The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!

A loud banging at the door made her jump. What had Gabe forgotten this time?

‘Be quiet, you arse, you’ll wake the ba … Oh!’ She opened the door to find Eddie Wellesley smiling at her. That same half-smile that had made her feel such an idiot in his library. ‘It’s you.’

Immaculately dressed in corduroy trousers and a royal-blue cashmere sweater, and smelling faintly of toothpaste and expensive cologne, Eddie looked like a creature from another planet. A rich planet. A planet that owned an iron.

‘May I come in?’

Laura glanced back at the sea of mess behind her. ‘Er … the house is a bit, er …’

‘I don’t care about the house,’ Eddie said briskly, easing past her into the hallway. ‘I’m here to talk about selling the “glamour” of the Swell Valley.’ The half-smile had become a full smile now and was openly teasing.

‘You’re in?’ Laura hardly dared believe it.

‘I’m in. So long as we can agree a few quid pro quos, naturally.’

Five minutes later, still in her pyjamas but having managed to brush her hair and wash her face, Laura brought two mugs of coffee into the relatively clutter-free dining room.

Eddie cut to the chase.

‘I’ll stump up a hundred grand to get things started. There’ll be more to come as we need it.’

‘We will need it,’ Laura said honestly.

‘I know. Money’s not going to be a problem.’

What a great sentence, thought Laura. I wonder if Gabe and I will ever be able to say it.

‘I want an exec producer credit, fifty per cent ownership and a say in all business-related decisions, including how we pitch this and to whom.’

‘Did you have somebody in mind?’ Laura asked.

‘Not “somebody” as such,’ said Eddie. ‘But I have some ideas. You know the UK market, so I’ll take your advice on how to sell this here. But I want us to pitch in America as well. The whole “packaging of a lost England” thing. I liked that a lot. And I think the Yanks will lap it up.’

‘I see.’ Laura sipped her coffee. ‘The thing is, the US networks—’

‘Will need a US name attached. I know,’ Eddie interrupted her. ‘Which is why I want to fly out to Los Angeles next week and interview some possible co-presenters.’

‘Next week?’ Laura almost choked on her Nescafé.

‘No point faffing about.’

‘Eddie, I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really do. And I couldn’t be more delighted you want to be involved. But we really have nothing to show people yet.’

‘On the contrary. We have you. We have this place,’ Eddie waved an arm around Wraggsbottom’s beamed dining room. ‘We have a treatment, and funding, and we have your handsome and charming husband to bring it all to life.’

‘You haven’t even met my husband!’ Laura reminded him.

‘If you married him, I’m sure he’s marvellous,’ Eddie purred. ‘And, as you say, he knows this valley inside out. The problem is he has no experience on camera. If we’re going to sell this series globally, we’ll need someone who does.’

‘Right,’ said Laura.

‘Ideally a woman.’

Talking to Fast Eddie was like being run over by a very enthusiastic steamroller. A steamroller that was conveniently made out of money.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Laura said.

‘Of course.’

‘Why are you doing this? I mean, you don’t need the money. Television’s not your business. And you barely know us.’

Eddie laughed. ‘All true, my dear. All true. But I’m a big believer in gut instinct. I like you. I like your idea and I think it has legs. Eventually I hope to go back into politics, but for the time being I need a new challenge.’

‘Well, this will certainly be that,’ said Laura.

‘Have you thought about local opposition? How do you want to handle that?’ Eddie asked. ‘You realize that for every villager who’s excited by the idea of television cameras in the village stores, there’ll be five who feel violated and think you’re defacing their community.’

Laura shrugged breezily. ‘Gabe and I can take a bit of stick.’

‘It might be worse than that,’ Eddie said seriously. ‘If we go forward with this, we all need to be prepared for a fight.’

They finished their coffees and Eddie got up to go.

‘I’ll get my lawyer to draw something up,’ he told Laura. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you see if you can whip up any interest this side of the pond. And I’ll book my flights to California.’

After he left, Laura sat frozen at the dining table for a full minute, feeling not unlike Dorothy after the twister deposited her in Oz.

Did that conversation really just happen?

Are we really going to do this?

She laughed out loud.

Screw you, John Bingham.

I’m about to produce the next big thing in British television.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Champagne, sir?’

Eddie Wellesley had barely stepped over the threshold of Michael Hart’s Neo-Palladian mansion when he was accosted by a preposterously handsome young man bearing a silver tray.

‘Thank you.’ Eddie sipped at the dainty crystal flute as he walked down the white marble hallway, feeling like an extra in a Roger Moore movie from the seventies. The famous producer’s house was the last world in vulgarity: ridiculously huge, opulent, gold-plated, and so eye-wateringly naff Eddie doubted whether it could ever have been built in England. At home, even pop stars and footballers and reality stars drew the line somewhere. But not in Los Angeles. Here, there were no lines. Eddie rather liked it.

Even better than the house itself, with its fish tanks and cream silk carpets and solid gold taps and hideous portraits of the lady of the house in various states of undress, were Eddie’s fellow guests. Michael Hart clearly had a type when it came to the fairer sex. Lithe, obviously underage girls who looked like models but were probably prostitutes, mingled with older women whose faces and bodies had all been surgically re-created, to greater or lesser degrees. With the exception of the waiters, who all looked like actors, and the sports stars (nine foot tall to a man and black as the ace of spades), the men were all short, ugly, old and fat. And rich, Eddie presumed, judging by the seven-figure cars pulling up to the valet station, and the improbably proportioned women on their stumpy little arms. The whole affair could be filed under ‘Jeremy Clarkson’s wet dream’.

Despite the hordes of people, Macy Johanssen was easy to find. Of course, Eddie already knew what she looked like. He’d spent hour upon hour in the last two weeks watching some truly ghastly American television in search of the right presenter for the Swell Valley series. Macy Johanssen had fairly leaped off the screen.

Macy’s agent, Paul Meyer, had put it perfectly when he telephoned Eddie at his hotel this afternoon to suggest he ‘swing by’ the Hart party.

‘If Macy shows up at all, she’ll be there to talk business. Look for the only woman surrounded by at least four powerful men and with all her clothes on. And if that doesn’t work, look down.’

And there she was, a tiny figure in a black Calvin Klein trouser suit with a fitted tuxedo jacket, holding court amongst a gaggle of enraptured executives from Sony. Her dark hair was cut in her signature sleek bob, her porcelain skin flawless and her crystal-blue eyes sharp and intelligent.

‘Excuse me.’ Eddie effortlessly parted the throng, his cut-glass English accent slicing through the air like a silver monogrammed knife through butter. ‘Miss Johanssen? I’m Sir Edward Wellesley. I wonder, might I have a word?’

Macy turned and glared at him.

‘We’ll leave you to it,’ the fattest, loudest Sony man said, smiling at Macy as he led his compatriots away. There was something about Eddie’s voice and manner that commanded authority, even here.

‘No, no, please. There’s no need,’ Macy called after them. ‘Sir Edward and I have nothing to dis—’

She broke off when she realized she was talking to four retreating backs. Turning furiously to Eddie she said, ‘Thanks for nothing!’

‘Oh, come now, don’t be angry,’ Eddie said smoothly. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back. Whereas I may not be.’

Macy refused to be mollified. ‘Paul sent you here, didn’t he?’

Eddie smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’

‘Really, I could strangle the man.’ Macy did nothing to hide her exasperation. ‘He’s supposed to my agent. He’s supposed to represent me. I told him quite categorically that I have no interest in presenting your show. None whatsoever.’

‘A message that he also passed on to me, in no uncertain terms,’ said Eddie. ‘Drink?’

‘So why are you here?’ said Macy.

‘Because I’m tenacious. Like you. Because I flew several thousand miles to meet you, Miss Johanssen, and have no intention of going home without achieving that end. And because I happen to know you’re making a mistake.’

‘Really?’ Macy raised an eyebrow. She liked a confident man and Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly that. Attractive, too, in an older, Downton Abbey kind of a way. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘Because this show is going to be huge. Not just in the UK, but here, too, eventually. If we get the format right, we could all make a small fortune.’

‘Could, could, could,’ Macy yawned. ‘I think I might go home. I’m pooped.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Eddie. To Macy’s amazement, he took her hand and started leading her towards the door. ‘You’re not tired, you’re bored. Come and have a drink with me at my hotel. Give me one hour to pitch this show to you.’

‘An hour?’ Macy laughed. ‘A good pitch should take thirty seconds.’

‘If you’re not interested after that,’ Eddie ignored her, ‘you have my word of honour I will leave you alone and never tear you away from another boring studio executive ever again.’

For a split second, Macy hesitated. Then she thought: You know what, he’s right. I am bored.

Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly the least boring thing that had happened to her today. On that basis …

‘OK. One hour.’

Eddie was staying at The Miramar, on the beach in Santa Monica. He and Macy found a quiet corner by a log fire in The Bungalow, the Miramar’s hip Moroccan bar, and ordered martinis.

After some small talk and a lot of alcohol, Eddie handed Macy his iPad. ‘So, this is the valley.’

Images of rolling green hills, burbling streams and sun-dappled woodland flashed across the screen.

‘And the village. And the farm.’

‘Wow.’ Macy looked genuinely enraptured. She was drunk enough to be buzzed, but not so drunk that she couldn’t appreciate what she was seeing. ‘It’s gorgeous. All those little stone cottages. It’s like the village from Beauty and the Beast.’

‘Like a fairy tale, you mean?’ said Eddie. ‘Exactly. And when you see it for yourself you’ll realize the pictures don’t do it justice. The Swell Valley is everything that Americans love about England – it’s quaint and idyllic and old-fashioned; but it also has glamour, the kind of glamour that simply doesn’t exist here.’

‘Who’s that?’ Macy interrupted him. An extremely attractive blond man had suddenly popped up in the slide show.

‘That’s Gabriel Baxter. Your co-presenter. He’s lived in the valley all his life and owns Wraggsbottom Farm. His wife, Laura, is the writer/producer.’

‘They called their house “Wraggsbottom?”’ Macy asked incredulously.

‘It’s an old name. They inherited it.’

‘Can’t they change it?’

Now Eddie looked incredulous. ‘Of course not. It’s part of local history. That’s what I’m trying to get at. “Celebrity” has become such a cheapened commodity, Miss Johanssen. But class, history, aristocracy … those things still have cachet. It’s why you Yanks can’t get enough of “Duchess Kate”, as you so charmingly call her. Because you have no home-grown equivalent. That’s why this show is going to sell. But we need you to sell it.’

His enthusiasm was infectious. Combined with the lethally strong martini and the intoxicating images she was looking at – not just Gabriel Baxter, although he certainly didn’t hurt. But swans gliding beneath weeping willows, stone footbridges that looked like they must be a thousand years old, exquisite, beamed farmhouses, like something out of Hansel and Gretel. Macy sighed. It was all such a long way from her world.

‘Why me?’

‘Because you have class too,’ said Eddie. ‘Uniquely amongst attractive, female American television presenters, in my opinion.’

‘Thank you.’ Macy looked up from the iPad. Her eyes met Eddie’s and she felt an instant, familiar jolt of desire. He definitely had something.

‘I’m not complimenting you,’ Eddie insisted. ‘I’m being honest. You’ll appeal to a British audience, and you’ll bridge the cultural gap for an American one. Paul told me you’re concerned about getting out of the US market and I understand that. But we will sell this show in the States, Miss Johanssen. We will.’

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. Macy found her fingers entwining with his, returning the pressure.

‘You have a room here, right?’

For an instant, Eddie thought about Annabel, asleep in bed at Riverside Hall. But only for an instant.

He signalled to the waitress for the bill.

Back in Eddie’s bungalow, Eddie locked the door behind them.

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘No, thank you. I think we’ve both had enough.’ Reaching up on tiptoes to put her arms around his neck, Macy kissed him on the mouth. It was so long since Eddie had had a woman – since he’d come home from prison Annabel had barely let him touch her – that his dick sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

Macy grinned. ‘Wow. That was quick.’

‘I’ll try to slow it down,’ Eddie murmured, slipping a warm hand beneath the waistband of her trousers and caressing her perfect bottom.

‘Not on my account,’ said Macy, who’d already started to unbutton his shirt. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated.’

She wriggled out of her clothes in seconds. Eddie scooped her up into his arms in her underwear and laid her on the bed. She was so tiny, it was like lifting a doll.

‘Christ, you’re lovely.’ He bent down to kiss the tops of her breasts, rising like two freshly baked rolls beneath the pale grey lace of her bra. Moving downwards, he kissed the smooth, flat plain of her belly, then down again. Macy could feel the roughness of his stubble against her inner thighs and his warm breath between her legs. She reached down to take off her underwear but Eddie stopped her hand with his. ‘Not yet.’

The next few minutes felt like hours to Macy as he teased and caressed her till she wanted to scream with pleasure and frustration. At some point he must have taken his clothes off. Macy ran her hands over his back and shoulders and butt, pleasantly surprised by what great shape he was in for a man of his age. As for his dick, it was perfectly proportioned and solid as a rock, the kind of erection that would make a nineteen-year-old proud.

‘Do you still know what to do with that thing?’ Macy teased him. ‘I’m guessing it’s been a while.’

‘Let’s find out, shall we?’ said Eddie, ripping off her knickers at long last and launching into her like an Exocet missile. Macy had to grab on to the headboard to prevent herself from flying head-first through the wall.

They made love for hours. It was a long time since Macy had had such good sex. Her last boyfriend, Chris, had been a thoughtful and imaginative lover. But Eddie fucked like a starving man who’d just sat down at a banquet. It was intoxicating and empowering, and she devoured him back, happy to have found a partner with a libido to rival her own.

When they finally released each other and collapsed, sweating and exhausted, onto the bed, Macy reached down for her purse and pulled out a long plastic cylinder. For a moment Eddie panicked it was a phial full of drugs. But then she put it in her mouth and inhaled.

‘What on earth is that?’ asked Eddie, as the end of the tube flashed with a neon blue light.

‘It’s an e-cigarette,’ said Macy. ‘All the nicotine but no tar. The only thing hitting your lungs is water vapour. We call it “vaping”. Wanna try?’

‘No!’

‘It’s good.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘Listen,’ Eddie began. ‘Tonight was amazing. Truly.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re a completely incredible woman. But I’m married. If we do end up working together …’

Macy held up a hand to stop him, simultaneously smiling and exhaling a cloud of steam, like an amused dragon.

‘You have nothing to worry about. I had a great time, but I don’t do commitment and I’m not interested in a rerun. We couldn’t top that anyway.’

‘No,’ Eddie grinned. ‘I don’t suppose we could.’

‘But discretion works both ways,’ Macy said seriously. ‘I don’t tell, you don’t tell, nobody gets hurt. That means no boasting in the locker room, no drunken confessions.’

‘Of course not,’ said Eddie.

‘You don’t want your wife to know. And I don’t want people to think I slept my way into this job. That’s not what this was about.’

‘Not in the least,’ Eddie assured her. ‘So does that mean you’ll come on board? You’ll do the show?’

‘That depends,’ said Macy. ‘I want equity. You’ll have to negotiate the package with Paul. But if the price is right … yeah. I’ll do it. I think the idea has promise. And, you know. I like you.’

‘I like you too,’ said Eddie truthfully.

Macy fell asleep almost instantly. She’s like a man in lots of ways, Eddie thought, although thankfully not in all.

Eddie lay awake for a long time staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. He waited to be hit by an onslaught of guilt, but it never came. The truth was he’d enjoyed tonight. More than that, in some primal, deep-rooted way, he’d needed it.

He would not be unfaithful again. What happened with Macy had been a one-off. It had happened far away, in another world, and his wife would never know about it.

Eddie loved Annabel. As soon as she started sleeping with him again, he would become a one-man woman, the loyal, loving husband she deserved. Tomorrow was another day.

By the time he woke up the next morning, Macy Johanssen had gone.

Still in bed, Eddie picked up the telephone and left a message for Laura Baxter.

‘I’ve found her,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I’ve found our girl.’

Slipping out of Eddie’s bed at 5 a.m., Macy only took twenty minutes to get to her house off Laurel Canyon. In the dawn light, with no traffic on the roads, Los Angeles looked strangely peaceful, slumbering softly in the shadow of the San Gabriel Mountains, beneath the gently swaying palms. Closing the electric wooden gates behind her, Macy walked into her kitchen, kicked off her shoes and exhaled, still buzzing from her night with Eddie.

Macy’s house was her sanctuary. Like her it was small but perfectly formed, a light-filled haven with white wooden walls, simple antique furniture and a crisp yet feminine feel. Mismatched jugs full of peonies and roses and sweet williams crowded every available surface, and vintage linens on the bed and table gave the place warmth. But the overwhelming impression was one of tidiness and calm. Everything in its place and a place for everything; Macy was a big believer in order and control, perhaps because her childhood had been complete chaos.

After her father walked out when Macy was three, her mother had turned to drink. Macy learned early on to fend for herself. Her formative years were spent shuttling between her mom’s house, during Karin Johanssen’s intermittent periods of sobriety, and a string of different foster homes across the LA area. For the most part Macy’s foster parents had been decent people. It wasn’t as if she’d been abused or anything. But there was no stability, no order. And so Macy had made her own, working like a demon at school, eventually getting a place at Yale and putting herself through college with a string of loans, grants and scholarships, all of which she’d researched and applied for herself.

The biggest blow of Macy’s life had come at the end of her first year in college, when her mom died suddenly of a heart attack aged forty-seven. Only four people came to the funeral in LA. Two from her mom’s AA group, one neighbour, and one from the funeral home in Encino where Karin Johanssen had been laid to rest.

After finishing her degree – if TV didn’t work out, at least she would have a first-class education to fall back on – Macy moved back to Los Angeles and begun pounding on doors. With her beauty, wit, charisma and brains she was a natural as a presenter, and agents were soon lining up to sign her. Macy chose Paul Meyer to represent her, because he was honest and didn’t pull his punches. She was still only twenty-three when Paul landed her a primetime, network gig, fronting the gameshow Grapevine for ABC. It was a huge break for a relative unknown. But as Paul had warned her at the time, one hit show did not necessarily guarantee a lasting career.

When Grapevine came off air, Macy suddenly found herself jobless. She waited confidently for more network offers to pour in. But as the months passed, her confidence began to wane. When Paul suggested she take a meeting with Eddie Wellesley, Macy had shut him down cold. She wanted another primetime show like Grapevine, not some two-bit gig in England with no names attached.

‘But that’s the whole point,’ Paul had told her. ‘You would be the name attached. You have nothing currently shooting here, Macy. That is the reality.’

Macy had frowned. ‘Yes, but Grapevine … ’

‘… is over. Your last presenting gig finished almost six months ago. You need this.’

Macy had begged to differ. But clearly Paul and Eddie had conspired not to take no for an answer. After the incredible night she’d just spent with Eddie, Macy figured she should be glad about that at least.

Now, sitting down at her desk, with its glorious views over the canyon, she turned on her Mac and checked her emails.

Nothing work related. One from her trainer. Five from Chris, the lovely but far too demanding boyfriend Macy had been forced to get rid of last month. Chris had been an experiment, a toe in the water to test how it might be in a ‘real’ relationship. It wasn’t a success. From now on she was back to her comfort zone of one-night stands. Life was enough of a struggle taking care of oneself. She didn’t need dependants.

Finally one email that made her jaw tense and her stomach lurch.

Sender: [e-mail]

Again. The bastard really didn’t give up.

Furiously, Macy deleted the message, unread.

Her ‘father’ – he didn’t deserve the name, but Macy didn’t know what else to call him – had first attempted to get in contact last year. Per Johanssen, the man who had heartlessly deserted Macy’s mother and destroyed her life, who had never sent so much as a Christmas card to Macy growing up, or lifted a finger to help when social services had taken her from her mom. That man now wanted to get to know his daughter. Now she had become famous and wealthy, Per had apparently rediscovered his paternal gene.

Macy tried hard not to hate men. She might keep them at a distance, emotionally, but she loved male company, the male sense of humour, and she very much appreciated the joys of having an accomplished lover in her bed, on as regular a basis as possible. But just thinking about her father filled her with an anger and loathing so wild, so intense, she scared herself.

How dare he email her?

How dare he inject his poison into her life, her inbox, her home? Who the hell did he think he was?

She switched off the computer feeling as if she’d just been molested.

Screw it, she thought. I will go to bloody England.

She trusted Paul Meyer and she liked Eddie Wellesley. That was as good a start as any. And she needed to get away, from Chris, from the misery of being out of work in Hollywood, and most of all from her so-called father.