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‘What did you find?’

Eddie thought about it for a moment. ‘Compassion, I suppose. Camaraderie. And ambition. Renewed ambition. I enjoyed Jeffrey Archer’s prison diaries, but I want this to be my own voice. I want it to be the book that gets me back in government. Or at least back in the party fold.’

‘Blimey,’ Charles French spluttered. ‘That might be a tall order.’

‘It might be,’ Eddie agreed. ‘I made a lot of enemies in Westminster.’

‘And Fleet Street,’ Charles reminded him.

‘One enemy in particular, as we all know,’ Eddie said darkly. ‘But I’m also foolish enough to believe that I still have a number of friends, in both those worlds. Voters aren’t looking for perfection. They’re looking for someone who can learn from their mistakes. I’ve learned from mine.’

Have you? thought Charles French. But he kept it to himself.

‘Besides, returning to politics is what I want,’ said Eddie. ‘And one should always go after what one wants in life.’

‘What about you, Lady Wellesley?’ Sarah turned to Annabel, infuriated by Eddie’s self-centredness. ‘Do you want to go back to Westminster life? After everything that’s happened?’

To Annabel’s own surprise, her answer was unequivocal. ‘Yes. I do.’

Sarah was amazed.

‘Why?’ she couldn’t help asking. ‘After people were so poisonous to you.’

‘I think it’s because people were so poisonous,’ Annabel said truthfully. ‘David Carlyle and his cronies destroyed our lives. Not just Eddie’s life, but mine too. He robbed us of something that was ours. I want it back. We both do.’

Eddie saw the glint of fire in his wife’s eyes and felt a powerful rush of desire. All of a sudden he wished his guests would bugger off and leave them alone.

‘So why the move out here?’ Sarah asked.

‘We needed a change,’ said Annabel, her earlier coolness back. ‘If Eddie does go back into politics, we’ll need somewhere private to retreat to. Somewhere that’s just for us. Besides, I wouldn’t want to live in London full time. And in any case, it may not happen. It’s still early days.’

‘There you are, you see,’ Eddie smiled at Sarah French. ‘You heard it from the horse’s mouth. That little pleb Carlyle may have won the battle. But the war isn’t over yet. Not by a long chalk.’

That night, in bed, Eddie pressed himself against his wife, slipping his hand up underneath her starched cotton nightdress.

‘Can’t you take this off?’ he whispered in her ear.

Annabel didn’t quite know why, but suddenly she felt like crying.

‘No, Eddie. I can’t.’

‘Are you angry?’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I’m tired.’

‘I’m sorry, Annabel.’

The words hung in the air above the bed like a cloud of ash, the last, lingering remnant of the catastrophe that had befallen their marriage. A volcano had erupted two years ago, wiping out Eddie’s career and the life he and Annabel had built together. The cloud was all that was left of that life.

We’ll build a new life, thought Eddie. We’ve done it before and we’ll do it again.

‘I love you.’ His hand caressed her breast through the fabric of her nightgown.

Annabel closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip. Part of her wanted him, wanted to turn round and kiss him and make love and make everything all right. But that would require forgiveness and she hadn’t got there yet. Not completely anyway. Annabel had married Eddie when she was very young, barely out of her teens. She’d built her entire life around him. But in one, disastrous year she’d seen that whole life wiped out. It was like planting a forest, watching it grow, and then waking up one morning to find that the chainsaws had been in and it was all gone. People accused her of being a snob, and perhaps she was. It didn’t occur to anybody that she was defensive and standoffish for a reason. That she’d begun wearing armour because she needed it. Because Eddie had dragged her into a war zone and left her to fend for herself.

‘Things have to change, Eddie,’ she said, removing his hand from her breast and clasping it in hers.

‘I know, and they will. You heard Charles tonight. It’s going to be a slow road back to politics, whatever happens with this book. And in the meantime we can focus on our new life here. This house, the Swell Valley. It’s a new chapter for all of us.’

I hope so, thought Annabel. I really hope so. But if this was day one of their new life: deranged neighbours wandering into the kitchen, Eddie inviting agents for supper, Milo getting rusticated again and reporters slavering outside the door like a pack of wolves, she had her doubts. They hadn’t even bumped into David Carlyle yet, but that was bound to happen. On a clear day you could see Hinton golf course from Riverside Hall’s attic windows.

‘Goodnight, Eddie.’ She let go of his hand and rolled over.

Eddie kissed the back of her head tenderly.

‘Goodnight, my darling. It’s good to be home.’

CHAPTER THREE

Laura Baxter watched the raindrops shudder their way down the grimy train window as the 5.02 p.m. from Victoria hurtled through the Sussex countryside. For once she didn’t feel tired. Ever since she’d gone back to work, she’d been operating in a permanent fog of exhaustion, what with Luca still waking in the night and the long commute, not to mention the poisonous politics of the TV world. But today, none of that mattered.

She’d had an idea for a show. A bloody brilliant idea, if she did say so herself. She could hardly wait to talk to Gabe about it.

Ironically, it was the argument with Bill Clempson and his merry band of ramblers that had inspired her, although the idea itself had come to her in the midst of a disastrous meeting at Television Centre this morning. Sisters, a dark comedy drama that Laura had been working on with an old friend from the Beeb, and which looked certain to be green-lit a few weeks ago, had suddenly been binned by the powers-that-be at ITV drama.

‘But you loved the pilot,’ Laura protested. ‘Jim Rose said it was the most original thing he’d seen since Sherlock.’

‘It’s a great show,’ the commissioning editor agreed. ‘It’s just not quite the tone we’re looking for at the moment. You mustn’t take these things so personally.’

The problem was, Laura strongly suspected it was personal. John Bingham, Laura’s long-term lover before she met and married Gabe, was out to get her. John had been head of Drama at the BBC when Laura first met him – charismatic, powerful, charming and married; unhappily so, according to him. Laura was young, impressionable and madly in love. It wasn’t until she got pregnant and John callously cut her off, crawling back to his wife and torching Laura’s career for good measure, that the scales had fallen from her eyes.

It all felt like a lifetime ago now. After she lost John’s baby, Laura had moved back to Fittlescombe and met Gabe; the rest was history. She hadn’t given John Bingham a moment’s thought in years. Until family finances had forced her to go back to work and she’d discovered that, in the interim, Bingham had risen to become one of the most powerful men in the whole of British television. Now at ITV, where he’d sent the drama ratings through the roof and was considered little short of a god, John Bingham could make or break the careers of writers and producers with a nod or shake of his balding head.

He’d actually got in touch with Laura when she first went back to work, inviting her to a swanky, intimate lunch at the Oxo Tower ‘for old times’ sake’. Laura had been shocked by how old he looked – how old he was. The fit, rugged fifty-year-old she remembered was now over sixty, with a pronounced paunch and saggy, bulldog jowls that quivered when he laughed. How was I ever attracted to him? she thought, as he boasted about his success, bemoaned his marriage and assured her how bad he felt about ‘that business with the baby’ and how glad he was that it was all ‘water under the bridge’.

‘Do let me know if I can help in any way with your career,’ he purred, placing a hand on Laura’s knee and squeezing as he paid the bill. ‘I’ve always thought you had tremendous talent.’

‘Thanks,’ Laura said frostily, removing his hand with a shudder and getting up to leave. ‘And thank you for lunch, but I doubt our paths will cross, John.’

She was wrong. They had crossed. Not in person. But behind the scenes and in the most toxic way imaginable. One by one, every series that Laura became involved with was cut off at the knees. Television is a gossipy world and it wasn’t long before the word was out – having Laura Baxter attached to your project, as a writer or a producer, was the kiss of death. John Bingham was out to finish her.

She wouldn’t have cared so much if it weren’t for the fact that she and Gabe relied on her income. Wraggsbottom, Gabe’s beloved farm, was doing better than many others and keeping its head above water. Just. But if they wanted to take the boys on holiday, or buy a car, or decent Christmas presents, or even think about private education when the children were older, Laura needed to earn. And, thanks to John Bingham, she was running out of options.

That’s when it came to her. The idea. A way to get round John, to do something new and commercial and exciting, to keep control of her own destiny. And, maybe, if she played her cards right, to make a lot of money.

She glanced at her watch. 6.15 p.m. They’d be at Fittlescombe Station by half past and she’d be home before seven.

Please let Gabe like the idea. Please please please.

‘No way. Out of the question. We can’t possibly.’

Gabe sloshed a generous slug of Gordon’s into a glass, topped it up with half-flat tonic from the bottle in the fridge and handed it to Laura. Then he made one for himself and sat down beside her on the sofa. They were in the kitchen at Wraggsbottom Farm, surrounded by a sea of Lego, Thomas trains, plastic dinosaurs and other small-boy paraphernalia. Lianne, the world’s worst cleaner, had apparently been in today and ‘done’ the kitchen. Plucking a half-chewed apple out from between the cushions on the sofa and dropping it into the bin, Gabe wondered what exactly it was that Lianne had done.

‘Why can’t we?’ Laura asked.

‘Because. It’s our home,’ said Gabe. ‘I just put my neck on the chopping block with our neighbours defending that very point, if you remember.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Laura. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Village drama! It’s already like a soap opera, living here. So why not capture that?’

‘I just told you why.’

Laura sighed, frustrated. ‘But it would still be our home, Gabe.’

‘Not if it were invaded by cameras it wouldn’t be. I don’t want some spotty little sound technician seeing you wandering around in the buff.’ He ran a hand up his wife’s thigh and looked at her hopefully.

Laura laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around in the buff.’

‘Well that’s even worse then. I’m sorry, Laur, but it’s an awful idea.’

‘No it’s not,’ said Laura. ‘It’s brilliant. I am a genius and you’re not listening properly.’

Gabe grinned. He loved her confidence, and the way she didn’t just back down. Gabe Baxter needed a strong woman. In Laura, he’d found one.

‘It wouldn’t be about our home life. It’s about the village. But it’s more than just a local drama. The centre of the show would be the farm. The valley around us, the changing seasons, the rhythm of life here. It’s about selling the rural dream – like River Cottage, but bigger and more glamorous and aspirational.’

‘I don’t know, Laura.’ Gabe took another big swig of gin and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t even spell ‘aspirational’ and wasn’t sure what it meant. It sounded like something you might need to help you breathe. He was dog-tired after a long day on the farm, and then getting the kids to bed. All he wanted was to have sex and go to sleep. ‘I thought you hated reality TV.’

‘I do. But that’s because most of it is tacky and crap and derivative. This won’t be. Plus, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m finished in scripted television. John’s seen to that.’

Gabe sat down beside her and slipped a hand under her shirt, expertly unhooking her bra from behind.

‘Screw him. He’s just jealous because he let you go. You’re mine now and it bloody kills him.’

Laura closed her eyes as Gabe started caressing her breasts and kissing her on the neck and shoulders.

‘I am yours,’ she sighed, running her hands through his hair and feeling ridiculously happy. Was it normal, after ten years of marriage, to still fancy your husband this much? Reluctantly she wriggled out from under him.

‘We have to talk about this, Gabe.’

Gabe groaned. ‘Do we?’

‘You know we do. We can barely make our mortgage payments.’

Gabe looked defensive. ‘We’re doing all right. The farm’s surviving.’

Laura squeezed his hand. ‘I know it is. And I know how hard you work and I think it’s amazing. But we want to do better than all right, don’t we? We want the boys to have a good life and a wonderful education. We want to go out to dinner sometimes. You want that Ducati, don’t you?’

Gabe laughed loudly. ‘Now you’re just bribing me! You wouldn’t let me get a motorbike if we had a billion pounds in the bank!’

‘That’s true,’ Laura admitted. ‘Because I love you and I don’t want you to get squashed by a lorry. But the point is, we don’t want to live from hand to mouth for ever, do we? Yes, the farm’s surviving. But if it’s going to be Hugh and Luca’s future, we need it to thrive.’

Her enthusiasm was infectious.

‘I still think it’s ridiculous,’ Gabe said. But he could hear himself wavering. ‘We’d be Fittlescombe’s answer to the Kardashians.’

‘We would not!’

‘Except you’d have a smaller arse.’

‘Not if you keep making me drinks like this one I wouldn’t,’ said Laura. ‘Anyway, my arse won’t be in it. I’m strictly behind the camera. I’d produce it and you can present.’

‘Me?’ Gabe’s eyes widened.

‘Why not?’ said Laura. ‘You’re gorgeous; you know all there is to know about the farm and the valley. And you’d work for free.’

‘Oh, would I now?’ said Gabe.

‘Yes,’ Laura giggled. ‘You would. We’re going to need a lot of cash to get it made, so we’ll have to work on a tight budget.’

‘I see,’ said Gabe. ‘And where would this cash be coming from? Not our savings account, I hope.’

Laura almost choked on her gin. ‘What savings account? Luca’s got more in his piggy bank than we have!’

‘We’ll raid his then,’ said Gabe.

‘We have two options,’ Laura explained. ‘Either we sell a big chunk of the show up front to an established reality player – Endemol or someone like that – or we raise the capital to do it ourselves. Now the Endemol option—’

‘Let’s raise the capital,’ Gabe interrupted her.

Laura looked up at him hopefully. ‘Really? You’ll do it?’

Gabe kissed her. ‘I know a lost battle when I see one. And if we are going to do it, it has to be our show. It has to be us in control.’

Laura gave a little squeal of excitement. ‘It’s going to be amazing, Gabe. I can see the trailers already.’

‘So can I.’ Gabe put on what he obviously thought of as a television announcer’s voice. ‘Coming soon: Wraggsbottom Farm, with Gabriel Baxter.’

Laura burst out laughing.

Gabe looked hurt. ‘What?’

‘Well, for one thing, we cannot call it Wraggsbottom Farm.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why not? Because it’s an awful, awful name.’

‘It’s the name this farm has lived by for well over a hundred years,’ Gabe said pompously.

‘I’m sorry darling,’ said Laura. ‘But no. And I won’t let you present it either if you’re going to do that dreadful American newsreader voice.’

Gabe pouted. ‘That was my sexy voice.’

‘No, it wasn’t. Trust me.’

They sat in silence for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms, thinking about what the future might hold. Laura didn’t know whether to feel delighted that she’d talked Gabe round, or terrified because, if they really went ahead with this, it would all be on her shoulders. If the show was a disaster, or – heaven forbid – the farm itself suffered as a result, she would never forgive herself. It was a great idea. But it was also a big risk.

‘Raising money won’t be easy, you know,’ she said, swirling the remnants of her drink contemplatively around her glass. ‘If we can’t find investors, we’d have to team up with a bigger production company or a network. There’d be no other way.’

Gabe stood up, stretched and opened the larder. Pulling out a family-sized bag of Doritos, he burst them open with a loud bang.

‘Don’t be such a pessimist,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Of course we’ll find an investor. You said yourself it was a great idea.’

Laura wasn’t sure what frightened her more. Having Gabe against the idea or having him for it. In five minutes flat he’d gone from ‘it can’t possibly work’ to ‘it can’t possibly fail’. Sometimes his black-and-white nature terrified her.

‘Anyway, I’ve already thought of an investor,’ he announced blithely. ‘He’s local, he’s rich and he’s looking for a new business venture. I know that for a fact ’cause I heard it down the pub.’

Laura looked sceptical. ‘Who?’

‘Eddie Wellesley.’

Laura choked so hard that tonic bubbles flew out of her nose.

‘Fast Eddie?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What does he know about television?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘He’s been on it a fair bit. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You know about television. Wellesley just needs to write a cheque.’

Laura Baxter watched her husband stuffing crisps into his mouth and felt overwhelmed with love. I’m so happy with him, she thought.

For a moment she felt a flicker of anxiety at the prospect of the two of them working together. In the unlikely event that this show actually took off, would they end up getting on each other’s nerves? But she pushed the thought aside. We’re doing this for our future. For the boys.

Besides, these would all be good problems to have. What Laura needed now was a hit show and a way out of the trap John Bingham had laid for her. And what Gabe needed was a new roof for the big barn. Short of planting some magic beans and kidnapping a golden goose, this was the only way.

‘D’you really think Eddie Wellesley might be interested?’ she asked Gabe.

He answered through a mouthful of Doritos.

‘Only one way to find out.’

Eddie leaned back in his red brocade armchair, an amused look on his face.

‘So you want me to back you?’

Laura blushed scarlet. How had she let Gabe talk her into this?

She was sitting in the library at Riverside Hall, a stunning, oak-panelled room lined with gold-leafed hardbacks and beautifully preserved first editions that Laura was quite certain were never read. Fast Eddie was more attractive in the flesh than she’d expected. Perhaps it was the half-suppressed smile, or the playful twinkle in his eye, but there was something innately flirtatious and fun about him that somehow made Laura feel even more embarrassed.

‘I’m so sorry, Sir Edward, I shouldn’t have come.’ She stood up. ‘I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.’

‘First of all, it’s Eddie. And second of all, please sit down. You haven’t wasted my time at all. It’s not often I have beautiful young women come to me with business propositions.’

Laura sat.

‘Tell me more about the show,’ said Eddie. ‘I think it has to be about more than just farming life.’

‘Oh, it would be,’ Laura assured him. ‘The Swell Valley is unique. I imagine you know that already, as you moved here. People have always been fascinated by this area, by the combination of the rural idyll and the celebrity residents. The scandals.’ She avoided meeting his eye. ‘Tatiana Flint-Hamilton, Brett Cranley, Emma Harwich, Santiago de la Cruz. They’re all synonymous with the valley. So yes, we’re showing farming life, but we’re also trying to package what it is that makes this place so special. It’s a nostalgic snapshot of England, if you like: what England used to be, what we all still wish it were.’

‘Like a Richard Curtis film, but in a reality format,’ Eddie mused.

Laura looked delighted. ‘Exactly! That’s it exactly.’

‘All right,’ said Eddie. ‘So how would it work, if I were to fund this? What would I get for my investment? Talk me through the nuts and bolts.’

He listened intently as Laura explained the process of producing a television series. She’s bright, he thought, and ambitious. And sexy. He noticed the way her dark hair continually fell forward over her face and her breasts rose and fell quickly beneath her silk shirt when she became animated. She had very little make-up on and was simply dressed in a grey woollen skirt and a cream blouse. Eddie was a fan of the effortless look.

After ten minutes of straight talking, Laura finally drew breath. ‘So. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s intriguing,’ said Eddie. ‘I’ll give it some thought and come back to you.’

He stood up and offered Laura his hand.

‘Oh. Right. OK,’ she stammered. ‘Thanks.’

She hadn’t expected such an abrupt end to the meeting, and wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. She was still standing there like a lemon, her hand clasped in Eddie’s, when his wife walked in carrying a tray of tea.

Lady Wellesley took in the scene – a beautiful young woman, her husband in flirt-mode – and shot Laura a look that could have melted stone.

Christ, Laura thought. Penny wasn’t kidding. She really is intimidating.

‘Ah, darling.’ Releasing Laura, Eddie wrapped an arm around his wife’s stiff, distrustful shoulders. ‘How sweet of you to bring us tea. But Mrs Baxter was just leaving.’

‘What a shame,’ said Annabel, in a tone that clearly translated as good riddance.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Laura mumbled awkwardly.

Had the meeting gone well or badly? She couldn’t tell. Driving home, she wondered whether going into business with a politician might be more trouble than it was worth, especially if his wife disapproved. When it came to poker faces, Eddie Wellesley was a master.

Two days passed. Then three. Then four.

By Friday morning, Laura’s ‘work-from-home’ day, she and Gabe had still heard nothing from Eddie.

‘It’s dead in the water,’ said Laura.

‘You don’t know that,’ said Gabe, although privately he agreed. If Wellesley wanted in, he’d have called by now.

‘I do,’ Laura said. ‘The wife put the kibosh on it. I’m sure she thought I was flirting with her husband.’

‘And were you?’ said Gabe, giving Laura’s bottom a playful squeeze as she leaned over to pick up yet more Lego from the floor. Hugh had tried to build a rocket before nursery this morning, with mixed results. ‘You career women will stop at nothing to get what you want. How many times have I told you your place is in the kitchen?’

‘Er, no times?’ said Laura. ‘The last time I cooked for you, you said the lasagne tasted like burned plastic.’

Gabe grimaced. ‘Oo, God yes, that lasagne. That was rough. Not the kitchen then. The bedroom.’ He circled his arms around her waist. ‘I hate you getting on that train to London.’

‘So do I,’ said Laura, with feeling. ‘But unfortunately, unless we can get this show off the ground, we need the money. Now sod off and spread some slurry, or whatever glamorous job it is you have on today.’

Gabe went out into the fields, leaving Laura to finish cleaning up while Luca had his morning nap. She really must sack Lianne. The house was a pigsty. Then again, thought Laura, catching sight of herself in the hall mirror, I fit right in. Still in her dirty Snoopy pyjamas and a dressing gown that was more hole than cloth (too lazy to get dressed, she’d pulled wellies and a coat on over the top to drive Hugh to nursery earlier), her overall look was definitely more Waynetta Slob than Grace Kelly.