The Show

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘No one that could outrun Fast Eddie,’ the friend replied. ‘He’s the party golden boy again. You should see the way Sheila Shand-Smith looks at him. Like a teenager at a One Direction concert.’

  Both men laughed. Sheila Shand-Smith, the local Conservative Party chairwoman and head of the selection committee for Chichester and Swell Valley, was a large-bosomed, tweed-clad matron with a whiskery chin and domineering manner. David knew her well and loathed her. The feeling was entirely mutual.

  ‘Anyway, it’s official,’ the second man continued. ‘Renton-Chambers is out and Wellesley is in. There should be a by-election any day now.’

  David loosened his tie. All of a sudden he was finding it difficult to breathe. The men’s words drifted in and out of his head like clouds across a troubled sky.

  By-election.

  Wellesley’s in.

  The odd thing was, he’d known it was coming. Whispers at Westminster had been building to a dull roar in recent weeks: Eddie was an asset to the party. Voters loved him and they needed him back. Even so, hearing his worst fears confirmed now came as a profound shock to David.

  The platform started to sway beneath his feet.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’

  A man on David’s other side looked at him with concern. David tried to answer but the words ‘I’m fine’ stuck in his throat and no sound came out. That was when it hit him: an excruciating, indescribable pain in the chest, like a freight train smashing through his ribs. He was dimly aware of voices – ‘someone call an ambulance!’ – and of his legs sliding out from under him.

  Then another crushing spasm, and everything went black.

  Within a few days, Sir Eddie Wellesley’s political comeback had become the talk of Westminster. As with everything Fast Eddie did, press interest was high. People were particularly curious to see what role Lady Wellesley would play in her husband’s campaign and return to public life, and how she would handle the inevitable questions about her past life.

  The answer was: directly. On clear advice from Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, Eddie and Annabel agreed to appear together on all the morning and daytime talk shows.

  ‘The message is, you’re in love with each other, you’ve learned from your mistakes, and you’re both survivors.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Annabel.

  Kevin Unger smiled. ‘That’s why it’s a good message. You haven’t let this break you. Now you want to focus on the good of the country and public service and the future. Say that a lot. Future, future, future. You’re not interested in dredging up the past, blah, blah, blah.’

  And so Milo had woken up on Tuesday morning to see his mother and father sitting hand in hand on Susanna Reid’s sofa in the Good Morning Britain studio, deftly deflecting questions about Annabel’s misspent youth.

  ‘People make mistakes,’ Annabel said confidently, ‘especially when they’re young. But I’m not here to dwell on the past. My husband cares passionately about Britain’s future, and I’m here to support him.’

  In a pale pink, knee-length dress and cream cardigan, with subtle make-up and her hair loose, his mother looked feminine and soft, Milo noticed. Clearly the stylists and image-makers were already at work.

  ‘As you know, David Carlyle suffered a major heart attack earlier this week and is still critically ill in hospital. How do you feel towards David, after all the personal attacks against you in his book?’ Susanna Reid asked archly.

  Annabel didn’t miss a beat. ‘As I said, I don’t dwell on the past.’

  ‘But he tried his utmost to destroy you, didn’t he?’ the host pressed.

  ‘We both wish David a speedy recovery,’ Eddie chipped in. ‘Don’t we, darling?’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Annabel. ‘My heart goes out to his wife. I honestly don’t know how I’d cope if Eddie …’ Her eyes misted up as she let the sentence tail off.

  Milo switched off at that point. It was too early in the morning for quite so much saccharine. He still couldn’t quite get used to his parents’ newfound lovey-doveyness. The political posturing and rampant insincerity were more familiar. My heart goes out to his wife indeed! Both his parents despised the Carlyles, as well they might. The fakery used to embarrass Milo when he was younger, but now he understood this was an accepted part of the game. No one spoke unguardedly in politics, not if they wanted to succeed. If anything, he’d become rather defensive, especially of his father. The morning after Carlyle’s heart attack, that silly cow Violet from the office had made a snide remark about it being good news for Eddie, and Milo had just about ripped her head off.

  ‘My dad isn’t pleased when somebody has a heart attack,’ he snapped. ‘Not everyone’s as mean-spirited as you are.’

  Violet had pouted and welled up and insisted it was only a joke. Once again Milo had found himself apologizing to her, and overcompensating for the rest of the day at work. Whatever qualities he might have inherited from his father, a cool, unruffled approach to the slings and arrows of politics was not one of them. Every unkind comment hurt. Every whispered innuendo stung. Working at the Home Office didn’t help. Now that his father was back in politics, Milo began to wonder whether it wasn’t time for him to change careers. Although with a patchy school record and no university degree, the world wasn’t exactly his oyster.

  A week after Eddie and Annabel’s Good Morning Britain appearance, and ten days since David Carlyle’s near-fatal heart attack, Laura was at home in Chelsea playing Frustration with Hugh when the doorbell rang.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked, as a sweating Eddie Wellesley, weighed down with Hamleys bags, loomed in her doorway.

  ‘Is that Baxter shorthand for “How lovely to see you, Eddie, do come in, can I get you a cup of tea”?’

  ‘Of course it is!’ laughed Laura, wishing that she’d bothered to put on make-up that morning, or at least to change out of her dirty T-shirt after Luca splattered ketchup all over it earlier.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in a massacre. Or perhaps you’ve committed one?’ Eddie joked, eyeing up said T-shirt while Laura hustled the boys onto the computer to play Moshi Monsters so that she and Eddie could talk in peace.

  ‘I haven’t yet, but I might,’ she said, pulling pretty china mugs out of the cupboard, ‘if Fox’s legal team don’t pull their fucking finger out. Honestly, I’ve never known a deal to take as long as this one. You’d think they were writing the Declaration of Independence, not a simple contract for the US rights to a TV show.’

  Eddie nodded sympathetically. ‘That’s lawyers for you. Paid by the hour.’

  ‘I know, but I’m worried there’s something really wrong. This degree of foot-dragging’s not normal, is it? I mean Gabe and Macy were out there six months ago. We’ve had verbal agreement for half a year, but still no deal.’

  ‘I know it feels like a long time,’ said Eddie, accepting a proferred KitKat while the kettle boiled. ‘But from what I understand this is fairly standard, especially with American companies.’

  Laura sighed. It did feel like a long time. Probably because the Fox agreement had been made the same day that Gabe cheated on her with Macy. In one single, fateful day, Laura’s private life had collapsed while her professional life had taken a huge leap forward. Signing the Fox deal and putting it to bed was not only about business. It would mean the end of a painful chapter in her life and the start of something new. Emotionally, Laura couldn’t move on until the contracts were signed. Apart from anything else, her and Gabe’s respective financial interests in Valley Farm made up a big piece of their divorce settlement. Wraggsbottom Farm was Gabe’s, but the show was primarily Laura’s. Nothing could be finalized, financially, until they knew how much money Fox was paying, when and for what.

  ‘Everyone misses you, you know,’ said Eddie. ‘On set.’

  ‘That’s an outright lie!’ Laura laughed. ‘But thank you for saying it anyway.’

  ‘Well, I miss you.’ Eddie reached out and touche
d her arm affectionately. ‘So much has been going on. I’ve missed having you to talk to.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’ve done just fine without me,’ said Laura lightly. Seeing him again, here in her kitchen, chatting away like old times, she realized with a sharp pang how much she missed him too. ‘Congratulations on your selection. You must be terribly excited.’

  ‘I am,’ Eddie admitted, his face lighting up as it always did when he thought about politics. ‘I tried to walk away. But there’s something about Westminster, I honestly can’t describe it. It’s like a drug. Luckily for me, Annabel felt the same way. I’d have turned the seat down if she’d said she couldn’t face it, but she was all guns blazing from the start.’

  ‘You really love her, don’t you?’ Laura heard herself saying.

  Eddie shrugged. ‘I haven’t been a model husband. But I’ve always loved her. We’ve been together our whole adult lives, more or less. And, you know, almost losing her, after Carlyle’s vile book came out …’ He stiffened visibly. The pain of what David Carlyle had done to his wife was clearly still raw.

  ‘You must hate him,’ said Laura.

  ‘I try not to hate anyone,’ said Eddie. ‘But he’s not top of my Christmas card list. Apparently he’s going to recover from this heart attack. More’s the pity. He’s probably propped up in bed now, hatching his latest plot to end my days. Sylvester to my Tweety Pie,’ he added mischievously.

  Laura laughed. ‘Have you seen Gabe lately?’ she asked, as casually as she could.

  ‘Not much,’ said Eddie. ‘I run into him and Macy every now and then in the village, but I’m not on set much these days, and won’t be there at all once the campaign gets under way.’

  Him and Macy. Was Eddie running into Gabe and Macy together? If so, were they together as friends and colleagues, or was it more than that? Laura was too proud to ask, but even the hint of something going on between them was enough to twist her heart like wet rag.

  ‘Brett Cranley was back in the village recently. I gather he and Gabe were spending time together.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Laura. This wasn’t comforting news either. Brett Cranley was not what one would call a good influence. Why do I care anyway? she asked herself miserably. We’re not together any more.

  ‘He does seem happier,’ Eddie said thoughtfully. ‘More at peace with the situation. As do you, my dear,’ he added brightly, looking approvingly around the cheerful, homely kitchen. ‘I must say it’s wonderful how well you’ve managed to move on, to make a new life for yourself and the boys. You should be proud.’

  Laura smiled ruefully. ‘I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use. But thanks. I do think the children are happy.’

  Right on cue, Hugh and Luca burst into giggles in the next room, their laughter blowing away Laura’s sadness for a moment.

  After Eddie left, she cleared away the tea things and tried to talk herself out of her creeping depression. It was a good thing that Gabe was moving on. Accepting things. They both had to. Soon the show would sell, the divorce would be finalized and they could all look to the future. The children were happy. She should be proud.

  Sinking down onto a kitchen stool, she put her head in her hands and cried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Annabel dashed through Riverside Hall like a whirling dervish, frantically plumping up cushions and checking the champagne glasses for smears. Tonight was the wrap party for Valley Farm’s second season and in a fit of generosity and joie de vivre, Eddie had offered to host this year.

  ‘It’ll be fun, darling, I promise. Magda can oversee everything on the ground and we’ll get Atom Events to do the staff and catering and whatnot. Tom Freud’s a genius. All you have to do is look fabulous and enjoy yourself.’

  Annabel had been sceptical. But the party planners really had been excellent, and Magda seemed to be on top of everything. It actually felt rather odd, having nothing to do.

  Wandering out into the garden, she let out a little sigh of happiness. In under an hour, the lawn had been transformed into a stunning Titania’s fairy kingdom. Tables dressed in crisp white linen sported mismatched vases groaning with apple blossom and peonies and scented stocks. Tea lights hung from the trees in miniature hurricane lamps, and in the rose garden a harpist was practising, her magically soothing melodies wafting through the warm summer’s air like a fairy spell. It was understated, beautiful and utterly enchanting. Atom’s army of public school staff raced around bearing armfuls of china or staggering under the weight of enormous jugs of Pimm’s.

  ‘You see?’ Eddie said triumphantly, sneaking up on her from behind and wrapping his arms lovingly around her waist. ‘It’s all going to work perfectly. People will start arriving in an hour.’ He kissed her neck. ‘Why don’t we go to bed?’

  Annabel blushed scarlet. ‘Eddie! What has got into you? It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The house is full of people.’

  Eddie shrugged. ‘I’ll hang a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.’

  ‘You’re perfectly ridiculous,’ Annabel laughed. She looked so beautiful when she laughed. ‘Now stop manhandling me and let me go and get changed.’

  ‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ Eddie pouted.

  ‘Have a drink,’ said Annabel. ‘Relax. Enjoy yourself. It’s going to be a simply marvellous party.’

  Gabe was late. A ewe had broken one of the fences in the lower field at five o’clock and all the hands had gone home early to get ready for tonight’s party, so Gabe had had to fix it himself. Hot, sweaty and in a foul mood, he’d made matters worse by hitting his thumb painfully with a hammer, requiring him to trek all the way back to the house for a bandage and some ice before he could finish the job. Even now, driving over to the Wellesleys more than an hour later, his hand throbbed painfully, despite the four Nurofen he’d taken before he left the house.

  Normally Gabe loved parties, but he wasn’t looking forward to tonight’s event at all. After he’d worked himself up into a frenzy of excitement-slash-nerves about seeing Laura at a formal event, she’d announced last night out of the blue that she wasn’t coming.

  ‘I think it could be awkward,’ she said. ‘And I don’t want to steal Mike Briarson’s thunder. Or yours.’

  ‘But everyone’s expecting you,’ said Gabe. ‘Eddie, the crew.’ It frightened him how crushed with disappointment he felt.

  ‘I called Eddie earlier,’ said Laura. ‘I think he was relieved. You know Annabel can’t stand me anyway.’ She tried to laugh but it sounded horribly forced. ‘And the crew will all be too pissed to notice. You go, have a good time. It’s really your wrap party, not mine.’

  Not only was Laura not coming, but Macy, who was coming, was bringing Warren, the obnoxious banker, with her. He’d turned up on set last week, unannounced, and all the girls had fallen into a swoon for him, much to Gabe’s annoyance, promptly re-christening him Warren Beatty. Gabe couldn’t understand it at all. The guy looked like a fucking newsreader, and he had ridiculous, glowing American teeth. Don Draper, minus the charm.

  Worse, things appeared to be hotting up between him and Macy. Gabe had overheard Macy today telling Jen Lee that she was bringing her ‘boyfriend’ to the wrap party. A couple of weeks ago she’d willingly allowed paparazzi to take her photograph with Warren, walking out of Daphne’s together after a romantic dinner in London.

  Gabe knew he had no right to be jealous. But that only made him more annoyed. Ever since his drink with Brett Cranley, he’d been thinking more about Macy, trying to imagine what life might be like if they were together. But just as he had moved towards her, she’d pulled away. With his divorce delayed now until the Fox contracts were signed, probably some time in the autumn, he felt as if his entire life were in limbo.

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t park here, sir.’ A posh child accosted Gabe as he pulled his filthy Land Rover up in front of Riverside Hall. ‘Parking for the party’s on Church Lane, or in the Vicarage paddocks if
there’s no more room.’

  ‘Thanks, Rupert,’ said Gabe arrogantly, locking the car and marching off towards the garden without a backward glance. ‘But I’m in no mood to go for a tour of Brockhurst.’

  Stepping through the gate onto the lawn, he scanned the sea of bodies, looking for the bar.

  ‘Champagne, sir?’ Another underage Tarquin appeared bearing a tray of drinks. Where did Eddie find all these posh teens? Was there a farm somewhere, breeding them to order? ‘I’ll have a dozen Sebastians and a quarter of a pound of Arabellas, please.’ Gabe downed one flute of champagne immediately, then grabbed another, bracing himself to brave the throng.

  ‘Gabe!’

  Penny de la Cruz floated across the lawn towards him in some sort of tie-dyed chiffon concoction. She always dressed like a complete dog’s breakfast, yet somehow her natural beauty and her kindness shone through. For the first time all afternoon, Gabe smiled.

  ‘Penny! You look lovely. I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘I know,’ Penny frowned. ‘You’ve become much too famous for the likes of Santiago and me.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Gabe. ‘Where is your worse half?’

  ‘God knows,’ Penny said cheerfully. ‘Chatting up women somewhere, I expect. I don’t think I’ve ever known a worse flirt. Apart from you.’

  ‘I heard that.’

  Santiago had weaved his way through a gaggle of Channel 5 minions to join them. In a white linen suit that only he could have got away with, and a pale green shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of an aftershave commercial. Gabe wasn’t naturally vain, but standing next to Santiago he suddenly felt very much the ugly duckling in his too-tight jacket with stains on the cuffs and ‘smart’ green corduroys, already wearing thin at the knees. His overall look was definitely more old-as-the-hills than Beverly Hills. Then again, this was Brockhurst, not Miami.

  ‘You look like shit,’ Santiago observed affably, grabbing a passing waitress and deftly exchanging Gabe’s empty glass for a full one.