Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007523023

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007481415

Version: 2015-05-19

Dedication

For Zanna. With love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Cast of Characters

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Two

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Keep Reading: The Inheritance

Keep Reading: The Swell Valley Short Stories

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Tilly Bagshawe

About the Publisher

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Gabe Baxter leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear.

‘This is awful.’

‘Shhhh,’ Laura Baxter giggled.

‘I can’t shhh. I can’t stand it,’ said Gabe, running a hand through his thick blond hair. ‘Do you think if I offered to pay for the whole roof, she’d stop singing?’

‘Be quiet,’ Laura hissed at him. ‘You can’t even pay for your beer, never mind the school roof. So you’re just going to have to let it go!’

Gabe groaned. The Baxters were in the snug bar at The Fox on Fittlescombe Green, along with the rest of the village on this wet January evening, watching the talent show. Danny Jenner, The Fox’s landlord and village gossip, had organized the event to raise funds for a new school roof. The current performer, Claire Leaman, a dumpy twelve-year-old girl with boss eyes and a wildly misplaced confidence in her own abilities, had spent the last three minutes belting out the Frozen theme tune as if she were on stage at the Oscars, tossing her hair about and warbling like an opera singer on helium. After ‘Mike Malloy’s Marvellous Magic’ (a single, lame handkerchief trick) and Juggling Jack Willoughby, the half-blind church warden from Brockhurst, Gabe had dared to hope that they’d seen the worst of the night’s performers. Apparently he was wrong.

‘HERE I stand! And HERE I’ll staaaaa-aaaay!’ Claire screeched.

‘She can bloody well stay on her own,’ Gabe whispered back to Laura. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

‘Gabe. You can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s Gavin Leaman’s daughter, for one thing.’

‘All the more reason to get out of here,’ Gabe said with feeling.

Gavin Leaman was one of a group of ramblers – ‘The Swell Valley Right-to-Roamers’ they called themselves – who had had the audacity to tramp through Gabe’s orchard last weekend, and who had even wandered into his garden. Gabe had been enjoying Match of the Day in his living room when, as he put it, ‘some sanctimonious cagouled muppet with an Ordnance Survey map’ waved at him cheerfully, as if Gabe and Laura’s land was some sort of public park. Gabe had marched outside to have words with the intruders, and had ended up getting into an unfortunate row with Fittlescombe’s new vicar, Bill Clempson. It turned out the vicar was leading the charge on behalf of the ramblers, armed with a sensible padded nylon bum bag and a whistle.

‘You put them up to this, didn’t you, Vicar?’ Gabe said accusingly.

Bill Clempson pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t put anyone up to anything. These people have a perfect right to ramble here.’

‘First of all, they’re not “rambling”,’ Gabe said with feeling. ‘They’re not fucking Wombles. They’re trespassing.’

‘There’s no need to resort to bad language,’ chided the vicar.

‘If you’d taken the time to read the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000,’ one of the walkers piped up, an overweight woman in much-too-tight breeches, whom Gabe recognized from his son’s nursery, ‘you would know that the British countryside belongs to all of us.’

Gabe stepped forward menacingly. ‘Not this bit, sweetheart. You have precisely sixty seconds to get off my land or I’ll set the dogs on you. You too, Bill.’ Gabe growled at the vicar. Fucking interloper. Who did Clempson think he was?

This being Fittlescombe, exaggerated versions of this showdown were soon flying around the village, with Gabe Baxter either painted as the heroic defender of property rights (an Englishman’s home is his castle, after all) or an elitist snob who begrudged ordinary villagers, and even the parish vicar, a harmless stroll through his fields.

Laura had tried to keep out of it as much as possible. Gabe was right, in her view, but as usual he’d lost his temper and been horribly rude to people that they ran into in the village every single day, which didn’t help their cause, or make Laura’s life any easier. Still, these sorts of spats were part of village life. Not the first time, Laura felt as if her life was morphing into one long episode of The Archers.

Claire Leaman, the rambler’s daughter, was still caterwauling.

‘Sorry,’ said Gabe. ‘That’s it.’ With a mortifying clattering of bar stools, Fittlescombe’s best-looking farmer made his way noisily to the door, earning himself a furious look from Claire’s father and envious ones from just about everybody else.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Laura whispered to her neighbours as she followed him, blushing furiously. ‘He’s got a migraine.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ grumbled the old man near the door.

Outside, Laura found Gabe huddled beneath a willow tree, trying unsuccessfully to light a damp roll-up.

‘That was rude,’ she chastised him. ‘Poor girl.’

‘Poor girl?’ Gabe’s eyes widened. ‘What about the rest of us? Good grief. She’s got no more business singing in public than I have stripping naked and streaking through the House of Lords. Or going for a Sunday walk in somebody else’s garden. It’s just … wrong.’

He pulled an indignant face that made Laura burst out laughing.

‘You’re just wrong! Selfish arse.’

‘I’m so wrong, I’m right.’ Gabe grinned, lifting up an arm so that Laura could slip beneath it. ‘Right?’

Even after nearly ten years of marriage, Laura Baxter found it almost impossible to be close to her husband without touching him. Leaning into his broad chest, she breathed in his familiar, musky smell. Gabe was so handsome, it was almost offensive – blond and brawny and with the sort of smile that could light up even a dreary, drizzly January night like this one. Laura had moved to the Swell Valley to be with him, despite a very rocky courtship, and they were now the parents of two small boys. The Baxters were often broke and always exhausted, but Laura wouldn’t have traded their life for anything.

‘Traitors.’

Santiago de la Cruz – cricket star, valley local and Gabe’s close friend – slipped out a few moments later, nursing a glass of Laphroaig. Santiago was also gorgeous, although in a very different way from Gabe. Tall, dark and quintessentially Latin, he was always perfectly groomed, a thoroughbred racehorse to Gabe’s mud-splattered mustang.

‘How could you leave me in there?’ He rubbed the side of his head ruefully. ‘I think my ears have started to melt.’

He was followed by his wife, Penny. Widely agreed to be both the kindest woman in Fittlescombe and the worst dressed, Penny de la Cruz was almost invisible tonight beneath about six layers of sweaters, her wild, Pre-Raphaelite hair spilling out at the top like a fountain. Penny, bravely, had been on the side of the ramblers in the great ‘right-to-roam’ debacle. Santiago felt strongly that they should all be shot.

‘Honestly.’ Penny looked at Gabe, Laura and Santiago disapprovingly. ‘The three of you look like naughty schoolchildren, smoking behind the bike sheds. Come back inside before you catch hypothermia.’

‘Has she stopped?’ Gabe asked.

‘She’s stopped.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘Yes,’ said Penny. ‘And … I have gossip.’

That was all it took. Two minutes later the four of them were seated round a corner table, ignoring the next act while Penny spilled the beans.

‘Riverside Hall at Brockhurst has finally sold,’ she whispered importantly.

‘That’s it?’ said Santiago. ‘That’s the gossip?’

‘Nooooo.’ Penny shushed him. ‘The gossip is the new owners.’

She smiled cryptically.

‘Well, go on then,’ said Laura. ‘Who is it?’

‘Guess.’

‘We can’t guess. How are we supposed to guess?’

‘Simon Cowell,’ said Gabe.

Santiago gave him a look. ‘Simon Cowell? Why would Simon Cowell move to Brockhurst?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘Why not? You did. All right then. Madonna.’

‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’

‘What? She loves the English countryside,’ said Gabe. ‘She wears flat caps and drinks pints, remember?’

‘That was in her Guy Ritchie stage. Now she dates Brazilian teenagers and photographs her armpit hair,’ Laura reminded him. ‘Do keep up, darling.’

Never let it be said that she was behind on her celebrity gossip.

‘I’ll put you out of your misery,’ said Penny. ‘It’s Sir Edward Wellesley.’

There was a stunned silence. Gabe broke it first.

‘Isn’t he in prison?’

‘He gets out next week.’

‘Blimey. That wasn’t long. I might avoid my own taxes next year if that’s all you get.’

‘You have to have income to pay taxes,’ Laura reminded him sweetly.

‘Good point.’ Gabe squeezed his wife’s thigh.

‘Are you sure about this?’ Santiago asked Penny. For some reason he found it hard to imagine England’s most notoriously flamboyant, disgraced politician settling down to the quiet life in the Swell Valley. Especially in Riverside Hall, a grand but isolated old building that had stood empty for well over a year.

‘Positive. Angela Cranley saw Lady Wellesley with the estate agent last week. They completed ten days ago, apparently.’

‘Isn’t she supposed to be a nightmare?’ Gabe asked. ‘The wife?’

‘God yes. She’s a horror, a terrible snob. Do you remember how “Let them eat cake” she was at his trial?’ said Santiago.

‘I’m sure she was under immense pressure,’ Penny said kindly. ‘We must all give them a chance.’

Laura sipped her gin and tonic and felt a rush of pure happiness. She loved Penny and Santiago. She loved this pub, and village life, and the tight, gossipy world of the valley, a world where a new arrival with a scandalous past was ‘big news’. But most of all she loved Gabe and their boys.

I’m so lucky, she thought, reaching for her husband’s hand under the table. Life really doesn’t get any better than this.

Sir Edward Wellesley looked around the room that had been his home for the last year. As odd as it sounded, he’d grown fond of it.

Pictures of his wife and son, Milo, hung on the walls, along with countless shots of his beloved border terrier, Wilf, and of Eddie himself, shaking hands with world leaders or speaking at the Tory Party conference. In the corner was a small desk where Eddie had spent many fruitful hours working on his memoirs.

It was a ‘room’ rather than a cell. Not like the awful hole he’d been shut up in for the first three months of his sentence at HMP Kennet. Some chippy pleb in the SFO had decided to make an example of the former Work and Pensions minister, packing Eddie off to the most overcrowded prison in Britain. It was a huge relief to be transferred to Farndale Open Prison, a rambling former stately home set deep in the Hampshire countryside. Compared to Kennet, it was the Ritz-Carlton. Eddie had gone from sharing a squalid cell with five men to sharing a comfortable room with one: a perfectly charming stockbroker named William Rees who’d been had up for insider trading. Will had been released a month ago. Since then Eddie had had the room to himself.

Not that Kennet was all bad. Eddie had made some good friends there too. The truth was, he made friends everywhere. Sir Edward Wellesley was an easy man to like.

In his early forties, with thick black hair greying slightly at the temples and a faint fan of laughter lines around his wickedly intelligent brown eyes, Eddie radiated charisma in a manner that had always drawn others in. Unashamedly posh, he somehow managed to carry off his Eton accent without making people want to punch him. Although not what one would call fit, exactly, at six foot four he carried his weight well, and projected a masculinity and youthful vigour not at all common in politicians. It was widely thought that Fast Eddie looked more like a handsome actor playing a minister than an actual minister. Women had always adored him and men admired him, perhaps because he never took anything too seriously, least of all himself.

‘Ready, Eddie?’

Bob Squires, one of the prison officers, stuck his head around Eddie’s door. A charming old boy in his sixties, Bob was a fanatical cricket buff. He and Eddie had bonded over their love of the game.

‘Not quite,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m still packing up, I’m afraid. Never do today what you can leave till the absolute last minute, that’s my motto.’ He grinned, placing a neatly folded Turnbull & Asser shirt into his suitcase. ‘Besides, chucking-out time’s in an hour, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ Bob Squires held out an envelope awkwardly. ‘I only stopped in early ’cause me and some of the boys wanted to give you this.’

Eddie opened it. Inside was a photograph of all the Farndale warders and staff, raising their glasses to the camera. On the back someone had written: ‘Good Luck Eddie – We’ll Miss You! – From all at Farndale’. Everyone had signed it.

‘My goodness.’ Eddie felt quite choked. ‘That’s terribly kind of you. I shall hang it up in my new house the moment I find a hammer.’

‘I’m not sure I’d do that if I were you. You might not want to be reminded of … all this … once you’re home.’

‘Nonsense,’ Eddie said robustly. ‘It’s been an experience! I shall hang it in pride of place in the downstairs loo. That’s the only place one ever really looks at pictures.’

‘Well, if I don’t see you, I wish you all the best,’ Bob said gruffly. ‘And I hope you stick it to that bastard Carlyle.’

Eddie laughed. ‘Thank you, Bob. I appreciate that.’

Zipping up his case, he took a last look around. Then he made a tour of Farndale’s common room and cafeteria, saying his farewells to inmates and staff alike and promising to keep in touch. Eddie had learned a lot in prison, but the main lesson he had taken away had been that those inside Her Majesty’s Prison walls were no different, intrinsically, from those outside. There, but for the grace of God, went all of us.

At ten fifteen, only a few minutes late, Eddie Wellesley walked out of Farndale to freedom. It wasn’t exactly a Nelson Mandela moment – there weren’t any gates to unlock for one thing – but it was still a strange and satisfying feeling. Last week’s dreary weather had given way to crisp, bright blue winter skies. A glorious frost blanketed the Hampshire countryside like glitter on a Christmas card. One couldn’t help but feel hopeful and happy on a day like today.

Eddie recognized his old friend Mark Porter, the Telegraph’s political editor, amongst the scrum of press that had surrounded his car, a chauffeur-driven Bentley Mulsanne.

‘Bit cold for you, isn’t it, Mark?’

‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Sir Edward. How do you feel?’

‘Pretty good, thanks for asking,’ Eddie beamed.

‘Nice motor.’ Luke Heaton from the BBC, a weaselly, chinless little leftie in Eddie’s opinion, raised an eyebrow archly. ‘It doesn’t exactly scream “contrition”, though, does it? Given that you were convicted of fraud whilst in high office, do you not feel such an ostentatious show of wealth might be considered in bad taste?’

Eddie’s smile didn’t waver. ‘No.’

Eddie’s driver, dressed in full livery, stepped forward to take his case.

‘Ah, Haddon. Good to see you.’

‘And you, sir. Welcome back.’

He opened the rear door and Eddie stepped inside. Scores of cameras flashed.

A girl from the Daily Mail called out from the crowd: ‘What are you most looking forward to?’

‘Seeing my dog,’ Eddie answered without equivocation. ‘And my wife, of course,’ he added as an afterthought, to ripples of laughter.

‘What about David Carlyle?’ A lone voice Eddie couldn’t place drifted across the melee. ‘Do you have anything you’d like to say to him this morning?’

‘Nothing that you can print,’ Eddie said succinctly.

‘Do you blame Carlyle for your incarceration?’

Eddie smiled, pulling the door closed behind him.

It wasn’t until they reached open countryside, crossing the border from Hampshire into Sussex, that he started to relax. He was excited to see his wife again. Whatever outsiders might think about the Wellesley marriage, Eddie loved Annabel deeply. But it was an excitement tinged with nerves. He’d put his wife through hell. He knew that. Annabel loved their life at Westminster and the kudos she’d enjoyed as a senior minister’s wife. When it had all come crashing down, she’d been devastated. It wasn’t just Eddie’s fall from grace and two-year sentence for tax evasion. It was the horrendous publicity of the trial, the humiliation of seeing Eddie’s mistresses crawl out of the woodwork one by one, like so many maggots. David Carlyle and his newspaper, the Echo, had seen to it that every skeleton in Eddie’s closet was dragged out and rattled loudly before the British public. Including Eddie’s devastated wife.

They hadn’t really talked about any of it during Annabel’s prison visits. Not properly. Now they would have to. Despite having had a year and a half to work on his apology, Eddie still didn’t fully know what he was going to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed so feeble. Annabel wasn’t keen on feeble. He wanted to thank her for standing by him, but that just sounded patronizing.

As for the new house, their ‘fresh start’ far from London, Eddie had mixed feelings about it. It looked nice enough in the photos. But now that he was actually on his way there it felt surreal.

What if we’re not happy there?

What if we hate living in the country?

Annabel had demanded a move, and he was hardly in a position to refuse her. But when she settled on the Swell Valley, Eddie’s heart had tightened. David Carlyle had a place there, a ghastly, overgrown Wimpey home on the edge of the golf course at Hinton. They wouldn’t be close neighbours. But the thought of living within even a ten-mile radius of the man who had single-handedly wiped out his career and demolished his reputation did not fill Eddie with joy.

‘Can’t we try somewhere else?’ he asked Annabel. ‘The country’s full of pretty villages.’

But it was no good. This was the house she wanted. The deal was done.

It’s up to me to make us happy, he told himself firmly. To make things up to her. The house will be fine. We will be fine.

‘Would you like to listen to the Test Match, sir?’ The driver’s voice drifted into the back seat. ‘Coverage is on Five Live, if you’re interested.’

‘Haddon, that is an inspired suggestion.’

Eddie closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

He was a free man in a free world, listening to the cricket.

Everything was going to be all right.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Wilf! God help me, if you don’t stop that racket this instant I will have you put down!’

Annabel Wellesley looked daggers at the scruffy border terrier with his snout pressed against the window halfway up the stairs. He’d been howling, interspersed with the occasional growl, for the last hour straight. Perhaps it was the presence of all the television crews at the end of the drive that had so discombobulated him. Or perhaps the little dog had a sixth sense and somehow knew that his master was coming home today. Either way, the constant noise was threatening to stretch Annabel’s already strained nerves to breaking point.

She’d have liked to go out for a walk. To get some air and clear her head. But there was no way on earth she was going to run the gauntlet of all those vile reporters. Besides which, there was still such a vast amount to do in the house, to make things perfect for Eddie’s arrival.

Moving in to Riverside Hall with no help, not even a cleaner, had been one of the most stressful experiences of Annabel’s life. A naturally gifted homemaker with a flair for interior design, Lady Wellesley was also a perfectionist and a woman who was used to delegating. In London, she and Eddie had had a full-time staff of three, including a cook and a butler, as well as a veritable fleet of ‘dailies’. Here, once the awful, gawping removal men had driven away, she had nobody but herself to turn to. Every surface to be polished, crate to be unpacked and drawer to be filled, Annabel had polished, unpacked and filled herself. Part of her had welcomed the distraction. But another part resented – with every fibre of her tiny, perfectly honed body – being reduced to such menial tasks.

She could perfectly well have afforded servants. It was an issue of trust. After the humiliation, the shame, of Eddie’s trial and incarceration, Annabel trusted nobody. Convinced people were laughing at her behind her back; or worse, that journalists posing as potential chefs or housemaids might weasel their way into the house under the pretext of coming to interview for the jobs, she had put off hiring anybody until Eddie was home and things were ‘settled’. Whatever that might mean.

Walking into the drawing room – anything to get away from the bloody dog – she looked at the two remaining unpacked crates with despair. How was it that every time she unpacked one box another seemed to pop up out of thin air to demand her attention?

In reality, Annabel was being far too hard on herself. It was less than two months since she’d first seen the house. Back then it had been as cold and unwelcoming as a grave. As its name suggested, Riverside Hall sat right on the River Swell. Scenic and inviting in summer, after a long, wet winter the river was swollen, grey and ugly, a fat, wet snake encircling the house. Damp, or a sense of damp, had pervaded everything. The flagstone floors had been as cold as ice, and every window draped with cobwebs.

Today, the house looked like something out of Homes & Gardens. Understated antiques and Wellesley family heirlooms – mostly simple Jacobean oak pieces with the odd Georgian bow-fronted chest of drawers thrown in for good measure – combined effortlessly with classic modern designs like the B&B Italia sofa in pale pink linen or the upholstered coffee table from Designers Guild shaped like a slightly off-kilter kidney bean. Huge vases of flowers plonked everywhere gave the house a casual, inviting air. Annabel had made sure that all the chimneys had been swept and the fires lit, transforming the gloomy rooms she’d visited back in November into welcoming havens of warmth and light. Faded Persian carpets covered all the floors, and an old pine dresser full of cheerful mismatched crockery made the kitchen look as if the family had lived there for years.

But Annabel didn’t see any of that. All she saw were the unpacked boxes. Combined with Wilf’s incessant howling, the fact that she was effectively a prisoner in her own home, and her mounting nerves about facing Eddie again (what was she going to say when he walked in the door, for God’s sake?), she felt close to tears.

The grandfather clock behind her struck twelve.

Noon. He’ll be home soon, surely?

Grimly she cut open another crate of books and set to work.

Penny de la Cruz trudged across the sodden fields, her wellies squelching into the mud with every step. Today was dry and bright, a glorious change from the relentless rain of previous weeks. But the once-green pastures between Woodside Hall – Penny’s idyllic medieval manor on the outskirts of the village – and Riverside Hall remained a slick, brown quagmire.

Not that Penny minded. It was lovely to be outside, although she felt guilty and strange going for a walk without the dog. Delilah, the de la Cruzes’ wire-haired dachshund bitch, had given her a thoroughly reproachful look as she set off with a basket of home-baked goodies under her arm, a welcome present for the Wellesleys. Everybody knew that Delilah was the naughtiest, randiest dog in Brockhurst. If Sir Eddie and Lady Wellesey had a dog, she would be bound to start dry-humping it embarrassingly the minute she got in the door. Best to make this a solo mission.

Like everybody else in England, Penny knew the sordid tale of Fast Eddie Wellesley’s fall from grace. Unlike everybody else, however, she didn’t rush to judgement, either of Eddie or of his wife, a woman the British public loved to hate.

‘She’s so stuck up, she needs surgery,’ Santiago commented over breakfast this morning.

‘How can you say that?’ Penny asked indignantly. ‘You’ve never even met her!’

‘I’ve seen her, though. On TV at Eddie’s trial, looking down her nose at everyone. She’s like Victoria Beckham, that one. She never smiles.’

‘I’m sure she smiles as much as the next person,’ said Penny. ‘Just not at the press. After the way they treated her, can you blame her? Anyone would have thought it was her on trial, not him. And can you imagine, coming face to face with all his girlfriends?’

Santiago slathered marmalade on a third slice of toast. ‘With a wife like that, I’m not surprised he played away. She looks about as much fun as a bag of nails.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that having a lying, philandering husband might not make a person feel full of the joys of spring?’ Penny said crossly, clearing away Santiago’s plate before he’d finished. ‘Eddie’s the one who behaved badly, but Lady Wellesley gets the blame. It’s sexist and it’s awful. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’

‘You’re a lovely person.’ Grabbing his wife around the waist, Santiago pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her neck and deftly retrieving his plate of toast at the same time. ‘You always see the good in everyone. It’s one of the many things I adore about you.’

Penny smiled to herself as Riverside Hall loomed into view, thinking for the millionth time how ridiculously gorgeous her husband was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Women half her age and with much flatter stomachs and perkier boobs still fell over themselves to try to get Santiago into bed. But for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t interested. He loves me. Idly she wondered whether Fast Eddie Wellesley loved his wife, and what had really gone on in that marriage. Perhaps we’ll all become friends and I’ll find out? The Swell Valley was a small community. It was hard to imagine a family as high profile as the Wellesleys not becoming an integral part of it.

Seeing the scrum of press gathered around the gates, Penny slipped down to the river. Hopping across the stepping stones at the back of the house, she found it easy enough to worm her way through the thinning hedge and emerge into the kitchen garden. She knocked cheerfully on the back door.

‘Hello? Anybody home?’

When there was no answer she tried the latch. It was open. Stepping into the kitchen, she immediately felt a pang of envy. The room was gorgeous, bright and colourful and tidy, with pretty cushions and china scattered around in that effortless way that Penny herself could never quite get right at Woodside. A real fire crackled in a wood-burner in the corner. Everything smelled of something amazing. Cloves or cinnamon or … something.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Lady Wellesley had appeared in the doorway with a face like fury. In a black polo-neck sweater and chic cigarette trousers, with her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, she looked elegant, thin and utterly terrifying.

‘I’m so sorry to startle you.’ Penny proffered her basket of biscuits and cakes nervously, like a peace offering. ‘I’m Penny.’

‘You’re trespassing.’

‘Oh, no no no.’ Penny blushed. ‘My husband, Santiago, and I live over at Woodside Hall. We’re your neighbours.’

Clearly this explanation did nothing to ease Lady Wellesley’s fury.

‘The door was open,’ Penny continued sheepishly. ‘I didn’t want to come round the front in case those reporters … I brought you some goodies. A sort of “Welcome to Brockhurst”.’

‘You came to snoop, more like,’ Annabel said rudely. ‘Report back to the village gossips. Or to the press, I dare say.’

Penny looked horrified. ‘I would never do that! I just thought …’

The words trailed off lamely. Looking down at her boots, she realized belatedly that she’d made a line of muddy footprints all over the beautiful flagstone floor.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You should be. We moved here for a bit of privacy. Walking into someone’s property uninvited! It’s outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

‘Please don’t.’ Penny sounded close to tears. ‘I truly didn’t mean … I’ll go.’

She turned and fled, slamming the kitchen door shut with a clatter behind her.

A momentary frown flickered across Max Bingley’s face as Angela Cranley handed him a magazine.

‘Hello!? Really, darling. Must you?’

‘I’m afraid I must.’ Angela smiled sweetly as Max slipped the offending gossip rag underneath his armful of newspapers. ‘Man cannot live by the Financial Times alone. Or, at least, woman can’t. Don’t you agree, Mrs Preedy?’

‘I do indeed.’ The proprietress of Fittlescombe Village Stores smiled broadly. Partly because she liked Mrs Cranley – everybody liked Mrs Cranley, and Max Bingley, headmaster of the village school and Mrs C’s husband in all but name. And partly because today had been quite marvellous for business. What with the sun coming out, and the disgraced Eddie Wellesley on his way home from prison to his new house in Brockhurst, it seemed the entire Swell Valley had made a collective decision to go forth and gossip. Everybody knew that the Preedys’ store was the epicentre of Swell Valley gossip. And so here they came, buying their papers and magazines and Bounty bars and home-made coffee and walnut cakes while they were about it. ‘That’ll be seven pounds and eight pence in total, please, Mr Bingley.’

Max handed over a twenty. At the back of the store there was an almighty crash as a shelf-ful of baked-bean cans clattered onto the floor.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Gabe Baxter’s voice rose above the din. ‘Hugh! How many times have I told you to look where you’re going?’

Max and Angela walked over to where a frazzled Gabe had started picking up the mess. Next to him a dirty-faced toddler babbled happily in his stroller, while his four-year-old brother clutched a die-cast Thomas the Tank Engine toy and surveyed the chaos he had created in a nonchalant manner.

‘I did look where I was going,’ said the four-year-old. ‘I was going over there.’ He pointed to the sweetie aisle. ‘The cans were in the way.’

‘Yes, but you can’t just knock them over, Hugh.’ Gabe sounded exasperated.

The little boy sighed and said sweetly, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

Angela giggled. ‘Hello Gabe.’

He looked up at her ruefully. ‘Tell your husband he’s not allowed to exclude children from St Hilda’s just because they’ve got bloody awful language.’

‘If I did that we’d have no kids left,’ Max grinned. ‘They’ve all got mouths like French truck drivers.’

‘I blame the mothers,’ said Gabe.

‘Where is Laura?’ asked Angela, deftly removing a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Hugh’s greasy little hands and placing it out of reach.

‘Working.’ Gabe put the last of the tins back and stood up. ‘Unfortunately we need the money, but I’m going out of my mind with these two.’ He looked at his sons with a mixture of affection and despair. Changing the subject, he asked Angela, ‘Has he arrived yet, then?’

‘Fast Eddie, you mean?’

‘Who else?’

Max Bingley looked disapproving. ‘Honestly, listen to yourselves. Like a couple of gossiping fishwives.’

‘Not yet,’ Angela told Gabe, ignoring her other half. ‘Apparently there are scores of reporters lying in wait for him. They’re practically lining the High Street at Brockhurst. It’s like the royal wedding.’

The shop door burst open and Penny de la Cruz walked in, looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair swirled behind her in one giant, windswept tangle, her gypsy skirt was more mud splatters than fabric and her various layers of mismatched cardigans hung off her slim frame at a dizzying array of angles. She was also out of breath, and had clearly been running, quite some distance and for quite some time.

‘Are you all right?’ Angela Cranley looked concerned. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No. Not really,’ Penny panted. ‘I’ve just made a fool of myself, that’s all. Not for the first time.’

Slowly, she recounted her earlier excruciating encounter with Annabel Wellesley.

‘I should have gone straight home I suppose,’ she said, pulling a chilled bottle of fresh-pressed apple juice out of Mrs Preedy’s fridge and swigging from it thirstily. ‘But I couldn’t face Santiago’s smugness. He warned me not to go over there. He thinks Lady Wellesley’s a bit of a harridan.’

‘She sounds worse than that,’ said Gabe, furiously. Being mean to Penny was like kicking a puppy. Totally unacceptable. ‘She sounds like a complete bitch.’

‘Colm-peat bitch,’ Hugh repeated emphatically.

‘Sorry,’ Gabe shrugged. ‘I’m starting to think he was fathered by a parrot.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Penny. ‘I surprised her. And she must be so stressed out, with those vultures circling at the end of her drive. You can’t blame her for being distrustful of outsiders.’

‘No, you can’t,’ agreed Max. ‘Although it sounds like she was awfully rude to you.’

‘Someone should send her to the new vicar to confess her sins,’ said Gabe.

Dragging his boys up to the counter he began unloading his basket: another TV dinner for tonight, four cans of lager and a packet of chicken nuggets for the kids. Laura was many things: loving mother, sex goddess and, recently, since going back to work in television, breadwinner. But Nigella Lawson she wasn’t.

‘Call-me-Bill’s door is always open,’ he added with a grin.

The new vicar of St Hilda’s, the Reverend Clempson, had already become the butt of numerous jokes down at The Fox, even before the Great Ramblers’ Showdown. In his mid-twenties, with a boyish face and an unfortunately earnest manner, Reverend Clempson had been transferred to the Swell Valley from a trendy North London parish. His invitation to the largely elderly, dyed-in-the-wool-conservative population of Fittlescombe to ‘Call me Bill’ had gone down like the proverbial turd in a swimming pool. Used to the equally elderly, equally conservative Reverend Slaughter, many in the congregation were still getting over the shock of a new vicar who voted Labour, openly supported gay marriage, and wore T-shirts around the vicarage emblazoned with slogans, reportedly including the unforgivable: ‘I roll with God’ next to a picture of a suspicious-looking leaf. Call-me-Bill’s arrival, and subsequent set-to at Wraggsbottom Farm, had been the talk of the valley, until the Wellesleys came along and trumped him.

‘Why don’t you come back to Furlings for tea?’ Angela offered Penny. ‘No offence but you do look a bit of a fright. Something hot and sweet would do you good.’

‘Thanks,’ said Penny. ‘I’d love to.’ She turned to say goodbye to Gabe but he was already wrestling his children out of the door, his shopping jutting out precariously from underneath Luca’s stroller.

Max, Angela and Penny followed him towards the exit. Mrs Preedy called after them: ‘Mrs de la Cruz? That’ll be one pound sixty for the apple juice. I expect you forgot to pay in all the excitement.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ Penny blushed again, scrambling in her purse for the change.

‘All the excitement, indeed,’ muttered Max Bingley. ‘A libidinous old tax dodger just moves in down the road. Does anybody really care?’

Sadly, he already knew the answer to that.

‘This is a bloody joke. D’you think he’s done a bunk and ’opped on a plane to the Seychelles with one of his mistresses?’

Harry Trent rubbed his hands together to keep out the cold. A veteran from the Sun, Harry had been shivering at the bottom of Riverside Hall drive since eight o’clock this morning. His back ached, he was starving, and if Fast Eddie didn’t put in an appearance soon, he was going to miss the start of the Arsenal game.

‘I doubt it.’ Sasha McNally from Sky News was equally fed up with the long wait. ‘He wants to get back into politics, apparently, so I’m sure he’ll be on his best behaviour. They probably got a flat tyre or something. Shit!’ She grabbed her microphone. ‘Here he comes!’

A black BMW with darkened windows approached the gates at a stately pace.

‘Wasn’t he picked up in a Bentley?’ Harry asked.

‘Told you. Flat tyre,’ said Sasha. ‘If he had to change motors, that explains the delay.’

The gates swung inwards. As the car drove forward, the press pack surged behind it, like a swarm of bees around its queen, shouting questions before the door had even opened.

‘Sir Edward!’

‘Eddie!’

‘How does it feel to be back?’

Then the door opened. A boy of about seventeen stepped out, smiling broadly.

‘All this fuss for me?’ he asked, pulling a suitcase out of the boot. ‘I’m honoured, but it’s really not necessary.’

With his mop of blond hair and piercing blue eyes, Milo Wellesley looked a lot more like his mother than his father. But the cheeky smile and easy confident manner were Eddie to a T.

Milo zeroed in on Sasha. She was old, thirty at least, but she had a pretty face and amazing knockers. ‘You look freezing,’ he said gallantly. ‘Would you like to come inside and warm up? I’m sure Mummy would be happy to offer you a cup of tea.’

‘Milo!’ Annabel’s voice rang out through the cold air like a bell. ‘What are you doing here?’

It was the first time the front door had opened all day. Immediately the reporters surged forwards, their cameras click-click-clicking as they ran.

‘Get inside! Now!’

Reluctantly, Milo turned away from Sasha.

‘You don’t happen to have a hundred quid on you, do you?’ he asked his mother sheepishly. ‘For the taxi? I seem to be a bit short.’

A ripple of laughter ran through the assembled press.

‘Like father like son, eh?’

Mortified, Annabel darted back inside for her handbag, then came out to pay the driver. Click, click, click. In all the commotion, few people noticed Fast Eddie’s Bentley pulling up behind them. By the time they’d turned their various cameras and boom mikes back round, their long-awaited quarry was already halfway up the steps to the front door.

‘Hello, Milo.’ Eddie clapped his son warmly on the back. ‘I wasn’t expecting you here. Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘Oh, that. Sort of. I’ll explain later.’

Milo slipped inside, leaving Annabel frozen on the doorstep like an ice sculpture.

‘Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late.’

Eddie leaned forward to kiss her. She hugged him stiffly, her arms opening and closing like a puppet’s as the cameras clicked away. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted: a public reunion. She could cheerfully have strangled Milo.

Eddie turned to face the media while the chauffeur brought in his case.

‘It’s good to see you all and great to be home,’ he announced. ‘I’m looking forward to the next chapter in my life and to getting back to work.’

The questions came like bullets.

‘What sort of work?’

‘Are you planning a return to politics?’

‘Has the prime minister been in touch?’

Eddie smiled graciously. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand this is a private family moment. All I want right now is a cup of tea with my wife. Thank you.’

Ushering Annabel inside, he closed the door behind them.

‘I’ve missed you.’ He pulled her to him.

Annabel said nothing.

‘The house looks beautiful.’

‘Thank you. Where have you been? I expected you hours ago.’

‘Oh, we stopped off for lunch in Winchester,’ Eddie said nonchalantly. ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into afterwards?’

Annabel wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. She was still trying to get over the ‘stopped for lunch’ part.

‘Charles French!’ Eddie beamed, apparently oblivious to his wife’s displeasure. ‘You remember Charles, my literary agent? Anyway, I invited him and his wife for dinner.’

What little colour Annabel had left drained from her face. ‘You invited him for dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here? Tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Eddie, you’ve just got out of prison.’

‘Exactly. So I thought it might be quite jolly to have some friends round. And we can talk about the book. You know, the prison memoirs.’

Annabel forced herself to count to five before speaking.

‘You should have asked me, Eddie. I don’t have a cook. I’ve nothing prepared.’

‘Charles won’t mind. As long as there’s wine. Milo can go and pick us up something in Chichester.’

Annabel could barely speak.

‘Milo!’ Eddie yelled up the stairs. ‘Make yourself useful and go and do the shopping for your mother. We’re having guests for dinner tonight.’

Milo appeared on the landing. ‘Great. Am I invited?’

‘No. It’s business. You can walk down to the pub for supper. Oh, and FYI, if you’ve been chucked out of Harrow it’s the end of the line. I mean it. No more school fees. You can get a bloody job.’

‘Oh, Dad.’

‘Don’t “Oh, Dad” me. I mean it. Have you been expelled?’

‘Let’s talk about it later.’ Grabbing his mother’s car keys and purse, Milo wisely slipped out of the door.

‘We need food for four,’ Eddie shouted after him. ‘And when you get to the supermarket, ask them if they’re hiring.’

‘This is delicious.’ Sarah French, Charles’s journalist wife, took another bite of fish pie. ‘And the house is spectacular. Truly, Lady Wellesley, you’ve done an amazing job.’

‘Thank you,’ Annabel said stiffly. Sarah was still waiting for a smile, or at least a ‘Please, call me Annabel’. So far she’d received neither, but she wasn’t giving up.

‘It’s terribly kind of you to have us over. Especially on Eddie’s first night back. If it were me I wouldn’t dream of entertaining.’

‘Yes, well. It was Eddie’s idea.’

Clearly Annabel only bothered to turn on the charm for people whom she believed could help her and Eddie politically. And I don’t fit into that category, thought Sarah. She was so rude, it was hard to feel sorry for her. And yet Sarah found that she did. How typically thoughtless and male of Eddie to invite people over, tonight of all nights, without running it past his wife first. No wonder Annabel was irritated. Was he was trying to avoid being left alone with her? Delaying the inevitable? Or was he simply such an innately social animal, he couldn’t help himself?

‘Let’s talk book,’ said Charles, helping himself to a third glass of Eddie’s excellent claret and attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Do you know what you’re going for in terms of tone?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you could pitch it various ways. You could go more Jeffrey Archer. Or more Jonathan Aitken. Or there’s always the Alan Clark approach.’

‘Not Clark,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘The man was a fraud and a bastard.’

‘Damned funny, though. His diaries sold like hot cakes.’

‘I know. But he claimed to love his wife and regret his affairs, then wrote a book boasting about them. That’s not my style.’

Sarah French watched Annabel’s face for any flicker of emotion, but found none.

‘On the other hand I couldn’t do an Aitken.’

‘Too pious?’

‘Exactly. All very well if one finds God in prison. But I’m afraid I didn’t.’

‘What did you find?’

Eddie thought about it for a moment. ‘Compassion, I suppose. Camaraderie. And ambition. Renewed ambition. I enjoyed Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, but I want this to be my own voice. I want it to be the book that gets me back in government. Or at least back in the party fold.’

‘Blimey,’ Charles French spluttered. ‘That might be a tall order.’

‘It might be,’ Eddie agreed. ‘I made a lot of enemies in Westminster.’

‘And Fleet Street,’ Charles reminded him.

‘One enemy in particular, as we all know,’ Eddie said darkly. ‘But I’m also foolish enough to believe that I still have a number of friends, in both those worlds. Voters aren’t looking for perfection. They’re looking for someone who can learn from their mistakes. I’ve learned from mine.’

Have you? thought Charles French. But he kept it to himself.

‘Besides, returning to politics is what I want,’ said Eddie. ‘And one should always go after what one wants in life.’

‘What about you, Lady Wellesley?’ Sarah turned to Annabel, infuriated by Eddie’s self-centredness. ‘Do you want to go back to Westminster life? After everything that’s happened?’

To Annabel’s own surprise, her answer was unequivocal. ‘Yes. I do.’

Sarah was amazed.

‘Why?’ she couldn’t help asking. ‘After people were so poisonous to you.’

‘I think it’s because people were so poisonous,’ Annabel said truthfully. ‘David Carlyle and his cronies destroyed our lives. Not just Eddie’s life, but mine too. He robbed us of something that was ours. I want it back. We both do.’

Eddie saw the glint of fire in his wife’s eyes and felt a powerful rush of desire. All of a sudden he wished his guests would bugger off and leave them alone.

‘So why the move out here?’ Sarah asked.

‘We needed a change,’ said Annabel, her earlier coolness back. ‘If Eddie does go back into politics, we’ll need somewhere private to retreat to. Somewhere that’s just for us. Besides, I wouldn’t want to live in London full time. And in any case, it may not happen. It’s still early days.’

‘There you are, you see,’ Eddie smiled at Sarah French. ‘You heard it from the horse’s mouth. That little pleb Carlyle may have won the battle. But the war isn’t over yet. Not by a long chalk.’

That night, in bed, Eddie pressed himself against his wife, slipping his hand up underneath her starched cotton nightdress.

‘Can’t you take this off?’ he whispered in her ear.

Annabel didn’t quite know why, but suddenly she felt like crying.

‘No, Eddie. I can’t.’

‘Are you angry?’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I’m tired.’

‘I’m sorry, Annabel.’

The words hung in the air above the bed like a cloud of ash, the last, lingering remnant of the catastrophe that had befallen their marriage. A volcano had erupted two years ago, wiping out Eddie’s career and the life he and Annabel had built together. The cloud was all that was left of that life.

We’ll build a new life, thought Eddie. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again.

‘I love you.’ His hand caressed her breast through the fabric of her nightgown.

Annabel closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Part of her wanted him, wanted to turn round and kiss him and make love and make everything all right. But that would require forgiveness and she hadn’t got there yet. Not completely anyway. Annabel had married Eddie when she was very young, barely out of her teens. She’d built her entire life around him. But in one, disastrous year she’d seen that whole life wiped out. It was like planting a forest, watching it grow, and then waking up one morning to find that the chainsaws had been in and it was all gone. People accused her of being a snob, and perhaps she was. It didn’t occur to anybody that she was defensive and standoffish for a reason. That she’d begun wearing armour because she needed it. Because Eddie had dragged her into a war zone and left her to fend for herself.

‘Things have to change, Eddie,’ she said, removing his hand from her breast and clasping it in hers.

‘I know, and they will. You heard Charles tonight. It’s going to be a slow road back to politics, whatever happens with this book. And in the meantime we can focus on our new life here. This house, the Swell Valley. It’s a new chapter for all of us.’

I hope so, thought Annabel. I really hope so. But if this was day one of their new life: deranged neighbours wandering into the kitchen, Eddie inviting agents for supper, Milo getting rusticated again and reporters slavering outside the door like a pack of wolves, she had her doubts. They hadn’t even bumped into David Carlyle yet, but that was bound to happen. On a clear day you could see Hinton golf course from Riverside Hall’s attic windows.

‘Goodnight, Eddie.’ She let go of his hand and rolled over.

Eddie kissed the back of her head tenderly.

‘Goodnight, my darling. It’s good to be home.’

CHAPTER THREE

Laura Baxter watched the raindrops shudder their way down the grimy train window as the 5.02 p.m. from Victoria hurtled through the Sussex countryside. For once she didn’t feel tired. Ever since she’d gone back to work, she’d been operating in a permanent fog of exhaustion, what with Luca still waking in the night and the long commute, not to mention the poisonous politics of the TV world. But today, none of that mattered.

She’d had an idea for a show. A bloody brilliant idea, if she did say so herself. She could hardly wait to talk to Gabe about it.

Ironically, it was the argument with Bill Clempson and his merry band of ramblers that had inspired her, although the idea itself had come to her in the midst of a disastrous meeting at Television Centre this morning. Sisters, a dark comedy drama that Laura had been working on with an old friend from the Beeb, and which looked certain to be green-lit a few weeks ago, had suddenly been binned by the powers-that-be at ITV drama.

‘But you loved the pilot,’ Laura protested. ‘Jim Rose said it was the most original thing he’d seen since Sherlock.’

‘It’s a great show,’ the commissioning editor agreed. ‘It’s just not quite the tone we’re looking for at the moment. You mustn’t take these things so personally.’

The problem was, Laura strongly suspected it was personal. John Bingham, Laura’s long-term lover before she met and married Gabe, was out to get her. John had been head of Drama at the BBC when Laura first met him – charismatic, powerful, charming and married; unhappily so, according to him. Laura was young, impressionable and madly in love. It wasn’t until she got pregnant and John callously cut her off, crawling back to his wife and torching Laura’s career for good measure, that the scales had fallen from her eyes.

It all felt like a lifetime ago now. After she lost John’s baby, Laura had moved back to Fittlescombe and met Gabe; the rest was history. She hadn’t given John Bingham a moment’s thought in years. Until family finances had forced her to go back to work and she’d discovered that, in the interim, Bingham had risen to become one of the most powerful men in the whole of British television. Now at ITV, where he’d sent the drama ratings through the roof and was considered little short of a god, John Bingham could make or break the careers of writers and producers with a nod or shake of his balding head.

He’d actually got in touch with Laura when she first went back to work, inviting her to a swanky, intimate lunch at the Oxo Tower ‘for old times’ sake’. Laura had been shocked by how old he looked – how old he was. The fit, rugged fifty-year-old she remembered was now over sixty, with a pronounced paunch and saggy, bulldog jowls that quivered when he laughed. How was I ever attracted to him? she thought, as he boasted about his success, bemoaned his marriage and assured her how bad he felt about ‘that business with the baby’ and how glad he was that it was all ‘water under the bridge’.

‘Do let me know if I can help in any way with your career,’ he purred, placing a hand on Laura’s knee and squeezing as he paid the bill. ‘I’ve always thought you had tremendous talent.’

‘Thanks,’ Laura said frostily, removing his hand with a shudder and getting up to leave. ‘And thank you for lunch, but I doubt our paths will cross, John.’

She was wrong. They had crossed. Not in person. But behind the scenes and in the most toxic way imaginable. One by one, every series that Laura became involved with was cut off at the knees. Television is a gossipy world and it wasn’t long before the word was out – having Laura Baxter attached to your project, as a writer or a producer, was the kiss of death. John Bingham was out to finish her.

She wouldn’t have cared so much if it weren’t for the fact that she and Gabe relied on her income. Wraggsbottom, Gabe’s beloved farm, was doing better than many others and keeping its head above water. Just. But if they wanted to take the boys on holiday, or buy a car, or decent Christmas presents, or even think about private education when the children were older, Laura needed to earn. And, thanks to John Bingham, she was running out of options.

That’s when it came to her. The idea. A way to get round John, to do something new and commercial and exciting, to keep control of her own destiny. And, maybe, if she played her cards right, to make a lot of money.

She glanced at her watch. 6.15 p.m. They’d be at Fittlescombe Station by half past and she’d be home before seven.

Please let Gabe like the idea. Please please please.

‘No way. Out of the question. We can’t possibly.’

Gabe sloshed a generous slug of Gordon’s into a glass, topped it up with half-flat tonic from the bottle in the fridge and handed it to Laura. Then he made one for himself and sat down beside her on the sofa. They were in the kitchen at Wraggsbottom Farm, surrounded by a sea of Lego, Thomas trains, plastic dinosaurs and other small-boy paraphernalia. Lianne, the world’s worst cleaner, had apparently been in today and ‘done’ the kitchen. Plucking a half-chewed apple out from between the cushions on the sofa and dropping it into the bin, Gabe wondered what exactly it was that Lianne had done.

‘Why can’t we?’ Laura asked.

‘Because. It’s our home,’ said Gabe. ‘I just put my neck on the chopping block with our neighbours defending that very point, if you remember.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Laura. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Village drama! It’s already like a soap opera, living here. So why not capture that?’

‘I just told you why.’

Laura sighed, frustrated. ‘But it would still be our home, Gabe.’

‘Not if it were invaded by cameras it wouldn’t be. I don’t want some spotty little sound technician seeing you wandering around in the buff.’ He ran a hand up his wife’s thigh and looked at her hopefully.

Laura laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around in the buff.’

‘Well that’s even worse then. I’m sorry, Laur, but it’s an awful idea.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Laura. ‘It’s brilliant. I am a genius and you’re not listening properly.’

Gabe grinned. He loved her confidence, and the way she didn’t just back down. Gabe Baxter needed a strong woman. In Laura, he’d found one.

‘It wouldn’t be about our home life. It’s about the village. But it’s more than just a local drama. The centre of the show would be the farm. The valley around us, the changing seasons, the rhythm of life here. It’s about selling the rural dream – like River Cottage, but bigger and more glamorous and aspirational.’

‘I don’t know, Laura.’ Gabe took another big swig of gin and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t even spell ‘aspirational’ and wasn’t sure what it meant. It sounded like something you might need to help you breathe. He was dog-tired after a long day on the farm, and then getting the kids to bed. All he wanted was to have sex and go to sleep. ‘I thought you hated reality TV.’

‘I do. But that’s because most of it is tacky and crap and derivative. This won’t be. Plus, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m finished in scripted television. John’s seen to that.’

Gabe sat down beside her and slipped a hand under her shirt, expertly unhooking her bra from behind.

‘Screw him. He’s just jealous because he let you go. You’re mine now and it bloody kills him.’

Laura closed her eyes as Gabe started caressing her breasts and kissing her on the neck and shoulders.

‘I am yours,’ she sighed, running her hands through his hair and feeling ridiculously happy. Was it normal, after ten years of marriage, to still fancy your husband this much? Reluctantly she wriggled out from under him.

‘We have to talk about this, Gabe.’

Gabe groaned. ‘Do we?’

‘You know we do. We can barely make our mortgage payments.’

Gabe looked defensive. ‘We’re doing all right. The farm’s surviving.’

Laura squeezed his hand. ‘I know it is. And I know how hard you work and I think it’s amazing. But we want to do better than all right, don’t we? We want the boys to have a good life and a wonderful education. We want to go out to dinner sometimes. You want that Ducati, don’t you?’

Gabe laughed loudly. ‘Now you’re just bribing me! You wouldn’t let me get a motorbike if we had a billion pounds in the bank!’

‘That’s true,’ Laura admitted. ‘Because I love you and I don’t want you to get squashed by a lorry. But the point is, we don’t want to live from hand to mouth for ever, do we? Yes, the farm’s surviving. But if it’s going to be Hugh and Luca’s future, we need it to thrive.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious.

‘I still think it’s ridiculous,’ Gabe said. But he could hear himself wavering. ‘We’d be Fittlescombe’s answer to the Kardashians.’

‘We would not!’

‘Except you’d have a smaller arse.’

‘Not if you keep making me drinks like this one I wouldn’t,’ said Laura. ‘Anyway, my arse won’t be in it. I’m strictly behind the camera. I’d produce it and you can present.’

‘Me?’ Gabe’s eyes widened.

‘Why not?’ said Laura. ‘You’re gorgeous; you know all there is to know about the farm and the valley. And you’d work for free.’

‘Oh, would I now?’ said Gabe.

‘Yes,’ Laura giggled. ‘You would. We’re going to need a lot of cash to get it made, so we’ll have to work on a tight budget.’

‘I see,’ said Gabe. ‘And where would this cash be coming from? Not our savings account, I hope.’

Laura almost choked on her gin. ‘What savings account? Luca’s got more in his piggy bank than we have!’

‘We’ll raid his then,’ said Gabe.

‘We have two options,’ Laura explained. ‘Either we sell a big chunk of the show up front to an established reality player – Endemol or someone like that – or we raise the capital to do it ourselves. Now the Endemol option—’

‘Let’s raise the capital,’ Gabe interrupted her.

Laura looked up at him hopefully. ‘Really? You’ll do it?’

Gabe kissed her. ‘I know a lost battle when I see one. And if we are going to do it, it has to be our show. It has to be us in control.’

Laura gave a little squeal of excitement. ‘It’s going to be amazing, Gabe. I can see the trailers already.’

‘So can I.’ Gabe put on what he obviously thought of as a television announcer’s voice. ‘Coming soon: Wraggsbottom Farm, with Gabriel Baxter.’

Laura burst out laughing.

Gabe looked hurt. ‘What?’

‘Well, for one thing, we cannot call it Wraggsbottom Farm.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Because it’s an awful, awful name.’

‘It’s the name this farm has lived by for well over a hundred years,’ Gabe said pompously.

‘I’m sorry darling,’ said Laura. ‘But no. And I won’t let you present it either if you’re going to do that dreadful American newsreader voice.’

Gabe pouted. ‘That was my sexy voice.’

‘No, it wasn’t. Trust me.’

They sat in silence for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, thinking about what the future might hold. Laura didn’t know whether to feel delighted that she’d talked Gabe round, or terrified because, if they really went ahead with this, it would all be on her shoulders. If the show was a disaster, or – heaven forbid – the farm itself suffered as a result, she would never forgive herself. It was a great idea. But it was also a big risk.

‘Raising money won’t be easy, you know,’ she said, swirling the remnants of her drink contemplatively around her glass. ‘If we can’t find investors, we’d have to team up with a bigger production company or a network. There’d be no other way.’

Gabe stood up, stretched and opened the larder. Pulling out a family-sized bag of Doritos, he burst them open with a loud bang.

‘Don’t be such a pessimist,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Of course we’ll find an investor. You said yourself it was a great idea.’

Laura wasn’t sure what frightened her more. Having Gabe against the idea or having him for it. In five minutes flat he’d gone from ‘it can’t possibly work’ to ‘it can’t possibly fail’. Sometimes his black-and-white nature terrified her.

‘Anyway, I’ve already thought of an investor,’ he announced blithely. ‘He’s local, he’s rich and he’s looking for a new business venture. I know that for a fact ’cause I heard it down the pub.’

Laura looked sceptical. ‘Who?’

‘Eddie Wellesley.’

Laura choked so hard that tonic bubbles flew out of her nose.

‘Fast Eddie?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What does he know about television?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘He’s been on it a fair bit. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You know about television. Wellesley just needs to write a cheque.’

Laura Baxter watched her husband stuffing crisps into his mouth and felt overwhelmed with love. I’m so happy with him, she thought.

For a moment she felt a flicker of anxiety at the prospect of the two of them working together. In the unlikely event that this show actually took off, would they end up getting on each other’s nerves? But she pushed the thought aside. We’re doing this for our future. For the boys.

Besides, these would all be good problems to have. What Laura needed now was a hit show and a way out of the trap John Bingham had laid for her. And what Gabe needed was a new roof for the big barn. Short of planting some magic beans and kidnapping a golden goose, this was the only way.

‘D’you really think Eddie Wellesley might be interested?’ she asked Gabe.

He answered through a mouthful of Doritos.

‘Only one way to find out.’

Eddie leaned back in his red brocade armchair, an amused look on his face.

‘So you want me to back you?’

Laura blushed scarlet. How had she let Gabe talk her into this?

She was sitting in the library at Riverside Hall, a stunning, oak-panelled room lined with gold-leafed hardbacks and beautifully preserved first editions that Laura was quite certain were never read. Fast Eddie was more attractive in the flesh than she’d expected. Perhaps it was the half-suppressed smile, or the playful twinkle in his eye, but there was something innately flirtatious and fun about him that somehow made Laura feel even more embarrassed.

‘I’m so sorry, Sir Edward, I shouldn’t have come.’ She stood up. ‘I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.’

‘First of all, it’s Eddie. And second of all, please sit down. You haven’t wasted my time at all. It’s not often I have beautiful young women come to me with business propositions.’

Laura sat.

‘Tell me more about the show,’ said Eddie. ‘I think it has to be about more than just farming life.’

‘Oh, it would be,’ Laura assured him. ‘The Swell Valley is unique. I imagine you know that already, as you moved here. People have always been fascinated by this area, by the combination of the rural idyll and the celebrity residents. The scandals.’ She avoided meeting his eye. ‘Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, Brett Cranley, Emma Harwich, Santiago de la Cruz. They’re all synonymous with the valley. So yes, we’re showing farming life, but we’re also trying to package what it is that makes this place so special. It’s a nostalgic snapshot of England, if you like: what England used to be, what we all still wish it were.’

‘Like a Richard Curtis film, but in a reality format,’ Eddie mused.

Laura looked delighted. ‘Exactly! That’s it exactly.’

‘All right,’ said Eddie. ‘So how would it work, if I were to fund this? What would I get for my investment? Talk me through the nuts and bolts.’

He listened intently as Laura explained the process of producing a television series. She’s bright, he thought, and ambitious. And sexy. He noticed the way her dark hair continually fell forward over her face and her breasts rose and fell quickly beneath her silk shirt when she became animated. She had very little make-up on and was simply dressed in a grey woollen skirt and a cream blouse. Eddie was a fan of the effortless look.

After ten minutes of straight talking, Laura finally drew breath. ‘So. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s intriguing,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll give it some thought and come back to you.’

He stood up and offered Laura his hand.

‘Oh. Right. OK,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’

She hadn’t expected such an abrupt end to the meeting, and wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. She was still standing there like a lemon, her hand clasped in Eddie’s, when his wife walked in carrying a tray of tea.

Lady Wellesley took in the scene – a beautiful young woman, her husband in flirt-mode – and shot Laura a look that could have melted stone.

Christ, Laura thought. Penny wasn’t kidding. She really is intimidating.

‘Ah, darling.’ Releasing Laura, Eddie wrapped an arm around his wife’s stiff, distrustful shoulders. ‘How sweet of you to bring us tea. But Mrs Baxter was just leaving.’

‘What a shame,’ said Annabel, in a tone that clearly translated as good riddance.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Laura mumbled awkwardly.

Had the meeting gone well or badly? She couldn’t tell. Driving home, she wondered whether going into business with a politician might be more trouble than it was worth, especially if his wife disapproved. When it came to poker faces, Eddie Wellesley was a master.

Two days passed. Then three. Then four.

By Friday morning, Laura’s ‘work-from-home’ day, she and Gabe had still heard nothing from Eddie.

‘It’s dead in the water,’ said Laura.

‘You don’t know that,’ said Gabe, although privately he agreed. If Wellesley wanted in, he’d have called by now.

‘I do,’ Laura said. ‘The wife put the kibosh on it. I’m sure she thought I was flirting with her husband.’

‘And were you?’ said Gabe, giving Laura’s bottom a playful squeeze as she leaned over to pick up yet more Lego from the floor. Hugh had tried to build a rocket before nursery this morning, with mixed results. ‘You career women will stop at nothing to get what you want. How many times have I told you your place is in the kitchen?’

‘Er, no times?’ said Laura. ‘The last time I cooked for you, you said the lasagne tasted like burned plastic.’

Gabe grimaced. ‘Oo, God yes, that lasagne. That was rough. Not the kitchen then. The bedroom.’ He circled his arms around her waist. ‘I hate you getting on that train to London.’

‘So do I,’ said Laura, with feeling. ‘But unfortunately, unless we can get this show off the ground, we need the money. Now sod off and spread some slurry, or whatever glamorous job it is you have on today.’

Gabe went out into the fields, leaving Laura to finish cleaning up while Luca had his morning nap. She really must sack Lianne. The house was a pigsty. Then again, thought Laura, catching sight of herself in the hall mirror, I fit right in. Still in her dirty Snoopy pyjamas and a dressing gown that was more hole than cloth (too lazy to get dressed, she’d pulled wellies and a coat on over the top to drive Hugh to nursery earlier), her overall look was definitely more Waynetta Slob than Grace Kelly.

A loud banging at the door made her jump. What had Gabe forgotten this time?

‘Be quiet, you arse, you’ll wake the ba … Oh!’ She opened the door to find Eddie Wellesley smiling at her. That same half-smile that had made her feel such an idiot in his library. ‘It’s you.’

Immaculately dressed in corduroy trousers and a royal-blue cashmere sweater, and smelling faintly of toothpaste and expensive cologne, Eddie looked like a creature from another planet. A rich planet. A planet that owned an iron.

‘May I come in?’

Laura glanced back at the sea of mess behind her. ‘Er … the house is a bit, er …’

‘I don’t care about the house,’ Eddie said briskly, easing past her into the hallway. ‘I’m here to talk about selling the “glamour” of the Swell Valley.’ The half-smile had become a full smile now and was openly teasing.

‘You’re in?’ Laura hardly dared believe it.

‘I’m in. So long as we can agree a few quid pro quos, naturally.’

Five minutes later, still in her pyjamas but having managed to brush her hair and wash her face, Laura brought two mugs of coffee into the relatively clutter-free dining room.

Eddie cut to the chase.

‘I’ll stump up a hundred grand to get things started. There’ll be more to come as we need it.’

‘We will need it,’ Laura said honestly.

‘I know. Money’s not going to be a problem.’

What a great sentence, thought Laura. I wonder if Gabe and I will ever be able to say it.

‘I want an exec producer credit, fifty per cent ownership and a say in all business-related decisions, including how we pitch this and to whom.’

‘Did you have somebody in mind?’ Laura asked.

‘Not “somebody” as such,’ said Eddie. ‘But I have some ideas. You know the UK market, so I’ll take your advice on how to sell this here. But I want us to pitch in America as well. The whole “packaging of a lost England” thing. I liked that a lot. And I think the Yanks will lap it up.’

‘I see.’ Laura sipped her coffee. ‘The thing is, the US networks—’

‘Will need a US name attached. I know,’ Eddie interrupted her. ‘Which is why I want to fly out to Los Angeles next week and interview some possible co-presenters.’

‘Next week?’ Laura almost choked on her Nescafé.

‘No point faffing about.’

‘Eddie, I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really do. And I couldn’t be more delighted you want to be involved. But we really have nothing to show people yet.’

‘On the contrary. We have you. We have this place,’ Eddie waved an arm around Wraggsbottom’s beamed dining room. ‘We have a treatment, and funding, and we have your handsome and charming husband to bring it all to life.’

‘You haven’t even met my husband!’ Laura reminded him.

‘If you married him, I’m sure he’s marvellous,’ Eddie purred. ‘And, as you say, he knows this valley inside out. The problem is he has no experience on camera. If we’re going to sell this series globally, we’ll need someone who does.’

‘Right,’ said Laura.

‘Ideally a woman.’

Talking to Fast Eddie was like being run over by a very enthusiastic steamroller. A steamroller that was conveniently made out of money.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Laura said.

‘Of course.’

‘Why are you doing this? I mean, you don’t need the money. Television’s not your business. And you barely know us.’

Eddie laughed. ‘All true, my dear. All true. But I’m a big believer in gut instinct. I like you. I like your idea and I think it has legs. Eventually I hope to go back into politics, but for the time being I need a new challenge.’

‘Well, this will certainly be that,’ said Laura.

‘Have you thought about local opposition? How do you want to handle that?’ Eddie asked. ‘You realize that for every villager who’s excited by the idea of television cameras in the village stores, there’ll be five who feel violated and think you’re defacing their community.’

Laura shrugged breezily. ‘Gabe and I can take a bit of stick.’

‘It might be worse than that,’ Eddie said seriously. ‘If we go forward with this, we all need to be prepared for a fight.’

They finished their coffees and Eddie got up to go.

‘I’ll get my lawyer to draw something up,’ he told Laura. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you see if you can whip up any interest this side of the pond. And I’ll book my flights to California.’

After he left, Laura sat frozen at the dining table for a full minute, feeling not unlike Dorothy after the twister deposited her in Oz.

Did that conversation really just happen?

Are we really going to do this?

She laughed out loud.

Screw you, John Bingham.

I’m about to produce the next big thing in British television.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Champagne, sir?’

Eddie Wellesley had barely stepped over the threshold of Michael Hart’s Neo-Palladian mansion when he was accosted by a preposterously handsome young man bearing a silver tray.

‘Thank you.’ Eddie sipped at the dainty crystal flute as he walked down the white marble hallway, feeling like an extra in a Roger Moore movie from the seventies. The famous producer’s house was the last world in vulgarity: ridiculously huge, opulent, gold-plated, and so eye-wateringly naff Eddie doubted whether it could ever have been built in England. At home, even pop stars and footballers and reality stars drew the line somewhere. But not in Los Angeles. Here, there were no lines. Eddie rather liked it.

Even better than the house itself, with its fish tanks and cream silk carpets and solid gold taps and hideous portraits of the lady of the house in various states of undress, were Eddie’s fellow guests. Michael Hart clearly had a type when it came to the fairer sex. Lithe, obviously underage girls who looked like models but were probably prostitutes, mingled with older women whose faces and bodies had all been surgically re-created, to greater or lesser degrees. With the exception of the waiters, who all looked like actors, and the sports stars (nine foot tall to a man and black as the ace of spades), the men were all short, ugly, old and fat. And rich, Eddie presumed, judging by the seven-figure cars pulling up to the valet station, and the improbably proportioned women on their stumpy little arms. The whole affair could be filed under ‘Jeremy Clarkson’s wet dream’.

Despite the hordes of people, Macy Johanssen was easy to find. Of course, Eddie already knew what she looked like. He’d spent hour upon hour in the last two weeks watching some truly ghastly American television in search of the right presenter for the Swell Valley series. Macy Johanssen had fairly leaped off the screen.

Macy’s agent, Paul Meyer, had put it perfectly when he telephoned Eddie at his hotel this afternoon to suggest he ‘swing by’ the Hart party.

‘If Macy shows up at all, she’ll be there to talk business. Look for the only woman surrounded by at least four powerful men and with all her clothes on. And if that doesn’t work, look down.’

And there she was, a tiny figure in a black Calvin Klein trouser suit with a fitted tuxedo jacket, holding court amongst a gaggle of enraptured executives from Sony. Her dark hair was cut in her signature sleek bob, her porcelain skin flawless and her crystal-blue eyes sharp and intelligent.

‘Excuse me.’ Eddie effortlessly parted the throng, his cut-glass English accent slicing through the air like a silver monogrammed knife through butter. ‘Miss Johanssen? I’m Sir Edward Wellesley. I wonder, might I have a word?’

Macy turned and glared at him.

‘We’ll leave you to it,’ the fattest, loudest Sony man said, smiling at Macy as he led his compatriots away. There was something about Eddie’s voice and manner that commanded authority, even here.

‘No, no, please. There’s no need,’ Macy called after them. ‘Sir Edward and I have nothing to dis—’

She broke off when she realized she was talking to four retreating backs. Turning furiously to Eddie she said, ‘Thanks for nothing!’

‘Oh, come now, don’t be angry,’ Eddie said smoothly. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back. Whereas I may not be.’

Macy refused to be mollified. ‘Paul sent you here, didn’t he?’

Eddie smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’

‘Really, I could strangle the man.’ Macy did nothing to hide her exasperation. ‘He’s supposed to my agent. He’s supposed to represent me. I told him quite categorically that I have no interest in presenting your show. None whatsoever.’

‘A message that he also passed on to me, in no uncertain terms,’ said Eddie. ‘Drink?’

‘So why are you here?’ said Macy.

‘Because I’m tenacious. Like you. Because I flew several thousand miles to meet you, Miss Johanssen, and have no intention of going home without achieving that end. And because I happen to know you’re making a mistake.’

‘Really?’ Macy raised an eyebrow. She liked a confident man and Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly that. Attractive, too, in an older, Downton Abbey kind of a way. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘Because this show is going to be huge. Not just in the UK, but here, too, eventually. If we get the format right, we could all make a small fortune.’

‘Could, could, could,’ Macy yawned. ‘I think I might go home. I’m pooped.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Eddie. To Macy’s amazement, he took her hand and started leading her towards the door. ‘You’re not tired, you’re bored. Come and have a drink with me at my hotel. Give me one hour to pitch this show to you.’

‘An hour?’ Macy laughed. ‘A good pitch should take thirty seconds.’

‘If you’re not interested after that,’ Eddie ignored her, ‘you have my word of honour I will leave you alone and never tear you away from another boring studio executive ever again.’

For a split second, Macy hesitated. Then she thought: You know what, he’s right. I am bored.

Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly the least boring thing that had happened to her today. On that basis …

‘OK. One hour.’

Eddie was staying at The Miramar, on the beach in Santa Monica. He and Macy found a quiet corner by a log fire in The Bungalow, the Miramar’s hip Moroccan bar, and ordered martinis.

After some small talk and a lot of alcohol, Eddie handed Macy his iPad. ‘So, this is the valley.’

Images of rolling green hills, burbling streams and sun-dappled woodland flashed across the screen.

‘And the village. And the farm.’

‘Wow.’ Macy looked genuinely enraptured. She was drunk enough to be buzzed, but not so drunk that she couldn’t appreciate what she was seeing. ‘It’s gorgeous. All those little stone cottages. It’s like the village from Beauty and the Beast.’

‘Like a fairy tale, you mean?’ said Eddie. ‘Exactly. And when you see it for yourself you’ll realize the pictures don’t do it justice. The Swell Valley is everything that Americans love about England – it’s quaint and idyllic and old-fashioned; but it also has glamour, the kind of glamour that simply doesn’t exist here.’

‘Who’s that?’ Macy interrupted him. An extremely attractive blond man had suddenly popped up in the slide show.

‘That’s Gabriel Baxter. Your co-presenter. He’s lived in the valley all his life and owns Wraggsbottom Farm. His wife, Laura, is the writer/producer.’

‘They called their house “Wraggsbottom?”’ Macy asked incredulously.

‘It’s an old name. They inherited it.’

‘Can’t they change it?’

Now Eddie looked incredulous. ‘Of course not. It’s part of local history. That’s what I’m trying to get at. “Celebrity” has become such a cheapened commodity, Miss Johanssen. But class, history, aristocracy … those things still have cachet. It’s why you Yanks can’t get enough of “Duchess Kate”, as you so charmingly call her. Because you have no home-grown equivalent. That’s why this show is going to sell. But we need you to sell it.’

His enthusiasm was infectious. Combined with the lethally strong martini and the intoxicating images she was looking at – not just Gabriel Baxter, although he certainly didn’t hurt. But swans gliding beneath weeping willows, stone footbridges that looked like they must be a thousand years old, exquisite, beamed farmhouses, like something out of Hansel and Gretel. Macy sighed. It was all such a long way from her world.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you have class too,’ said Eddie. ‘Uniquely amongst attractive, female American television presenters, in my opinion.’

‘Thank you.’ Macy looked up from the iPad. Her eyes met Eddie’s and she felt an instant, familiar jolt of desire. He definitely had something.

‘I’m not complimenting you,’ Eddie insisted. ‘I’m being honest. You’ll appeal to a British audience, and you’ll bridge the cultural gap for an American one. Paul told me you’re concerned about getting out of the US market and I understand that. But we will sell this show in the States, Miss Johanssen. We will.’

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. Macy found her fingers entwining with his, returning the pressure.

‘You have a room here, right?’

For an instant, Eddie thought about Annabel, asleep in bed at Riverside Hall. But only for an instant.

He signalled to the waitress for the bill.

Back in Eddie’s bungalow, Eddie locked the door behind them.

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘No, thank you. I think we’ve both had enough.’ Reaching up on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck, Macy kissed him on the mouth. It was so long since Eddie had had a woman – since he’d come home from prison Annabel had barely let him touch her – that his dick sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

Macy grinned. ‘Wow. That was quick.’

‘I’ll try to slow it down,’ Eddie murmured, slipping a warm hand beneath the waistband of her trousers and caressing her perfect bottom.

‘Not on my account,’ said Macy, who’d already started to unbutton his shirt. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated.’

She wriggled out of her clothes in seconds. Eddie scooped her up into his arms in her underwear and laid her on the bed. She was so tiny, it was like lifting a doll.

‘Christ, you’re lovely.’ He bent down to kiss the tops of her breasts, rising like two freshly baked rolls beneath the pale grey lace of her bra. Moving downwards, he kissed the smooth, flat plain of her belly, then down again. Macy could feel the roughness of his stubble against her inner thighs and his warm breath between her legs. She reached down to take off her underwear but Eddie stopped her hand with his. ‘Not yet.’

The next few minutes felt like hours to Macy as he teased and caressed her till she wanted to scream with pleasure and frustration. At some point he must have taken his clothes off. Macy ran her hands over his back and shoulders and butt, pleasantly surprised by what great shape he was in for a man of his age. As for his dick, it was perfectly proportioned and solid as a rock, the kind of erection that would make a nineteen-year-old proud.

‘Do you still know what to do with that thing?’ Macy teased him. ‘I’m guessing it’s been a while.’

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ said Eddie, ripping off her knickers at long last and launching into her like an Exocet missile. Macy had to grab on to the headboard to prevent herself from flying head-first through the wall.

They made love for hours. It was a long time since Macy had had such good sex. Her last boyfriend, Chris, had been a thoughtful and imaginative lover. But Eddie fucked like a starving man who’d just sat down at a banquet. It was intoxicating and empowering, and she devoured him back, happy to have found a partner with a libido to rival her own.

When they finally released each other and collapsed, sweating and exhausted, onto the bed, Macy reached down for her purse and pulled out a long plastic cylinder. For a moment Eddie panicked it was a phial full of drugs. But then she put it in her mouth and inhaled.

‘What on earth is that?’ asked Eddie, as the end of the tube flashed with a neon blue light.

‘It’s an e-cigarette,’ said Macy. ‘All the nicotine but no tar. The only thing hitting your lungs is water vapour. We call it “vaping”. Wanna try?’

‘No!’

‘It’s good.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Listen,’ Eddie began. ‘Tonight was amazing. Truly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re a completely incredible woman. But I’m married. If we do end up working together …’

Macy held up a hand to stop him, simultaneously smiling and exhaling a cloud of steam, like an amused dragon.

‘You have nothing to worry about. I had a great time, but I don’t do commitment and I’m not interested in a rerun. We couldn’t top that anyway.’

‘No,’ Eddie grinned. ‘I don’t suppose we could.’

‘But discretion works both ways,’ Macy said seriously. ‘I don’t tell, you don’t tell, nobody gets hurt. That means no boasting in the locker room, no drunken confessions.’

‘Of course not,’ said Eddie.

‘You don’t want your wife to know. And I don’t want people to think I slept my way into this job. That’s not what this was about.’

‘Not in the least,’ Eddie assured her. ‘So does that mean you’ll come on board? You’ll do the show?’

‘That depends,’ said Macy. ‘I want equity. You’ll have to negotiate the package with Paul. But if the price is right … yeah. I’ll do it. I think the idea has promise. And, you know. I like you.’

‘I like you too,’ said Eddie truthfully.

Macy fell asleep almost instantly. She’s like a man in lots of ways, Eddie thought, although thankfully not in all.

Eddie lay awake for a long time staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. He waited to be hit by an onslaught of guilt, but it never came. The truth was he’d enjoyed tonight. More than that, in some primal, deep-rooted way, he’d needed it.

He would not be unfaithful again. What happened with Macy had been a one-off. It had happened far away, in another world, and his wife would never know about it.

Eddie loved Annabel. As soon as she started sleeping with him again, he would become a one-man woman, the loyal, loving husband she deserved. Tomorrow was another day.

By the time he woke up the next morning, Macy Johanssen had gone.

Still in bed, Eddie picked up the telephone and left a message for Laura Baxter.

‘I’ve found her,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I’ve found our girl.’

Slipping out of Eddie’s bed at 5 a.m., Macy only took twenty minutes to get to her house off Laurel Canyon. In the dawn light, with no traffic on the roads, Los Angeles looked strangely peaceful, slumbering softly in the shadow of the San Gabriel Mountains, beneath the gently swaying palms. Closing the electric wooden gates behind her, Macy walked into her kitchen, kicked off her shoes and exhaled, still buzzing from her night with Eddie.

Macy’s house was her sanctuary. Like her it was small but perfectly formed, a light-filled haven with white wooden walls, simple antique furniture and a crisp yet feminine feel. Mismatched jugs full of peonies and roses and sweet williams crowded every available surface, and vintage linens on the bed and table gave the place warmth. But the overwhelming impression was one of tidiness and calm. Everything in its place and a place for everything; Macy was a big believer in order and control, perhaps because her childhood had been complete chaos.

After her father walked out when Macy was three, her mother had turned to drink. Macy learned early on to fend for herself. Her formative years were spent shuttling between her mom’s house, during Karin Johanssen’s intermittent periods of sobriety, and a string of different foster homes across the LA area. For the most part Macy’s foster parents had been decent people. It wasn’t as if she’d been abused or anything. But there was no stability, no order. And so Macy had made her own, working like a demon at school, eventually getting a place at Yale and putting herself through college with a string of loans, grants and scholarships, all of which she’d researched and applied for herself.

The biggest blow of Macy’s life had come at the end of her first year in college, when her mom died suddenly of a heart attack aged forty-seven. Only four people came to the funeral in LA. Two from her mom’s AA group, one neighbour, and one from the funeral home in Encino where Karin Johanssen had been laid to rest.

After finishing her degree – if TV didn’t work out, at least she would have a first-class education to fall back on – Macy moved back to Los Angeles and begun pounding on doors. With her beauty, wit, charisma and brains she was a natural as a presenter, and agents were soon lining up to sign her. Macy chose Paul Meyer to represent her, because he was honest and didn’t pull his punches. She was still only twenty-three when Paul landed her a primetime, network gig, fronting the gameshow Grapevine for ABC. It was a huge break for a relative unknown. But as Paul had warned her at the time, one hit show did not necessarily guarantee a lasting career.

When Grapevine came off air, Macy suddenly found herself jobless. She waited confidently for more network offers to pour in. But as the months passed, her confidence began to wane. When Paul suggested she take a meeting with Eddie Wellesley, Macy had shut him down cold. She wanted another primetime show like Grapevine, not some two-bit gig in England with no names attached.

‘But that’s the whole point,’ Paul had told her. ‘You would be the name attached. You have nothing currently shooting here, Macy. That is the reality.’

Macy had frowned. ‘Yes, but Grapevine … ’

‘… is over. Your last presenting gig finished almost six months ago. You need this.’

Macy had begged to differ. But clearly Paul and Eddie had conspired not to take no for an answer. After the incredible night she’d just spent with Eddie, Macy figured she should be glad about that at least.

Now, sitting down at her desk, with its glorious views over the canyon, she turned on her Mac and checked her emails.

Nothing work related. One from her trainer. Five from Chris, the lovely but far too demanding boyfriend Macy had been forced to get rid of last month. Chris had been an experiment, a toe in the water to test how it might be in a ‘real’ relationship. It wasn’t a success. From now on she was back to her comfort zone of one-night stands. Life was enough of a struggle taking care of oneself. She didn’t need dependants.

Finally one email that made her jaw tense and her stomach lurch.

Sender: ljjohanssen@me.com

Again. The bastard really didn’t give up.

Furiously, Macy deleted the message, unread.

Her ‘father’ – he didn’t deserve the name, but Macy didn’t know what else to call him – had first attempted to get in contact last year. Per Johanssen, the man who had heartlessly deserted Macy’s mother and destroyed her life, who had never sent so much as a Christmas card to Macy growing up, or lifted a finger to help when social services had taken her from her mom. That man now wanted to get to know his daughter. Now she had become famous and wealthy, Per had apparently rediscovered his paternal gene.

Macy tried hard not to hate men. She might keep them at a distance, emotionally, but she loved male company, the male sense of humour, and she very much appreciated the joys of having an accomplished lover in her bed, on as regular a basis as possible. But just thinking about her father filled her with an anger and loathing so wild, so intense, she scared herself.

How dare he email her?

How dare he inject his poison into her life, her inbox, her home? Who the hell did he think he was?

She switched off the computer feeling as if she’d just been molested.

Screw it, she thought. I will go to bloody England.

She trusted Paul Meyer and she liked Eddie Wellesley. That was as good a start as any. And she needed to get away, from Chris, from the misery of being out of work in Hollywood, and most of all from her so-called father.

What do I have to lose?

CHAPTER FIVE

The Reverend Bill Clempson, Fittlescombe’s new vicar, looked out through the double-glazed windows of his ugly modern bungalow at the gardens of what used to be the vicarage. The stately Victorian red-brick house, covered in wisteria and surrounded by glorious formal grounds, was now owned by an investment banker named Chipchase. The Church had sold it years ago to raise some cash.

Fair enough, thought Bill. The Old Vicarage was enormous, big enough for two or three families. As a single man, Bill Clempson would have rattled around in it like a pebble in a shoe. Still, there had been no need for the bungalow replacing it to be quite so hideous and soulless; it was unquestionably the ugliest structure in the entire village. Not even the Reverend Clempson’s beloved red Mini Cooper, gleaming proudly outside like a newly polished snooker ball, could lend his grotty little home much cheer.

The bungalow did, however, afford marvellous views, not only of the vicarage gardens but of St Hilda’s Church and Fittlescombe village green beyond. It was mid-May now, and the entire Swell Valley was a riot of blossoming fruit trees. The pretty front gardens of the cottages along the High Street overflowed with colour and scent, the hollyhocks and rose bushes and foxgloves and jasmine all heralding the close of spring and the imminent approach of summer.

It’s such a stunning place, thought Bill. So unspoiled. Then he thought about this evening’s parish meeting and his resolved hardened. It was his job to ensure that Fittlescombe remained unspoiled, and preserved for everyone to enjoy. This awful reality television show that Gabe and Laura Baxter were proposing to start filming must not be allowed to get off the ground.

Of course, there were those in the parish who questioned his motives. The verger, Nigel Dacre, had as good as accused him of opposing the television show solely because Gabe was behind it. Everybody knew that Gabriel Baxter and the Reverend Clempson didn’t exactly see eye to eye. ‘Rambler-Gate’ was generally considered to be fifteen-love to Gabe. This was Bill’s chance to even the score.

‘It’s not about point-scoring, Nigel,’ the vicar insisted. ‘It’s about what’s best for our community.’

‘But you don’t know anything about it,’ the verger protested. ‘None of us does yet.’

‘I know enough,’ said Bill.

The show was to be called Valley Farm, and had been commissioned by Channel 5 (never a good omen). It centred around Wraggsbottom Farm, but would also take an interest in ‘village life’, whatever that meant. Intrusion, most likely. As far as the vicar was concerned, that was more than enough. It must be stopped, at all costs.

Bill’s predecessor, the Reverend Slaughter, had studiously avoided village politics. Beyond Sunday services, Fittlescombe’s former vicar had limited his pastoral work to visiting the sick, giving the occasional speech at primary school assemblies, and judging the cake competition at the annual village fete.

Perhaps, Bill thought, it was part of the Lord’s plan that he, Bill Clempson, should have taken over the reins at Fittlescombe just as the threat of this television show became real? Half the village – the same half that thought Gabe an ogre for refusing to let his neighbours walk on his land – were up in arms about the idea of having a television crew permanently based there, poking their cameras and microphones in where they weren’t wanted and turning the village into a glorified theme park. Bill would be their voice, their leader. He would shepherd his flock through the danger posed by Gabe Baxter’s rampant selfishness. A Channel 5 film crew in the village didn’t quite constitute the valley of death, perhaps, but one fought one’s battles where one found them.

Walking away from the window, Bill looked at his watch. Five o’clock. The meeting would start at seven, in the village hall. Although it had not exactly been kept secret, neither the Baxters nor Eddie Wellesley had been informed or invited. The village needed a battle plan, and you could hardly hope to formulate that with your enemy in the seat next to you, dunking Hobnobs into his tea.

The hall was already packed when Santiago de la Cruz walked in. Despite having lived in the valley for years, the Sussex cricketing hero still turned female heads. His arrival tonight was especially exciting as he’d brought an extremely attractive blond friend with him. In jeans and open-necked shirts, and smelling of cologne, the two of them looked more like rock stars than locals as they made their way towards the front of the room, where Santiago’s wife, Penny, was saving them seats. Only when the blond removed his sunglasses did people realize that it was James Craven, England’s most talented and charismatic all-rounder since Botham.

‘You’re late,’ Penny whispered crossly as they sat down. ‘It’s about to start.’

‘That’s not late,’ Santiago whispered back, kissing her on the cheek. ‘That’s on time. You remember James?’

‘Of course.’ Penny smiled. ‘I can’t believe Santiago dragged you to a village meeting.’

‘Nor can I,’ James groaned, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m so hungover, my breath must be fifty per cent proof. If anybody lights a match in here, the whole place will go up like Waco.’

‘But it’s seven o’clock at night,’ said Penny. ‘You’ve had the whole day to recover.’

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen what I put away last night. That’s what heartbreak can do to you.’

Santiago rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, please. Heartbreak? You barely knew her.’

‘Of course I knew her.’ James looked hurt.

‘Oh yeah? What was her middle name?’

‘Esmerelda.’ James grinned.

‘Exactly. So stop moaning,’ said Santiago. ‘Besides, you’re buying a cottage here. That makes you a resident.’

‘I looked at a cottage,’ protested James. ‘Because you made me. I didn’t buy it.’

‘Whatever,’ Santiago waved a hand dismissively. ‘You will buy it. And someone needs to stand up to this lynch mob. Look at them all, just sitting there waiting to rip the Baxters to shreds.’

‘I hardly think that’s fair …’ Penny protested. ‘They’re concerned for the village.’

‘They’re ignorant busybodies, bitter because Gabe turfed them out of his garden. And why bloody shouldn’t he?’ said Santiago robustly. ‘I think a TV show will be great for the village. Why not? It could mean investment and jobs. Most of them are just envious they didn’t have the idea first.’

‘Good evening everyone. Thank you all for coming.’

Reverend Clempson banged a gavel self-importantly on the little wooden table at the front of the room. With his thinning hair, reedy voice and twitchy, nervous manner, he reminded Santiago of a meerkat. And not in a cute way.

‘As you know, filming is due to start on the pilot episode of Valley Farm in a matter of weeks. Tonight’s meeting is an open forum to discuss our response. Hopefully, as a community, we can come up with some practical and positive suggestions.’

‘I have a suggestion.’ Santiago raised his hand. His deep, booming Latin voice rang out in gloriously sexy contrast to the reverend’s wheedling whine. ‘Why don’t we give this thing a chance, support our neighbours and stop acting like a bunch of playground bullies?’

The room erupted. Bill Clempson banged his gavel repeatedly to no effect as furious villagers tore into Santiago and into one another in a thoroughly unedifying shouting match. Who did Santiago think he was, sticking up for his rich mates and accusing ordinary villagers of bullying?

‘Wraggsbottom Farm must be worth four million as it is,’ Kevin Jenner, the butcher, pointed out furiously. The Jenners were a well-known Fittlescombe family. Kevin’s cousin Danny was the landlord at The Fox. ‘And we all know Sir Eddie’s rolling in dirty money. Why should those fat cats be allowed to make even more money by exploiting the village and ruining it for the rest of us?’

‘Oh, so it’s about money, is it? I see,’ said Santiago. ‘And here’s the reverend telling everybody it’s about protecting the natural beauty of Fittlescombe! Last time I read the Bible, envy was a deadly sin.’

‘So’s greed!’ someone yelled back.

Penny flushed scarlet with embarrassment, watching her husband take on all-comers. Why couldn’t Santi let Gabe Baxter fight his own battles?

James Craven pulled a bottle of ibuprofen tablets out of his inside jacket pocket and swallowed two grimly. ‘Do you think it’s going to get physical?’ he whispered to Penny. ‘If it does, I warn you, I’m off. I’m a terrible coward. They don’t call me Craven for nothing. I leave all that macho bollocks to your husband.’

In the end, as so often with village tensions, it was Max Bingley, the headmaster, who calmed things down.

‘Look, this is ridiculous. Angela and I aren’t happy about this programme being made here either. And our objections have nothing to do with wealth or how much people’s homes are worth.’

‘I bet they’re not,’ muttered Kevin Jenner.

Angela Cranley, Max’s long-term partner, owned Furlings, the local manor, by far and away the most spectacular house in the valley, if not the entire county.

‘For us, it’s about privacy. However, I don’t believe it’s right or fair to hold meetings like this one without allowing the Baxters and Sir Edward to put their side of the case.’

The vicar opened his mouth to speak, but Max ignored him.

‘It may be possible to reach some sort of compromise. But only if we all behave in an open and reasonable way, and engage the other side in dialogue. The reality is, legally there’s little or nothing we can do. The programme is being shot on Gabriel Baxter’s land, and on public streets. Beyond keeping the cameras out of our own homes and property …’

‘May I say something?’

A loud, authoritative voice rang out from the back of the hall. Everybody turned to see who had spoken.

David Carlyle, editor of the Echo and Fast Eddie Wellesley’s most outspoken enemy, stood with his back against the door. In an expensive but naff grey suit that was cut too tightly, solid gold cufflinks and a garish red silk tie, Carlyle looked every inch the rich and powerful man that he was. When he smiled, as he did now, his teeth flashed brilliant white, giving him a look that was part toothpaste commercial, part wolf.

‘With respect to the last speaker, there’s a lot we can do. As a concerned local resident, I don’t want this valley being defaced any more than you do.’

‘Shame you built that godawful eyesore of a “McMansion”, then,’ James whispered to Penny under his breath. ‘Architectural services care of Barbie and Ken.’

Penny giggled. ‘Don’t be mean. His wife’s really lovely.’

Carlyle was still talking.

‘With the help of my newspaper, and a carefully orchestrated campaign to raise awareness of what’s really going on here, a scandalous abuse of wealth and privilege, I believe we can put an end to this, quickly and finally. Now, it will take money. But I’m happy to foot the bill for any action you can all agree on. And I’ll make sure you get coverage, not just locally but nationally.’

For the second time that evening, order disintegrated. Reverend Clempson’s attempts to assert any authority over proceedings evaporated utterly in the face of David Carlyle’s confidence, charisma and cheque book, as villagers thronged eagerly around their new champion.

‘What do you think of him?’ Penny de la Cruz asked Angela Cranley as both women prepared to leave. Clearly nothing concrete was going to be decided at tonight’s meeting.

‘David Carlyle? I don’t know him,’ said Angela. ‘But I think he means business. He reminds me a bit of Brett. I wouldn’t want him for an enemy, that’s for sure.’

‘He hates Eddie Wellesley,’ said Santiago. ‘How can these people be so stupid?’ He looked at his neighbours, thronging around Carlyle like devoted fans around a famous footballer. ‘Can’t they see he’s using them to further a personal vendetta?’

‘The whole thing is stupid,’ Max Bingley muttered under his breath. ‘And it’s getting quite out of hand.’

David Carlyle was also trying to leave, shaking the vicar warmly by the hand and talking to him intently as he made his excuses to the assembled villagers.

‘Look at bloody Clempson,’ Max Bingley spluttered. ‘He’s blushing like a teenage girl who’s just been asked on her first date. Whatever happened to impartial moral leadership?’

Angela Cranley rolled her eyes. She loved Max, but he could sound so terribly headmasterly at times.

Santiago was tapping away on his phone as they all filed out.

‘What are you doing?’ Penny asked him.

‘Texting Gabe. Someone has to warn him.’

‘Warn him of what?’

‘The lynch mob.’

‘That’s a bit melodramatic,’ said Penny. ‘He already knows people are angry about the show, and the vicar’s trying to curry favour with the congregation. He only has to walk into Preedys’ or down the High Street to realize that.’

‘Yes, but this is different,’ said Santiago. ‘This isn’t just a few disgruntled neighbours and a desperate-to-please vicar with a Che Guevara complex. This is one of the most powerful editors in Fleet Street. David Carlyle’s out to finish Eddie Wellesley. Gabe and Laura are going to get caught in the crossfire.’

David Carlyle leaned back in the taupe leather seat of his new Aston Martin Rapide and pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. He felt good. Powerful. In control. Tonight’s meeting had gone well. His new car roared impressively, surging forward at the tap of his foot like a tethered lion straining at the leash as he weaved his way through the Downs towards Hinton. He would go home, report his triumph to Louise, his loyal wife of over twenty years, pour himself a glass of Oban single malt, and set about the serious but enjoyable business of pissing on Eddie Wellesley’s latest pet project.

The feud between David Carlyle and Eddie Wellesley had begun years earlier, back when David had worked as the senior spin doctor for Tristram Hambly, the prime minister. Eddie had been part of a group of senior Tories who’d pressured Hambly to get rid of David. The reason for their dislike was simple. They saw David Carlyle as a bully: unscrupulous, unethical, vile to his junior staff and all the interns and tea-makers at Number Ten. Yes, he was good at his job – brilliant, even. A political animal to his bones, David Carlyle understood the importance of controlling information: when to leak, when not to leak, who to stick close to and who to betray. His only political ideal was winning elections, and he would go to the ends of the earth to achieve this end, no matter who he worked for. But, as Eddie Wellesley put it to the PM, an old friend, ‘Life’s too short to be spent in the company of arseholes, Tristram.’

And so David Carlyle was ‘reshuffled’ and a marvellous woman from Saatchi’s, Margot Greene, brought in to replace him.

Eddie Wellesley had won his little battle. But he had made himself a very dangerous enemy.

After David left Number Ten, his career had gone from strength to strength. He had landed the head of News job at the Echo, rising quickly to become editor when Graham Davies retired. Since taking over, David had tripled the paper’s readership and made it a serious Fleet Street player once again. The success was sweet, but nothing could quite replace the thrill of politics, the Machiavellian Sturm und Drang of life at Number Ten, pulling the strings behind the scenes. Even so, David knew he would never go back. That time had passed, and new challenges awaited. But he never forgot or forgave the plot to oust him. David saw what had happened to him as a straightforward case of snobbery. ‘Fast Eddie’ Wellesley, Tristram Hambly and two-thirds of his enemies in Cabinet had all been at either Eton or Oxford together. David’s father had been a printer and his mother worked in a butcher’s shop. He’d heard the sniggers and snide remarks at Number Ten, about his grey shoes and his ‘naff’ ties and his use of taboo words like ‘pardon’ and ‘toilet’. The bastards had been out to get him from the start.

‘Don’t let it bother you,’ his wife Louise used to tell him. ‘Who cares what they think?’ Louise was from a similar background, the middle daughter of a carpet fitter from Dagenham. And the wonder of it was, she really didn’t care. But David did. Desperately. He loathed the clubby-ness of the Tory party, and the myriad ways in which he was shut out of the PM’s inner circle. But what infuriated him most of all was the way that ordinary, working-class voters – people like him – seemed to warm to Eddie Wellesley. They found Eddie witty and straightforward and charismatic, and forgave all his foibles as endearing eccentricities. Little did they know how much Eddie and his clique of posho-cronies despised them and all they stood for. It was up to David to set them straight.

He spent years, and hundreds of thousands of pounds of his paper’s money, investigating Fast Eddie’s tax affairs. When he finally nailed Eddie he did it in style, publishing a brutal exposé of his dodgy offshore schemes and bribing all his whores to testify against him. Eddie’s resignation was a good day for David Carlyle, the day of his arrest an even better one. But the day that they carted the bastard off to jail? That had been the happiest day of David’s life.

But now Eddie Wellesley was back, and trying to reinvent himself as a television producer. David felt his chest tighten. The barefaced gall of the man! He planned to do a reality show, no less: stooping to conquer, a real man of the people. David felt sick. Media was his world, his business. Just as politics had been his business, until Eddie came along and poisoned people against him with his lethal blend of snobbery and charm. Eddie Wellesley was pure spite, wrapped up in a shining silver bow. And now, to top it all, the bastard had even followed David here, to the Swell Valley. Why couldn’t Wellesley have bought a house in the fucking Cotswolds like the rest of his posho Tory pals? No one wanted him in the Swell Valley with his TV cameras and his new posse of village cronies, lead by that popinjay Gabe Baxter.

David wondered exactly which Old Etonian strings Fast Eddie had pulled this time, to get Valley Farm off the ground. Apparently he’d already convinced some American bimbo to leave one of the big US networks and front the thing alongside Gabe, no doubt with an eye on the international market. Arrogant bastard.

The triumph and satisfaction David had felt, getting Eddie sent to prison, hadn’t lasted long. Inexplicably, the great British public still adored him. If Eddie made a success of things in the TV world, no one would remember his fall from political grace. He’d be a survivor. Teflon Eddie, the comeback kid.

But he wouldn’t make a success of it.

Not this time.

David Carlyle was going to see to that.

He wouldn’t rest until that son of a bitch Wellesley was a broken man.

Pulling in through the electric gates of his Southern ranch-style home, David left his car in the driveway. He heard the satisfying ‘beep beep’ of the Aston’s automatic lock, followed by the gentle splashing of water from the dolphin fountain he’d had put in as a centrepiece in front of the house. Louise loved dolphins, and David loved Louise. She’d been with him since the beginning, since they were both kids, back when he had nothing. Louise had believed in him even then, when all he could offer her was a cramped room over a Falafel King in Tufnell Park. She’d sacrificed endlessly for his career, never complaining about his long hours, or the meagre pay in the early days, or the black moods that could grip him when work wasn’t going well. Louise was the great miracle of David’s life, always seeing the funny side, always in his corner. His success was her success, their success, and if Louise wanted a dolphin fountain then she would bloody well have one. David knew that the local upper-class mafia mocked his house, but he didn’t give a rat’s arse. If they preferred to live in draughty old piles full of damp and mould and mouse shit, that was up to them. They could keep their tatty Persian rugs and Jacobean furniture, and he would keep his state-of-the-art sound system, dolphin fountain and marble Jacuzzi whirlpool bath, complete with rainbow light feature panel, thank you very much.

Louise greeted him in the doorway, looking strained.

‘You said you wanted tea at eight.’

In a pale pink dress and matching heels, and with her hair newly blow-dried, she’d clearly made an effort to look nice. Louise Carlyle was a big believer in working at one’s marriage. ‘Keeping the magic alive’ wasn’t easy, especially when you were married to an obsessive workaholic like David. But no one could say Louise didn’t try.

‘That’s right.’

‘It’s nine thirty, David. The lasagne’s ruined. What happened?’

‘It was bloody brilliant.’ David’s eyes lit up. ‘The whole village is up in arms about this TV show.’

‘Are they?’ Louise knew that there was some dissent. But she’d also heard plenty of people excited about Valley Farm and willing to give the idea a chance.

‘Oh yeah,’ said David. ‘Eddie Wellesley’s up to his neck in it this time.’

Louise sighed. Eddie Wellesley. Again.

‘By the time I’m finished with him there won’t be a voter in England who can stand the fucking sight of him.’ David grinned.

Louise Carlyle loved her husband and she was loyal to a fault. But David wasn’t the one who had to live here, day in, day out. While her husband was up in London, churning out newspapers, Louise had worked hard to make friends in the valley, not just in Hinton, but in the livelier villages of Fittlescombe and Brockhurst too. It wasn’t easy when one didn’t have children. But Louise had joined the WI, and in recent weeks had started to become close to its chairwoman, Jenny Grey, and to the lovely Penny de la Cruz, who also helped with the church flowers. Louise knew that Penny’s husband Santiago was friends with Gabriel Baxter, and that the Baxters were involved in this TV show of Eddie Wellesley’s. If David started making waves again (forget ‘if’, he had started), the ripples were bound to affect Louise’s own friendships. She wished, just once, that David would consider things like that. But she knew if she brought it up he’d feel unsupported and let down, and she couldn’t have that. Sometimes it was exhausting, the degree to which David needed to be mothered.

He hugged her tightly. ‘Lasagne, did you say?’

‘Not any more. It’s burned to a crisp. You said you wanted to have dinner, just the two of us.’

‘Don’t worry, love. Doesn’t matter.’ David was already moving past her, towards his study. ‘I’ll just have a Scotch and a packet of crisps. I need to get to work anyway. I want to do some research tonight on this Yank woman Eddie’s bringing over. See what dirt my news desk can dig up.’

Louise Carlyle stood and watched as her husband walked into his study, closing the door behind him. He hadn’t kissed her. Hadn’t asked about her day. Hadn’t apologized for being late or ruining the meal that she’d prepared for them.

He wasn’t always like this, she reminded herself. He’s a good man, really.

Louise had loved David for all her adult life, and a good few years before that, and she knew a side to him that few people got to see. Her David was romantic and passionate. He was funny and loyal and kind, forever doing little things for her, like leaving a sugar mouse on her pillow every time he went away on a trip, because Louise had mentioned on an early date how much she loved them as a child. Yes, he was ambitious and he worked hard. Louise suspected he was tough as a boss and she knew many of his staff disliked him. But it was only because his standards were high. David wanted a better life, for both of them. Becoming the prime minister’s spin doctor had been a dream come true, but it wasn’t some sort of gift. It was a dream he had worked for and felt he deserved. When Eddie Wellesley took that away from him, he took more than just a job. Other people saw David’s anger. But Louise saw his pain. It was awful and it had changed him profoundly. After that there were no more sugar mice, no more thoughtful gestures. It was as if there was no room for anything but David’s raging resentment, his need to exact vengeance. He’d made plenty of enemies in the course of his professional life, but with Eddie Wellesley it was different. Personal. Louise didn’t hate Eddie Wellesley, but she did wish he would go away, far away, and never come back.

She gazed sadly at David’s closed study door.

One day, when he finally got over this vendetta with Eddie Wellesley, things would go back to the way they used to be.

One day.

Laura stood outside the gates of St Hilda’s Primary School, waiting for the bell to ring. Hugh had started nursery a few weeks earlier, and now toddled off to school three afternoons a week. The sight of him setting off from the farm with his pirate backpack, puffing his little chest out with pride, made Laura preposterously happy. What a magical place this was to grow up! Hugh and Luca had no idea how lucky they were, she thought, looking down at Luca asleep in his pushchair as a bee buzzed lazily past.

A group of mothers stood off to one side, chatting and occasionally shooting glances in Laura’s direction. Hostile glances? Or was she imagining things? I mustn’t be paranoid. Ever since Laura had sold Valley Farm to Channel 5, and word had got out in the village about the impending filming at Wraggsbottom, local feeling had been running high. It didn’t help that the new vicar, desperate to curry favour with his parishioners, and still smarting from Gabe’s rant about the Right-to-Roamers, had decided to stir up trouble, whipping up what would have been a few disgruntled murmurs into full-on war. Only yesterday, the notice that Laura had put up in the village stores, advertising for extras for the first day’s filming, had been angrily torn down and replaced with a ‘Save Our Village’ poster. As if the village were under threat! Despite Call-me-Bill’s efforts, however, Laura had faith it would all work out. No one loved the village and the valley more than she and Gabe. That was the truth, and one of the main reasons they’d wanted to make the show in the first place. With so many rich second homers, and farming in a terminal decline, Fittlescombe was in danger of becoming a ghost village, a theme park for wealthy Londoners that only came to life at weekends and holidays. Numbers at the village school were already dwindling. Without new jobs, they would only fall further. Valley Farm could provide those jobs, both directly on set and indirectly through increased tourism and interest in the Swell Valley. Plus, once people saw how nice and respectful Laura’s production team were, and how true the show was to the spirit of the valley and the people who lived and worked there, she was sure they would come round.

Besides, Eddie had promised to go door to door and turn on the legendary Wellesley charm once Macy Johanssen and the camera crew actually arrived in the village. If anybody could love-bomb Fittlescombe’s naysayers into submission, it was Eddie. He and Laura had already become fast friends. Whenever she felt overwhelmed (producing a television show, taking care of two small boys and running the farm with Gabe all at the same time was no mean feat), Eddie somehow managed to calm her down. More than that, his belief in Valley Farm as a concept was so passionate and profound, so utterly unwavering, he boosted Laura’s confidence simply by being in the same room. Thank God Gabe had had the balls to suggest approaching him.

One of the older children ran out into the playground, ringing the hand bell that signalled the end of the day. Moments later the children began to file out, youngest first. Laura waited to see Hugh’s happy, excited little face running to greet her. But instead he emerged blotchy and red-faced. He’d clearly been crying.

‘Darling!’ Laura swept him up into her arms. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

‘Dickon said I can’t go to his party any more.’

‘Dickon Groves?’

Hugh nodded. ‘Ev’un else can go. Only not me.’ His lower lip wobbled pathetically. ‘He’s having a bouncy castle.’

‘I’m sure that can’t be right,’ said Laura. ‘Would you like me to go and talk to Dickon’s mummy?’

Hugh looked doubtful. ‘You stay here with Luca,’ said Laura, setting him down on the grass. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

She walked over to where Sarah Groves was talking to some other mothers.

‘Sorry to butt in,’ she began with a smile, ‘but I think Hugh’s got the wrong end of the stick. He thinks Dickon doesn’t want him to come to his birthday party any more.’

Sarah’s face hardened. ‘That’s right.’

Laura felt a knot form in her stomach. Sarah Groves wasn’t a friend, as such, but they’d always been on good terms. No more, evidently. The other mothers had lined up behind her, arms folded in a distinctly hostile manner. Laura felt as if she were at school, being cornered by the bullies.

‘But … why? Has something happened?’

Sarah scoffed. ‘Yes, something’s happened. You and your husband have run roughshod over all of us. That’s what’s happened.’

‘Now, hold on—’ Laura began.

‘No one wants this TV show, you know. No one. But you don’t care, do you? As long as you’re making a few quid.’

Laura was so shocked, for a moment she didn’t know what to say. Then she looked across at her son standing by his brother’s pushchair, his little shoulders slumped in disappointment and felt a surge of anger rush through her.

‘My God. So you’re taking out your petty grievances on an innocent four-year-old boy? How truly pathetic.’

Now it was Sarah’s turn to look shocked. Her mouth dropped open with indignation. ‘Petty grievances? How dare you! Who the hell do you think you are?’

But Laura had already walked away, scooping up Hugh into her arms and marching furiously across the village green, Luca’s pushchair lurching wildly at every bump in the grass.

She was still spitting tacks when she got back to the farm.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ Gabe was sitting with his legs up on the kitchen table, reading the racing results. So much for his ‘ridiculously busy’ day on the farm, the one that meant he couldn’t go and pick up Hugh, or give Luca his lunch, meaning Laura had had to do it.

‘That bloody cow,’ Laura seethed.

‘Buddy cow,’ said Luca.

She filled him in while Hugh plonked himself down in front of Scooby-Doo.

‘The witch,’ said Gabe. ‘I’ve got a good mind to go over there right now and tell her what I think of her. How dare she!’

‘For God’s sake don’t,’ said Laura.

Slumping down into the tatty armchair by the Aga, she suddenly felt exhausted. Santiago and Penny had come over last night, after the village meeting, and they’d all stayed up far too late drinking and taking the piss out of David Carlyle. Eddie kept telling her the furore over the show would die down, like the proverbial storm in a teacup. But Laura was worried. This particular storm seemed to have brewed pretty damn quickly. Fittlescombe was her and Gabe’s home. It was the children’s home.

‘Are we making a terrible mistake?’ she asked Gabe.

Gabe leaned down and kissed her.

‘No. We’re not. We’re doing something exciting, and new, and different. People are afraid of change, especially round here. And when people are afraid, they lash out. Come on, Laur. We knew this was going to happen. Once the local economy starts improving and everyone’s benefiting, they’ll come around. It’ll be all right.’

Will it? thought Laura.

She hoped so, and not just for Hugh’s sake.

‘Where are you going?’ She noticed with alarm that Gabe had scooped up his car keys from the kitchen table. ‘For God’s sake don’t go and cause a scene at the Groveses.’

‘I wouldn’t set foot in that house for all the tea in China,’ said Gabe, his lip curling with disgust. ‘I’m off to Toys R Us in Chichester. I’m going to buy Hugh the biggest fuck-off bouncy castle on earth. That little shit Dickon is gonna wish he’d never been born.’

Laura rolled her eyes.

Sometimes it was hard work, having three children.

CHAPTER SIX

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.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Macy Johanssen adjusted the veil on her fascinator and surveyed the packed church surreptitiously from behind her order of service.

She’d been astonished to receive an invitation to Logan Cranley’s wedding, having never met either the bride or groom. But Angela Cranley, the bride’s mother, happened to pop into Wraggsbottom Farm during filming on Thursday and very sweetly asked Macy along.

‘The whole village will be there, so it’ll be a chance for you to meet everyone. And I know my ex-husband’s curious to meet you.’

Not as curious as I am to meet him, thought Macy. Brett Cranley was one of the richest men in Australia, and a big investor in America too, not least in the media sector. For a consummate networker like Macy, Brett Cranley was exactly the sort of man she wanted to make a good impression on. She’d chosen her outfit carefully: a taupe silk dress that looked nothing on the hanger but that clung seductively to Macy’s slender frame, making her look as though she’d been dipped in caramel; simple gold accessories; neutral Manolo pumps, and a wisp of netting from Philip Treacy over her dark bob that couldn’t have cost more than five bucks to make but which was the most expensive item in Macy’s entire outfit.

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