‘I stuck my neck out with your father to let you have this party,’ she said furiously. ‘And this is how you repay me? With bald-faced defiance?’
‘Mum, I—’
‘Get rid of her,’ Annabel hissed.
Milo threw his arms wide. ‘How can I do that? I can hardly turf her out.’
‘Of course you can. Like you said, you didn’t invite her.’
‘I’ll do it, if you like, Lady Wellesley,’ Jamie King piped up, grinning obnoxiously. ‘I’m an expert at grockle-disposal. Someone has to save Milo from himself, eh?’
Milo shot him a look that he hoped said: You are a total penis.
‘Hello.’ Just at that moment, Magda approached shyly, smoothing down a stray crease in her sexy chocolate dress. ‘Are you having fun?’ she asked Milo, not quite daring to make eye contact with Annabel.
‘Not really,’ mumbled Milo. He was too distracted to notice how stunning Magda looked. Unlike Jamie.
‘Well hell-o!’ His eyes fixed unashamedly on Magda’s ample cleavage. ‘And who might you be?’
‘Magda, Jamie, Jamie, Magda,’ said Milo without enthusiasm.
‘Ah, Magda, good,’ Annabel said brusquely, thrusting her empty champagne glass into Magda’s hand. ‘We need glasses cleared pretty much everywhere, and the canapé plates need replenishing. Karen, the catering manager, is in the kitchen. She’ll tell you what to do.’
‘Oh.’ Magda blushed, turning to Milo, waiting for him to explain the mistake. That she was here as a guest. As his friend. But his eyes were still glued to Roxanne. Will was leading her onto the dance floor now, the little shit. With friends like these, who needs enemies?
Annabel stalked off, leaving Magda standing there, holding the empty champagne glass and wishing the ground would swallow her up.
Why didn’t Milo explain? Why didn’t he say something?
‘She’s your maid?’ Jamie King turned to Milo. His expression had changed from admiration to disdain, and he sounded irritated, as if he’d been tricked.
‘Hmmm?’ said Milo, only half listening. ‘Oh. Yes.’
Magda’s stomach did a horrible flip.
That’s how he sees me. That’s how they all see me. I’m the maid.
‘In that case, I could use a refill.’ Downing his champagne in one with a small burp, Jamie handed Magda his glass too. ‘Quick as you can, angel,’ he added, rolling up his sleeves. ‘I have some evicting to do.’
Her face burning, Magda turned and ran.
Milo turned on Jamie. ‘You are such a cock. Do you know that? You say one word to Roxanne and I swear to God I will fucking flatten you.’
He didn’t even notice Magda had gone.
Magda dropped the empty champagne glasses on the table nearest the entrance and ran out of the barn, her heart pounding. Humiliation burned like acid in her chest and pricked her skin like a nettle rash.
How could Milo do that to her? How could he put her in that situation?
She crossed the lawn and bolted back into her cottage, slamming the front door behind her and leaning against it as if she were trying to keep out a tidal wave. A tidal wave of shame. Pulling off her stupid shoes, she flung them down on the ground, tears of frustration pouring down her cheeks.
It’s not really Milo I’m angry with, she thought bitterly. It’s myself.
Milo was just a kid. Kids were supposed to be foolish and insensitive. Magda might not be that much older than him in years, but in life experiences they were worlds apart. She, unfortunately, was an adult. And adults had to face reality. What had possessed her to think that she’d be accepted as an equal by these people? These closed, upper-class, rich English people like the Wellesleys, with their clipped manners and their rigid rules and their cruel, thoughtless etiquette? That she could become ‘one of them’ if only for a night?
Who did she think she was? Cinderella?
This cottage, this valley, might look like something out of a fairy tale. But it wasn’t. Any more than Milo Wellesley was a handsome prince.
‘No one’s going to rescue you,’ Magda told herself scathingly, speaking the words aloud as she pulled savagely at her dress, ripping it off her body. ‘Grow up.’
Scrunching the dress into a tight ball, she lit the kindling in the wood-burning stove and shoved it inside. For a few moments she watched as the cheap fabric burst into flames. Then she closed the heavy, cast-iron doors and went to bed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was a blazingly hot summer, the warmest anyone could remember in the Swell Valley for a generation. For the local children, home from school, this meant unending fun. Hosepipes in the garden, swimming in the river, delicious, melting Mr Whippy ice creams from the van on Fittlescombe village green. Local pubs also did a roaring trade, with The Fox’s beer garden heaving day after day. Tesco in Chichester had a run on Pimm’s that made the local papers, and the valley fire brigade were called to a slew of barbecue-related incidents, one of which almost resulted in the oldest medieval tithe barn in Sussex being reduced to a heap of ashes.
For local farmers, the soaring temperatures were less welcome. Harvesting and baling of straw was dusty work in the ninety-degree heat, and the livestock suffered as much as the labourers. Lambs could get dehydrated very quickly and, even with regular irrigation, the potato crops suffered. As for the usual August ploughing, the earth was so dry and hard it was like trying to churn one’s way through concrete.
With the first episode of Valley Farm due to air at the end of August, the cameras had rolled all summer, capturing the tough conditions at Wraggsbottom and elsewhere. The heat wave was a key part of the show, but so were the ongoing tensions in the village. High temperatures led to frayed tempers on all sides, with Laura’s patient camera crew twice almost coming to blows with the vicar’s increasingly strident posse of objectors. One episode focused on Macy Johanssen’s kitchen windows being pelted with eggs. Gabe thought the whole thing was hilarious, and the ensuing village whodunnit too Nancy Drew for words. ‘As you can see from these egg boxes, they were purchased locally,’ he joked to camera in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s not so much Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick, as Mr Preedy in the front garden with half a dozen Speckled Sussexes.’
There were times when Laura was convinced they were making great television. Gabe and Macy had terrific on-screen chemistry, the sort of larky, teasing relationship that producers kill for. As for the show itself, it had lashings of local drama, enough rural charm to open a chocolate-box factory, and real, educational, factual content. All the fun and lightness of reality television, but with a crucial ingredient that made Valley Farm different from all the others: intelligence.
But at other times she was sure they’d blown it. What if viewers ended up siding with the protestors? Had Jennifer’s stunt with the vicar’s car taken things too far? Did it make Gabe and Laura look spiteful, or snobby, or elitist, or greedy; all the things that David Carlyle’s journalists were accusing them of on a daily basis in the Echo?
It was the pre-season publicity that worried Laura most. Eddie and Gabe both seemed to view it as a gift. ‘Who cares what people are saying about the show?’ Gabe would tell Laura night after night, in an effort to reassure her. He loved his wife intensely, and it pained him to see her so stressed all the time.
‘I care. It’s bad enough having half the village hate us. Do we really need half the country?’
‘The point is, people have a view. They know about us already, and they’re curious. You can’t buy that sort of PR. Once we air, they’ll get to see for themselves what a storm in a teacup this whole thing has been. It’ll be Carlyle and Call-me-Bill who come off with egg on their faces, not us.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Laura. ‘What if it is us?’
‘Then we’ll just have to drown our sorrows in money,’ said Gabe, kissing her. ‘Because we’re going to be making a lot of it, either way.’
This was another thing that worried Laura. Money.
Gabe was touchingly convinced that the show would make their fortunes. But Laura knew just how risky and fickle the television business could be. Meanwhile revenues from the farm, their day job, were dropping like a stone. And while the property itself had gone up in value, Laura and Gabe were mortgaged up to the eyeballs. Making the repayments had been a strain even when Laura had a steady job at ITV. Since starting Valley Farm, her weekly salary had dropped to precisely zero. Eddie Wellesley and Channel 5 were bankrolling production, but Laura and Gabe’s remuneration was all profit-share.
What if there were no profits to share?
What if it was all a big, huge disaster of Laura’s own making? She’d have alienated all her neighbours and friends, and for nothing; poor Hugh and Luca would never go to another birthday party again, and she and Gabe would end up broke and at each other’s throats.
The week after filming ended, Laura was at home on Mummy duty with the boys when Hugh’s reedy little voice drifted in from the playroom.
‘Look, Mummy! Maisie’s on the television.’
‘She can’t be, darling. Our programme won’t be on telly until next week, remember?’
Laura was in the kitchen, mindlessly peeling potatoes to make a shepherd’s pie for supper. It was too hot for shepherd’s pie really, but she couldn’t look another salad in the face and needed something to do that didn’t involve die-cast trains or worrying herself sick about Valley Farm finally airing.
‘She is!’ Hugh insisted. ‘Come and look.’
Laura wandered back into the playroom. Luca was gnawing a stickle brick to death in the corner. Hugh had been engrossed in CBeebies, but had accidentally switched to SkySports on the remote and now seemed to be watching a one-day match live from The Oval.
‘Look! It’s Maisie. Right there.’
Hugh pointed to the screen. There indeed was Macy – for some reason Hugh had never been able to pronounce her name – jumping up and down with delight in the stands. Australia had been all out for a meagre 230 after England had put on an impressive 352 in their 50 overs, and James Craven had been named man of the match.
Laura watched Macy skip onto the pitch and fling her arms around James’s neck. She looked ravishing in a floaty blue and white sundress, her usually porcelain skin tanned a light, golden brown from all the long hours of outdoor filming.
Looking down at her own meat-stained apron and unshaven legs beneath a shapeless old denim mini, Laura suppressed an unworthy stab of envy. She knew that Macy and James’s high-profile relationship meant more publicity for the show. It was a good thing that Macy was constantly photographed looking gorgeous at glamorous events, and even better that she did it on the arm of a bona fide British sporting hero. And it wasn’t as if she, Laura, wanted to spend her life whizzing up to London parties, drinking champagne and getting her picture in the papers. But still, it rankled slightly that Macy and Gabe got to have all the fun, while she sweated bullets behind the scenes, or ran around after the children.
Gabe was also up in London today, at some swanky Channel 5 drinks do in the Chelsea Physic Garden. He claimed not to want to go – ‘It’s a pain in the arse, if you must know; there’s so much to do at the farm’ – but Laura couldn’t help but think he had had the better end of the deal, versus her own day of playing Thomas the Tank Engine for four hours straight with two fractious little boys, in heat that would have made Gandhi lose his temper.
‘I love Maisie,’ Hugh sighed.
‘Do you?’
‘I do. She’s like a beautiful queen. And she’s always laughing.’
‘Is she?’ Laura frowned.
‘Uh-huh,’ Hugh nodded. ‘Just like Daddy.’
‘Well, what about me?’ Laura was ashamed to hear herself asking. ‘Don’t I laugh?’
Hugh looked confused by the question. ‘Not really. I mean, not all the time, like Maisie. You’re a bit more seriouser.’
‘Oh.’
‘You laugh if someone tickles you,’ Hugh added kindly. ‘Do you want me to tickle you now? I will if you like.’
‘Not right now, sweetheart.’ Laura kissed him. She felt stupidly emotional and annoyed. Where the hell was Gabe? He should have been home hours ago to help with the kids. No doubt he was laughing away somewhere, three sheets to the wind on Pimm’s and champagne, clowning around with the Channel 5 execs. They’re probably in a strip club by now, she thought irrationally. Spearmint bloody Rhino.
The phone rang. Laura jumped on it.
‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ she snapped.
‘Er, at home, in my library. Should I not be?’
Eddie’s voice was deep and smooth and instantly calming, like an Irish coffee. He sounded amused but not mocking. Laura exhaled and let her shoulders relax. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. He’d been busy finishing his prison memoirs, locked away in his study at Riverside Hall or up in London with his literary agents. Laura had missed him dropping round to the set, sprinkling his charm and easy confidence over everybody like fairy dust. It was good to hear his voice.
‘Oh, it’s you! Sorry.’
‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Eddie.
‘Only Gabe,’ Laura sighed. ‘He’s late, as usual. Anyway, how are you? How’s the book?’
Eddie made a groaning sound.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Laura.
‘It’s not bad, exactly,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m just not sure it’s good enough. If it’s going to be my ticket back into politics, it needs to say exactly the right things to exactly the right people. But at the same time, I do feel it has to be truthful. I met a lot of good people in prison. It’s … difficult.’
‘My my,’ Laura teased him. ‘I believe I just heard the fabled sound of the political conscience! I thought you people had your scruples removed at birth? Or at least on entering the Commons. Like wisdom teeth.’
‘Or foreskins,’ said Eddie.
‘Ouch.’
‘Exactly. Happily, I remain intact in that department. Which I dare say is more than you needed to know!’ He laughed loudly.
I really must try and laugh more, thought Laura. Out of the mouths of babes, and all that.
‘Anyway, I was ringing to see how you and Gabriel were and to see if you wanted to come up here next Sunday and watch the first episode with us?’
‘That’s terribly kind of you,’ Laura began.
‘Annabel’s not exactly cock-a-hoop about it, as you know,’ said Eddie. ‘But she’s agreed to host a small drinks do.’
Laura felt suitably astonished, although it was true that Eddie’s wife had notably softened towards the show recently. Ever since Milo Wellesley had been packed off to Africa, in fact, Annabel seemed to have cheered up immeasurably. Perhaps having the house to themselves had been all that the Wellesleys needed to revivify their marriage. Laura indulged in a momentary fantasy of how easy and relaxed her life with Gabe would be if the children disappeared for a few weeks. Although she knew if it really happened she’d spend the whole time pining for the boys. Gabe would be even worse.
‘You’ve probably already made plans to watch it up in London with the Channel 5 lot …’ Eddie said.
‘Actually,’ said Laura, ‘between you and me, the only plan I’ve made is with my sofa and a sick bag. I’m terrified, Eddie.’
‘But why? It will be a triumph, my dear, you’ll see.’
‘I’m not even sure if I can sit through it myself, never mind watch it in public,’ said Laura. ‘I’ve been biting poor Gabriel’s head off for weeks. I’m a wreck! As for the reviews the next day, I’ve already told Gabe to go into the village early and set fire to every newspaper he can find.’
‘That’s it then,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s settled. You must watch it with us.’
‘No, really. I—’
‘We will raise a great number of glasses of excellent champagne, to the show and to you and to all your hard work. We will celebrate, and reviewers be damned. All that matters is the ratings, anyway.’
; ‘Spoken like a true television producer,’ said Laura.
‘I’ll expect you on Sunday then. Six o’clock at Riverside Hall; dress for success, sick bag optional.’
‘Eddie really, I …’
The line had already gone dead.
‘I can’t face it, Gabe. I actually can’t. Let’s just go home.’
Laura and Gabe were standing outside the front door of Riverside Hall. Gabe had reached forwards to ring the bell when Laura grabbed his arm, her face white with panic.
Pulling her into a hug, Gabe stroked her hair soothingly. ‘We can’t go home. Lady Wellesley’s expecting us. You know as well as I do one does not disappoint Lady Wellesley.’
‘Oh God, I’d forgotten about her,’ Laura wailed. ‘That makes it even worse. She always looks at me like I’m Pol Pot. I can’t watch the show with Cruella de Vil breathing down my neck!’
‘The only person breathing down your neck is going to be me,’ said Gabe, ‘in a good way. The show will be great, Laura. Tonight will be great. Trust me.’
He rang the bell. The door was answered almost immediately by a pretty but fragile-looking young woman in a full maid’s outfit.
‘Please come in. May I take your coats?’ she asked nervously, like a call-centre worker reciting a script.
‘We don’t have coats,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s ninety degrees out here. I could murder a cold drink, though, if there’s one going.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The girl blushed. ‘Follow me.’
She led them into a comfy sitting room. A large TV was mounted on the wall above the fireplace, already tuned to Channel 5. Laura switched her attention to the soft linen sofas and armchairs strewn with brightly coloured scatter cushions that were dotted invitingly around the room. On a coffee table in the centre, a vast Wedgwood jug overflowed with wild flowers, and scented Diptyque candles flickered on the windowsills. Along the garden side of the room, floor-to-ceiling French doors had been flung open, allowing the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and newly mown grass to drift inside on the warm evening breeze.
The Show Page 15