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

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.