Party Games (21 page)

Beau chucked another bale high in the air. His blue eyes caught Fleur’s through the back window. She whipped round in the seat, cheeks burning. ‘Are we ready to go?’ she yelled.

A few seconds later his blond head appeared under her window. He wiped a streak of dust off his six-pack. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!’

Lunch was normally a non-event for Fleur. The days of sitting round the kitchen table while her mum prepared a home-cooked meal were long gone.
Nowadays it was a rather sweaty squashed roll of some kind grabbed on the run. Anything was preferable to going back to that sad, lonely house where her dad drifted round like a ghost.

With Beau things just seemed to happen. Burning off in the Mustang, he’d returned a short while later with a hamper. The contents made Fleur’s eyes boggle. They included smoked wild salmon from the River Severn, poached quails’ eggs, Cotswold cheeses and ginormous fat Blaisdon plums. There were even china plates, tucked away next to the snowy white napkins.

At least the shirt was back on. The thought of all that smooth brown flesh close up was too unnerving. Ben was watching them from his truck, balefully chewing on a hunk of bread and cheese. He’d refused Beau’s invitation to join them.

Beau pulled out a bottle of champagne, a French label Fleur had never heard of. He set two glass flutes upright on the ground.

‘What’s this for?’ she asked.

‘Does there have to be a reason?’ he said, expertly massaging the cork out. He shot her a look. ‘How about us not being friends.’

It was clearly meant as a joke, but it just made Fleur even madder. ‘You really have no idea, do you? You turn up here with champagne that probably costs more than it does to feed our animals for a week …’ She dropped her head so he wouldn’t see the hot angry tears that had sprung up.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ He appraised her with those cool blue eyes. ‘Are things really that bad?’

‘As if you care.’ She didn’t care if she sounded bitter. ‘You’ve taken half the farm off us!’

A pheasant screeched somewhere nearby. He put the champagne bottle down on the grass. ‘It was purely a business decision. I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any upset.’

He might have been putting it on, but he did look contrite. ‘Yeah, well,’ she said. ‘Just think next time, before you try and buy up someone’s farm, OK?’

‘Message received loud and clear.’ Beau grinned again. ‘Are we going to drink this? Only it would be an awful extravagance to let it go to waste.’

Fleur had no idea picnics could be so heavenly. Beau took her on a gastronomic tour, introducing her to tapenade on wafer-thin Melba toast and Devon crab so fresh it was as if it had leapt out of the sea straight on to the plate. It was food for the soul. Fleur felt full afterwards in a way that had nothing to do with a straining waistband. The atmosphere felt surprisingly relaxed. Beau was lying on his back, one brown leg crossed over the other. His calves were athletic and shapely, covered with a fine dusting of downy blond hair.

‘Thanks again, for helping my dad,’ Fleur ventured. ‘I would have dropped round a card or something but …’ she trailed off. ‘It felt a bit random.’

‘I have the name of a very good rehab place,’ he said lightly. ‘Plenty of my friends have been there. Their alcohol-recovery programme has a very high success rate.’

‘My dad is not an alcoholic,’ she snapped.

‘My old man was in and out of rehab the whole time I was growing up, Fleur. I know what it’s like.’

‘You have no idea what my life is like!’

‘Well,’ he said after a moment. ‘The offer’s there if you’re ever interested.’

‘Thanks,’ she muttered. ‘I doubt we could afford it, anyway.’

He picked up his glass. ‘Bottoms up! Why
do
all farmers have such fat ones, anyway? Present company excluded, of course.’

‘Ssh,’ Fleur giggled, looking at Ben. He glowered and tapped his watch.

Sod work for the moment
, she thought. The sun was on her arms and bare legs. The champagne had been tart and still danced on her tongue. Everything felt warm and deliciously swimmy.
I could get used to this
.

‘Don’t you have your own work to do, then?’ she said cheekily.

There was no answer. She looked over. Beau was stretched out on the grass, glass lolling in his hand. He was fast asleep.

On the positive side, John’s heroics in saving Fleur Blackwater had made the Beeversham Big Charity Game Show front-page in the
Cotswolds on Sunday
. On the downside, the six accompanying pages had reported how people had been ‘crazed on champagne’ and ‘passing out in their dozens’. Rather than a town pulling together, it had come across as a middle-class knees-up of bacchanalian standards. There were snipes from some quarters of the press about a ‘hooray haven’ out of touch with the real world. Pictures of the Powells looking intoxicatingly glamorous on all the celebrity websites didn’t do much to help their cause.

But, as Catherine, who was well-versed in these things, pointed out, there really was no such thing as a bad press. If people hadn’t known who they were before, they certainly did now. Donations and emails of support came pouring in, even if a large proportion were phone numbers for John. Ginny Chamberlain, who was in charge of all SNOW-related mail, had nearly had a heart attack when she’d opened an innocuous
pink envelope addressed to John and found a photo of a lady of advanced years wearing nothing apart from her hearing aid and a big smile.

The press were billing it as the battle of ‘Rural versus Retail’. Felix promptly called another meeting, at which he urged people to keep emailing and writing to the planning department. All they could do was pray that the council saw reason.

Catherine, feeling she had to do some exercise rather than mope round the house, had taken a walk up to St Cuthbert’s on Saturday morning. Looking out over the fields, she’d been mortified to find herself weeping uncontrollably. A kindly Japanese couple had come over and given her a tissue. Mopping herself up, she had decided she was in dire need of some reassuring company.

The front door opened before she had a chance to knock. ‘I saw you out of the window,’ Felix said. Bonnie, the Chamberlains’ black Labrador, was hovering by his legs.

‘I’m not interrupting anything?’

‘Not at all, I was just failing miserably at the
Telegraph
crossword. I’m afraid it’s just me, Ginny’s gone to visit her sister for the weekend.’ He peered at her blotchy face. ‘You all right?’

‘Hay fever,’ she lied.

‘What a pain. Come on in.’

It wasn’t a huge house, but the Hollies was cosy and welcoming. The Laura Ashley curtains were handmade by Ginny, while the sunny kitchen had colourful touches of red gingham. Pictures of the Chamberlain
children stood on the dresser amongst the Portmeirion china.

The back door was open on to the patio. The remnants of Felix’s breakfast were on the table next to the discarded newspaper. His Panama hat was on the ground by his chair.

‘Take a seat, I’ll put a pot of fresh coffee on.’

Bonnie immediately came over and plonked herself by Catherine’s feet. She gave the dog a pat and sat back. The smell of cut grass hung in the air. A bumblebee buzzed through Ginny’s prize hollyhocks. It was so pretty that Catherine’s dark mood lifted.

Felix came back out with the coffee. ‘How’s Beeversham’s big hero?’ he asked.

‘Don’t.’ She groaned. ‘It’s like being married to George-bloody-Clooney. You know, someone actually asked for his autograph in Mr Patel’s the other day.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sure John is taking it with his customary good grace.’ Felix stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘I know what I was going to ask: has your reporter friend made any progress with Pear Tree Holdings?’

‘I haven’t heard back from him since a few days ago; it must be proving even harder than we thought.’ Catherine caught sight of his face. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t have given up just yet.’

Felix sighed. ‘I don’t want to appear the voice of gloom, but I fear your friend could be wasting his efforts.’

‘Maybe.’ She didn’t want to dash his hopes just yet.

‘How’s the hay fever? I’m sure we’ve got some antihistamine
in the bathroom cupboard. I can get one, if you like.’

‘I’m feeling much better, but thank you.’

He was such a kind man, Catherine thought, as he gave her a smile. In a way, she’d come to see Felix as the father figure she’d never had.

After a pleasant hour chatting about everything from Beeversham gossip to the state of the government, she got up. ‘I should leave you in peace and let you get back to your crossword.’

‘Gosh, don’t worry. You’ve been a very pleasant distraction.’

Walking back inside, she could see a picture in the corridor of Felix with Margaret Thatcher in the eighties. His hair was dark back then, and he was leaner and rather hunky. Catherine was struck by the similarity between him and Beau.

‘That was at a fundraiser at Conbury Castle. We raised a couple of hundred thou that day.’ He looked rueful. ‘Lot easier to get donations in those days, when we weren’t tainted by the whiff of corruption.’

He walked Catherine out. The scent from the climbing wisteria on the front of the house was heavenly. Both were blissfully unaware that the peace was about to be shattered.

‘Why won’t they leave me alone?’ Conrad sighed, as a second Sky helicopter swooped past. ‘Isn’t a man allowed privacy in his own home?’

Vanessa watched the aircraft whirr off down the hill. ‘I don’t think they’re interested in us.’

‘Oh.’ His face fell. ‘What the hell’s going on, then?’

He’d just come inside, complaining about his sunbathing being spoiled by the constant stream of aircraft overhead. ‘I’m going to put
Sky News
on,’ Vanessa said.

Immediately she saw there were chaotic scenes on Beeversham High Street. The place was jammed with news trucks and press milling about. ‘BEEVERSHAM MP ARRESTED AFTER DRUNKEN RAMPAGE’ was the headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A reporter was doing a live broadcast from outside the mini market.

‘The picturesque Cotswold town of Beeversham is in shock today after its MP, Jonty Fortescue-Wellington, went
on a drunken rampage in a House of Commons bar in the early hours. After drinking heavily all afternoon, witnesses say Mr Fortescue-Wellington became violent and attacked several Labour MPs in the infamous Strangers Bar, including delivering a roundhouse kick to the head of the MP for West Gilbey, Steven Dawdry. Mr Fortescue-Wellington was arrested at the scene, and released on bail this morning, charged with several acts of GBH and possession of Class A drugs.’

Another helicopter whirred overhead. The reporter continued her solemn broadcast.
‘This latest scandal could have catastrophic consequences for the government. After the latest round of spending cuts, their popularity is at an historic low. The Cotswolds town of Beeversham and its surrounding area has always been seen as a Tory stronghold. If they lose their seat here it is feared it could start a chain reaction amongst other Conservative constituencies, spelling the end of the current government. The Prime Minister has yet to comment, but one thing is for sure. Big questions are being asked in Downing Street right now.’

‘For a moment there I dared to think it was something exciting.’ Conrad stalked back out to the garden, six foot plus of moisturized muscle in a pair of skimpy Prada bathing trunks.

Popping into town to get milk that afternoon, Catherine got caught in the crossfire. You could barely move along the street for the scrum of reporters. Tristan Jago was being interviewed by one of them outside Bar 47.

‘This kind of behaviour is typical of our Conservative government!’ he thundered. ‘I’ve been predicting
Jonty Fortescue-Wellington’s downfall for years. The man is a disgrace to politics.’

Catherine bumped into Mrs Patel, wrestling her way out of the mini market.

‘This is utter madness!’ Ursula cried. ‘Dilip’s just been asked by someone to recreate the roundhouse kick!’

‘Has anyone seen Jonty?’ Catherine shouted. The press were clustered round his house further down the street. Chamberlains & Co. had a ‘Closed’ sign up and the blinds were pulled down. The rest of the old duffers at Beeversham’s Conservative Association headquarters had locked themselves away and were refusing to talk to anyone.

Mrs Patel shook her head helplessly. ‘No idea!’

Someone grabbed Catherine’s arm. ‘It’s Catherine Connor, author of the bestselling
Cathy: My Story
. Fancy seeing you here,’ said a woman with over-plucked eyebrows and wearing a tight red suit.

‘I live here,’ Catherine said grimly, as a camera lens was shoved in her face.

‘Julia Perkins from ITN! Can you give me a few words? You must all be in shock at your MP’s antics.’

‘It was rather a surprise,’ Catherine answered tactfully.

‘First Ye Olde Worlde and now this! Beeversham must feel like a town under siege right now. Do you? Do you feel under siege right now?’

The cameraman moved closer. The reporter’s nose quivered expectantly. Everyone held their breath.

Catherine gazed down the camera, hideously aware she was being beamed into millions of people’s living rooms. Her mind went blank.

‘Uh well, you know the old saying. When the chips are down it’s time to make ketchup.’

Things got even worse. The next day it was all over the news how Jonty had been secretly filmed being wined and dined by a big-scale property developer in return for various favours. Fresh debate started about whether he was behind Pear Tree Holdings. Would he really have the gall to shit on his own doorstep like that? Meanwhile, in London an effigy of the PM was unceremoniously burnt outside Number 10 by a group of angry campaigners.

Calls for Jonty to stand down gained momentum. There were stories of him being whisked out under cover of darkness to rehab in France. Someone even started a rumour he’d gone to America for reconstructive plastic surgery. Jonty had become a national hate figure; an emblem for everything that was wrong with the ruling party. Overnight, Beeversham changed from a market town fighting a big theme park to the most famous place in Britain.