Party Games

by Carnegie, Jo

  She forked up a mouthful of pasta. ‘You can see what he’s like on television.’

  ‘I meant in person. You’ve spent quite a lot of time on the phone to him.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She felt herself becoming defensive. ‘What does that even mean, anyway?’

  ‘It means nothing, Cath. Unless it should?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘What are you insinuating? He’s a happily married man!’

  He gave her one of those hard looks that she seemed to be increasingly on the end of, and went back to eating his dinner. ‘I had my meeting in London with Jeff.’

  ‘Shit, sorry. I completely forgot! How did it go?’

  ‘Good. Jeff won the bid.’ He put his fork down. ‘He wants me to go out to Costa Rica with him and take a look.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ she said neutrally. ‘Are you going to go?’

  He gave a shrug. ‘I’m thinking about it.’

  ‘It might be worth it, seeing as I’m going to be tied up for a while.’

  They exchanged a polite smile across the table. This is all wrong, she thought.

  She put down her fork. ‘Do you actually have any faith I might win?’

  ‘I think you’re capable of anything, Cath,’ he said carefully. ‘What I’m worried about is that these people are using you. I don’t think you’re strong enough to deal with something like this at the moment.’

  ‘I am used to dealing with people. I edited a major magazine in case you’d forgotten.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’

  He was still speaking in that slow tone, as if she were a small child. ‘God, John! Why do you always make me feel so useless?’

  ‘Jesus, why do you take everything the wrong way? You’re not yourself, you haven’t been for a long time, as I think even you would agree. Now, the hopes of the nation are being put on your shoulders. I’m just asking you to think, really think about what you’re doing. I’m worried about you.’ He paused. ‘I’m worried about us.’

  ‘Do you think I’ve made the wrong decision?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said bluntly. ‘I think you need to concentrate on you, Cath, not this hare-brained idea of being the saviour of Beeversham. Go and see someone, get better, and then go out and do whatever you want. I’ll back you all the way.’

  Catherine, exhausted, stressed, terrified he was right, went on the attack again. ‘Why can’t you just be happy for me? I’m sick of the way you always treat me like a victim. You’ve always treated me like a victim, John. Does it make you feel better about yourself or something?’

  She knew instantly she’d gone too far.

  His chair went flying as he got up. ‘That is the most fucking insulting thing you could ever say to me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Cath.’ He walked out in disgust.

  She was left at the table, tears streaming down her face. Why was she jeopardizing the most important thing in her life?

  The following day came the shock announcement that Catherine Connor, ex-magazine editor and bestselling author of Cathy: My Story, was running as the Conservative candidate in Beeversham’s by-election. ‘We’re extremely pleased to have Catherine running for us,’ Felix said in the official statement. The Prime Minister’s endorsement was even more resounding. ‘She’s a bright star, a face for the future, and a huge asset to the Conservative Party,’ he told the assorted press outside Downing Street. ‘There’s only one thing left to say: vote Connor!’

  Chapter 61

  ‘Have you seen this?’

  Vanessa looked up from her BlackBerry. Her husband was in the corner of the room getting a foot rub from the make-up artist. He shook the front page of the Daily Telegraph at her. The headline was about Catherine Connor running as the surprise candidate for the Beeversham by-election. There was also a box-out on Catherine’s career and the Crimson Killer case.

  Actually, Vanessa wasn’t that surprised. Catherine had always been fanatically campaigning for one issue or the other when she’d edited Soirée. The woman just loved being in the thick of it.

  ‘What’s her manifesto going to be?’ Conrad continued. ‘Picking off the entire constituency one by one? God, they must be desperate!’ He flashed a smile at the young make-up artist. ‘Careful, sweetheart, I’ve got sensitive arches. Ballet dancer’s feet, I’ve been told.’

  Their OK! ‘at home’ shoot was actually taking place at an oligarch’s mansion in south-west London. The house was full of people. As well as the journalist, there was the picture editor, the art director, the fashion editor, the fashion editor’s assistant, the photographer and the photographer’s assistant. Outside caterers had been brought in to provide lunch; they didn’t want to mess up the spotless kitchen.

  The Powells had brought their entourage: Vanessa’s hair and make-up person, Marty, Tamzin and their PR guru Simon Ferrari, who was conducting the couple’s four-week press campaign before the Silver Box Awards.

  Tamzin came in with a Starbucks tray. ‘Coffees are here.’ She handed Vanessa an Americano and took the other cup over to Conrad.

  ‘Skinny decaf dry cappuccino with sugar-free hazelnut syrup?’ he said, without looking up from his BlackBerry.

  ‘Yes, Conrad.’

  He stuck his hand out. ‘No organic cinnamon dusting?’

  ‘No, Conrad.’

  Vanessa gave Tamzin a sympathetic smile. She was a sweet girl. Not for the first time, she thought how lucky they were to have her as their PA.

  The kitchen shoot was first. Vanessa went off to get changed. The fashion editor pulled out a pair of white jeans and a turquoise silk vest. ‘I thought we could try these. With the wedge espadrilles. It’s very summery and “kitcheny”.’

  ‘“Kitcheny”?’ Vanessa repeated.

  ‘Yes, you know, “kitcheny”.’ The woman looked a bit panicked. ‘The whole domestic goddess thing.’

  ‘Fine,’ Vanessa sighed. ‘Let’s go for kitcheny.’

  Conrad’s hair and make-up took so long they were late getting started. Terry Johnston, the fabulously flamboyant photographer, soon got them going.

  ‘Conrad, look into Vanessa’s eyes! If you can both hold the knife. Conrad, put your hand over Vanessa’s like that – perfect! Now give me your best smiles. Gorgeous!’

  Next up was the two of them lovingly reading copies of OK! in the opulent living room. Vanessa changed into knee-length Missoni, while Conrad was in a seductively unbuttoned shirt and Italian loafers, Ralph Lauren jeans rolled up just enough to show off his fine ankles. Sukie, fragrant and fluffy after a special fifty-pound trim and blow-dry, was brought in to sit on Vanessa’s lap.

  Vanessa’s make-up artist reapplied another layer of lip gloss. ‘And that’s for you, darling,’ she said, touching Sukie’s button nose with her powder brush. ‘Can’t have you looking all shiny.’

  Terry started snapping again. ‘Conrad, if you stare at the page, and Vanessa, giggle, as if you’re pointing something out. Beautiful!’

  A restless Sukie shoved her nose in Conrad’s crotch. ‘Conrad, pick Sukie up,’ Terry said. ‘Perfect! Adorable!’

  ‘You breathe on me, mutt, and you’re history,’ Conrad beamed through gritted teeth.

  The dining room was next, with the couple lounging languorously in evening wear at a table to sit thirty. Afterwards they went to change into matching bathrobes for the bedroom scene. Though she normally had an iron stamina for shoots, Vanessa’s head was starting to throb. It was a relief when Terry called a wrap and they stopped for lunch.

  Marty found Vanessa wandering barefoot round the end of the garden, Sukie in her arms. ‘They want to start the interview,’ he said.

  ‘OK. Just give me a minute.’

  Marty glanced at her. ‘You all right, kid?’

  Vanessa had spent the last ten minutes sobbing quietly into her dog’s fur. ‘Just a bit of hay fever,’ she lied.

  ‘I’ll get Tamzin to go out a
nd get something for you.’ Marty put his arm round Vanessa. ‘Come on.’

  They did the interview in the living room, Vanessa and Conrad on opposite ends of the sofa. The journalist was perched awkwardly on a pouffe in front of them.

  ‘You must be so excited about presenting the Silver Box Awards!’

  ‘Oh, extremely excited,’ Conrad gushed. ‘To host an evening amongst one’s peers, it’s a tremendous honour.’

  ‘Conrad, obviously you had a very successful four years on the long-running soap The Saviours.’

  ‘Four and a half,’ he interrupted with a smile.

  ‘Sorry, I meant four and a half.’ The journalist looked at her notes. ‘Was it a massive disappointment getting dropped from Mice and Men?’

  Conrad’s smile faltered. ‘Obviously it wasn’t ideal, but it happens to all the greats. Martin Sheen, Gary Oldman, Billy Bob. The director’s prerogative is an occupational hazard.’

  ‘Are you hoping Silver Box will resurrect your career?’

  He looked pained. ‘It’s not as though it needs resurrecting. In fact I was reading an extremely exciting script on the journey in.’

  Conrad had spent the entire car journey on the fashion website Mr Porter. ‘Yeah, right!’ Vanessa scoffed without thinking.

  They both looked at her strangely. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean, Conrad has been sent some amazing scripts recently. It’s a credit to him what an incredible actor he is.’

  ‘Incredible,’ the journalist echoed. ‘Vanessa and Conrad, you’ve been happily married for seven years now, and you’ve built up a multi-million-pound business together. What’s your secret to your successful relationship?’

  ‘There’s only one secret,’ Conrad said, gazing fondly at his wife. ‘Love.’

  It was gone seven o’clock by the time they got back to Tresco House. The electronic gates swung open to let the Bentley pull in.

  Conrad had barely said two words the whole journey. He was out of the car in a flash, disappearing into the house.

  Vanessa lifted Sukie out and put her down. The dog raced off after a passing butterfly.

  ‘Thanks, Billy. You can go now.’

  The chauffeur nodded. ‘Thanks, Mrs Powell.’

  She went in and dragged herself upstairs, stopping to look at herself caught in the mirror on the landing. All I want is Dylan, she thought, looking at her huge unhappy eyes and defeated shoulders. I’m trapped in a life I don’t want.

  Conrad was standing by the bedroom window as she walked in. Vanessa went over to the dressing table to take her earrings out. ‘I thought you were in your study.’

  ‘Can I ask why you did that?’ He was gazing outside, watching as if there were something of great interest out there.

  She sat down. ‘Did what?’

  It happened so quickly she had no time to react. He sprang over and grabbed her by the wrists. ‘I said, why did you fucking do that to me?’

  ‘What? Conrad, you’re hurting me!’ She struggled helplessly. ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  ‘Yes you do! Embarrassing me like that in front of that journalist. Humiliating me!’

  She looked into her husband’s ice-cold eyes and became seriously frightened. ‘Conrad, I didn’t mean it. I know you’re frustrated about not getting good scripts at the moment.’

  ‘Do you? What the fuck do you know? How can you know what it’s like for me, a talented actor, to be associated with any of this shit? I know what people are saying: “Oh, Conrad Powell will put his name to a loo roll if they pay him enough.”’

  His nails were digging into her. She began to cry. ‘Conrad, please.’

  ‘You of all people should support me,’ he hissed.

  ‘I do support you!’ she wept.

  ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ His breath was rank, a mixture of the all-protein diet and dark malevolence. ‘I’m sick of being married to a miserable cow who shows me fuck-all attention. What is it, darling? Do you prefer girls? Boys? Ladyboys? We can get whoever in if it turns you on.’

  She was wearing the most exquisite Erdem dress. She heard the material rip as he yanked it up. ‘Conrad! No!’

  ‘You’re my wife.’ He forced her face down on the bed. ‘I’ll do what I fucking like.’

  It was over in less than a minute. Zipping himself up, he walked out and left her frozen on the bed.

  Chapter 62

  1 August

  Catherine had spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. By 5 a.m. she gave up, sliding out of bed so as not to wake John, who was breathing peacefully beside her.

  The first smears of dawn were breaking over the hills. She curled up in the window seat and looked out. A ginger cat slunk across the back lawn, disappearing into the foliage. She gazed after the animal, envying its freedom. In a few hours’ time the Beeversham by-election would kick off. For the next three weeks, she wouldn’t be able to call her life her own. She would be eating, sleeping, breathing the campaign. In the still, peaceful dawn it was hard to believe such madness lay ahead.

  The Today programme was on the radio as she walked into the kitchen. ‘The campaigning for the hotly anticipated Beeversham by-election starts today …’

  Catherine went over and turned it off. She could throw up at any moment.

  John was still in his dressing gown, dark chest hair poking out of the top. He came over and handed her a coffee.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. His eyes were distant and devoid of their normal warmth. He was making an effort for her big day, but she knew he was still furious with her.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty sick,’ she confessed.

  ‘You need to eat something before you go.’

  ‘John, I just told you I was feeling sick!’

  The front doorbell went. She fled the kitchen to answer it. It was a delivery boy clutching a mountain of helium balloons. She read the accompanying card and felt a momentary lift. ‘Good luck, babe! You’ve got our vote already. Mel and Mike. Xx.’

  John came down the corridor. ‘Someone having a party?’

  ‘More like my funeral.’

  Her stomach was churning like a cement mixer. She smoothed down the new navy dress she’d bought online from COS. Chic, but not too expensive. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Good, Cath.’

  They eyeballed each other through the balloons. ‘Well, then!’ she said with a heartiness she didn’t feel. ‘I’d better get going.’

  He put a dry kiss on her cheek. ‘Go get ‘em.’

  The press were out in force, and Catherine got ambushed on the High Street. Everyone wanted the same questions answered: how nervous was she and was she worried about the legacy of Jonty? ‘Dead man’s shoes’ was how one reporter helpfully put it. By the time Catherine got to Tory HQ fifteen minutes later, she was ready to be sick in her handbag.

  Kitty and Clive were waiting expectantly, along with half a dozen leaflet droppers Catherine had nicknamed the ‘Blue Rosettes’. She was strangely touched to see them all wearing ‘Vote Connor’ T-shirts. It was no surprise that Aubrey and co. weren’t there, but God bless him, Felix was calm and collected in chinos and an Oxford-blue shirt. ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘I slept, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘First-day nerves. You’ll be fine once you’re out there.’ His eyes drifted down to Catherine’s Gucci heels. ‘Goodness, look at those!’

  ‘We did wonder about them,’ Kitty said. ‘I’ve got a spare pair of Crocs in my bag if you want.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can climb mountains in these.’

  They left the building armed with ‘Vote Connor’ leaflets, suncream and bottles of water. The first week of the campaign was to be spent canvassing target areas and meeting as many people as possible. As Catherine was a newcomer, it was vital they got her name out there.

  They were going to start on Blackbird Rise, a long road snaking around the southern end of the town. The most densely populated part of Beeversham
, it was perfect for hitting up lots of houses.

  Catherine’s gang turned off the High Street and stopped dead. The road was a sea of red. Posters of Tristan Jago cuddling the sodding duck were in every house window. An ‘I’m Cotswolds and I Care’ placard was sticking out of someone’s front garden. Tristan might as well have just cocked his leg against every door in the street to mark his territory.

  ‘Rats,’ one of the Rosettes muttered. ‘They’ve beaten us to it.’

  The man himself was striding towards them, a red rosette the size of a cabbage on his lapel. A photographer was running to keep up in his wake.

  ‘Morning!’ Tristan cried. ‘Early bird catches the worm and all that.’

  ‘Can we get a picture of the two of you together?’ the photographer asked.

  Tristan put an arm round Catherine and beamed into the camera. ‘May I take this opportunity to wish you all the luck,’ he told her. ‘We’ve never had such a novice run before; it must be very daunting for you!’

  The rest of Tristan’s gang had arrived. They and the Blue Rosettes were facing off in a not entirely friendly fashion. ‘Come on, Tristan,’ one of them sniffed. ‘We’ve got Cotswold FM at nine a.m.’

  ‘Why aren’t I on Cotswolds FM?’ Catherine asked Clive as they walked off.

  ‘Let’s not run before we can walk,’ he told her.

  A harassed woman opened the first door, a crying child attached to her leg.

  ‘Hello, I’d like to introduce myself,’ Catherine said. ‘I’m Catherine Connor, Conservative candidate for Beeversham and …’

  ‘I don’t do politics.’ The woman shut the door in Catherine’s face.

  The living-room curtains were still drawn in the next house. After knocking for a good minute they were about to give up when the door opened, to reveal a yawning man with long dreadlocks. It immediately became apparent he slept in little more than the tribal tattoos covering 80 per cent of his body. The Blue Rosettes averted their eyes discreetly, as if they’d seen it all before.

  ‘Morning!’ Catherine said, desperately trying not to look at the huge piercing hanging out of the man’s appendage. ‘I’m Catherine Connor, Conservative candidate for Beeversham. I’m passionate about providing a good service, especially in regard to youth unemployment, domestic violence and equal opportunities for women in the workplace.’