The Show

by Tilly Bagshawe

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gabe. ‘You look like a pimp. Or an extra from Miami Vice.’

  ‘Your co-presenter looks good, though,’ said Santiago, ignoring him.

  Gabe looked across the lawn at Macy. In a long, backless, emerald-green dress, with diamonds sparkling at her wrists and ears, she’d evidently pulled out all the stops tonight. Everything about her glowed, from her bronzed skin, to her sleek bobbed hair, to her blue eyes that seemed almost luminous sea green in that dress. Standing next to her banker beau, she was talking animatedly to Harry Lister, Channel 5’s head of Programming and to Megan Kramer, TV critic-cum-gossip peddler at the Daily Mail and one of the most important journalists in the business.

  ‘Who’s the guy with her?’ Santiago asked.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The good-looking one,’ said Santiago, earning himself a scowl from Gabe.

  ‘Investment wanker,’ said Gabe. ‘His name’s Warren Hansen.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Penny.

  ‘Rich. American. Dull as shit,’ summarized Gabe. ‘She should have stuck with James Craven.’

  ‘Yes, well, you rather put paid to that,’ Santiago reminded him.

  ‘How is James?’ Gabe asked guiltily.

  ‘He’ll survive,’ said Santiago. ‘What do we think about love’s young dream over there, getting back into politics?’ He gestured towards Eddie and Annabel, who were laughing with friends in a quiet corner of the garden. ‘They’ve been glued together all night.’

  ‘I think Eddie’s a good MP,’ said Gabe. ‘And, you know, why shouldn’t he stand again? He’s done his time, paid the price. They both have. I say good luck to ’em.’

  ‘But don’t you think it’s rather a risk?’ said Penny. ‘After all they’ve been through. What if something else comes out?’

  ‘According to Gabe, David Carlyle’s already exhumed all the Wellesley skeletons.’

  Santiago raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Let’s hope so. I tell you what, he can’t be a worse MP than Piers Renton-Chambers. Did you know the little shit used to fancy Penny? He was all over her like a rash when I came along. Tried to warn you off me, didn’t he, darling?’

  ‘If only I’d listened,’ Penny joked. ‘Laura’s not here tonight?’ she asked innocently. One look at Gabe’s face made her instantly wish she hadn’t.

  ‘No.’ He downed the rest of his drink. ‘I think I’d better go and mingle. Excuse me.’

  Penny and Santiago watched as he walked dejectedly away.

  ‘He looks so unhappy,’ sighed Penny, leaning into Santiago and entwining her fingers in his.

  ‘I know,’ said Santiago, squeezing her hand. ‘It’s a mess.’

  Inside, Bill Clempson sat on a capacious wine-red Knole sofa in the library, sipping Pimm’s and listening intently to the woman from Sky.

  ‘We’re revamping our reality programming,’ the executive was telling him. ‘It’s an area we’ve shied away from historically. We never wanted to go too lowbrow.’

  The vicar nodded understandingly.

  ‘Channel 5’s always had a – shall we say – more “populist” approach than we have.’ The woman from Sky smiled ingratiatingly and leaned in closer, affording the vicar an excellent view of her ample cleavage.

  Bill cleared his throat nervously. Pushy women unnerved him, especially ones with breasts like … was it Lucinda? Oh dear, he’d forgotten already. ‘Well, as you know, I’ve always objected to the intrusion of cameras in the village.’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said archly. ‘I heard you were part of the Echo’s campaign.’

  ‘Ah, now, no, that’s not quite accurate. The Echo picked up on our local protest group and offered their support. I was nothing to do with the smear campaign against certain individuals that came later.’

  ‘Still, given your views on the show, I’m surprised you came tonight.’

  Bill sipped his Pimm’s and put on his forgiving, man-of-the-cloth face, entirely missing the irony. ‘I was invited. And, as vicar here, I do think forgiveness is terribly important. Right or wrong, we’re all part of one community. And, of course, we’re all members of God’s family.’

  ‘But you still oppose the filming?’ the Sky woman asked.

  ‘I do, yes,’ Bill said firmly. ‘I think Valley Farm’s done a lot more harm than good. Just look at the wrecked marriages, never mind the hordes of tourists clogging up the High Street every weekend.’

  ‘Pity.’ The Sky woman looked wistful. ‘Because we’ve been looking to centre a show around a rural vicar. Something that would make the Church more accessible. More real to ordinary people. But given how you feel …’

  ‘Ah, well, now, I didn’t say I’m against all filming,’ Bill spluttered. ‘Clearly television plays an important part in modern life. I’m all for getting the Church’s message across.’

  ‘So you would be open to your own show? We were thinking, A Swell Valley Vicar. Or perhaps just Valley Vicar.’

  ‘If it were the right format, I suppose,’ he blustered. His heart was beating so fast he could barely get the words out. ‘I mean, it all depends … I wouldn’t want to be hasty and rule anything out …’

  ‘Lovely.’ The Sky woman reached into her evening bag and whipped out a pen and paper. ‘What’s your number, Vicar? And an email address would be great. I’ll have one of our producers get in touch.’

  Ten minutes later, an already tipsy Jen Lee found Bill still sitting on the sofa, staring into space like a stunned mullet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ She sat down next to him.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I think Sky have just offered me my own TV show.’

  Jen burst out laughing. ‘Oh my God, that’s priceless. How hilarious! I can’t wait to tell Gabe.’

  Bill bristled. ‘What’s so funny about it?’

  ‘Are you serious?’ Jen frowned.

  ‘This wouldn’t be anything like Valley Farm,’ Bill said crossly. ‘It’d be a chance to spread the Lord’s word, not some two-bit, trashy nonsense that glamorizes adultery and makes rural life into a cheap soap opera.’

  Now it was Jen’s turn to bristle. ‘You hypocrite! All your ranting and railing and moralizing about TV cameras in the village. But when it’s your own show, bring it on.’ She stood up, disgusted.

  ‘I told you,’ said Bill, ‘it’s not like that.’

  ‘It’s exactly like that,’ said Jen furiously. ‘You’ll be a laughing stock, you know. They’re only interested because Valley Farm’s been such a huge hit. What are they calling it, Valley Vicar?’

  Bill blushed and looked down.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Jen said again. ‘It’s a spin-off!’

  ‘It is not a spin-off. And if it turns out to be, I wouldn’t do it. For heaven’s sake, I only said they’d approached me. I didn’t say I’d … Jennifer. Jen!’

  But the vet had already stormed off, her long hair flying behind her like an angry comet’s tail.

  The party roared on drunkenly and in most cases happily. After a delicious buffet supper of cold poached salmon, local potato salad and asparagus, followed by apple and blackberry crumble and an eye-watering array of cheeses, guests took to the floor and attempted drunken versions of the Charleston to the accompaniment of a 1920s band.

  Milo, who’d stupidly allowed himself to be talked into bringing Violet Charteris from work (they’d buried the hatchet for the umpteenth time the other day and he’d agreed to take her along to the party in a fit of guilt), had been hoping to catch Magda in a ‘quiet moment’ all evening, but so far there hadn’t been any. Sustaining himself on brief smiles as she flitted from the kitchens to the tables like a distracted moth, he’d been forced to spend most of the night entertaining V, who would insist on clinging to him like a limpet.

  ‘I thought you wanted to meet Gabe Baxter,’ said Milo, pouring himself a sparkling water at one of the tables after yet another exhausting round of dancing. ‘He’s over there, on his own. Go over and introduce yourself.’

&nb
sp; ‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Violet. ‘I’d be embarrassed.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you if you like,’ said Milo.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘It’d still be too obvious. By the way, I was chatting to your mother earlier.’

  ‘Why?’ Milo stiffened.

  ‘Oh, you now, just this and that.’ Violet tossed back her hair flirtatiously. In a very short gold dress and sixties-style white boots, she looked a knockout this evening, even Milo had to admit. He just couldn’t understand why she’d gone to so much effort and then failed to chat up any of the famous, eligible men she’d claimed to be so keen to meet.

  ‘She wanted to know how you were doing at the Home Office,’ Violet went on, sitting down uninvited on Milo’s lap. ‘I told her you were James Garforth’s golden boy.’

  ‘What did you say that for?’ Milo could feel his temper building.

  ‘Because it’s true. And because she’s your mother,’ Violet answered honestly. ‘It always pays to be nice to mothers. In any case, she kindly offered me a bed for tonight, if I wanted to stay over. Wasn’t that sweet of her?’

  Milo gritted his teeth. He knew his mother was desperate for him to get together with Violet. The Charterises were exactly the ‘right kind of family’ in Annabel’s book. The problem was that Milo wouldn’t be sleeping with Violet’s family. He’d be sleeping with Violet, who was possibly the most irritating female on earth, after his mother. Those two really deserved each other.

  Just at that moment, Magda came past, carrying a tray of used champagne glasses.

  ‘Hold on!’ Violet beckoned her over imperiously, draining her glass and adding it to the tray. She looked through Magda as if she were completely invisible.

  Mortified, Milo touched Magda’s arm. ‘Can I help you with those?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Magda mumbled. She didn’t want to talk to Milo now, with his stunning girlfriend draped all over him like a long-legged limpet. She knew it was preposterous to feel jealous. The very idea of her and Milo together was laughable, a fact she’d made clear to him on numerous occasions. But actually seeing him with Violet stung more than she’d imagined possible.

  ‘Please. Let me help.’ Milo stood up, unceremoniously turfing Violet off his lap. Unfortunately he caught the edge of Magda’s tray as he did so, causing it to sway perilously as the glasses clinked together.

  ‘I said I’m fine.’ Magda glared at him, miraculously righting the tray and hurrying off to the kitchen before anything else could go wrong.

  ‘What a rude maid.’ Violet frowned disapprovingly. ‘My family would sack anyone who spoke to them like that.’

  Milo gave her a look of naked contempt.

  ‘Thank God I’m not in your family.’

  He walked away.

  Macy leaned back against a mulberry tree while Warren went to fetch their coats.

  It had been a lovely evening. Warren had been attentive and looked handsomer than ever in his bespoke business suit. Everyone had been complimentary about the show and her work this series. Even Santiago had come up and congratulated her. For the first time since her fling with Gabe and the breaking off of her engagement to James, she felt as if the village had forgiven her. The thought of moving home to LA, once the Fox deal was done, was bitter-sweet. Macy would miss the Swell Valley.

  She also knew she’d looked terrific tonight. She wasn’t particularly vain, but every girl had moments when they felt properly sexy, when everything had gone right. This evening’s party had been one of those moments for Macy. The mermaid-green dress, the way her hair fell across her face, the glow of her skin, glistening faintly with scented oil. She’d been aware of men looking at her all night – one man in particular. But Gabe had made no attempt to come over and talk to her, or even to catch her eye. If anything, Macy got the distinct impression he’d been avoiding her.

  Emboldened by numerous glasses of champagne, and the realization that it was now or never, she walked over to where he was sitting in a quiet corner of the garden, slumped in one of Eddie’s deck chairs.

  ‘I haven’t seen you all night.’ She smiled down at him, trying hard to look unconcerned. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’

  Gabe looked up at her, swaying above him like a green goddess. Or perhaps she wasn’t really swaying? He’d had far too much to drink.

  ‘Not really. I see that you did, though. You and lover boy were joined at the hip. Where is he, anyway? Upstairs polishing his teeth?’

  ‘He’s getting our coats,’ Macy said stiffly.

  An awkward silence fell.

  ‘You don’t make this easy, you know,’ Macy said at last.

  ‘Make what easy?’

  ‘Is it because Laura isn’t here?’ Macy snapped. ‘Is that why you’re in such a sulk? Because your soon-to-be-ex-wife had something better to do?’

  ‘Laura’s got nothing to do with it,’ grumbled Gabe, unconvincingly.

  ‘Well, you can wear a hair shirt for the rest of your life if you want to and sit about tearing your hair out and moaning like your life is some ancient Greek tragedy,’ said Macy angrily. ‘But stop bitching at me for trying to move on.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ For once Gabe sounded it. ‘You’re right. I’m being a dick.’

  He reached up and took Macy’s hand. ‘Forgive me?’

  Macy felt as if a million hot needles had suddenly passed through her body. She entwined his fingers in hers, her lips instinctively parted and her pupils were dilated with desire.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this way,’ she heard herself saying. ‘You know it’s not Warren I want. Not really. Just say the word—’

  ‘Macy.’ Gabe cut her off. His voice was gruff with desire too, as he stroked her wrist with his thumb. But there was something else there as well. Sadness. Resignation. Macy couldn’t bear to hear it.

  ‘Don’t.’ She snatched her hand away.

  ‘I want to. I just can’t.’ Gabe looked close to tears. ‘I don’t know how to flick the switch and stop loving her. How do people do that?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ said Macy with feeling. ‘If you figure it out, be sure to let me know. Ah, there you are!’

  Warren arrived. She turned to him with a bright smile as he helped her into her coat. She’s wasted as presenter, thought Gabe. She should be an actress.

  ‘Can we give you a lift home?’ Warren asked Gabe politely. ‘It’s on our way.’

  Gabe wished he would stop saying ‘we’ and ‘our’.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll make my own way,’ said Gabe. ‘Goodnight.’

  Watching them walk away, he felt the last vestiges of hope leak out of him, like water through a rusty sieve.

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  No sooner had summer arrived in the Swell Valley than it was over. Magda woke up one September morning to see the beech leaves around Riverside Hall already tinged with copper. When she opened her bedroom window, a cool, distinctly autumnal breeze wafted in, waking her as effectively as a splash of cold water on the face.

  Only the day before she’d been walking past Wraggsbottom Farm and noticed that the camera crews were back. Could it really be that the third series was starting filming already?

  There seemed to be more of them this time: lots of Americans called Ryan and Justin and Brittany running around the village with clipboards and iPads sounding harried and important. Magda had overheard Eddie on the phone telling people that the Fox deal had now been agreed and the Americans were working closely with the British producers to ‘streamline’ the Valley Farm format – whatever that meant. Macy Johanssen had returned from Ibiza looking thin and bronzed and deliriously happy with her new beau, Warren Hansen. Gabe Baxter looked well too. He’d taken the boys to Provence in August, his first holiday with them as a single parent. Despite dreading it before they left, they’d evidently all had a marvellous time, thanks in large part to Davina, the new über-efficient holiday nanny. Gabe had returned looking rested an
d fit. A rumour was going around the village that he’d also come back sober. Apparently he hadn’t touched a drop since the evening of the wrap party.

  Magda thought about Gabe Baxter as she pulled on her clothes and whistled for Wilf. One of her duties was walking into the village for the morning papers, and the old border terrier enjoyed these early trips to the Preedys’ shop. Pulling her grey cashmere cardigan more tightly around her against the wind (a cast-off from Annabel, the cardigan was a bit bobbly but wonderfully warm), Magda set off with the dog trotting excitedly at her heels.

  She’d lived with the Wellesleys for a year and a half now and had come to adore the Swell Valley, And yet, as much as she felt at home here, Magda was aware that she remained very much an observer. An outsider looking in.

  She knew who Gabe Baxter was, and what was going on in his life. But even though he smiled at her whenever they met, Gabe knew nothing about her. To him, to everyone in the village, Magda was just a cleaner.

  I’m invisible, she thought. She wasn’t being self-pitying. She was simply observing a fact.

  She could perfectly well have made more of an effort: joined the amateur dramatics society, or the bridge club, or started going to church. There were plenty of ways to meet people locally, to get involved. But she hadn’t. Part of her wondered why. Was it because she was Polish that she felt so removed from it all? Or was she simply too afraid of the ghosts of her past, her unhappy family life, to reach out to others? She felt safer on her own, alone in her little cottage. Most of the time she was content. But occasionally the loneliness got to her. Milo was the only person who really knew her, who noticed her at all. And knowing Milo was turning out to be something of a mixed blessing: lovely when she saw him, increasingly hard when she didn’t, and painful all the time because, whatever feelings she might have for him, she had no option but to ruthlessly stamp on then.

  I’m the cleaner. He’s my bosses’ only son. This isn’t Cinderella.

  Whenever she found herself tempted to reply to one of Milo’s hilarious emails, or to flirt back when he caught her eye or touched her hand on one of his rare trips home, she forced herself to remember the stunning girl sitting on his lap at the Valley Farm wrap party. Intelligent, beautiful and aristocratic, that girl was Milo Wellesley’s future. Not a young Polish cleaner too frightened of her own shadow even to get out of the house. As for Milo’s feelings for her, Magda knew that they were no more than a passing crush, the sort of whimsical notion that young boys got into their heads from time to time.