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

seeing you bright and early up at Wraggsbottom.’

      Macy giggled. ‘I still can’t get over that name. It’s like calling your house Ass-wipe. No offence.’

      ‘None taken,’ Laura said frostily. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

      After they left, Eddie turned to Laura as they drove down the lane.

      ‘You don’t like her.’

      Laura kept her eyes on the road. ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘You weren’t exactly friendly.’

      ‘Nor was she. And I wasn’t unfriendly. Anyway, I’m not her friend. I’m her producer. This is my show, Eddie. I want to set the right tone, that’s all.’

      Eddie put a hand over Laura’s and patted it reassuringly. ‘I understand. But there’s no need to hit back first. We’re all on the same team here, Laura. We all need Valley Farm to succeed.’

      No you don’t, thought Laura. You want it to succeed. That’s a very different thing. Gabe and I need this money.

      The truth was, the set-to at the school gates had shaken Laura up more than she cared to admit. With each passing day she found her own confidence in the show’s success waning, to the point where she was finding it really hard to sleep at night. While Gabe snored loudly beside her, Laura’s mind was whirring. My neighbours hate me, the bills keep rolling in, and I’ve staked my entire professional reputation on a reality show, a format about which I know precisely nothing. Macy’s quip just now about her lack of experience had hit home. Suddenly Laura felt desperately out of her depth. She knew she mustn’t let Macy see that. Or Eddie, for that matter.

      ‘OK,’ she said aloud. ‘I’ll ease up. I just hope she cuts out the attitude with Gabe. He’s not big on stroppy women.’

      Eddie looked at her and grinned, but wisely said nothing.

      ‘I can’t believe this.’ Laura ran an exasperated hand through her hair. ‘I seriously can’t believe it.’

      It was the morning the film crew were supposed to come to see the farm for the first time, and a small but determined group of Fittlescombe villagers had gathered in the lane outside Wraggsbottom Farm to stage a protest. While Laura looked around a kitchen still littered with the detritus of yesterday’s cake-baking efforts (stupidly, she’d thought a bit of home cooking might make a nice welcome for the crew, temporarily forgetting that her culinary prowess was very much on the King Alfred end of the scale), shouts of ‘No TV in our Vall-ey!’ drifted noxiously in through the open window.

      ‘They’re driving me mad.’ She looked at Gabe despairingly. ‘Should we call the police?’

      Gabe poured himself another coffee, his third of the morning, and frowned. ‘And say what? Unfortunately, it’s a free country. People are allowed to protest about things.’

      ‘Yes, but not at six in the morning, surely?’ said Laura. ‘That’s when they started.’

      ‘Don’t remind me,’ said Gabe.

      Laura sighed heavily. ‘Look at this sodding mess. Why didn’t we clean it up last night?’

      Gabe wrapped his arms around her. ‘Because I was too busy disabling the smoke alarms.’ Laura giggled. ‘And you were hitting the gin.’

      Through the kitchen window, they could see the tops of the protestors’ placards, emblazoned with such cheery slogans as: ‘GO HOME CHANNEL 5!’ and ‘SAVE OUR VILLAGE!’

      ‘At least the kids aren’t here,’ said Laura.

      ‘Exactly,’ said Gabe. ‘Look on the bright side.’

      Greta, the Baxters’ part-time nanny, had taken Hugh and Luca out to Drusillas Zoo earlier, with both the boys cheerfully chanting ‘No TV!’ as they got into the car.

      It was now nine o’clock. The production team and Macy were due at the farm by ten, to do some walk-throughs of the property and set up for next week’s pilot episode. Laura had a headache that could have felled an elephant, and Gabe’s nerves, already frayed at the prospect of meeting his co-presenter and performing on camera for the first time, had not been helped by the relentless cacophony.

      Opening the kitchen cupboards, he began pulling out a teapot, mugs, a packet of Jaffa Cakes and a tray.

      ‘What are you doing?’ asked Laura.

      ‘Loving my neighbour. I’m going to disarm them with the power of McVitie’s.’

      Laura’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious? You’re taking them tea?’

      ‘It’s either that or spray them with slurry.’

      Laura knew which option she preferred. But five minutes later, Gabe was outside the farm gates, tray in hand, smiling warmly at the sea of scowling faces.

      ‘Tea, anyone? I’d offer you a home-made cake, but unfortunately my wife is a shit cook and they all turned out like charcoal.’

      Reverend Clempson’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘Oh come on, Vicar. All that shouting must be thirsty work.’ Gabe’s eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘Can’t I tempt you with a Jaffa Cake?’

      ‘He can tempt me with a Jaffa Cake,’ one of the younger, female protestors whispered to her friend.

      ‘Or without,’ her friend sighed.

      In faded jeans, wellington boots and a checked white and brown shirt rolled up to the elbows, Gabe looked fit and tanned and disgustingly rugged. One by one the female protestors put down their placards and accepted mugs of tea. By the time Macy Johanssen arrived at the farm, the scene outside looked more like a picnic than a picket line. Only the vicar and a few older men were still marching and chanting.

      ‘Gabriel?’ Macy offered her hand to the handsome, wellbuilt blond man holding court among the women.

      No wonder they picked him to present, she thought. If all farmers looked like that, Dorothy would never have left Kansas.

      Gabe turned away from his admirers and fixed his eyes appreciatively on the petite, attractive girl in front of him. She had Laura’s colouring, very pale skin with strikingly dark hair. But unlike Laura she was tiny and doll-like and immaculately well-groomed, all sleek hair and expensive clothes and perfectly manicured nails. You could tell in an instant that she didn’t have children.

      ‘You must be Macy,’ he beamed. ‘Lovely to finally meet you. Come on in.’

      Macy followed him into the kitchen. In the ten minutes since Gabe had been outside, Laura had made valiant efforts to clean up. Gabe was relieved to see the kitchen looking almost habitable again and to hear the low hum of the dishwasher getting to work.

      ‘Darling,’ said Gabe. ‘Macy’s arrived.’

      Laura, now sitting at the table engrossed by her laptop, didn’t look up.

      This woman’s really beginning to annoy me, thought Macy, who’d been in a great mood up till then. She’d walked down the lane from Cranbourne House this morning. The sun was out, the meadows were full of wild flowers and the tall hedgerows teemed with butterflies and bees and twittering birds like something out of a Disney cartoon. But Laura Baxter was the ultimate buzz-kill.

      ‘Sorry.’ Gabe apologized for his wife’s rudeness. ‘We’ve had a bit of a crazy morning. Can I get you anything?’

      ‘Tea would be lovely.’

      Seconds later the first of the TV crew vans pulled into the farmyard and the chanting began again. Laura slammed shut her laptop with a clatter.

      ‘No time for that, I’m afraid,’ she said briskly. ‘We have a ton to do today. Let’s get to work.’

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