The Show (49 page)

Eddie sighed heavily.

‘Well,
is
she?’ Annabel demanded. It upset her that Eddie wasn’t with her on this. Was she really the only person who could see that Milo was going to get hurt, perhaps irreparably? It was true that she and Eddie had overcome tremendous hurdles in their own marriage of opposites. But Annabel didn’t want their son’s life to become a similar trial by fire. Milo and Magda had nothing in common, not a single thing. Even if one overlooked the woman’s blatant duplicity, surely it was obvious that the union was doomed?

‘Magda clearly used Milo to get papers,’ Annabel explained wearily. ‘Next stop, British citizenship. We have to do something, Eddie.’

‘I’m not sure what it is exactly that you think we can do. If they really are legally married, then the deed is done.’

‘Well
un-
do it!’ Annabel screeched hysterically. ‘You still have some influence, don’t you? Get it annulled.’

‘Darling, be reasonable.’

‘I am being reasonable. Has the whole world gone mad? Milo’s married a Polish scrubber – a woman who, do I need to remind you, hammered the final nail in the coffin of your career – and you’re acting as if it’s no big deal!’

‘I didn’t say that. I’m worried about him too. I …’

Eddie broke off. Standing in the hallway at Riverside Hall, Annabel froze. She distinctly heard a woman’s voice in the background.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m in London,’ Eddie answered, just a little too quickly.

‘Where in London?’

‘At the flat.’

‘Who’s with you?’

‘Annabel, for God’s sake, you’re being ridiculous,’ said Eddie. ‘No one’s with me.’

‘Is it Laura? It is, isn’t it? It’s Laura Baxter.’

‘I have to go.’

‘I know she’s there, Eddie! I heard her voice. Put her on!’

‘I’ll call you later,’ said Eddie, and hung up.

Walking up behind him, Laura put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘Problems?’

‘There are always problems,’ Eddie muttered.

‘Not my fault, I hope?’

‘No.’

He turned around to face her. In a wine-red sweater, dark jeans and boots, Laura looked, to him, quite beautiful. She gave him a quizzical look.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I’m thinking,’ said Eddie, ‘that we all need to start looking forward, rather than back. Life isn’t infinite. When your time’s up you can’t flip the egg timer over and start again. It’s now that matters. Right now. Today. Are we where we want to be? Are we with who we want to be with?’

Reaching up, Laura touched his cheek. ‘It isn’t always that simple, though, is it?’

‘Actually,’ said Eddie, covering her hand with his. ‘It is. It really is.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Wedged between Penny and Santiago in a cramped pew at the back of St Hilda’s Church, Macy wondered again how on earth she’d been talked into this.

‘I hate carols,’ she’d grumbled, as Santiago practically frog-marched her into the back of the car.

‘Nobody hates carols,’ said Penny. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, it’s snowing and it’s a village tradition. You’ll love it.’

‘I won’t love it,’ said Macy, as a woolly hat was unceremoniously plonked onto her head by Santiago and a coat thrust over her shoulders. ‘Honestly, I’m not a Christmas person. I have too much packing to do. I can’t even sing.’

‘Nobody cares!’ said Santiago cheerfully, and truthfully. ‘This time next week you’ll be in sunny California and you will miss this place like hell. You’re coming to the carol service and that’s that.’

He was right. Macy would miss this place. The house, the village, the people. Warren had been ridiculously nice about it when she told him she
was
going to California, but she was going alone.

‘I knew the writing was on the wall. I guess I just didn’t wanna read it. I’m a stubborn bastard.’

‘You’re a lovely stubborn bastard,’ said Macy. ‘I wouldn’t have survived this year without you.’

It was true. Without Warren, she couldn’t have got through the days, working with Gabe. Being
this
close to him, day after day, but knowing she could never quite reach him, never occupy the place in his heart that he filled, utterly, in hers.

Gabe was bound to be at tonight’s carols, another excellent reason for Macy not to go. But, as usual, Penny and Santiago had refused to take no for an answer. And so here she was, wedged between the two of them like one more sardine in a giant, festive tin. But she had to admit it
was
festive. Reverend Clempson and his redoubtable team of WI battle-axes had done a stupendous job with the church flowers. Red roses, green ivy and plump white mistletoe berries hung from the altar, the deep stone windowsills and the ends of the beautifully carved oak pews. At the back of the church, between the font and the belfry, a simple Christmas tree decked only in white lights bathed everything around it in a magical glow. Clove-stuffed oranges and hand-tied bundles of cinnamon, like miniature fire logs, had been placed in gleaming silver bowls at the foot of the altar, beside the chipped but charming wooden Nativity scene. It was the same one they’d been using in the church since before Gabe was born, and it had to be said that there was a certain seventies vibe to the shepherds’ orange and brown striped robes. In one of his rare mischievous moments, Max Bingley had been overheard observing that the figure of St Joseph had a ‘rather
Joy of Sex
beard’, a comment that had since become part of Fittlescombe village lore. The spices mingled with the smell of burning candles and incense, the combined aroma as deliciously Christmassy as a batch of freshly baked mince pies.

Macy watched the vicar flitting happily up and down the nave, eagerly greeting his parishioners. The church hadn’t been so full since Logan Cranley’s wedding, but back then the bad feelings over
Valley Farm
had been running high. Now all was peace and goodwill.

‘Oh my
God
,’ Penny whispered in Macy’s ear, nudging her hard in the ribs. ‘That’s your friend, isn’t it? The vet. What’s her name?’

‘Jenny. Yes, it is,’ said Macy, equally astonished to see Jenny Lee and the vicar holding hands in what could only be interpreted as a very couply gesture.

‘Are they an item?’ asked Penny. ‘I thought she hated him.’

‘I guess things change,’ Macy giggled. ‘Maybe Call-me-Bill has hidden talents underneath that cassock?’

‘Oh, God, don’t. What a horrible thought,’ Penny shuddered. ‘Speaking of unexpected couplings …’

Milo Wellesley and his new wife had just walked in. Milo’s shock shotgun nuptials to the Polish cleaner who had done what David Carlyle had spent a lifetime trying and failing to do – ending Eddie Wellesley’s political career – was the hottest piece of village gossip since Gabe and Macy’s fling. Apparently Eddie was on board with it – he’d been heard in the pub telling friends he’d always liked Magda, despite everything – but by all accounts Annabel had gone into a full-on Victorian-style ‘decline’ at the news, barely getting out of bed since Milo and Magda’s return. Things between her and Eddie were apparently at an all-time low.

‘She’s terribly pretty, isn’t she?’ said Penny, as Magda glided past in a bubble of newlywed happiness, hand in hand with Milo, and joined Eddie in one of the front pews. ‘I can’t believe I never noticed her before.’

‘I don’t think I ever
saw
her before,’ said Macy. ‘Talk about a dark horse.’

The organist began playing the first strains of ‘Once in royal David’s city’. Moments later a very small boy stepped up to the front of the church and began singing the opening lines in a voice so thin and breathless and pure it brought the whole church to a quivering standstill. But then the congregation joined in for the second verse. Santiago began belting out the words with a gusto and confidence that utterly belied his lack of talent.

‘It’s the same every year.’ Penny rolled her eyes. ‘He thinks he’s Pavarotti.’

Santiago’s singing was so loud and so tuneless that a number of people turned round to see where the awful noise was coming from. Some were scowling, like the furious Mrs Wincup. But others were plainly amused, including Gabe, who smiled even more broadly and waved when he saw Macy standing sheepishly at Santiago’s side.

Macy’s stomach gave its usual, familiar flip.
If only I’d never met him.

After the service, Gabe made a beeline for her outside. The snow had stopped falling, but there was still plenty underfoot, as well as treacherous slicks of ice, completely invisible in the darkness. It was only six o’clock, but the sky was pitch-black and the air so cold that it hurt to breathe in.

‘I’m so glad you came,’ Gabe told Macy, hopping from foot to foot and hugging himself against the cold. In navy-blue corduroy trousers that had seen better days, and at least three tatty sweaters pulled one on top of the other under his Barbour, he looked his usual hot mess. ‘I wasn’t sure I’d see you again before you left.’

‘I’d have come to say goodbye.’ Macy belted her chic Max Mara coat more tightly around her tiny waist.

‘Would you?’

‘Maybe not,’ she admitted sheepishly. ‘You’ll be busy, anyway, preparing for the new series. Have they settled on my replacement yet?’

‘Actually,’ said Gabe, ‘it’s not happening.’

Macy did a double take. ‘What?’

‘I changed my mind.’ He shrugged. ‘Took a leaf out of your book. I need a new start. Or rather, I need my old start back.’

‘So … you’re not presenting the show?’

‘There is no show. I told Channel 5 I want the farm back. My old life, my old rhythms. That’s who I am, really. They were pretty good about it, actually. I think they were relieved. It wouldn’t have been the same without the two of us anyway.’ He nudged her affectionately in the ribs.

‘What about Eddie?’

‘He doesn’t care. I think he’s got enough shit to deal with on the home front. Did you notice Lady Wellesley didn’t make it tonight?’

They both looked over to where Eddie was climbing into his car, with Magda and Milo in the back. He seemed unhappily lost in thought. ‘He’s aged ten years in the last month,’ said Gabe. ‘Like it’s all caught up with him at once.’

‘What about Laura?’ Macy couldn’t help herself asking. ‘Didn’t she mind you cancelling the show?’

‘Not really. She still owns the format. She could do the show somewhere else if she wanted. Or sell it abroad. It’s none of my business now, anyway. Laura got my share of the production company as part of the divorce.’

‘Your divorce went through?’

Gabe looked surprised. ‘Yeah. Decree nisi came through two days ago. I thought you knew.’

‘Why would I know?’

‘I dunno. Village gossip? I had a few in The Fox that night.’ He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Anyway, it’s done.’

‘How do you feel?’ Macy asked cautiously.

‘Relieved.’ Gabe stared at the ground. ‘Sad, but you know. Like I say, it’s done. The boys and Laura are driving up tomorrow morning,’ he added, his face instantly brightening. ‘We decided to do Christmas Day together this year. Show the kids that we’re still a family and all that. Come to think of it, I’d better go home and wrap the damn presents.’

‘Thomas the Tank Engine?’ Macy asked, grinning. She remembered Hugh and Luca’s obsession.

‘No!’ said Gabe. ‘Would you believe they are totally over trains?’

‘Never.’

‘I know! Two years bankrupting us with those bloody toys, and now it’s all over.’

Macy smiled. They looked at each other and realized there was nothing left to say.

‘Good luck, Macy.’ Leaning forward, Gabe kissed her on the cheek.

‘Thanks.’ She kissed him back. ‘You too.’

She watched him walk away in the direction of the farm. For all his bravado about his children and new starts, he cut a lonely figure in the dark.

‘Gabe!’ she called after him.

He turned round.

‘Merry Christmas!’

He waved, and was gone.

Penny and Santiago tried to get her to come over to Woodside Hall for mulled wine and sausage rolls, but this time Macy was firm.

‘I have to go home and pack. And have a bath, and watch
Ray Donovan
…
on my own
,’ she insisted. Penny and Santiago dropped her off at Cranbourne House. It was a relief to watch the two of them drive away and to unlatch the garden gate by herself. Walking gingerly along the garden path – ice and lichen were a lethal combination – she was just thinking how charming the garden looked in winter with its lit-up holly bushes and frosted topiary, when something in the house made her stop dead.

A movement. A shadow, flitting past the drawing-room window. Was it real or imagined? She’d been so rushed when Penny and Santiago hustled her out of the house earlier. Had she forgotten to lock up?

No. The front door was locked. Slipping her key inside, Macy opened it and stepped into the hallway. Everything was quiet and as it should be.

I’m being silly
, she scolded herself.
No one breaks in on Christmas Eve. Especially not in a sleepy country village like this one.

The drawing room was empty too, and unchanged except for the dying embers in the fireplace. Walking over to throw on some more logs, Macy felt a heavy male hand on her shoulder and gave a scream worthy of a Hitchcock heroine. Grabbing the poker, she swung round at the intruder.

A startled Austin Jamet caught hold of the iron rod seconds before it would have slammed into his face.

‘Macy! It’s me! It’s only me. Jesus!’

It was such a shock to see him here, in her house, holding her poker, for a few seconds Macy was too stunned to say anything. When at last she found her voice, she wasn’t happy. ‘What is it with you and breaking and entering? You can’t just walk into people’s property. You have to knock. And wait.’

‘I’d have died of hypothermia. Do you know how cold it is out there?’

‘You could have telephoned.’

‘I tried. You never answer.’

‘So leave a message.’

‘Would you have called me back?’

‘No.’ Macy stood up and dusted the soot off her hands. ‘I wouldn’t. Because I don’t want to speak to you. Or my father. I thought I made that perfectly clear in my email.’