The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!. Тилли Бэгшоу
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I shall hang it in pride of place in the downstairs loo. That’s the only place one ever really looks at pictures.’
‘Well, if I don’t see you, I wish you all the best,’ Bob said gruffly. ‘And I hope you stick it to that bastard Carlyle.’
Eddie laughed. ‘Thank you, Bob. I appreciate that.’
Zipping up his case, he took a last look around. Then he made a tour of Farndale’s common room and cafeteria, saying his farewells to inmates and staff alike and promising to keep in touch. Eddie had learned a lot in prison, but the main lesson he had taken away had been that those inside Her Majesty’s Prison walls were no different, intrinsically, from those outside. There, but for the grace of God, went all of us.
At ten fifteen, only a few minutes late, Eddie Wellesley walked out of Farndale to freedom. It wasn’t exactly a Nelson Mandela moment – there weren’t any gates to unlock for one thing – but it was still a strange and satisfying feeling. Last week’s dreary weather had given way to crisp, bright blue winter skies. A glorious frost blanketed the Hampshire countryside like glitter on a Christmas card. One couldn’t help but feel hopeful and happy on a day like today.
Eddie recognized his old friend Mark Porter, the Telegraph’s political editor, amongst the scrum of press that had surrounded his car, a chauffeur-driven Bentley Mulsanne.
‘Bit cold for you, isn’t it, Mark?’
‘I wouldn’t have missed this for the world, Sir Edward. How do you feel?’
‘Pretty good, thanks for asking,’ Eddie beamed.
‘Nice motor.’ Luke Heaton from the BBC, a weaselly, chinless little leftie in Eddie’s opinion, raised an eyebrow archly. ‘It doesn’t exactly scream “contrition”, though, does it? Given that you were convicted of fraud whilst in high office, do you not feel such an ostentatious show of wealth might be considered in bad taste?’
Eddie’s smile didn’t waver. ‘No.’
Eddie’s driver, dressed in full livery, stepped forward to take his case.
‘Ah, Haddon. Good to see you.’
‘And you, sir. Welcome back.’
He opened the rear door and Eddie stepped inside. Scores of cameras flashed.
A girl from the Daily Mail called out from the crowd: ‘What are you most looking forward to?’
‘Seeing my dog,’ Eddie answered without equivocation. ‘And my wife, of course,’ he added as an afterthought, to ripples of laughter.
‘What about David Carlyle?’ A lone voice Eddie couldn’t place drifted across the melee. ‘Do you have anything you’d like to say to him this morning?’
‘Nothing that you can print,’ Eddie said succinctly.
‘Do you blame Carlyle for your incarceration?’
Eddie smiled, pulling the door closed behind him.
It wasn’t until they reached open countryside, crossing the border from Hampshire into Sussex, that he started to relax. He was excited to see his wife again. Whatever outsiders might think about the Wellesley marriage, Eddie loved Annabel deeply. But it was an excitement tinged with nerves. He’d put his wife through hell. He knew that. Annabel loved their life at Westminster and the kudos she’d enjoyed as a senior minister’s wife. When it had all come crashing down, she’d been devastated. It wasn’t just Eddie’s fall from grace and two-year sentence for tax evasion. It was the horrendous publicity of the trial, the humiliation of seeing Eddie’s mistresses crawl out of the woodwork one by one, like so many maggots. David Carlyle and his newspaper, the Echo, had seen to it that every skeleton in Eddie’s closet was dragged out and rattled loudly before the British public. Including Eddie’s devastated wife.
They hadn’t really talked about any of it during Annabel’s prison visits. Not properly. Now they would have to. Despite having had a year and a half to work on his apology, Eddie still didn’t fully know what he was going to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed so feeble. Annabel wasn’t keen on feeble. He wanted to thank her for standing by him, but that just sounded patronizing.
As for the new house, their ‘fresh start’ far from London, Eddie had mixed feelings about it. It looked nice enough in the photos. But now that he was actually on his way there it felt surreal.
What if we’re not happy there?
What if we hate living in the country?
Annabel had demanded a move, and he was hardly in a position to refuse her. But when she settled on the Swell Valley, Eddie’s heart had tightened. David Carlyle had a place there, a ghastly, overgrown Wimpey home on the edge of the golf course at Hinton. They wouldn’t be close neighbours. But the thought of living within even a ten-mile radius of the man who had single-handedly wiped out his career and demolished his reputation did not fill Eddie with joy.
‘Can’t we try somewhere else?’ he asked Annabel. ‘The country’s full of pretty villages.’
But it was no good. This was the house she wanted. The deal was done.
It’s up to me to make us happy, he told himself firmly. To make things up to her. The house will be fine. We will be fine.
‘Would you like to listen to the Test Match, sir?’ The driver’s voice drifted into the back seat. ‘Coverage is on Five Live, if you’re interested.’
‘Haddon, that is an inspired suggestion.’
Eddie closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.
He was a free man in a free world, listening to the cricket.
Everything was going to be all right.
‘Wilf! God help me, if you don’t stop that racket this instant I will have you put down!’
Annabel Wellesley looked daggers at the scruffy border terrier with his snout pressed against the window halfway up the stairs. He’d been howling, interspersed with the occasional growl, for the last hour straight. Perhaps it was the presence of all the television crews at the end of the drive that had so discombobulated him. Or perhaps the little dog had a sixth sense and somehow knew that his master was coming home today. Either way, the constant noise was threatening to stretch Annabel’s already strained nerves to breaking point.
She’d have liked to go out for a walk. To get some air and clear her head. But there was no way on earth she was going to run the gauntlet of all those vile reporters. Besides which, there was still such a vast amount to do in the house, to make things perfect for Eddie’s arrival.
Moving in to Riverside Hall with no help, not even a cleaner, had been one of the most stressful experiences of Annabel’s life. A naturally gifted homemaker with a flair for interior design, Lady Wellesley was also a perfectionist and a woman who was used to delegating. In London, she and Eddie had had a full-time staff of three, including a cook and a butler, as well as a veritable fleet of ‘dailies’. Here, once the awful, gawping removal men had driven away, she had nobody but herself to turn to. Every surface to be polished, crate to be unpacked and drawer to be filled, Annabel had polished, unpacked and filled herself. Part of her had welcomed the distraction. But another part resented – with every fibre of her tiny, perfectly honed body – being reduced to such menial tasks.
She could perfectly well have afforded servants. It was an issue of trust. After the humiliation, the shame, of Eddie’s trial and incarceration, Annabel trusted nobody. Convinced people were laughing at her behind her back; or worse, that journalists posing as potential chefs or housemaids might weasel their way into the house under the pretext of coming to interview for the jobs, she had put off hiring anybody until Eddie