Not that Live Crib was about him, of course. Like all St Hilda’s services and celebrations, its purpose was to honour The Lord. Fittlescombe’s famous Nativity-service-cum-carol-concert was also very much about the children, many of whom had already huddled excitedly around the altar-side pen that housed the goats, the sheep and Wilbur, Gabe Baxter’s decrepit but ever-popular donkey. Even so, knowing that the event would almost certainly make the local news, Reverend Slaughter had splashed out on a new set of Christmas cassocks in crimson, magenta and gold that he flattered himself lent an air of pomp and ceremony to proceedings. Even if they couldn’t quite match the glamour of some of the village’s more famous parishioners, all of whom had turned out in force on this beautiful, snowy Christmas Eve.
Emma Harwich, a local beauty turned supermodel, currently gracing the front page of Vogue in an outfit that left little to the imagination, other than leaving readers to wonder how quickly its wearer might contract hypothermia, had turned up in a demure floor-length belted coat, to the vicar’s immense relief. Admittedly she had teamed this with sky-high stiletto boots and sunglasses, no doubt to block out the glare of the softly flickering candlelight. Either that or so she didn’t have to watch the very obvious public display of affection between her mother, Penny, and her second husband, the local cricketing heart-throb Santiago de la Cruz. Emma herself was hand in hand with a preposterously good-looking boy, a Hollywood actor apparently, although Reverend Slaughter had never heard of him. Axel something or other. In any event, he was rumoured to be the star of the new Gucci campaign and Emma’s latest love interest, both of which facts drew him any number of lustful and/or envious stares.
A few rows behind the Harwiches sat the Drummonds, a famous British theatrical dynasty with an exquisite medieval mill house on the Swell just outside Fittlescombe. Reverend Slaughter couldn’t quite see from the pulpit, but one of their Christmas house guests looked awfully like Dame Judi Dench, muffled up in red Jaeger coat. If it were Dame Judi, he absolutely must get her autograph.
Opposite the Drummonds, to the left of the nave, sat the local MP, Piers Renton-Chambers and his new young wife, a horsey-looking heiress from Hampshire called Jane Drew. In a floor-length mink that must have cost a not-so-small fortune, Jane was drawing plenty of attention, as were the other local soon-to-be-newlyweds, Max Bingley and Stella Goye, who sat beside them.
In the nearly seven years since Max had taken over as headmaster at St Hilda’s Primary School, the village had taken him to its collective heart. Harry Hotham, the old headmaster, had been a tough act to follow. But Max had worked wonders with the tiny village school, transforming it into the highest-ranked state primary in Sussex. Property prices in the St Hilda’s catchment area, already high, had skyrocketed, earning Max still more friends among the locals. It seemed funny now to think that Max Bingley had been a grieving widower when he’d arrived in Fittlescombe. He looked deeply content this evening. Little by little, local potter Stella Goye had brought Max back to life. Many people thought them an odd couple, with Max so straight-laced and conservative and Stella so hippyish and free-spirited. But clearly the relationship worked, and now their surprise engagement was the talk of the village.
Or at least, it had been, until Fittlescombe’s own prodigal daughter had decided to return to the village fold, just in time for Christmas.
Looking at Tatiana Cranley, as she was now, throwing her head back and laughing in the front pew, dripping in diamonds like the Queen of Sheba, Reverend Slaughter tried not to think uncharitable thoughts. Everyone in Fittlescombe had adored Tatiana’s father, Rory Flint-Hamilton. There were many who would never forgive or forget what Tatiana put the old man through in his declining years. The drugs, the sex, the scandals – all played out in excruciating detail by a salivating tabloid press.
Of course, that was a long time ago now. During her brief tenure as a teacher at the village school under Max Bingley, Tatiana had begun to win back the respect of the locals, only to blow everything up again by running off with the impressionable young Cranley boy on the very day he came into his trust fund.
Reverend Slaughter observed the two of them, Jason and Tatiana, leaning into one another, sharing a joke with Jason’s younger sister Logan in the front row. He had to admit, five years in, the marriage did seem to be working, against all the odds. Much like Tatiana’s schools empire – Hamilton Hall was rarely out of the papers these days. If things carried on at this rate, the younger Cranleys would soon be as wealthy as their parents. The vicar had already planned to approach them later this evening about a donation to the church roof fund, suspending his disapproval of Tatiana for the greater good of the parish, as a village vicar so often must.