The Show by Tilly Bagshawe
Eddie was worried about her, too. He’d resigned his seat back in September, as soon as it had become clear that the case against Magda was watertight.
‘She’s illegal. We employed her. That’s that,’ he said stoically. ‘Ignorance is no defence under the law, and even less of a defence in politics. It’s over.’
He waited for the feelings of anger and disappointment and loss to hit him, but oddly they never did. Perhaps because of all the ups and downs of the last few years, Eddie found he was strangely detached about this latest blow. But Annabel took it badly. Eddie watched with alarm as she began to lose weight and withdraw again socially. He’d come so close to losing her last time, the prospect of it happening again filled him with utter dread. He found himself becoming furious with Milo, for disappearing in a melodramatic sulk just when his mother needed him the most.
Ironically, as so often in Eddie’s life, while one area of his life was imploding, another had begun to blossom. He had barely given Valley Farm a thought for months, but now the lawyers had finally thrashed out a deal with Fox. Eddie was on his way to London now to sign papers that would make him a considerably richer man. Macy would move back to the States in January to front the new US show, and the search was already under way for a replacement UK presenter. If the American version was a success, plans were already afoot to roll out the format in other territories across Europe and Asia. There was so much to look forward to. If only Eddie could convince Annabel to look forward instead of back and to embrace their new future.
Outside the train window, grimy Victorian terraces had replaced the frosted fields. They were already in London, and Eddie hadn’t even noticed. Time seemed to race by so quickly these days. Blink, and everything had changed.
An unusually melancholy Eddie got off at Victoria and hailed a cab to Fox’s Shepherd’s Bush offices.
‘Didn’t you used to be Eddie Wellesley?’ the cabbie asked guilelessly.
Eddie grinned. He’d got into a frightful habit of taking life seriously. Hopefully seeing the lovely Laura Baxter again would snap him out of it.
Laura felt her stomach flip over with nerves and regretted not eating breakfast this morning. She’d been in a rush to get the boys off to school – every Monday morning was the same mad panic of missing shoes, lost reading books and Marmite-stained ties – but she was also too stressed to eat. Which was weird, as today’s meeting at Fox was a formality and a celebration more than anything. It had taken the best part of a year, but all the tough negotiating had been done. All Laura, Gabe and Eddie had to do today was sign their contracts and raise a glass to the next glorious chapter in the Valley Farm story.
Except that for Laura and Gabe, it meant more than that. Once they signed the Fox deal, their divorce could finally go through. Again, this was a good thing. This was closure, something they both needed. But, annoyingly, Laura’s body stubbornly refused to celebrate. In the lift at Fox’s offices, her palms were sweating as she pressed the button for the fifth floor. Her stomach was making awful noises, her heart was pounding and she had a horrible feeling that blood was rushing unattractively to her cheeks.
‘May I help you?’
The girl at the fifth-floor reception smiled politely as Laura approached the desk.
‘Laura Baxter. I’m here for a meeting with Steve Levenson.’
‘Oh, yes. If you’d like to come through? Your colleagues are here already. Steve’s on his way.’
Laura’s ‘colleagues’, Gabe and Eddie, both smiled broadly when she walked into the meeting room. For the first time all morning, she found herself relaxing a little.
‘Laura!’ Eddie hugged her first. ‘You look divine, as ever. I can’t quite believe this day has come, can you?’
‘No.’ She hugged him back. ‘Where’s the fat lady? And the singing?’
‘I’ll sing if you like,’ said Gabe, kissing her on the cheek. ‘The hills are alive, with the sound of mon-eee!’
In a dark wool suit with a navy-blue shirt and striped silk tie, he looked unusually formal and disarmingly handsome. Laura wondered slightly desperately if she would ever stop fancying him.
‘When Levenson gets here, let’s play a game. The first one of us to get the word “discombobulate” into a sentence has to buy the other two lunch at the Connaught afterwards. With very, very expensive wine.’
He seems so happy, Laura thought. The mischievous twinkle in his eye was back, the one she hadn’t seen since the old days, before Valley Farm, before the cameras and the fame and Macy Johanssen, before it all went wrong.
‘No games,’ she said sternly. ‘And no discombobulating the Americans. Let’s for God’s sake just sign the papers, take our cheques and get out of here. Before they change their minds!’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Eddie.
‘Spoilsport,’ said Gabe. ‘You do look lovely,’ he added, throwing Laura completely and making her blush crimson at the very moment that the Fox executives walked in.
‘Hello everybody.’
Steve Levenson, a humourless individual at the best of times, looked even more po-faced than usual this morning. Wearing an ugly, double-breasted suit and smelling far too strongly of cologne, he was followed into the room by a string of lawyers, like so many bald ants silently following their leader. Laura noticed that no one was carrying any papers.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘Not a problem,’ Eddie said smoothly.
‘We’ve waited a year,’ Gabe said drily. ‘A few more minutes isn’t going to discombobulate us.’
Laura shot him a dirty look.
‘I’m afraid I have disappointing news.’ Steve Levenson looked at each of them unblinkingly. ‘We no longer feel the show is right for us.’
A stunned silence descended.
Gabe was the first to break it. ‘This is bullshit. We had a deal.’
‘We were in the advanced stages of negotiations, which we entered into in good faith,’ Levenson replied carefully. ‘But in the final analysis we don’t feel that this format is quite what we’re looking for.’
‘It was what you were looking for last week,’ said Eddie. ‘What’s changed?’
The lawyers exchanged uncomfortable glances.
‘You’re doing your own show,’ Laura said quietly. ‘You’re ripping off our format, giving it a new name and cutting us out of the deal. All those “consultants” on set this season, taking notes … all the legal delays … You never had any intention of signing with us, did you?’
‘That’s a ridiculous accusation,’ said Levenson, blushing furiously.
‘Do you have another show?’ Eddie asked bluntly.
‘We have a number of scripted reality projects in the works,’ one of the lawyers piped up. ‘Some of them may appear to bear some superficial resemblance to Valley Farm. But that’s purely coincidental.’
Gabe stood up. ‘This is bloody fraud, that’s what it is! You’ve strung us along for a year, a year in which we could have found other partners, made other deals. And now you think you can steal our format from under our noses?’
‘No one’s stealing anything, Mr Baxter.’
‘Oh, yeah? Well, a court will be the judge of that. If you think we’re letting this lie, you’ve got another think coming, you prick.’
‘There’s no need for name calling,’ the American said primly. ‘I can assure you, we’re as disappointed as you are that this didn’t work out. We’ve devoted considerable resources—’
But Gabe wasn’t listening. Pushing back his chair in disgust, he walked out of the room. Laura and Eddie followed him.
The three of them took the lift down to the reception area in stony silence. Outside on the street, the cold November air hit them like a slap in the face.
‘Fuckers,’ Gabe brooded. ‘They won’t get away with this.’
‘They will,’ Eddie said quietly. ‘Intellectual property rights are notoriously difficult to defend in court. And their pockets are a lot deeper tha
‘They’ve already ruined us!’
‘Nonsense,’ Eddie said robustly. ‘There are plenty of other places we can take the format. We just need to be more canny about it next time. And in the meantime our domestic ratings are good. Channel 5 are keen to keep going.’
‘I agree with Gabe,’ said Laura, belting her black cashmere coat more tightly around her. ‘We can’t just bend over and let them shaft us like this. It’s a matter of principle.’
Gabe put an arm around Laura’s shoulder and pulled her in to him. For the first time in a very long time, they felt like a team. Laura’s arm slipped around his waist. She squeezed him back.
‘You can’t afford principles I’m afraid,’ said Eddie firmly. ‘I’m as pissed off as you are, believe me. But I’m not pouring good money after bad and I strongly advise you both not to do so. We’ll all recover. The person who this really affects is Macy.’
Macy’s name cut the bond between Laura and Gabe like a scimitar through silk. Nothing was said, but they stepped away from each other, the moment of closeness gone.
‘She was all geared up to move back to the States with what’s-his-face,’ Eddie continued, oblivious.
‘Warren,’ said Gabe.
‘God knows what she’ll do now.’
‘I’ll call her,’ said Gabe. ‘Break the news.’
‘No. I’ll do it.’ Eddie’s tone made it clear he would brook no argument. ‘I’m the one who got her involved in Valley Farm in the first place. I’ll tell her. But I’d like to do it in person.’ He looked at his watch. If he hurried, he could still catch the 2.02pm back down to the Swell Valley. ‘Will you two be all right if I make a dash for it?’
Laura and Gabe watched as he jumped into a cab.
Even now, after this awful, unexpected news, there was something ludicrously chipper about him, a relentlessly positive spring to his step.
Laura looked at Gabe. Part of her wanted desperately to ask him to lunch. To hold on to that brief, lovely moment of togetherness they’d felt, united in outrage against Fox. But the moment was gone, and Laura’s courage with it.
‘I’ll see you on Saturday then?’ she said miserably.
‘Yep.’ Gabe looked at his shoes. ‘And at some point we need to talk about next steps. With us, I mean. The decree nisi.’
‘Of course,’ said Laura. The divorce had been put on ice for this deal that never was. Now there was no reason not to go ahead with it. ‘I’ll call my lawyers today. You should do the same.’
Gabe hugged her goodbye but it was a perfunctory gesture, back to business as usual. Watching him walk towards the Tube, Laura felt every atom of happiness leave her body, like dust being sucked into an invisible vacuum cleaner.
How had it all gone so terribly wrong?
Back in the Swell Valley, Macy was also having a difficult day. She’d woken up at five with terrible period cramps – never a great start – then gone downstairs to check her emails. Seeing one from Austin Jamet at the top of her inbox, she opened it eagerly, hoping for his usual amusing banter. Instead she read a short but strongly worded paragraph informing her that her father was in his last days, perhaps hours, and was ‘literally begging’ to see her before he passed away.
Macy slammed the computer shut and began pacing the house. How dare her father try to emotionally blackmail her like this? And how dare Austin agree to do his dirty work for him? For a lawyer he certainly seemed more than usually concerned about his client’s personal affairs. She wanted to go for a run to work out her frustrations, but icy cold sleet was pounding down outside and she’d be soaked to the bone. Today was supposed to be signing day with Fox, a celebration. But of course Per Johanssen had to spoil that, the way he spoiled everything good in Macy’s life.
By the time Warren called at ten, she’d written four drafts of an email to Austin and deleted them all, before finally sending a two-word note – ‘Not Coming.’
‘You should go if you want to,’ Warren told her, inadvisably.
‘I don’t want to!’ Macy was borderline hysterical.
‘You could see some houses while you’re out there. That Colonial in the Beverly Hills Flats looked great.’
‘Is that all you can think about? House-hunting?’ Macy snapped.
She knew she was being unkind and unfair. Warren was giving up a lot to move back to California with her. His bank had agreed to transfer him to their LA office, but he’d be earning a fraction of what he made in London and would have to rebuild his practice from scratch. Meanwhile, Macy blew hot and cold. One day she was excited about the move and nagging him to look at listings with her. But the next she shut him down completely. As if not talking about leaving England would somehow prevent it from happening.
A knock at the kitchen window made her jump out of her skin.
‘Only me!’ Eddie shouted through the glass. He had a thick winter coat but no hat or umbrella, and his wet hair clung to his head like an otter’s pelt.
Macy rushed to the door. Behind Eddie, pellets of ice were bouncing off the ground like ricocheting bullets as the sleet turned to full-on hail. ‘My God, come in! You look half drowned.’
Eddie stepped inside, shaking the water off his coat and hair like a dog. ‘Bloody miserable out there,’ he smiled. ‘It’s like a war zone.’
Macy smiled back. ‘Well, it’s good to see you.’ Passing him a towel from the warm rail by the Aga, she pulled down two champagne glasses from the cupboard. ‘How did it go up in London? I assume you came over to celebrate?’
Eddie hung up his wet coat on the back of the door and sat down heavily at the kitchen table. ‘Actually, no.’
He told her the whole story. How Fox had refused to sign the deal. How it looked as if they’d been stringing them along from the start. At some point during his spiel, Macy sat down too, her legs weak beneath her.
How could this happen? Why had this happened? She knew it was completely irrational, but she blamed her father. Per Johanssen had poisoned things somehow. Like deadly ivy, he’d extended his tendrils of misery across the Atlantic and into Macy’s life and choked all of the good things out of it.
She had a plan. She and Warren, together, back in the States. Her career would take off again. Everything would be just like it was before. Before she came to England and met Gabe Baxter and lost herself.
‘Macy?’
She hadn’t realized that Eddie had stopped talking until he reached across the table and took her hand.
‘I know it’s bad news. But it’s not the end of the world, you know.’
She looked at him blankly.
‘You could still move back to America if that’s what you want. Begin again over there. Or you could stay on here. Channel 5 are still keen to do a third series of Valley Farm. I’m certain they’d take you back as co-presenter if you asked them. You and Gabe could—’
‘No.’
The word shot out, like an accidentally fired bullet.
‘I can’t. I can’t go back, Eddie. I can’t work with him.’
Eddie frowned. ‘But I thought …’
‘I love him.’ Macy stared down at the table, tracing random lines of grain on the wood with her finger. ‘I wish I didn’t. I’ve tried not to.’
‘I see.’ Eddie said quietly. ‘And what about this chap of yours? Warren?’
Macy shook her head. ‘It’s no use. Life would be so easy if we fell in love with the right people, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Eddie smiled at her kindly. ‘It would.’
He stood up to leave. ‘Don’t make any rushed decisions, my dear. Try to think of what’s best for you. Forget about Gabe and Warren, forget about other people’s expectations. What do you, Macy Johanssen, really want?’
Macy showed him out and sat back down at the table.
What do I really want?
What do I, Macy Johanssen, really want?
If only she knew.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EI
Two weeks before Christmas, a thick blanket of snow fell over the Swell Valley and normal life ground to an abrupt halt. So many teachers couldn’t get into work that St Hilda’s Primary School closed its doors, leaving the delighted village children with an entire extra week of holiday in which to build snowmen, go sledging and generally get into the Christmas spirit.
At Wraggsbottom Farm the usual December root and vegetable picking was impossible. Instead Gabe and his team spent long days digging sheep out of drifts and repairing walls, fences and outbuildings damaged by the severe weather. The cameras captured some of this for the upcoming ‘Valley Farm Christmas Special’. But they missed a lot too, and Gabe found he was glad of the time alone. Waking at five to give the livestock their first feed, pulling on his wellies and crunching out through a deep white crust towards the barns, Gabe felt as if he were living in a Christmas card, like a Nativity-scene shepherd tending his sheep. Above him, the stars still shone in an ink-black sky. Around him all was beauty and peace. There was a magic to Wraggsbottom at moments like this that couldn’t be captured by a camera lens. He loved these moments, although he missed Laura and the children terribly.
Over at Riverside Hall, Annabel Wellesley went through the motions of preparing for the festive season. In the kitchen, she soaked the sloe berries in gin and prepared the Christmas pudding. In the grand hall, she got the gardeners to put up the twelve-foot Norway spruce, and dutifully trimmed the tree with lights and baubles. In the library, she lit fires and put out Eddie’s favourite Diptyque Myrrhe candles, the ones that made the entire house smell like a medieval church. But she felt like a ghost in her own house, a stranger in her own body. While the snow on the lawn muffled the sounds of nature, the wind and birdsong, and wrapped everything in a numbing white quilt, so Annabel felt as if all her senses were somehow numb and muffled. As if she were in some odd sense removed from herself, and from reality.
She knew she was depressed. She just didn’t know how not to be. What should have been the merriest of Christmases, full of old Westminster friends and jolly political parties, was now set to be a dull, village affair. Even the much-talked-about sale of Valley Farm in America had come to nothing. Macy Johanssen was returning to America after Christmas. And though according to Eddie the show would go on, it felt to Annabel very much as if its moment had passed. Gabriel Baxter was no longer the happy-go-lucky family man he had been when it started. The Reverend Clempson and his hardy band of protestors had long since disbanded, and the presence of cameras no longer roused any emotion in the village, either anger or excitement.