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

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?’