The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!

She’d have liked to go out for a walk. To get some air and clear her head. But there was no way on earth she was going to run the gauntlet of all those vile reporters. Besides which, there was still such a vast amount to do in the house, to make things perfect for Eddie’s arrival.

Moving in to Riverside Hall with no help, not even a cleaner, had been one of the most stressful experiences of Annabel’s life. A naturally gifted homemaker with a flair for interior design, Lady Wellesley was also a perfectionist and a woman who was used to delegating. In London, she and Eddie had had a full-time staff of three, including a cook and a butler, as well as a veritable fleet of ‘dailies’. Here, once the awful, gawping removal men had driven away, she had nobody but herself to turn to. Every surface to be polished, crate to be unpacked and drawer to be filled, Annabel had polished, unpacked and filled herself. Part of her had welcomed the distraction. But another part resented – with every fibre of her tiny, perfectly honed body – being reduced to such menial tasks.

She could perfectly well have afforded servants. It was an issue of trust. After the humiliation, the shame, of Eddie’s trial and incarceration, Annabel trusted nobody. Convinced people were laughing at her behind her back; or worse, that journalists posing as potential chefs or housemaids might weasel their way into the house under the pretext of coming to interview for the jobs, she had put off hiring anybody until Eddie was home and things were ‘settled’. Whatever that might mean.

Walking into the drawing room – anything to get away from the bloody dog – she looked at the two remaining unpacked crates with despair. How was it that every time she unpacked one box another seemed to pop up out of thin air to demand her attention?

In reality, Annabel was being far too hard on herself. It was less than two months since she’d first seen the house. Back then it had been as cold and unwelcoming as a grave. As its name suggested, Riverside Hall sat right on the River Swell. Scenic and inviting in summer, after a long, wet winter the river was swollen, grey and ugly, a fat, wet snake encircling the house. Damp, or a sense of damp, had pervaded everything. The flagstone floors had been as cold as ice, and every window draped with cobwebs.

Today, the house looked like something out of Homes & Gardens. Understated antiques and Wellesley family heirlooms – mostly simple Jacobean oak pieces with the odd Georgian bow-fronted chest of drawers thrown in for good measure – combined effortlessly with classic modern designs like the B&B Italia sofa in pale pink linen or the upholstered coffee table from Designers Guild shaped like a slightly off-kilter kidney bean. Huge vases of flowers plonked everywhere gave the house a casual, inviting air. Annabel had made sure that all the chimneys had been swept and the fires lit, transforming the gloomy rooms she’d visited back in November into welcoming havens of warmth and light. Faded Persian carpets covered all the floors, and an old pine dresser full of cheerful mismatched crockery made the kitchen look as if the family had lived there for years.

But Annabel didn’t see any of that. All she saw were the unpacked boxes. Combined with Wilf’s incessant howling, the fact that she was effectively a prisoner in her own home, and her mounting nerves about facing Eddie again (what was she going to say when he walked in the door, for God’s sake?), she felt close to tears.

The grandfather clock behind her struck twelve.

Noon. He’ll be home soon, surely?

Grimly she cut open another crate of books and set to work.

Penny de la Cruz trudged across the sodden fields, her wellies squelching into the mud with every step. Today was dry and bright, a glorious change from the relentless rain of previous weeks. But the once-green pastures between Woodside Hall – Penny’s idyllic medieval manor on the outskirts of the village – and Riverside Hall remained a slick, brown quagmire.

Not that Penny minded. It was lovely to be outside, although she felt guilty and strange going for a walk without the dog. Delilah, the de la Cruzes’ wire-haired dachshund bitch, had given her a thoroughly reproachful look as she set off with a basket of home-baked goodies under her arm, a welcome present for the Wellesleys. Everybody knew that Delilah was the naughtiest, randiest dog in Brockhurst. If Sir Eddie and Lady Wellesey had a dog, she would be bound to start dry-humping it embarrassingly the minute she got in the door. Best to make this a solo mission.

Like everybody else in England, Penny knew the sordid tale of Fast Eddie Wellesley’s fall from grace. Unlike everybody else, however, she didn’t rush to judgement, either of Eddie or of his wife, a woman the British public loved to hate.

‘She’s so stuck up, she needs surgery,’ Santiago commented over breakfast this morning.

‘How can you say that?’ Penny asked indignantly. ‘You’ve never even met her!’

‘I’ve seen her, though. On TV at Eddie’s trial, looking down her nose at everyone. She’s like Victoria Beckham, that one. She never smiles.’

‘I’m sure she smiles as much as the next person,’ said Penny. ‘Just not at the press. After the way they treated her, can you blame her? Anyone would have thought it was her on trial, not him. And can you imagine, coming face to face with all his girlfriends?’

Santiago slathered marmalade on a third slice of toast. ‘With a wife like that, I’m not surprised he played away. She looks about as much fun as a bag of nails.’

‘Has it ever occurred to you that having a lying, philandering husband might not make a person feel full of the joys of spring?’ Penny said crossly, clearing away Santiago’s plate before he’d finished. ‘Eddie’s the one who behaved badly, but Lady Wellesley gets the blame. It’s sexist and it’s awful. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’

‘You’re a lovely person.’ Grabbing his wife around the waist, Santiago pulled her down onto his lap, kissing her neck and deftly retrieving his plate of toast at the same time. ‘You always see the good in everyone. It’s one of the many things I adore about you.’

Penny smiled to herself as Riverside Hall loomed into view, thinking for the millionth time how ridiculously gorgeous her husband was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Women half her age and with much flatter stomachs and perkier boobs still fell over themselves to try to get Santiago into bed. But for some unfathomable reason, he wasn’t interested. He loves me. Idly she wondered whether Fast Eddie Wellesley loved his wife, and what had really gone on in that marriage. Perhaps we’ll all become friends and I’ll find out? The Swell Valley was a small community. It was hard to imagine a family as high profile as the Wellesleys not becoming an integral part of it.

Seeing the scrum of press gathered around the gates, Penny slipped down to the river. Hopping across the stepping stones at the back of the house, she found it easy enough to worm her way through the thinning hedge and emerge into the kitchen garden. She knocked cheerfully on the back door.

‘Hello? Anybody home?’

When there was no answer she tried the latch. It was open. Stepping into the kitchen, she immediately felt a pang of envy. The room was gorgeous, bright and colourful and tidy, with pretty cushions and china scattered around in that effortless way that Penny herself could never quite get right at Woodside. A real fire crackled in a wood-burner in the corner. Everything smelled of something amazing. Cloves or cinnamon or … something.

‘Who the hell are you?’

Lady Wellesley had appeared in the doorway with a face like fury. In a black polo-neck sweater and chic cigarette trousers, with her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun, she looked elegant, thin and utterly terrifying.

‘I’m so sorry to startle you.’ Penny proffered her basket of biscuits and cakes nervously, like a peace offering. ‘I’m Penny.’

‘You’re trespassing.’

‘Oh, no no no.’ Penny blushed. ‘My husband, Santiago, and I live over at Woodside Hall. We’re your neighbours.’

Clearly this explanation did nothing to ease Lady Wellesley’s fury.

‘The door was open,’ Penny continued sheepishly. ‘I didn’t want to come round the front in case those reporters … I brought you some goodies. A sort of “Welcome to Brockhurst”.’

‘You came to snoop, more like,’ Annabel said rudely. ‘Report back to the village gossips. Or to the press, I dare say.’

Penny looked horrified. ‘I would never do that! I just thought …’

The words trailed off lamely. Looking down at her boots, she realized belatedly that she’d made a line of muddy footprints all over the beautiful flagstone floor.

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘You should be. We moved here for a bit of privacy. Walking into someone’s property uninvited! It’s outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the police.’

‘Please don’t.’ Penny sounded close to tears. ‘I truly didn’t mean … I’ll go.’

She turned and fled, slamming the kitchen door shut with a clatter behind her.

A momentary frown flickered across Max Bingley’s face as Angela Cranley handed him a magazine.

‘Hello!? Really, darling. Must you?’

‘I’m afraid I must.’ Angela smiled sweetly as Max slipped the offending gossip rag underneath his armful of newspapers. ‘Man cannot live by the Financial Times alone. Or, at least, woman can’t. Don’t you agree, Mrs Preedy?’

‘I do indeed.’ The proprietress of Fittlescombe Village Stores smiled broadly. Partly because she liked Mrs Cranley – everybody liked Mrs Cranley, and Max Bingley, headmaster of the village school and Mrs C’s husband in all but name. And partly because today had been quite marvellous for business. What with the sun coming out, and the disgraced Eddie Wellesley on his way home from prison to his new house in Brockhurst, it seemed the entire Swell Valley had made a collective decision to go forth and gossip. Everybody knew that the Preedys’ store was the epicentre of Swell Valley gossip. And so here they came, buying their papers and magazines and Bounty bars and home-made coffee and walnut cakes while they were about it. ‘That’ll be seven pounds and eight pence in total, please, Mr Bingley.’

Max handed over a twenty. At the back of the store there was an almighty crash as a shelf-ful of baked-bean cans clattered onto the floor.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Gabe Baxter’s voice rose above the din. ‘Hugh! How many times have I told you to look where you’re going?’

Max and Angela walked over to where a frazzled Gabe had started picking up the mess. Next to him a dirty-faced toddler babbled happily in his stroller, while his four-year-old brother clutched a die-cast Thomas the Tank Engine toy and surveyed the chaos he had created in a nonchalant manner.

‘I did look where I was going,’ said the four-year-old. ‘I was going over there.’ He pointed to the sweetie aisle. ‘The cans were in the way.’

‘Yes, but you can’t just knock them over, Hugh.’ Gabe sounded exasperated.

The little boy sighed and said sweetly, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

Angela giggled. ‘Hello Gabe.’

He looked up at her ruefully. ‘Tell your husband he’s not allowed to exclude children from St Hilda’s just because they’ve got bloody awful language.’

‘If I did that we’d have no kids left,’ Max grinned. ‘They’ve all got mouths like French truck drivers.’

‘I blame the mothers,’ said Gabe.

‘Where is Laura?’ asked Angela, deftly removing a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Hugh’s greasy little hands and placing it out of reach.

‘Working.’ Gabe put the last of the tins back and stood up. ‘Unfortunately we need the money, but I’m going out of my mind with these two.’ He looked at his sons with a mixture of affection and despair. Changing the subject, he asked Angela, ‘Has he arrived yet, then?’

‘Fast Eddie, you mean?’

‘Who else?’

Max Bingley looked disapproving. ‘Honestly, listen to yourselves. Like a couple of gossiping fishwives.’

‘Not yet,’ Angela told Gabe, ignoring her other half. ‘Apparently there are scores of reporters lying in wait for him. They’re practically lining the High Street at Brockhurst. It’s like the royal wedding.’

The shop door burst open and Penny de la Cruz walked in, looking like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Her hair swirled behind her in one giant, windswept tangle, her gypsy skirt was more mud splatters than fabric and her various layers of mismatched cardigans hung off her slim frame at a dizzying array of angles. She was also out of breath, and had clearly been running, quite some distance and for quite some time.

‘Are you all right?’ Angela Cranley looked concerned. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No. Not really,’ Penny panted. ‘I’ve just made a fool of myself, that’s all. Not for the first time.’

Slowly, she recounted her earlier excruciating encounter with Annabel Wellesley.

‘I should have gone straight home I suppose,’ she said, pulling a chilled bottle of fresh-pressed apple juice out of Mrs Preedy’s fridge and swigging from it thirstily. ‘But I couldn’t face Santiago’s smugness. He warned me not to go over there. He thinks Lady Wellesley’s a bit of a harridan.’

‘She sounds worse than that,’ said Gabe, furiously. Being mean to Penny was like kicking a puppy. Totally unacceptable. ‘She sounds like a complete bitch.’

‘Colm-peat bitch,’ Hugh repeated emphatically.

‘Sorry,’ Gabe shrugged. ‘I’m starting to think he was fathered by a parrot.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Penny. ‘I surprised her. And she must be so stressed out, with those vultures circling at the end of her drive. You can’t blame her for being distrustful of outsiders.’

‘No, you can’t,’ agreed Max. ‘Although it sounds like she was awfully rude to you.’

‘Someone should send her to the new vicar to confess her sins,’ said Gabe.

Dragging his boys up to the counter he began unloading his basket: another TV dinner for tonight, four cans of lager and a packet of chicken nuggets for the kids. Laura was many things: loving mother, sex goddess and, recently, since going back to work in television, breadwinner. But Nigella Lawson she wasn’t.

‘Call-me-Bill’s door is always open,’ he added with a grin.

The new vicar of St Hilda’s, the Reverend Clempson, had already become the butt of numerous jokes down at The Fox, even before the Great Ramblers’ Showdown. In his mid-twenties, with a boyish face and an unfortunately earnest manner, Reverend Clempson had been transferred to the Swell Valley from a trendy North London parish. His invitation to the largely elderly, dyed-in-the-wool-conservative population of Fittlescombe to ‘Call me Bill’ had gone down like the proverbial turd in a swimming pool. Used to the equally elderly, equally conservative Reverend Slaughter, many in the congregation were still getting over the shock of a new vicar who voted Labour, openly supported gay marriage, and wore T-shirts around the vicarage emblazoned with slogans, reportedly including the unforgivable: ‘I roll with God’ next to a picture of a suspicious-looking leaf. Call-me-Bill’s arrival, and subsequent set-to at Wraggsbottom Farm, had been the talk of the valley, until the Wellesleys came along and trumped him.

‘Why don’t you come back to Furlings for tea?’ Angela offered Penny. ‘No offence but you do look a bit of a fright. Something hot and sweet would do you good.’

‘Thanks,’ said Penny. ‘I’d love to.’ She turned to say goodbye to Gabe but he was already wrestling his children out of the door, his shopping jutting out precariously from underneath Luca’s stroller.

Max, Angela and Penny followed him towards the exit. Mrs Preedy called after them: ‘Mrs de la Cruz? That’ll be one pound sixty for the apple juice. I expect you forgot to pay in all the excitement.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ Penny blushed again, scrambling in her purse for the change.

‘All the excitement, indeed,’ muttered Max Bingley. ‘A libidinous old tax dodger just moves in down the road. Does anybody really care?’

Sadly, he already knew the answer to that.

‘This is a bloody joke. D’you think he’s done a bunk and ’opped on a plane to the Seychelles with one of his mistresses?’

Harry Trent rubbed his hands together to keep out the cold. A veteran from the Sun, Harry had been shivering at the bottom of Riverside Hall drive since eight o’clock this morning. His back ached, he was starving, and if Fast Eddie didn’t put in an appearance soon, he was going to miss the start of the Arsenal game.

‘I doubt it.’ Sasha McNally from Sky News was equally fed up with the long wait. ‘He wants to get back into politics, apparently, so I’m sure he’ll be on his best behaviour. They probably got a flat tyre or something. Shit!’ She grabbed her microphone. ‘Here he comes!’

A black BMW with darkened windows approached the gates at a stately pace.

‘Wasn’t he picked up in a Bentley?’ Harry asked.

‘Told you. Flat tyre,’ said Sasha. ‘If he had to change motors, that explains the delay.’

The gates swung inwards. As the car drove forward, the press pack surged behind it, like a swarm of bees around its queen, shouting questions before the door had even opened.

‘Sir Edward!’

‘Eddie!’

‘How does it feel to be back?’

Then the door opened. A boy of about seventeen stepped out, smiling broadly.

‘All this fuss for me?’ he asked, pulling a suitcase out of the boot. ‘I’m honoured, but it’s really not necessary.’

With his mop of blond hair and piercing blue eyes, Milo Wellesley looked a lot more like his mother than his father. But the cheeky smile and easy confident manner were Eddie to a T.

Milo zeroed in on Sasha. She was old, thirty at least, but she had a pretty face and amazing knockers. ‘You look freezing,’ he said gallantly. ‘Would you like to come inside and warm up? I’m sure Mummy would be happy to offer you a cup of tea.’

‘Milo!’ Annabel’s voice rang out through the cold air like a bell. ‘What are you doing here?’

It was the first time the front door had opened all day. Immediately the reporters surged forwards, their cameras click-click-clicking as they ran.

‘Get inside! Now!’

Reluctantly, Milo turned away from Sasha.

‘You don’t happen to have a hundred quid on you, do you?’ he asked his mother sheepishly. ‘For the taxi? I seem to be a bit short.’

A ripple of laughter ran through the assembled press.

‘Like father like son, eh?’

Mortified, Annabel darted back inside for her handbag, then came out to pay the driver. Click, click, click. In all the commotion, few people noticed Fast Eddie’s Bentley pulling up behind them. By the time they’d turned their various cameras and boom mikes back round, their long-awaited quarry was already halfway up the steps to the front door.

‘Hello, Milo.’ Eddie clapped his son warmly on the back. ‘I wasn’t expecting you here. Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘Oh, that. Sort of. I’ll explain later.’

Milo slipped inside, leaving Annabel frozen on the doorstep like an ice sculpture.

‘Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late.’

Eddie leaned forward to kiss her. She hugged him stiffly, her arms opening and closing like a puppet’s as the cameras clicked away. This was exactly what she hadn’t wanted: a public reunion. She could cheerfully have strangled Milo.

Eddie turned to face the media while the chauffeur brought in his case.

‘It’s good to see you all and great to be home,’ he announced. ‘I’m looking forward to the next chapter in my life and to getting back to work.’

The questions came like bullets.

‘What sort of work?’

‘Are you planning a return to politics?’

‘Has the prime minister been in touch?’

Eddie smiled graciously. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand this is a private family moment. All I want right now is a cup of tea with my wife. Thank you.’

Ushering Annabel inside, he closed the door behind them.

‘I’ve missed you.’ He pulled her to him.

Annabel said nothing.

‘The house looks beautiful.’

‘Thank you. Where have you been? I expected you hours ago.’

‘Oh, we stopped off for lunch in Winchester,’ Eddie said nonchalantly. ‘You’ll never guess who I ran into afterwards?’

Annabel wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. She was still trying to get over the ‘stopped for lunch’ part.

‘Charles French!’ Eddie beamed, apparently oblivious to his wife’s displeasure. ‘You remember Charles, my literary agent? Anyway, I invited him and his wife for dinner.’

What little colour Annabel had left drained from her face. ‘You invited him for dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here? Tonight?’

‘Yes.’

‘Eddie, you’ve just got out of prison.’

‘Exactly. So I thought it might be quite jolly to have some friends round. And we can talk about the book. You know, the prison memoirs.’

Annabel forced herself to count to five before speaking.

‘You should have asked me, Eddie. I don’t have a cook. I’ve nothing prepared.’

‘Charles won’t mind. As long as there’s wine. Milo can go and pick us up something in Chichester.’

Annabel could barely speak.

‘Milo!’ Eddie yelled up the stairs. ‘Make yourself useful and go and do the shopping for your mother. We’re having guests for dinner tonight.’

Milo appeared on the landing. ‘Great. Am I invited?’

‘No. It’s business. You can walk down to the pub for supper. Oh, and FYI, if you’ve been chucked out of Harrow it’s the end of the line. I mean it. No more school fees. You can get a bloody job.’

‘Oh, Dad.’

‘Don’t “Oh, Dad” me. I mean it. Have you been expelled?’

‘Let’s talk about it later.’ Grabbing his mother’s car keys and purse, Milo wisely slipped out of the door.

‘We need food for four,’ Eddie shouted after him. ‘And when you get to the supermarket, ask them if they’re hiring.’

‘This is delicious.’ Sarah French, Charles’s journalist wife, took another bite of fish pie. ‘And the house is spectacular. Truly, Lady Wellesley, you’ve done an amazing job.’

‘Thank you,’ Annabel said stiffly. Sarah was still waiting for a smile, or at least a ‘Please, call me Annabel’. So far she’d received neither, but she wasn’t giving up.

‘It’s terribly kind of you to have us over. Especially on Eddie’s first night back. If it were me I wouldn’t dream of entertaining.’

‘Yes, well. It was Eddie’s idea.’

Clearly Annabel only bothered to turn on the charm for people whom she believed could help her and Eddie politically. And I don’t fit into that category, thought Sarah. She was so rude, it was hard to feel sorry for her. And yet Sarah found that she did. How typically thoughtless and male of Eddie to invite people over, tonight of all nights, without running it past his wife first. No wonder Annabel was irritated. Was he was trying to avoid being left alone with her? Delaying the inevitable? Or was he simply such an innately social animal, he couldn’t help himself?

‘Let’s talk book,’ said Charles, helping himself to a third glass of Eddie’s excellent claret and attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Do you know what you’re going for in terms of tone?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you could pitch it various ways. You could go more Jeffrey Archer. Or more Jonathan Aitken. Or there’s always the Alan Clark approach.’

‘Not Clark,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘The man was a fraud and a bastard.’

‘Damned funny, though. His diaries sold like hot cakes.’

‘I know. But he claimed to love his wife and regret his affairs, then wrote a book boasting about them. That’s not my style.’

Sarah French watched Annabel’s face for any flicker of emotion, but found none.

‘On the other hand I couldn’t do an Aitken.’

‘Too pious?’

‘Exactly. All very well if one finds God in prison. But I’m afraid I didn’t.’