The Show by Tilly Bagshawe
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: [email protected]
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 her
‘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
‘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.