Party Games

by Carnegie, Jo

  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.

  Chapter 52

  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.

  Chapter 53

  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 sprawlin
g 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.

  Get me out of here, Fleur thought frantically. At that moment she’d have done anything to be back in the farmhouse kitchen, in her stinky old work clothes with the dogs.

  Except there was no turning back now. Following a tiny blonde woman who looked very much like Geri Halliwell, she walked up to the park gate. A huge bank of photographers was lined up outside, taking pictures of a pair of stunning blonde girls.

  ‘Cara! Give us another smile, darling. Poppy – look this way. Lovely!’

  The photographers took no interest in Fleur. She gave her ticket to the smartly dressed woman on the gate. She half expected it to be handed right back, but the woman smiled.

  ‘Come on through. Have a fantastic evening.’

  A big 1930s-style pavilion lay directly in front of her. She had no idea where to go, so she followed the stream of guests walking round the side of the building. The scene that greeted her was like nothing she’d seen in her whole life.

  It was like walking on to a Hollywood movie set. The beautiful and famous stood amongst the landscaped gardens, shoulder to shoulder. She spotted Pierce Brosnan talking to a surprisingly short Kevin Spacey. Over in the corner Cheryl Cole, ravishing in a backless dress, stood clutching a glass of champagne as she chatted to fellow Girls Aloud band-mate Nicola Roberts.

  The Serpentine lake shimmered seductively in the distance. The view of the royal park was unbelievable: miles of impossibly green, perfect grass stretching out like a kingdom. A giant-sized chess set, with real people dressed up as the pieces, was being played by a stylish couple, giggling as they instructed their knights to move.

  The pièce de résistance was a huge mirrored canopy that stretched over the revellers like a big, shiny, expensive puddle. Waiting staff moved through the crowd seamlessly, topping up glasses and refreshing cocktails.

  Fleur couldn’t see Beau anywhere. She tried his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Where was he? Someone handed her a drink and she gulped it back without knowing what it was.

  ‘Cheska, darling!’ Two stick-thin women wearing diamonds the size of eggs effusively air-kissed in front of her.

  ‘You look amazing,’ one said. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Kenya.’ She pronounced it: ‘Keen-ya.’ The first woman linked skinny tanned arms with her companion. ‘How are you, darling? Is Rollo here?’

  They drifted off into the crowd. Fleur checked her phone again, Beau still hadn’t called. She started to get a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  With no one to talk to, she concentrated on people-watching. Even though almost everyone was undeniably beautiful, there was something curiously identikit about the crowd. The faces and smiles were a little too frozen, jutting clavicles favoured over any kind of bust. She was gawping at a one-time famous model who’d had far too much plastic surgery when two men walked past, deep in conversation. ‘They say he paid two billion for the Alexis deal,’ one said.

  ‘Two billion?’ snorted the other. ‘They’re talking out of their arses.’

  She gazed open-mouthed after them. Two billion? She couldn’t get her head round that kind of money. I don’t belong here, she thought again, panic-struck. Where the bloody hell was Beau?

  Leaving the garden, she went inside the gallery and wasted a few minutes walking through the different rooms. She stopped at a huge photograph of a Tibetan man floating upside down in a sea of orange fabric.

  ‘Fabulous interpretation of the uprising, isn’t it?’ the woman next to her drawled.

  ‘Fabulous,’ she spluttered. ‘Can you tell me where the toilets are?’

  Hoping to find respite, or at least a cubicle to go and hide in, she pushed the door to the Ladies open. Three women stood in a row at the mirrors, preening at their reflections. They were all tall and skinny, the middle one wearing a sheer column dress that left little to the imagination. Fleur looked into the glass and her blood ran cold. She turned to make a run for it, but Valentina’s eyes had fixed on her.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ Fleur mumbled.

  Valentina swung round, her dark eyes flashing maliciously. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognize you without all the cow gunk.’

  Valentina’s friends had the same predatory, beautiful faces. They circled Fleur like a pack of malevolent giraffes.

  ‘Who is this, V?’ the blonde one said.

  ‘No one,’ Valentina said nastily. ‘On the serving staff tonight, are we?’ she enquired.

  ‘I was invited,’ Fleur said stiffly.

  ‘You? Invited?’ Valentina’s right eyebrow shot up. ‘Who would invite you?’

  Fleur clutched her mum’s bag protectively across her chest. ‘Beau did, actually.’

  The three women exchanged looks. ‘That’s bullshit,’ Valentina snapped. ‘If Beau was going to invite anyone, it would be me.’

  ‘Has he, then?’ Fleur asked boldly.

  The supermodel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what kind of charity ticket you’re on, but someone’s playing a big joke. Beau didn’t invite you. Why would he, when he’s not even coming himself?’

  A horrible unease started to creep through Fleur. ‘What do you mean?’

  Valentina’s smile was triumphant. ‘He’s away on business, darling. I’m surprised you didn’t know if you’re such good friends.’ She gave Fleur a sneering once-over. ‘Didn’t you read the dress code? Nightgowns are like, so twenty years ago.’

  ‘And ugly shoes,’ her blonde friend added.

  Fleur started to burn up. She flinched as the brunette girl raised her hand.

  ‘Is that for real?’ She touched Fleur’s hair. ‘Oh my God, it doesn’t move!’

  Valentina smirked. ‘I had no idea they were doing auditions tonight for the lead role in Hairspray!’

  The three of them fell about, honking with laughter. Fleur looked past them into the mirror and saw how short and frumpy she looked with her with hideous helmet hair.

  Eyes streaming, she fled down the corridor towards the exit, not caring who saw her. This was the worst night of her life. How could Beau do this to her? ‘You bastard,’ she sobbed. ‘I trusted you!’

  She was crying so hard she ran slap bang into someone just inside the gallery entrance.

  ‘Take it easy,’ a voice said. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I was just leaving.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that? You’ve only just got here.’


  She gazed up through a mist of tears. Beau was standing there, wearing a light-blue suit that made him look more tanned and blond than ever.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he asked, guiding her into a corner.

  ‘W-where have you been?’ she heaved.

  ‘A work thing came up, I’m sorry. What’s happened?’

  She sucked up a noseful of snot. ‘I j-j-just had a r-run-in with Valentina. She was really horrible to me.’

  ‘Valentina’s horrible to everyone, don’t take it personally.’

  ‘She said I was a mess, and she’s right,’ Fleur gulped. ‘It’s really nice of you to invite me, but I don’t fit in here.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ He produced a hanky. ‘Most people here have red noses from all the coke they do, anyway.’

  ‘It’s not a joke. I can’t go out there again, Beau, I can’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t make me.’

  Beau looked out at the party thoughtfully. ‘I have a plan.’

  Chapter 54

  ‘More champagne, madam?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Vanessa let the waiter give her a refill.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘No,’ Conrad said rudely.

  The waiter moved on. Vanessa lifted her glass.

  ‘Don’t get pissed and embarrass us, we’re here to work,’ Conrad told her.

  She glared at him. ‘As if I would.’

  A handsome silver-haired man came up to them. It was Les Goodman, head of ITV1. Conrad snapped into charm mode.

  ‘Les!’ he exclaimed, pumping the man’s hand.

  ‘Conrad,’ Les replied. He kissed Vanessa on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful. Chanel, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m impressed!’

  ‘My wife is Chanel-obsessed.’ Les smiled. ‘How are my star presenters doing?’