It was a blazingly hot summer, the warmest anyone could remember in the Swell Valley for a generation. For the local children, home from school, this meant unending fun. Hosepipes in the garden, swimming in the river, delicious, melting Mr Whippy ice creams from the van on Fittlescombe village green. Local pubs also did a roaring trade, with The Fox’s beer garden heaving day after day. Tesco in Chichester had a run on Pimm’s that made the local papers, and the valley fire brigade were called to a slew of barbecue-related incidents, one of which almost resulted in the oldest medieval tithe barn in Sussex being reduced to a heap of ashes.
For local farmers, the soaring temperatures were less welcome. Harvesting and baling of straw was dusty work in the ninety-degree heat, and the livestock suffered as much as the labourers. Lambs could get dehydrated very quickly and, even with regular irrigation, the potato crops suffered. As for the usual August ploughing, the earth was so dry and hard it was like trying to churn one’s way through concrete.
With the first episode of Valley Farm due to air at the end of August, the cameras had rolled all summer, capturing the tough conditions at Wraggsbottom and elsewhere. The heat wave was a key part of the show, but so were the ongoing tensions in the village. High temperatures led to frayed tempers on all sides, with Laura’s patient camera crew twice almost coming to blows with the vicar’s increasingly strident posse of objectors. One episode focused on Macy Johanssen’s kitchen windows being pelted with eggs. Gabe thought the whole thing was hilarious, and the ensuing village whodunnit too Nancy Drew for words. ‘As you can see from these egg boxes, they were purchased locally,’ he joked to camera in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s not so much Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick, as Mr Preedy in the front garden with half a dozen Speckled Sussexes.’
There were times when Laura was convinced they were making great television. Gabe and Macy had terrific on-screen chemistry, the sort of larky, teasing relationship that producers kill for. As for the show itself, it had lashings of local drama, enough rural charm to open a chocolate-box factory, and real, educational, factual content. All the fun and lightness of reality television, but with a crucial ingredient that made Valley Farm different from all the others: intelligence.
But at other times she was sure they’d blown it. What if viewers ended up siding with the protestors? Had Jennifer’s stunt with the vicar’s car taken things too far? Did it make Gabe and Laura look spiteful, or snobby, or elitist, or greedy; all the things that David Carlyle’s journalists were accusing them of on a daily basis in the Echo?
It was the pre-season publicity that worried Laura most. Eddie and Gabe both seemed to view it as a gift. ‘Who cares what people are saying about the show?’ Gabe would tell Laura night after night, in an effort to reassure her. He loved his wife intensely, and it pained him to see her so stressed all the time.
‘I care. It’s bad enough having half the village hate us. Do we really need half the country?’
‘The point is, people have a view. They know about us already, and they’re curious. You can’t buy that sort of PR. Once we air, they’ll get to see for themselves what a storm in a teacup this whole thing has been. It’ll be Carlyle and Call-me-Bill who come off with egg on their faces, not us.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Laura. ‘What if it is us?’
‘Then we’ll just have to drown our sorrows in money,’ said Gabe, kissing her. ‘Because we’re going to be making a lot of it, either way.’
This was another thing that worried Laura. Money. Gabe was touchingly convinced that the show would make their fortunes. But Laura knew just how risky and fickle the television business could be. Meanwhile revenues from the farm, their day job, were dropping like a stone. And while the property itself had gone up in value, Laura and Gabe were mortgaged up to the eyeballs. Making the repayments had been a strain even when Laura had a steady job at ITV. Since starting Valley Farm, her weekly salary had dropped to precisely zero. Eddie Wellesley and Channel 5 were bankrolling production, but Laura and Gabe’s remuneration was all profit-share.
What if there were no profits to share?
What if it was all a big, huge disaster of Laura’s own making? She’d have alienated all her neighbours and friends, and for nothing; poor Hugh and Luca would never go to another birthday party again, and she and Gabe would end up broke and at each other’s throats.
The week after filming ended, Laura was at home on Mummy duty with the boys when Hugh’s reedy little voice drifted in from the playroom.
‘Look, Mummy! Maisie’s on the television.’
‘She can’t be, darling. Our programme won’t be on telly until next week, remember?’
Laura was in the kitchen, mindlessly peeling potatoes to make a shepherd’s pie for supper. It was too hot for shepherd’s pie really, but she couldn’t look another salad in the face and needed something to do that didn’t involve die-cast trains or worrying herself sick about Valley Farm finally airing.
‘She is!’ Hugh insisted. ‘Come and look.’
Laura wandered back into the playroom. Luca was gnawing a stickle brick to death in the corner. Hugh had been engrossed in CBeebies, but had accidentally switched to SkySports on the remote and now seemed to be watching a one-day match live from The Oval.
‘Look! It’s Maisie. Right there.’
Hugh pointed to the screen. There indeed was Macy – for some reason Hugh had never been able to pronounce her name – jumping up and down with delight in the stands. Australia had been all out for a meagre 230 after England had put on an impressive 352 in their 50 overs, and James Craven had been named man of the match.
Laura watched Macy skip onto the pitch and fling her arms around James’s neck. She looked ravishing in a floaty blue and white sundress, her usually porcelain skin tanned a light, golden brown from all the long hours of outdoor filming.
Looking down at her own meat-stained apron and unshaven legs beneath a shapeless old denim mini, Laura suppressed an unworthy stab of envy. She knew that Macy and James’s high-profile relationship meant more publicity for the show. It was a good thing that Macy was constantly photographed looking gorgeous at glamorous events, and even better that she did it on the arm of a bona fide British sporting hero. And it wasn’t as if she, Laura, wanted to spend her life whizzing up to London parties, drinking champagne and getting her picture in the papers. But still, it rankled slightly that Macy and Gabe got to have all the fun, while she sweated bullets behind the scenes, or ran around after the children.
Gabe was also up in London today, at some swanky Channel 5 drinks do in the Chelsea Physic Garden. He claimed not to want to go – ‘It’s a pain in the arse, if you must know; there’s so much to do at the farm’ – but Laura couldn’t help but think he had had the better end of the deal, versus her own day of playing Thomas the Tank Engine for four hours straight with two fractious little boys, in heat that would have made Gandhi lose his temper.
‘I love Maisie,’ Hugh sighed.
‘Do you?’
‘I do. She’s like a beautiful queen. And she’s always laughing.’
‘Is she?’ Laura frowned.
‘Uh-huh,’ Hugh nodded. ‘Just like Daddy.’
‘Well, what about me?’ Laura was ashamed to hear herself asking. ‘Don’t I laugh?’
Hugh looked confused by the question. ‘Not really. I mean, not all the time, like Maisie. You’re a bit more seriouser.’
‘Oh.’
‘You laugh if someone tickles you,’ Hugh added kindly. ‘Do you want me to tickle you now? I will if you like.’
‘Not right now, sweetheart.’ Laura kissed him. She felt stupidly emotional and annoyed. Where the hell was Gabe? He should have been home hours ago to help with the kids. No doubt he was laughing away somewhere, three sheets to the wind on Pimm’s and champagne, clowning around with the Channel 5 execs. They’re probably in a strip club by now, she thought irrationally. Spearmint bloody Rhino.
The phone rang. Laura jumped on it.
‘Where the bloody hell are you?’ she snapped.
‘Er, at home, in my library. Should I not be?’
Eddie’s voice was deep and smooth and instantly calming, like an Irish coffee. He sounded amused but not mocking. Laura exhaled and let her shoulders relax. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. He’d been busy finishing his prison memoirs, locked away in his study at Riverside Hall or up in London with his literary agents. Laura had missed him dropping round to the set, sprinkling his charm and easy confidence over everybody like fairy dust. It was good to hear his voice.
‘Oh, it’s you! Sorry.’
‘Who were you expecting?’ asked Eddie.
‘Only Gabe,’ Laura sighed. ‘He’s late, as usual. Anyway, how are you? How’s the book?’
Eddie made a groaning sound.
‘It can’t be that bad,’ said Laura.
‘It’s not bad, exactly,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m just not sure it’s good enough. If it’s going to be my ticket back into politics, it needs to say exactly the right things to exactly the right people. But at the same time, I do feel it has to be truthful. I met a lot of good people in prison. It’s … difficult.’
‘My my,’ Laura teased him. ‘I believe I just heard the fabled sound of the political conscience! I thought you people had your scruples removed at birth? Or at least on entering the Commons. Like wisdom teeth.’
‘Or foreskins,’ said Eddie.
‘Ouch.’
‘Exactly. Happily, I remain intact in that department. Which I dare say is more than you needed to know!’ He laughed loudly.
I really must try and laugh more, thought Laura. Out of the mouths of babes, and all that.
‘Anyway, I was ringing to see how you and Gabriel were and to see if you wanted to come up here next Sunday and watch the first episode with us?’
‘That’s terribly kind of you,’ Laura began.
‘Annabel’s not exactly cock-a-hoop about it, as you know,’ said Eddie. ‘But she’s agreed to host a small drinks do.’
Laura felt suitably astonished, although it was true that Eddie’s wife had notably softened towards the show recently. Ever since Milo Wellesley had been packed off to Africa, in fact, Annabel seemed to have cheered up immeasurably. Perhaps having the house to themselves had been all that the Wellesleys needed to revivify their marriage. Laura indulged in a momentary fantasy of how easy and relaxed her life with Gabe would be if the children disappeared for a few weeks. Although she knew if it really happened she’d spend the whole time pining for the boys. Gabe would be even worse.
‘You’ve probably already made plans to watch it up in London with the Channel 5 lot …’ Eddie said.
‘Actually,’ said Laura, ‘between you and me, the only plan I’ve made is with my sofa and a sick bag. I’m terrified, Eddie.’
‘But why? It will be a triumph, my dear, you’ll see.’
‘I’m not even sure if I can sit through it myself, never mind watch it in public,’ said Laura. ‘I’ve been biting poor Gabriel’s head off for weeks. I’m a wreck! As for the reviews the next day, I’ve already told Gabe to go into the village early and set fire to every newspaper he can find.’
‘That’s it then,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s settled. You must watch it with us.’
‘No, really. I—’
‘We will raise a great number of glasses of excellent champagne, to the show and to you and to all your hard work. We will celebrate, and reviewers be damned. All that matters is the ratings, anyway.’
‘Spoken like a true television producer,’ said Laura.
‘I’ll expect you on Sunday then. Six o’clock at Riverside Hall; dress for success, sick bag optional.’
‘Eddie really, I …’
The line had already gone dead.
‘I can’t face it, Gabe. I actually can’t. Let’s just go home.’
Laura and Gabe were standing outside the front door of Riverside Hall. Gabe had reached forwards to ring the bell when Laura grabbed his arm, her face white with panic.
Pulling her into a hug, Gabe stroked her hair soothingly. ‘We can’t go home. Lady Wellesley’s expecting us. You know as well as I do one does not disappoint Lady Wellesley.’
‘Oh God, I’d forgotten about her,’ Laura wailed. ‘That makes it even worse. She always looks at me like I’m Pol Pot. I can’t watch the show with Cruella de Vil breathing down my neck!’
‘The only person breathing down your neck is going to be me,’ said Gabe, ‘in a good way. The show will be great, Laura. Tonight will be great. Trust me.’
He rang the bell. The door was answered almost immediately by a pretty but fragile-looking young woman in a full maid’s outfit.
‘Please come in. May I take your coats?’ she asked nervously, like a call-centre worker reciting a script.
‘We don’t have coats,’ said Gabe. ‘It’s ninety degrees out here. I could murder a cold drink, though, if there’s one going.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The girl blushed. ‘Follow me.’
She led them into a comfy sitting room. A large TV was mounted on the wall above the fireplace, already tuned to Channel 5. Laura switched her attention to the soft linen sofas and armchairs strewn with brightly coloured scatter cushions that were dotted invitingly around the room. On a coffee table in the centre, a vast Wedgwood jug overflowed with wild flowers, and scented Diptyque candles flickered on the windowsills. Along the garden side of the room, floor-to-ceiling French doors had been flung open, allowing the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and newly mown grass to drift inside on the warm evening breeze.
Macy and James were already here, sipping cocktails and chatting to Santiago and Penny de la Cruz in one corner. Eddie had his arm around his wife, who was smiling broadly.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her crack a smile before,’ Gabe whispered in Laura’s ear. ‘Have you?’
‘Never,’ Laura whispered back. ‘Perhaps she’s got wind.’
Gabe laughed loudly, making Eddie look up.
‘Ah, there you are! At last. Kick-off’s in five minutes. What can I get you both to drink?’
‘Gin and tonic for me, please,’ said Gabe. ‘Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!’ He wandered over to congratulate James Craven on his recent performance, leaving Laura alone with Eddie and Annabel.
‘What can I get you?’ Eddie asked her.
‘Nothing. Just water.’ Laura’s nerves were back with a vengeance.
‘Nonsense. We’re celebrating. You must have something. A glass of champagne, at least?’
‘Mrs Baxter just said she didn’t want a drink, Eddie,’ Annabel said curtly. Her earlier smile was gone now, replaced with a familiar expression of withering disdain. ‘Magda! Don’t just stand there gaping! Fetch some iced water, please. Quickly!’
Laura watched awkwardly as the maid scuttled away. Lady Wellesley spoke to her as if she were a dog. So much for the happier, more relaxed Annabel. Clearly Milo’s absence had only defrosted the ice queen so much …
‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ said Eddie, ignoring his wife’s wrath and wrapping a paternal arm around Laura’s shoulders. ‘Today’s quite the day for good news.’
‘It is?’ Laura looked puzzled.
‘Yup. I’ve sent my agents the first two-thirds of the book and they love it,’ Eddie beamed. ‘This time next year I could be back in politics full time.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ Laura smiled back. ‘You must be thrilled,’ she added to Annabel.
‘I’ll be thrilled when the book’s finished and published and we have our old life back,’ said Annabel waspishly. ‘And when all this television nonsense is behind us. I don’t mean to be rude, but your ghastly programme’s been a terrible distraction for Eddie.’
She had never liked Laura, and she knew for a fact that the feeling was mutual, so she resented Laura’s attempts at ‘chumminess’ now. If Westminster life had taught Annabel anything, it was that an enemy was infinitely preferable to a false friend.
Laura was just wondering what Annabel might say when she was trying to be rude when Eddie jumped in.
‘Yes, well,’ he said smoothly, kissing his wife’s cheek. ‘With any luck it will prove to have been a lucrative distraction. That’s not the only good news either. We had a letter from Milo today, finally. Apparently he’s loving Africa. We could hardly believe it, could we, darling? He sounds like a different boy.’
Magda, who’d just returned with the water jug, froze at the mention of Milo’s name. After the awful humiliation of his leaving party, she’d been too angry and upset to say a proper goodbye to him. Of course, more than two months had passed since then. She no longer felt the same burning mortification that she had at the time, when that dreadful boy Jamie had looked through her as if she were nothing, as if she were dirt. But the memory still stung. She wondered what it would be like when Milo came back. Whether he really had changed. Thinking about his return from Africa bothered her more than it should have.
‘Magda! Don’t stand there like a lemon.’ Annabel’s irritated voice brought her back to the present. ‘Pour Mrs Baxter her water. She’s been waiting long enough.’
‘Really, I’m fine.’ Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. Why was Eddie’s wife so poisonous to the maid? Did she just dislike all women? It must take a huge amount of energy, Laura thought, to live one’s life at such a pitch of distrust. Then again, perhaps being married to a serial philanderer like Eddie had taken its toll? Laura tried not to judge Annabel too harshly. After all, she herself had been pretty vile to Gabe recently behind closed doors, and with much less reason. You never really knew what went on in other people’s marriages, no matter how hard you tried to peek behind the curtains.
The familiar theme tune signalled that the news had ended. Everyone turned towards the TV.
‘That’s it. We’re next!’ said Eddie, rubbing his hands and sinking down into one of the sofas, a stiff Annabel beside him. ‘Magda, make sure everybody has a full glass. Come on, you lot. Find a seat.’
James, who was sprawled across Annabel’s perfectly pristine Chesterfield as though he spent every day reading his newspaper there, squeezed Macy’s hand. ‘Are you nervous?’
She looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Not at all. It’s not the first time I’ve been on TV, you know, honey.’
‘Of course not. But it’s still a big deal. This time tomorrow you could be a household name.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ said Macy.
The truth was, she was nervous. She could tell that Gabe was too. He played it cool in front of Laura. But he needed this show to be a hit. In their different ways, and for their different reasons, they all did. For Gabe and Laura it meant paying off the mortgage. For Macy it could be the gateway to an international career. For Eddie it was a stepping stone back into politics. Even Annabel wanted the show to do well, if only to have an answer to all its many detractors.
‘I wonder if we’ll be in it?’ Penny whispered to Santiago. ‘They did film me once or twice in the village, out and about with Emma.’
‘They won’t show you,’ Santiago whispered back, stroking Penny’s rosy cheek. ‘They want viewers to look at Macy. One look at you and no one would give her a second glance.’
Penny laughed so hard she almost choked on her vodka and tonic.
‘I do love you.’ She dabbed the tears from her eyes.
‘I’m serious,’ said Santiago.
‘I know you are,’ said Penny, squeezing his hand as the opening credits of Valley Farm finally began to roll.
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Hmm?’ David Carlyle didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
‘David! Let go! You’re crushing my fingers.’
‘Hmm? Oh. Sorry.’
Belatedly, the formidable editor of the Echo released his wife’s hand. Poor, loyal Louise Carlyle had put up with her husband’s foul temper for days now, as the date for Valley Farm’s first episode drew nearer. Now that they were actually sitting here, in their own front room, watching Gabriel Baxter and Macy Johanssen stride through the familiar fields of the Swell Valley, it was as if David had entered some sort of trance.
Throughout the summer, you would never have guessed that the Tory government was on the brink of collapse. Or that war might be about to start again in the Middle East. Or that the little boy abducted from his bedroom on Teeside two weeks ago would miraculously be found alive and unharmed. As far as David was concerned, the only news that mattered was the launch of his hated rival’s TV show. the Echo covered other stories, of course. But not since CNN’s obsession with the missing Malaysian aircraft had a major news outlet focused so intensely and so consistently on one single issue. David had worked tirelessly to portray Eddie Wellesley as the greedy, elitist, self-serving pig that he was. He’d done all he could to smear the reputations of Gabriel Baxter and his wife by association, and to stir up anti-American sentiment towards Macy Johanssen for worming her way into the affections of England’s favourite cricketer since Santiago de la Cruz.
He’d succeeded in turning Valley Farm into a story, and the exploitation of the Swell Valley and its residents into an issue. But the true measure of the Echo’s campaign would be the public reaction to the show itself. David sat still as a statue, glued to the screen like a wide-eyed child watching the moon landings.
‘Oh, look!’ said Louise as Furlings appeared in shot, looking impossibly romantic swathed in early morning mist. ‘Doesn’t it look pretty! And there’s Angela Cranley. I didn’t know she was going to be in it.’
‘Nor did I,’ David seethed. Angela was rich as Croesus, but with her soft, Aussie accent and gentle manner, chattering away about sustainable gardening and the camaraderie of village life, she came across as a likable everywoman. By the time they showed her and Max Bingley pleading for calm and tolerance at the village protest meeting in the next scene, viewers were already firmly on Angela’s side. Bloody Laura Baxter was a better producer than David had given her credit for.
‘It’s outrageous,’ he muttered. ‘Look at that! They’re making Bill Clempson out to be a total fool. He sounds pompous and ridiculous.’
‘I thought you said he was pompous?’ Louise observed innocently.
‘That’s not the point.’
Laura had saved the scene where the vicar discovered his car submerged in silage until right before the commercial break. Louise Carlyle gasped, whispered, ‘No!’, clapped a hand over her eyes … and then burst out laughing.
‘You think that’s funny?’ David asked accusingly.
‘I … well, no. I mean, a bit,’ Louise blushed. Living with David recently had felt like trying to keep a wild bear as a pet. Everything seemed to make him angry.
The next shot was of Gabe Baxter and Macy Johanssen catching one another’s eye and dissolving into uncontrollable giggles. It took a superhuman effort for Louise not to join them.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked, unsure what else to do.
David looked up as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Yes. Thanks, love.’ Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. It was so unexpected, Louise thought she might cry.
‘I’m sorry if I’m on edge,’ said David. ‘ It’s just … I have a lot riding on this not working. I don’t mean to take it out on you.’
‘I know,’ Louise squeezed back. ‘I understand.’
Once she’d retreated to the kitchen, David sat alone on the couch, digging his fingernails into his palms until they bled.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He picked up the phone and called his secretary.
‘I need you to set me up a lunch.’
‘Of course, Mr Carlyle. With whom?’
‘John Bingham at ITV.’
‘Very good. And when would you like—’
‘As soon as possible. Book somewhere swanky. Let me know when it’s done.’
He hung up.
At Reverend Clempson’s bungalow, a few of the more hard-core protestors had gathered to watch the show together and enjoy Bill’s home-made organic hummus and aubergine dip.
‘Our cottage looks nice,’ Rita Bramerton cooed to her husband, Reg, as Macy Johanssen was shown walking down Fittlescombe High Street, admiring the beautifully planted front gardens. ‘Look at your hollyhocks! Don’t they look grand?’
‘They do,’ Reg agreed.
‘For heaven’s sake. It’s not about how pretty the flowers look!’ Bill Clempson said, more sharply than he’d meant to. ‘Can’t you see you’re being manipulated?’
‘Sorry, Vicar,’ Reg Bramerton said meekly.
A retired bus driver and keen amateur gardener, Reg now mowed the village green and tended to the churchyard flowers as a volunteer. David Carlyle had run an entire feature on the Bramertons in the Echo last week, as the ordinary, elderly working-class face of the Swell Valley, and the kind of people that Valley Farm’s producers were cruelly exploiting. They’d certainly worked tirelessly to support the local protest campaign, mainly at the urging of the vicar. Rita had baked cakes and handed out flyers, and Reg had hammered together ‘Save Our Valley!’ placards. But now that they were actually here, watching the programme they’d devoted so much time and effort to stopping, the Bramertons were a little baffled as to what, exactly, they’d been saving the valley from.
They weren’t the only ones.
‘It could be worse, Vicar,’ John Preedy from the village stores observed – although he wasn’t sure the same could be said for the vicar’s tasteless dip. You’d get more flavour from a can of Polyfilla. ‘At least the farming segments are informative. They let Gabriel talk about what he knows, don’t they? It’s not all just pretty Americans and fluff.’
‘It could not be worse,’ Bill Clempson said petulantly. Watching himself hop up and down beside his car like a demented jack-in-the-box, his cheeks red and his voice high and squeaky like a puppet’s, had been a deeply shaming experience. If these people couldn’t see what the producers were doing – the protestors, the very locals he’d been trying to protect from exploitation – then what hope was there that ordinary viewers would see the harm in Valley Farm?
‘It’s not only me they’re mocking.’ He turned to address the little group squeezed into his tiny sitting room at the bungalow. ‘Look at the way the cameras are zooming in on Hillary there?’
They looked. Hillary Wincup could be seen flapping her arms hilariously as she ran across the farmyard, her enormous bosoms flying, like a distressed hen escaping a burning coop. ‘They’re laughing at you, Mrs Wincup. That’s what reality television does.’
At last a few frowns and mutterings of ‘shame’ began to replace the initial thrill of seeing themselves and their neighbours on screen.
‘You must understand,’ Bill Clempson went on earnestly. ‘If this programme becomes successful, it won’t stop here. Do you really want these cameras to become a permanent part of your lives? This village will be turned into a theme park. And you’ll be like monkeys in a zoo. These people are laughing at us, not with us. And they’re raking in fat profits at your expense, for themselves and the Baxters.’
‘That’s a bit strong, ain’t it, Vicar?’ Reg Bramerton piped up again.
‘I don’t believe it is, Reg,’ said Bill. ‘You mustn’t let Gabe Baxter’s easy manner fool you. A man may smile and smile and be a villain, you know.’
Six simple faces looked at him blankly.
‘Shakespeare?’ Bill Clempson sighed deeply. ‘Never mind.’
The celebrations at Riverside Hall went on well into the night. They wouldn’t know final ratings, or read any reviews, until the morning. But Channel 5 had already been on the phone, clearly ecstatic about the early numbers, and the reaction on social media was crazy. Even though Gabe didn’t know his trending from his elbow, #ValleyFarm was going stratospheric. And everyone felt they’d made a show that was not only worth watching, but had done what it set out to do – show the real Swell Valley, its people, landscape and rhythms in all its unique, magical glory.
James had a match the next day so left early and alone. Gabe and Laura offered Macy a lift home to Cranbourne House but she decided she’d rather walk. It was still partially light, and the summer heat lingered into the night, rising up from the baked earth like steam from newly baked bread.
She ought to feel happy, and was irritated at herself for the niggling sense of depression and self-doubt that hung over her like an unwanted cloud as she strolled along the lane towards Fittlescombe.
The show was great. Everyone loved it, she told herself. Your career’s back on track, you have a great boyfriend, a gorgeous house, a wonderful new set of friends. What the hell is wrong with you?
Her mind wandered to Los Angeles and her agent – she must call Paul tomorrow, and start to think about strategies for marketing Valley Farm in the US – and it occurred to her suddenly that she might be homesick. She loved England and the valley far more than she’d ever thought she would. Since dating James, she’d even caught herself using words like ‘lovely’ and ‘loo’. She’d better watch that, actually. She didn’t want to morph into Madonna from the Guy Ritchie years and start wearing a flat cap and rattling off cockney rhyming slang like Dick Van Dyke. But there were things about America that she did miss and thought about increasingly. Stupid things like Kashi breakfast cereal, and Greens 3 from Pressed Juicery, and yoga and Sixty Minutes and Steve Inskeep on NPR news. Perhaps a trip home was all she needed? Time away from work, and England and James. And Gabe, her subconscious added for her helpfully. Gabe, with his blissful marriage and his cute kids; Gabe with his perfect face and dirty jokes and utter, utter, total unavailability.
Macy sighed. I’d better book my flight.