The Show (30 page)

Outside her window, the bells of St Hilda’s Church struck six.

Macy wondered what Gabe was doing right now. Probably bathing the boys with Laura. Laura irritated the shit out of Macy, but she was a good mom, and she made childhood magical for those two kids. Macy imagined her and Gabe kissing and laughing, playing snow bubbles with Hugh and Luca and telling them stories about Santa and the North Pole. She felt a stab of envy for their perfect family life, so sharp it made her wince.

Christmas. Who needed it? It was just another stupid day.

Magda had turned out the lights and was about to go upstairs and crawl gratefully into her bed when she saw Milo’s present by the door. Slipping it under her arm, she took it with her. She would open it in her room. End the long, tiring day on a happy note.

Carefully untying the ribbon, she peeled off the pretty striped paper and gasped.

Inside was a beautiful book of John Donne poems. Leather bound, with gilt-tipped pages and a fleur-de-lys design etched into the cover, it was clearly very, very old. Reverently, Magda opened the cover and ran her fingers over the time-stained opening pages, looking for a printing date.

There it was: 1635! John Marriot was named as the printer. It was a second edition. It must be worth five thousand pounds at least.

Inside, Milo had slipped a postcard. On it he had written simply ‘Because I know you will cherish it. Happy Christmas. M.’

There was nothing romantic about the note. But it didn’t escape Magda’s notice that he’d slipped it into the page with ‘The Good Morrow’ on it, one of Donne’s most famous love poems. ‘
If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desir’d, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.’

From the darkened window of his bedroom, Milo watched Magda. He saw her open the book, registered the delight and astonishment on her face as she turned its fragile pages. He held his breath as she read his note. Had she seen where he placed it? Was she reading the poem? Before he could work it out, she stood up abruptly and turned out the light.

Ironically it was his mother who’d tipped him off to the fact that Magda liked poetry and particularly Donne. ‘Pretentious madam! I suspect she feels it makes her seem more interesting and sophisticated. But I mean, really. Who’s watching?’

I am
, thought Milo.

His godfather, very generously, had lent him the money to buy the book from Peter Harrington on Fulham Road, Chelsea. At his current rate of earnings, Milo would be paying it off until he was about a hundred and four, but he didn’t care. It had been worth it, just to see the joy on Magda’s face tonight. Good old Charles had also advised him on the wording of his note and the most romantic poem in which to place it. Milo had skimmed through the book himself beforehand and failed to understand a bloody word of it.

‘What does “troth” mean?’

‘Are you sure you and this girl are a good match?’ his godfather asked cautiously. ‘Might she be a bit too intellectual for you?’

‘She’s perfect,’ Milo explained.

Of course, Charles hadn’t known
whom
the book was for. No doubt he’d have disapproved as much as Milo’s mother, what with the age gap and the difference in their circumstances and all the rest of it. But if he met her – when he met her – he would understand. Milo was sure of it. They would all come around, in the end.

‘You’re perfect,’ he whispered now to the shadowy space where Magda’s light had just gone out. ‘You’re perfect and I’m going to save you and rescue you and make you love me.’

Closing his eyes, he sank back into his own bed and a deep, blissful sleep.

PART TWO

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘This is the last call for flight VS4 to Los Angeles. Would all remaining passengers for Los Angeles please proceed to Gate 27 immediately.’

Macy frowned. There was still no sign of Eddie. They’d agreed to meet for breakfast in the Business Class lounge at eight – their flight, the first of the day, left at nine thirty – but he hadn’t shown up, or called to say he’d be late.

It was the third week in January, and Macy and Eddie were on their way to LA to pitch the
Valley Farm
format to US networks. Macy was excited to be going home, even if it was a short trip, jam-packed with work.

‘Just don’t go native on me,’ James had joked when he’d dropped her off at Terminal Three. ‘Make sure you come back.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Macy kissed him, more tenderly than usual. ‘I’ll come back.’

Since he got back from Dubai ten days ago, she and James had spent a lot of intense time together, most of it in bed. Sex was still the one area where everything was always great between them: easy, passionate and fun. But sometimes Macy feared that they used it as a bit of a prop. Time spent making love was time
not
spent talking about their future, or trying to find things to do as a couple that they both enjoyed. Absence had made the heart grow fonder, but it had done little to bridge the gap between Macy’s world and James’s, or to help them understand each other better.

James had been really hurt a few days ago when Macy had bitten his head off after he’d suggested they might invite her father to the wedding.

‘He’s your dad,’ James said simply. ‘You have to forgive him some time.’

‘No I don’t,’ Macy said furiously, tapping away on her laptop like a woman demented. ‘And he is not my “dad”. He’s a sperm donor. He never raised me. He never gave a shit about me.’

‘Well, he obviously gives a shit now,’ James pointed out, reasonably. ‘Getting his lawyers to keep sending you emails. He’s not giving up, is he? It wouldn’t kill you to hear whatever it is he has to say.’

‘Yes, it would.’

James sighed. ‘He’s not going to live for ever, you know.’

‘Well, he can’t die soon enough for me,’ Macy said waspishly.

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Don’t tell me what I mean! If you loved me at all – if you
knew
me at all – you wouldn’t even suggest this.’

That was the stinger. She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. But she had said them. James’s wounded feelings were written all over his face. He’d done what he always did when they had an argument – gone off for a walk by himself for a few hours and returned calm and happy and as if nothing had happened. And Macy had been as sweet as she could to him since, prompting her tender goodbye to him at the airport this morning. But this particular fight had affected both of them.

Macy was glad of the chance to throw herself back into work; this trip with Eddie was supposed to provide it. They had an insane schedule lined up, including back-to-back meetings with everyone from NBC and ABC to Showtime, HBO and Fox, as well as trips to CAA and all the big agencies and publicists. It was exciting and nerve-racking and all-consuming, and they couldn’t afford to waste a single hour, never mind a day. But now bloody Eddie was about to miss the damn plane.

Where the hell is he?

All Macy’s texts and emails of the last hour had gone unanswered, which was unlike Eddie. Like most politicians, he pretty much slept with his phone glued to his ear. Belatedly, the thought crossed Macy’s mind that something awful might have happened to him. What if he’d had a heart attack and been rushed to hospital? Or what if his car had crashed
en route
to Heathrow? She hadn’t considered that. Perhaps she should call someone …

‘May I ask you to board now, madam?’

A very camp air steward shimmied over. Looking up, Macy noticed that the gate was almost deserted.

‘Of course. Sorry. I was hoping … never mind.’

Flustered, her eye was caught by a copy of the
Echo
, left open on the seat next to her. It was the picture, in particular, that made her stop. Picking it up, she began to read as the steward led her towards the gangway.

‘Is everything all right, madam?’ he asked, when Macy failed to produce her boarding card.

‘Oh shit,’ Macy murmured, her eyes glued to the paper. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

Eddie Wellesley looked at the red lights flashing in front of his eyes and wondered where he was. He was so hung over after last night’s big bash at Brooks’s, it took him a moment to realize that he was in bed in his London flat, that the red lights were the numbers on his digital alarm clock, and that he was late for his flight.

Very late.

‘
Fuuuuck!
’ He sat up suddenly and then immediately lay back down again as a wave of nausea washed over him. Why hadn’t the fucking alarm gone off? He was sure he’d set it. Then again, he was also sure he’d removed his suit trousers last night
before
putting on his pyjamas, but looking down now he could see that this was not, in fact, the case. The entire room was spinning. Scratch hung over. He was clearly still drunk.

Last night had been Rupert Galston-Smith’s sixtieth, and the 2010 Gevrey-Chambertin Fonteny Premier Cru had flowed unstintingly, followed by enough Château d’Yquem to fill a small swimming pool. What had Eddie been thinking, letting Macy talk him into such an early bloody flight to America?

Moving more slowly, but with a pained sense of urgency, he managed to brush his teeth, splash cold water on his face, and keep down a glass of Alka-Seltzer. After that he dressed quickly (a shower and shave would have to wait till he got to LA), grabbed the suitcase that Annabel had carefully packed for him days before and walked out onto Sloane Street.

Thank God for
Annabel
, he thought, hailing a black cab and climbing gingerly inside. It felt wonderful to have her behind him again, to have her on his side. So much had changed between them in the past few months, starting with Milo going to Africa, and then with all the good news on the political front. Little by little, cocooned together up at Riverside Hall over Christmas, Eddie and Annabel had become a team again. She still had her moments, of course. Mention of Laura Baxter’s name could occasionally make her fly off the handle, and poor Magda always seemed to put her back up. But generally the change had been little short of miraculous – and not a moment too soon. Eddie didn’t just love his wife. He needed her.

‘Heathrow, please. As fast as humanly possible. I’m very late.’

His stomach was still doing back-flips but, with the windows open, he felt fairly confident he would make it to Terminal Three without being sick. He’d better call ahead to Virgin, let them know he was on his way. Switching on his phone, he saw he had a long string of texts from Macy and a veritable barrage of missed calls. Before he had time to read even one of the messages, his handset started to ring.

‘Wellesley.’ Eddie barked the word out, as if worried that even one more syllable might prompt him to empty the contents of his stomach.

‘Eddie, it’s Kevin Unger. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.’

This not being a question, Eddie didn’t answer. His political agent sounded stressed. Then again, Kevin always sounded stressed.

‘Have you seen this morning’s
Echo
?’

‘No.’

Yes/no responses were about all Eddie could handle. He hoped Kevin continued in this vein.

‘Are you sitting down?’

‘Yes.’

He smiled. He was hitting his stride now. But as the agent kept talking, the smile quickly died. Two minutes later, Eddie was as sober as he’d ever been in his life.

‘That piece of shit Carlyle’s gone too far this time,’ he seethed.

‘Is it libellous? Think carefully, Eddie.’

‘Of course it’s bloody libellous! Every poisonous, mean-spirited word.’

‘Then we’re going to need to issue a statement. Right away.’

‘OK. I’ll call you back.’

Eddie hung up. He needed to talk to Annabel. He needed to talk to a million people, but Annabel first.

‘Change of plans,’ he told the cabbie. ‘We need to go back to town.’

Grimly, he dialled the Riverside Hall number.

‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Mrs Preedy handed Laura a slightly torn copy of the
Echo
. ‘It’s my last copy. We’re sold out.’

Laura asked innocently, ‘Why? Is there something special in it?’

Unloading her basket of groceries at the counter, she was distracted by Hugh’s constant refrain of ‘Match Attax!’ as he hopped up and down, pointing a sticky finger at the coveted football cards.

‘You haven’t heard, then?’

‘Heard what?’

‘Pages two to six. That’ll be eight pounds sixty, please. Are you wanting the Match Attax cards?’

But Laura wasn’t listening. Mindlessly leaving a ten-pound note on the counter, and handing the cards to Hugh to shut him up, she walked home to tell Gabe, still holding the paper open with one hand and reading as she went.

‘I’m just reading the
Echo
,’ she told him. ‘They’re serializing David Carlyle’s new book. It’s an exposé.’

‘I know. Of Annabel Wellesley’s misspent youth. Eddie just called me,’ said Gabe.

‘Have you
seen
what Carlyle’s written?’

‘Not verbatim.’

Laura started reading under the lurid headline, ‘LADY WELL-SLEAZY!’:
‘Lady Wellesley, known for her cold and haughty demeanour during her husband’s court case, when Fast Eddie’s secrets were being laid bare, has skeletons of her own. As a working-class teenager, Anna Green (‘Annabel’ was a later affectation) actually SLEPT her way into high society, taking elocution lessons and ‘reinventing’ herself as ‘posh’, before seducing TWO married aristocrats, destroying their families in the process.
Lady Liar
reveals the secrets that Lady Wellesley and her tax-dodging husband hoped to hide from voters. Her obsession with money and class. Her desperation to hid her own, humble background, including disowning her own PARENTS. This is the Wellesley Family History they never wanted you to see.’

Laura’s eyes were drawn to a picture of a young Annabel, in hotpants and a clinging T-shirt, her arms wrapped tightly around an unknown man. With her waist-length blond hair blowing everywhere and her carefree, mischievous smile, she looked utterly unrecognizable as the tightly wound harridan of a wife that the Swell Valley, and the country, had come to know. She looked
happy.
She looked
fun.
Was
this
the woman Eddie had fallen for, Laura wondered. And if so, what had happened to her?