Eddie Wellesley lay in bed feeling profoundly happy. It was November, not yet a whole year since he’d walked out of Farndale, but it felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened in that time – moving to the Swell Valley, meeting the Baxters and Macy, becoming a television producer, and now, launching his memoirs. Outside, a chill wind rattled against the windowpane. But the dreary weather could do nothing to dampen Eddie’s spirits this morning.
Annabel lay in his arms, warm and naked and happy, something Eddie had feared she might never be again. Last night, after Eddie’s appearance on a new Channel 4 chat show to promote his memoirs, he and Annabel had driven back to Riverside Hall and had had the best, most passionate sex they’d had in years. Decades, probably. Eddie hadn’t realized quite how much he’d missed it – missed her – till now. Nothing meant anything compared to this. To the two of them being together and happy and a team.
‘I adore you,’ he whispered in her ear.
Turning round, Annabel kissed him softly on the lips. ‘Good.’
Annabel was happy too. Despite what people thought, she’d always loved Eddie. His affairs had hurt her, but she’d stayed because, in the end, she’d never stopped loving him or feeling loved by him. And because he said he was sorry, and she believed him. She knew she could come across as cold and unfeeling. It was one of the reasons why so many strangers blamed her for Eddie’s infidelity. She’s so cold, she’s such a snob, she drove him to it.
But Eddie had always seen past that. He’d seen the warmth in Annabel where no one else had – perhaps he’d even created it? – and that private understanding had made him feel special. In Eddie’s eyes, Annabel was something rare and wonderful, a secret treasure chest to which only he had the key. She loved him for that more than anything.
Even so, it had been a long road back to their old intimacy. When Eddie had got involved in Valley Farm, and started hanging out with all those television people, especially Laura Baxter, Annabel had been terrified of losing him all over again. In television, Annabel felt excluded. But politics? That was a world where they both belonged, for better or worse. A world where Annabel had an important role to play, as wife, hostess, team mate. With the memoirs finally finished and publication scheduled for next week, last night’s television appearance had been the first concrete step in Eddie’s political comeback. That alone had been a huge boost to Annabel’s spirits. The fact that it had been such a triumph made her positively giddy with hope, and renewed love for her husband.
‘What’s your greatest regret?’ the chat-show host had asked Eddie.
‘I don’t believe in regrets,’ Eddie said briskly. ‘I broke the law and I paid the price. But I’m not complaining. I learned a lot in prison, and I made some great friends.’
‘Still, if you could turn back the clock, surely there are things you would have done differently? That you wish you hadn’t done?’
Eddie had thought about it for a long time. Then, with disarming sincerity, he’d said: ‘I wish I hadn’t hurt my wife.’ Zooming in, the camera caught the tears in his eyes. ‘But that’s a private matter between the two of us.’
Watching in the green room, Annabel had fought back tears of her own. Eddie had said sorry countless times. But last night, for the first time, she had known he really meant it.
She met him in the corridor as soon as he walked off stage.
‘Did I do all right?’ he asked nervously.
‘You were wonderful.’
He pulled her to him, pushing her hair back tenderly behind one ear and locking his eyes onto hers. ‘You’re wonderful. It’s all going to be different this time round, you’ll see. I love you and I’m going to protect you. From everything.’
This transformative moment in Eddie and Annabel’s relationship had turned out to be transformative for Eddie’s career too. According to this morning’s viewing figures and reviews, the public had been deeply moved by his marital remorse. Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, had called at crack of dawn, waking them both up.
‘You went down a storm,’ Kevin gushed. ‘Huge ratings for last night’s show. Over eighty per cent of viewers found you “sincere and credible”. Ninety per cent liked you! That’s unheard of for a politician.’
‘Especially a bent one,’ quipped Eddie.
Kevin laughed. ‘No one cares any more.’
‘Except David Carlyle.’
‘David who?’ the agent scoffed. ‘Get Annabel to serve the party chairman a few bottles of really good burgundy at tonight’s book launch and, I’m telling you, you’re home and dry. They’ll be throwing safe seats at you like girls chucking their knickers at a One Direction concert.’
Now, lying in bed next to Annabel, Eddie ran a hand lovingly down her bare back. ‘Can I do anything for you?’ he asked.
‘Such as what?’ she asked archly.
‘Anything you like,’ Eddie grinned. ‘We don’t have much to do today before the party, do we?’
‘Not much to do?’ Annabel rolled her eyes. ‘Honestly, Eddie, these things don’t magically happen by themselves, you know. It’s not just a book launch; it’s the rebirth of your political career. The Home Secretary’s coming, and the party chairman. This is a crucial evening for us. Crucial.’
‘I know that,’ Eddie said gently.
‘Then there’s the spin doctor, speech writer, or whatever he is. The bald chap with the permanent sneer and the American wife.’
‘You mean Phil Blaize?’
‘Yes. Him. The wife’s bound to have “allergies”.’
‘Why is she bound to have allergies?’ Eddie laughed.
‘Because they always do. American women are so tiresome about their eating habits.’ Annabel sighed heavily. ‘Really, Eddie, I’ve been run off my feet for months preparing for this damn party and I’m still nowhere near ready.’
‘I thought Magda was supposed to be doing most of the legwork?’
‘Magda?’ Annabel rolled her eyes extravagantly. ‘Don’t get me started. Honestly, if I had a pound for every time I’ve had to correct that girl, or go back and do a job myself because she simply cannot follow simple instructions …’
Eddie stopped her with a kiss. He knew the postcoital glow wouldn’t last for ever, but he wanted a few more hours of it at least.
‘I’ll make breakfast,’ he said brightly. ‘How about pancakes? Thinking of American eating habits.’
Annabel burst out laughing. ‘Edward! You have no idea how to make a pancake.’
‘Yes I have.’ Eddie pulled on a dressing gown. ‘You use eggs and … things.’
‘What things?’
Eddie looked vague. ‘Milk? Look, I can make a fucking pancake, all right. I’m not an imbecile. You just relax and leave it to me.’
Milo Wellesley hopped down from the passenger seat of the cab and waved cheerily to the lorry driver as he drove away.
He’d been lucky to get a lift almost all the way from Heathrow to Brockhurst. Gary, the jovial, enormously fat driver, was taking a load of Topps Tiles to a warehouse in Chichester and was happy to have the tanned, skinny blond boy along for the ride. Having been dropped at the top of the hill, by the side of the A27, Milo had less than two miles to walk down into the valley till he reached Riverside Hall.
Before Africa, he would never have hitchhiked. But a lot of things had changed for Milo in the last few months. He’d returned to England happier, healthier and immeasurably more resourceful. He was determined to prove to his parents – and certain other people – that he was no longer the needy, entitled public schoolboy of old. He was a man of the world now. A man with opinions and ambitions and plans for the future – a future that lay spread out before him, just like the glorious patchwork of fields, woods and streams he stood gazing at now.
Hoisting his backpack onto his skinny shoulders, he started down the hill at a jog. It was still only nine in the morning and the air was cold enough for him to see his breath. After the dryness of Sudan, the sense of damp in the air felt wonderful. Milo drank in the mist and the breeze and the promise of rain or even snow like a bumblebee gorging itself on nectar after a long spell in the wilderness. But it wasn’t only England he was pleased to see, or his home, or his family. It was Magda.
He’d gone to look for her the morning after his leaving party, to say goodbye, but she’d taken Wilf out for an early walk and he’d missed her. At the time he’d been so caught up with the Roxanne drama – Roxie had hooked up with his friend Will Cooper that night deliberately to bait him – and he hadn’t thought much about missing his parents’ home help. But being away had changed all that.
Out in Africa, as the days and weeks rolled past, Roxanne had faded from his memory and Milo’s thoughts had turned more and more to Magda. He pictured her giving him a stern talking-to on their walk to The Fox a few days before the party, the night he’d met Emma Harwich for a drink. It wasn’t just that Magda was beautiful, although she was certainly that. It was her combination of strength and vulnerability, her quiet dignity that had begun to give her an almost mystical aura in Milo’s memory. He’d been too blind to see it back in England. Too caught up in his own shit, chasing girls like Emma and Roxanne for no better reason than that they were sexy. But after long, gruelling days lugging bricks in the African sun, the long nights had given him plenty of time for reflection.
He’d been blind. Blind and stupid. Roxanne was a nice enough girl, but she had never inspired him to become a better person the way that Magda did. Nor, despite her antics with Will, had she ever presented much of a challenge. Magda, on the other hand, was nothing but challenge. She was a grown woman, an intelligent woman, a woman to be conquered. A woman worth conquering.
Not that he was obsessed or anything.
Milo was going to show Magda that he was a changed man. It made him cringe to think about that night outside The Fox now, when he’d still been mooning over Emma Harwich. Emma Harwich! How pointless and vacuous his fling with Emma seemed now. Although, in a roundabout way, it had turned out to be a good thing, as he’d never have been sent to Africa if it weren’t for Emma.
Bizarrely, Emma’s face had been one of the first things Milo had seen when he’d landed this morning. She and her ancient boyfriend, the Tory donor, were on the front page of the Daily Mail, shaking hands with some movie star or other. Milo had found himself staring at Emma’s image like a man who has just realized his old master painting is actually nothing but a cheap fake. She was pretty enough, of course, in a regular-featured, generic, model-y sort of way. But, next to Magda, her beauty was as lifeless and blank as the painted face of a doll.
The closer he came to Riverside Hall, the more excited Milo felt. As the lane twisted and turned, and the ground seemed to fall away beneath his feet, familiar smells joined forces with the sights and sounds of the valley. Wet grass and mulch and wood smoke and horse manure, all mingled together into an intoxicating soup of home and countryside and belonging. Suddenly Milo realized he was starving. A mental picture of a warm bacon sandwich shimmered before his eyes like a mirage in the Sahara. He broke into a jog, then a run.
Both his parents’ cars were parked in the drive at Riverside Hall, although he couldn’t see Magda’s rickety old Ford Fiesta. An awful thought struck him. What if Magda had left while he’d been gone? What if his mother had fired her? Or she’d grown tired of Annabel’s ceaseless, unreasonable demands and taken off, leaving no contact number or forwarding address?
If only he’d told her how he felt about her before he left! But the truth was, he hadn’t known then. Not really. He’d been so immature back then, bemoaning his trivial life problems like some sort of navel-gazing moron, after Magda had shared something so personal and profound with him.
I was an arsehole. A complete fool.
But that was the old Milo.
The front door was unlocked. Dropping his backpack on the floor with a clatter, Milo woke Wilf, who’d been sleeping quietly in his basket under the coat rack. Opening one eye and turning his head to the side in the very faintest possible display of curiosity, the border terrier farted loudly and went back to sleep.
‘Well, that’s charming,’ Milo grinned. ‘That’s all I get after five months in the bloody back of beyond? So much for man’s best friend.’
Hearing laughter from the dining room, he opened the door and stood frozen. Was this a dream? There was his dad, perched on the edge of the dining table, detritus from breakfast strewn all around him. And there, on his father’s lap, was Milo’s mother, wearing a short silk dressing gown that could only be described as skimpy, with her hair down and unbrushed, giggling – actually laughing, out loud – at something his dad was whispering in her ear. Clearly Milo wasn’t the only one who’d changed since the summer. His parents seemed to have morphed into two teenagers. Or at least into people who liked each other and laughed at each other’s jokes.
‘Mum?’
Annabel and Eddie spun round in unison. ‘Milo!’
‘What on earth are you doing home?’ asked Eddie. ‘We thought your flight was next weekend?’
‘It was. I changed it. Thought I’d surprise you,’ said Milo. ‘Evidently I succeeded.’ He raised an eyebrow laconically.
‘You’re so thin!’ Annabel exclaimed, leaping off Eddie’s lap and belting her robe more tightly around her. If Milo wasn’t hallucinating, which was quite possible at this point, he could have sworn he saw his mother blush. ‘Didn’t they feed you over there? And you’re so brown! Look at you.’
‘It’s Africa, Mum. It was hot.’
‘Yes, but don’t they have sun cream? I hardly recognize you. Oh, good grief, your fingernails!’ Annabel picked up Milo’s hand in disgust. He almost felt relieved. Here was the mother he remembered. ‘You look like you’ve been ploughing a field with your bare hands. And your hair’s far too long. Go up and have a shower right away and I’ll book you in at the barber’s in an hour to have it off.’
‘I don’t want to “have it off”,’ said Milo. Other than with Magda. ‘Where’s Magda?’
‘Magda? In the kitchen, cooking for tonight,’ said Annabel. ‘Why?’
Milo felt the relief wash over him like a cool wave. She hadn’t left, then.
‘What’s tonight?’
‘Your father’s book launch. Except it isn’t really a book launch; it’s more a vitally important political dinner.’
‘Oh.’
‘So you aren’t to pester Magda. She’s far too busy to waste time yabbering away to you.’
‘Am I invited? To this vitally important dinner?’
Eddie and Annabel exchanged glances.
‘Do you want to be?’
‘Of course.’
Eddie looked astonished. The old Milo would rather have eaten his own hand than sit around with a bunch of boring politicians.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can come. But only if you behave yourself impeccably.’
‘And cut your hair,’ added Annabel.
Milo kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘I’m not cutting my hair. But I will be on my best behaviour. Now, you’ll both have to excuse me. I’m afraid I have an urgent appointment to keep.’
Eddie grinned. He was delighted to see Milo back home, but he clearly found this new, mature version of his son highly amusing.
‘An urgent appointment, eh? May one ask with whom?’
Milo grinned back. ‘With a bacon sandwich.’
Well. It was half true.
Magda was sitting at the kitchen table, almost invisible behind an enormous mound of peeled prawns.
‘Hello, stranger,’ said Milo, trying to project a confidence he didn’t feel.
She looked up and gave him the briefest, most perfunctory nod of greeting before returning immediately to her work.
Milo’s heart plummeted. ‘Are you angry with me?’
‘No.’ Magda continued peeling.
‘Well, you’re acting like it. I’ve been gone for months! Don’t I get a hug at least?’
Magda’s eyes blazed into his. ‘A hug? Oh, I see. A hug’s all right down here in the kitchen, where nobody can see, is that it?’
Milo frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘What do you think I’m talking about?’ Exasperated, Magda pushed aside her bowl of shells. ‘Your party. Your “friend” Jamie and your mother treating me like the hired help.’
‘Aren’t you the hired help?’ Milo asked tactlessly.
Magda was furious. ‘I wasn’t that night. I was your guest. You invited me! I even brought a new dress.’ To her own surprise, there were tears in her eyes. She hadn’t thought she still cared so much about this. But seeing Milo again brought it all flooding back. ‘Can you imagine what an idiot I felt? How embarrassed I was? You stood there and disowned me.’
Milo looked at her helplessly. He didn’t remember any of this! He had a vague mental picture of Jamie King being a dick, but that was about Roxanne, not Magda.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I didn’t mean to disown you! I didn’t realize. I guess I didn’t think.’
‘No.’ Magda returned to her prawns. ‘You never do.’
Now it was Milo’s turn to get impassioned.
‘That’s not true,’ he said, snatching the bowl away from her to force her to listen. ‘I mean, maybe it was true back then. But it’s not true now. I do think. I’ve thought about you. A lot.’
Magda blushed scarlet. This was not the response she’d expected at all. Why on earth had she started this stupid conversation in the first place?
‘OK, well. I can’t talk now,’ she mumbled. ‘I am so behind with this soup and then there’s the pastry cases to make for the beef Wellington and all the prep work for the trifle and that’s before I even start the cleaning.’ She knew she was rambling but she couldn’t seem to stop. ‘You should see the list your mother’s given me. You wouldn’t be—’
Milo cut her off. Marching round the table he pulled her to her feet and in to his chest before she had a chance to protest.
Despite herself, Magda could feel her heart beating nineteen to the dozen as he hugged her. Milo looked different. He very thin, and tanned, but it was more than that. He seemed older somehow, despite the silly student beads and the straggly, gap-year hair. He smelled of sweat and toothpaste and something with patchouli in it, and she was finding it harder and harder to stay angry with him.
‘Do you forgive me?’ he spoke into her hair.
‘I suppose so,’ Magda mumbled, disengaging herself as soon as she politely could and sitting back down.
‘So,’ she asked, a little too brightly, returning to her work. ‘How was your trip?’
His face lit up. ‘Amazing. Life changing, actually. You haven’t lived till you’ve seen Africa,’ he added, more than a touch pompously.
Magda suppressed a smile. ‘Is that so?’
Now it was Milo’s turn to blush. He wasn’t sure how he’d pictured their reunion exactly. But not like this. He wanted to show Magda that he’d changed. That he wasn’t the spoiled, entitled boy who had left five months ago. The boy who was so blind, he’d deeply humiliated her at his own leaving party without even realizing it. He wanted her to see that he was a man now, an adult with opinions and real-life experiences who should be taken seriously. But standing in front of her now, Milo felt younger and more foolish than ever. It was all going wrong!
He cast around desperately for something to say.
‘Mum seems on very good form. She and Dad looked very loved-up just now.’
‘She does seem a lot happier lately,’ Magda replied cautiously. It wasn’t her place to gossip about Lady Wellesley – with Milo, or anyone else for that matter.
‘I’m going tonight. To the dinner,’ blurted out Milo. He wished Magda would look at him.
‘That’s nice.’ Magda continued peeling.
‘I’m trying to take more of an interest in politics.’ He could hear how stilted the words sounded. He felt like a little boy, dressing up in his father’s clothes, desperately trying to play the part of the grown-up. But he ploughed on anyway. ‘I need to understand Dad’s world better. So I can make a difference. When I was in Africa—’
‘Milo.’ Magda cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I’m glad you’re back. And I’m glad it was a good trip. Really. But I simply don’t have time to talk at the moment. Help yourself if you want something to eat, but then, please, let me finish this.’
‘Of course.’ Milo forced a smile. ‘We’ll catch up later.’
Winded with disappointment, he left the room. He didn’t want the bacon sandwich any more. All of a sudden he’d lost his appetite.
Magda waited for the door to close before wiping her hands on her apron, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.
What’s wrong with me? she thought bitterly.
A few minutes in Milo’s company and her emotions were churning like washing in a machine. She felt angry and happy and nervous, all at the same time. Worse than that, she had no idea how to react around him, what to say, how to be. Either she was too close to him, too intimate – that hug had been painful – or she came off as cold and aloof and ended up hurting his feelings, as she had just now.
He was the one who had treated her badly. And yet here she was feeling like a Class-A bitch.
Guiltily she returned to her mountain of prawns.
William Berkeley, the Tory Party chairman, sank back contentedly in Eddie Wellesley’s battered leather chesterfield armchair, puffing on a Padrón 1964 Anniversary cigar. They really ought to have waited till after dinner. But the chance to slip away to Fast Eddie’s study and enjoy a decent smoke beforehand had been too good to pass up. Truth be told, William Berkeley wasn’t much for literary parties. Too much noise and clatter, and too many stupid women banging on about Orange prizes and God knows what.
‘House looks lovely,’ William observed, through a thick cloud of cigar smoke. ‘Annabel’s excelled herself as usual.’
‘Thanks. But we’re not here to talk about the house,’ said Eddie.
‘And the book’s clearly going to be a triumph.’
‘Or the book. Or the TV show,’ Eddie added.
‘Thank God for that,’ muttered the chairman, only half under his breath. He really had less than nothing to say about a reality television programme that was apparently hosted by a young lady who’d been named after a department store. Or perhaps a parade.
‘I want to know where I stand with the party, William.’ Eddie lit his own cigar and took a long, satisfying puff. ‘Am I forgiven?’
William Berkeley made a purring sound, like a cat being presented with a saucer of cream. It was pleasant to have men like Wellesley paying one court.
‘Well now, Eddie, you have many friends and supporters in the party, as you know. You’ve already had your membership restored.’
Eddie gave William a knowing look. ‘That’s not quite the same thing as being forgiven.’
‘Perhaps not. But Garforth’s here tonight, isn’t he?’ said William. ‘That should tell you something.’
James Garforth, the new Home Secretary, was the highest-profile political guest to have graced Riverside Hall to date.
‘Hambly isn’t, though,’ said Eddie.
‘One step at a time, old boy,’ William Berkeley patted his paunch reassuringly. ‘Tristram’s always been a supporter of yours, you know that. But he is the PM. And you did go to prison.’
Eddie scowled. Patience had never been his strong suit.
‘I think the book will help,’ said William. ‘It strikes the right tone. Sorry, but not grovelling.’
‘Will it get me a safe seat?’
‘I’m really not at liberty to say,’ Berkeley began, before breaking off in the face of a withering look from Eddie. ‘Oh, look, all right, yes. Barring disaster, you’re being talked about for Chichester and Swell Valley at the next election. No one likes Piers Renton-Chambers. He’s been a terrible damp squib.’
‘Really?’ Eddie’s face lit up like a small child’s on Christmas Eve. ‘That’s wonderful news!’
‘Yes, and very much off the record,’ William reminded him sternly. ‘You’ll have a lot of sucking up to do to the local parliamentary party, aka the swivel eyes.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Eddie.
‘And there can’t be a whiff – not a single, solitary fart’s worth – of scandal.’
‘Of course not. What do you take me for?’ Eddie had the cheek to look affronted.
Both men smoked on in silence for a few moments. The noise of the drinks party drifted in from the drawing room, a blur of voices and laughter, growing louder as the alcohol flowed. The majority of the guests were due to leave by eight, leaving only a hardcore of VIPs for the sit-down dinner at nine.
After a while, William asked idly, ‘By the way, have you heard anything about David Carlyle’s book?’
‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m surprised he can read, never mind write. What is it?’
‘That’s the thing. No one knows. It’s shrouded in mystery.’ William waved a fat hand around dramatically. ‘Apparently it’s with Doubleday, but they’re denying all knowledge.’
‘They’ve probably all died from shame,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s probably some torrid potboiler for plebs: Fifty Shades of Grey Shoes.’
‘Now, now,’ William chuckled.
‘Maybe he used a pseudonym. Chip. O. N. Shoulder.’
‘Ha!’ The chuckle became a full-on laugh. ‘That’s very good. But seriously. He doesn’t have anything on you, does he? Anything that didn’t come out at the trial?’
‘No,’ Eddie said sourly. ‘If you remember, I was thoroughly disembowelled at the trial, thanks to that bastard. There’s nothing.’
‘Good.’ William Berkeley clapped his hands, smiling broadly. ‘Then we’ve nothing to worry about. Is it almost suppertime, do you think? I could eat a horse.’
‘Well! Isn’t this nice? All the heaving throngs have gone, and we can finally relax.’
Annabel smiled stiffly down the table at her illustrious guests, looking anything but relaxed. The book launch drinks had gone off without a hitch, but the really important part of the evening was just beginning.
The chairman, William Berkeley, sat on Annabel’s left. She’d intended to launch a full-on charm offensive at him during the bouillabaisse. But then William and Eddie had drifted in to dinner thick as thieves, so she’d refocused her attention on the Home Secretary, James Garforth, on her right. Whatever it was that had propelled young Garforth to the top of the political tree, Annabel decided, one could rule out charisma. Whether it was the lingering Birmingham accent or the glazed look of naked ambition in the eyes, Garforth was as drearily humourless as a feminist book group discussing the latest Tony Parsons. Worse, he used embarrassing business clichés, talking about ‘going forward’, and ‘thinking outside the box’ on immigration. ‘That’s exactly the sort of issue where we Conservatives need to blue-sky it,’ he concluded triumphantly. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Further down the table, Eddie’s political agent, Kevin Unger, was making small talk with Rita Blaize, wife of the Number Ten spin doctor and all-round electoral guru, Philip. Phil Blaize scared Annabel. She couldn’t read him at all, yet she had a sneaking suspicion that he might well be the most important man in the room. Which made it all the more distressing to have to watch him being bored to death by a distinctly tipsy Camilla Berkeley, the chairman’s wife, who only ever wanted to talk about hunting.
‘Of course, it was different when I was a gel,’ Camilla boomed. ‘I gort my first hunter at nine. Happiest day of my life! The whole county used to see off the hunt in those days. It wasn’t just the landowners. All these animal rights Johnnies who bang on about class, they couldn’t be more wrong. Hunting’s not elitist! Never has been. It’s urban bloody ignorance, that’s wort it is. Now if you have the PM’s ear, you really must get him to look into it.’
Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Milo appeared to have the Home Secretary’s wife in stitches, which pleased and panicked Annabel in equal measure. And Eddie was devoting far too much time and attention to Lisa Unger, the agent’s wife, one of the few people present with literally nothing to offer him politically, instead of rescuing the spin doctor from Camilla Berkeley’s tweed-clad advances.
When at last Magda staggered in carrying a vast silver soup dish, Annabel could have wept with relief.
‘Ah! The bouillabaisse. Marvellous. You may start serving, Magdalena.’
Milo took one look at Magda, then directed a furious glare at his mother. Not only had she made the poor girl get dolled up in full black and white maid service, which looked patently ridiculous at such a small, informal dinner, she’d clearly also driven Magda to the brink of exhaustion. Her eyes looked small and red, wisps of hair clung to the sweat on her forehead like seaweed on a wet rock and her hands were trembling, whether from nerves or physical strain it was hard to tell.
‘Let me help you.’ He stood up, earning himself an irritated look from his mother and a panicked one from Magda.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ The soup tureen clearly weighed a ton. Staggering towards the table, Magda tried to remember what Lady Wellesley had instructed her this morning about serving. Start at the head of the table and move left. Or was it right? No, definitely left.
‘Come on,’ Milo insisted. ‘That’s far too heavy.’
‘For heaven’s sake sit down, Milo. Magdalena can manage,’ snapped Annabel. She didn’t know why, but something about Magda always seemed to bring out the worst in her.
‘No she can’t,’ Milo snapped back. ‘Open your eyes!’
The guests were all staring at her now. Magda could feel their eyes on her; her heart was hammering against her ribs like a jumping bean in a cage. Why did Milo have to make a scene? Lady Wellesley hated scenes. In a rush, she reached forwards to set the dish on the table, but lost her footing. After that everything seemed to happen in slow motion. There was a collective gasp from around the table as the silver lid clattered to the ground and the tureen tumbled forwards, depositing a cascade of scalding bouillabaisse directly into William Berkeley’s lap.
‘FUUUUCK!’ The chairman of the Conservative Party let out a roar of pain, leaping to his feet and scrambling to undo his trousers. Seconds later they were around his ankles, along with his underpants, as he hopped from foot to foot, naked and howling. While most of the guests stared transfixed at this unexpected display of burned wedding tackle, Lisa Unger, thinking quickly, whipped the champagne bottle out of a nearby ice bucket, ran around the table and emptied the icy water directly onto the chairman’s crotch.
‘I think he might need to go to hospital,’ said Philip Blaize, the first words he’d spoken since he sat down.
‘Somebody call an ambulance!’ boomed Camilla.
Annabel turned on Magda, tight-lipped and furious. ‘Clean it up,’ she hissed.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I—’
‘Now!’
With a sob, Magda ran from the room.
As the ambulance carted away poor William, it was hard to tell what distressed him more: the blistering pain in his balls or the prospect of being ushered into a confined space with his drunken bore of a wife. In any event, with the Berkeleys gone, dinner continued, with conversation considerably more lively following the unexpected drama.
‘That’s a nice way to launch a comeback,’ Philip Blaize teased Eddie. ‘Maiming the party chairman!’
‘I expect it’s the most action William’s had in the trouser department in many a long year,’ Eddie cracked back.
Annabel laughed along – Eddie had always been better at handling these things than she was, and would no doubt pluck victory from the jaws of disaster. But she remained livid with Magda for her clumsiness, and with Milo for setting the whole thing off, trying to play Prince Charming to the maid’s Cinderella.
Magda went through the motions, serving the beef and the pudding and coffee, moving silently around the room like a wraith. Eddie tried to smile at her reassuringly, but she didn’t dare to meet his eye, or anyone’s.
Later, when the guests had retired to the drawing room for cognac, Milo found her in the kitchen. Sitting at the table, staring dumbly into space, she still looked shell shocked.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, pulling up a chair beside her.
‘She’ll fire me. I know it. I’m going to lose my place.’
‘She won’t fire you,’ said Milo. ‘I know my mother. She might rant and rave a bit, but she won’t want to start again with someone new. Anyway,’ he looked at Magda questioningly, ‘would it be the end of the world if she did fire you? You can’t like working for her. You’re much too good for this job.’
Magda shook her head. ‘Life isn’t about what you “like”. It’s about what you need.’
‘OK. But why do you need this job so badly?’
Magda opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. It was a good question, a fair question. But she couldn’t answer it. Not without lying, and she wasn’t prepared to do that, not to Milo.
‘You don’t understand.’
It came out like an accusation. Milo looked hurt. ‘Explain to me, then.’
I want to, thought Magda. I really do. But if she told Milo the truth, there was a chance that he’d let something slip, that eventually his parents would find out. And she couldn’t risk that. For their sake as much as her own.
‘Forget it. Forget I said anything.’
Reaching out, Milo took her hand. Not questioningly or tentatively, but firmly, with a confidence Magda hadn’t seen in him before. ‘I’m not a kid, Magda. I’m not the boy I was before I left. I want to help you.’
For the briefest of moments their eyes met. He was so earnest, so endearing. For the first time in a long time, Magda realized, she had made a true friend.
‘I’m happy you’re home, Milo,’ she said truthfully. ‘I just pray to God you’re right about your mother.’
It was nearly two in the morning by the time the last guests left. To Eddie’s amazement, it was the Home Secretary, James Garforth, and his wife, who were the last to stagger to their car.
‘Terrific evening.’ James patted Eddie warmly on the back. ‘Shame about poor old Berkeley,’ he added, in a tone that clearly implied it wasn’t a shame at all. ‘Your boy, Milo’s, very impressive, by the way. Wonderful to meet a young person who cares about today’s big issues.’
‘Milo?’ Eddie failed to keep the astonishment out of his voice.
‘Yes. You can tell him I’ll look into that internship. We need to expand our bandwidth over at the Home Office; get some young blood flowing, new ideas.’
Eddie looked at him blankly. Bandwidth? He couldn’t imagine what had possessed Tristram Hambly to promote a man who spewed out such a ceaseless flow of twaddle.
‘Jolly good,’ he said blithely, helping Garforth into his car. ‘Thanks again for coming. Drive safely.’
Back inside, he cornered Milo on the stairs on his way up to bed.
‘Did you ask the Home Secretary about an internship?’
‘Yeah,’ said Milo. ‘I thought, you know, one might as well ask. There’s so much reform needed in immigration,’ he added seriously. ‘They could probably use an extra pair of hands.’
Eddie rubbed his eyes in disbelief. ‘You’re interested in immigration?’
‘Well. A bit. And, you know, it’s all good for the CV,’ he added sheepishly. ‘Night, Dad.’
Eddie gazed after him in wonder as he went to his room. Whatever Dominic Veesey had been putting in Milo’s water out in Africa, he and Annabel had better order a job lot.
Upstairs in bed, Milo lay awake, his mind racing. The truth was he couldn’t care less about immigration, or his CV. But he needed a job, a real job, something important and meaningful that would impress Magda.
Before tonight, he’d imagined that he loved her.
Now, he knew.
It was time for the rest of his life to begin.