Party Games (34 page)

His body was like a big slippery eel wrapping around her. ‘No,’ she gasped as he pushed her against the wall.

This time they came together, Fleur wrapped round him like an orgasmic monkey. ‘You’re getting very good at this,’ he groaned.

She felt ecstatic. ‘I’ve got a very good teacher.’

They stayed locked together, Beau cradling her in his arms. The sun was on her back and shoulders, the water like a warm bath. She laid her face against his smooth chest and tried to remember a time she’d felt so happy.

‘I’ve got to go and make a phone call,’ he murmured. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Of course not.’

He put her down with a smile. ‘Stay out here and enjoy the sun, I’ll be back soon.’

Hauling himself out, he strolled off towards the house, naked as the day he was born. She marvelled at his wide back and taut buttocks like a pair of beach-balls, and marvelled at the fact she’d just had sex with him.

Half an hour later Beau hadn’t reappeared. Wrapping the towel from his sunbed round herself, Fleur decided to go and find him.

There were no signs of life in the house, but she heard the murmur of voices in the kitchen. Did he have visitors? She crept along the corridor, ready to duck into the downstairs loo if someone came out.

The door was only open a crack, but it was enough to see Beau – now in a vest and chinos – and the blonde woman standing by the counter. There was something about their close proximity that made Fleur feel uncomfortable. The woman looked familiar, attractive in a slightly faded way. Fleur suddenly recognized her: it was Lynette Tudor, who owned the gift shop. That was weird. What was she doing here?

Clearing her throat, she pushed the door open. ‘Hi.’

Beau turned round. ‘Sweetheart. I was about to come and see if you’d drowned. Have you met Lynette? She does a bit of housekeeping for me.’

Lynette gave Fleur the briefest of smiles. ‘I should get going,’ she told Beau.

‘Sure. I won’t be a minute, angel,’ he told Fleur.

She gazed round the kitchen dully. It didn’t look like it had just been cleaned.

Beau was back within a minute. ‘Sorry about that. Lynette dropped by to pick up her wages.’

‘I didn’t know you knew her.’

He went over to the fridge and opened it. ‘I just told you; she cleans for me sometimes.’ He came over with two beers and handed one to Fleur. ‘Let’s take these upstairs.’

The Powells were in London, doing a script read-through for the Silver Box Awards. The setting was a boardroom at London Television Centre, overlooking the South Bank. They’d been looked after wonderfully, but Conrad still wasn’t happy.

‘I’m not sure it has enough pizzazz,’ he said.

‘It’s great, Conrad,’ the executive producer told him.

‘Perfect,’ the producer agreed.

The director checked her notes. ‘We’re running over as it is.’

‘Les loves my ideas,’ Conrad sniffed. ‘As the controller of ITV, I think he knows what he’s talking about.’

There were subtle eye-rolls all round. Conrad’s incessant tweaking was starting to drive them all mad. Anyone would think he was delivering a presidential speech, not reading out the nominations between awards.

‘What do you think, Vanessa?’ the executive producer asked. ‘It’s slightly more geared towards Conrad at the moment, are you happy with that?’

‘Yes, I really don’t mind.’

The ITV people exchanged another look. They’d been warned Vanessa was a perfectionist, but she’d spent most of the meeting staring out of the window.

I don’t blame her
, the director thought. If Conrad was her husband she wouldn’t want to be there either.

In the afternoon the Powells went on
The Scott Mills Show
at Broadcasting House. Their PR, Simon Ferrari, was rather concerned afterwards.

‘Are you all right, Vanessa?’ he asked her. She’d called Scott ‘Steve’ twice on air and had to be asked three times what she was wearing to the awards.

Conrad shot her a cold look. He’d been in a foul mood after being asked if he thought Colin Firth would win Best Actor.

Vanessa stared blindly ahead. Under the YSL sunglasses, her eyes were full of tears.

Mercifully her husband was staying in London for the night. After they’d dropped him off, she was like a zombie on the journey back home. She didn’t even realize they’d reached the front door of Tresco House.

‘Mrs Powell?’

‘Oh.’ Vanessa reached for her handbag. ‘Thank you, Billy.’

For the first time ever, Billy took her hand as she got out. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Powell?’

She looked into the concerned face of her loyal chauffeur.

‘I’m fine, Billy, just a bit tired. Would you mind taking my mother’s lilies into the house?’

Unable to face going in, Vanessa went straight into the garage and started up the Smart Car. It was a huge
risk going out with the amount of press swarming round, but she was at breaking point.

At the end of the drive she nearly collided with a green estate car. Three people wearing blue rosettes looked back at her.

‘Er, Vanessa?’

She gazed at the woman in the passenger seat. Catherine Connor gave an apologetic smile. ‘Hi, I just wanted to …’

‘Fuck off!’ Vanessa shrieked. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’

She screeched off. When she got near enough, she left the keys in the ignition and ran sobbing through Foxgloves Woods and out into the field beyond. She hadn’t even got halfway across when Dylan came racing out of the thicket. ‘Eddie was whining,’ he told her, as she collapsed into his arms. ‘Vanessa. My God. What the hell has happened?’

Before she could stop herself, Vanessa found herself telling him everything – Conrad filming her, his threats, the rape. When she’d finished telling him, her sweet, gentle Dylan was shaking with fury.

‘That bastard. I’m going round there.’

His eyes were wild, face taut with anger. She had never seen him look like that.

‘He’s not there, and anyway, you mustn’t, Dylan!’ she pleaded. ‘It will only make things worse.’

‘I want to kill him.’ He put his arms round her. ‘I want to kill him for what he’s done to you.’

‘I’m OK,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You’re not OK. I’ll go and get Sukie and your things
from the house. We’ll go to the police station together. He can’t get away with this.’

It was all happening too quickly. ‘I can’t just walk out.’

‘Yes, you can! What if there’s a next time?’

‘There won’t be. I’ve got my mother and Renata around. Please, Dylan, just trust me. I have to do the awards. The minute they’re over, I’m leaving him.’

‘Forget the awards! Forget the press, or whatever else it is you’re worried about. Your safety is more important.’

‘We signed a contract, there would be huge repercussions. I can’t just ride off into the sunset with you.’

His eyes burnt unnaturally bright. ‘Promise me you’ll leave the house, then. You can come here, or stay in a hotel or anything you want. I just want you to get away from him.’ His voice broke. ‘I can’t stand what he’s done to you.’

Somehow his anguish gave Vanessa strength. Knowing he loved her so much made her feel like she could cope with anything.

‘It will all be over soon,’ she said. ‘Then we can be together.’

An unspoken fear hung between them, as palpable as a storm cloud. What was Conrad capable of before then?

As Catherine dragged her head off the pillow early that morning, she felt like a cast member from
The Living Dead
. Her feet were in shreds, her throat hurt and her face was bright red from forgetting to put on suncream. At least it matched her knuckles, which were red raw from knocking on doors that never opened.

Catherine’s popularity was showing no signs of improving. Derided for being a metropolitan feminist, she’d been stonewalled by the formidable ‘Turnip Taliban’ electorates of the Cotswolds. Tristan Jago was streaking ahead in the opinion polls. His tactic was basic but effective: slagging off the government and siding with Joe Public. He’d got 42 per cent of the votes in the latest YouGov poll, while the Lib Dem Helen Singh had come in next on 28 per cent. The two independents, Colonel Bill Fairclough and Esme Santura, were next. Catherine had trailed in last with a humiliating 6 per cent. She couldn’t believe she was being beaten by a
witch
.

Dragging on her dressing gown, she went down to
the kitchen. John was making a pot of coffee. Sunrise Radio, their local station, was on in the background.

‘I hope that’s extra strong,’ she said, flopping down at the table. ‘I’m barely capable of stringing a sentence together.’

He handed her a mug. ‘More of the same today?’

‘Yes, if you mean being somewhere on the social spectrum between Rose West and a puppy drowner.’

He gave an unexpected snort. Seeing his old, familiar grin was like watching the sun come out after weeks of rain.

They looked at each other and began to laugh. ‘What the hell have I got myself into?’ she groaned. ‘I just want to stay here with you and pull the curtains shut.’

‘Do it, Cath!’ he urged.

‘You know I can’t,’ she sighed.

A moment later Tristan Jago’s voice seeped into the room.

‘We’re extremely pleased with how things have gone so far.’

‘It’s six-thirty in the morning!’ Catherine howled. ‘Does the man not bloody sleep?’

‘What do you think of the Conservative candidate, ex-
Soirée
editor Catherine Connor?’
the Sunrise Radio DJ asked.

‘Here we go,’ Catherine muttered.

‘I think we have to ask, what are Catherine Connor’s real motives for running?’
Tristan asked.
‘The woman is desperate to claw her way back into the limelight, by whatever means are possible. Unfortunately, she’s been allowed to use the Beeversham by-election to do it.’

‘Motherfucker!’ Catherine yelled. ‘You lying, lanky streak of piss!’

Tristan was just getting warmed up.
‘The whole thing’s a joke. What the good people of Beeversham need is a local person who cares about local issues …’

‘Like you, Tristan?’
the DJ asked.

‘Exactly like me. Instead of some over-the-hill magazine editor who’s written a tawdry tell-all book to get more exposure. Vote Catherine Connor? I’d say more like “Champagne Charlotte”!’

John looked at his wife. ‘Cath, don’t.’

‘He’s not bloody getting away with this!’ she said, furiously dialling 118. ‘Hello? I’d like the number for Sunrise Radio. Urgently, please!’

Beeversham was slowly starting to wake up. People moved round their kitchens buttering toast and putting on pots of coffee. The upbeat pop songs of Sunrise Radio were a popular choice to start the day. As Gerry and the Pacemakers faded out the DJ came back on.

‘Today we’ve got Tristan Jago in the studio, Labour candidate in the Beeversham by-election. I’m also joined on the line by Catherine Connor, the Conservative candidate. Can you hear me, Catherine?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘What do you think of Tristan Jago’s claims that you’re a “Champagne Charlotte”?’

‘It’s an absolute load of sh … I mean, rubbish.’

Tristan Jago cut in.
‘The only part of politics Catherine cares about is hobnobbing it in Westminster. This is her ticket back to London, to carry on with her champagne lifestyle!’

‘I don’t believe this!’

‘You deny you’ve ever drunk champagne?’
the DJ interrupted.

‘Of course not, but—’

‘There we go!’
Tristan cried.
‘If you like posh drink and fancy clothes vote for “Champagne Charlotte”. Her predecessor, Jonty Fortescue-Wellington, liked his bubbles, and look where it got him!’

‘Charlotte, I mean, Catherine, how do you respond to that?’
the DJ asked.

‘Tristan is making scurrilous claims for which he has absolutely no evidence. I care about the people of Beeversham, that’s why I’m running!’

‘Oh?’
Tristan Jago enquired.
‘Perhaps you can tell us how many unemployed people there are in the constituency? Seeing as that’s so important to you.’

‘Well, um, I haven’t got the exact figures on me at the moment.’

‘That’s because you don’t know them! She doesn’t care about the people of this constituency! It’s one of the reasons the Tories have got this country into such a mess in the first place!’

‘We’re going to have to stop it there,’
the DJ said
. ‘Next up, “Devil Woman” by Cliff Richard!’

Beau dropped in to Blackwater Farm later that morning to find Fleur in the kitchen sobbing over another unpayable bill.

‘Sweetheart.’ He gathered her up in his arms. ‘I can’t bear to see you like this. Let me pay it.’

‘We’re a business, not a charity,’ she wept.

He looked serious. ‘Are things really that bad?’

She knew she shouldn’t speak about their financial worries, but the burden was overwhelming. ‘The b-bank are calling in a loan at the end of the month and we haven’t got the money, and we’re going to lose everything.’ She dissolved into fresh tears, leaving snot all over Beau’s Oxford blue shirt.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘Things will work out.’

‘How can they?’ she sobbed. ‘We’re about to go bankrupt!’

‘Let me talk to the bank. I’m sure we can sort something out.’

‘No, Beau. I won’t let you do it.’

‘Angel, let me help. How much do you need?’

Fleur wiped her face and sat up. ‘You’ve already done enough for me. This is our problem. I’ll sort something out.’

He looked at her for a moment. ‘If you’re sure. In the meantime I’m taking you out for lunch.’ He stopped her protest. ‘No ifs, no buts. Go upstairs and get changed.’

She took a long, hot shower and changed into fresh clothes. As she came back downstairs, she heard voices coming from the garden. Beau must be out there with her dad! Panicking at the thought of the state her dad might be in, Fleur rushed outside to be greeted by a scene of contented harmony. Her dad and Beau were at the picnic table, looking out at the view. In the bright sunlight, and next to Beau’s flawless beauty, Robert Blackwater looked even sicklier.