‘What are you doing upstairs?’ she demanded suspiciously.
‘I … I thought I heard a … er … a cat,’ Magda stammered.
‘A cat?’ Annabel frowned.
‘Yes.’
‘We don’t own a cat.’
Magda blushed again. ‘I must have been mistaken. I checked all the rooms in case it was shut in but they’re all empty.’
‘Hmm,’ said Eddie. ‘God knows where Milo’s got to. Darling, why don’t you show Magda to the cottage? I’m sure she must be tired after her journey. He turned to Magda. ‘Do you have a case?’
‘Yes, a small one. It’s in the kitchen.’
‘I’ll carry it across for you.’
‘Really, there’s no need. I can manage.’
‘I insist,’ said Eddie.
Five minutes later, following her new employers across the lawn towards the gardener’s cottage that she hoped might become her home, Magda looked over her shoulder. The girl, Roxanne, was clothed now and sprinting for her life away from the house towards the woods leading out to the lane.
Good, thought Magda. She made it.
It wasn’t until that evening that she bumped into Milo again. After an exhaustive tour of the house and a veritable bible of instructions from Lady Wellesley about laundry, fireplace-sweeping and hand-washing crystal, Magda was washing up in the kitchen when Milo sauntered in. In jeans, bare feet and a dark green fisherman’s sweater with holes in it, he looked lanky, like a young giraffe still not quite sure what to do with its legs.
‘Thank you for before,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Magda didn’t meet his eye. He seemed nice enough, but she didn’t want him to think she was some sort of co-conspirator. His mother had the power to hire or fire her. Magda could not afford to offend or upset Lady Wellesley, for anyone.
‘My mother’s not a fan of Roxie’s,’ Milo went on. ‘She thinks she’s beneath me.’
She was certainly beneath you this afternoon, thought Magda.
Sir Edward had described his son as lazy and disobedient. Magda could certainly imagine that to be the case, despite his charm.
‘The thing is, we’re in love,’ Milo explained.
‘It’s really none of my business,’ said Magda, drying her hands and reaching for the kitchen door. ‘Goodnight.’
‘I’ll walk you to the cottage if you like,’ said Milo. ‘It’s dark out there and it’s the least I can do after you saved my bacon earlier.’
‘No.’ The word came out more sharply than Magda had intended. ‘And please, don’t mention this again. Goodnight.’
Milo watched, chastened, as she slipped into the darkness and out of sight.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Macy Johanssen adjusted the veil on her fascinator and surveyed the packed church surreptitiously from behind her order of service.
She’d been astonished to receive an invitation to Logan Cranley’s wedding, having never met either the bride or groom. But Angela Cranley, the bride’s mother, happened to pop into Wraggsbottom Farm during filming on Thursday and very sweetly asked Macy along.
‘The whole village will be there, so it’ll be a chance for you to meet everyone. And I know my ex-husband’s curious to meet you.’
Not as curious as I am to meet him, thought Macy. Brett Cranley was one of the richest men in Australia, and a big investor in America too, not least in the media sector. For a consummate networker like Macy, Brett Cranley was exactly the sort of man she wanted to make a good impression on. She’d chosen her outfit carefully: a taupe silk dress that looked nothing on the hanger but that clung seductively to Macy’s slender frame, making her look as though she’d been dipped in caramel; simple gold accessories; neutral Manolo pumps, and a wisp of netting from Philip Treacy over her dark bob that couldn’t have cost more than five bucks to make but which was the most expensive item in Macy’s entire outfit.
She’d been pleased with the result until she walked into St Hilda’s Church and saw some of the most stunning, spectacularly dressed women she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. As for the hats, they made the Kentucky Derby look like a Puritan funeral.
A few faces were familiar. Sir Eddie and Lady Wellesley sat near the back with their son, Milo, a blond copy of his father with the same cheeky glint in his eye. It felt incredibly strange now to think that she had had a one-night stand with Eddie back in LA. Macy never thought of him in that way any more, and was as sure as she could be that the feeling was mutual. She liked Eddie, and was starting to consider him a real friend.
Apart from the Wellesleys, she recognized a number of the protestors who’d been hanging around the farm all week, as well as William Winter, her busybody next-door neighbour at Cranbourne House. But most of the congregation were strangers. Macy still felt like an interloper, playing catch-up on village gossip.
‘Where’s Tatiana Flint-Hamilton?’ she whispered to Laura. ‘I keep hearing people talking about her.’
‘Not here yet,’ Laura whispered back. ‘I suspect she’s planning to make an entrance and upstage the bride. That’s her usual MO.’
Macy didn’t know if Gabe or Eddie had said something, but in the last couple of days Laura had been a lot nicer to her. She’d been a lot nicer to everyone, in fact, and had that bleary-eyed, dishevelled glow that Macy suspected meant she and Gabe had been having a lot of make-up sex since the Vicar-Gate incident in The Fox. Macy couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit jealous. Not only was Gabe incredibly nice and incredibly sexy, but it was a very long time since Macy had had sex, never mind the sort of sex that left you love-drunk and full of the joys of spring the next morning.
A Kate Upton lookalike in a show-stopping red dress distracted her from her self-pity. She was standing next to a balding, middle-aged man on the other side of the aisle. ‘Who’s that?’ Macy asked Laura.
‘Emma Harwich.’
‘Not the Emma Harwich? The Gucci model?’
‘And all-round slapper, yes,’ said Laura. ‘She’s a local, unfortunately.’
‘Is that her father she’s with?’ asked Macy.
Laura laughed, more loudly than she’d intended to. ‘No,’ she said, lowering her voice as people turned to look. ‘That’s Bertie Athol, aka the Duke of Moncreith.’
‘He’s a duke?’ Macy sounded as impressed as only an American could. ‘A real one?’
‘Yup. More importantly, he’s stinking rich and one of the biggest Tory Party donors,’ said Laura. ‘Oh, do look at poor Tom!’ she said, turning to Gabe. ‘I’ve never seen anyone so green. He looks like he’s about to be shot.’
It was true, thought Macy. The groom did look an unfortunate shade of pureed pea, especially standing next to his tanned and handsome best man. Macy had expected English guys to be unattractive, a collection of hobbits with bad teeth and unfortunate facial hair, like Emma Harwich’s duke. But she’d been pleasantly surprised since she moved to the Swell Valley. More than half the men in the church today were good-looking, although none quite as good-looking as Gabe. Well, almost none. Macy found her gaze being inexorably drawn towards Santiago de la Cruz, smouldering in his morning suit on the other side of the aisle like a young Antonio Banderas.
James Craven, sitting in the row behind Santiago, leaned forward and whispered in his friend’s ear, ‘Someone likes you. Ten o’clock, dark bob, coffee-coloured dress.’
Santiago glanced at Macy, who immediately looked away.
‘That’s Macy Johanssen,’ Santiago whispered back. ‘She’s the TV presenter for Gabe’s show. Fast Eddie brought her over from America.’
‘She’s gorgeous.’
Santiago wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘If you say so.’
‘Is she single?’ asked James.
‘I highly doubt it,’ Santiago chuckled. ‘Then again, neither are you, my friend. Remember?’
Santiago looked back and smiled at Luisa, the drop-dead gorgeous Argentine chick James had brought along as his date. Lu
isa smiled back briefly before returning to the pressing business of examining her cuticles and flicking her hair like an expensive but bored racehorse.
‘She doesn’t speak English, does she?’ Santiago asked James, sotto voce.
‘Not a word,’ said James. ‘Which has its pluses and minuses. D’you think you can get me Macy’s number?’
At that moment Frank Bannister, the organist, struck up the opening chords of Handel’s La Réjouissance. All chatter ceased as the entire church spun around in unison, craning their necks to get a first glimpse of the bride.
But instead of Logan Cranley, it was Tatiana Flint-Hamilton who came sailing down the aisle.
‘Told you,’ Laura whispered to Macy.
Making her way to her front-row seat next to the mother of the bride, Tati was escorted by none other than her ex-husband, Logan’s brother Jason Cranley. The two of them were smiling and laughing like old friends.
‘Christ,’ said Gabe to Macy, under his breath. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books.’
‘Why?’
‘In a nutshell, he’s gay, she married him for his money, then left him for his dad.’
Macy raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite the modern family, these Cranleys.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Gabe.
The entire congregation avidly scanned Tatiana’s face for any sign of ageing. It was three years since she’d last been seen in Fittlescombe, at Max Bingley’s short-lived wedding to Stella Goye. But her complexion and figure were both as flawless as ever.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Macy.
‘Yes,’ said Gabe. ‘She is.’
There was nothing else to say. In a simple buttermilk-yellow dress, with no jewellery and her hair loose, Tatiana outshone every other woman there, like the sun in a room full of candles.
As soon as she and Jason sat down, the organist switched to the ‘Wedding March’. At last Logan walked in, beaming like a Cheshire cat on her father’s arm. In floor-length, lace Alice Temperley, with a garland of daisies in her dark hair, Logan looked ravishing. She might not be as classically beautiful as her father’s girlfriend, but no one could have looked happier or more deliriously in love.
Watching her catch her future husband’s eye, Macy felt an unworthy stab of jealousy for the second time since she’d got to the church. It was hard not to wish you had someone on a day like today. She distracted herself by checking out Brett Cranley, who was far better-looking and more virile in the flesh than he was in pictures, and not nearly as old.
Life isn’t all hearts and flowers, she reminded herself, firmly, thinking of the heartbreak that marriage had brought her own mother. Logan Cranley’ll find that out one day, even if she doesn’t know it now.
The service seemed to be over almost as soon as it had begun. There was one semi-hairy moment, when the vicar openly alluded to the Valley Farm controversy during the homily and Gabe looked as if he might be about to blow a gasket. Something about how wonderful it was to see all the village brought together in joy, at a time of such pain and discord. But other than that, Macy barely had time to drink in the beauty of the medieval church with its knights’ tombs and stained-glass windows, or to enjoy the classic English hymns like ‘Jerusalem’, before the whole thing was over and Angela Cranley was walking back down the aisle behind her daughter, elegant and understated in a navy-blue shift dress and pillbox hat on Max Bingley’s arm.
‘What now?’ Macy asked Gabe and Laura, following them out into the general crush.
‘Now the fun part,’ said Gabe, rubbing his hands together. ‘Reception at Furlings.’
‘We don’t go home and change first?’
‘No,’ said Gabe. ‘We leg it up the hill and hit the free bar before the good champagne runs out and Brett starts serving Cava.’
‘I can hardly imagine Brett Cranley would stoop to Cava!’ said Macy. ‘He must be worth hundreds of millions.’
‘He is,’ said Gabe. ‘But he likes to hold on to them. Brett’s tighter than a gnat’s chuff, believe me. And I say that as a friend.’
Outside the church it was a gloriously sunny late afternoon. The bride and groom were posing for pictures on the green, climbing up into a simple pony and trap, bedecked with flowing white ribbons. Apart from the ubiquitous cell phones, it was like a scene from a Jane Austen novel.
‘I doubt Brett will be tight today,’ said Laura. ‘Not for his little girl’s wedding, and at his ex-wife’s house too. He’ll be in full show-off mode. I reckon it’s going to be quite a party.’
Seeing Macy about to be cornered by the vicar, Laura wisely dragged Gabe off in the opposite direction. Strolling along the lane up to Furlings, arm in arm with Gabe, Laura felt happier and more relaxed than she had in months. The pilot of Valley Farm would be shot on Monday, and miraculously all of the kinks surrounding filming seemed to have been worked out. Shooting indoors and outdoors, working with animals, which rarely did what they were supposed to when they were supposed to, capturing farm and village life without being intrusive, switching from scripted to unscripted action – all of these things were challenging. But the small Channel 5 production team had been a model of patience under trying circumstances. And Laura had finally come around to Eddie Wellesley’s point of view about the local protests: that they made for good drama and should be included in the show, not edited out.
Gabe nuzzled into her neck as they walked up the hill among a growing crowd of wedding guests.
‘You’re gorgeous.’
Laura smiled. ‘Thanks. But you’re blind. I look awful.’
Laura had felt distinctly frumpy in the church, especially standing next to Macy. Her wine-red cocktail dress from Next, an old faithful that had done sterling service at countless weddings, christenings and work dinners, seemed tired and lacklustre compared to the beautifully cut, designer dresses of the other glamorous women. Teamed with slightly stained shoes and a ponytail, because she’d forgotten to wash her hair this morning and it was too dirty to let down, the overall look was definitely more farmer’s wife than sex siren.
‘You never look awful,’ said Gabe. ‘You were the most beautiful woman in that church, although I love that you don’t realize it. If you knew how sexy you were, you’d be trading me in for a younger model in no time.’
Everybody moved to the side of the lane and cheered as the bride and groom clattered past in their horse-drawn carriage, ribbons streaming merrily behind them. Tom had lost his green pallor now and was gazing adoringly at Logan; they were lost in their own world. A few moments later they were followed by a gleaming dark blue Bentley.
‘Isn’t that Eddie?’ Laura peered through the windows as the car passed. ‘Why are they driving?’
‘Lady Muck’s too posh to walk with the hoi polloi, I expect,’ said Gabe. ‘That woman’s so uptight she scares me. I can seriously picture her running amok with a machine gun one of these days.’
‘Let’s hope she’s not armed today. David and Louise Carlyle have been invited to the reception.’
Gabe’s eyes narrowed at the mention of David Carlyle’s name.
‘Gabriel,’ Laura said sternly. ‘The vicar’s one thing. But you may not, repeat not, assault the editor of a national newspaper.’
Gabe gave her a ‘you’re no fun’ look.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, running on ahead. ‘Tell Eddie.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brett Cranley stood on the verandah of his former house surveying the wedding guests as they sipped his champagne. Angela, Brett’s first wife of more than twenty years, appeared at his side. Together they watched their daughter Logan, hand in hand with her new husband, laughing as she crossed the lawn. ‘She looks happy, doesn’t she?’ said Angela.
‘She does,’ Brett smiled. ‘She and Tom are a good match. We’ve got a great girl there.’
‘We have,’ Angela agreed.
Their divorce had been painful, as all divorces were, but three years on, Brett and Angela Cranley we
re good friends.
‘Jason’s doing wonderfully too,’ said Angela, pointing out their son, who was standing by the bar with his husband and Tatiana. ‘He and George are so good for one another.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Brett.
He’d come to terms with the fact that his son was gay, but he would never be able to accept it with the same easy grace that Angela did. As ridiculous as he knew it was, he also felt jealous of the close bond that Jason still shared with Tatiana. The sexual side of their marriage might have been a sham, but the affection between them was real. Watching the two of them talking intimately now, their arms wrapped around one another, Brett felt his chest tighten.
She’s flirting deliberately, to bait me, he thought angrily. She’s still mad at me for letting Angela take Furlings in the divorce.
Max Bingley, Angela’s current other half, wandered over.
‘Do you mind if I steal Angela for a moment? The photographer wants a picture of her and Logan together, just the two of them.’
‘Of course,’ said Brett. He watched Max and Angela walk away, hand in hand, and felt a twinge of sadness. It wasn’t that he begrudged Angie her happiness. No one deserved it more. But he still felt guilty that he’d made her so unhappy in the last years of their marriage, and perhaps just a little resentful that Max Bingley had succeeded where he had failed.
‘Mr Cranley?’ A very sexy dark-haired girl in a nude silk dress and gold necklace interrupted his musings. Brett instantly brightened. ‘I’m Macy Johanssen. Sorry to ambush you, but I’ve heard so much about you I thought I’d take the chance to introduce myself. I’m co-presenting Valley Farm with Gabriel Baxter. I believe you two know each other?’
‘Sure,’ Brett purred. ‘I know Gabe. You certainly seem to be ruffling some feathers around here with this new show.’
Macy rolled her eyes. ‘The vicar’s got the whole village whipped into a frenzy. With a little helping hand from David Carlyle.’
‘Oh. I’m not sure you can blame the reverend – or David, for that matter,’ said Brett. ‘In my experience it doesn’t take much for Fittlescombe folk to get their knickers in a twist.’
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