The Show (19 page)

‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ blustered Jenny, slightly wrong-footed. She wasn’t used to seeing Bill Clempson smile. He actually wasn’t nearly as ugly as she remembered him.

‘Besides,’ Bill went on, sensing he might be winning her round, ‘my job is to represent Our Lord. And He didn’t have enemies.’

‘Didn’t he?’ Jenny frowned. ‘What about the Pharisees?’

‘Well, yes …’ Bill stammered. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘And the Romans? And Judas?’

‘Well, of course, if you’re being literal …’

‘And those old guys in the temple who gave him a hard time?’

‘The High Priests.’

‘If you say so,’ Jenny shrugged. ‘I’m a bit rusty on the old Bible stories, I’m afraid. But I’d say it’s pretty difficult to get crucified if you don’t have any enemies. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Well, I, er … I …’ Bill Clempson blushed as the sentence trailed away.

Jenny instantly regretted going down this path. What did she care about Jesus and his enemies? She’d only said it for something to say, and now she’d shot the poor man down in flames, just as he was trying to rebuild bridges between them.

‘I’d better go and mingle with my parishioners,’ Bill said awkwardly. ‘Enjoy the party, Miss Lee.’

‘You too, Vicar,’ Jenny called guiltily after him, helping herself to a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downing it one.

Next time she saw Bill Clempson, she would be nice. Very nice.

He really wasn’t such a bad fish after all.

At the far end of the barn, Milo was already tipsy, knocking back the gin and tonics with Will Cooper, an old school friend, when Roxanne, his most recent ex, sashayed in.

‘Aye, aye,’ Will nudged Milo hard in the ribs. ‘Fireworks at two o’clock.’

With his freckled face, blue eyes, and long, floppy, reddish hair, Will Cooper had always looked ridiculously innocent and boyish. His nickname at Pinewood Prep had been ‘Cherub’; at Harrow he was known as ‘Bog’ after his initials, W.C. But Will’s butter-wouldn’t-melt exterior concealed a mischievous, borderline filthy mind. Hence his lifelong bond with Milo.

‘Shit,’ muttered Milo.

Even he had to admit that Roxie looked fabulous in a gold lamé playsuit that might have been sprayed on to her slender body, sparkly seventies platform boots and a jauntily angled trilby hat. She’d quite rightly dumped him when she’d found out about his romp with Emma Harwich up at Furlings, and they’d barely spoken since. But the tiny gold shorts she was wearing tonight were already making Milo start thinking wistfully about a reconciliation. After all, she was here, wasn’t she?

‘Mum’s going to go bananas,’ he told Will. ‘She’ll think I invited her.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Of course I bloody didn’t. You should see her Facebook page. It’s like a shrine to how much she hates me.’

‘It’s not her Facebook page I’m interested in seeing,’ drooled Will, his eyes roaming lecherously over Roxie’s endless legs, and hovering at the point where her upper thighs ended and the fabric of her playsuit began.

‘I’m serious,’ grumbled Milo. ‘She started a chat called: “A hundred and one reasons to cut off Milo Wellesley’s balls with a rusty penknife.” It got, like, two hundred “likes” in twenty-four hours.’

‘Ouch,’ said Will. ‘Well, it’s obviously far too dangerous for you to approach her. I’ll go over there and distract her. Take one for the team and all that.’

‘All right, Milo.’ Jamie King, one of Milo’s more obnoxious Harrow acquaintances, swaggered over. ‘Got any weed?’

‘If I did I wouldn’t share it with you, Kingo.’

Milo tolerated Jamie. He could be funny in certain, limited circumstances. But because his family lived close by and his dad was in the House of Lords, the two boys were forced to see a lot more of each other than either would have chosen.

Right now, Milo was a lot more interested in Will Cooper’s intentions towards his only-just-ex than in Jamie King’s weed-quest.

‘You’d better not try to shag her, Bog,’ he called after Will. ‘Bog!’

But Will was already out of earshot, weaving his way through the guests, homing in on Roxanne like a testosterone-fuelled missile.

Things were not off to a good start. They were about to get worse.

‘What is
that girl
doing here?’ Annabel, overdressed for the occasion in a full, floor-length black skirt and matching embellished black sweater by Balenciaga, appeared at Milo’s side. With her blonde hair scraped back into a severe bun and overly rouged cheeks, she looked like a particularly displeased ballet teacher. ‘I told you explicitly not to ask her.’

‘I didn’t ask her,’ Milo said meekly.

But his mother wasn’t listening. She’d been horrified enough to find herself bumping into the fat little shopkeeper from Fittlescombe, Preedy, and his ghastly gossip of a wife. She assumed Eddie had invited them as some sort of childish, tit-for-tat gesture, to embarrass her, because she’d forced his hand on the party. Eddie was always upbraiding her for being a snob, and clearly got some kind of kick out of forcing poor Christopher Denton, the lord lieutenant, to make small talk with every local pleb he could lay his hands on. But she’d expected more from Milo.

‘I stuck my neck out with your father to let you
have
this party,’ she said furiously. ‘And this is how you repay me? With bald-faced defiance?’

‘Mum, I—’

‘Get rid of her,’ Annabel hissed.

Milo threw his arms wide. ‘How can I do that? I can hardly turf her out.’

‘Of course you can. Like you said, you didn’t invite her.’

‘I’ll do it, if you like, Lady Wellesley,’ Jamie King piped up, grinning obnoxiously. ‘I’m an expert at grockle-disposal. Someone has to save Milo from himself, eh?’

Milo shot him a look that he hoped said:
You are a total penis.

‘Hello.’ Just at that moment, Magda approached shyly, smoothing down a stray crease in her sexy chocolate dress. ‘Are you having fun?’ she asked Milo, not quite daring to make eye contact with Annabel.

‘Not really,’ mumbled Milo. He was too distracted to notice how stunning Magda looked. Unlike Jamie.

‘Well hell-
o!
’ His eyes fixed unashamedly on Magda’s ample cleavage. ‘And who might you be?’

‘Magda, Jamie, Jamie, Magda,’ said Milo without enthusiasm.

‘Ah, Magda, good,’ Annabel said brusquely, thrusting her empty champagne glass into Magda’s hand. ‘We need glasses cleared pretty much everywhere, and the canapé plates need replenishing. Karen, the catering manager, is in the kitchen. She’ll tell you what to do.’

‘Oh.’ Magda blushed, turning to Milo, waiting for him to explain the mistake. That she was here as a guest. As his friend. But his eyes were still glued to Roxanne. Will was leading her onto the dance floor now, the little shit.
With friends like these, who needs enemies?

Annabel stalked off, leaving Magda standing there, holding the empty champagne glass and wishing the ground would swallow her up.

Why didn’t Milo explain? Why didn’t he say something?

‘She’s your maid?’ Jamie King turned to Milo. His expression had changed from admiration to disdain, and he sounded irritated, as if he’d been tricked.

‘Hmmm?’ said Milo, only half listening. ‘Oh. Yes.’

Magda’s stomach did a horrible flip.

That’s how he sees me. That’s how they all see me. I’m the maid.

‘In that case, I could use a refill.’ Downing his champagne in one with a small burp, Jamie handed Magda his glass too. ‘Quick as you can, angel,’ he added, rolling up his sleeves. ‘I have some evicting to do.’

Her face burning, Magda turned and ran.

Milo turned on Jamie. ‘You are
such
a cock. Do you know that? You say one word to Roxanne and I swear to God I will fucking flatten you.’

He didn’t even notice Magda had gone.

Magda dropped the empty champagne glasses on the table nearest the entrance and ran out of the barn, her heart pounding. Humiliation burned like acid in her chest and pricked her skin like a nettle rash.

How could Milo do that to her? How could he put her in that situation?

She crossed the lawn and bolted back into her cottage, slamming the front door behind her and leaning against it as if she were trying to keep out a tidal wave. A tidal wave of shame. Pulling off her stupid shoes, she flung them down on the ground, tears of frustration pouring down her cheeks.

It’s not really Milo I’m angry with
, she thought bitterly.
It’s myself.

Milo was just a kid. Kids were supposed to be foolish and insensitive. Magda might not be that much older than him in years, but in life experiences they were worlds apart. She, unfortunately, was an adult. And adults had to face reality. What had possessed her to think that she’d be accepted as an equal by these people? These closed, upper-class, rich English people like the Wellesleys, with their clipped manners and their rigid rules and their cruel, thoughtless etiquette? That she could become ‘one of them’ if only for a night?

Who did she think she was? Cinderella?

This cottage, this valley, might
look
like something out of a fairy tale. But it wasn’t. Any more than Milo Wellesley was a handsome prince.

‘No one’s going to rescue you,’ Magda told herself scathingly, speaking the words aloud as she pulled savagely at her dress, ripping it off her body. ‘Grow up.’

Scrunching the dress into a tight ball, she lit the kindling in the wood-burning stove and shoved it inside. For a few moments she watched as the cheap fabric burst into flames. Then she closed the heavy, cast-iron doors and went to bed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was a blazingly hot summer, the warmest anyone could remember in the Swell Valley for a generation. For the local children, home from school, this meant unending fun. Hosepipes in the garden, swimming in the river, delicious, melting Mr Whippy ice creams from the van on Fittlescombe village green. Local pubs also did a roaring trade, with The Fox’s beer garden heaving day after day. Tesco in Chichester had a run on Pimm’s that made the local papers, and the valley fire brigade were called to a slew of barbecue-related incidents, one of which almost resulted in the oldest medieval tithe barn in Sussex being reduced to a heap of ashes.

For local farmers, the soaring temperatures were less welcome. Harvesting and baling of straw was dusty work in the ninety-degree heat, and the livestock suffered as much as the labourers. Lambs could get dehydrated very quickly and, even with regular irrigation, the potato crops suffered. As for the usual August ploughing, the earth was so dry and hard it was like trying to churn one’s way through concrete.

With the first episode of
Valley Farm
due to air at the end of August, the cameras had rolled all summer, capturing the tough conditions at Wraggsbottom and elsewhere. The heat wave was a key part of the show, but so were the ongoing tensions in the village. High temperatures led to frayed tempers on all sides, with Laura’s patient camera crew twice almost coming to blows with the vicar’s increasingly strident posse of objectors. One episode focused on Macy Johanssen’s kitchen windows being pelted with eggs. Gabe thought the whole thing was hilarious, and the ensuing village whodunnit too Nancy Drew for words. ‘As you can see from these egg boxes, they were purchased locally,’ he joked to camera in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s not so much Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick, as Mr Preedy in the front garden with half a dozen Speckled Sussexes.’

There were times when Laura was convinced they were making great television. Gabe and Macy had terrific on-screen chemistry, the sort of larky, teasing relationship that producers kill for. As for the show itself, it had lashings of local drama, enough rural charm to open a chocolate-box factory, and real, educational, factual content. All the fun and lightness of reality television, but with a crucial ingredient that made
Valley Farm
different from all the others: intelligence.

But at other times she was sure they’d blown it. What if viewers ended up siding with the protestors? Had Jennifer’s stunt with the vicar’s car taken things too far? Did it make Gabe and Laura look spiteful, or snobby, or elitist, or greedy; all the things that David Carlyle’s journalists were accusing them of on a daily basis in the
Echo
?

It was the pre-season publicity that worried Laura most. Eddie and Gabe both seemed to view it as a gift. ‘Who cares what people are saying about the show?’ Gabe would tell Laura night after night, in an effort to reassure her. He loved his wife intensely, and it pained him to see her so stressed all the time.

‘
I
care. It’s bad enough having half the village hate us. Do we really need half the country?’

‘The point is, people have a view. They know about us already, and they’re curious. You can’t buy that sort of PR. Once we air, they’ll get to see for themselves what a storm in a teacup this whole thing has been. It’ll be Carlyle and Call-me-Bill who come off with egg on their faces, not us.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Laura. ‘What if it
is
us?’

‘Then we’ll just have to drown our sorrows in money,’ said Gabe, kissing her. ‘Because we’re going to be making a lot of it, either way.’

This was another thing that worried Laura. Money. Gabe was touchingly convinced that the show would make their fortunes. But Laura knew just how risky and fickle the television business could be. Meanwhile revenues from the farm, their day job, were dropping like a stone. And while the property itself had gone up in value, Laura and Gabe were mortgaged up to the eyeballs. Making the repayments had been a strain even when Laura had a steady job at ITV. Since starting
Valley Farm
, her weekly salary had dropped to precisely zero. Eddie Wellesley and Channel 5 were bankrolling production, but Laura and Gabe’s remuneration was all profit-share.

What if there were no profits to share?

What if it was all a big, huge disaster of Laura’s own making? She’d have alienated all her neighbours and friends, and for nothing; poor Hugh and Luca would never go to another birthday party again, and she and Gabe would end up broke and at each other’s throats.