The Show: Racy, pacy and very funny!

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015

Copyright © Tilly Bagshawe 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Tilly Bagshawe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007523023

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007481415

Version: 2015-05-19

For Zanna. With love.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Cast of Characters

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Two

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Keep Reading: The Inheritance

Keep Reading: The Swell Valley Short Stories

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Tilly Bagshawe

About the Publisher

Gabe Baxter leaned over and whispered in his wife’s ear.

‘This is awful.’

‘Shhhh,’ Laura Baxter giggled.

‘I can’t shhh. I can’t stand it,’ said Gabe, running a hand through his thick blond hair. ‘Do you think if I offered to pay for the whole roof, she’d stop singing?’

‘Be quiet,’ Laura hissed at him. ‘You can’t even pay for your beer, never mind the school roof. So you’re just going to have to let it go!’

Gabe groaned. The Baxters were in the snug bar at The Fox on Fittlescombe Green, along with the rest of the village on this wet January evening, watching the talent show. Danny Jenner, The Fox’s landlord and village gossip, had organized the event to raise funds for a new school roof. The current performer, Claire Leaman, a dumpy twelve-year-old girl with boss eyes and a wildly misplaced confidence in her own abilities, had spent the last three minutes belting out the Frozen theme tune as if she were on stage at the Oscars, tossing her hair about and warbling like an opera singer on helium. After ‘Mike Malloy’s Marvellous Magic’ (a single, lame handkerchief trick) and Juggling Jack Willoughby, the half-blind church warden from Brockhurst, Gabe had dared to hope that they’d seen the worst of the night’s performers. Apparently he was wrong.

‘HERE I stand! And HERE I’ll staaaaa-aaaay!’Claire screeched.

‘She can bloody well stay on her own,’ Gabe whispered back to Laura. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

‘Gabe. You can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s Gavin Leaman’s daughter, for one thing.’

‘All the more reason to get out of here,’ Gabe said with feeling.

Gavin Leaman was one of a group of ramblers – ‘The Swell Valley Right-to-Roamers’ they called themselves – who had had the audacity to tramp through Gabe’s orchard last weekend, and who had even wandered into his garden. Gabe had been enjoying Match of the Day in his living room when, as he put it, ‘some sanctimonious cagouled muppet with an Ordnance Survey map’ waved at him cheerfully, as if Gabe and Laura’s land was some sort of public park. Gabe had marched outside to have words with the intruders, and had ended up getting into an unfortunate row with Fittlescombe’s new vicar, Bill Clempson. It turned out the vicar was leading the charge on behalf of the ramblers, armed with a sensible padded nylon bum bag and a whistle.

‘You put them up to this, didn’t you, Vicar?’ Gabe said accusingly.

Bill Clempson pursed his lips. ‘I didn’t put anyone up to anything. These people have a perfect right to ramble here.’

‘First of all, they’re not “rambling”,’ Gabe said with feeling. ‘They’re not fucking Wombles. They’re trespassing.’

‘There’s no need to resort to bad language,’ chided the vicar.

‘If you’d taken the time to read the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000,’ one of the walkers piped up, an overweight woman in much-too-tight breeches, whom Gabe recognized from his son’s nursery, ‘you would know that the British countryside belongs to all of us.’