The Show (25 page)

‘So,’ she asked, a little too brightly, returning to her work. ‘How was your trip?’

His face lit up. ‘Amazing. Life changing, actually. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Africa,’ he added, more than a touch pompously.

Magda suppressed a smile. ‘Is that so?’

Now it was Milo’s turn to blush. He wasn’t sure how he’d pictured their reunion exactly. But not like this. He wanted to show Magda that he’d changed. That he wasn’t the spoiled, entitled boy who had left five months ago. The boy who was so blind, he’d deeply humiliated her at his own leaving party without even realizing it. He wanted her to see that he was a man now, an adult with opinions and real-life experiences who should be taken seriously. But standing in front of her now, Milo felt younger and more foolish than ever. It was all going wrong!

He cast around desperately for something to say.

‘Mum seems on very good form. She and Dad looked very loved-up just now.’

‘She does seem a lot happier lately,’ Magda replied cautiously. It wasn’t her place to gossip about Lady Wellesley – with Milo, or anyone else for that matter.

‘I’m going tonight. To the dinner,’ blurted out Milo. He wished Magda would look at him.

‘That’s nice.’ Magda continued peeling.

‘I’m trying to take more of an interest in politics.’ He could hear how stilted the words sounded. He felt like a little boy, dressing up in his father’s clothes, desperately trying to play the part of the grown-up. But he ploughed on anyway. ‘I need to understand Dad’s world better. So I can make a difference. When I was in Africa—’

‘Milo.’ Magda cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad it was a good trip. Really. But I simply don’t have time to talk at the moment. Help yourself if you want something to eat, but then, please, let me finish this.’

‘Of course.’ Milo forced a smile. ‘We’ll catch up later.’

Winded with disappointment, he left the room. He didn’t want the bacon sandwich any more. All of a sudden he’d lost his appetite.

Magda waited for the door to close before wiping her hands on her apron, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

What’s wrong with me?
she thought bitterly.

A few minutes in Milo’s company and her emotions were churning like washing in a machine. She felt angry and happy and nervous, all at the same time. Worse than that, she had no idea how to react around him, what to say, how to
be.
Either she was
too
close to him,
too
intimate – that hug had been painful – or she came off as cold and aloof and ended up hurting his feelings, as she had just now.

He
was the one who had treated
her
badly. And yet here she was feeling like a Class-A bitch.

Guiltily she returned to her mountain of prawns.

William Berkeley, the Tory Party chairman, sank back contentedly in Eddie Wellesley’s battered leather chesterfield armchair, puffing on a Padrón 1964 Anniversary cigar. They really ought to have waited till after dinner. But the chance to slip away to Fast Eddie’s study and enjoy a decent smoke beforehand had been too good to pass up. Truth be told, William Berkeley wasn’t much for literary parties. Too much noise and clatter, and too many stupid women banging on about Orange prizes and God knows what.

‘House looks lovely,’ William observed, through a thick cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Annabel’s excelled herself as usual.’

‘Thanks. But we’re not here to talk about the house,’ said Eddie.

‘And the book’s clearly going to be a triumph.’

‘Or the book. Or the TV show,’ Eddie added.

‘Thank God for that,’ muttered the chairman, only half under his breath. He really had less than nothing to say about a reality television programme that was apparently hosted by a young lady who’d been named after a department store. Or perhaps a parade.

‘I want to know where I stand with the party, William.’ Eddie lit his own cigar and took a long, satisfying puff. ‘Am I forgiven?’

William Berkeley made a purring sound, like a cat being presented with a saucer of cream. It was pleasant to have men like Wellesley paying one court.

‘Well now, Eddie, you have many friends and supporters in the party, as you know. You’ve already had your membership restored.’

Eddie gave William a knowing look. ‘That’s not quite the same thing as being forgiven.’

‘Perhaps not. But Garforth’s here tonight, isn’t he?’ said William. ‘That should tell you something.’

James Garforth, the new Home Secretary, was the highest-profile political guest to have graced Riverside Hall to date.

‘Hambly isn’t, though,’ said Eddie.

‘One step at a time, old boy,’ William Berkeley patted his paunch reassuringly. ‘Tristram’s always been a supporter of yours, you know that. But he
is
the PM. And you
did
go to prison.’

Eddie scowled. Patience had never been his strong suit.

‘I think the book will help,’ said William. ‘It strikes the right tone. Sorry, but not grovelling.’

‘Will it get me a safe seat?’

‘I’m really not at liberty to say,’ Berkeley began, before breaking off in the face of a withering look from Eddie. ‘Oh, look, all right, yes. Barring disaster, you’re being talked about for Chichester and Swell Valley at the next election. No one likes Piers Renton-Chambers. He’s been a terrible damp squib.’

‘Really?’ Eddie’s face lit up like a small child’s on Christmas Eve. ‘That’s wonderful news!’

‘Yes, and very much off the record,’ William reminded him sternly. ‘You’ll have a lot of sucking up to do to the local parliamentary party, aka the swivel eyes.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Eddie.

‘And there can’t be a whiff – not a single, solitary fart’s worth – of scandal.’

‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ Eddie had the cheek to look affronted.

Both men smoked on in silence for a few moments. The noise of the drinks party drifted in from the drawing room, a blur of voices and laughter, growing louder as the alcohol flowed. The majority of the guests were due to leave by eight, leaving only a hardcore of VIPs for the sit-down dinner at nine.

After a while, William asked idly, ‘By the way, have you heard anything about David Carlyle’s book?’

‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m surprised he can read, never mind write. What is it?’

‘That’s the thing. No one knows. It’s shrouded in mystery.’ William waved a fat hand around dramatically. ‘Apparently it’s with Doubleday, but they’re denying all knowledge.’

‘They’ve probably all died from shame,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s probably some torrid potboiler for plebs:
Fifty Shades of Grey Shoes
.’

‘Now, now,’ William chuckled.

‘Maybe he used a pseudonym. Chip. O. N. Shoulder.’

‘Ha!’ The chuckle became a full-on laugh. ‘That’s very good. But seriously. He doesn’t have anything on you, does he? Anything that didn’t come out at the trial?’

‘No,’ Eddie said sourly. ‘If you remember, I was thoroughly disembowelled at the trial, thanks to that bastard. There’s nothing.’

‘Good.’ William Berkeley clapped his hands, smiling broadly. ‘Then we’ve nothing to worry about. Is it almost suppertime, do you think? I could eat a horse.’

‘Well! Isn’t this nice? All the heaving throngs have gone, and we can finally relax.’

Annabel smiled stiffly down the table at her illustrious guests, looking anything but relaxed. The book launch drinks had gone off without a hitch, but the really important part of the evening was just beginning.

The chairman, William Berkeley, sat on Annabel’s left. She’d intended to launch a full-on charm offensive at him during the bouillabaisse. But then William and Eddie had drifted in to dinner thick as thieves, so she’d refocused her attention on the Home Secretary, James Garforth, on her right. Whatever it was that had propelled young Garforth to the top of the political tree, Annabel decided, one could rule out charisma. Whether it was the lingering Birmingham accent or the glazed look of naked ambition in the eyes, Garforth was as drearily humourless as a feminist book group discussing the latest Tony Parsons. Worse, he used embarrassing business clichés, talking about ‘going forward’, and ‘thinking outside the box’ on immigration. ‘That’s exactly the sort of issue where we Conservatives need to blue-sky it,’ he concluded triumphantly. ‘Don’t you agree?’

Further down the table, Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, was making small talk with Rita Blaize, wife of the Number Ten spin doctor and all-round electoral guru, Philip. Phil Blaize scared Annabel. She couldn’t read him at all, yet she had a sneaking suspicion that he might well be the most important man in the room. Which made it all the more distressing to have to watch him being bored to death by a distinctly tipsy Camilla Berkeley, the chairman’s wife, who only ever wanted to talk about hunting.

‘Of course, it was different when I was a gel,’ Camilla boomed. ‘I gort my first hunter at nine. Happiest day of my life! The whole county used to see off the hunt in those days. It wasn’t just the landowners. All these animal rights Johnnies who bang on about class, they couldn’t be more wrong. Hunting’s not elitist! Never has been. It’s urban bloody ignorance, that’s wort it is. Now if you have the PM’s ear, you really
must
get him to look into it.’

Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Milo appeared to have the Home Secretary’s wife in stitches, which pleased and panicked Annabel in equal measure. And Eddie was devoting far too much time and attention to Lisa Unger, the agent’s wife, one of the few people present with literally nothing to offer him politically, instead of rescuing the spin doctor from Camilla Berkeley’s tweed-clad advances.

When at last Magda staggered in carrying a vast silver soup dish, Annabel could have wept with relief.

‘Ah! The bouillabaisse. Marvellous. You may start serving, Magdalena.’

Milo took one look at Magda, then directed a furious glare at his mother. Not only had she made the poor girl get dolled up in full black and white maid service, which looked patently ridiculous at such a small, informal dinner, she’d clearly also driven Magda to the brink of exhaustion. Her eyes looked small and red, wisps of hair clung to the sweat on her forehead like seaweed on a wet rock and her hands were trembling, whether from nerves or physical strain it was hard to tell.

‘Let me help you.’ He stood up, earning himself an irritated look from his mother and a panicked one from Magda.

‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The soup tureen clearly weighed a ton. Staggering towards the table, Magda tried to remember what Lady Wellesley had instructed her this morning about serving.
Start at the head of the table and move left. Or was it right? No, definitely left.

‘Come on,’ Milo insisted. ‘That’s far too heavy.’

‘For heaven’s sake sit down, Milo. Magdalena can manage,’ snapped Annabel. She didn’t know why, but something about Magda always seemed to bring out the worst in her.

‘No she
can’t
,’ Milo snapped back. ‘Open your eyes!’

The guests were all staring at her now. Magda could feel their eyes on her; her heart was hammering against her ribs like a jumping bean in a cage. Why did Milo have to make a scene? Lady Wellesley hated scenes. In a rush, she reached forwards to set the dish on the table, but lost her footing. After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion. There was a collective gasp from around the table as the silver lid clattered to the ground and the tureen tumbled forwards, depositing a cascade of scalding bouillabaisse directly into William Berkeley’s lap.

‘
FUUUUCK!
’ The chairman of the Conservative Party let out a roar of pain, leaping to his feet and scrambling to undo his trousers. Seconds later they were around his ankles, along with his underpants, as he hopped from foot to foot, naked and howling. While most of the guests stared transfixed at this unexpected display of burned wedding tackle, Lisa Unger, thinking quickly, whipped the champagne bottle out of a nearby ice bucket, ran around the table and emptied the icy water directly onto the chairman’s crotch.

‘I think he might need to go to hospital,’ said Philip Blaize, the first words he’d spoken since he sat down.

‘Somebody call an ambulance!’ boomed Camilla.

Annabel turned on Magda, tight-lipped and furious. ‘Clean it up,’ she hissed.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I—’

‘Now!’

With a sob, Magda ran from the room.

As the ambulance carted away poor William, it was hard to tell what distressed him more: the blistering pain in his balls or the prospect of being ushered into a confined space with his drunken bore of a wife. In any event, with the Berkeleys gone, dinner continued, with conversation considerably more lively following the unexpected drama.

‘That’s a nice way to launch a comeback,’ Philip Blaize teased Eddie. ‘Maiming the party chairman!’

‘I expect it’s the most action William’s had in the trouser department in many a long year,’ Eddie cracked back.

Annabel laughed along – Eddie had always been better at handling these things than she was, and would no doubt pluck victory from the jaws of disaster. But she remained livid with Magda for her clumsiness, and with Milo for setting the whole thing off, trying to play Prince Charming to the maid’s Cinderella.

Magda went through the motions, serving the beef and the pudding and coffee, moving silently around the room like a wraith. Eddie tried to smile at her reassuringly, but she didn’t dare to meet his eye, or anyone’s.

Later, when the guests had retired to the drawing room for cognac, Milo found her in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, staring dumbly into space, she still looked shell shocked.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, pulling up a chair beside her.

‘She’ll fire me. I know it. I’m going to lose my place.’

‘She won’t fire you,’ said Milo. ‘I know my mother. She might rant and rave a bit, but she won’t want to start again with someone new. Anyway,’ he looked at Magda questioningly, ‘would it be the end of the world if she
did
fire you? You can’t like working for her. You’re much too good for this job.’