The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!. Тилли Бэгшоу

nodded meekly. ‘I arrived a few minutes ago.’

      ‘Marvellous. Lady Wellesley’s going to be terribly pleased to see you. Did Milo let you in?’

      ‘Er …’ Magda hesitated.

      ‘My son. Seventeen-year-old boy? Lazy, irritating, probably still in his pyjamas?’

      ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’ Magda’s heart thumped at the lie. ‘I came in the kitchen door. It was open.’

      Annabel appeared at the other end of the hallway.

      ‘Ah darling,’ said Eddie. ‘This is the new cleaner. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask you your name.’

      ‘Magdalena Bartosz. Pleased to meet you, Lady Wellesley.’

      If this was Lady Wellesley looking ‘delighted’, Magda dreaded to think what she might look like annoyed. She was a beautiful woman, but her entire body seemed clenched, and her mouth was pursed in a tight ‘o’ of disapproval, like a cat’s arse.

      ‘What are you doing upstairs?’ she demanded suspiciously.

      ‘I … I thought I heard a … er … a cat,’ Magda stammered.

      ‘A cat?’ Annabel frowned.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘We don’t own a cat.’

      Magda blushed again. ‘I must have been mistaken. I checked all the rooms in case it was shut in but they’re all empty.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Eddie. ‘God knows where Milo’s got to. Darling, why don’t you show Magda to the cottage? I’m sure she must be tired after her journey. He turned to Magda. ‘Do you have a case?’

      ‘Yes, a small one. It’s in the kitchen.’

      ‘I’ll carry it across for you.’

      ‘Really, there’s no need. I can manage.’

      ‘I insist,’ said Eddie.

      Five minutes later, following her new employers across the lawn towards the gardener’s cottage that she hoped might become her home, Magda looked over her shoulder. The girl, Roxanne, was clothed now and sprinting for her life away from the house towards the woods leading out to the lane.

      Good, thought Magda. She made it.

      It wasn’t until that evening that she bumped into Milo again. After an exhaustive tour of the house and a veritable bible of instructions from Lady Wellesley about laundry, fireplace-sweeping and hand-washing crystal, Magda was washing up in the kitchen when Milo sauntered in. In jeans, bare feet and a dark green fisherman’s sweater with holes in it, he looked lanky, like a young giraffe still not quite sure what to do with its legs.

      ‘Thank you for before,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’ Magda didn’t meet his eye. He seemed nice enough, but she didn’t want him to think she was some sort of co-conspirator. His mother had the power to hire or fire her. Magda could not afford to offend or upset Lady Wellesley, for anyone.

      ‘My mother’s not a fan of Roxie’s,’ Milo went on. ‘She thinks she’s beneath me.’

      She was certainly beneath you this afternoon, thought Magda.

      Sir Edward had described his son as lazy and disobedient. Magda could certainly imagine that to be the case, despite his charm.

      ‘The thing is, we’re in love,’ Milo explained.

      ‘It’s really none of my business,’ said Magda, drying her hands and reaching for the kitchen door. ‘Goodnight.’

      ‘I’ll walk you to the cottage if you like,’ said Milo. ‘It’s dark out there and it’s the least I can do after you saved my bacon earlier.’

      ‘No.’ The word came out more sharply than Magda had intended. ‘And please, don’t mention this again. Goodnight.’

      Milo watched, chastened, as she slipped into the darkness and out of sight.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      Macy Johanssen adjusted the veil on her fascinator and surveyed the packed church surreptitiously from behind her order of service.

      She’d been astonished to receive an invitation to Logan Cranley’s wedding, having never met either the bride or groom. But Angela Cranley, the bride’s mother, happened to pop into Wraggsbottom Farm during filming on Thursday and very sweetly asked Macy along.

      ‘The whole village will be there, so it’ll be a chance for you to meet everyone. And I know my ex-husband’s curious to meet you.’

      Not as curious as I am to meet him, thought Macy. Brett Cranley was one of the richest men in Australia, and a big investor in America too, not least in the media sector. For a consummate networker like Macy, Brett Cranley was exactly the sort of man she wanted to make a good impression on. She’d chosen her outfit carefully: a taupe silk dress that looked nothing on the hanger but that clung seductively to Macy’s slender frame, making her look as though she’d been dipped in caramel; simple gold accessories; neutral Manolo pumps, and a wisp of netting from Philip Treacy over her dark bob that couldn’t have cost more than five bucks to make but which was the most expensive item in Macy’s entire outfit.