Party Games (17 page)

‘I’m sick of your help!’ she snapped. ‘Stop trying to control me!’

‘I’m not trying to.
Jesus
.’ John shook his head. Shooting his wife an unimpressed look, he walked off.

By five to twelve the market square was brimming with people, but there was still no sign of the Powells. Catherine kept trying their PA’s number but it was going straight to voicemail.

‘Celebrities are always late,’ she reassured Felix. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘I jolly well hope so.’ He sighed. ‘Otherwise people are going to be sorely disappointed when they only get me.’

John was standing at the other end of the stage with the Cooper-Stanleys. She tried a tentative smile, but he was either ignoring her under the sunglasses or he hadn’t seen.
Hell
, she thought glumly.
Am I officially the worst wife in the world?

A ripple of excitement started that could only be due to the arrival of somebody special. Amanda’s bossy voice blasted out over the hordes of people.

‘Out of the way, please! We’ve got a pair of VIPs here, you know.’

Catherine and Felix exchanged a relieved look. The
crowd parted like a sea before them, to reveal Amanda ushering the Powells through. Conrad Powell was tall and dashing in a white linen suit, luxuriant dark hair brushed off his handsome face. Vanessa Powell was tiny and radiant in purple. They stopped to sign a couple of autographs for star-struck fans.

Amanda arrived near to Catherine and Felix just ahead of them. ‘One, two,’ she said into the walkie-talkie she was holding.

Catherine resisted the urge to burst out laughing. This wasn’t Kevin Costner and the bloody
Bodyguard
!

‘One can never be too careful about security when there are famous people involved,’ Amanda said. ‘Henry, do you copy me?’ she snapped into the walkie-talkie.

Conrad came up and Amanda put an over-familiar hand on his arm. ‘Conrad, this is Felix Chamberlain, head of the SNOW committee. Felix is also our beloved chairman of Beeversham Conservative Association.’

‘For my sins,’ laughed Felix, putting his hand out. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Conrad. We’re extremely grateful to you for lending support to our cause.’

Conrad smiled expansively. ‘Whatever we can do to help.’

‘You know Catherine, don’t you?’ Amanda trilled. ‘She’s our very own media powerhouse!’

‘The name does ring a bell. Didn’t you use to edit
Saga
?’

‘
Soirée
actually.’ Catherine returned the smile.

Vanessa appeared at her husband’s shoulder in a huge pair of Victoria Beckham sunglasses. Her strapless dress was cinched with a crocodile-skin belt, showcasing the va-va-voom curves.

Catherine attempted a placatory smile. The celebrity’s face didn’t move behind her glasses.

There were two other people with the Powells: a smiley, chubby girl – probably their PA – staggering under the weight of a huge shoulder bag, and an older lady, draped in an extravagant kimono. She was taller and harder in the face than Vanessa, but there was no mistaking the cat-like eyes and remarkable bone structure. She had to be the mother.

‘Felix, shouldn’t you think about making a start?’ Amanda said importantly. ‘We don’t want to keep our special guests waiting.’

He checked his watch. ‘Crumpets, you’re right. I’ll get up and say a few words, and then I’ll welcome Vanessa and Conrad on stage.’

‘Super duper,’ Conrad drawled.

Felix climbed up on stage and did his bit about Ye Olde Worlde, but most people had their eyes on the Powells. Catherine watched Conrad pose for a picture with a gaggle of grannies, gushing over one old lady’s cat brooch and chuckling indulgently with another.
Charm personified
, Catherine thought.
You’d never know he had a reputation for being a complete monster
.

The Powells’ PA came up to Catherine after a few minutes. ‘Mrs Powell wants to know how long before they’re on.’

‘I think Felix is about to finish.’

Signing another autograph, Vanessa walked over. ‘Tamzin, can you get Conrad’s attention?’ She gave Catherine a curt smile. ‘I’m afraid my husband would sign autographs all day if he could.’

The two women were left together. Vanessa stared
pointedly at the stage, ignoring Catherine. Catherine snuck a sideways look at her, beautiful and remote under the huge sunglasses.

‘I expected you to be late,’ she joked. ‘You’ll start to give celebrities a bad name, arriving on time like this.’

‘I’m never late,’ Vanessa replied coolly. ‘I think that’s another misconception you have about me.’

The crowd was becoming restless. ‘It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for!’ Felix announced. ‘They’re huge stars and we’re very lucky to have them here today. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to
Conrad and Vanessa Powell
!’

I’m a Celebrity …
was well under way. The queasy-looking contestants had already been made to drink a tripe milkshake and eat a pig’s snout each. Now one of the red team had a blindfold on and had their hand in the rat cage, rummaging round for a gold star.

The contestant, a man in his mid-thirties in a garish Hawaiian shirt, was making a hell of a racket. ‘I hate rats!’ he screamed, every time a rodent scampered over his hand. ‘Don’t let them eat me!’

Fleur had a closer look. ‘Aren’t those hamsters?’ she asked Pete from Pete’s Pets.

‘Rats are useless in the heat,’ he whispered. ‘Hamsters are much better, they’re mental little fuckers.’

Henry Belcher was meant to be overseeing the event, but he kept being summoned home by a hyperventilating Amanda, worried about
Big Brother
contestants knocking her china over.

‘Fleur, do you fancy an ice cream?’ Ben asked.

‘Yes, please. Mint-choc chip if they’ve got it.’ Fleur
rummaged in her pocket. ‘How much do you need?’

‘My treat, won’t be a minute.’

Fleur watched Ben amble off down the street. It was just nice to be doing something other than worming cattle and mending broken fencing. She felt like she hadn’t left the farm for months. She felt guilty thinking it, but it was also a relief to get away from her dad.

‘Fleur, would you like some suncream?’ Ginny Chamberlain had appeared in her straw hat, brandishing a bottle of factor 30. ‘Your nose is going a bit pink, dear,’ she said kindly. ‘I’m exactly the same, I go like a lobster as soon as I step in the sun.’

‘Thanks, Ginny.’ Fleur squeezed out a blob of lotion and rubbed it into her skin. She was boiling in her check shirt, but there was no way she’d wear a vest top.

Ben reappeared with two cones that were already starting to melt.

‘Can I get you one?’ he asked Ginny.

‘You’re an angel, but my dress is bursting at the seams already.’ She rushed off, looking for more sunburn victims.

They ate their ice creams and watched the crowd meander past.

‘Why is it …’ Fleur said through a huge mouthful, ‘… that British men dress so badly in the summer?’

‘Search me.’

‘Look at those socks and sandals!’

Ben shot her a sideways glance. ‘You look really pretty today.’ His voice came out all throaty.

They both went violently red. The next moment, a familiar voice cut through the embarrassed silence.
‘Is this the petting pen? Looks like we’ve come to the right place, V.’

Fleur whirled round. ‘What are
you
doing here?’

Beau was standing on the other side of the pen, blonder and browner than ever. Even worse, he had his vile girlfriend with him. His navy blazer and white trousers looked totally out of place amongst the casually dressed crowd. Valentina was in something floaty and expensive. Her bottom lip jutted out almost as far as her collarbone.

‘Just dropped in on our way to Henley,’ Beau drawled.

Was she supposed to be impressed? Fleur looked at his tie. ‘Like a bit of pink, don’t we?’

‘It’s
cerise
and it’s the colour for Beau’s club, you idiot,’ Valentina sniped. ‘The Leander Club is only, like, the most prestigious rowing club in the whole world.’

Fleur went the same colour as the tie. Valentina tugged on Beau’s hand. ‘Baby, can we get out of here? We’re late already, and this place stinks.’

‘Won’t be a minute, darling. Why don’t you have a wander round? I’m sure I saw a tombola stall. Maybe you can win us a nice jar of marmalade.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Valentina huffed and stalked off.

Beau looked back at Fleur. ‘Can I have a quick word?’

Fleur crossed her arms. ‘Go on, then.’

‘In private,’ he said, looking meaningfully towards Ben.

She went over reluctantly. ‘What?’ she asked, keeping a good few feet between them.

Beau gave her a winning smile. ‘Have you reconsidered my proposition?’

His thick hair gleamed in the bright sun. She took in the arrogant, supercilious tilt of Beau’s jaw, the smooth, brown skin no doubt massaged daily with expensive moisturizer. She thought about how he’d humiliated her and the careless way he’d tried to buy the farm like it was a second-hand car. People like Beau might look golden on the outside, but they were rotten underneath.

‘I think you’ve misunderstood me,’ she said evenly. ‘You might be used to always getting your own way, but unfortunately – no actually, make that
fortunately
– we have no intention of selling. So I suggest you go and find someone else’s house to buy, OK?’

The easy charm drained away in an instant. Beau’s eyes took on that flat, opaque look Fleur had seen before. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach she felt a twinge of unease.

A spotty young man came bounding up. ‘Troy Fletcher from the
Cotswolds on Sunday
. Beau, any chance of a word?’

‘Word,’ Beau snapped, and strode off without a backward glance.

A crowd had gathered outside the Belchers’ house to watch
Big Brother
. Catherine noticed the contestants had given up on a Giant Jenga task and switched on the telly. On one end of the overstuffed Laura Ashley sofa an elderly man in plus fours and a flat cap had snoozed off, mouth wide open. It wasn’t exactly scintillating viewing.

Out in the street, Olympia Belcher was throwing a fit after being the first one voted out by the onlookers.
Amanda was consoling her daughter, who’d crammed her bulk into an unflattering playsuit.

‘It’s not fair, Mummy! I bloody live there!’

‘I know, darling, hush now. Shall I buy you an ice cream instead?’ Amanda broke off to bang on the living-room window at a contestant. ‘That’s nineteeth-century Wedgewood! Keep your hands off!’

A gaggle of St Gwendolyn’s girls stood nearby. They were all long coltish limbs and bouncy hair, whispering and casting disdainful looks at Olympia’s chunky legs. Catherine suddenly felt sorry for Olympia. Teenage girls could be such bitches.

From nowhere the memory reared up. Catherine, eleven years old, surrounded in the changing room by Lynn Elkins and her gang.

‘Fishy Fincham! Fishy Fincham! Why
do
you always smell so disgusting?’

‘I don’t,’ Catherine had wept, wincing as someone had viciously yanked her hair.

Lynn had shoved her hard little face in Catherine’s. ‘You smell like a tramp, Fishy. Look like one, too. Isn’t it true you live on the rubbish tip?’

‘Yeah!’ someone had hissed. ‘Your dad’s Stig of the Dump!’

‘What do you mean? She hasn’t
got
a dad!’

Despite the hot day Catherine was shivering violently. She could still smell Lynn’s cheap sickly perfume, mixed with the stench of her own fear.

A man next to her gave her a strange look. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I- I’m fine,’ she stuttered, quickly walking off.

Gradually the familiar sounds and sights of the day
started to come back. She stopped to gaze at herself in Mrs Patel’s shop window. A together-looking, stylish woman looked back. The gawky, bullied loner was a thing of the past. If Lynn Elkins could see her now: a bestseller under her belt, a beautiful home, a loving husband. She was living the dream, wasn’t she?

She watched a young couple walk past, their arms wrapped round each other. Every day that went past, her feelings of restlessness intensified. She felt guilty for reading a novel or having a facial, when everyone else was at work. Her literary agent wanted her to write another book, but she was paralysed by a lack of inspiration. She could walk back into an editing job, but Catherine wasn’t sure her heart was in it. For the first time in a long while, she’d lost her confidence.

Who am I meant to be?
she despaired.
Wife, mother, career woman?

At that moment, she had no idea.

Having to mix with the public never brought out Conrad’s good side. ‘How many more hands am I expected to shake?’ he hissed. ‘Once we’re out of Wet Wipes I’m done.’

‘Mr Powell?’ It was another middle-aged lady with a sunburnt face. ‘Can I just say how much I admired you in
The Saviours
?’

‘Oh, thank you, darling. How nice of you to say so.’

‘What are you appearing in next?’

‘I couldn’t possibly give away any secrets!’ Conrad gave the woman a wink. ‘Let’s just say there are some very exciting things in the pipeline.’

‘Maybe you could play Colin Firth’s brother in something?’ the woman suggested. ‘You’re very similar.’

Conrad’s smile dropped like a boulder off a cliff. ‘Yes, well, we’ll have to see.’ As soon as she had walked off he launched into another rant.

‘These fucking people! They think they can say anything. That’s it, we’re going.’

Tamzin came back over from talking to the press.
‘Cotswolds FM wants to do a quick interview.’

‘Why don’t you just take my soul, and be done with it?’ moaned Conrad.

‘How about if I go and get us some champagne?’ she offered.

Conrad rolled his eyes. ‘Oh good
God
. If we have to.’

‘You’re being very quiet,’ Dominique said to her daughter.

‘I’m fine, Mother. I’m just enjoying watching everything.’

Vanessa wasn’t fine. Under the pristine hair and perfect make-up she was a nervous wreck. Even the sight of Beau Rainford’s sleek blond head across the crowd, being mobbed by a gaggle of girls, didn’t hold her attention. She hadn’t seen Dylan since their passionate lovemaking. Her schedule had made it impossible to get away, and since he didn’t have a phone or email, she had had no way of contacting him.