The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!. Тилли Бэгшоу

David Carlyle,’ Gabe shot back. ‘I saw you blowing smoke up his arse earlier.’

      ‘Gabe!’ Macy looked horrified.

      ‘Not very dignified for a man of the cloth,’ said Gabe.

      ‘Now look here—’ the vicar began angrily.

      ‘No, you look here!’ Before Macy knew what was happening, Gabe was on his feet. Picking the vicar up by the lapels, like a ventriloquist manhandling his dummy, Gabe pinned him against the wall.

      ‘You know nothing about this village, Clempson. Nothing! You’re upsetting my wife and you’re upsetting my children. So I suggest you crawl back under whatever rock you came out from, before I crush you like the pathetic little insect that you are.’

      ‘If you care so much about your wife’s feelings,’ Bill Clempson stammered, ‘perhaps you should reconsider how you choose to spend your lunch hours, Mr Baxter.’ He looked meaningfully at Macy. ‘Instead of lashing out at others.’

      The insinuation was too much for Gabe. ‘You little weasel! What are you implying?’

      Bill Clempson let out a distinctly unmanly whimper as Gabe drew back his fist.

      ‘Gabriel!’ The landlord marched over.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Put him down.’

      Gabe hesitated.

      ‘Put the vicar down, Gabe, or you’re barred. I mean it.’

      Aware that all eyes were on him, Gabe released the reverend. Call-me-Bill slid to the floor like a sack of rubbish.

      ‘We’re leaving anyway.’ Reaching into his wallet, Gabe dropped two twenty-pound notes on the table. Grabbing Macy’s hand, he pulled her towards the door. As they stormed out of the pub, a camera clicked frenziedly.

      A woman seated a few tables away watched them go, then turned to her husband.

      ‘If Valley Farm’s half as dramatic as this, I’m definitely watching it.’

      ‘Me too,’ said her husband. ‘That American bird’s a knockout. Laura Baxter had better watch her back.’

      Annabel Wellesley tried to relax. Driving her new Range Rover Sport through Brockhurst High Street towards Fittlescombe, she was aware of her rigid back and hunched shoulders, and the clenched set of her jaw that made her whole face ache.

      It had been an immensely stressful few weeks. Ever since Eddie got back from his American trip, he’d been like a racehorse with the bit between its teeth about this damned television programme. A reality show! Could there be anything more common? More shaming?

      Eddie had assured her that he wouldn’t appear in front of the cameras. ‘I’m just the money man, darling.’ But Annabel understood that these sorts of programmes thrived on drama. It was only a matter of time before their private lives would be dragged into the maelstrom once again, a thought that brought Annabel out in a nervous rash.

      And it wasn’t just the invasion of privacy. Annabel resented Eddie’s long absences from Riverside Hall, in particular the inordinate amount of time he seemed to spend in the company of the very pretty Mrs Baxter. They’d moved here for a fresh start, so that they could spend more time together as a couple, in private, and so that Eddie could focus on clawing back his political career. But instead, Eddie was never around, they were all over the newspapers again courtesy of the vile David Carlyle, and Eddie’s ‘return to Westminster’ campaign had been put on a permanent back burner.

      Things might have been easier for Annabel if life had been running smoothly at Riverside Hall. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Having hired and fired three utterly useless local cleaning women (the last one, Rita, had such terrible body odour that Annabel had been forced to follow her around each room with a bowl of potpourri and a can of Febreze, and the ones before that were so lazy and inbred they thought dusting was something one did to crops and polishing silver meant putting priceless bone-handled cutlery in the dishwasher), Annabel was once again run ragged doing everything herself.

      And then there was Milo.

      Since Harrow had booted him out, Milo had been enrolled on an A-level course at the local comprehensive school in Hinton. To his mother’s certain knowledge, however, he’d attended this establishment a total of four times in the last three months, three of them to pick up a thoroughly unsuitable girl he’d started going out with, and once to cheer on the cricket team.

      ‘They’re so bad, Mum, honestly. They need all the support they can get.’

      As admirable as her son’s team spirit was, Annabel realized it was small consolation in the face of his wanton laziness, rampant entitlement and utter lack of ambition. Milo spent half of his days in bed, and the other half either down at The Fox or sprawled out in front of the television watching Deal or No Deal or box sets of American dramas. Breaking Bad was his latest obsession.

      ‘It could be worse,’ Milo told Annabel, seriously, when she berated him for the umpteenth time for wasting his life. ‘At least I’m not a meth head.’

      Annabel was at her wits’ end. Eddie had promised to ‘sort Milo out’, but he’d been so distracted with this damn TV show he’d barely glimpsed the boy in weeks.

      Last night Annabel had finally lost her temper and had a terrible row with Milo. Roxanne, the appalling girlfriend from Hinton Comp, had ‘borrowed’ Annabel’s favourite string of pearls for a night out clubbing in London and failed to return them.

      ‘She was mugged,’ Milo told his mother solemnly.

      ‘The only mug around here is you,’ Annabel snapped. ‘She clearly sold them herself. Probably for drugs.’

      ‘Why would you say that?’ Milo looked hurt. ‘Roxie doesn’t do drugs.’

      ‘Of course she does drugs,’ said Annabel contemptuously. ‘All girls from her background do drugs. The only reason you don’t know that is because you’re from a different class. Not that anyone would ever know it these days.’

      ‘I’m glad they wouldn’t know it if it means being a crashing snob like you,’ Milo shot back. ‘You don’t know anything about Roxanne.’

      ‘I know she had no business wearing my jewellery. And I know she is never, ever setting foot in my house again. Do you understand?’

      The ensuing row was truly awful. Eddie, as usual, had opted out, retreating to his study to ‘work’. Well, no more. Annabel had had enough. The new maid, Magda, was arriving this afternoon, thank God. Eddie had promised to come home and take Milo out of the house for a good talking-to, while Annabel showed the girl around. She was Eastern European, which boded well for hard work, if not necessarily for honesty. Still, at this point, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

      Annabel exhaled deeply as the valley opened out below her and the red-tiled roof of Wraggsbottom Farm hove into view.

      She’d decided to drive over to Fittlescombe herself to collect Eddie. Partly because, if he didn’t talk to Milo today, she feared she might kill one or both of them. And partly because she wanted to see for herself what Valley Farm was all about. For a ‘money man’, Eddie was certainly spending a lot of time on set.

      The worst part of finding out about Eddie’s affairs was the humiliation of not knowing. All those girls. All those years. And Annabel had had no clue.

      Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. From now on, she intended to know everything.

      ‘You idiot! You absolute, bloody idiot!’

      Gabe couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Laura so angry. Macy, thankfully, had already gone home, so she wasn’t there to see the meltdown. Most of the crew had gone too, but the lighting guys were still at the farm, setting up in the pig pens; as was Eddie Wellesley, who sat perched on a stool by the Aga, making calls and tapping figures into