Party Games

by Carnegie, Jo

  ‘Wonderful!’ Vanessa gushed. ‘I can’t tell you how excited we are.’

  As Conrad started to hog the conversation, Vanessa took the chance to observe the party. It was so strange how she’d once loved these things: the intoxicating mix of the rich and the powerful. She used to look round and think she’d made it. Now she saw it for the sham it was. All these awful people who pretended they were your best friend one minute and cut you dead the next. They were like sharks with their dead eyes and big white teeth. How could she ever have wanted to be part of it?

  ‘Vanessa, darling!’ A TV presenter Vanessa knew vaguely rushed up. She’d lost a terrific amount of weight since the last time Vanessa had seen her, the Temperley dress hanging off her starved frame.

  They air-kissed extravagantly. ‘My God, how amazing you’re doing Silver Box.’ The woman nudged Vanessa with a sharp elbow. ‘I can tell you, it’s set the cat amongst the pigeons, but I said to everyone: “Vanessa is a complete professional. I just know she’ll pull it off.”’

  She flashed a cosy, artificial smile. ‘Who are you wearing?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can tell me.’

  ‘Really, I haven’t decided yet.’

  The woman’s eyes were already flickering over Vanessa’s shoulder. ‘Oh, there’s Les! Les, darling!’ She practically pushed Vanessa out of the way to get to him. ‘Les! How are you?’

  Vanessa felt her mobile start buzzing in her evening bag. It was a local Beeversham number she didn’t recognize. She rushed off to stand under a tree. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Vanessa?’

  ‘Dylan?’ she said frantically. ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘A phone box. I know it’s dangerous, but I had to speak to you.’

  ‘Oh, darling.’ Just the sound of his voice made her feel a million times better.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  She watched her husband slap Les on the back and roar with laughter. ‘At an awful party.’

  ‘I miss you. Every day without you feels like a week.’

  ‘Me too.’ Oh God, it was so hard. Vanessa blinked away the tears.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘When can I see you?’

  ‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘OK. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

  Les had a big smile on his face when Vanessa returned. ‘Conrad’s just been telling me about OK! I love the idea!’

  Chapter 55

  The Gucci store on Sloane Street was the most intimidating place Fleur had ever been in. A vast glass-fronted space with items of clothing laid out beautifully, it felt more like an art installation than a clothes shop.

  Ivanka, the ice-blonde Amazonian assistant behind the till, had broken out in a huge smile when she’d seen Beau walk in. He’d told Fleur the two of them were old friends. Judging by the adoring way Ivanka was looking at Beau, Fleur thought they might have been a lot more than that.

  ‘We need at least to drag Fleur into this decade,’ he told Ivanka. ‘Something that shows off her figure.’

  Ivanka cast an expert eye over Fleur. ‘You’re a size eight, right?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘And a big chest!’ Ivanka smiled. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’

  Fleur wanted to die, especially when Beau grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Ivanka told them. ‘I’ll get some pieces. You want champagne?’

  Beau threw himself down on an armchair. ‘You read my mind. Thank you, darling.’

  Ivanka disappeared in a waft of something musky.

  ‘You get champagne?’ a gobsmacked Fleur asked him.

  ‘It’s the only way to shop.’ He was already back on his phone.

  ‘I’m not sure how much money I’ve got on me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all part of the service.’

  She perched on the other chair, trying to look as if she frequented these sorts of places all the time. Ivanka reappeared with two fizzing flutes. She handed one to Fleur. ‘You enjoy this, I’ll get to work.’

  ‘Ivanka is a maestro when it comes to styling,’ Beau told Fleur. ‘She’ll have you shipshape in no time.’

  He went back to whoever he was texting. Fleur gazed at a glittery scrap of material hanging off a rail. Ominously, she couldn’t see any price tags.

  Ivanka was back within five minutes with a selection of dresses laid across her arm. ‘We’ll just experiment until we get it right,’ she told Fleur.

  ‘I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman!’ Fleur joked nervously.

  Ivanka’s eyes widened. ‘Wasn’t she a prostitute?’

  There was a snort of laughter from behind them.

  In the changing room Ivanka helped her on with the first dress. It was long and black, heavily boned round the corset. She looked at her bare shoulders and décolletage. She would never show off this much flesh normally.

  ‘Redheads are huge on the catwalk this season,’ Ivanka told her.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Beau called.

  Fleur shuffled out of the changing room feeling hideously self-conscious.

  ‘Oh look, it’s the Scottish Widow.’ He tipped the last of the champagne down his throat.

  ‘You’re right,’ Ivanka agreed. ‘Far too serious.’

  ‘Nice freckles, though.’ Beau’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Do you have them everywhere?’

  Fleur fled back into the cubicle. The next one was a wraparound dress in a geometric print. Beau glanced up from his phone. ‘Perfect! If we were about to go to the annual Rotary Club dinner.’

  Fleur was starting to feel like one of her cattle at market. The third dress was so short it was practically gynaecological. Ivanka had to shove her out on to the shop floor.

  Beau looked up again. ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘No way,’ Fleur spluttered, fleeing back into the changing room.

  She was beginning to lose hope, until Ivanka held up the last dress. Bottle-green and above the knee, it had a high neckline and cute capped sleeves. Simple, but so stylish.

  ‘Stunning,’ Ivanka declared. ‘Now for accessories.’

  She came back with a pair of beautifully delicate strappy heels and a gold clutch bag. The shoes felt as soft as clouds, adding a good four inches to Fleur’s five-foot-four frame. After fastening a gold cuff bracelet on Fleur’s wrist and fitting on dangly gold earrings, Ivanka stood back to study her protégée. ‘Now I’m happy.’

  Fleur gazed at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t believe the radiant, leggy person looking back was really her. The dress skimmed her narrow waist and hips, the fabric emphasizing her bust just the right amount. The vivid colour brought out the rich tones of her hair and complemented her pale skin.

  ‘Hold on,’ Ivanka said, taking some make-up out of a box by the mirror. She wiped away Fleur’s amateurish eyeliner, and deftly shadowed and mascaraed her eyes until they were huge and dewy.

  Ivanka whipped a lipstick out of her pants pocket. Fleur baulked when she saw how red it was.

  Ignoring her protests, Ivanka dabbed it on. Fleur gazed at her mouth. It looked so big and shiny and sexual. ‘I’m really not sure,’ she said.

  Before she could wipe it off, Ivanka took her by the hand and led her back out. ‘I think we’ve done it,’ she told Beau.

  He had been staring out the window, but now his blue gaze swept over Fleur. ‘I knew you had a pair of legs under there somewhere.’

  The unashamed way his eyes were lingering on them made her flush even more. ‘I’m not sure I can walk in these heels,’ she said.

  He stood up. ‘You’d better practise, then, while I go and pay.’

  ‘I can’t let you pay for this!’

  He ignored her. ‘Ivanka, darling, can you throw in a bikini as well?’

  Fleur was perplexed. ‘What do I need a bikini for?’

  �
�When you go in my pool, of course.’

  ‘How about this?’ Ivanka held up two scraps of black material.

  ‘No way!’ Fleur spluttered.

  ‘Yes way,’ Beau said. ‘Let’s get a move on; we’ve got a re-entrance to make.’

  Ivanka was at the till ringing things through. Fleur caught sight of the price of the bracelet and nearly had a heart attack. Three hundred and seventy quid! She couldn’t bear to think about how much the dress was.

  ‘What shall I do with the other dress?’ Ivanka asked.

  ‘Burn it and put the poor thing out of its misery. Otherwise, it will make somebody a wonderful Halloween costume.’

  ‘I’ll hold on to it in case you change your mind,’ Ivanka told Fleur.

  Beau kissed Ivanka on both cheeks. ‘Ciao, bella. Thank you for coming to our rescue.’

  He sauntered out, back on the phone.

  ‘Thank you,’ Fleur told Ivanka. ‘You’ve been really nice to me.’

  ‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is?’ Fleur asked.

  Ivanka smiled wistfully after Beau. ‘The way he looks at you. It makes you feel like you’re standing in the sun.’

  She turned back to Fleur. ‘Enjoy your time with him.’ The look of pity was clear.

  Chapter 56

  Fleur tugged on the hem of her dress, wishing she’d invested in some fake tan. Despite the car’s air conditioning she could feel a line of sweat trickling down her back. It was very distracting having Beau sprawled out next to her, his long limbs taking up half the seat. The swell of hard thigh under his suit trousers was making her tummy turn over.

  He’d been his usual flippant self so far, and she had been starting to wonder if their kiss had ever happened. But since they’d got back in the cab, there had been a weird electricity between them. It was the speculative way he eyed her, with new interest. Dressed in a designer dress, jewels at her ears and on her wrists, she felt like his equal for the first time.

  The car pulled up at red traffic lights. Two leggy blondes sauntered past, both with tiny chihuahuas on leads. She glanced at Beau, but it was impossible to tell under the Ray-Bans where he was looking.

  He yawned as the car pulled off. ‘I could sleep for a week.’

  ‘Late night?’ She immediately wished she hadn’t asked.

  He smiled enigmatically. ‘You could say that.’

  This time they were whisked through a private entrance, no questions asked. Fleur started to feel sick again. What if Valentina and her cronies were still there? Her python-skin heels were perilously high. Oh God, please don’t let me fall over in front of them.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  ‘You look gorgeous, sweetheart,’ he said softly. ‘Relax.’

  Next moment she’d got her feet in a tangle and nearly went flying. Beau caught her. It was like running into steel. Fleur went all wobbly again.

  ‘Baby steps,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got you.’

  They walked round the side of the gallery. The music got louder, echoing the drumming of Fleur’s heart. On the outskirts of the garden, Beau stopped. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this all night.’

  He pulled the combs out of Fleur’s hair and ran his fingers through it, raking out the lacquer. ‘At last. The spirit of Great-Aunty Muriel has been laid to rest. I don’t know why you don’t wear your hair down more often, it’s really very sexy.’

  ‘Gets in the way,’ Fleur mumbled. Her scalp felt on fire from his touch, tingling, dripping down her body like melting candle wax.

  He put his arm round her. ‘Let’s show them what you’re made of.’

  Before, Fleur had been an invisible wallflower. Now she met artists and aristocrats, sheikhs and celebrities. She air-kissed television presenters and chatted with a famous singer about how wonderful it was to have no rain this year. Everyone wanted to know who was the tiny Titian-haired girl in Gucci hanging off Beau Rainford’s arm.

  ‘Love your dress!’ gushed one woman. ‘I’m going to get one put on hold first thing.’

  ‘You look very familiar, darling!’ said another anorexic crow in black. ‘Do you work in fashion?’

  ‘Fleur throws around straw bales for a living,’ Beau said, guiding her away.

  She was completely star-struck when Beau paused to kiss the Prime Minister’s wife, elegant in floor-length navy. The two chatted away like old friends for ten minutes.

  ‘We were at Cambridge together,’ he told Fleur as they walked off. ‘She was a very naughty girl in her youth.’

  She got excited when she spotted Vanessa and Conrad Powell with a group of men. Vanessa was as beautiful as ever, but Fleur thought she seemed a bit sad and distant, standing apart from the others.

  ‘All this arse-licking is boring the, well, arse off me,’ Beau said. ‘Let’s take a breather.’ He steered her over to the oyster bar.

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’ she asked. Everyone was clamouring to talk to him, especially the women, but Beau treated the majority with mild disinterest or open disdain.

  ‘It’s just the same old crap. Who’s-doing-who-with-how-much, everyone gushing over everyone else and stabbing them in the back the second they walk away.’ Beau saw her fallen face. ‘But I am having a good time, darling. Are you?’

  Fleur was too high on life and champagne to stay down for long. ‘Fan-bloody-tastic!’

  A tall, chunky man in a black tuxedo and jeans came up. ‘Bro, I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  The two men bumped fists. The man looked at Fleur. ‘You’ve been hiding this one away, Beau. Who is she?’

  The Ronseal tan and weak chin looked familiar. She realized it was Spencer, the awful friend Beau had brought round that night when he’d tried to buy the farmhouse.

  ‘You’ve met before, this is my neighbour Fleur Blackwood. Fleur, this is Spencer Churchill.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said stiffly.

  Spencer didn’t bother hiding his astonishment. ‘Crikey. No wellies this time?’

  ‘They’re in the car,’ she replied sarcastically. She didn’t like the sly look he was giving Beau, as if there was some secret between them she didn’t know about.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ Spencer said. ‘Mate, there’s an after party at Raffles we’re going on to if you fancy it,’ he told Beau. ‘Antonia’s going.’

  ‘We’ll probably head home.’

  ‘No worries. Laters, bro.’ Bumping fists with Beau again he swaggered off.

  ‘Do you really like him?’ Fleur asked. And who the hell was Antonia?

  ‘Spence is all right once you get to know him. We boarded together all the way through school.’ He drained his glass. ‘Do you fancy meeting Elle Macpherson?’

  Orange skies merged into inky blue as Fleur drank champagne and met more fascinating people. Everyone was interested in who she was, what she had to say. Tonight, she was one of them. For a few hours, she could forget her problems and pretend.

  It was getting on for eleven and she had been talking to a charming, silver-haired banker who apparently owned half of Chelsea.

  His hand slid around her waist. ‘You really are very sexy,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve got a suite at the Dorchester we can go and fuck in.’

  She felt herself being whipped out of his grasp. Beau flashed a charming, cold smile.

  ‘Hello, Evan,’ he said, putting his arm round Fleur. ‘How’s that gorgeous wife of yours?’

  ‘That guy has slept with half of London,’ he told her as they walked off. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  Fleur really was quite drunk by now. ‘Pot calling kettle,’ she quipped.

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘Sorry?’

  The renowned DJ Rev, fresh back from a set in Hamburg, had been providing the music until now. Rumours were circulating that some special guests were about to make an appearance. The crowd was buzzing about who they could be.

  ‘I heard it’s Coldplay,’ F
leur overheard someone say.

  ‘That would make sense, Gwyneth’s here,’ her companion replied.

  All the champagne was playing havoc with Fleur’s bladder. ‘I have to go to the loo. Will you be all right by yourself?’

  He looked amused. ‘I think I’ll survive, don’t worry.’

  Fleur dreaded running into Valentina and her cronies again, but thankfully the Ladies was empty. When she came back Beau was talking to a short, round little man in a flamboyant paisley jacket.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Fleur, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine, Prince Karim of Brunei.’

  A prince? Aside from the serious bling round his neck he looked very normal. Not that she was sure what princes were meant to look like.

  ‘How do you do, Fleur?’ The prince’s accent was pure Eton.

  The music stopped and DJ Rev’s cockney tones came through the microphone. ‘Evening, ladies and gents. I hope we’re all having a good time tonight.’

  Fleur took the opportunity to grab another flute of champagne off a passing waiter.

  ‘Careful,’ Beau told her. ‘You’re lethal enough on those heels as it is.’

  ‘I’ll just have to rely on you to catch me, then,’ she said flirtily. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. DJ Rev started stirring the crowd up.

  ‘Now listen, people! I know rumours have been flying about our special guests tonight. Coldplay, Mick and the boys, someone’s even mooted the resurrection of Michael Jackson.’

  The crowd cheered. ‘Michael, I love you!’ a woman cried.

  ‘RIP, Michael, you legend.’ DJ Rev bowed up to the sky. ‘I’m happy to tell you however, that the next act is very much alive and kicking. Ladies and gents, put your hands together for The Cavalry!’

  A corner of the garden that had been out of bounds all night suddenly lit up like a fireworks show. The Cavalry appeared, framed in a white stage that was meant to look like a photo frame. For the next thirty minutes they played all their hits, including a world premiere of their new single. The jaded crowd went wild, Fleur included. She’d never seen or heard anything so incredible.

  Afterwards the band came over to see Beau and they all hugged Fleur, increasing her cachet amongst the other partygoers. Jonny Faro, the lead singer, sporting a new tattoo and an amazing quiff, put his arm round her.