The Show (42 page)

Gabe peeled back the clingfilm on the bowl of leftover lasagne and wrinkled his nose. It looked like something the dog had thrown up. In fairness, it hadn’t been particularly appetizing the first time around. Like everything else Gabe had eaten since Laura left, it had come out of a Tesco box. If there were an Olympic team for ‘piercing the film lid several times’, Gabe would have been a shoo-in. Not that the standard of cuisine had been much to write home about when Laura had lived here, he reminded himself ruefully. Thrusting the lasagne into the microwave, he heated it up anyway and opened a cheap bottle of wine. It was either the dog-sick lasagne or a bowl of Frosties, and he’d had Frosties for breakfast.
I really must sign up for an Ocado delivery
, he thought for the millionth time.

Laying the kitchen table for one, he wondered idly what Macy would be having tonight with this tosser from Morgan Stanley. Oysters and osso buco, probably.
Warren Hansen.
What the fuck kind of a name was that?

Gabe didn’t want to be with Macy. But it still irked him to think of her throwing herself away on someone so obviously unworthy of her. He imagined Warren as a typical lantern-jawed, white-toothed American wearing an expensive suit and too much aftershave, boring on about Harvard Business School.

On balance, a night on his own eating dog-sick lasagne seemed preferable.

Actually, once he’d smothered it in ketchup and washed it down with plonk, the lasagne wasn’t that bad. Flipping through
Horse & Hound
as he ate, Gabe was actually starting to enjoy his evening when a lawyer’s letter fluttered out from between the magazine’s pages. Norma, the current cleaner, must have slipped it in there by mistake when she was tidying up the kitchen table.

‘Leigh & Graylings, Solicitors.’

How Gabe had come to hate that letterhead! A date had been set for the divorce hearing. Gabe’s lawyers had done all they could to delay things. But with Gabe’s unwillingness to fight with Laura over either custody or finances, he hadn’t left them much wiggle room.

In a few weeks, they’d be in court. In a few months at most, the divorce would be finalized. No going back.

It still didn’t feel real. But it was. The letter in front of him spelled out that fact in ugly black letters.

The ringing phone jolted him momentarily out of his dark mood. As always when the phone rang, a part of him hoped it might be Laura. But saying what? That she’d changed her mind?
It’s not going to happen, you moron
, Gabe scolded himself.

‘Hello?’

‘Gabe. It’s Brett.’

Brett Cranley’s deep, gravelly Australian voice boomed out of the receiver, as punchily confident as ever.

‘Brett! I heard you were in town. How are you?’

‘Oh, you know. Better than you, I guess. Sorry to hear about Laura.’

Gabe liked the easy way Brett talked, as if the two of them spoke all the time. In fact, Gabe hadn’t heard from Brett in well over a year.

‘Look, mate, are you busy?’

‘Busy?’ Gabe looked down at his sorry supper and the lawyer’s letter. ‘No. Not remotely. You?’

‘I’m going stir-crazy up at Furlings,’ Brett confided. ‘I’ve only been here a day and already I feel like the walls are closing in. I need to escape. You don’t fancy a pint, do you?’

In the bar at The Fox ten minutes later, Gabe and Brett sat nursing pints of Guinness and sharing a side of chips.

Brett looked older than Gabe remembered him. The grey that had once dusted his temples had now spread everywhere, and the fan of lines around his eyes had become deep grooves. Then again, he
was
older. Gabe calculated that he must be in his early to mid-sixties. But he still had that incredible dynamism; that raw, masculine energy that was part ambition, part testosterone and that had always drawn women to him like waves to the shore.

‘How’s Tati?’ Gabe asked. ‘Is she here?’

‘No, not this time, thank God.’

Gabe raised an eyebrow. ‘Are things not good with you two?’

Brett took a long, deep draught of his beer. ‘Things are fine. You know us. We still fight like two cats in a bag.’ He grinned. ‘But I love her.’

It struck Gabe that the old Brett Cranley would never have made such an admission openly, despite its obvious truth. Tatiana Flint-Hamilton had tamed him. Or perhaps age had done that?

‘I just hate bringing her back to Furlings,’ Brett went on. ‘It’s the same every time: “You stole my house.” “If you loved me, you’d get Furlings back.”’ He rolled his eyes. ‘The truth is, Tati’s really happy in the States. But she’d rather die than admit it.’

‘And what brings you back this time?’ asked Gabe.

‘The usual. Work,’ said Brett, greedily stuffing chips into his mouth. The Fox’s chips were the best in the world, bar none: salty and fatty and perfect. ‘And some family stuff. Jason and George are adopting another kid.’

‘That’s great,’ said Gabe. Then, seeing Brett’s frown added, ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Brett.

Brett had had a tough time when his son came out as gay, and an even tougher one when Jason got married. Perhaps he was still struggling with it?

‘It’s not about them being nancies,’ said Brett, reading Gabe’s thoughts. ‘I just think George is too old. Tati still talks about us adopting, but at my age I think it’s crazy. Still. Jason’s a good father. A thousand times better than I was.’

Brett noticed that Gabe had turned away slightly, lost in his own thoughts.

‘How are your boys?’ he asked.

‘They’re good.’ Gabe forced a smile. ‘They’re in London with Laura during the week. I get them weekends and holidays. But I think they’re happy.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m OK.’

Brett gave him a look that clearly said he wasn’t buying it.

Gabe sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair. ‘All right then. I’m shit. Life is shit. And, the worst part is, it’s all my fault.’

He poured out the whole story to Brett. How he and Laura had been arguing for months. How Laura felt that
Valley Farm
’s success and Gabe’s small taste of fame had turned his head.

‘And had they?’ asked Brett.

Gabe shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I could be a bit of a knob.’

Brett laughed.

‘But then, you know, I was a bit of a knob when she married me. It seems harsh to suddenly start using it against me now.’

Brett laughed again. ‘And Macy Johanssen? Gorgeous girl, by the way.’

‘Macy was there,’ said Gabe. ‘I know it sounds awful to say it like that, but it’s the truth. We were in LA, we were pissed as farts, Laura and I had had another barney on the phone. It happened.’

‘So you don’t have any feelings for her? For Macy?’

Gabe stared into his Guinness, as if the swirling black liquid might hold the answer to Brett’s question. ‘I didn’t say that,’ he said softly.

And then he started to talk to Brett about Macy. Thoughts and feelings he didn’t know he had until he started saying them out loud. How she’d been a great friend through a terrible time. How he always had so much fun in her company, while he and Laura always seemed to be at odds. How attractive she was. And how he was pretty sure she was in love with him.

‘How was the sex?’ Brett asked bluntly.

‘It was great,’ Gabe replied, equally bluntly.

‘Have you done it again?’

‘No,’ said Gabe. The ‘Not yet’
hung heavily in the air between them. ‘The thing is, I still love Laura. I don’t know how to stop loving her. I don’t think I want to stop.’

‘You don’t have to stop,’ said Brett. ‘And you won’t. I still love Ange.’

‘Really?’ Gabe sounded astonished.

‘Of course. She’s the mother of my children. We were married for twenty years – twenty good years. She’s family. Even if she weren’t, she’s the loveliest woman on earth. Always has been.’

‘So why did you get divorced?’

‘Well, firstly, she divorced me. A bit like you and Laura. I fought it in the beginning. I was miserable. I didn’t want to lose my family – nobody does. I was scared shitless, if you want the truth.’

‘But you loved Tatiana?’

Brett nodded. ‘I did, yes. But if you think that takes away the pain, you’re wrong.’

‘What does take away the pain?’ Gabe asked despairingly.

‘Time,’ said Brett, with reassuring confidence. ‘I’m staying up at Furlings now, under my ex-roof, with my ex-wife and her fella. And it’s fine. I’m happy, she’s happy, everybody’s happy. Life moves on, and it
should
move on. My marriage with Ange was a wonderful chapter in my life and a long one. But being with Tatiana is a new chapter, and that’s great too. Do you want my advice?’

‘Not really,’ said Gabe. ‘I want my life back.’

‘Well you can’t have it,’ said Brett. ‘Not your old life, anyway. Let it go, and give things a shot with Macy.’

Gabe shook his head. Hearing Brett say it out loud like that was shocking.

‘I can’t. I’m still in love with my wife.’

Brett looked him in the eye. ‘I’m saying this as a friend, mate. But she’s not coming back. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can all get on with your lives.’

They ordered more drinks, and Brett dragged the conversation back to less emotive topics. He quizzed him in detail on the ongoing negotiations with Fox, and the complicated finances of syndication. After that they got back to Swell Valley gossip. Before long Gabe had Brett laughing again, filling him in on all the salacious
Valley Farm
rumours, the latest with the Wellesley family soap opera, and hilarious stories about the vicar, ‘Call-me-Bill’ Clempson.

‘I think Jen, the young vet on our show, fancies him,’ Gabe told Brett, through tears of laughter. ‘Can you imagine? If I sleep with anyone it really ought to be her. Purely as an act of public service. She clearly needs saving from herself.’

‘
I
need saving!’ said Brett. ‘The vicar was round at Furlings today, hitting me up for money before I’d got my suitcase upstairs! I don’t even bloody live here any more.’

‘Yeah, well. I’m not sleeping with you.’ Gabe downed the last of his drink.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Brett.

The bell rang for last orders.

‘One more for the road?’ said Gabe. He was already happily drunk and saw no reason to stop now.

‘Nah,’ said Brett, getting to his feet. ‘Hell hath no fury like an ex-wife woken up by her drunk former husband. Good to see you, though, mate. And good luck.’

Weaving his way home along the dark lane ten minutes later, Gabe thought about everything Brett had said. His deep, gravelly voice drifted back to Gabe now, ringing in his ears in the stillness.

You can be happy again. And you will.

All you have to do is let go …

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bill Clempson pedalled harder up Wincombe Hill, sweating profusely. It was almost noon on a hot, windless day in the valley, and the sights and smells of summer were everywhere. To the vicar’s left and right, hedgerows erupted with honeysuckle and overblown Queen Anne’s lace, with bright red poppies and blue cornflowers injecting a welcome pop of colour. Sparrows twittered and swallows swooped low over the fields, like miniature, feathered kamikaze pilots bombing the hay bales.

Rounding the top of the hill, Bill stopped to catch his breath and admire the view of Fittlescombe village, spread out below him like a child’s toy town. How beautiful it was here! How easy to believe in God, and goodness and a divine order. Of course recently village life – Bill’s life anyway – had been given an added
frisson
by the possibility of running into the lovely Jennifer Lee. Last week,
Valley Farm
’s vet-in-residence had finally taken the vicar up on his offer of a drink. Although the evening had ended with a platonic, even reverend kiss on the cheek, Bill flattered himself that there was something there. A spark, for want of a better word. Just knowing that he might run into Jennifer – outside Wraggsbottom Farm or in the village stores – injected a little kick of excitement and happiness into Bill’s days.

It was much needed, to be honest. Having given his all to the campaign against the reality show cameras, Bill felt lost now that local interest in the protest had tailed off. Worse, by continuing to take a moral stand on the issue, frequently referencing the importance of community and of privacy in his Sunday sermons, he feared he might have alienated many of the Fittlescombe flock. And yet, wasn’t it a vicar’s job to be principled? To stick by what was right, even after it had ceased to be popular?

He felt particularly betrayed by David Carlyle, whose newspaper, the
Echo
, had dropped the anti-
Valley Farm
campaign like a stone the moment it acquired juicier stories about Eddie Wellesley and Gabriel Baxter. The
Echo
’s mean-spirited smear campaigns against both families had left Fittlescombe’s vicar looking tainted by association, and had seriously undermined the credibility of the ‘Save Our Village’ message. To add insult to injury, David had long since stopped returning Bill Clempson’s calls, and almost never showed his face in the valley any more, preferring to spend all his time up in London, no doubt plotting more dastardly acts against Fast Eddie Wellesley. It’s never pleasant to realize that one has been used. Bill’s challenge now was not just to forgive, but to find a new path forward, as Fittlescombe’s spiritual leader.
Not easy.

Pushing off, Bill whizzed down the other side of the hill, sticking his legs out on either side of him like a little boy and grinning as the wind swept his hair back off his face and the meadows and woods flew by. It was so exhilarating, he quite forgot how fast he was going until he turned the corner at the bottom of the High Street and almost knocked a man flying.

‘Oh my goodness! I am so sorry.’

Screeching to an ignominious halt, he propped his bike against the wall and rushed over to the man, only to find it was none other than Eddie Wellesley himself.

‘Sir Edward!’ Bill dusted himself down. ‘I do apologize. I was going far too fast, I’m afraid. Are you all right?’