The Show (22 page)

It was mid-October now. Seven episodes had been broadcast, with a further five to go before the series finale. Each week ratings had jumped exponentially. That meant that the Gabriel Baxter/Macy Johanssen dream team would remain on air until almost Christmas, even though actual filming had finished in the valley this week. If David wanted to derail Eddie Wellesley’s career, he needed a change of tactics. He also needed an ally – one with as much motive to destroy Eddie as he had.

‘I quite agree,’ he told John Bingham smoothly. ‘He knows nothing about television. The man’s a politician. But then again, the director-generalship’s very much a political appointment, as you know.’

‘Hmmm.’ Bingham frowned. This was true.

John Bingham was also irritated about the furore over his former lover’s new show. John Bingham had always seen himself as the star in their relationship.
He
was the industry powerhouse. Laura had been his protégée. Professionally speaking, he viewed her as an insignificant pilot fish swimming in his wake. It was irritating enough that she’d returned to TV at all after their affair ended – an unnecessary embarrassment. But that she should then both reject his advances
and
become supremely successful in her own right stuck in John Bingham’s craw. ‘Well, I don’t see that there’s very much I can do about it. If Wellesley’s cronies all want him at the Beeb, then that’s what’ll happen.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said David.

His oysters arrived. Picking one up from its bed of shaved ice, he slurped it noisily out of the shell. ‘Eddie’s goal is to get back into government. The BBC job would be a stepping stone for him, nothing more. Something to re-establish his respectability and credibility. It would put him back at the heart of the establishment.’

‘I still don’t see—’

‘It’s politics, John,’ David said impatiently. ‘If you want the top job, then you need to play Wellesley at his own game. You have contacts in the Tory Party – good ones. Use them.’

John prodded his fish thoughtfully. It was true. William Berkeley, the party chairman, was an old friend from Cambridge. And Leonard Thring, the chief whip, still owed him money on a private equity deal.

‘You must do everything you can to discredit Eddie Wellesley.’ David spelled it out for him. ‘I’m working on something, a book, that should make your job a lot easier when it comes out. But you need to lay the groundwork in the meantime.’

‘What sort of book?’ John Bingham’s ears pricked up.

David tapped the side of his nose smugly. ‘All in good time.’

‘Eddie’s got his own book, you know,’ said John Bingham, biting back his irritation. He found David Carlyle insufferable. It was incredible how a man could be so superior and yet at the same time so pathetically chippy. ‘His prison memoirs. If his publishers have any sense, they’ll tie in the PR with
Valley Farm
. If even half of those viewers buy his book, it’ll top the bestseller lists for sure.’

‘Which is why timing’s so important,’ said David. ‘The DG appointment will be announced in November. My guess is Eddie’s book will be out right before Christmas. That’s peak book-buying season, and right after
Valley Farm
comes off the air, so fans will be wanting their fix. You and I need to act now. If we sit on our hands, the bastard’ll be a runaway train by Christmas.’

They talked strategy for the rest of the lunch. When the bill arrived, David paid and they stepped out onto Piccadilly and into separate cabs. It had started to rain.

John Bingham watched the rain trickle down the taxi window, deep in thought.

Was he really being considered for the BBC’s top job? It was the first he’d heard of it. But David Carlyle seemed very certain. The odious little man certainly had influence, and a finger in all sorts of pies.

John Bingham had spent his entire life in television. If this was his chance, his shot at the gold medal, he was not about to sit by and see it snatched away by some insignificant ex-girlfriend and her political crony.

His mind raced as the cab rolled on.

‘It
is
you! Oh my God. I can’t believe it. Will you do a photo with me and my friend?’

‘Of course.’ Gabe smiled at the two girls. He knew it was childish, but he still enjoyed being recognized, even if it was by a pair of giggling schoolgirls. He was on the train from Victoria back to Fittlescombe for tonight’s wrap party after a day at the rugby. Being on a hit TV show had a number of perks, Gabe was learning, including being offered swish corporate boxes at Twickenham from ‘sponsors’ he barely knew.

‘I’m Tania and this is Rochelle,’ said the first girl, draping herself over Gabe’s lap as she handed her friend her phone. ‘We love
Valley Farm
. You should have seen how much Rochelle cried when them lambs died! She was well upset.’

As ‘Rochelle’ snapped away, it occurred to Gabe that perhaps being photographed wrapped in a fifteen-year-old girl in school uniform might not be the
best
image for Laura to see on line or in the newspapers. Or the network, for that matter.

Laura was always going on at him about his ‘media profile’ and being more ‘conscious’. Gabe hated it when she spoke in that way. It made him feel like a naughty schoolboy, having the ways of the world explained to him by an exasperated schoolteacher.
Valley Farm
was already a tremendous success – far more popular than any of them had dared hope. But Laura was being so damn serious about it. She had an unfortunate knack of sucking all the fun out, and making Gabe feel guilty for enjoying his moment in the sun.

‘You wanted me to present it,’ he’d reminded her last night, after they’d rowed yet again, this time about something Gabe had said to a journalist in a newspaper interview. ‘But now that I’m good at it and people like me, it pisses you off.’

‘For God’s sake,’ sighed Laura. ‘It does not piss me off that you’re good at it. Or that people like you.’

‘Could’ve fooled me,’ grumbled Gabe.

‘It pisses me off that you let some pretty hack from the
Mail
get you drunk and then you made comments about Macy’s figure. Specifically, her breasts! That is not cool, Gabriel.’

‘I didn’t make a comment. The journalist made a comment. She said she thought Macy had great tits. I just agreed with her.’

Laura rolled her eyes.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Gabe.

‘What’s wrong with that is the headline, you dickhead,’ said Laura. ‘“I love Macy’s boobs, says Baxter”. How would you like to read something in the paper where I talked about some guy’s dick?’

‘Now you’re just being silly.’

‘I am
not.
And this isn’t just about us either – it’s about the show.
Valley Farm
is wholesome, family television. That’s what we’re trying to see here. It’s about gambolling lambs and maypoles and village traditions. It is not about Macy Johanssen’s bloody tits!’

‘Why don’t we stand up?’ Gabe said hurriedly, removing the girl from his lap as Laura’s words came ominously back to haunt him. ‘Then I can get both of you in the shot. May I?’ He took the phone from her friend, quietly deleting the pictures before handing it to a fellow passenger, who quickly snapped three new images. Lots of smiling, zero touching.

Very family friendly
, thought Gabe.

The wrap party was being held at Wraggsbottom and he was really looking forward to it. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into another row with Laura. Everything was going brilliantly, but it had been hard work and an immense amount of stress. Tonight was all about sitting back and relaxing, enjoying the fruits of their labours. Gabe realized how much he’d been missing the old Laura recently – his fun, irreverent, sexy, relaxed wife of pre-
Valley Farm
days. Tonight he was hoping to catch a glimpse of her again. They both needed it.

‘Right.’ Laura put her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene with satisfaction. ‘Gin and tonic time, I think.’

Tonight’s wrap party was a low-key affair. Channel 5 were throwing a much grander end-of-season bash at The Dorchester next week. But tonight was for any local cast, crew and their immediate families who felt like turning up and celebrating the end of filming in the time-honoured British manner of getting completely plastered at someone else’s expense, dancing to preposterously cheesy eighties music and passing out on the floor in the middle of an ill-advised midnight game of Twister.

Despite the informal nature of proceedings, and the fact that no press whatsoever would be allowed inside the farm gates, Laura had made an effort. For once she’d decided to splash out and bring in outside help: a local firm of cleaners to get the farm looking its best and a caterer to sort canapés and drinks. Earlier this afternoon Laura had found herself running her fingers in wonder along polished wood surfaces that she hadn’t seen in years, so long had they been buried under piles of unopened gas bills and dog-eared copies of
Thomas the Tank Engine
magazine. And the mini Gruyère soufflés she’d sampled in the kitchen earlier were so good they’d brought tears to her eyes.

With the children packed off to Laura’s mother for the night (not an ideal solution, but the nanny was on holiday again and it wouldn’t kill the boys to OD on sugar mice and unsuitable television for twenty-four hours), she’d even had time to try to look nice for once. Yesterday she’d driven guiltily into Lewes and spent far too much money on a dark green jersey dress that clung to her body perfectly and made her feel sexy and mysterious. Then, this morning, while Gabe had been at Twickenham, she’d had her hair cut and highlighted and raced home to shave her legs, which were in an awful state.
I look like a Shetland pony
, she thought, horrified, clipping a third Gillette Mach 3 head onto her razor.
I don’t need a Ladyshave, I need a bloody Flymo.
No wonder Gabe had started noticing other women’s boobs. Here he was, a newly minted sex symbol, married to a yak.

Well, not tonight
, thought Laura, dousing herself in YSL Rive Gauche, Gabe’s favourite scent, and dusting talcum powder over her newly trimmed bush. On the plus side, all the stress and exhaustion and excitement of producing
Valley Farm
while raising two small boys had left her slimmer than she’d been since before she had babies. She could afford to indulge in a cheese soufflé or two.

The sweet girl from the catering company disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a large gin and tonic, ice cubes clinking merrily against the cut-crystal glass. Laura had just sat down and taken a first, delicious sip, when the door opened and Gabe burst in.

‘Sorry I’m late, some problem at East Croydon station. I swear to God, Southern are the … bloody hell! What happened to you?’

‘What do you mean? Nothing.’

‘You look amazing.’

‘I thought I always looked amazing,’ Laura said coyly, standing up and giving him a little twirl.

‘You do. But this is … better. That dress is pure porn.’

‘It is not!’ Laura giggled. ‘It’s elegant.’

‘Like hell it is. It’s sexy. Take it off.’

He grabbed her, running a hand up beneath her skirt while the other snaked around the back of her neck and he pulled her in for a kiss.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Laura pushed him away half-heartedly. It was ridiculous how happy she felt. ‘People’ll start arriving in a minute.’

‘I’ll lock the doors.’ Gabe grinned.

‘No you
won’t
,’
laughed Laura. ‘Go upstairs and get changed.’

‘Only if you promise to get completely filthy with me later.’

‘I promise,’ said Laura. ‘Go.’

‘I mean it, you know.’ Gabe gave her a knowing look as he went upstairs.

So do I
, thought Laura. Suddenly she couldn’t wait for tonight’s party to be over.

By eight o’clock the party was in full swing. Santiago and Penny showed up early and brought Penny’s twenty-five-year-old son, Seb, who proceeded to knock back the home-made sangria at a terrifying rate.

‘It’s a legacy from his university days,’ Penny explained sheepishly to Laura. ‘Anyone would think he’d read Binge Drinking at Newcastle.’

‘Gosh, I don’t mind,’ said Laura. ‘He’s young.’

‘Not that young,’ Penny sighed. ‘He’s supposed to be an investment banker. I mean who’d invest money with
that
?’

She glanced over at Seb, who was singing along loudly and drunkenly to ‘
Red, Red Wine
.’

Laura laughed. ‘Well, Gabe still drinks like a fish and he never even went to uni. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he failed his A levels.’

‘Done all right, though, hasn’t he?’

Gabe was talking to Macy Johanssen and James Craven. In dark blue jeans and a crisp Turnbull & Asser shirt teamed with a burgundy cashmere jumper, he looked movie-star handsome this evening, tossing back his blond hair and laughing loudly at some blue joke of James’s. ‘Is he enjoying presenting?’

Laura rolled her eyes indulgently. ‘He’s like a pig in shit. He loves it. All the attention, especially from girls.’

‘You trust him, though?’ Penny’s eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, God yes,’ said Laura. ‘I mean, he’s an awful flirt. Really dreadful. It’s like an illness. But I think that’s part of what makes him so good on screen. It is odd, though,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘having the whole country fall in love not just with one’s house and village and lifestyle, but with one’s husband too.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Penny.

‘I supposed you must be used to it with Santiago. Girls flinging themselves at him, I mean.’

‘Actually, I don’t think one can ever really get used to it,’ Penny said seriously. ‘It’s always in the back of one’s mind. The idea that something
could
happen. You try not to let it get to you, to take it as a compliment and all that. But it’s hard.’

Laura hadn’t expected such honesty, especially not from Penny, whose marriage to Santiago had always seemed so perfect. It was disconcerting. All of a sudden she felt depressed, as if someone had let all the air out of her happiness balloon.