The Show (11 page)

‘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.