The Show

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘OK.’ Macy raised her mug of tea to Gabe’s and they clinked in a toast. ‘I’m in if you are, Baxter.’

  After Gabe left, Macy sat back down at the table for a long time.

  Laura and Gabe were getting a divorce.

  She’d been telling herself for days now that this meant nothing. That it didn’t spell hope for her and Gabe, as a couple.

  But what if she were wrong?

  What if it did mean they had a chance?

  Some of the old banter, the old camaraderie, was still there between them. She’d felt it just now. Affection, perhaps even flirtation? Not much perhaps. But it was there.

  Another season of Valley Farm would mean the better part of a year in England. A year in which she and Gabe would see each other every day.

  A year was a long time.

  Macy allowed herself a small smile.

  Where there’s life, there’s hope,

  Her stomach rumbled loudly. All of a sudden she found she was ravenously hungry.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t need to see the doctor tomorrow after all?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Laura waved Luca off at St Stephen’s Church playgroup on the corner of Sydney Street and headed towards the Kings Road for a late breakfast.

  It was early June, and already the wet and miserable winter felt like a distant memory. Chelsea sparkled this morning beneath a bright blue sky. The late-flowering cherry trees erupted with rose-pink blossoms, and the colourful window boxes and pretty front gardens made a cheerful contrast to the ubiquitous white stucco façades, as iconic in West London as red pillar boxes and the Union Jack.

  It had been a terrible few months, one of the worst times in Laura’s life. But now, at long last, she could see some light at the end of the tunnel. She and Gabe had settled into a civil, even friendly routine as the divorce ground on. On a professional level, they’d both agreed that continuing the show was a financial priority, but that working together day to day was no longer an option. Mike Briarson from Channel 5 had agreed to take over the day-to-day direction of Valley Farm’s second season down at Wraggsbottom, with Laura overseeing the writing and editing of scripts and the ongoing negotiations with Fox America from her new base in London. So far the system was working well. Laura trusted Mike, and Gabe and Macy both liked him. It was true that his direction had given a slightly different flavour to the second season, with more unscripted, humorous moments and a bigger focus on village over farm life. But the ratings were fabulous, as big as they had been for last season’s finale. Everyone was happy.

  Personally, the transition had been harder, at least for Laura. Hugh and Luca, bless them, had adapted brilliantly and all but instantly to their new London life and schools. Laura had moved out of her godmother’s mansion flat and into a very pretty, bright yellow cottage on the borders of Chelsea and Fulham, near the football ground (much to both boys’ delight). Gabe had the children every other weekend, and regularly popped down during the week to take them to the park after school or out for dinner at Byron Hamburgers, Hugh’s new favourite place on earth. A mate of Gabe’s had given him a permanent, free option to use the spare room of his flat in Onslow Gardens for these trips, which was within walking distance of Laura’s.

  ‘You’re the new Chris and Gwynnie,’ Laura’s friend Kate had teased her, watching Laura give Gabe a friendly goodbye kiss as she waved her sons off for a weekend in Fittlescombe. ‘If you can get along that well, I don’t see why you’re splitting.’

  Laura forced herself to laugh. But those sorts of comments hurt terribly. We’re splitting because he broke my heart, she wanted to scream. Shattered it into a million pieces. Does nobody remember that?

  Maybe there were people who could survive without trust, who could cope with the constant wondering, the second-guessing, the awful gnawing fear that everything you thought you had together, everything you’d built your life on, was really a mirage. But Laura wasn’t one of them. She was about to turn forty-one. It wasn’t old, exactly. But it was too old to be living a lie.

  She knew Macy and Gabe weren’t still seeing each other, that there was nothing going on, despite the constant tabloid hints. Ever since Macy had dumped poor old James Craven, it had felt as though the whole country was busy taking bets on when she and Gabe would get together. They hadn’t. But the pain of what had happened in LA, the shock of Gabe’s betrayal, still haunted Laura every single day. Just watching Macy and Gabe on Valley Farm, kidding around with one another in the easy, flirtatious way that had made the show such a hit, made Laura feel as if someone were slowly dripping acid into her eyes. But she had to watch, and analyse, and edit. That was her job. I’m a grown-up, Laura told herself. Grown-ups do their job, no matter what.

  And things were getting better. They were. Laura still missed Gabe, and their marriage. She missed the Swell Valley, that had been her true home, her happy place, since she was a little girl. She still mourned all that was lost, a life she had truly believed would last for ever.

  But she loved her little house in London. She loved being with the boys and seeing more of her old friends. More than anything, she had fallen back in love with her work. Without the irritations and pressures of being on a set that was also her home, she was starting to remember what inspired her about creating television. The prospect of selling the Valley Farm format to America and beyond was wildly exciting. With a Fox show under her belt, Laura would be able to dictate her own terms in British television. Already well regarded, she was on the cusp of joining the industry’s true elite. She’d read a lot of articles in women’s magazines over the years, assuring her that ambition and a career wouldn’t keep her warm at night. But, in a funny way, she discovered now, they did.

  ‘Laura?’

  Laura spun round at the familiar voice. John Bingham, her one-time lover and boss, was leaning out of the window of a black cab. She watched in dismay as he asked the driver to pull over, got out and walked towards her.

  ‘How incredible to see you! You look terrific, as ever.’

  ‘Thank you. Er … so do you.’

  His friendliness was disarming. When Laura had branched out alone and risked it all on Valley Farm, John Bingham had barely been able to hide his irritation and resentment, especially once the show shot to the top of the ratings. Yet now he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

  ‘Do you have time for coffee?’

  ‘Well, I … er … I’m not sure.’ She looked at her watch hesitantly.

  ‘No agenda,’ John Bingham assured her. ‘I’d just love to catch up. Don’t know if you heard, but I’m not in the business any more.’

  Laura’s eyes widened. She hadn’t heard. Then again, she had been rather preoccupied of late.

  ‘I’m working for the dark side now,’ John went on. ‘Goldman Sachs.’ He rubbed his hands together and gave an evil, Ming-the-Merciless laugh. Even Laura had to laugh at that.

  ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘One coffee. But I really can’t stay long.’

  They took a corner table at Patisserie Valerie. John Bingham was no spring chicken these days, but he was handsome in a rugged, patrician, older man sort of way, and still vain enough to dress beautifully: cream shirt, discreet gold cufflinks, perfectly tailored navy-blue trousers in handsome, brushed twill. Laura thought about Gabe’s hole-ridden wardrobe and pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards hair and felt almost wistful.

  ‘Congratulations on the show. You must be delighted,’ Bingham said smoothly.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, it’s going well. We have a loyal audience now and we’re still building. It’s been a challenge.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Bingham sipped his latte thoughtfully. ‘Scandal’s a double-edged sword in television, as we both know. Especially with reality formats.’

  Laura stiffened.

  ‘It wasn’t a dig,’ Bingham said hastily. ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Gabe.’

  ‘Really?’ Laura’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Really.’ Again, John s
ounded sincere. ‘I know I didn’t behave well towards you in the past, Laura, and I’m sorry for that. But I don’t like to see you unhappy.’

  ‘Well,’ Laura sipped her own coffee and regained her composure. ‘I’m not unhappy. Life moves on. Things change. I mean, look at you, taking a City job! At your age, John.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Bingham grinned. ‘I’ll have you know I’m at the peak of my powers and am, in fact, incredibly wise. Speaking of old men, how’s Fast Eddie?’

  ‘He’s well,’ said Laura. ‘He’s still involved with the show but he takes a back seat now, more of a silent partner.’

  ‘Ha!’ said John. ‘Eddie Wellesley, silent? I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Laura. ‘He’s even given up on politics. He spends all his time with Annabel these days. It’s quite sweet, actually. Gabe says he sees them in the village, wandering along hand in hand like a pair of teenagers.’

  John Bingham looked sceptical. ‘Well, I saw him at La Famiglia last week having lunch with James Garforth. Very intense conversation,’ he added, tantalizingly. ‘Now what would someone who’s given up politics be doing lunching with the Home Secretary?’

  Laura laughed. ‘You’re such a gossip, John! Eddie’s son, Milo’s, working for Garforth. I expect they were talking about that. Or old friends.’

  ‘Or the weather?’ Bingham teased her. ‘Well, you believe what you want to, my dear. But I’ll bet you a hundred pounds right now that Wellesley stands in the next election.’

  ‘Done,’ said Laura.

  They shook hands. For a moment it felt strange, touching the hand of a man who she’d once loved, who’d once had the power to raise her hopes or smash them, to fill her with joy or condemn her to despair. And realizing that now she felt nothing, nothing at all.

  Would it ever be like that with Gabe?

  She couldn’t imagine it.

  She would see him tonight. It was a Friday, and his turn to take the boys. The prospect filled her with the same unpleasant mixture of anticipation and despair that it always did, a sort of nauseous churning that reached fever pitch right before Gabe walked through the door.

  Outside, John Bingham hugged her goodbye.

  ‘One word of advice,’ he said. ‘Watch out for David Carlyle.’

  Laura looked surprised. She hadn’t seen or thought about David in a long time.

  ‘As long as Eddie Wellesley’s still attached to Valley Farm, silent or not, Carlyle will do all he can to hurt the show.’ John told Laura about his lunch with David Carlyle last year, in which the Echo’s editor had dangled the carrot of the director-generalship of the BBC to try to get him to discredit Fast Eddie.

  ‘It was all nonsense, of course. Eddie was never in the running for the DG job, any more than I was. Carlyle was playing on my vanity and I paid the price. I ended up looking a complete fool, schmoozing everyone at the Beeb and burning my bridges at ITV. That’s why I took the Goldman job, to be perfectly honest. The money was great, but what I really needed was to save face.’

  It was an astonishing admission, one that the old John Bingham would never have made to anyone, certainly not to her. Laura was touched.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard a peep out of Carlyle in a while. But we’ll watch our backs.’

  ‘So.’ David Carlyle did up his shirt buttons and sat back down in the doctor’s chair. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  Dr Jamie Graham frowned. He’d known David a long time, decades. They weren’t friends, exactly, but David was more than just a patient. From the look on his face it was clear he wasn’t taking this seriously.

  ‘The verdict is, you had a heart attack. You need to take things easy and you need to reduce your stress levels.’

  ‘A mild heart attack,’ David corrected him. ‘I was barely in pain. The hospital sent me home the same day.’

  ‘Maybe, but it was still a heart attack.’ Jamie sounded exasperated. ‘That’s a big deal at any age, but especially in your late forties and with all the other factors at play.’

  David looked out of the window. Jamie had beautiful offices, on the first floor of a classic Georgian building on Harley Street. Outside, wealthy, privileged patients like himself hopped in and out of black cabs, going to or from their expensive doctors. The trees of Cavendish Square glowed green in the bright sunshine. It was a glorious day. He wanted to feel happy but he couldn’t, and his heart had nothing to do with it. As usual, it was Eddie Wellesley who’d poured poison into his veins.

  Despite everything – despite prison, and public humiliation and the world learning that his wife was a gold-digging, social-climbing home-wrecking fake; despite the party turning its back on him, twice – Eddie was still thriving. His TV show was poised to go global. His marriage, miraculously, seemed to be stronger than ever, with Eddie and Annabel frequently pictured emerging from restaurants hand in hand, like two teenagers on honeymoon. And now, to top it all, rumours had reached David’s ears that yet another political comeback might be in the offing. Certainly Eddie’s popularity with voters had never been higher. Short of running against Benedict Cumberbatch, he was just about certain to win any seat he stood for if an election were called tomorrow.

  A week ago, David’s wife, Louise, had shown him a gossip piece in the Daily Telegraph about Eddie being seen having lunch in the House of Commons, and David had experienced a strange sensation in his left arm. Four hours later he’d been in A&E.

  ‘Look,’ said Jamie, sensing David’s darkening mood. ‘The results of your stress test were good. Your blood pressure’s fine and your general health – cholesterol, etc. – is excellent for your age. But statistically, one cardiac event significantly increases your chances of another. You need to forget about Eddie Wellesley, David. Let the man lead his life, and you lead yours.’

  David smiled thinly. ‘I couldn’t care less about Eddie Wellesley. The man’s washed up, a has-been. And I have a national newspaper to run.’

  He walked out of Jamie’s offices into the sunshine.

  Louise stood on the steps like a sentry, her arms folded, blocking his way.

  ‘Lou! What are you doing here?’ David asked her. ‘I told you you didn’t need to come.’

  He bent down to kiss her on the cheek but she turned her head away.

  ‘What did he say?’ Louise demanded.

  ‘He said I’m fine.’

  ‘Oh, really? So if I went up to his office right now and asked him, that’s what he’d say, is it? “David’s fine. He can just go back to work and stress himself out and it’s no problem at all”?’

  David laughed. It was adorable, Louise trying to act so tough in her little yellow flowery dress and cardigan.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Don’t fob me off, David! I mean it. He told you to rest, didn’t he? To take it easy?’

  ‘Yes.’ David Carlyle snaked his arm around his wife’s waist, despite her protestations. They walked down the street together. ‘And I will, Lou. I am. Work doesn’t stress me out.’

  ‘We both know what stresses you out,’ said Louise, with feeling. ‘Or rather who.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said David, grinning. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.’

  Gabe stepped off the train at Victoria and looked at his watch. It was still only four thirty, despite the inevitable delay at East Croydon. The announcer had been too embarrassed even to offer a reason this time.

  ‘What’re they going to blame it on now?’ the man sitting next to Gabe remarked laconically. ‘The wrong kind of sunshine?’

  Gabe laughed again. He was in a good mood. Filming was done for the week and he was about to spend the whole weekend with his boys. What could be better than that? Plus it was a stunning afternoon and there was still time for him to walk to Laura’s rather than take a cab.

  As he set off across Buckingham Palace Road and up Eccleston Street, his mind started to wander. It had been a magical few days at the farm. Haymaking started this week – always Gabe’s fa
vourite time in the farming year. He’d barely noticed the cameras as he and the men got to work – setting the Krone mower to exactly the right height, so that the forage could regrow afterwards – and made their way methodically through the fields. As Gabe had explained to Valley Farm viewers, there was more to haymaking than people thought. It was all about getting the optimal amount of protein and sugar into the finished hay bale. That meant not only making sure you harvested at exactly the right point in the plant’s growth cycle, but that you always mowed in the afternoon, to capture as much sunshine as possible and pack in the most energy.

  Today, Gabe had spent the morning raking the hay and monitoring the moisture to make sure it was dry enough for baling. It was hot work, and he was aware of Macy watching him as he took off his shirt, his back dripping with sweat alongside the rest of the men.

  She’d been watching him a lot lately. Perhaps it had happened before, but he hadn’t noticed it. Now, he was aware of every glance, every smile. The hard part was, he liked her. And there was no doubt she was looking great at the moment, sexier than ever. She’d lost a lot of weight in the fallout following their infamous night in LA. For a while she’d been painfully thin. But the shock of seeing herself on film seemed to have jolted her into action and got her eating again. Now she looked slim but perfect. Her boobs were back and she’d started growing out her hair, which she now wore in a choppy, almost shoulder-length style, a vast improvement in Gabe’s view.

  ‘I like it,’ he told her, when she asked his opinion, something else she was doing a lot more of recently. ‘It’s less newsreader-y.’

  ‘You thought I looked like a newsreader?’

  ‘A bit,’ Gabe admitted. ‘A fit one, though. Like Lisa Burke.’

  ‘She’s a weather girl!’

  ‘News. Weather.’ Gabe shrugged.

  ‘And she has long hair.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Gabe. ‘Long hair’s better.’

  Laura had long hair. Laura had perfect hair, actually, especially when she washed it and left it to dry naturally and it went all curly and wild in glossy black ringlets. Shaggy sheep, he used to call it.