Party Games (27 page)

‘Don’t patronize me,’ she said tightly.

‘Can’t you see they’re just using you? This is the last thing you need. The stress of this campaign will be huge, even if you win. What if you get ill again?’

‘I can’t go round wrapped in bloody cotton wool for the rest of my life!’

He faced her, towering and furious. ‘Don’t you think that before you take on the world’s problems, we should sort out our own first?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said defensively.

‘Cath, you’re not well! I’m not talking about physically.’

‘Oh, great! So you’re saying I’m a lunatic now?’

‘Of course not! All I’m saying is that I’m really trying here.’

‘It’s not all about you, you know! Not all of us bounce out of bed every day knowing exactly where we’re going in life.’

‘Why do you always go on the attack and blame me? Why can’t you just say how you feel?’

‘I DON’T KNOW HOW I FEEL!’ she screamed.

Outside the wind rustled through the hanging wisteria. Catherine felt her eyes bubble up.

‘I know it’s a shock. But it’s something I feel I have to do. It’s given me a purpose for the first time in a long while.’

The look he gave her made her heart split into two. ‘Please, John,’ she begged. ‘I can’t do this without you. Don’t make me choose.’

‘I’d never ask you to choose, Cath,’ he said tiredly. ‘You should be able to come to the right decision by yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.

‘I take it Felix knows about this?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

He ran a hand over his face. ‘What now?’

‘We’ve got two weeks to prepare until the by-election. I’ve got some woman from Conservative HQ in London to coach me in political PR. She’s called Victoria Henley-Coddington.’

‘Of course she is.’

‘Couldn’t make it up, could you?’

The tension between them thawed a millimetre. ‘Jesus, Cath,’ he said. ‘You know how to spring things on me.’

‘I’m sorry. I really am.’ Catherine smiled tentatively. ‘Are we still friends?’

‘Ask me in three weeks, when the campaign’s over.’

He selected a shirt off the hanger and put it on. She desperately wanted him to come over and put his arms round her, but he walked towards the door.

‘Are you sure this isn’t about something else?’ He stopped suddenly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Throwing yourself into this,’ he said. ‘To get away from us.’

She hesitated for a second too long. In that time, something cataclysmic shifted between them. ‘Of course not!’ she exclaimed. ‘Don’t be silly.’

He walked out without a backward glance. She was left hugging the pillow in terror.
Oh shit. What have I done?

Things were not going well in the Blackwater house. The accounts were down again. Fleur had hoped the barbecue weather would have helped, but the supermarkets were buying so much less meat these days. To make matters worse the government had just announced another rise in the price of diesel; at this rate Fleur wouldn’t even be able to get her animals to market. That was without even thinking about the Land Rover’s MOT, or the fact that Fleur’s quad bike was on its last wheels …

She sat in the kitchen surrounded by mountains of unpaid bills. The bank manager’s deadline to start paying their loan was looming. No matter what she did, it wouldn’t be enough.
We’re going under …

It took several seconds to realize her mobile was ringing. She snatched it up off the table. ‘Hello?’ she sobbed.

For a moment she thought it was someone playing silly buggers, then a distinctive voice swam into her ear. ‘Fleur?’

She sat up. ‘Beau?’

‘Who else?’

It was a really bad line. She wiped her eyes. ‘Where are you?’

‘Montenegro. What are you doing tomorrow night?’

‘I’m not sure yet, why?’ As if she had plans.

Static crackled into her ear. ‘You’re … party with me. I’ll arrange … get picked up.’

‘A party? Where?’

‘Christ, this reception is shit. Can you hear me?’

‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘Where’s the party?’

‘The Serpentine Gallery. Be ready for six.’

The Serpentine Gallery in London?
Fleur blinked, all thoughts of financial ruin forgotten. ‘Wait! What do I wear?’

But the line had already gone dead.

Fleur had been in a state all day. Googling the Serpentine Gallery summer party, she’d realized what a massive deal it was. How was she going to fit in with the likes of Cheryl Cole and Alexa Chung? She’d been on the verge of ringing Beau half a dozen times to cancel. A desperate rummage through her wardrobe had produced a floral shift dress from Oasis that was at least five years old. It was also too tight across the bust and had a stain on the front but it was the best – make that the
only
– thing Fleur had.

Clueless about what to do with her hair, Fleur had rung every salon in the area to get an appointment. The only place available at such short notice was Julie’s, the one her gran used to go to. Trying to ignore the dated hairstyles on the walls, Fleur had
given the hairdresser a photo of Keira Knightley looking elegant in a chignon. Two hours later, after an alarming amount of backcombing, she had emerged looking like Marge from
The Simpsons
and full of fresh despair. Even the dogs had whimpered when they’d seen her.

Her face was so flushed she hadn’t bothered with blusher. She’d circled her eyes in an amateur fashion with her stump of black eyeliner. The dress had felt horribly short when she’d put it on: she was sure she’d grown since she’d last worn it. The only heels she owned were a pair of clumpy black court shoes. Not possessing a clutch bag, she had rooted round and found a dusty one that had belonged to her mum.

By five past six she was circling the kitchen table nervously. Was a taxi picking her up? Or did Beau have his own chauffeur? She strained her ears for the sound of a vehicle. A ghastly thought struck her. What if it was all a horrible wind-up and she’d been stood up?

Her dad came in, sober for once. ‘What do you think?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Looks like you’re going to a wedding.’

‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’

‘Not sure.’ He gazed at her hair. ‘What time are you being picked up?’

‘Six.’

‘He’s late.’

‘I know that, Dad!’ she said hysterically. ‘Will you give me a break?’

Tinker and Bess had been lying in the porch, listless in the heat. Suddenly they pricked their ears up and whined. A few seconds later Fleur heard a humming
in the distance, like a giant wasp buzzing across the fields. It was a sound she’d heard many times before, but never this close.

‘What the hell is that?’ For the first time in weeks, Robert was roused out of his stupor. Following him out to the back garden, Fleur was greeted by a scene straight out of an action film. A hundred metres from the house a red helicopter was hovering in the air. It started to descend into a nearby field, sending nearby trees into a flapping frenzy.

Robert Blackwater was taciturn at the best of times, but his face was a picture. ‘That’s your lift?’ he said.

Catherine was on the High Street when Beau’s helicopter buzzed overhead. As it swooped off into the distance she heard her name being called. The Patels were sitting in the open window of Bar 47, along with Mel and Mike and Amanda Belcher.

‘You were in a world of your own!’ Mr Patel called. ‘Come and join us.’

Catherine hesitated. The last thing she felt like doing was socializing at that moment.

‘Oh, come in!’ Amanda cried. ‘We haven’t had a good chinwag in ages.’

The hot topic was who was running as the Conservative candidate. ‘We just assumed it would be Felix,’ Mrs Patel mused. ‘It’s very strange.’

‘Henry bumped into him last night, and Felix was very top secret about it,’ Amanda told them. ‘Said all would be announced shortly!’

‘Probably going to parachute someone in from another Conservative constituency,’ Mike Cooper-Stanley said.

‘Whoever it is, they’re in for a shock,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘After Jonty, people round here are baying for Tory blood.’

Catherine started to feel distinctly sick. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’

‘They’d better be clued up on Ye Olde Worlde.’ Mr Patel stirred his flat white darkly. ‘I hear there were lots of men in high visibility jackets up at Blaize Castle the other day, measuring up.’

A sporty black Peugeot drove past with the roof down. Rap music was blaring out, shattering the peaceful morning. It was Lynette and Talia Tudor, both in matching dark glasses. Mother and daughter wrestled over the stereo. Talia shouted something and slumped back in the passenger seat.

‘Talia’s making the most of Mummy’s new sports car.’ Mel smiled. ‘Any clue as to Lynette’s new bloke yet?’

‘None.’ Amanda sounded disappointed. ‘But she’s just had all the rotting windows in her cottage replaced. I bet he paid for that.’

‘I should bloody hope so,’ Mel declared. ‘Lynette deserves someone who will look after her.’

Amanda’s eyes were elsewhere, trained on the mop-haired, sinewy figure padding along on the other side of the street. ‘The delectable Dylan! You don’t see him in town very often.’

‘He is very good-looking,’ Mel conceded. ‘In that lean, David Beckham kind of way.’

‘Apparently he’s practically mute,’ Amanda breathed. ‘And runs round the countryside, foraging for food.’

Mr Patel went to object, but Amanda was in full
flow. ‘They say he’s descended from a family of famous Romany gypsies. One look in those silver eyes and you’re either cursed or spellbound!’

‘How do you know all this?’ Mrs Patel asked.

‘Because I’ve seen him, Ursula! Up close!’

‘Where?’

Amanda looked faintly embarrassed. ‘In the fruit and veg aisle at Waitrose. But he didn’t even use a bag or anything, just carried it all out in his hands!’

‘On that note …’ said Mike Cooper-Stanley.

Fleur gazed at the bewildering array of instruments in front of her and wondered if she was dreaming.

‘Can you hear me?’ a deep voice said into her earphones. Brad, Beau’s pilot, was lantern-jawed with a moustache like Magnum P. I. He even had the tinted aviator sunglasses.

She nodded and watched Brad pull up on the controls. The noise of the rotor blades was deafening. As if by magic the aircraft rose up again. Within moments, her dad was a tiny figure waving from the ground.

Blackwater Farm was soon left behind. They swooped up high across the valley.

Brad spoke into her ear again. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes!’ she said, giving him the thumbs-up.

He grinned and went back to flying the aircraft. Getting over the shock of being picked up in a helicopter, she started to enjoy the experience. It was a perfect summer’s evening; the skies soared endlessly above them. She pressed her face against the window, seeing the toy houses and blue rectangles of swimming
pools below. Everything was so small and neat. It reminded her of the Mobil farm set she and her sister were given one year for Christmas.

The helicopter carried on towards London, Brad giving her a running commentary as they went. From the Cotswolds they flew over the beautiful Oxfordshire town of Henley. She saw the boats nestling on the glittering River Thames and imagined Beau in his white blazer at the regatta. They headed east, passing Windsor Castle on the way. Fleur could just about make out the flag flying at full mast, before her attention was on the huge passenger jets taking off above them out of Heathrow.

Green fields gave way to urban sprawl as they hit the traffic-snarled M25, before swooping down the river towards Central London. Richmond Park opened up on their right, the herds of deer like tiny brown insects. The next moment she was looking down at the million-pound houses fronting the Thames. Was this really happening?

Hugging the river, they flew across south west London, high above the glass waterfront apartments. She heard Brad speak in her ear to an unknown person, and the aircraft started to descend. For a terrifying moment she thought he was going to land on one of the apartment blocks, before she saw a small concrete pad on the jetty below them. The blades lowered gently as the helicopter settled down. They were back in the real world again.

Brad pulled his earphones off and turned to her. ‘Beats travelling by the M4.’

Fleur was met by a chauffeur with a black Mercedes.
She sat back on the cool leather seats and took in the capital. It was hard to believe that ten minutes earlier she’d been up in the sky. The car drove through the elegant streets of Fulham and Chelsea, beautiful people packed on to pavement cafés and bars. They drove down the King’s Road and past a sprawling council estate, completely at odds with its more genteel neighbours. In the narrow lanes of Knightsbridge Lamborghinis sat bumper-to-bumper with red buses.
Where have I been all my life?
Fleur marvelled, as they drove right past the entrance of Harrods. The glamour and buzz were incredible.

A few minutes later Hyde Park appeared on the left. Their car joined the line of Bentleys and black cabs turning off. As they headed down the road towards the Serpentine Gallery she started to feel sick.

The Mercedes pulled up behind a huge black Bentley. ‘This is about as near as we’re going to get,’ the chauffeur said. ‘Are you all right to walk the last part?’

She watched Simon and Yasmin Le Bon get out of the car in front. He looked dapper in a black suit, his wife coltishly beautiful in a pale-green dress.

‘I can’t go,’ she said in terror. ‘Don’t make me go!’

The chauffeur, who was in his fifties and reassuringly like someone’s dad, gave her a smile. ‘You should see them on the way home, lolling all over the back seat with a McDonald’s and no shoes on.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. It’s just a party like any other.’ He handed her an oblong ticket. ‘Here’s your pass to get in. Mr Rainford will meet you inside.’

He got out to open the passenger door for her. She
started to follow the stream of people walking towards the entrance, pretending to know where she was going. Unused to wearing heels, she nearly went over on her ankle twice. A tall, beautiful creature swept past her, gliding effortlessly on five-inch stilettos.