The Show (14 page)

‘She does,’ Brett smiled. ‘She and Tom are a good match. We’ve got a great girl there.’

‘We have,’ Angela agreed.

Their divorce had been painful, as all divorces were, but three years on, Brett and Angela Cranley were good friends.

‘Jason’s doing wonderfully too,’ said Angela, pointing out their son, who was standing by the bar with his husband and Tatiana. ‘He and George are so good for one another.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Brett.

He’d come to terms with the fact that his son was gay, but he would never be able to accept it with the same easy grace that Angela did. As ridiculous as he knew it was, he also felt jealous of the close bond that Jason still shared with Tatiana. The sexual side of their marriage might have been a sham, but the affection between them was real. Watching the two of them talking intimately now, their arms wrapped around one another, Brett felt his chest tighten.

She’s flirting deliberately, to bait me
,
he thought angrily.
She’s still mad at me for letting Angela take Furlings in the divorce.

Max Bingley, Angela’s current other half, wandered over.

‘Do you mind if I steal Angela for a moment? The photographer wants a picture of her and Logan together, just the two of them.’

‘Of course,’ said Brett. He watched Max and Angela walk away, hand in hand, and felt a twinge of sadness. It wasn’t that he begrudged Angie her happiness. No one deserved it more. But he still felt guilty that he’d made her so
un
happy in the last years of their marriage, and perhaps just a little resentful that Max Bingley had succeeded where he had failed.

‘Mr Cranley?’ A very sexy dark-haired girl in a nude silk dress and gold necklace interrupted his musings. Brett instantly brightened. ‘I’m Macy Johanssen. Sorry to ambush you, but I’ve heard so much about you I thought I’d take the chance to introduce myself. I’m co-presenting
Valley Farm
with Gabriel Baxter. I believe you two know each other?’

‘Sure,’ Brett purred. ‘I know Gabe. You certainly seem to be ruffling some feathers around here with this new show.’

Macy rolled her eyes. ‘The vicar’s got the whole village whipped into a frenzy. With a little helping hand from David Carlyle.’

‘Oh. I’m not sure you can blame the reverend – or David, for that matter,’ said Brett. ‘In my experience it doesn’t take much for Fittlescombe folk to get their knickers in a twist.’

Macy laughed. Brett looked to see if Tatiana was watching him being chatted up by this beautiful television presenter, but infuriatingly she was still glued to Jason.

‘It’s a stunning house,’ Macy sipped her champagne. ‘You must miss it.’

‘Not really. I like America. It suits me. Besides, this house caused me a lot of grief one way and another.’

Macy nodded. She’d heard some of the saga.

‘Tatiana still misses it desperately,’ said Brett. ‘She grew up here. Furlings is the love of her life. It means far more to her than I do,’ he added – a touch sadly, Macy thought. ‘Good luck with your show.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I have to go and make a speech. Oh, and keep an eye on Gabriel Baxter. That man’s the biggest rogue in Fittlescombe.’

I wish he were
, thought Macy with a sigh.
Gabe seems about as likely to fool around as Pope Francis
.

Brett’s speech was actually very touching. You could hear the warmth and tenderness in his voice as he spoke about his only daughter.

Laura was so engrossed, she didn’t notice her handbag buzzing. Only after Penny de la Cruz tapped her on the shoulder and whispered ‘
Phone
’ did she register the annoyed glances from the surrounding tables.

Grabbing her bag, Laura weaved her way through the tables in Furlings’ Great Hall mouthing ‘Sorry’ until she reached the corridor.

‘Greta? Is everything all right?’

‘Erm … not really.’ Laura could hardly make out the nanny’s voice through the howling children in the background. ‘Hugh had a bad dream and woke Luca up. I’ve been trying to settle them back off for the last hour but now Luca’s thrown up and—’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Laura. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘Can’t she deal with it?’ Gabe said crossly when Laura returned to the table. He’d been looking forward to dancing with his wife tonight. They almost never got to let their hair down any more, without the children. And Gabe missed Laura the wife, as opposed to Laura the boss. He’d been seeing too much of the latter recently and not enough of the former. ‘Isn’t that what we’re paying her for?’

‘It is,’ Laura kissed him. She felt the same as he did, and was disappointed to have to leave early. ‘But Luca’s asking for me, and you know how much he hates being sick.’

‘
I’m
asking for you,’ Gabe said petulantly.

‘I’ll see you in bed later,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll be the sleeping, naked woman smelling oh-so-slightly of vomit.’

Macy, sitting two tables away with the Wellesleys and a charming young couple named Will and Lisa Nutley, watched Laura leave. Taking her plate of wedding cake with her, she made a beeline for Gabe.

‘What happened?’ She took Laura’s seat. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, yes, fine,’ Gabe frowned, pouring himself another hefty glass of claret. ‘Babysitter problems. How’s your table?’

‘OK,’ said Macy. ‘Not as fun as yours.’

‘Drink?’ He held out the bottle.

Macy laughed coquettishly. ‘Why not?’

It was impossible not to flirt with Gabe. He looked incredible in his morning suit, so dashing and British and
big.
Something about the way the dark jacket hung off him emphasized his broad, farmer’s shoulders and his masculine, stocky build. Macy was used to seeing him in work clothes – jeans and an old T-shirt and wellington boots. He looked great in that too. But it was nice to see him ‘off duty’ for once, and incredibly rare to catch him alone, without Laura.

‘Is it terribly rude to table-hop?’ asked Macy.

‘Probably. But you’re not the only one,’ said Gabe. ‘Look over there. Poor old Bertie Athol’s having a “Beam me up, Scotty” moment.’

Over on table nine, the Duke of Moncreith was giving Lady Wellesley what Eddie liked to call ‘a damn good listening to’. The lovely Emma Harwich had evaporated into the throng, leaving her decrepit date to Annabel’s unwanted attentions.

‘We do miss Westminster,’ Annabel told the duke wistfully. ‘Do you still keep your beautiful flat in Albany?’

‘Of course. You must come over for dinner when you’re next in town,’ said Bertie, dutifully.

‘We’d adore that,’ Annabel gushed. ‘Tell me, have you been to Chequers recently?’

‘Not recently, no.’

‘I heard Martha Hambly’s had some rather ghastly modern media room installed?’

‘Hello Bertie.’

Seeing the Tory Party’s single largest donor being cornered by his wife, Eddie raced over to the rescue. Annabel was usually a skilled political networker, but when it came to the aristocracy her snobbery sometimes got the better of her. She had an unfortunate tendency to use a sledgehammer to crack a nut.

‘May I borrow my wife for a moment?’

The duke’s eyes lit up. ‘By all means.’

‘What are you
doing
?’ hissed Annabel, as Eddie dragged her away. ‘We were getting along brilliantly.’

‘I’m sure you were.’

‘You do realize that Bertie Athol’s a very important man? We need people like that in our camp if we’re going to get you back into Cabinet, Edward. You must
try.
’

‘I know,’ Eddie kissed her on the cheek, ‘and I will. I only came over because I can’t find Milo. Have you seen him?’

‘No,’ said Annabel crossly. ‘I haven’t. But that’s hardly a good reason to interrupt a very productive conversation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to the duke. Oh! He’s gone.’

While Annabel went off in search of the hapless Bertie, Eddie wandered into the main house, looking for Milo.

Although Annabel might not believe it, Eddie was in fact very conscious of his image. He dreamed of a return to Cabinet, the way that a recovering alcoholic still dreams of a drink. The Duke of Moncreith wasn’t the only person here tonight whose opinion mattered, and who might be helpful if Eddie played his cards right. The last thing he wanted was for his drunk son to end up making some kind of scene. Eddie had seen Milo hitting the bar hard earlier, before the speeches. Ten minutes ago, he realized with a sinking feeling that he hadn’t seen him since.

‘Milo!’

Eddie poked his head round the door of the kitchen, then the library. No sign. There was a queue for the gents, but Milo wasn’t in it. Perhaps, if he
was
feeling the worse for wear, he’d gone upstairs in search of a loo.

A giggling couple passed Eddie on the stairs, coming down as he was going up. No prizes for guessing what they’d been up to.

Eddie walked along the upstairs corridor, opening doors, but all was quiet. The two family bathrooms were both empty, as were the rest of the bedrooms, thank God. Angela and Max’s master suite was sensibly locked. Eddie was about to head back down the kitchen stairs at the other end of the hall, when a clattering noise stopped him in his tracks. It seemed to be coming from the laundry room. Pulling open the door, Eddie saw his son sprawled out on his back on top of a huge pile of dirty sheets. On top of him, still in the lace dress she’d worn at the church, Emma Harwich was frenziedly bucking and moaning, tossing her long blonde hair around like a rag doll in the wind.

‘Jesus
Christ
!’
said Eddie, closing the door with a slam.

A few moments later, Emma emerged, looking flushed but not particularly embarrassed.

‘Lovely wedding,’ she smiled at Eddie.

‘He’s seventeen,’ Eddie said disapprovingly.

‘I know,’ Emma sighed contentedly. ‘One forgets how much energy they have at that age. Don’t be too hard on him. He’s a sweet boy.’

And with that she glided down the stairs serenely, as if nothing had happened.

As soon as she’d gone, Eddie burst back into the laundry room. Milo was dressed, thank God, but the task of doing up the buttons on his shirt was proving too much for his drink- and sex-addled brain.

‘Have you any idea what you’ve just done?
Any
idea?’ Eddie fumed.

Milo looked perplexed. ‘Is that a trick question?’

‘She’s Bertie Athol’s sodding girlfriend!’

‘Hmm.’ Milo focused hard on his buttonhole. ‘I might be wrong. But I don’t think she’s
that
into him.’

‘I don’t give a fuck who she’s into,’ Eddie exploded. ‘If Bertie finds out my son’s been bonking his girlfriend, I’m finished in the Tory Party.’

‘I thought you were finished anyway? After prison,’ Milo said guilelessly.

‘You stupid, entitled …’ Eddie muttered murderously.

‘I don’t know why you’re so angry,’ said Milo. ‘Mum said you both wanted me to stop seeing Roxanne and find a nice, educated girl.’

‘We did!’

‘Emma’s educated.’

‘Well, she isn’t nice,’ said Eddie. ‘Go home, now, before anybody sees you. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’

‘But shouldn’t I—’

‘I said
go home
, Milo. It’s not a bloody request!’

Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Brett and Tatiana were arguing loudly and drunkenly underneath the plum tree in the garden.

‘If you loved me you’d buy it back!’ Tati was yelling. ‘You’d find a way.’

Her mascara was smudged and her hair windswept and messy. The cool, almost regal beauty she’d projected in the church was gone now. Tired of playing Grace Kelly, she’d reverted to type as a spoiled and demanding wildcat. But, if anything, the unhinged version was even sexier.

Brett grabbed her by both arms.

‘It is
not
for
sale
, Tatiana! It’s Angela’s home. She’s happy here, which – by the way – is something you never were. If only you’d wake up and take off those rose-tinted goggles for half a second …’

They battled on, with Brett only silencing her in the end by kissing her on the mouth so passionately and forcefully that Tati had no option but to give in.

Watching them, Penny de la Cruz said to her husband, ‘I don’t know how they do it. It looks exhausting.’

‘What does?’ said Santiago.

‘The passion. The jealousy. The flaming rows. Brett must be well into his fifties!’

Reaching down, Santiago caressed his wife’s bottom, delectably encased in midnight-blue crushed velvet.

‘I don’t know about the flaming rows. But we have passion. You’re not exhausted, are you?’

‘Of course not, darling,’ said Penny, leaning into him. ‘At least, if I am, it’s not because of you,’ she corrected herself, catching sight of her wayward daughter Emma sprawled out in the Duke of Moncreith’s lap, very obviously drunk. ‘Why can’t she find somebody nice and normal? Preferably her own age? Like Logan Cranley did.’

‘She can,’ said Santiago. ‘She just doesn’t want to.’

Penny sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s not always easy, this “finding true love” business.’

‘No,’ Santiago said distantly. ‘It isn’t.’

Penny followed his gaze to where Macy Johanssen was locked deep in conversation with Gabe Baxter. It was obvious from her body language and the adoring look in her eyes that she was smitten. Equally obvious was the fact that Gabe was now properly, profoundly drunk.

‘Should we do something?’ asked Penny.

Santiago considered. ‘Yes. I think we probably should.’

Max Bingley was sitting on the verandah swing with Angela, sipping a cup of strong coffee. Although not officially the host of tonight’s reception, Max did live at Furlings most of the time, and felt it was important for somebody to stay sober and on top of things. Tati had staggered off to the kitchen, where she was drunkenly reminiscing with the staff about her father and the old days. Brett was locked in an animated conversation with David Carlyle.

‘Why d’you think Brett invited him?’ Max asked Angela, marvelling again at the transcendent naffness of the editor’s tight grey suit and clip-on bow tie. ‘It’s not as if they’re friends. And he’s such an oik.’