The Show (29 page)

Milo offered Magda his arm. ‘I’ll walk you over.’

She smiled playfully. ‘I think I can find my way across the lawn.’

‘Are you always so independent?’ said Milo.

‘Always.’

‘Well, it’s Christmas, and you selfishly failed to get me a present, so you can jolly well humour me,’ said Milo, taking her hand and forcibly linking her arm with his. ‘That was a joke by the way. About the present.’

‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘I got it.’

It was nice to be flirted with, even if it was by a boy barely out of school and someone who, she knew for a fact, had flirted with every female, young or old, within a twenty-mile radius.

But still. It was nice.

Back at the house, Eddie helped Annabel out of her coat, a sumptuous vintage fox fur that had once been his grandmother’s, and tuned the Sonos system to the Sinatra station.

‘Oh, Gawd. Must we have Frank and Bing
again
?’ Annabel rolled her eyes. ‘How about some lovely carols?’

‘We just had carols at church,’ said Eddie. ‘I want something I can dance to.’

Grabbing her hand and slipping one arm around her waist, he twirled Annabel around the hall, gliding across the parquet flooring like a very British Fred Astaire. Annabel tutted and mumbled ‘don’t be so ridiculous’ a few times, but deep down she felt profoundly happy. The fact that Eddie had kept Christmas sacrosanct and just for them this year felt hugely symbolic. Since Milo’s return from Africa, a little of the old strain had crept back into their relationship. And even though Eddie’s political comeback meant an enormous amount to both of them, Annabel felt relieved and grateful that, for the first time, he seemed to be putting their marriage first. Putting
her
first. It was the best Christmas present she could have wished for.

The phone rang. Reluctantly, Eddie released her. ‘If it’s my mother, you’ll have to talk to her,’ he told Annabel. ‘I have an urgent appointment in the log shed.’

‘Why should
I
have to talk to her?’ Annabel began. But Eddie had already answered. It wasn’t his mother. It was Kevin Unger, his political agent. Even in the 24/7 world of politics, a call on Christmas morning was rare.

‘I see.’ Eddie nodded stiffly, hunched over the phone. ‘Hmmm. Hmmm. I see.’

Annabel watched and listened, so still she was barely breathing. After what seemed like an eternity, he hung up.

‘What’s happened?’ Her throat was dry with nerves.

Eddie turned and looked at her solemnly. ‘Well …’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m back in.’ His face erupted into a smile so broad it looked painful. ‘They won’t announce anything officially before the New Year. But Piers Renton-Chambers is standing down. I’ve got unanimous support to replace him amongst the local constituency party. You’re looking at the new Tory candidate for Chichester and Swell Valley.’

‘Oh, Eddie!’ Annabel flung her arms around his neck.

‘What are we celebrating?’ Milo emerged from the kitchen, chased out by a distracted Magda.

‘Your father’s been selected as an MP,’ his mother gushed.

‘Almost,’ said Eddie.

‘We’re officially back in politics! Or we will be in January.’

‘Congratulations, Dad.’ He shook Eddie’s hand. It seemed like the manly thing to do. ‘That’s brilliant news.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Annabel said delightedly.

Milo was on the straight and narrow. Eddie was heading back to politics. The ghastly world of television could be left behind them, as could the scandal that had nearly destroyed them all. At last, at long last, everything was coming right.

What a difference a year could make!

Unlike the Wellesleys, David Carlyle had had a
very
social Christmas. Following the
Echo
’s official, star-studded bash at the Savoy on the 20th, David and his wife, Louise, had hosted Christmas drinks for three hundred at Millstones, their grotesquely huge McMansion on the edge of Hinton golf course. Fully staffed with a fleet of caterers, waiters, butlers and valet parking, and complete with a twenty-foot artificial tree, tastefully decorated in blue and silver and surrounded by mechanical elves, the event had – in David’s eyes at least – been a triumph. Lou looked gorgeous in her lilac gown with all the Swarovski crystals. And not one person had mentioned the name Eddie Wellesley to David throughout the entire evening.

Now, on Christmas Day itself, they’d just finished a sumptuous six-course lunch, attended by twenty of the most influential people in British media, including Laura Baxter’s ex and ITV’s head of Drama, John Bingham, with his wife, Abigail, and Murray Wylie, CEO and owner of Wylie Pike, the most successful literary agency in London. If Louise was tired she didn’t show it, graciously smiling at all her guests’ jokes, flattering the men and complimenting the women on their clothes, or their various children’s achievements. Not for the first time, David felt immensely proud of her, and pleased with himself for marrying her. Sitting down alone at the kitchen island once all the guests had gone, treating himself to a small bowl of leftover Christmas pudding, David Carlyle thought in contrast about Eddie Wellesley’s wife – the snobby, poisonous Annabel. She was almost as bad as her husband. Those two deserved each other.

Louise, changed into her favourite velour tracksuit and Ugg boots, wandered in and smiled at him. ‘You must be shattered, darling,’ she said. ‘I know I am.’

‘Actually I feel great,’ said David, stifling a satisfied burp. ‘Lunch went brilliantly. You were amazing. We should celebrate.’

Getting up, he mooched over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Courvoisier.

‘Brandy? It’s four o’clock,’ protested Louise.

‘It’s Christmas,’ said David.

‘Exactly. Time for a cup of tea, a mince pie and
Only Fools and Horses
.’

‘I’m serious,’ said David. ‘I want to celebrate.’

A shadow of apprehension passed across Louise Carlyle’s face. ‘Why? What is it? Why are you grinning like that? Has something happened?’

‘Not yet.’

David filled two cut-crystal tumblers with the smooth, amber liquid. Handing one to his wife, he raised the other in a toast.

‘To the New Year! And everything it might bring.’

Louise’s frown deepened. She didn’t like it when David got all cryptic.
Please God let this not be about Eddie Wellesley again.
Louise, too, had enjoyed hosting a party where, for once, that name hadn’t been mentioned. She’d dared to hope that, at last, that particular ghost was buried. But David’s tone worried her. David sat back down and pulled her onto his lap. ‘Just drink with me, will you? Be happy.’

David himself was deeply happy. That smug bastard Wellesley thought everything was coming up roses. Whereas, in fact, he was standing on the train tracks about to get hit – and neither he, nor anyone else, had the slightest inkling. There were few things in life more satisfying than successfully keeping a secret. But David Carlyle had done it. All he had to do now was sit back and watch the fireworks, with his lovely Louise by his side.

‘I am happy,’ said Louise cautiously ‘I just want to stay that way. It’s been a lovely Christmas, David. Let’s not ruin it, eh? Let’s not stir things up again.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Louise. All of a sudden she decided she needed that brandy after all.

Macy pushed open the gate wearily and walked up the path to Cranbourne House.
Thank God I ignored the neighbours and put those uplighters in
, she thought, as the warm glow from the garden lights led her safely to the door, in what otherwise would have been pitch-darkness. The lamps were beautiful as well as practical, turning the higgledy-piggledy tile-hung building into something out of Grimms’
Fairy Tales
, warm and welcoming and inviting amid the bare trees and snow. Macy felt like Snow White, coming home to the dwarfs after a long day wandering in the woods.

Not that there were any dwarf. Or that Christmas Day at the De la Cruz’s had been like being lost, or anything other than lovely. Penny, as always, had made a huge effort and been as kind and generous and thoughtful a hostess as it was humanly possible to be. She’d even gone to the trouble of getting in a pecan pie for pudding, ‘so that Macy can have her traditions, too.’ Macy was really touched, and grateful to have been invited, especially as she only really knew Penny and Santiago through James, who’d had to go abroad again for yet another charity cricket thing in Dubai and couldn’t make it.

Ever since she got engaged to James, in fact, all his friends had been lovely to her. Santiago was sweet and funny as always, making terrible jokes about the presents and doing impressions of the Reverend Clempson that reduced Macy to tears of mirth. Penny’s son, Seb, was also great fun, outrageous and stupendously politically incorrect. Even Emma Harwich’s pouting during the Queen’s Speech had failed to dampen the festive family atmosphere. (Emma’s elderly, aristo lover, Bertie Athol, had stupidly managed to lose most of his money in a hedge-fund disaster in November, leaving Emma no choice but to dump him. Finding herself dateless for the Christmas party season, she’d returned home to the bosom of her family, a decision that had evidently filled her stepfather with about as much joy as his impending trip to the orthodontist for root-canal work.)

Perhaps it was
because
of all the kindness, and the loving family atmosphere, that Macy felt so deflated now? Either that or the effort of keeping one’s game-face on all day, being polite and smiling and making conversation, when secretly all you really wanted was to crawl under the duvet with a box of Maltesers and wait for it all to be over. Alone.

You’re being pathetic
, she told herself sternly, unzipping her Charles Jourdan boots and lighting the logs in the wood-burning stove before flopping down on her overstuffed sofa from Shabby Chic, the most comfortable object on earth.
This house is gorgeous; this village is gorgeous. You have great friends here, a handsome fiancé and a job most people would kill for.
But today of all days, her homesickness refused to be talked into submission.

Macy’s thoughts kept drifting back to childhood Christmases with her mother. The early ones, before her dad left, were a blur of colours and sounds and smells: red and gold tree baubles, Nat King Cole on the car radio, pumpkin pie and cinnamon and her mother’s favourite lilac perfume. Her mom’s laughter. In later years there was less laughter, and eventually none at all. Although, God knew, Karin Johanssen had tried to hold things together for Macy’s sake, especially at Christmas, in the end the booze had destroyed everything. The four Christmases Macy spent with foster families had been OK. There were presents, and a big dinner, and everybody was kind and inclusive. But there was an emptiness inside, a deep longing for the family she’d lost that gave a bitter aftertaste to every sweet thing.

Maybe
that
was what had depressed her about today? The kindness, the politeness, the whole let’s-invite-poor-Macy-cause-she’s-on-her-own-ness of Penny and Santiago’s gesture had reminded her of a period of her life she would rather forget.

Her ghosts of Christmas past might not bring back wholly happy memories. But they were still her ghosts, her past. Macy missed the States. She missed the tacky lights that everyone put up, complete with reindeer statues, in the front yard. She missed the cheesy piped music everywhere, and
It’s a Wonderful Life
on the TV, and
A Charlie Brown Christmas
, and the Salvation Army ringing their bells outside
.
This year she didn’t think she’d heard Vince Guaraldi on the radio even one time. How could anyone celebrate Christmas without Charlie Brown music, for God’s sake?

She missed her little house in Laurel Canyon. That house had been her sanctuary, her fortress, her respite. Now it was five thousand miles away, but it felt even further, almost as if it were in a different dimension, part of a life she’d dreamed once and woken up from. Or was this the dream? England, James,
Valley Farm
.

Gabriel Baxter.

Going upstairs, Macy switched on the computer in her bedroom and then started running a bath. The Organic Pharmacy made an amazing lavender essential oil that made the whole house smell like an Aman hotel and never failed to relax her. Starting to unwind at last, she undressed and pulled a cashmere robe and slippers on while she checked her emails. She would Skype James later. It was nearly six o’clock now, nine o’clock in Dubai. He had a big team dinner tonight and wouldn’t be back at his hotel till eleven at the earliest.

Checking her inbox she saw two messages from her father’s lawyer.
Austin Jamet.
It was a name Macy had come to hate. Per had finally stopped contacting her directly, but he hadn’t given up. Against her better judgement, she opened the latest message.

‘Miss Johanssen. I have an important communication for you from your father that is to your advantage. I urge you to contact this office urgently. Regards, Austin Jamet, Partner.’
There was a phone number for her to call at the bottom of the message.

Macy deleted it angrily.

‘Important communication’, indeed. Important to whom? Not to me.

Pushing her father out of her mind, she walked back into the bathroom and stepped gingerly into the steaming, lavender-scented water. It felt incredible. Naked except for her engagement ring, she twisted it around and around on her finger, admiring the emerald-cut diamond from every angle. By next Christmas she would be Mrs James Craven. She tried to picture herself married, but the image wouldn’t come. Would they be back in LA by then? Would Eddie have sold the
Valley Farm
format? Perhaps Macy would be presenting a similar show from somewhere in Northern California. Big Sur, maybe, or Napa? That part of the fantasy she could do. But when she tried to slot James into the picture, oh-so-British James, with his cricket and his club and his beloved nights at the pub, everything fell apart.

Stop over-thinking things
, Macy told herself, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into the water.
It will all work out. You just need to go with the flow.