Party Games (20 page)

At one point a stranger had turned up, a silver-haired man in an expensive suit and a signet ring like Beau’s. He had been introduced as Henry Watson, Beau’s private doctor. Diagnosing mild concussion, Henry Watson had expertly stitched up the cut above her dad’s eyebrow. ‘Complete bed rest for a few days,’ he had told Fleur afterwards. ‘And you’re in shock yourself, take it easy.’

He had handed her his card. She had read the glossy address in glossy lettering and known they’d never be able to afford him.

She came down to the kitchen to find Henry Watson gone and Beau standing by the kettle. He handed her a mug. ‘Here, doctor’s orders.’

She took a mouthful and winced at the scalding, sugary tea.

‘Do you have anything stronger?’ he asked.

‘We’re not big drinkers in this house,’ she mumbled.

They stood in silence, Fleur gratefully sipping the hot drink. Beau’s face was unreadable, arms crossed as he leant back against the worktop. She looked at the arrogant red mouth, the pinky ring glinting on his little finger. He was the enemy. How could he have just come to their rescue?

The clock ticked thunderously on the wall. She finally dislodged the words that had been stuck in her throat.

‘Thank you,’ she said gruffly. ‘You didn’t have to help us.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘You’re not going to tell the police?’

He shrugged carelessly. ‘What do I care what your father gets up to? I can hardly claim a glowing record myself when it comes to traffic offences.’

There was something about the way his eyes were roaming round that made Fleur uncomfortable. She was suddenly ashamed of the mess, the piece of cardboard in the broken windowpane. How pathetic her life must seem to him.

‘I’ll pay you back, obviously.’

It was like she hadn’t spoken. He checked the fat watch on his wrist. In two strides he was across the kitchen and out of the door. Fleur was left there speechless.
So I guess that’s goodbye, then
.

She jumped as he suddenly reappeared in the doorway, holding a greasy paper bag.

‘Here, it’ll need warming up.’

‘What is it?’

‘Takeaway curry. I hope you haven’t got a strong aversion to lamb dansak.’

‘I can’t take your dinner!’

He held the bag out impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. You look like you need it more than me.’

She took it from him. ‘Thank you. That’s really nice of you.’

‘I’m not always take, take, take,’ he told her. Moments later the Mustang was revving up in the yard and he was gone for good.

With the Silver Box Awards fast approaching, preparations for Conrad’s grand comeback were gaining momentum. Tonight he was in London hosting an important industry dinner at his private gentlemen’s club. Vanessa didn’t ask who was going to the dinner and didn’t care. Conrad was far too concerned about whether his new tuxedo really did capture his shoulders perfectly to notice his wife’s unusual lack of interest.

It was a hot, still afternoon when even the wild flowers had stopped swaying. A few white clouds hung sleepily in the sky. Vanessa found her mother lying under the huge striped umbrella by the swimming pool. The new
Homes and Gardens
lay untouched on the ground next to her.

‘Are you coming to sit with me?’ Dominique asked.

‘Actually, I thought I’d pop out for a drive.’ Vanessa felt a pang. Her mother had looked so alone when she’d walked up.

‘Again?’

‘I just like the thinking time,’ Vanessa lied. ‘Who needs to pay for therapy, ha ha!’

Dominique didn’t smile. ‘I’m really not sure these little excursions are a good idea, Vanessa. What if you break down in the middle of nowhere?’

‘I won’t break down. You won’t mention it to Conrad, will you?’ Vanessa added hastily. ‘You know how super-protective he is.’

Dominique took her sunglasses off and surveyed her daughter shrewdly. ‘Are you all right?’

‘What do you mean? Of course I am.’

‘You seem very distracted at the moment.’

Vanessa started going red. ‘I’m just a bit stressed. There’s such a lot to think about, what with the awards and everything.’

She made herself hold her mother’s eyes. After what seemed like an age, Dominique broke her gaze.

‘Darling, stop picking at your fingernails. It’s very ugly.’

Vanessa dropped her hands by her sides. ‘Is that it? Can I go?’

‘You make it sound like you’re the hired help.’ Dominique slid her glasses back on. ‘I’ll see you later.’

An hour later Vanessa was lying in Dylan’s arms, their naked bodies entwined. The yak-wool blanket he’d laid down on the ground was far softer than her cashmere. She didn’t even mind the occasional pungent waft of animal, ripened by the day’s heat.

The wild abandon of their reunion was evident round the camp. Her Bottega Veneta bag was where she’d dumped it. Her Deborah Marquit thong was
lying nearby, twisted up like a piece of used tissue. Eddie was snoozing at a discreet distance under the trees, his tail occasionally flapping to swat a fly.

Dylan was breathing peacefully, his tanned chest rising and falling. Extricating herself, she sat up. She gazed round the camp; at the rusty camper van and tiny stove, the washing bowl that doubled up as a sink. All the clothes Dylan owned could fit into one suitcase. Conrad had an entire wardrobe just for his Savile Row shirts.

She looked back down at Dylan. He was on his back with his eyes closed, face up to the sun. He was still refusing to let Vanessa give him severance pay after Conrad had sacked him, but she wasn’t sure if it was a pride thing. How could he survive on so little?

‘Are you awake?’

He opened one eye. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘I was just thinking.’ She hesitated. ‘You know, if you ever needed any money. I mean especially after we had to let you go. I’d be happy to give some to you …’

He sat up. ‘Is that what you think this is all about?’

‘No! I just wanted to say the offer is there if you ever need it.’ She knew by the look on his face that she’d got it wrong. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘I don’t want your money. Vanessa, look at me.’ His silver eyes were serious. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, that’s not what I’m here for.’

Was she relieved? She couldn’t deny the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.
Rich bitch meets broke guy
.

Now, looking into Dylan’s honest face she felt guilty for ever thinking it.

The Draysborough restaurant near the village of Minchinhampton had been dubbed by critics ‘the most romantic place on earth’. Situated next to a babbling brook, the seventeenth-century coaching inn was a masterclass in relaxed elegance. With three Michelin stars, the rich and famous pulled all sorts of strings to jump the queue for a coveted outside table in summer.

There were several well-known faces on the terrace that lunchtime, including a married actor dining with his rumoured mistress. Catherine watched, fascinated, as the actor’s hand caressed the woman’s thigh under the table. She couldn’t be more than nineteen.

The sommelier appeared at their table. ‘Your Sauvignon, Monsieur.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Madame?’

‘Just a little, thanks.’

The man disappeared, leaving them to it. ‘This place is fantastic,’ John told her. ‘I daren’t ask how you got us in.’

‘If I tell you I’ll have to kill you,’ she joked. In fact,
Soirée
had once done a review on the place. Catherine had rung the owner, begging for a table.

‘Is it a special occasion?’ he’d asked.

‘How about saving my marriage?’ she’d said back.

‘In that case, you’re booked in.’

She watched her husband study the menu. ‘What are you going to have?’

‘Terrine I think, followed by the Bilbury trout. You?’

‘I haven’t even looked properly.’ She toyed with her wine glass. ‘I’m really sorry again about losing it on Saturday.’

‘It’s fine, you’ve said sorry.’

‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me,’ she said. ‘I guess I’ve been going through a bit of a blue patch and it all got on top of me. Getting pissed didn’t help.’

‘If you feel like that again just tell me, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘But you are feeling better?’ he asked.

‘Yeah!’ she said. ‘That’s why I brought us here. Fresh start and all that.’

‘Fresh start.’ They clinked glasses. ‘I’m really glad we came, Cath,’ he told her.

‘Me too.’

He sat back in his chair. ‘What have you got lined up in the next week?’

‘Oh, you know, sunbathing, reading, the usual lady-of-leisure stuff. You?’

‘I’ve got to go to London on Wednesday. You could come with me, there’s a fantastic exhibition on at the Tate.’

‘Maybe,’ she said apathetically.

He gave her a quizzical glance. She looked away, around the beautiful restaurant with its snowy white cloths and exquisite tables. She had a sudden urge to jump up and pull it all apart, bring chaos to the perfect order.
I’m drowning
, she thought desperately.

‘Are you all right?’ He was looking at her.

‘Of course,’ she said, except the smile didn’t reach her eyes. She knew it and he knew it. They were falling apart by the second and it was all her fault.

‘Excuse me.’ A pretty young waitress materialized at their table. She looked at John, blushing attractively. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I saw your picture in the
Cotswolds on Sunday
. I think you’re awfully brave.’

It was haymaking time on the farm. Six hundred golden bales lay dotted on the yellow stubble, the result of a week’s hard work. After an intensive effort to get the grass cut, dried and baled, it was time to heave the same bales back on to the trailer, ready to store them away for winter.

Fleur’s arms ached just thinking about it. She was going to feel it in her muscles when she woke up tomorrow.

There was far less grass this year. The freakishly hot weather might be great for everyone’s tans, but it wasn’t good when you had to feed your livestock through the winter.

She wiped the sweat from the back of her neck. It was so hot she’d reluctantly swapped her normal polo shirt for a New Look vest top. The straps of the cheap garment felt worryingly flimsy.

Ben came up to her, Tinker and Bess following in his wake. He’d caught the sun in the past few days, making him even more ruddy-cheeked than normal.

‘Tractor’s revved up.’

For the first time she could remember, Robert Blackwater wasn’t haymaking. It was clear he wasn’t up to the work at the moment. He had no memory of the accident. She had fed him a story about falling off the quad bike. They both knew it wasn’t true, especially as his pickup had mysteriously gone into the garage for repairs, but he hadn’t challenged it.

Ben’s eyes did another furtive swoop over Fleur’s chest. She turned away and yanked the ineffectual straps up.

‘Let’s get going, then.’

An hour later they’d only gone down a few rows. Fleur was driving the tractor, while Ben hauled bales on to the trailer at the back. He was built for hard work, but it was clear he was struggling. As well as throwing them up, he had to then scramble up and stack them. It was too much for one man alone.

‘This is ridiculous!’ Fleur shouted above the roar of the engine.

‘What?’

‘I said.’ Fleur cut the engine and the great machine shuddered to a stop. She stuck her head out the window. ‘This is stupid, Ben. You’re going to end up killing yourself at this rate.’

‘I’m fine,’ he gasped, sweat streaming down the sides of his face. ‘Just give me a minute.’

‘We need another person! You can’t do this by yourself.’

Ben took a swig of water from his bottle. ‘How about your dad?’

‘I’ve told you, he’s not feeling good,’ Fleur snapped.

Ben kept quiet. She gazed out gloomily over the field, the bales lined up like rows of mini Weetabix. ‘It’s going to
be
bloody winter by the time we’ve finished this lot.’

There was a loud revving in the distance. They both turned round. A familiar red car was hammering along the track towards them. It screeched to a halt by the field and a tall figure in a lilac shirt climbed out.

‘Making hay while the sun shines,’ Beau Rainford drawled, sauntering over. ‘What a good idea.’

Even though she was high up in the tractor, Beau still had the effect of making Fleur feel like he was looking down at her. ‘How did you know we were up here?’ she said, rather rudely.

‘Your father. I dropped by the farmhouse,’ Beau said smoothly, tucking his sunglasses away into his top pocket. ‘He wasn’t too pleased to see me, but at least he told me where you were. I told him we’ve become, ah, reacquainted. I hope you don’t mind.’

She couldn’t help but notice how Beau’s eyes were a perfect match for the blue sky above. His hair was even the same colour as the cornfield.
Oh, stop it, Fleur
, she told herself furiously. She wasn’t falling for his charms.

Beau looked at the bales on the trailer. ‘Hard at work, I see.’

‘Yes, mate, some of us have to work for a living,’ Ben said.

Fleur stared at him. He was never normally like this! Ben looked derisively at Beau’s leopard-print loafers. ‘Fancy lending a hand? We’re a bit short on man power.’ He emphasized the word ‘man’.

She saw a flash of challenge between them. ‘I’m sure I could squeeze a few bales in,’ Beau said coolly.

An hour later, Ben was looking distinctly sick. They’d picked up almost three times as many bales as when he’d been working alone. Beau was tossing them up on the trailer as if they weighed nothing, barely pausing for breath.

Both men had stripped to the waist and while Ben had a good physique in a chunky rugby-player sort of way, it paled into comparison beside Beau’s. It was like watching a carthorse work alongside a pure thoroughbred.

Beau had the kind of body that belonged in an advert or on a film poster, not in one of her fields, walking in the wake of diesel fumes from her ten-year-old tractor. He was built like a panther, his powerful swimmer’s shoulders tapering into a lean, narrow waist. Fleur watched, mesmerized, as he bent down for another bale, the movement flexing the muscles in his back. Ben, no slacker in the stamina department, was struggling to keep up.