Читать книгу The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny! - Тилли Бэгшоу - Страница 18

Macy Johanssen pushed her dark hair out of her eyes and leaned back against the kitchen island with satisfaction. On the antique Welsh dresser opposite her, a pretty collection of mismatched china gleamed cheerfully, and a heavily scented jug of peonies made a perfect centrepiece for the table Macy had had shipped over from California.

After a week of solid unpacking, plumping up cushions, making beds and arranging treasures old and new, Cranbourne House was finally coming together. And what a house it was.

Eddie hadn’t been exaggerating about the picture-postcard prettiness of the Swell Valley. If anything he’d played down the majesty of the ancient rolling chalk hills that locals called ‘the Downs’ – it seemed to Macy they went up as well as down, but who was quibbling? – and the quaint loveliness of the villages. Even the names sounded like something out of a storybook: Fittlescombe, Brockhurst, Hinton Down, Lower Cricksmere. As for Cranbourne House, the property Eddie and the network had rented for Macy on the edge of Fittlescombe, it was really more of a large cottage – three cottages knocked together, in fact. It was all Macy could do not to cry when she saw the flint and tile-hung beauty, peeking out coyly from behind its veil of ivy and climbing roses. The garden was small but perfectly formed, and complete with both a pear and a walnut tree, as well as a buddleia smothered in butterflies. Whatever happened with the show, Macy was glad she’d taken a leap of faith and come to England. How could wonderful, happy things not happen to a girl in a place like this?

A loud knocking on the front door broke her reverie. Macy opened it to find Eddie standing on the doorstep with a very pretty woman. She was at least ten years older than Macy, yet there was something appealingly youthful about her. Possibly it was her wild mane of blue-black curls, or the lack of make-up on her pale skin, or the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She wore jeans and a chocolate-brown sweater, and was clutching a laptop and phone in a rather businesslike manner.

‘This is Laura Baxter, our producer, director, creator and all-round wonder-woman.’ Eddie beamed.

‘My boss, you mean?’ Macy looked at Laura appraisingly. She’d never worked for a woman before and wondered whether she was going to like it.

‘Exactly.’ Laura smiled. Macy instantly liked her less. Laura might be the boss on paper, but Macy was the star of the show. She resented Laura’s natural assertion of authority. And she wasn’t keen on the doe-eyed way Eddie looked at her, either. Macy wasn’t at all sure there was room for two beautiful women on the Valley Farm set.

‘I thought it was time the two of you met,’ said Eddie. ‘As you know, we have our first official on-set meeting tomorrow morning at the farm. But we ought to put faces to names before then. May we come in?’

‘Of course.’

Macy led them through to the drawing room, a small but pretty space overlooking the rear garden. It struck Laura how perfect the room looked already, all white linen sofas and artlessly arranged crystal. Clearly Macy had the same flair for decor as Lady Wellesley. Is that what Eddie goes for, I wonder? she thought idly. The perfect homemaker, china-doll look? He wouldn’t last long with me.

‘Tea?’ Macy offered. ‘Or fresh juice? I made some kale-ade this morning, it’s delicious.’

‘Sounds disgusting,’ Eddie said cheerfully. ‘I’m all right, thanks.’

‘Me too,’ said Laura. ‘How are you finding England so far?’

‘So far so good,’ Macy said warily.

‘Have you read over your script for the pilot?’

‘Sure,’ Macy lied. Evidently the small-talk part of the visit was already over. ‘Eddie tells me you’ve never done scripted reality.’

‘Funny,’ Macy shot back. ‘He said the same about you.’

Laura looked up sharply, as if seeing Macy for the first time.

‘It’s true, my background is in drama. To be honest, from a writing perspective, this is easier. But it presents other challenges. A lot rests on the interaction between you and Gabe, your chemistry on screen.’

‘I don’t usually have a problem with chemistry,’ said Macy, catching Eddie’s eye for the most fleeting of moments.

‘Good,’ said Laura.

She didn’t warm to this girl. Eddie had described Macy as ‘very ambitious’ – not a bad thing in itself, as long as she remembered who was boss. Laura had seen Grapevine. Macy was a talented presenter, no doubt about that. But Laura wondered how easy she was going to be to manage. She was clearly used to getting her own way. There would be no room for any diva antics on Valley Farm.

Laura stood up. ‘Do you have any questions for me, before tomorrow?’

Macy stifled a yawn. ‘No. I’m good.’

‘In that case, I look forward to seeing you bright and early up at Wraggsbottom.’

Macy giggled. ‘I still can’t get over that name. It’s like calling your house Ass-wipe. No offence.’

‘None taken,’ Laura said frostily. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

After they left, Eddie turned to Laura as they drove down the lane.

‘You don’t like her.’

Laura kept her eyes on the road. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘You weren’t exactly friendly.’

‘Nor was she. And I wasn’t unfriendly. Anyway, I’m not her friend. I’m her producer. This is my show, Eddie. I want to set the right tone, that’s all.’

Eddie put a hand over Laura’s and patted it reassuringly. ‘I understand. But there’s no need to hit back first. We’re all on the same team here, Laura. We all need Valley Farm to succeed.’

No you don’t, thought Laura. You want it to succeed. That’s a very different thing. Gabe and I need this money.

The truth was, the set-to at the school gates had shaken Laura up more than she cared to admit. With each passing day she found her own confidence in the show’s success waning, to the point where she was finding it really hard to sleep at night. While Gabe snored loudly beside her, Laura’s mind was whirring. My neighbours hate me, the bills keep rolling in, and I’ve staked my entire professional reputation on a reality show, a format about which I know precisely nothing. Macy’s quip just now about her lack of experience had hit home. Suddenly Laura felt desperately out of her depth. She knew she mustn’t let Macy see that. Or Eddie, for that matter.

‘OK,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll ease up. I just hope she cuts out the attitude with Gabe. He’s not big on stroppy women.’

Eddie looked at her and grinned, but wisely said nothing.

‘I can’t believe this.’ Laura ran an exasperated hand through her hair. ‘I seriously can’t believe it.’

It was the morning the film crew were supposed to come to see the farm for the first time, and a small but determined group of Fittlescombe villagers had gathered in the lane outside Wraggsbottom Farm to stage a protest. While Laura looked around a kitchen still littered with the detritus of yesterday’s cake-baking efforts (stupidly, she’d thought a bit of home cooking might make a nice welcome for the crew, temporarily forgetting that her culinary prowess was very much on the King Alfred end of the scale), shouts of ‘No TV in our Vall-ey!’ drifted noxiously in through the open window.

‘They’re driving me mad.’ She looked at Gabe despairingly. ‘Should we call the police?’

Gabe poured himself another coffee, his third of the morning, and frowned. ‘And say what? Unfortunately, it’s a free country. People are allowed to protest about things.’

‘Yes, but not at six in the morning, surely?’ said Laura. ‘That’s when they started.’

‘Don’t remind me,’ said Gabe.

Laura sighed heavily. ‘Look at this sodding mess. Why didn’t we clean it up last night?’

Gabe wrapped his arms around her. ‘Because I was too busy disabling the smoke alarms.’ Laura giggled. ‘And you were hitting the gin.’

Through the kitchen window, they could see the tops of the protestors’ placards, emblazoned with such cheery slogans as: ‘GO HOME CHANNEL 5!’ and ‘SAVE OUR VILLAGE!’

‘At least the kids aren’t here,’ said Laura.

‘Exactly,’ said Gabe. ‘Look on the bright side.’

Greta, the Baxters’ part-time nanny, had taken Hugh and Luca out to Drusillas Zoo earlier, with both the boys cheerfully chanting ‘No TV!’ as they got into the car.

It was now nine o’clock. The production team and Macy were due at the farm by ten, to do some walk-throughs of the property and set up for next week’s pilot episode. Laura had a headache that could have felled an elephant, and Gabe’s nerves, already frayed at the prospect of meeting his co-presenter and performing on camera for the first time, had not been helped by the relentless cacophony.

Opening the kitchen cupboards, he began pulling out a teapot, mugs, a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a tray.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Laura.

‘Loving my neighbour. I’m going to disarm them with the power of McVitie’s.’

Laura’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious? You’re taking them tea?’

‘It’s either that or spray them with slurry.’

Laura knew which option she preferred. But five minutes later, Gabe was outside the farm gates, tray in hand, smiling warmly at the sea of scowling faces.

‘Tea, anyone? I’d offer you a home-made cake, but unfortunately my wife is a shit cook and they all turned out like charcoal.’

Reverend Clempson’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Oh come on, Vicar. All that shouting must be thirsty work.’ Gabe’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Can’t I tempt you with a Jaffa Cake?’

‘He can tempt me with a Jaffa Cake,’ one of the younger, female protestors whispered to her friend.

‘Or without,’ her friend sighed.

In faded jeans, wellington boots and a checked white and brown shirt rolled up to the elbows, Gabe looked fit and tanned and disgustingly rugged. One by one the female protestors put down their placards and accepted mugs of tea. By the time Macy Johanssen arrived at the farm, the scene outside looked more like a picnic than a picket line. Only the vicar and a few older men were still marching and chanting.

‘Gabriel?’ Macy offered her hand to the handsome, wellbuilt blond man holding court among the women.

No wonder they picked him to present, she thought. If all farmers looked like that, Dorothy would never have left Kansas.

Gabe turned away from his admirers and fixed his eyes appreciatively on the petite, attractive girl in front of him. She had Laura’s colouring, very pale skin with strikingly dark hair. But unlike Laura she was tiny and doll-like and immaculately well-groomed, all sleek hair and expensive clothes and perfectly manicured nails. You could tell in an instant that she didn’t have children.

‘You must be Macy,’ he beamed. ‘Lovely to finally meet you. Come on in.’

Macy followed him into the kitchen. In the ten minutes since Gabe had been outside, Laura had made valiant efforts to clean up. Gabe was relieved to see the kitchen looking almost habitable again and to hear the low hum of the dishwasher getting to work.

‘Darling,’ said Gabe. ‘Macy’s arrived.’

Laura, now sitting at the table engrossed by her laptop, didn’t look up.

This woman’s really beginning to annoy me, thought Macy, who’d been in a great mood up till then. She’d walked down the lane from Cranbourne House this morning. The sun was out, the meadows were full of wild flowers and the tall hedgerows teemed with butterflies and bees and twittering birds like something out of a Disney cartoon. But Laura Baxter was the ultimate buzz-kill.

‘Sorry.’ Gabe apologized for his wife’s rudeness. ‘We’ve had a bit of a crazy morning. Can I get you anything?’

‘Tea would be lovely.’

Seconds later the first of the TV crew vans pulled into the farmyard and the chanting began again. Laura slammed shut her laptop with a clatter.

‘No time for that, I’m afraid,’ she said briskly. ‘We have a ton to do today. Let’s get to work.’

The rest of the morning passed in a whirl of activity, confusion and stress. While Laura and the film crew hotly debated set-ups and camera angles, Gabe and Macy were made to do take after take after take, some ad-libbed and some scripted. Macy was kicked in the shin by a lamb, urinated on by a piglet and yelled at countless times by Laura, who was distracted by the increasing din of the protestors. At some point a minivan had pulled up outside the gates, depositing at least twenty rent-a-mobbers, none of whom Laura or Gabe recognized. Soon afterwards, reporters from the Echo started taking pictures, climbing up onto walls and farm buildings and into trees like an unwelcome swarm of ants.

‘Bloody David Carlyle,’ Gabe seethed. ‘He’s orchestrating this whole thing, the little shit.’

‘Who’s David Carlyle?’ asked Macy. Her eye make-up was starting to run and she was already regretting the black, long-sleeved dress with a low ‘V’ at the front that was far too hot and making her sweat unpleasantly under the arms and between her breasts.

‘A shit-stirrer,’ said Gabe. ‘The Vladimir Putin of Swell Valley. I’ll explain at lunch.’

Laura overheard them. ‘We’re not breaking for lunch, I’m afraid. We are way, way behind.’

‘Bollocks to that,’ said Gabe robustly. He understood Laura was stressed. A lot rested on all this. But people had to eat. ‘Macy and I are starving. I’m taking her to The Fox for a bite.’

Macy waited for Laura to lose her temper, but instead she merely shrugged. ‘All right. Work on your lines while you’re there, then. And be back by two.’

Gabe kissed his wife lovingly on the cheek. ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n. Come on,’ he turned to Macy. ‘Let’s get out of here before the black hole sucks us back in.’

The Fox was unusually busy for a Monday lunchtime. People came to Fittlescombe’s quaint, riverside pub as much for the gossip as the fare, and this week there were two exciting events to talk about: Gabe and Laura Baxter’s new TV show, and next weekend’s big wedding.

Logan Cranley, the stunning daughter of Brett and Angela Cranley, was marrying her long-term boyfriend, Tom Hargreaves, this Saturday in St Hilda’s Church. Logan’s parents had divorced in a blaze of publicity three years ago. Her father, Brett, had moved to America with Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, the former wild-child heiress of Furlings turned international business phenomenon. Tatiana also happened to be Brett’s daughter-in-law at the time, so it was something of a scandal all around. Supposedly, Cranley family relations were now cordial. But where Tatiana Flint-Hamilton was concerned, there was always the potential for drama. Logan’s wedding would be the first time that all parties had been under the same roof since the divorce. The fact that this would happen in public and in the village was too thrilling for words.

Gabe led Macy to a quietish corner near the bar and they ordered from the blackboard. Fresh local crab salad and spring pea soup for Macy and an Angus beefburger and chips for Gabe.

‘The food’s average but the beer’s great,’ said Gabe.

‘As long as you like it warm, right?’ quipped Macy.

‘Of course. This is England. We don’t do ice.’

He’s so easy-going, thought Macy. She wondered how on earth he’d wound up with a miserable nag like Laura.

As if reading her mind, Gabe said, ‘You mustn’t mind Laura. She’s not normally like this, honestly. She’s been so stressed about this show, poor darling, and the protests haven’t helped.’

He told Macy about the other children picking on Hugh at school, and the malicious gossip Laura had endured around the village. ‘It’s water off a duck’s back to me,’ he said, in between large, satisfying bites of his juicy beefburger. ‘But Laura hates conflict.’

Macy looked disbelieving.

‘Normally,’ Gabe chuckled. ‘Plus, you know, she has a ridiculously romantic, idealized view of village life. She always has done, ever since she used to come here for summers as a kid and stay at her granny’s place. She thinks Fittlescombe’s perfect and everybody ought to love everybody else and spend their time skipping around maypoles.’

‘And you don’t?’ asked Macy.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. But nowhere’s perfect. This is a real community, not a theme park. I think being a farmer gives you a more realistic view of life generally, to be honest.’

‘Is that why you wanted to do the show?’ Macy asked earnestly. ‘To educate people, from a farmer’s perspective?’

Gabe looked confused. ‘No. I’m doing the show to make money. Farming’s bloody hard work for almost no money. This month alone I’ve got to tail and castrate all the lambs, get them ear-notched and tagged, spray the potatoes, do muck-spreading across the whole farm, repair three broken walls and clean out the livestock buildings. I’m knackered just thinking about it. By getting a camera crew to follow me around, I’m already doubling my earnings. And if the show does well and Fast Eddie sells the format overseas, who knows? We might make some real money for a change.’

‘But you aren’t worried about the protests?’ Macy asked. ‘Now that a national newspaper’s involved, couldn’t they shut us down before we begin?’

‘Nah. If anything, it’ll generate some free publicity, while it lasts. But things will calm down, trust me,’ said Gabe. ‘At least, they will if he winds his neck in.’

He turned to glare at Call-me-Bill Clempson, who’d just walked in with a couple of local farmers. Both had been friends of Gabe’s before the furore about Valley Farm broke out.

‘The vicar?’

Gabe nodded bitterly.

‘But he looks so harmless. Like a little vole.’

‘He’s not harmless. He’s a self-righteous dick,’ said Gabe. ‘Zipping around the village in his little red car like bloody Noddy, making me and Laura out to be some sort of landed gentry intent on keeping the peasants down.’ He told Macy about the right-to-roam debacle. ‘The truth is we haven’t got a fucking bean of disposable income. I mean, the house is valuable, but our mortgage is massive and the upkeep costs a bomb. It’s not as if we’re running around buying diamonds and eating sodding caviar.’

Macy decided it was time to change the subject. ‘You know, you’re really good on camera.’

‘D’you think so?’ Gabe’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. ‘I was shitting bricks, to be honest with you. I’ve never done anything like this before. I couldn’t bear it if I were a total failure and let Laura down.’

‘No chance of that.’ Macy patted his hand across the table. It was quite astonishing how often he mentioned his wife, and how obviously in love with her he was. ‘You’re a natural.’

Just at the moment their hands touched, the vicar appeared at their table, looking both smug and disapproving, as if he’d caught Gabe out at something illicit.

‘Hello Gabriel. Miss Johanssen.’

‘Bugger off, “Bill”,’ said Gabe. ‘We’re trying to have a quiet lunch.’

‘I was only saying hello.’ The vicar blushed. ‘There’s really no need for profanity.’

‘That’s debatable,’ grumbled Gabe.

Macy gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I hear you have a big wedding this weekend, Vicar?’

‘Indeed I do.’ Bill Clempson smiled back. Macy tried not to look shocked by how crooked his teeth were. Then again the British did seem to have a peculiar aversion to visiting the dentist’s office.

‘Shouldn’t you be preparing for it then, instead of making a nuisance of yourself at my farm?’ said Gabe. ‘I’d stick to the day job if I were you, Bill.’

Bill Clempson bristled.

‘Standing up for my parishioners is my day job.’

‘Yeah, well. The Cranleys won’t be best pleased if you fluff the “I do’s”.’

‘I don’t work for the Cranleys,’ Call-me-Bill replied sanctimoniously. ‘I work for God. Nor do I care in the least what wealthy and powerful people might think of me.’

‘Unless their name happens to be David Carlyle,’ Gabe shot back. ‘I saw you blowing smoke up his arse earlier.’

‘Gabe!’ Macy looked horrified.

‘Not very dignified for a man of the cloth,’ said Gabe.

‘Now look here—’ the vicar began angrily.

‘No, you look here!’ Before Macy knew what was happening, Gabe was on his feet. Picking the vicar up by the lapels, like a ventriloquist manhandling his dummy, Gabe pinned him against the wall.

‘You know nothing about this village, Clempson. Nothing! You’re upsetting my wife and you’re upsetting my children. So I suggest you crawl back under whatever rock you came out from, before I crush you like the pathetic little insect that you are.’

‘If you care so much about your wife’s feelings,’ Bill Clempson stammered, ‘perhaps you should reconsider how you choose to spend your lunch hours, Mr Baxter.’ He looked meaningfully at Macy. ‘Instead of lashing out at others.’

The insinuation was too much for Gabe. ‘You little weasel! What are you implying?’

Bill Clempson let out a distinctly unmanly whimper as Gabe drew back his fist.

‘Gabriel!’ The landlord marched over.

‘What?’

‘Put him down.’

Gabe hesitated.

‘Put the vicar down, Gabe, or you’re barred. I mean it.’

Aware that all eyes were on him, Gabe released the reverend. Call-me-Bill slid to the floor like a sack of rubbish.

‘We’re leaving anyway.’ Reaching into his wallet, Gabe dropped two twenty-pound notes on the table. Grabbing Macy’s hand, he pulled her towards the door. As they stormed out of the pub, a camera clicked frenziedly.

A woman seated a few tables away watched them go, then turned to her husband.

‘If Valley Farm’s half as dramatic as this, I’m definitely watching it.’

‘Me too,’ said her husband. ‘That American bird’s a knockout. Laura Baxter had better watch her back.’

Annabel Wellesley tried to relax. Driving her new Range Rover Sport through Brockhurst High Street towards Fittlescombe, she was aware of her rigid back and hunched shoulders, and the clenched set of her jaw that made her whole face ache.

It had been an immensely stressful few weeks. Ever since Eddie got back from his American trip, he’d been like a racehorse with the bit between its teeth about this damned television programme. A reality show! Could there be anything more common? More shaming?

Eddie had assured her that he wouldn’t appear in front of the cameras. ‘I’m just the money man, darling.’ But Annabel understood that these sorts of programmes thrived on drama. It was only a matter of time before their private lives would be dragged into the maelstrom once again, a thought that brought Annabel out in a nervous rash.

And it wasn’t just the invasion of privacy. Annabel resented Eddie’s long absences from Riverside Hall, in particular the inordinate amount of time he seemed to spend in the company of the very pretty Mrs Baxter. They’d moved here for a fresh start, so that they could spend more time together as a couple, in private, and so that Eddie could focus on clawing back his political career. But instead, Eddie was never around, they were all over the newspapers again courtesy of the vile David Carlyle, and Eddie’s ‘return to Westminster’ campaign had been put on a permanent back burner.

Things might have been easier for Annabel if life had been running smoothly at Riverside Hall. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Having hired and fired three utterly useless local cleaning women (the last one, Rita, had such terrible body odour that Annabel had been forced to follow her around each room with a bowl of potpourri and a can of Febreze, and the ones before that were so lazy and inbred they thought dusting was something one did to crops and polishing silver meant putting priceless bone-handled cutlery in the dishwasher), Annabel was once again run ragged doing everything herself.

And then there was Milo.

Since Harrow had booted him out, Milo had been enrolled on an A-level course at the local comprehensive school in Hinton. To his mother’s certain knowledge, however, he’d attended this establishment a total of four times in the last three months, three of them to pick up a thoroughly unsuitable girl he’d started going out with, and once to cheer on the cricket team.

‘They’re so bad, Mum, honestly. They need all the support they can get.’

As admirable as her son’s team spirit was, Annabel realized it was small consolation in the face of his wanton laziness, rampant entitlement and utter lack of ambition. Milo spent half of his days in bed, and the other half either down at The Fox or sprawled out in front of the television watching Deal or No Deal or box sets of American dramas. Breaking Bad was his latest obsession.

‘It could be worse,’ Milo told Annabel, seriously, when she berated him for the umpteenth time for wasting his life. ‘At least I’m not a meth head.’

Annabel was at her wits’ end. Eddie had promised to ‘sort Milo out’, but he’d been so distracted with this damn TV show he’d barely glimpsed the boy in weeks.

Last night Annabel had finally lost her temper and had a terrible row with Milo. Roxanne, the appalling girlfriend from Hinton Comp, had ‘borrowed’ Annabel’s favourite string of pearls for a night out clubbing in London and failed to return them.

‘She was mugged,’ Milo told his mother solemnly.

‘The only mug around here is you,’ Annabel snapped. ‘She clearly sold them herself. Probably for drugs.’

‘Why would you say that?’ Milo looked hurt. ‘Roxie doesn’t do drugs.’

‘Of course she does drugs,’ said Annabel contemptuously. ‘All girls from her background do drugs. The only reason you don’t know that is because you’re from a different class. Not that anyone would ever know it these days.’

‘I’m glad they wouldn’t know it if it means being a crashing snob like you,’ Milo shot back. ‘You don’t know anything about Roxanne.’

‘I know she had no business wearing my jewellery. And I know she is never, ever setting foot in my house again. Do you understand?’

The ensuing row was truly awful. Eddie, as usual, had opted out, retreating to his study to ‘work’. Well, no more. Annabel had had enough. The new maid, Magda, was arriving this afternoon, thank God. Eddie had promised to come home and take Milo out of the house for a good talking-to, while Annabel showed the girl around. She was Eastern European, which boded well for hard work, if not necessarily for honesty. Still, at this point, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Annabel exhaled deeply as the valley opened out below her and the red-tiled roof of Wraggsbottom Farm hove into view.

She’d decided to drive over to Fittlescombe herself to collect Eddie. Partly because, if he didn’t talk to Milo today, she feared she might kill one or both of them. And partly because she wanted to see for herself what Valley Farm was all about. For a ‘money man’, Eddie was certainly spending a lot of time on set.

The worst part of finding out about Eddie’s affairs was the humiliation of not knowing. All those girls. All those years. And Annabel had had no clue.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. From now on, she intended to know everything.

‘You idiot! You absolute, bloody idiot!’

Gabe couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Laura so angry. Macy, thankfully, had already gone home, so she wasn’t there to see the meltdown. Most of the crew had gone too, but the lighting guys were still at the farm, setting up in the pig pens; as was Eddie Wellesley, who sat perched on a stool by the Aga, making calls and tapping figures into his iPad like an extremely well-heeled accountant.

‘What if he calls the police?’ asked Laura. ‘He could have you charged with assault.’

‘No one’s going to charge anyone,’ said Gabe. ‘There wasn’t a scratch on him.’

‘We start filming in a week!’ Laura screeched.

‘I know!’ Gabe shouted back. ‘Do you think I don’t know? You’re not the only one working your arse off for this.’

Laura put her head in her hands. ‘You are the face of this show, Gabe. People have to like you. You just beat up a clergyman in broad daylight because you didn’t like the cut of his jib. How is that helpful?’

‘He accused me of flirting with Macy. As good as accused me,’ Gabe shot back.

‘Well, I expect you were,’ said Laura.

‘I was not.’

‘You’d flirt with your own shadow if you thought no one was watching,’ Laura teased him. She knew she needed to lighten the mood. That her own stress was rubbing off on Gabe, and everyone, and making everything worse. But unfortunately Gabe took her comment the wrong way.

‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he said crossly. Thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, he stomped off like a sulky schoolboy.

‘He’s only angry because he knows I’m right,’ Laura said to Eddie, who’d sat and watched the entire contretemps in silence. Suddenly the stress of the day got too much for her. She pinched the bridge of her nose to try to stop the tears from coming, but it was too late.

‘Oh God. Sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘I think I’m just exhausted.’

Eddie walked over and wrapped his arms around her. ‘It’s all right. Everyone’s on edge. But Gabe’s right, the vicar won’t press charges. It’ll blow over.’

‘Will it?’ sobbed Laura.

‘Of course it will. But you must try to relax, you really must. You’ll make yourself ill at this rate.’

‘I know,’ Laura nodded, burying her face in Eddie’s shirt, which smelled incongruously of wood polish. He really was a lovely man.

‘Edward!’

Releasing Laura as if he’d just discovered she was made of molten lava, Eddie turned round. Annabel stood in the kitchen doorway, a picture of rage. Gabe must have left the door to the yard open when he stormed out.

‘Darling! What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Obviously.’

That’s all we need, thought Laura. More misunderstandings. She thought about saying something, trying to explain, but Annabel’s expression made it clear she was in no mood to hear it.

‘I need you to talk to Milo.’ Annabel was talking to Eddie, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘Right now.’

‘Of course,’ said Eddie, chastened. There was nothing going on between him and Laura. But after everything that had happened, he could hardly blame Annabel for thinking the worst.

Laura watched from the window as Eddie scurried across the farmyard after his rigid-shouldered wife. What a bloody awful day.

Valley Farm, 1. Marital Harmony, Nil.

Magda Bartosz clutched her small suitcase tightly in her left hand as she climbed out of her decrepit Ford Fiesta. It felt wrong, parking her rust-bucket of a car outside this spectacularly beautiful house. Like littering. But she was already late, thanks to an accident on the Lewes bypass, and there was nowhere else obvious to leave it. Smoothing down her skirt, Magda hurried up the steps to the front door, then hesitated.

Perhaps one doesn’t knock at the front door of a grand house, when arriving for a trial as a live-in maid? Is there a back door? A servants’ entrance? Or does that sort of thing only exist in Downton Abbey?, she thought.

Magda had been in England for a few years now, working as a companion-cum-housekeeper for an old woman who had since died. But English customs and traditions still baffled her, especially the ones that pertained to class. Magda herself had been born into an old and distinguished but impoverished family in Warsaw. Her proud, high cheekbones, smooth forehead and regal, aquiline nose bore testament to the better life once known by her ancestors. But everything that had once been refined and beautiful and pleasant about Magda’s life had evaporated long ago. So long ago, and so totally, that she rarely even thought about it any more.

I’m here now, she thought.

I’m lucky to be here, in this heavenly place, with a roof over my head and food and wages.

I must make this job work.

I must make the family love me.

Crunching across the gravel, she followed the path around the side of the house, past the noisily rushing river. A heavy wooden door led directly into the kitchen. Magda knocked loudly, but there was no answer. Tentatively, she tried the handle. It opened with a creak.

‘Hello?’

She stepped into the flagstoned room. It was spotlessly clean and smelled of fresh flowers and something baked and sweet and delicious. Something with cinnamon. For a moment she panicked that Lady Wellesley had already found a cleaner. But that couldn’t be right. Magda had received an email only yesterday confirming today’s arrangements.

‘Helloo?’ Setting down her suitcase, she ventured into the hall. The house appeared to be empty. A set of narrow, winding stairs led off to the right. Magda walked towards them. If there were a part of the house for servants, this was probably it. Suddenly she froze. A noise was coming from upstairs; a dreadful, primal moaning sound, as if someone had been injured.

Instinctively, Magda moved towards it. She heard it again, a woman’s voice. Her heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen. What if an intruder had attacked Lady Wellesley? What if he was still in the house somewhere? But she couldn’t run, nor could she call the police. At the top of the stairs now, her palms sweating, she burst into the room. ‘Are you all r …?’

A naked blonde with a phenomenal figure was lying on the bed, her back arched and legs spread. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. On the floor at the foot of the bed knelt a boy, also naked, his head very firmly planted between the girl’s thighs. The girl saw Magda first. Letting out an ear-piercing scream, she pulled the bed sheet around her like a shield. Startled, the boy turned round too.

‘Hello.’ He flashed Magda a sheepish smile. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Magda blurted, blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘I didn’t mean to … I thought someone had been hurt.’

Just then all three of them paused at the unmistakable sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs.

Seconds later a man’s voice boomed through the house like a giant’s. ‘Milo!’ Eddie roared. ‘Where are you? I want a word. Now.’

The smile melted off the boy’s face like butter on a hot stove. ‘Fuck.’ He turned back to the girl wrapped in the sheet behind him. ‘Dad’ll go ballistic if he finds you here. Hide!’

‘Where the fuck am I supposed to hide?’ demanded the girl. Not unreasonably, thought Magda, as – other than the bed – there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room. Clearly this was a largely unused part of the house. Magda also noticed that the girl’s accent was distinctly EastEnders. Unlike the boy, who seemed to have a whole handful of plums in his mouth.

‘Please. Help us.’ He looked pleadingly at Magda. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least that he was still stark naked.

‘I … how?’ Magda stammered. Sir Edward Wellesley’s heavy footsteps could be heard thundering up the stairs.

‘Stall him. Please. Just till I can get Roxanne out of here.’

Magda stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

Eddie was so engrossed in finding Milo – after a difficult journey home with Annabel he needed someone to take out his frustrations on – he didn’t even notice the young woman standing in the hallway until he’d almost bumped into her and knocked her flying.

‘Sorry! So sorry.’ He threw his arms wide, like a footballer admitting a foul. ‘I was looking for my son. Are you the new cleaner?’

Magda nodded meekly. ‘I arrived a few minutes ago.’

‘Marvellous. Lady Wellesley’s going to be terribly pleased to see you. Did Milo let you in?’

‘Er …’ Magda hesitated.

‘My son. Seventeen-year-old boy? Lazy, irritating, probably still in his pyjamas?’

‘I haven’t seen anyone.’ Magda’s heart thumped at the lie. ‘I came in the kitchen door. It was open.’

Annabel appeared at the other end of the hallway.

‘Ah darling,’ said Eddie. ‘This is the new cleaner. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask you your name.’

‘Magdalena Bartosz. Pleased to meet you, Lady Wellesley.’

If this was Lady Wellesley looking ‘delighted’, Magda dreaded to think what she might look like annoyed. She was a beautiful woman, but her entire body seemed clenched, and her mouth was pursed in a tight ‘o’ of disapproval, like a cat’s arse.

‘What are you doing upstairs?’ she demanded suspiciously.

‘I … I thought I heard a … er … a cat,’ Magda stammered.

‘A cat?’ Annabel frowned.

‘Yes.’

‘We don’t own a cat.’

Magda blushed again. ‘I must have been mistaken. I checked all the rooms in case it was shut in but they’re all empty.’

‘Hmm,’ said Eddie. ‘God knows where Milo’s got to. Darling, why don’t you show Magda to the cottage? I’m sure she must be tired after her journey. He turned to Magda. ‘Do you have a case?’

‘Yes, a small one. It’s in the kitchen.’

‘I’ll carry it across for you.’

‘Really, there’s no need. I can manage.’

‘I insist,’ said Eddie.

Five minutes later, following her new employers across the lawn towards the gardener’s cottage that she hoped might become her home, Magda looked over her shoulder. The girl, Roxanne, was clothed now and sprinting for her life away from the house towards the woods leading out to the lane.

Good, thought Magda. She made it.

It wasn’t until that evening that she bumped into Milo again. After an exhaustive tour of the house and a veritable bible of instructions from Lady Wellesley about laundry, fireplace-sweeping and hand-washing crystal, Magda was washing up in the kitchen when Milo sauntered in. In jeans, bare feet and a dark green fisherman’s sweater with holes in it, he looked lanky, like a young giraffe still not quite sure what to do with its legs.

‘Thank you for before,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Magda didn’t meet his eye. He seemed nice enough, but she didn’t want him to think she was some sort of co-conspirator. His mother had the power to hire or fire her. Magda could not afford to offend or upset Lady Wellesley, for anyone.

‘My mother’s not a fan of Roxie’s,’ Milo went on. ‘She thinks she’s beneath me.’

She was certainly beneath you this afternoon, thought Magda.

Sir Edward had described his son as lazy and disobedient. Magda could certainly imagine that to be the case, despite his charm.

‘The thing is, we’re in love,’ Milo explained.

‘It’s really none of my business,’ said Magda, drying her hands and reaching for the kitchen door. ‘Goodnight.’

‘I’ll walk you to the cottage if you like,’ said Milo. ‘It’s dark out there and it’s the least I can do after you saved my bacon earlier.’

‘No.’ The word came out more sharply than Magda had intended. ‘And please, don’t mention this again. Goodnight.’

Milo watched, chastened, as she slipped into the darkness and out of sight.