The Show (43 page)

‘I’m fine, Vicar. In the pink, in fact!’ He was smiling so broadly, he looked as though his face might split in two. ‘Another assassination attempt avoided and it’s not even lunchtime. That was a joke,’ he added, watching Bill’s face drain of colour. ‘You really should learn to relax a bit, Vicar, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Er, no. I mean, I don’t mind. Ha, ha!’ Bill laughed weakly. ‘How, er … how are things? How’s Lady Wellesley?’

‘Lady Wellesley is marvellous, thank you,’ said Eddie. Even by his own standards, he was unusually chirpy this morning. ‘As it happens I’ve just this second had some rather wonderful news.’ He waved his mobile phone vaguely in Bill’s direction. ‘Piers Renton-Chambers has just resigned his seat.’

‘Oh!’ said Bill.

Renton-Chambers’ resignation had been on the cards for a while. Deeply unpopular locally (even by Tory standards he was seen as wildly out of touch, and lazy with it, with one of the worst voting records in the south of England), he’d been expected to make way for Eddie Wellesley quietly in the New Year. But then had come the bombshell of David Carlyle’s book and Lady Wellesley’s scandalous past, and the idea had been discreetly dropped. Of course, since then, Fast Eddie’s public popularity had peaked to record highs, and even his wife was getting far higher approval ratings than she had done in her former snob/ice-queen/dignified-victim persona. Rumours had been swirling for months about a return to politics, but Eddie had denied them all. No more, apparently.

‘There’ll be a by-election in due course,’ he explained cheerfully. ‘The local chairman just called me to say they want me as the new Tory candidate. Isn’t that marvellous?’

Bill Clempson blinked, like a mole emerging into the sunshine. Was it marvellous? He wasn’t sure. Around here, Tory candidate meant Tory MP. Chichester and Swell Valley was about as unassailable a Conservative stronghold as you could hope to find in England.

So the rumours were true. Fast Eddie was going to be their new representative in Parliament. Whether that was a good thing, for Eddie or for Fittlescombe, remained to be seen. If nothing else it meant that there was no chance of an exit from the public spotlight any time soon. If Eddie was going back into politics, he wasn’t going to be content as a lowly MP. He’d be a minister before you could say ‘knife’, with the newspapers dissecting his every move.

‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’ said Eddie.

‘Of course,’ the vicar smiled dutifully. ‘Congratulations.’

He wondered how Lady Wellesley was going to take the news? Or David Carlyle, for that matter.

Armed with this new, explosive piece of gossip, he pedalled on.

Magda plumped up the pillows in the blue guest bedroom. Throwing open the windows, she let a blast of warm summer air into the room and sighed happily, closing her eyes as the smell of newly mown grass mingled with jasmine joyously assailed her senses.

Life was good now. Better than good. This time last year, she’d wondered if she could face working for Lady Wellesley indefinitely. As much as she loved the Swell Valley and her little cottage and Wilf, and as much as she valued having a steady job that meant she would never have to go back to Poland again, back then everything she did seemed to be wrong. But, ever since her overdose, Lady Wellesley had been a changed person. Happier, kinder, infinitely more relaxed. She still had her moments, of course. Snobbery, in particular, was proving a hard habit to break and Magda still overheard bitchy asides about ‘naff’ neighbours or ‘ghastly little men’, whose only crime appeared to be that they wore white socks or used the word ‘toilet’. But the old, mean-spirited, toxic, permanently aggrieved Lady Wellesley appeared to have gone for good. More than that, she and Sir Edward seemed madly in love. That was nice to be around. Yesterday Lady Wellesley had even gone out of her way to praise Magda’s work, complimenting her on the gleaming silverware.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen it shine like that since Eddie’s mother had it. Magda, you’re a miracle worker!’

Tucking in the bedspreads, Magda smiled. It was amazing how far a few positive words could go. She did get lonely sometimes, with only the Wellesleys and Wilf for company. Milo came down from time to time, and his visits were always highlights. There was something about his energy and sense of humour that never failed to lift Magda’s spirits, a bit like having a rambunctious puppy in the house. Milo was always laughing. He made Magda realize that she didn’t laugh enough.

The sound of a car engine made her look up. Sir Edward brought his Bentley screeching to a halt in a spray of gravel, hopping out of the car in high excitement.

A few minutes later, Magda heard animated voices coming from the library. Lady Wellesley let out a little scream.
Not more bad news, surely?
Magda panicked. She couldn’t take it if things went back to the way they were before. But before she could indulge her dark imaginings any further, the library door burst open and both her employers emerged, hugging one another and smiling broadly.

‘Magda!’ Sir Edward walked towards her. ‘We need champagne! What do we have in the house?’

‘And you must join us for a toast,’ Lady Wellesley added.

Me? Join you?
This
must
be good news.

Magda scurried into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were two bottles of champagne wedged on the top shelf. A bottle of Tesco’s finest rosé, which her bosses drank like water, and a bottle of Pol Roger Brut 1998. Whatever the occasion was, it seemed to warrant the latter. Tentatively setting it on a tray with three glasses, she walked back into the drawing room. Eddie was reclining on the red brocade sofa with his long legs outstretched and his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Lady Wellesley had her legs tucked up under her. She looked awfully young, Magda thought, and was leaning into her husband in a manner that was almost doting.

‘Is this all right?’

She set the tray down on the vintage naval chest that served as a coffee table.

‘Perfect,’ said Eddie, who was already de-corking.

‘What are you celebrating?’ Magda asked.

‘
We
,’ Eddie corrected her, ‘are celebrating my return to politics. There’s going to be a by-election.’

‘And Sir Edward’s going to stand and he’s going to walk it,’ Lady Wellesley announced proudly. ‘There are no more skeletons left in the Wellesley cupboard. Nothing left to hide. It’s time to reclaim our lives.’

‘Of course, it does mean the house’ll get busy again,’ said Eddie, handing Magda a glass of ice-cold champagne. ‘Lots more entertaining, I’m afraid.’

‘And you’ll probably have to get used to the press sniffing around again too, making nuisances of themselves,’ added Annabel. ‘We’ll get you some more help if you need it,’ she added, misinterpreting Magda’s pained expression.

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Magda said automatically. ‘I’m sure I can manage.’

Privately she thought:
No more skeletons in the Wellesley closet. Are you sure about that?

‘Cheers!’ Eddie raised his glass to hers.

‘Cheers,’ said Magda.

She was filled with a deep sense of foreboding.

David Carlyle stood on the platform at Victoria looking impatiently at his watch. It was hot, he was late, and he’d promised Louise he’d be home in time to change before her bloody bridge club dinner tonight. A bunch of old Swell Valley biddies, gossiping about village tittle-tattle like so many twittering birds was not David’s idea of a fun night out. But Louise had taken him to task last week for spending so little time down in the country, and he’d promised to make more of an effort.

‘I barely see you any more,’ his wife complained. ‘You’re always in London, always working. We’re becoming strangers.’

‘Of course we’re not,’ David said brusquely. ‘I’ve just been busy, that’s all. It happens.’

But part of him feared she was right. Ever since Fast Eddie had emerged yet again, phoenix-like, from what ought to have been the ruined ashes of his marriage and career, David had thrown himself into his work, desperate to fill the void. Staff at the
Echo
had never known him to be around so much, breathing down their necks, obsessing about every little detail of every day’s copy.

So lost was he in his own, irritated thoughts, at first David didn’t catch the conversation going on next to him. But as soon as he heard Wellesley’s name, his ears pricked up.

‘Weren’t there any other names in the running?’ a fat, middle-aged man with a plummy accent asked his friend.

‘No one that could outrun Fast Eddie,’ the friend replied. ‘He’s the party golden boy again. You should see the way Sheila Shand-Smith looks at him. Like a teenager at a One Direction concert.’

Both men laughed. Sheila Shand-Smith, the local Conservative Party chairwoman and head of the selection committee for Chichester and Swell Valley, was a large-bosomed, tweed-clad matron with a whiskery chin and domineering manner. David knew her well and loathed her. The feeling was entirely mutual.

‘Anyway, it’s official,’ the second man continued. ‘Renton-Chambers is out and Wellesley is in. There should be a by-election any day now.’

David loosened his tie. All of a sudden he was finding it difficult to breathe. The men’s words drifted in and out of his head like clouds across a troubled sky.

By-election.

Wellesley’s in.

The odd thing was, he’d known it was coming. Whispers at Westminster had been building to a dull roar in recent weeks: Eddie was an asset to the party. Voters loved him and they needed him back. Even so, hearing his worst fears confirmed now came as a profound shock to David.

The platform started to sway beneath his feet.

‘Are you all right, mate?’

A man on David’s other side looked at him with concern. David tried to answer but the words ‘I’m fine’ stuck in his throat and no sound came out. That was when it hit him: an excruciating, indescribable pain in the chest, like a freight train smashing through his ribs. He was dimly aware of voices – ‘someone call an ambulance!’ – and of his legs sliding out from under him.

Then another crushing spasm, and everything went black.

Within a few days, Sir Eddie Wellesley’s political comeback had become the talk of Westminster. As with everything Fast Eddie did, press interest was high. People were particularly curious to see what role Lady Wellesley would play in her husband’s campaign and return to public life, and how she would handle the inevitable questions about her past life.

The answer was: directly. On clear advice from Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, Eddie and Annabel agreed to appear together on all the morning and daytime talk shows.

‘The message is, you’re in love with each other, you’ve learned from your mistakes, and you’re both survivors.’

‘That’s true,’ said Annabel.

Kevin Unger smiled. ‘That’s why it’s a good message. You haven’t let this break you. Now you want to focus on the good of the country and public service and the
future.
Say that a lot. Future, future, future. You’re not interested in dredging up the past, blah, blah, blah.’

And so Milo had woken up on Tuesday morning to see his mother and father sitting hand in hand on Susanna Reid’s sofa in the
Good Morning Britain
studio, deftly deflecting questions about Annabel’s misspent youth.

‘People make mistakes,’ Annabel said confidently, ‘especially when they’re young. But I’m not here to dwell on the past. My husband cares passionately about Britain’s future, and I’m here to support him.’

In a pale pink, knee-length dress and cream cardigan, with subtle make-up and her hair loose, his mother looked feminine and
soft,
Milo noticed. Clearly the stylists and image-makers were already at work.

‘As you know, David Carlyle suffered a major heart attack earlier this week and is still critically ill in hospital. How do you feel towards David, after all the personal attacks against you in his book?’ Susanna Reid asked archly.

Annabel didn’t miss a beat. ‘As I said, I don’t dwell on the past.’

‘But he tried his utmost to destroy you, didn’t he?’ the host pressed.

‘We both wish David a speedy recovery,’ Eddie chipped in. ‘Don’t we, darling?’

‘Naturally,’ said Annabel. ‘My heart goes out to his wife. I honestly don’t know how I’d cope if Eddie …’ Her eyes misted up as she let the sentence tail off.

Milo switched off at that point. It was too early in the morning for quite so much saccharine. He still couldn’t quite get used to his parents’ newfound lovey-doveyness. The political posturing and rampant insincerity were more familiar.
My heart goes out to his wife
indeed! Both his parents despised the Carlyles, as well they might. The fakery used to embarrass Milo when he was younger, but now he understood this was an accepted part of the game. No one spoke unguardedly in politics, not if they wanted to succeed. If anything, he’d become rather defensive, especially of his father. The morning after Carlyle’s heart attack, that silly cow Violet from the office had made a snide remark about it being good news for Eddie, and Milo had just about ripped her head off.

‘My dad isn’t
pleased
when somebody has a heart attack,’ he snapped. ‘Not everyone’s as mean-spirited as you are.’

Violet had pouted and welled up and insisted it was only a joke. Once again Milo had found himself apologizing to her, and overcompensating for the rest of the day at work. Whatever qualities he might have inherited from his father, a cool, unruffled approach to the slings and arrows of politics was not one of them. Every unkind comment hurt. Every whispered innuendo stung. Working at the Home Office didn’t help. Now that his father was back in politics, Milo began to wonder whether it wasn’t time for him to change careers. Although with a patchy school record and no university degree, the world wasn’t exactly his oyster.

A week after Eddie and Annabel’s
Good Morning Britain
appearance, and ten days since David Carlyle’s near-fatal heart attack, Laura was at home in Chelsea playing Frustration with Hugh when the doorbell rang.