you. I like your idea and I think it has legs. Eventually I hope to go back into politics, but for the time being I need a new challenge.’
‘Well, this will certainly be that,’ said Laura.
‘Have you thought about local opposition? How do you want to handle that?’ Eddie asked. ‘You realize that for every villager who’s excited by the idea of television cameras in the village stores, there’ll be five who feel violated and think you’re defacing their community.’
Laura shrugged breezily. ‘Gabe and I can take a bit of stick.’
‘It might be worse than that,’ Eddie said seriously. ‘If we go forward with this, we all need to be prepared for a fight.’
They finished their coffees and Eddie got up to go.
‘I’ll get my lawyer to draw something up,’ he told Laura. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you see if you can whip up any interest this side of the pond. And I’ll book my flights to California.’
After he left, Laura sat frozen at the dining table for a full minute, feeling not unlike Dorothy after the twister deposited her in Oz.
Did that conversation really just happen?
Are we really going to do this?
She laughed out loud.
Screw you, John Bingham.
I’m about to produce the next big thing in British television.
‘Champagne, sir?’
Eddie Wellesley had barely stepped over the threshold of Michael Hart’s Neo-Palladian mansion when he was accosted by a preposterously handsome young man bearing a silver tray.
‘Thank you.’ Eddie sipped at the dainty crystal flute as he walked down the white marble hallway, feeling like an extra in a Roger Moore movie from the seventies. The famous producer’s house was the last world in vulgarity: ridiculously huge, opulent, gold-plated, and so eye-wateringly naff Eddie doubted whether it could ever have been built in England. At home, even pop stars and footballers and reality stars drew the line somewhere. But not in Los Angeles. Here, there were no lines. Eddie rather liked it.
Even better than the house itself, with its fish tanks and cream silk carpets and solid gold taps and hideous portraits of the lady of the house in various states of undress, were Eddie’s fellow guests. Michael Hart clearly had a type when it came to the fairer sex. Lithe, obviously underage girls who looked like models but were probably prostitutes, mingled with older women whose faces and bodies had all been surgically re-created, to greater or lesser degrees. With the exception of the waiters, who all looked like actors, and the sports stars (nine foot tall to a man and black as the ace of spades), the men were all short, ugly, old and fat. And rich, Eddie presumed, judging by the seven-figure cars pulling up to the valet station, and the improbably proportioned women on their stumpy little arms. The whole affair could be filed under ‘Jeremy Clarkson’s wet dream’.
Despite the hordes of people, Macy Johanssen was easy to find. Of course, Eddie already knew what she looked like. He’d spent hour upon hour in the last two weeks watching some truly ghastly American television in search of the right presenter for the Swell Valley series. Macy Johanssen had fairly leaped off the screen.
Macy’s agent, Paul Meyer, had put it perfectly when he telephoned Eddie at his hotel this afternoon to suggest he ‘swing by’ the Hart party.
‘If Macy shows up at all, she’ll be there to talk business. Look for the only woman surrounded by at least four powerful men and with all her clothes on. And if that doesn’t work, look down.’
And there she was, a tiny figure in a black Calvin Klein trouser suit with a fitted tuxedo jacket, holding court amongst a gaggle of enraptured executives from Sony. Her dark hair was cut in her signature sleek bob, her porcelain skin flawless and her crystal-blue eyes sharp and intelligent.
‘Excuse me.’ Eddie effortlessly parted the throng, his cut-glass English accent slicing through the air like a silver monogrammed knife through butter. ‘Miss Johanssen? I’m Sir Edward Wellesley. I wonder, might I have a word?’
Macy turned and glared at him.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ the fattest, loudest Sony man said, smiling at Macy as he led his compatriots away. There was something about Eddie’s voice and manner that commanded authority, even here.
‘No, no, please. There’s no need,’ Macy called after them. ‘Sir Edward and I have nothing to dis—’
She broke off when she realized she was talking to four retreating backs. Turning furiously to Eddie she said, ‘Thanks for nothing!’
‘Oh, come now, don’t be angry,’ Eddie said smoothly. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back. Whereas I may not be.’
Macy refused to be mollified. ‘Paul sent you here, didn’t he?’
Eddie smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’
‘Really, I could strangle the man.’ Macy did nothing to hide her exasperation. ‘He’s supposed to my agent. He’s supposed to represent me. I told him quite categorically that I have no interest in presenting your show. None whatsoever.’
‘A message that he also passed on to me, in no uncertain terms,’ said Eddie. ‘Drink?’
‘So why are you here?’ said Macy.
‘Because I’m tenacious. Like you. Because I flew several thousand miles to meet you, Miss Johanssen, and have no intention of going home without achieving that end. And because I happen to know you’re making a mistake.’
‘Really?’ Macy raised an eyebrow. She liked a confident man and Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly that. Attractive, too, in an older, Downton Abbey kind of a way. ‘And how do you know that?’
‘Because this show is going to be huge. Not just in the UK, but here, too, eventually. If we get the format right, we could all make a small fortune.’
‘Could, could, could,’ Macy yawned. ‘I think I might go home. I’m pooped.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Eddie. To Macy’s amazement, he took her hand and started leading her towards the door. ‘You’re not tired, you’re bored. Come and have a drink with me at my hotel. Give me one hour to pitch this show to you.’
‘An hour?’ Macy laughed. ‘A good pitch should take thirty seconds.’
‘If you’re not interested after that,’ Eddie ignored her, ‘you have my word of honour I will leave you alone and never tear you away from another boring studio executive ever again.’
For a split second, Macy hesitated. Then she thought: You know what, he’s right. I am bored.
Sir Edward Wellesley was certainly the least boring thing that had happened to her today. On
