the potential for drama. Logan’s wedding would be the first time that all parties had been under the same roof since the divorce. The fact that this would happen in public and in the village was too thrilling for words.
Gabe led Macy to a quietish corner near the bar and they ordered from the blackboard. Fresh local crab salad and spring pea soup for Macy and an Angus beefburger and chips for Gabe.
‘The food’s average but the beer’s great,’ said Gabe.
‘As long as you like it warm, right?’ quipped Macy.
‘Of course. This is England. We don’t do ice.’
He’s so easy-going, thought Macy. She wondered how on earth he’d wound up with a miserable nag like Laura.
As if reading her mind, Gabe said, ‘You mustn’t mind Laura. She’s not normally like this, honestly. She’s been so stressed about this show, poor darling, and the protests haven’t helped.’
He told Macy about the other children picking on Hugh at school, and the malicious gossip Laura had endured around the village. ‘It’s water off a duck’s back to me,’ he said, in between large, satisfying bites of his juicy beefburger. ‘But Laura hates conflict.’
Macy looked disbelieving.
‘Normally,’ Gabe chuckled. ‘Plus, you know, she has a ridiculously romantic, idealized view of village life. She always has done, ever since she used to come here for summers as a kid and stay at her granny’s place. She thinks Fittlescombe’s perfect and everybody ought to love everybody else and spend their time skipping around maypoles.’
‘And you don’t?’ asked Macy.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. But nowhere’s perfect. This is a real community, not a theme park. I think being a farmer gives you a more realistic view of life generally, to
be honest.’
‘Is that why you wanted to do the show?’ Macy asked earnestly. ‘To educate people, from a farmer’s perspective?’
Gabe looked confused. ‘No. I’m doing the show to make money. Farming’s bloody hard work for almost no money. This month alone I’ve got to tail and castrate all the lambs, get them ear-notched and tagged, spray the potatoes, do muck-spreading across the whole farm, repair three broken walls and clean out the livestock buildings. I’m knackered just thinking about it. By getting a camera crew to follow me around, I’m already doubling my earnings. And if the show does well and Fast Eddie sells the format overseas, who knows? We might make some real money for a change.’
‘But you aren’t worried about the protests?’ Macy asked. ‘Now that a national newspaper’s involved, couldn’t they shut us down before we begin?’
‘Nah. If anything, it’ll generate some free publicity, while it lasts. But things will calm down, trust me,’ said Gabe. ‘At least, they will if he winds his neck in.’
He turned to glare at Call-me-Bill Clempson, who’d just walked in with a couple of local farmers. Both had been friends of Gabe’s before the furore about Valley Farm broke out.
‘The vicar?’
Gabe nodded bitterly.
‘But he looks so harmless. Like a little vole.’
‘He’s not harmless. He’s a self-righteous dick,’ said Gabe. ‘Zipping around the village in his little red car like bloody Noddy, making me and Laura out to be some sort of landed gentry intent on keeping the peasants down.’ He told Macy about the right-to-roam debacle. ‘The truth is we haven’t got a fucking bean of disposable income. I mean, the house is valuable, but our mortgage is massive and the upkeep costs a bomb. It’s not as if we’re running around buying diamonds and eating sodding caviar.’
Macy decided it was time to change the subject. ‘You know, you’re really good on camera.’
The Show Page 8