“I’m sure he wouldn’t say he could drive a tractor if he couldn’t, Abi,” said Emma. “He’s awfully clever.”

“Emma, you’d think Barney could drive a rocket into space. I’ve never known love to make anyone so blind.”

“Yes, OK. But-”

“Look, we’ve got to do something,” said Barney. He pointed at the van; the driver had got out and was squaring up to the security guard, calling him an evil nancy boy. The security guard pulled his radio out of his belt and started alternately talking into it and shouting at the van driver.

“Oh, OK. I’ll drive you up there. Emma, you stay here and tell William some lie if he comes over.”

“OK,” said Emma cheerfully.

She looked around her. It all looked-stuck van aside-extremely organised.

The food trailers were all in place and putting up their shutters, revealing signs that said things like, Best burgers and Finest fries. A couple of girls were standing by a small children’s roundabout, giving a child a ride; two rainbow-coloured tents side by side announced that they were face painting and willow weaving; someone clearly with a sense of humour was hoisting a large hot-air balloon over the loos that read, In Good Company. A St. John’s ambulance tent was going up; a girl and a man were constructing a large barbecue under a pagoda tent, with a sign that said, Paella: Biggest portions, and a small but determined-looking queue was forming across the valley where the punters’ entrance was.

Everyone seemed to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing and getting on with it. The air was thick with the crackle of walkie-talkies, the hurdy-gurdy music of the roundabouts, and the occasional burst of rock music as someone checked a sound system. And all the time the picture grew: more vans, more tents, more colour, more stalls. It was astonishing, rather like watching someone doing a giant jigsaw. God, Abi was a wonder. She’d masterminded all of this without any of the histrionics Georgia had brought to it, just got on and done it. William was a lucky chap; she hoped he knew it.

“Oh… William!” she said, realising he was behind her. “Hi.”

“Hi. Everything all right? Abi gone to find Ted?”

“Yes. I… think so.”

“Great. Sorry I can’t look after you properly, Emma. If you want a coffee, the site manager’s cabin’s got a kettle and stuff…”

“William, I don’t need looking after. Did you get the power problem sorted?”

“No, not yet. And that van’s causing chaos. God. If only this bloody rain would stop…”

“I think it is stopping,” said Emma, “actually. Well, it’s much lighter, more of a sort of drizzle, don’t you think?”

“No,” said William, looking up at the lowering sky, “I don’t. Oh, good, here comes Ted now. No, it’s not… it’s Barney. What the hell is he doing driving my tractor? Barney, you wanker, get out of that, for God’s sake; you’ll do the most terrible damage…”

“Piss off, William,” Abi shouted above the din. “Barney’s fine; he can drive this perfectly well, and you’d better get up to the cowshed-that calf’s a breach, and the vet needs help.”

“Where’s Ted?”

“Seeing to another calf. Go on, William, for God’s sake.”

William roared up the track in the Land Rover, with another agonised yell at Barney of, “You break my tractor, Fraser, I’ll have your goolies off.”

“You know what they say,” Abi said, grinning at Emma. “You wait ages for a calf and then they all come at once.”

“You’d think they might have waited another day,” said Emma. “So inconsiderate-they must have known what was going on. Abi, would you agree with me that the rain’s much lighter? Almost stopped?”

“Mmm. Not sure,” said Abi, and then, “God, good old Barney, he’s doing wonders with that thing. I hope that cow’s all right; we lost one last week; can’t afford another.”

Emma looked at her, her respect growing by the minute.

“Are you Abi? Security sent me over.” It was a girl dressed totally unsuitably in high-heeled red sandals and white trousers. “Tessa Stan-dish, Wiltshire Radio.”

“Oh… God. Yes. Cool. They said you might be coming. Let’s go over to the arena. Have you got any other shoes?”

“No. So stupid, but I wasn’t expecting to come this morning.”

“Tell you what,” said Abi. “We pass the welly stall. You can be our first paying customer. Here, look. Rainbow-coloured, madam? Spotted? Or even a pair of Hunters?”

Georgia was driving down the M 4 just before one when she heard Tessa Standish: “Coming to you from In Good Company, the music festival based at Paget’s Farm, just off the M 4 near Bridbourne. And I can tell you, if you’re thinking of coming you’re in for a treat. It looks fantastic, incredible array of stalls, wonderful bands on the programme, lots of them local, great camping area, stuff for the kids to do, and the most amazing setting. It could have been purpose-built for the occasion, a sort of natural amphitheatre… and don’t be put off by the weather, because the rain’s stopping here now, and there’s even a bit of sun fighting its way through. Now the headline band is BroadBand, playing at eight, but there are loads of others, starting with a folk band called-what are they called?-oh, yes, Slow-mo. They’re on at three. And it’s all for charity, in aid of the victims of the M 4 crash last August and St. Marks Hospital, Swindon, so you’ll be doing some majorly good work if you come.”

It was awful to be so late; she’d wanted to be down first thing, really make herself useful, but the second on the new film had suddenly called her and said they needed rain to film a scene, and here it was, most obligingly; could she get over right away? So she’d had to get over.

Georgia had had a pretty amazing three months since Moving Away had gone on to the nation’s television screens. She had had rave notices-been proclaimed by various critics as “an incredible new talent,” and giving a “near perfect performance” and “exquisitely touching” and “a superbly intuitive actress.”

“I don’t understand it,” she’d said to Linda. “I know I wasn’t that good; I just know it. I’m not daft.”

“Maybe, but the thing is, darling, the camera loves you. It isn’t just models you hear that of; there are certain actors it’s true of too. It found more in your performance than you know was there, maybe than actually was there. Frankly, Georgia-and I’ve always been one of your biggest fans-I didn’t see you getting notices like this. You’re a one-in-a-million screen actress, and you should thank God fasting for it. And don’t come running to me after a bit saying you want to play Juliet at Stratford, you don’t feel fulfilled…”

“Of course I won’t,” said Georgia.

“Darling, you’d be surprised how many do. Just enjoy this. It’s great.”

Georgia’s face was everywhere; apart from the arts pages, Vogue had used her for a fashion shoot, she’d appeared in the style section of the Sunday Times, and in the Guardian as their close-up spread in the Monday fashion slot. She’d been interviewed just about everywhere-and wonderfully had been able to plug the festival several times-and most important, had a part in a new BBC series, filming in the autumn, and after that in a main feature film, a screen adaptation of a new novel set against the background of what the publicity called “Thatcher’s Britain.” Georgia couldn’t actually see that it was that different from present-day Britain, although her mother inevitably could, but it was going to be a great movie, and she had a great part.

She had moved out of her room in Jazz’s house and bought a minute flat in Clapham; she had bought a ton of clothes from Top-shop and TK Maxx and a couple of dresses from Stella McCartney, for special occasions, and one of the new Minis, and she and Merlin were going on holiday to Thailand for a week when the BBC film was finished. Life had changed a bit, as she said to Abi, but she felt exactly the same. “Just as worried about everything, just as insecure, just as-”