Party Games

by Carnegie, Jo

  ‘As a strident feminist I’m strongly opposed to the objectification of women.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Wanting to sleep with loads of women doesn’t make you a feminist!’

  He laughed out loud. She grinned back, ridiculously pleased she’d made him laugh.

  Bonnie’s gravelly vocals filled the car, drowning out conversation. In the compact space of the car, Fleur realized how powerful Beau was, his shoulders almost touching hers, the long muscular thighs nestled under the steering wheel. She crossed her arms, trying to quieten her thumping heart.

  All too soon the Mustang pulled up at the farmhouse. He left the engine running.

  ‘Thanks for a nice evening,’ she mumbled. ‘I really enjoyed myself.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ In the dark, his grin was brilliant white. Crocodile teeth, she thought from nowhere. He leant across to open the passenger door for her, his arm brushing her right breast.

  ‘Night then. Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Night.’ Fleur tried not to feel too disappointed. What had she been expecting?

  ‘What perfume are you wearing, by the way?’ he asked, as she was about to shut the door. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask all evening.’

  ‘Oh! Um, I think it’s Stella McCartney,’ she lied.

  ‘It’s very distinctive.’

  She shut the door. He whirled the car round and zoomed out of the gates without a backward glance. She raced up to her bedroom to find the perfume he had liked so much. She stared at the bottle in horror.

  She’d only sprayed on flea repellent meant for the dogs.

  Chapter 43

  As she had done every day for the past week, Catherine was in the living room slumped in front of the television. Empty chocolate bar wrappers were scattered on the sofa beside her. When her mobile went off she was in such a sugar slump it took a moment to locate it under a cushion.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is Quentin Fellowes. Private secretary to the Prime Minister,’ said the crisp male voice on the other end. ‘I’ve got the PM on the other line.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ snapped Catherine. ‘So why don’t you piss off?’ She hung up.

  Bloody crank callers! She was gloomily staring at the chocolate stain on her camisole top when the phone rang again.

  ‘What now?’ she howled. It was clearly some scam, a way to try and take her money. Have it all, she thought, pressing ‘answer’.

  ‘Catherine?’ a voice asked.

  ‘Can’t you think of something a bit more original?’ she sighed. ‘How about my credit card’s about to spontaneously combust and you need my pin number? Or that I’ve won fifty million quid on the Bosnian lottery, and a helicopter’s on its way to whisk me away to Sarajevo?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She warmed to her theme. ‘I may as well warn you, I’m a woman on the edge. My husband thinks I’ve gone completely mad and he’s probably right. Do you know I’ve just sat here and troughed my way through a family-size bar of Dairy Milk. Didn’t even touch the sides. And before that, a biscuit sandwich! I don’t even have a sweet tooth!’

  ‘What’s a biscuit sandwich?’

  ‘I just made it up. You get two biscuits, and stick them together with chocolate spread. Or anything else sweet, like honey or dulce de leche. Unfortunately we’re all out, so I had to make do with cream cheese, which is why I went on to eat my own body weight in chocolate. And I’ve got half of it down my top, so now it looks like I’m sitting here with a bloody great skidmark.’

  There was an amused snort at the other end. She sat up. ‘Sorry, who is this? Why do you want to know about my biscuit sandwich?’

  The deep voice spoke again. ‘It’s the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Not this again! I just told your mate to do one.’

  ‘Catherine, it really is me. Do you want me to send you a picture for verication?’

  She sat bolt upright. Unless it was Rory Bremner on the other line doing a bloody good impression, those rich, caressing tones were unmistakable.

  ‘Fuck a duck,’ she gasped. ‘It really is you!’

  The Prime Minister gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Sorry to let you down. The Bosnian scam sounded quite exciting.’

  Catherine froze in shock. Their PM was something of a pin-up, even among rival parties. Young, dynamic and boyishly handsome; she’d only just been watching him on BBC Breakfast that morning.

  ‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.

  She switched off The Jeremy Kyle Show. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘How are you these days?’ he asked, as if they were old friends. ‘It’s been quite a while since I saw you at the “Women In Media” lunch.’

  ‘I know, it seems like ages ago.’

  ‘I took on board what you said about the donkeys, by the way.’

  She cringed. Fired up on several glasses of cheap Downing Street white wine, she’d ended up ranting at him about how ‘fucking braying’ donkey sanctuaries got more funding than domestic violence charities. The memory still made her toes curl in horror.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t be. It was a valid point.’

  She stared out of the living-room window. Was this conversation really happening?

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Sorry, missed that.’

  ‘I was saying, I didn’t realize you’d moved out to the Cotswolds. Until I saw you on the news.’

  ‘Right.’ Why the hell did he care where she’d moved to? Were they behind on council tax payments or something?

  ‘Lovely part of the country. Even under the present circumstances.’

  ‘You mean quiet and sleepy Beeversham becoming a Mecca for the angry and disillusioned?’

  ‘What did you think of Jonty?’ he asked suddenly.

  She was a bit taken aback. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘OK, I think he’s a fat, lazy, unscrupulous toff who abused his position of privilege and not only let Beeversham down, but the entire political system.’

  He sounded amused. ‘Don’t hold back.’

  ‘You did ask.’ She was starting to get impatient. ‘Look, PM – I can call you that, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you haven’t rung me for a slagging-off session about Jonty, have you?’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Catherine. I haven’t.’

  There was another pause, this time longer. She frowned. What the hell was going on?

  ‘How do you vote?’ he asked.

  ‘Labour. Always have.’

  ‘How do you feel about running as the Conservative candidate in the Beeversham by-election?’

  Catherine laughed out loud. ‘Ha ha! And they say politicians don’t have a sense of humour!’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Yeah, right, me too.’

  ‘We need a new approach to our candidate. We have to move forward and modernize.’

  ‘I agree with you there, but why aren’t you ringing Felix Chamberlain about this? He’d be amazing.’

  ‘I think you would make a better candidate.’

  ‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’ Catherine said.

  ‘Far from it.’

  She slumped back on the sofa. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation!’

  ‘Why are you so opposed to it?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘Where do I start? The Conservatives are anti-women, anti-anything outside the mainstream.’ She started to get going. ‘You demonize disadvantaged young people instead of helping them, you’ve got an appalling track record for equal pay in the workplace and, like every other government, you’re still not doing enough for domestic violence charities.’

  ‘Exactly why we need someone like you in the party. I know the image we’ve got, Catherine, and I’m trying hard to rectify it.’

  ‘Go and rectify it, then! I don’t know the first thing about pol
itics!’

  ‘You’ve got passion and that’s enough.’ He paused. ‘What’s your purpose in life, Catherine? Are you really happy living quietly out in the country?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much!’

  ‘You told me that day that your mother’s death has defined you, Catherine. That it was the most important thing in your life. How it inspired you to go on and change other people’s lives.’

  Shit, he was good. He’d remembered every word. ‘Don’t try and use my mother against me,’ she said sharply.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But Catherine, think about it.’ His voice became more urgent. ‘If you win the seat back for us, you’ll have a voice in parliament, a voice for all the disadvantaged and underprivileged out there. A voice for the average person on the street. You could pass laws with your name on them. Think about it: the Catherine Connor Domestic Violence Bill. You could help save women’s lives.’

  ‘I’m strangely flattered, but this is still a joke. I’d make the worst MP in the world.’

  He wasn’t giving up. ‘Let me ask you something. When you’re on your deathbed will you look inwards at yourself and say, “Yes, I made a difference”? “Yes, I was willing to stick my head above the parapet because I believed in what I was doing”?’

  She gave a mirthless snort. ‘I’m having trouble making sense of my own life, let alone anyone else’s.’

  ‘Why don’t you just think about it?’

  ‘I have and it’s still a no. I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’re wasting your time. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got two back-to-back episodes of 60 Minute Makeover waiting.’

  John and Catherine were eating pasta alfresco on the patio. The sun was disappearing on the horizon. Like my sanity, Catherine thought.

  The scrape of cutlery against china was excruciatingly loud. A night flight streaked across the sky, carrying passengers to a far-flung destination. Catherine desperately wished she were up there. Not sitting across from her husband in the garden with absolutely nothing to say to him.

  ‘I had an interesting call from Jeff today,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, right?’ Jeff Brownlee was John’s old business partner. He had just started up his own company.

  ‘He’s found this site for sale in the Heredia region of Costa Rica. Five hundred acres being earmarked for a hotel chain. Jeff wants to put a bid in for eco housing for the local communities. It would be a great thing to get involved in.’

  She pushed her plate away. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It depends.’ He was watching her closely. ‘What do you think? It would be a big project. I’d have to go away a lot.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Don’t mind, or don’t care?’

  ‘You know what I mean, John. Of course I care.’

  ‘Do you really?’ he asked softly. ‘Because I’m getting really seriously worried about you, sweetheart.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Cath.’ He leant across the table. ‘Something is going on with you. You don’t want to do anything, even go running, you’re just lying round the house eating junk food and watching crap telly. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells the whole time round you. Yet when I try and talk to you about it, you just clam up.’

  She stared at her wine glass and desperately wished it wasn’t empty. ‘I don’t know, John. I just feel depressed.’

  He took her hands in his. ‘Cath. You’ve got nothing to be depressed about.’

  ‘I KNOW that!’ she cried. ‘Don’t you think that makes me feel even worse?’

  ‘I know you’re disappointed about not being pregnant.’

  ‘Oh God, can’t you just leave the bloody pregnancy stuff alone! I’m sick of you going on about it.’

  He released her hands and reached for his wine. ‘Didn’t you say you had something to tell me?’

  She had been waiting for the right moment all evening. Sitting here now opposite her angry, confused husband, the Prime Minister’s phone call seemed like a dream. In a petulant way she suddenly wanted to hug the incredible secret to herself. John wouldn’t believe her anyway.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ she muttered.

  Chapter 44

  The Smart Car had originally been bought as a runaround for Renata, but Conrad had banned her from getting behind the wheel again after she’d reversed into his Mercedes the first time she’d driven it. The vehicle had been gathering dust in the garage ever since. Paranoid about attracting attention in the Porsche she usually drove, Vanessa had taken to driving it to her trysts with Dylan.

  She zoomed out of the gates of Tresco House that afternoon. She’d found a route through the back roads that only took six minutes, but as she got to the bottom of Pavilion Heights she saw a ‘Road Closed’ sign ahead. A lone workman with his yellow hat pushed back off his head stared at her blankly.

  Vanessa cursed inwardly. The long route round was twenty minutes and she didn’t have the luxury. She’d have to go down into town instead. Praying the hot weather would have kept people indoors, she whipped the Smart Car around and set off.

  Catherine was in a world of her own as she drove down the High Street. She didn’t notice the elderly man on the zebra crossing until the last minute. She jammed on her brakes, earning herself a disapproving wave of his walking stick.

  He started at a snail’s pace across the road. A rowdy group of political reporters were drinking outside Bar 47. One of them lifted up his T-shirt and showed the others his sunburnt beer belly.

  Catherine pulled a face and looked back at the road. Mr Walking Stick was still doddering along. They’d be here all day at this rate.

  He finally got to the other side. She put the MG into first and promptly stalled. There was an impatient toot behind her.

  ‘All right all right,’ she muttered. It was worse than driving in bloody London!

  The car beeped immediately again, this time flashing its lights. ‘Jesus, what is wrong with people!’ Catherine cried.

  To prove a point she took her time restarting the engine and drove five miles under the speed limit to the end of the High Street. The car was on her bumper the whole way. At the Black Bull pub she pulled over to let it past. A black and white Smart Car zoomed past before slamming on its brakes up ahead. She watched it reverse back up the road towards her. Uh-oh.

  A familiar petite woman was behind the wheel. Catherine did a violent double-take. Was that Vanessa Powell in dark glasses and a Gucci headscarf?

  ‘You did that deliberately!’ the celebrity hissed.

  ‘Did what?’ Catherine said innocently.

  Vanessa whipped off her Chanels. ‘Held me up so the paparazzi could get a good shot! Are things that bad, that you’ve resorted to doing deals with the paps?’

  Catherine laughed out loud. ‘Get a life!’

  ‘Stop ruining other people’s!’ Vanessa jabbed the glasses at her. ‘You’re the lowest of the low!’

  ‘And you’re a jumped-up twat!’ Catherine yelled. ‘Why don’t you go and get your tits out and jump out of someone’s birthday cake?’

  Vanessa glared at her. ‘I could sue your arse for that.’ With that she floored the Smart Car and screeched off.

  Catherine rested her forehead on the dashboard and groaned. Of all the people to have road rage with! And what the hell was Vanessa Powell doing in a bloody Smart Car?

  She stared down the empty road for a moment, before picking up her phone from the passenger seat. She re-read the Prime Minister’s text message.

  ‘I haven’t given up on you yet, Catherine. Call me back, we need to talk.’

  Dylan and Vanessa made love under the canopy of trees. Afterwards she lay wrapped in his arms. ‘I should go,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Conrad will be back from London soon.’

  He hugged her tighter. ‘Don’t go just yet.’

  She rested her head back on his chest, and heard the slow, rhythmic thud of his
heart. She trailed her hand down the concave belly and caressed his sunkissed hips. Everything about him was warm and alive. Everything about her husband was cold and reptilian.

  ‘You make me feel safe,’ she said.

  ‘I want you to be safe.’ He paused. ‘Leave Conrad.’

  She sat up. ‘What?’

  Dylan’s eyes had a curious moving quality to them, like liquid mercury. ‘I mean it. Leave Conrad. I’ll look after you.’

  She gazed into his kind, lovely face and looked round the woodland camp where she’d spent the happiest times of her life. ‘Oh, Dylan.’ She burst into tears.

  ‘Oh God, please don’t cry.’ He wiped her cheeks. ‘It’s not that bad an idea, is it?’

  ‘It’s a lovely idea,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what makes it so hard.’ Vanessa started crying even harder. ‘I have so much responsibility.’

  ‘I know.’ He pressed his face into her hair. ‘Ssh. It’s all right.’

  ‘I l-love you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I love you, too,’ he said softly.

  She flung her arms round him, clinging on for dear life. How was it possible to feel desperately happy and yet so wretched?

  Chapter 45

  The announcement was finally made: the Beever-sham by-election campaign was starting on 1 August and would run for four weeks. The Conservatives were remaining tight-lipped about their candidate, but press speculation was swinging between the Conservative Association chairman Felix Chamberlain and Alexander Farthing, MP for Driffield and one of the Tory party’s rising stars.

  Tristan Jago had practically announced himself as the Labour candidate while Jonty’s roundhouse kick was still hanging in the air. The town was plastered with election posters of him sitting on a set of cottage steps cuddling a Mallard duck, long legs stretched out to full advantage. His slogan ‘I’m Cotswolds and I Care’ was simple but effective. It was widely assumed he’d walk the by-election.

  Buff Nail Bar was a symphony in pink, from the cerise wallpaper and blush ceiling to the neon chandelier that dangled down like one of Pat Butcher’s earrings. Black and white framed photos of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean provided a bit of light relief, while Mel’s young technicians carried on the colour scheme with their glossy lips and shiny, rosy cheeks. It was hard to know if they’d been chosen to match the decor or the other way round.