The Show

by Tilly Bagshawe

  Macy and James were already here, sipping cocktails and chatting to Santiago and Penny de la Cruz in one corner. Eddie had his arm around his wife, who was smiling broadly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her crack a smile before,’ Gabe whispered in Laura’s ear. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Never,’ Laura whispered back. ‘Perhaps she’s got wind.’

  Gabe laughed loudly, making Eddie look up.

  ‘Ah, there you are! At last. Kick-off’s in five minutes. What can I get you both to drink?’

  ‘Gin and tonic for me, please,’ said Gabe. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!’ He wandered over to congratulate James Craven on his recent performance, leaving Laura alone with Eddie and Annabel.

  ‘What can I get you?’ Eddie asked her.

  ‘Nothing. Just water.’ Laura’s nerves were back with a vengeance.

  ‘Nonsense. We’re celebrating. You must have something. A glass of champagne, at least?’

  ‘Mrs Baxter just said she didn’t want a drink, Eddie,’ Annabel said curtly. Her earlier smile was gone now, replaced with a familiar expression of withering disdain. ‘Magda! Don’t just stand there gaping! Fetch some iced water, please. Quickly!’

  Laura watched awkwardly as the maid scuttled away. Lady Wellesley spoke to her as if she were a dog. So much for the happier, more relaxed Annabel. Clearly Milo’s absence had only defrosted the ice queen so much …

  ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ said Eddie, ignoring his wife’s wrath and wrapping a paternal arm around Laura’s shoulders. ‘Today’s quite the day for good news.’

  ‘It is?’ Laura looked puzzled.

  ‘Yup. I’ve sent my agents the first two-thirds of the book and they love it,’ Eddie beamed. ‘This time next year I could be back in politics full time.’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’ Laura smiled back. ‘You must be thrilled,’ she added to Annabel.

  ‘I’ll be thrilled when the book’s finished and published and we have our old life back,’ said Annabel waspishly. ‘And when all this television nonsense is behind us. I don’t mean to be rude, but your ghastly programme’s been a terrible distraction for Eddie.’

  She had never liked Laura, and she knew for a fact that the feeling was mutual, so she resented Laura’s attempts at ‘chumminess’ now. If Westminster life had taught Annabel anything, it was that an enemy was infinitely preferable to a false friend.

  Laura was just wondering what Annabel might say when she was trying to be rude when Eddie jumped in.

  ‘Yes, well,’ he said smoothly, kissing his wife’s cheek. ‘With any luck it will prove to have been a lucrative distraction. That’s not the only good news either. We had a letter from Milo today, finally. Apparently he’s loving Africa. We could hardly believe it, could we, darling? He sounds like a different boy.’

  Magda, who’d just returned with the water jug, froze at the mention of Milo’s name. After the awful humiliation of his leaving party, she’d been too angry and upset to say a proper goodbye to him. Of course, more than two months had passed since then. She no longer felt the same burning mortification that she had at the time, when that dreadful boy Jamie had looked through her as if she were nothing, as if she were dirt. But the memory still stung. She wondered what it would be like when Milo came back. Whether he really had changed. Thinking about his return from Africa bothered her more than it should have.

  ‘Magda! Don’t stand there like a lemon.’ Annabel’s irritated voice brought her back to the present. ‘Pour Mrs Baxter her water. She’s been waiting long enough.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine.’ Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. Why was Eddie’s wife so poisonous to the maid? Did she just dislike all women? It must take a huge amount of energy, Laura thought, to live one’s life at such a pitch of distrust. Then again, perhaps being married to a serial philanderer like Eddie had taken its toll? Laura tried not to judge Annabel too harshly. After all, she herself had been pretty vile to Gabe recently behind closed doors, and with much less reason. You never really knew what went on in other people’s marriages, no matter how hard you tried to peek behind the curtains.

  The familiar theme tune signalled that the news had ended. Everyone turned towards the TV.

  ‘That’s it. We’re next!’ said Eddie, rubbing his hands and sinking down into one of the sofas, a stiff Annabel beside him. ‘Magda, make sure everybody has a full glass. Come on, you lot. Find a seat.’

  James, who was sprawled across Annabel’s perfectly pristine Chesterfield as though he spent every day reading his newspaper there, squeezed Macy’s hand. ‘Are you nervous?’

  She looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Not at all. It’s not the first time I’ve been on TV, you know, honey.’

  ‘Of course not. But it’s still a big deal. This time tomorrow you could be a household name.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ said Macy.

  The truth was, she was nervous. She could tell that Gabe was too. He played it cool in front of Laura. But he needed this show to be a hit. In their different ways, and for their different reasons, they all did. For Gabe and Laura it meant paying off the mortgage. For Macy it could be the gateway to an international career. For Eddie it was a stepping stone back into politics. Even Annabel wanted the show to do well, if only to have an answer to all its many detractors.

  ‘I wonder if we’ll be in it?’ Penny whispered to Santiago. ‘They did film me once or twice in the village, out and about with Emma.’

  ‘They won’t show you,’ Santiago whispered back, stroking Penny’s rosy cheek. ‘They want viewers to look at Macy. One look at you and no one would give her a second glance.’

  Penny laughed so hard she almost choked on her vodka and tonic.

  ‘I do love you.’ She dabbed the tears from her eyes.

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Santiago.

  ‘I know you are,’ said Penny, squeezing his hand as the opening credits of Valley Farm finally began to roll.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Hmm?’ David Carlyle didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  ‘David! Let go! You’re crushing my fingers.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh. Sorry.’

  Belatedly, the formidable editor of the Echo released his wife’s hand. Poor, loyal Louise Carlyle had put up with her husband’s foul temper for days now, as the date for Valley Farm’s first episode drew nearer. Now that they were actually sitting here, in their own front room, watching Gabriel Baxter and Macy Johanssen stride through the familiar fields of the Swell Valley, it was as if David had entered some sort of trance.

  Throughout the summer, you would never have guessed that the Tory government was on the brink of collapse. Or that war might be about to start again in the Middle East. Or that the little boy abducted from his bedroom on Teeside two weeks ago would miraculously be found alive and unharmed. As far as David was concerned, the only news that mattered was the launch of his hated rival’s TV show. the Echo covered other stories, of course. But not since CNN’s obsession with the missing Malaysian aircraft had a major news outlet focused so intensely and so consistently on one single issue. David had worked tirelessly to portray Eddie Wellesley as the greedy, elitist, self-serving pig that he was. He’d done all he could to smear the reputations of Gabriel Baxter and his wife by association, and to stir up anti-American sentiment towards Macy Johanssen for worming her way into the affections of England’s favourite cricketer since Santiago de la Cruz.

  He’d succeeded in turning Valley Farm into a story, and the exploitation of the Swell Valley and its residents into an issue. But the true measure of the Echo’s campaign would be the public reaction to the show itself. David sat still as a statue, glued to the screen like a wide-eyed child watching the moon landings.

  ‘Oh, look!’ said Louise as Furlings appeared in shot, looking impossibly romantic swathed in early morning mist. ‘Doesn’t it look pretty! And there’s Angela Cranley. I didn’t know she was going to be in it.’

 
‘Nor did I,’ David seethed. Angela was rich as Croesus, but with her soft, Aussie accent and gentle manner, chattering away about sustainable gardening and the camaraderie of village life, she came across as a likable everywoman. By the time they showed her and Max Bingley pleading for calm and tolerance at the village protest meeting in the next scene, viewers were already firmly on Angela’s side. Bloody Laura Baxter was a better producer than David had given her credit for.

  ‘It’s outrageous,’ he muttered. ‘Look at that! They’re making Bill Clempson out to be a total fool. He sounds pompous and ridiculous.’

  ‘I thought you said he was pompous?’ Louise observed innocently.

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  Laura had saved the scene where the vicar discovered his car submerged in silage until right before the commercial break. Louise Carlyle gasped, whispered, ‘No!’, clapped a hand over her eyes … and then burst out laughing.

  ‘You think that’s funny?’ David asked accusingly.

  ‘I … well, no. I mean, a bit,’ Louise blushed. Living with David recently had felt like trying to keep a wild bear as a pet. Everything seemed to make him angry.

  The next shot was of Gabe Baxter and Macy Johanssen catching one another’s eye and dissolving into uncontrollable giggles. It took a superhuman effort for Louise not to join them.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked, unsure what else to do.

  David looked up as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes. Thanks, love.’ Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. It was so unexpected, Louise thought she might cry.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’m on edge,’ said David. ‘ It’s just … I have a lot riding on this not working. I don’t mean to take it out on you.’

  ‘I know,’ Louise squeezed back. ‘I understand.’

  Once she’d retreated to the kitchen, David sat alone on the couch, digging his fingernails into his palms until they bled.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  He picked up the phone and called his secretary.

  ‘I need you to set me up a lunch.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Carlyle. With whom?’

  ‘John Bingham at ITV.’

  ‘Very good. And when would you like—’

  ‘As soon as possible. Book somewhere swanky. Let me know when it’s done.’

  He hung up.

  At Reverend Clempson’s bungalow, a few of the more hard-core protestors had gathered to watch the show together and enjoy Bill’s home-made organic hummus and aubergine dip.

  ‘Our cottage looks nice,’ Rita Bramerton cooed to her husband, Reg, as Macy Johanssen was shown walking down Fittlescombe High Street, admiring the beautifully planted front gardens. ‘Look at your hollyhocks! Don’t they look grand?’

  ‘They do,’ Reg agreed.

  ‘For heaven’s sake. It’s not about how pretty the flowers look!’ Bill Clempson said, more sharply than he’d meant to. ‘Can’t you see you’re being manipulated?’

  ‘Sorry, Vicar,’ Reg Bramerton said meekly.

  A retired bus driver and keen amateur gardener, Reg now mowed the village green and tended to the churchyard flowers as a volunteer. David Carlyle had run an entire feature on the Bramertons in the Echo last week, as the ordinary, elderly working-class face of the Swell Valley, and the kind of people that Valley Farm’s producers were cruelly exploiting. They’d certainly worked tirelessly to support the local protest campaign, mainly at the urging of the vicar. Rita had baked cakes and handed out flyers, and Reg had hammered together ‘Save Our Valley!’ placards. But now that they were actually here, watching the programme they’d devoted so much time and effort to stopping, the Bramertons were a little baffled as to what, exactly, they’d been saving the valley from.

  They weren’t the only ones.

  ‘It could be worse, Vicar,’ John Preedy from the village stores observed – although he wasn’t sure the same could be said for the vicar’s tasteless dip. You’d get more flavour from a can of Polyfilla. ‘At least the farming segments are informative. They let Gabriel talk about what he knows, don’t they? It’s not all just pretty Americans and fluff.’

  ‘It could not be worse,’ Bill Clempson said petulantly. Watching himself hop up and down beside his car like a demented jack-in-the-box, his cheeks red and his voice high and squeaky like a puppet’s, had been a deeply shaming experience. If these people couldn’t see what the producers were doing – the protestors, the very locals he’d been trying to protect from exploitation – then what hope was there that ordinary viewers would see the harm in Valley Farm?

  ‘It’s not only me they’re mocking.’ He turned to address the little group squeezed into his tiny sitting room at the bungalow. ‘Look at the way the cameras are zooming in on Hillary there?’

  They looked. Hillary Wincup could be seen flapping her arms hilariously as she ran across the farmyard, her enormous bosoms flying, like a distressed hen escaping a burning coop. ‘They’re laughing at you, Mrs Wincup. That’s what reality television does.’

  At last a few frowns and mutterings of ‘shame’ began to replace the initial thrill of seeing themselves and their neighbours on screen.

  ‘You must understand,’ Bill Clempson went on earnestly. ‘If this programme becomes successful, it won’t stop here. Do you really want these cameras to become a permanent part of your lives? This village will be turned into a theme park. And you’ll be like monkeys in a zoo. These people are laughing at us, not with us. And they’re raking in fat profits at your expense, for themselves and the Baxters.’

  ‘That’s a bit strong, ain’t it, Vicar?’ Reg Bramerton piped up again.

  ‘I don’t believe it is, Reg,’ said Bill. ‘You mustn’t let Gabe Baxter’s easy manner fool you. A man may smile and smile and be a villain, you know.’

  Six simple faces looked at him blankly.

  ‘Shakespeare?’ Bill Clempson sighed deeply. ‘Never mind.’

  The celebrations at Riverside Hall went on well into the night. They wouldn’t know final ratings, or read any reviews, until the morning. But Channel 5 had already been on the phone, clearly ecstatic about the early numbers, and the reaction on social media was crazy. Even though Gabe didn’t know his trending from his elbow, #ValleyFarm was going stratospheric. And everyone felt they’d made a show that was not only worth watching, but had done what it set out to do – show the real Swell Valley, its people, landscape and rhythms in all its unique, magical glory.

  James had a match the next day so left early and alone. Gabe and Laura offered Macy a lift home to Cranbourne House but she decided she’d rather walk. It was still partially light, and the summer heat lingered into the night, rising up from the baked earth like steam from newly baked bread.

  She ought to feel happy, and was irritated at herself for the niggling sense of depression and self-doubt that hung over her like an unwanted cloud as she strolled along the lane towards Fittlescombe.

  The show was great. Everyone loved it, she told herself. Your career’s back on track, you have a great boyfriend, a gorgeous house, a wonderful new set of friends. What the hell is wrong with you?

  Her mind wandered to Los Angeles and her agent – she must call Paul tomorrow, and start to think about strategies for marketing Valley Farm in the US – and it occurred to her suddenly that she might be homesick. She loved England and the valley far more than she’d ever thought she would. Since dating James, she’d even caught herself using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘loo’. She’d better watch that, actually. She didn’t want to morph into Madonna from the Guy Ritchie years and start wearing a flat cap and rattling off cockney rhyming slang like Dick Van Dyke. But there were things about America that she did miss and thought about increasingly. Stupid things like Kashi breakfast cereal, and Greens 3 from Pressed Juicery, and yoga and Sixty Minutes and Steve Inskeep on NPR news. Perhaps a trip home was all she needed? Time away from work, and England and James. And Gabe, her subconscious added for her helpfully. Gabe, with his blissful marriage and h
is cute kids; Gabe with his perfect face and dirty jokes and utter, utter, total unavailability.

  Macy sighed. I’d better book my flight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  David Carlyle watched contentedly as the waitress poured the wine. He liked The Wolseley. It was old school and posh, with properly trained staff, not Eastern European models with short skirts and stuck-on tits, like the girls they had serving at Box 50, the hot new members’ club for ‘London’s media elite’, which his publicity officer had pushed him to join. David was firmly of the belief that a hooker’s place was in the bedroom, not at the helm of a decanter.

  ‘Domaine Armand Rousseau.’ John Bingham raised a bushy eyebrow admiringly. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘Get used to it,’ said David Carlyle, raising his own glass. ‘Once you’re director-general, it’ll be top-class burgundy all the way.’

  John Bingham laughed. ‘I seriously doubt that.’

  ‘Why?’ said David. ‘The Beeb might be strapped for cash, but they can still put on a good show at the top. Attracts foreign investment.’ He winked.

  God, thought John Bingham. He really is such a common little man.

  ‘It’s not the wine budget that I doubt. It’s me being approached as DG. I just can’t see it happening.’

  ‘I can,’ said David, ordering oysters on the half shell followed by beef Wellington. He’d have preferred to skip the carbs – the Echo’s editor prided himself on his physique. Not many men in his line of work could boast washboard abs at nearly fifty, but he wanted ITVs legendary head of Drama to see him as a man’s man. Infuriatingly, Bingham ordered steamed sea bass and spinach. ‘I have it on very good authority they’re going to approach you. That’s why I’m here.’

  John Bingham gave him a knowing look. ‘Why is it I get the feeling that this is going to end up having something to do with Fast Eddie?’

  David’s upper lip curled. He loathed Wellesley’s soubriquet almost as much as he loathed the man. ‘Probably because Eddie Wellesley’s the other big name in the ring.’