you had tremendous talent.’
‘Thanks,’ Laura said frostily, removing his hand with a shudder and getting up to leave. ‘And thank you for lunch, but I doubt our paths will cross, John.’
She was wrong. They had crossed. Not in person. But behind the scenes and in the most toxic way imaginable. One by one, every series that Laura became involved with was cut off at the knees. Television is a gossipy world and it wasn’t long before the word was out – having Laura Baxter attached to your project, as a writer or a producer, was the kiss of death. John Bingham was out to finish her.
She wouldn’t have cared so much if it weren’t for the fact that she and Gabe relied on her income. Wraggsbottom, Gabe’s beloved farm, was doing better than many others and keeping its head above water. Just. But if they wanted to take the boys on holiday, or buy a car, or decent Christmas presents, or even think about private education when the children were older, Laura needed to earn. And, thanks to John Bingham, she was running out of options.
That’s when it came to her. The idea. A way to get round John, to do something new and commercial and exciting, to keep control of her own destiny. And, maybe, if she played her cards right, to make a lot of money.
She glanced at her watch. 6.15 p.m. They’d be at Fittlescombe Station by half past and she’d be home before seven.
Please let Gabe like the idea. Please please please.
‘No way. Out of the question. We can’t possibly.’
Gabe sloshed a generous slug of Gordon’s into a glass, topped it up with half-flat tonic from the bottle in the fridge and handed it to Laura. Then he made one for himself and sat down beside her on the sofa. They were in the kitchen at Wraggsbottom Farm, surrounded by a sea of Lego, Thomas trains, plastic dinosaurs and other small-boy paraphernalia. Lianne, the world’s worst cleaner, had apparently been in today and ‘done’ the kitchen. Plucking a half-chewed apple out from between the cushions on the sofa and dropping it into the bin, Gabe wondered what exactly it was that Lianne had done.
‘Why can’t we?’ Laura asked.
‘Because. It’s our home,’ said Gabe. ‘I just put my neck on the chopping block with our neighbours defending that very point, if you remember.’
‘Of course I remember,’ said Laura. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Village drama! It’s already like a soap opera, living here. So why not capture that?’
‘I just told you why.’
Laura sighed, frustrated. ‘But it would still be our home, Gabe.’
‘Not if it were invaded by cameras it wouldn’t be. I don’t want some spotty little sound technician seeing you wandering around in the buff.’ He ran a hand up his wife’s thigh and looked at her hopefully.
Laura laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be wandering around in the buff.’
‘Well that’s even worse then. I’m sorry, Laur, but it’s an awful idea.’
‘No it’s not,’ said Laura. ‘It’s brilliant. I am a genius and you’re not listening properly.’
Gabe grinned. He loved her confidence, and the way she didn’t just back down. Gabe Baxter needed a strong woman. In Laura, he’d found one.
‘It wouldn’t be about our home life. It’s about the village. But it’s more than just a local drama. The centre of the show would be the farm. The valley around us, the changing seasons, the rhythm of life here. It’s about selling the rural dream – like River Cottage, but bigger and more glamorous and aspirational.’
‘I don’t know, Laura.’ Gabe took another big swig of gin and ran a hand through his hair. He couldn’t even spell ‘aspirational’ and wasn’t sure what it meant. It sounded like something you might need to help you breathe. He was dog-tired after a long day on the farm, and then getting the kids to bed. All he wanted was to have sex and go to sleep. ‘I thought you hated reality TV.’
‘I do. But that’s because most of it is tacky and crap and derivative. This won’t be. Plus, beggars can’t be choosers. I’m finished in scripted television. John’s seen to that.’
Gabe sat down beside her and slipped a hand under her shirt, expertly unhooking her bra from behind.
‘Screw him. He’s just jealous because he let you go. You’re mine now and it bloody kills him.’
Laura closed her eyes as Gabe started caressing her breasts and kissing her on the neck and shoulders.
‘I am yours,’ she sighed, running her hands through his hair and feeling ridiculously happy. Was it normal, after ten years of marriage, to still fancy your husband this much? Reluctantly she wriggled out from under him.
‘We have to talk about this, Gabe.’
Gabe groaned. ‘Do we?’
‘You know we do. We can barely make our mortgage payments.’
Gabe looked defensive. ‘We’re doing all right. The farm’s surviving.’
Laura squeezed his hand. ‘I know it is. And I know how hard you work and I think it’s amazing. But we want to do better than all right, don’t we? We want the boys to have a good life and a wonderful education. We want to go out to dinner sometimes. You want that Ducati, don’t you?’
Gabe laughed loudly. ‘Now you’re just bribing me! You wouldn’t let me get a motorbike if we had a billion pounds in the bank!’
‘That’s true,’ Laura admitted. ‘Because I love you and I don’t want you to get squashed by a lorry. But the point is, we don’t want to live from hand to mouth for ever, do we? Yes, the farm’s surviving. But if it’s going to be Hugh and Luca’s future, we need it to thrive.’
Her enthusiasm was infectious.
‘I still think it’s ridiculous,’ Gabe said. But he could hear himself wavering. ‘We’d be Fittlescombe’s answer to the Kardashians.’
‘We would not!’
‘Except you’d have a smaller arse.’
‘Not if you keep making me drinks like this one I wouldn’t,’ said Laura. ‘Anyway, my arse won’t be in it. I’m strictly behind the camera. I’d produce it and you can present.’
‘Me?’ Gabe’s eyes widened.
‘Why not?’ said Laura. ‘You’re gorgeous; you know all there is to know about the farm and the valley. And you’d work for free.’
‘Oh, would I now?’ said Gabe.
‘Yes,’ Laura giggled. ‘You would. We’re going to need a lot of cash to get it made, so we’ll have to work on a tight budget.’
‘I see,’ said Gabe. ‘And where would this cash be coming from? Not our savings account, I hope.’
Laura almost choked on her gin. ‘What savings account? Luca’s got more in his piggy bank than we have!’
