The Show (21 page)

‘I wonder if we’ll be in it?’ Penny whispered to Santiago. ‘They did film me once or twice in the village, out and about with Emma.’

‘They won’t show you,’ Santiago whispered back, stroking Penny’s rosy cheek. ‘They want viewers to look at Macy. One look at you and no one would give her a second glance.’

Penny laughed so hard she almost choked on her vodka and tonic.

‘I do love you.’ She dabbed the tears from her eyes.

‘I’m serious,’ said Santiago.

‘I know you are,’ said Penny, squeezing his hand as the opening credits of
Valley Farm
finally began to roll.

‘You’re hurting me.’

‘Hmm?’ David Carlyle didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

‘David! Let go! You’re crushing my fingers.’

‘Hmm? Oh. Sorry.’

Belatedly, the formidable editor of the
Echo
released his wife’s hand. Poor, loyal Louise Carlyle had put up with her husband’s foul temper for days now, as the date for
Valley Farm
’s first episode drew nearer. Now that they were actually sitting here, in their own front room, watching Gabriel Baxter and Macy Johanssen stride through the familiar fields of the Swell Valley, it was as if David had entered some sort of trance.

Throughout the summer, you would never have guessed that the Tory government was on the brink of collapse. Or that war might be about to start again in the Middle East. Or that the little boy abducted from his bedroom on Teeside two weeks ago would miraculously be found alive and unharmed. As far as David was concerned, the
only
news that mattered was the launch of his hated rival’s TV show. the
Echo
covered other stories, of course. But not since CNN’s obsession with the missing Malaysian aircraft had a major news outlet focused so intensely and so consistently on one single issue. David had worked tirelessly to portray Eddie Wellesley as the greedy, elitist, self-serving pig that he was. He’d done all he could to smear the reputations of Gabriel Baxter and his wife by association, and to stir up anti-American sentiment towards Macy Johanssen for worming her way into the affections of England’s favourite cricketer since Santiago de la Cruz.

He’d succeeded in turning
Valley Farm
into a story, and the exploitation of the Swell Valley and its residents into an issue. But the true measure of the
Echo
’s campaign would be the public reaction to the show itself. David sat still as a statue, glued to the screen like a wide-eyed child watching the moon landings.

‘Oh, look!’ said Louise as Furlings appeared in shot, looking impossibly romantic swathed in early morning mist. ‘Doesn’t it look pretty! And there’s Angela Cranley. I didn’t know she was going to be in it.’

‘Nor did I,’ David seethed. Angela was rich as Croesus, but with her soft, Aussie accent and gentle manner, chattering away about sustainable gardening and the camaraderie of village life, she came across as a likable everywoman. By the time they showed her and Max Bingley pleading for calm and tolerance at the village protest meeting in the next scene, viewers were already firmly on Angela’s side. Bloody Laura Baxter was a better producer than David had given her credit for.

‘It’s outrageous,’ he muttered. ‘Look at that! They’re making Bill Clempson out to be a total fool. He sounds pompous and ridiculous.’

‘I thought you said he
was
pompous?’ Louise observed innocently.

‘That’s not the point.’

Laura had saved the scene where the vicar discovered his car submerged in silage until right before the commercial break. Louise Carlyle gasped, whispered, ‘No!’, clapped a hand over her eyes … and then burst out laughing.

‘You think that’s funny?’ David asked accusingly.

‘I … well, no. I mean, a bit,’ Louise blushed. Living with David recently had felt like trying to keep a wild bear as a pet. Everything seemed to make him angry.

The next shot was of Gabe Baxter and Macy Johanssen catching one another’s eye and dissolving into uncontrollable giggles. It took a superhuman effort for Louise not to join them.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked, unsure what else to do.

David looked up as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes. Thanks, love.’ Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. It was so unexpected, Louise thought she might cry.

‘I’m sorry if I’m on edge,’ said David. ‘ It’s just … I have a lot riding on this not working. I don’t mean to take it out on you.’

‘I know,’ Louise squeezed back. ‘I understand.’

Once she’d retreated to the kitchen, David sat alone on the couch, digging his fingernails into his palms until they bled.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He picked up the phone and called his secretary.

‘I need you to set me up a lunch.’

‘Of course, Mr Carlyle. With whom?’

‘John Bingham at ITV.’

‘Very good. And when would you like—’

‘As soon as possible. Book somewhere swanky. Let me know when it’s done.’

He hung up.

At Reverend Clempson’s bungalow, a few of the more hard-core protestors had gathered to watch the show together and enjoy Bill’s home-made organic hummus and aubergine dip.

‘Our cottage looks nice,’ Rita Bramerton cooed to her husband, Reg, as Macy Johanssen was shown walking down Fittlescombe High Street, admiring the beautifully planted front gardens. ‘Look at your hollyhocks! Don’t they look grand?’

‘They do,’ Reg agreed.

‘For heaven’s sake. It’s not about how pretty the flowers look!’ Bill Clempson said, more sharply than he’d meant to. ‘Can’t you see you’re being manipulated?’

‘Sorry, Vicar,’ Reg Bramerton said meekly.

A retired bus driver and keen amateur gardener, Reg now mowed the village green and tended to the churchyard flowers as a volunteer. David Carlyle had run an entire feature on the Bramertons in the
Echo
last week, as the ordinary, elderly working-class face of the Swell Valley, and the kind of people that
Valley Farm
’s
producers were cruelly exploiting. They’d certainly worked tirelessly to support the local protest campaign, mainly at the urging of the vicar. Rita had baked cakes and handed out flyers, and Reg had hammered together ‘Save Our Valley!’ placards. But now that they were actually here, watching the programme they’d devoted so much time and effort to stopping, the Bramertons were a little baffled as to what, exactly, they’d been saving the valley
from.

They weren’t the only ones.

‘It could be worse, Vicar,’ John Preedy from the village stores observed – although he wasn’t sure the same could be said for the vicar’s tasteless dip. You’d get more flavour from a can of Polyfilla. ‘At least the farming segments are informative. They let Gabriel talk about what he knows, don’t they? It’s not all just pretty Americans and fluff.’

‘It could
not
be worse,’ Bill Clempson said petulantly. Watching himself hop up and down beside his car like a demented jack-in-the-box, his cheeks red and his voice high and squeaky like a puppet’s, had been a deeply shaming experience. If these people couldn’t see what the producers were doing – the protestors, the very locals he’d been trying to protect from exploitation – then what hope was there that ordinary viewers would see the harm in
Valley Farm
?

‘It’s not only me they’re mocking.’ He turned to address the little group squeezed into his tiny sitting room at the bungalow. ‘Look at the way the cameras are zooming in on Hillary there?’

They looked. Hillary Wincup could be seen flapping her arms hilariously as she ran across the farmyard, her enormous bosoms flying, like a distressed hen escaping a burning coop. ‘They’re laughing at you, Mrs Wincup. That’s what reality television
does.
’

At last a few frowns and mutterings of ‘shame’ began to replace the initial thrill of seeing themselves and their neighbours on screen.

‘You must understand,’ Bill Clempson went on earnestly. ‘If this programme becomes successful, it won’t stop here. Do you really want these cameras to become a permanent part of your lives? This village will be turned into a theme park. And you’ll be like monkeys in a zoo. These people are laughing
at
us, not with us. And they’re raking in fat profits at
your
expense, for themselves and the Baxters.’

‘That’s a bit strong, ain’t it, Vicar?’ Reg Bramerton piped up again.

‘I don’t believe it is, Reg,’ said Bill. ‘You mustn’t let Gabe Baxter’s easy manner fool you. A man may smile and smile and be a villain, you know.’

Six simple faces looked at him blankly.

‘Shakespeare?’ Bill Clempson sighed deeply. ‘Never mind.’

The celebrations at Riverside Hall went on well into the night. They wouldn’t know final ratings, or read any reviews, until the morning. But Channel 5 had already been on the phone, clearly ecstatic about the early numbers, and the reaction on social media was crazy. Even though Gabe didn’t know his trending from his elbow, #ValleyFarm was going stratospheric. And everyone felt they’d made a show that was not only worth watching, but had done what it set out to do – show the real Swell Valley, its people, landscape and rhythms in all its unique, magical glory.

James had a match the next day so left early and alone. Gabe and Laura offered Macy a lift home to Cranbourne House but she decided she’d rather walk. It was still partially light, and the summer heat lingered into the night, rising up from the baked earth like steam from newly baked bread.

She ought to feel happy, and was irritated at herself for the niggling sense of depression and self-doubt that hung over her like an unwanted cloud as she strolled along the lane towards Fittlescombe.

The show was great. Everyone loved it
, she told herself.
Your career’s back on track, you have a great boyfriend, a gorgeous house, a wonderful new set of friends. What the hell is wrong with you?

Her mind wandered to Los Angeles and her agent – she must call Paul tomorrow, and start to think about strategies for marketing
Valley Farm
in the US – and it occurred to her suddenly that she might be homesick. She loved England and the valley far more than she’d ever thought she would. Since dating James, she’d even caught herself using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘loo’. She’d better watch that, actually. She didn’t want to morph into Madonna from the Guy Ritchie years and start wearing a flat cap and rattling off cockney rhyming slang like Dick Van Dyke. But there were things about America that she did miss and thought about increasingly. Stupid things like Kashi breakfast cereal, and Greens 3 from Pressed Juicery, and yoga and
Sixty Minutes
and Steve Inskeep on NPR news. Perhaps a trip home was all she needed? Time away from work, and England and James.
And Gabe
, her subconscious added for her helpfully. Gabe, with his blissful marriage and his cute kids; Gabe with his perfect face and dirty jokes and utter, utter, total unavailability.

Macy sighed.
I’d better book my flight
.

CHAPTER TWELVE

David Carlyle watched contentedly as the waitress poured the wine. He liked The Wolseley. It was old school and posh, with properly trained staff, not Eastern European models with short skirts and stuck-on tits, like the girls they had serving at Box 50, the hot new members’ club for ‘London’s media elite’, which his publicity officer had pushed him to join. David was firmly of the belief that a hooker’s place was in the bedroom, not at the helm of a decanter.

‘Domaine Armand Rousseau.’ John Bingham raised a bushy eyebrow admiringly. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘Get used to it,’ said David Carlyle, raising his own glass. ‘Once you’re director-general, it’ll be top-class burgundy all the way.’

John Bingham laughed. ‘I seriously doubt that.’

‘Why?’ said David. ‘The Beeb might be strapped for cash, but they can still put on a good show at the top. Attracts foreign investment.’ He winked.

God
, thought John Bingham.
He really is such a common little man.

‘It’s not the wine budget that I doubt. It’s me being approached as DG. I just can’t see it happening.’

‘I can,’ said David, ordering oysters on the half shell followed by beef Wellington. He’d have preferred to skip the carbs – the
Echo
’s editor prided himself on his physique. Not many men in his line of work could boast washboard abs at nearly fifty, but he wanted ITVs legendary head of Drama to see him as a man’s man. Infuriatingly, Bingham ordered steamed sea bass and spinach. ‘I have it on very good authority they’re going to approach you. That’s why I’m here.’

John Bingham gave him a knowing look. ‘Why is it I get the feeling that this is going to end up having something to do with Fast Eddie?’

David’s upper lip curled. He loathed Wellesley’s soubriquet almost as much as he loathed the man. ‘Probably because Eddie Wellesley’s the other big name in the ring.’

John almost choked on his wine. ‘You can’t be serious! I know
Valley Farm
’s the new “hot show” right now. But that’s down to Laura, not Eddie Wellesley. The man has no television experience whatsoever.’

It pained David to hear
Valley Farm
described as the new ‘hot show’, but unfortunately this was a matter of simple fact. Not since
Downton Abbey
had a programme become such must-see viewing so quickly. ‘Ground-breaking’ was how Caitlin Moran had described it in
The Times
. ‘Reality, documentary, comedy, drama … you don’t know what it is, you only know you love it.’ ‘Baxter and Johanssen are television gold,’ cooed the
Guardian
. ‘The best presenting team since
Top Gear
,’ according to the
Radio Times
. The
Echo
still covered local impact stories, but it had reached a point where articles overtly hostile to the show were becoming counterproductive. The British public had taken the Swell Valley and its cast of characters to their hearts, and Eddie Wellesley was basking smugly in its reflected glow.