The Show (16 page)

He looked at her plaintively. ‘Can’t I stay here tonight? I’m not sure I can walk on this ankle.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Magda. ‘I have work in the morning. Besides, if your father wakes up tomorrow and finds your bed hasn’t been slept in, it’ll only make things worse.’

Milo sighed. This was true. But something about being here with Magda made him feel stupidly happy. He didn’t want to leave.

‘You’re very beautiful, you know,’ he said, earnestly.

Magda’s eyes widened, but she laughed it off. ‘After what you’ve drunk tonight, all women are beautiful.’

‘I mean it.’

‘So do I. Now drink that Alka-Seltzer and get out of here, before you get into any more trouble. And try not to wake the whole village on your way across the lawn.’

Later, in bed, Magda found herself hoping that Sir Edward and Lady Wellesley went easy on their wayward son. Milo was like a puppy, infuriating and adorable in equal measure, with too much energy for his own good.

He has a lot of growing up to do
, she thought. But his kindness touched her.

CHAPTER NINE

‘So what exactly are we looking at here? Talk us through what’s going on?’

Jennifer Lee, the trainee vet handpicked by Channel 5 to appear in
Valley Farm
’s pilot, because she was attractive in an ordinary, girl-next-door sort of way and inexperienced enough to make the sort of mistakes that viewers found endearing, answered Macy’s question for the sixth time that morning.

‘This is foot-bathing,’ Jennifer explained, trying not to look directly at the cameras as she delivered her lines whilst simultaneously focusing on the struggling ewe’s hindquarters as she splashed about in the highly toxic formalin solution. ‘They don’t much like it … as you can see.’ Sweat poured down Jennifer’s forehead and between her breasts. Her round, freckled cheeks were bright red, like twin apples, and her curly chestnut hair stuck to her face in great wet clumps. ‘But it’s very important to protect against bacteria and prevent scald, foot-rot—’

‘Cut!’ Laura yelled loudly.

‘What? Again?’ Exasperated, Jennifer let go of the ewe, which went careering off across the farmyard, almost knocking Macy flying before being intercepted by a skilful lunge from Gabe.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Laura. ‘But there’s still too much background noise. Perhaps we should move into one of the barns?’

Today was the first day of filming and the protestors were out in force. In a stroke of evil genius, Bill Clempson, the vicar, had provided drums, tambourines and some appalling form of screeching, penny-whistle-type instrument to his ‘troops’. The noise was irritating to the human ear, but it clearly utterly terrified the poor animals. Jennifer was already covered in cuts and bruises beneath her protective coat and goggles, from where the panicked sheep had kicked her. So much for the glamour of television.

Dave, the sound engineer, put down his boom mic. ‘I’ll go and talk to them.’

‘It won’t do any good,’ said Gabe.

‘Probably not, but I’ll give it a go.’

‘One of you follow him,’ Laura said to the two cameramen. ‘At this point they’re part of the show. Let’s see if they give him anything interesting.’ Turning to Macy, Gabe and the rest of the crew, she added imperiously: ‘You lot can start moving everything into the barn.’

‘I thought we were doing today outside?’ Macy protested. ‘You said you wanted the glorious weather and the exterior shots of the farm.’

‘We’ll use the footage but the dialogue has to be inside,’ Laura said dismissively. ‘It’s just the way it is, I’m afraid. Let’s not waste any more time. Now … where’s Jennifer?’

The vet was gone.

‘She’s probably gone to the bathroom,’ said Macy through gritted teeth. The ‘easy-going’ Laura from the weekend had clearly been kidnapped by aliens on Sunday night and replaced with the harpie of old. ‘Or are we not allowed to pee now?’

‘I don’t want people wandering off willy-nilly,’ Laura snapped. ‘This is the sodding pilot episode. This is
it
! What we film today will decide the entire future of this show. Am I the only person here who understands that?’

Laura stomped off to the barn. Macy shot Gabe a murderous look.

‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said, returning Macy’s scowl with a broad grin as he manhandled the ewe back into her pen. ‘Some of us are married to her.’

How can you sound so pleased about it?
thought Macy.
Talk about love being blind.

On the grass verge outside the farm gates, the junior cameraman, Dean, filmed his colleague attempting to persuade the angry villagers to lay down their whistles and call it a day.

‘It’s a matter of principle,’ the vicar intoned pompously, using his ‘church voice’ because he knew he was being filmed.

‘Yes, but the animals are suffering,’ explained the sound engineer. ‘That’s not fair, is it? None of this is their fault.’

‘No indeed,’ said the vicar, ‘it’s yours. You stop filming, we’ll stop protesting.’

‘But, Vicar, this is private property. The owners have every right to—’

‘Gabriel Baxter should focus on his animals, not on the pursuit of fame,’ Reverend Clempson said primly. ‘As Our Lord taught us, a good shepherd always puts his flock before himself.’

‘Vicar! You must come!’

Hillary Wincup, an ample-bosomed stalwart of the Fittlescombe WI and staunch supporter of the new young vicar, came racing around from the lane. While she panted with exertion, her tweed-covered breasts bounced up and down like twin medicine balls, and were in danger of knocking her unconscious at any moment.

‘Mrs Wincup. Don’t upset yourself. Whatever’s the matter?’ The vicar arranged his features into a practised look of concern.

‘It’s … it’s …’ The exhausted woman fought for breath. ‘Your car.’

Clempson’s faux concern was replaced by the real thing.

‘My car? What about my car?’

Poor Mrs Hillary Wincup looked close to tears. ‘You’d better come and see.’

Jennifer the vet reappeared in the barn as the last sheep was ushered into the pen.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Laura. ‘Good. We’re almost ready to go again. Could someone tell Dean and Dave they need to get back here?’

An ear-piercing scream made everybody look up. It came from the lane, and was followed by more deranged-sounding howls.

‘What on earth?’

Laura raced outside, followed by the second cameraman, Gabe, Macy and Jennifer bringing up the rear. A tractor had been left parked to the side of the lane, its empty trailer still attached at the rear. The contents of that trailer – an enormous, steaming mound of silage – had been dumped unceremoniously on top of the vicar’s beloved red Mini Cooper, which was now almost completely submerged.

‘My car!’ Bill Clempson wailed, wringing his hands like a mother over a lost child.

‘Keep filming!’ Laura told the crew, but they were already on a roll.

‘It’s destroyed!’ sobbed the vicar. ‘I can’t … I’m speechless. Who would do such a dreadful thing?’

Standing directly behind Gabe and Macy, Jennifer muttered quietly, ‘Maybe someone sick to death of being kicked in the shins by a flock of frightened sheep?’

Gabe looked at the young vet with renewed respect. ‘You didn’t!’

‘Of course not,’ Jennifer smiled sweetly. ‘That sort of damage to property would be completely illegal.’

Macy burst out laughing. One of the photographers from the
Echo
snapped her mid-guffaw.

‘It’s not funny!’ The vicar stamped his foot petulantly.

‘It is a little funny,’ said Macy.

‘I demand to know who did this!’

‘Now, now, Vicar,’ grinned Gabe. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone and all that.’

Laura didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The pilot was supposed to focus on farm life, on the animals and the landscape and the simple rural rhythms of the valley. Instead it was turning into
The Benny Hill Show
.

What if the vicar pressed charges? This could come back to bite them in a big way.

On the other hand, the network
had
asked for drama.

Jennifer Lee smiled up at Gabe. ‘Let’s go back to the barn and finish the foot-bathing. Before someone picks up another fucking tambourine.’

‘Brilliant. That’s bloody brilliant. We should have the man on the payroll.’

Eddie Wellesley hung up the phone looking excessively pleased with himself. He was in the kitchen at Riverside Hall, helping himself to a third slice of fruitcake – working on these damn memoirs was making him ravenous; he had rung Laura quickly to find out how the first day’s filming was going.

‘Well I think it’s disgraceful,’ said Annabel, after Eddie had told her the silage saga. She’d been in the pantry for the past forty minutes, hovering over Magda’s shoulder while she folded the napkins and tablecloths, making sure everything was being done correctly. Annabel found she spent a lot of time following Magda, which she resented. Really, one ought to be able to trust one’s staff. The more closely she watched, the more mistakes she found. The girl was a harder worker than her predecessors, but she could still be sloppy and looked permanently exhausted, which Annabel found irritating; although not as irritating as the sycophantic tone Eddie always used when talking to that bloody Baxter woman.

Eddie had promised only yesterday to spend less time on
Valley Farm
and to concentrate on his memoirs, devoting more energy and effort to the political comeback that both he and Annabel wanted. The role of a Westminster wife was not an easy one, as Annabel knew better than most. But it
was
a role, a purpose in life, and it came with a certain prestige that being the wife of a television producer could never hope to offer. After all the sacrifices Annabel had made, all the humiliation she’d suffered for Eddie’s career, she wasn’t prepared to walk away meekly, without a fight. The near-miss with Milo and the Duke of Moncreith’s girlfriend over the weekend had focused both Eddie and Annabel’s minds on just how important returning to politics was, for both of them. As had David Carlyle’s mysterious threat to unleash some further, unnamed mayhem into their lives. Annabel had agreed to host a big political dinner as a sort of unofficial launch to Eddie’s ‘win back the Tory Party’ campaign. But while Annabel slaved over a hot pile of napkins with the home help, Eddie was in his study, wasting time on the phone, gossiping about the stupid pilot. It made Annabel livid.

‘Poor Reverend Clempson adores that car. It’s a blatant act of hooliganism.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Eddie. ‘The man’s a tit. Worse than that, he’s completely in David Carlyle’s pocket.’

‘Who’s in Carlyle’s pocket?’

Milo walked in wearing a pair of odd socks and yesterday’s dirty T-shirt, and sporting hair that looked like the business end of a lavatory brush. He’d been
persona non grata
with both his parents since his tryst with Emma Harwich at Logan Cranley’s wedding, and had spent most of the two days since holed up in his bedroom playing ‘World of Warcraft’.

‘None of your business,’ snapped Annabel. She did not want to discuss David Carlyle with Milo in front of the hired help. There was something about Magda that Annabel couldn’t put her finger on, but that gave her the impression the girl didn’t quite know her place. She was perfectly respectful, but there was a pride about her, an almost excessive dignity that put Annabel’s back up. She seemed to have formed some sort of bond with Milo, too, which made Annabel uneasy to say the least. And then the other day she’d found her sitting quietly in the grounds, reading a book of poetry by John Donne. A maid! It made Annabel doubly anxious not to discuss sensitive family matters in Magda’s hearing.

Eddie frowned at Milo. ‘You look as if you’ve spent the night under Waterloo Bridge.’

‘Do I? Well, I just woke up.’ Milo poured himself a large bowl of Frosties and sat down blearily at the kitchen table.

‘Just woke up? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon!’ said Eddie.

‘I had a late night,’ Milo shrugged. ‘Hullo, Magda. You look nice.’

Magda looked up momentarily from her linens. Unlike his mother, who never missed an opportunity to criticize or make caustic comments, Milo always smiled when he saw her. After the incident with the bin, when he’d taken shelter at her cottage and confided in her about Emma Harwich, they’d grown closer. He was a sweet boy, albeit a lazy one.

‘Leave Magda alone,’ said Annabel crossly. ‘She has work to do and so have you. You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.’

‘No I haven’t,’ said Milo.

Eddie finished his cake and put his plate down on the table with a clatter. ‘Yes, you have. As you’ve spectacularly failed to find anything meaningful to do with your life, having thrown your expensive education down the drain, you’ll no doubt be delighted to hear that
I
have got you a job.’

‘On
Valley Farm
?’ Milo’s eyes brightened. ‘Brilliant. I’ve always fancied the idea of a career in TV. I take it I’ll be working behind the camera? Although who knows, with my charm and good looks, maybe I’ll be talent spotted.’ He winked at Magda, who pretended not to notice.

‘
Not
on
Valley Farm
,’ Eddie said firmly.
‘I wouldn’t let you anywhere near that set if my life depended on it.’

Milo looked aggrieved. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you’d shag every female in sight, that’s why not.’

Magda blushed.

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ Milo shot back.

Annabel looked as if someone had squirted lemon juice in her eyes. How on earth was she supposed to teach Magda the proper respect with Eddie and Milo airing the family’s dirty laundry right in front of her? ‘Magda!’ she barked urgently. ‘Go upstairs and strip the guest beds.’

‘Yes, Lady Wellesley.’

‘And you can refill all the water jugs and empty the bins while you’re up there.’

‘Of course, Lady Wellesley.’

‘I’d better come and check you’re doing it properly,’ Annabel snapped. ‘Although, I dare say even you know how to empty a wastepaper bin.’

Milo watched morosely as his one potential ally left the room, followed by his stony-faced mother. Poor Magda. She must hate it here. He wished now that he’d asked her more about herself that night in her cottage, rather than wittering on about Emma Harwich and his parent problems. What kind of an arse must she think him? Then again, he’d been so drunk that night, he probably wouldn’t have remembered anything she’d told him. Still, he pitied Magda.
He
wouldn’t work for his mother for all the tea in china.