The Show by Tilly Bagshawe

at the farm, the scene outside looked more like a picnic than a picket line. Only the vicar and a few older men were still marching and chanting.
    ‘Gabriel?’ Macy offered her hand to the handsome, wellbuilt blond man holding court among the women.
    No wonder they picked him to present, she thought. If all farmers looked like that, Dorothy would never have left Kansas .
    Gabe turned away from his admirers and fixed his eyes appreciatively on the petite, attractive girl in front of him. She had Laura’s colouring, very pale skin with strikingly dark hair. But unlike Laura she was tiny and doll-like and immaculately well-groomed, all sleek hair and expensive clothes and perfectly manicured nails. You could tell in an instant that she didn’t have children.
    ‘You must be Macy,’ he beamed. ‘Lovely to finally meet you. Come on in.’

    Macy followed him into the kitchen. In the ten minutes since Gabe had been outside, Laura had made valiant efforts to clean up. Gabe was relieved to see the kitchen looking almost habitable again and to hear the low hum of the dishwasher getting to work.
    ‘Darling,’ said Gabe. ‘Macy’s arrived.’
    Laura, now sitting at the table engrossed by her laptop, didn’t look up.
    This woman’s really beginning to annoy me , thought Macy, who’d been in a great mood up till then. She’d walked down the lane from Cranbourne House this morning. The sun was out, the meadows were full of wild flowers and the tall hedgerows teemed with butterflies and bees and twittering birds like something out of a Disney cartoon. But Laura Baxter was the ultimate buzz-kill.
    ‘Sorry.’ Gabe apologized for his wife’s rudeness. ‘We’ve had a bit of a crazy morning. Can I get you anything?’
    ‘Tea would be lovely.’
    Seconds later the first of the TV crew vans pulled into the farmyard and the chanting began again. Laura slammed shut her laptop with a clatter.
    ‘No time for that, I’m afraid,’ she said briskly. ‘We have a ton to do today. Let’s get to work.’
    The rest of the morning passed in a whirl of activity, confusion and stress. While Laura and the film crew hotly debated set-ups and camera angles, Gabe and Macy were made to do take after take after take, some ad-libbed and some scripted. Macy was kicked in the shin by a lamb, urinated on by a piglet and yelled at countless times by Laura, who was distracted by the increasing din of the protestors. At some point a minivan had pulled up outside the gates, depositing at least twenty rent-a-mobbers, none of whom Laura or Gabe recognized. Soon afterwards, reporters from the Echo started taking pictures, climbing up onto walls and farm buildings and into trees like an unwelcome swarm of ants.

    ‘Bloody David Carlyle,’ Gabe seethed. ‘He’s orchestrating this whole thing, the little shit.’
    ‘Who’s David Carlyle?’ asked Macy. Her eye make-up was starting to run and she was already regretting the black, long-sleeved dress with a low ‘V’ at the front that was far too hot and making her sweat unpleasantly under the arms and between her breasts.
    ‘A shit-stirrer,’ said Gabe. ‘The Vladimir Putin of Swell Valley. I’ll explain at lunch.’
    Laura overheard them. ‘We’re not breaking for lunch, I’m afraid. We are way, way behind.’
    ‘Bollocks to that,’ said Gabe robustly. He understood Laura was stressed. A lot rested on all this. But people had to eat. ‘Macy and I are starving. I’m taking her to The Fox for a bite.’
    Macy waited for Laura to lose her temper, but instead she merely shrugged. ‘All right. Work on your lines while you’re there, then. And be back by two.’
    Gabe kissed his wife lovingly on the cheek. ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n. Come on,’ he turned to Macy. ‘Let’s get out of here before the black hole sucks us back in.’
    The Fox was unusually busy for a Monday lunchtime. People came to Fittlescombe’s quaint, riverside pub as much for the gossip as the fare, and this week there were two