Party Games (6 page)

‘Piss off, or I’ll set the dogs on you.’

Beau yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. ‘You could do with chilling out a bit, darling.’

‘And a good shower,’ sniped Valentina.

There was the sudden growl of an engine and a black convertible Porsche came up the road and rounded the
corner, spraying a trail of dust over Fleur’s quad bike.

‘Taxi’s here,’ Beau announced. The über-tanned man behind the steering wheel took his sunglasses off.

‘What are you doing out here?’ he said to Beau. ‘Everyone’s back at the house.’

‘V and I went for a ramble. I had no idea she was such a keen naturist.’

‘I think you mean naturalist, mate.’

‘No.’ Beau smirked. ‘I definitely mean naturist.’

Valentina shook her black mane out. ‘Baby, let’s get out of here.’

‘Too right. Bye, Flora.’

‘My name is
Fleur
,’ she yelled. ‘And get off my bloody land!’

Catherine leant forward in the bedroom mirror. The crease she’d always had between her eyebrows had nearly disappeared. As someone who’d thrived off adrenalin for the last twenty years, she was still rather unsettled by the serene, beatific image now looking back at her.

She went over to the chest of drawers to pull on a pair of socks. Her side of the bedroom looked like a bomb had gone off, clothes everywhere, empty coffee cups, magazines from
Vogue
to the
New Statesman
stacked up by the bed. Vowing again to be a better homemaker, she did a hasty sweep and picked up the dirty cups to take downstairs. As she went past John’s study, the door was ajar. He was deep in concentration behind the MacBook Pro.

Catherine leant against the door frame, enjoying the chance to watch him unobserved for a moment. He was wearing what she called his ‘Indiana Jones’ glasses, big hand resting delicately on the computer mouse. She could smell the familiar tang of Dunhill,
the aftershave John had worn for years.

It was so strange how their lives had come full circle. They’d been childhood sweethearts in Newcastle and had met at secondary school when they were eleven. The hunky, popular rugby captain and the skinny girl teased for wearing charity-shop clothes had been an unlikely pair, but the chemistry had been there from the start. When her mother had been sent to prison, John had been the only one to stick up for Catherine. On her seventeenth birthday, a year after her mum had died, Catherine had fled the North for London. She’d honestly thought she’d never see John again.

She could still recall their chance meeting as if it had happened yesterday. It had been
Soirée’s
annual cocktail party at the Natural History Museum. Catherine had been wearing the latest Chanel and uncharacteristic bright red lipstick. The place had been heaving with London’s brightest and most beautiful, but the moment she’d clapped eyes on John, dusty-haired and paint-splattered from the job he’d been working on there, everyone else had melted away.

By her own admission, she’d been a bitch at first. Terrified John would reveal her real identity, Catherine had done everything she could to get rid of him. But he’d been a persistent bugger, gently chipping away until he’d regained her trust. When her worst nightmare
had
come true he had been there, by her side. The day they’d married in a quiet ceremony at Chelsea Registry Office had been the happiest of her life.

‘Are you going to stand there or come in?’ he said, his eyes still on the screen.

‘I’m allowed to perve over my own husband, aren’t I?’

He grinned and looked up. ‘Come here.’

Putting the coffee cups on the side, she went round to sit on his lap. He ran his hand over her Lycra-clad thigh. ‘Off for a run?’

‘Yeah. You fancy coming?’

‘I’ll give it a miss this time. I’ve got a few more emails to reply to.’

She gazed at the computer. ‘It must be nice to have some work to do.’

‘Is that the voice of discontent I’m hearing?’

When she didn’t answer he put his hand under her chin, making her look at him. ‘Hey. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know. It just feels weird sometimes, not having a career any more.’

‘You’ve still got a career,’ he reasoned. ‘You’re just taking some time out.’

‘What if I go back and no one wants me?’ London already seemed an alien and intimidating place.

‘Don’t talk rubbish. You’re the most talented person I know, Cath. You could get back into any job you wanted.’

She kicked the leg of the table, feeling a bit like a child getting a pep talk.

‘This is what you wanted, isn’t it?’ He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. ‘I haven’t pushed you into coming out here?’

‘Of course you haven’t. I’ve got you and our beautiful home, and we’ve made really good friends here.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I guess … I mean, what I’m really trying to say is, well, I thought I’d be pregnant by now.’

There was a long pause. ‘That’s not the only reason we came here.’

‘It was a big reason, John, let’s be honest.’

‘These things take time, Cath. You have to be patient.’

‘I’m bored of being patient. I just don’t understand.’ She had taken so much folic acid she was starting to rattle. ‘I’m forty next year. What if I’ve left it too late?’

‘There’s still time. You’re in fantastic shape, the doctor said so herself. We’ve still got every chance, OK?’

‘OK,’ she replied in a small voice.

‘And if nothing happens, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. OK? I love you, Cath. I’m here with you every step of the way.’

The tenderness in his voice made her want to weep.

‘Let me look after you for a while,’ he said into her hair. ‘I want you to enjoy life.’

‘I feel bad not having a job,’ she sniffed.

He wiped her nose with his shirt sleeve. ‘You don’t need a job. We’ve got plenty of money.’

‘Maybe I should join the WI,’ she said, trying to joke. ‘It would give me something to do.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves; I’m not sure the old ladies of Beeversham are ready for your jam-making.’ After years of surviving on ready meals for one, Catherine’s culinary skills weren’t the best.

‘Any more of that and I’ll threaten to make dinner,’ she told him.

They grinned at each other. ‘Promise me you’re OK?’ John asked.

‘I’m OK.’

He gave her a kiss and let her stand up. ‘I thought we’d eat in the garden tonight. I’ll grill the sea bass on the barbecue.’

‘Sounds amazing. What would I do without you?’

‘Starve, probably. Oh and Cath?’

She stopped at the door. ‘Yes?’

His eyes were already back on the screen. ‘Your arse looks bloody fantastic in those shorts.’

That Tuesday was the second SNOW meeting at the town hall. So many people turned out that it was standing room only. An outrageously foxy brunette waved at Catherine from across the room. Mel Cooper-Stanley, owner of Buff Nail Bar on the High Street. Mel was forty-three, with a hard aerobics body that made women half her age green with jealousy. She was also a complete hoot and Catherine’s wine-drinking partner.

Catherine went over to sit down between Mel and Amanda Belcher. ‘No Mike tonight?’ she asked. Mel’s husband was a long-haul captain for British Airways and always off in some far-flung location.

‘He’s got a night stop in Buenos Aires, back tomorrow.’ Mel brushed a stray hair off her surgically enhanced chest. Henry Belcher, sitting two down, started having a coughing fit. ‘How’s things with you, babe?’ Mel asked.

‘Great, you?’

‘Run off my feet at the nail bar!’ Mel smiled wickedly. ‘Still, can’t complain. Keeps me out of trouble.’

Felix cleared his throat at the front of the room. ‘Welcome, everyone. I hope you’re managing to make the most of this glorious weather. Right, we won’t waste any time. As you know, the county council have come back with a date for the first Ye Olde Worlde hearing, Tuesday the fourth of July.’

‘About time!’ Mr Patel shouted.

‘Having been to a few of these meetings I can hopefully give you some idea of what to expect.’ Felix gave a smile to the person standing on his left. ‘We’re also lucky enough to have John here, who’s been through quite a few planning applications himself.’

The double doors creaked open. Lynette Tudor flushed puce as everyone turned to look at her. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She scurried off to find a seat at the back.

‘Poor Lynette,’ Catherine said in a low voice. ‘She always looks on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’

‘So would I if Talia was my daughter,’ Amanda whispered sanctimoniously. ‘Olympia says she’s been out drinking every night this week, instead of revising!’

Catherine watched Lynette drop her handbag on a man’s foot by accident and start apologizing profusely. ‘Is Talia’s dad not in the picture?’

‘Rumour has it he’s a
younger
man Lynette met on holiday in the Bosphorus Strait!’ Amanda whispered excitedly. ‘One of these “thanks for the shag” jobbies, never to be seen again.’

Mel tutted. ‘What kind of arsehole does that to his own kid?’

This time the mood in the meeting was far more relaxed. Felix was his normal jolly, reassuring self. Most
of the women were so busy staring at John’s broad shoulders as he explained planning law that they forgot to be worried. Everyone seemed sure that the planning officer would recommend against Ye Olde Worlde. It was only common sense.

Felix was wrapping things up by telling people the best parking options at Gloucester County Council Shire Hall when the lady who ran the fruit and veg shop stuck her hand up.

‘Are we any closer to finding out who owns Pear Tree Holdings?’

Everyone sat up. Pear Tree Holdings was the mysterious company which actually owned the land. While Sid Sykes was the public face of the development, Pear Tree remained a silent partner in the background. It was both sinister and maddening, as people had no idea who their puppetmaster was.

The fact that Pear Tree Holdings had registered with Companies House on the Isle of Man, where anonymity was guaranteed to company owners, had fuelled suspicion and paranoia. Mr Patel was convinced al-Qaeda were behind it and proceeds from the theme park would go towards building anti-West nuclear missiles. Donald Trump was another contender. Even more terrifyingly, someone had mooted Kate Moss.

‘I’m afraid we’re banging our heads against a brick wall,’ Felix said. ‘Companies House isn’t legally obliged to release any information about who owns it.’

‘Why can’t we get Sykes to tell us?’ someone else asked.

John spoke up. ‘As long as Pear Tree Holdings is legal – which it is – Sykes is under no obligation to
release any details about who he’s working with.’

‘It’s just so frustrating!’ Ginny exclaimed. ‘If we had a name, we could at least try to appeal to their sense of reason.’

Amanda Belcher stood up. ‘I have a new theory. Suppose it’s someone closer to home? A lot closer to home,’ she added significantly.

Murmurs rippled across the room. Beside his wife, Henry Belcher put his head in his hands.

‘What if …’ Amanda paused, eking out the moment. ‘Beau
Rainford
owns Pear Tree Holdings?’

The murmurs turned into a babble. Ginny Chamberlain’s shocked voice cut across all of them. ‘Oh no! It couldn’t possibly be true!’

‘Amanda, would you care to elaborate?’ Felix asked calmly.

‘I’m sorry, Felix, but somebody has to say it!’ She looked round, warming to her theme. ‘Look at how he’s practically razed Blackwater Farm to the ground to build that sex den up there. This is just the kind of thing he’d do.’

Henry put his hand on his wife’s arm, but she shook it off. ‘It would be just like Beau, buying up Blaize Castle to spite you, Felix! You and this whole town!’

People were talking loudly now, contemplating the idea that Beau Rainford would dare shit on his doorstep like that. For once Felix was lost for words. John stepped forward and restored calm.

‘Amanda, have you got any actual basis for this?’

‘Well, no,’ she blustered. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything!’

‘Yes, it does,’ John said evenly.

Amanda, who Catherine suspected had a huge crush on John, went pink at his rebuke. ‘I was just saying …’

‘I know, Amanda, but making groundless accusations isn’t going to help anyone. In my experience it’s quite likely Pear Tree will be owned by a consortium rather than one individual. They could even be overseas investors.’

‘Really?’ Henry Belcher said. ‘Why do you say that, John?’

John shrugged. ‘Ye Olde Worlde is an American franchise. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they wanted to have a hand in the UK market. They know their chances are much better trading under a British name.’

Amanda opened her mouth, but John cut her off. ‘We can sit here all night discussing who might own Pear Tree, but it won’t get us anywhere. We’re better off concentrating on what we do know.’

Tristan Jago, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until now, stuck his hand up. ‘I have a question.’

‘Yes?’ Felix said gratefully.

‘I’d like to know what our MP proposes to do about the two pence an hour rise in parking charges at Ratchford Hospital. Isn’t it enough these poor people have to contend with the demise of their loved ones, without the government launching yet another attack on the NHS? What next, a stethoscope tax on our hardworking doctors?’

‘Oh, give it a rest Tristan,’ sighed Felix.

Bar 47 may have looked like a quintessential Cotswold pub from the outside, but the interior had been opened up to make a stunning bar and Italian restaurant.
With a team of young, hot staff run by the flamboyant Vincent, the place was always packed. The food was superb and a plate of the lobster ravioli could send a customer into orgasmic raptures for a week.

While John joined the scrum at the bar Catherine wandered out to the terrace, waving at Vincent, who was charming a table of middle-aged ladies.

The back terrace at Bar 47 had the best view in Beeversham, a panoramic vista that opened up across the valley. The sunset that evening was incredible, swathes of melting red and orange. The craggy ruins of Blaize Castle were framed black against the sky. Catherine couldn’t take her eyes off it. The castle had been there as long as the landscape. It was unthinkable to imagine looking out on anything else.