by Carnegie, Jo
The man tugged at his crotch. ‘Where do you stand on legalizing weed?’
‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘Well.’ She thought desperately on her feet. ‘There is a legitimate debate as to whether we should change our laws. Some critics consider them too draconian.’
There was a collective intake of breath behind her. ‘I’ll look into it,’ she promised the man, handing him a leaflet.
‘We can’t condone drugs!’ Kitty squeaked, once the door had shut. ‘We’re not the Lib Dems!’
Next door Catherine repeated her spiel. An old man in a Pringle jumper with a West Highland terrier tucked under his arm eyed her suspiciously. ‘What about Ye Olde Worlde? You don’t care about that, then?’
She was so nervous she’d forgotten to mention the most important thing. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘That as well.’
‘Poppycock,’ the old man said and shut the door in her face.
By lunchtime they’d only covered a fraction of the surrounding streets. People either weren’t in, or pretended not to be. Of the ones that did open the door, Catherine now knew more about their haemorrhoids and spastic colons than could ever be healthy. There was no sign of the press; apparently they’d flocked to see Esme Santura the pagan witch conduct a Wicca circle by the church.
Under the unrelenting heat, she began to flag. Worried she wasn’t going to make it through the afternoon, Clive and Kitty dragged her in for an emergency foot rub at Buff Nail Bar.
‘Jesus.’ Mel stared at Catherine’s heel. ‘You’ve got a blister the size of Puerto Banus.’
‘I wish I was in Puerto Banus, Mel, I’m making a complete pig’s ear of it.’
Kitty sprayed her with some Rescue Remedy. Catherine picked up her phone. There was a text from John.
‘Still alive?’
‘Barely,’ she typed back.
In the afternoon it went from bad to worse. Catherine was single-handedly blamed for the pension crisis, starving orphans in Africa and the downfall of the NHS. Her saving grace was Olde Worlde, but she drew a blank on the rest. No one was interested in her pledges. Domestic violence was a dirty word. Stressed mothers didn’t have the time to talk about whether they were getting a fair deal at work. Stay-at-home workers were just irritated that she had interrupted them. All the pensioners wanted to talk about was dog shit, why so-and-so down the road had got planning permission for their extension, and whether capital punishment was coming back. Forget green and pleasant lands; she had no idea the Jam and Jerusalem contingent were quite so bloodthirsty.
At eight o’clock, after nearly twelve hours of canvassing, they headed back to Tory HQ. Demoralized and defeated, Catherine shuffled in wearing Kitty’s bright green Crocs. To her relief Felix was waiting there with a reassuring smile. She wasn’t quite so pleased to see Aubrey Taunton-Brown.
‘How did it go?’ Aubrey asked smoothly. ‘We caught you on the news.’
He gave her a look. Catherine had gone over on her ankle and mouthed the word ‘shit’ whilst being interviewed live by BBC Gloucestershire.
‘Marvellous,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Hitler would have got a warmer reception.’
She and Felix went next door for a debrief. ‘Don’t look so glum,’ he told her. ‘These things happen.’
He didn’t look very convinced. Catherine sank down despondently in a chair. ‘Maybe Aubrey’s right, Felix. People don’t care about the same things I do.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I’m the one who’s out of touch.’
‘You just have to win them over. People worry about their leisure centre closing, or bus routes being cancelled so they can’t get to see a loved one in hospital. It’s local issues every time.’
‘But I care about the bigger issues!’ she protested. ‘That’s why I’m running.’
‘These are big issues to the people round here. You have to start at the grass roots, Catherine. Get it right there and the rest will follow.’
The Prime Minister had made it all sound so easy. Catherine was again struck by the niggling doubt that her husband was right. I’m the sacrificial lamb, she thought glumly. Only this slaughter was going to last another three weeks.
Chapter 63
Fleur found Beau stretched out by the pool. He was oiled and hard in a minuscule pair of black bathing trunks.
‘Hello, you.’ He got up to kiss her, his hands moving round to cup her bottom. ‘Are you wearing knickers?’
‘Of course I am!’
‘Mmm. You won’t be for much longer.’
The flames started fanning between her legs again. She was disappointed when he released her.
‘What can I get you to drink?’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
‘Mojito it is, then. Take a seat, angel.’
He came back over with the drinks and sat down next to her on the sofa. ‘There you go.’ His eyes held hers. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ she mumbled into her glass.
His face softened. ‘It’s good to see you, Fleur. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.’
She glowed with happiness. ‘Me neither.’
They smiled at each other. He put his drink down and dropped a kiss on her shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a dip.’
‘Now?’
‘Right now.’
He strode over to the pool and executed a perfect dive, popping up like a muscular blond seal moments later. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Um,’ she said, panicking. ‘I’m not wearing a swimming costume.’
He wriggled under the water and waved his black bathing trunks in the air. ‘Neither am I now.’
‘Someone might come round!’ she protested.
‘Stop being so bloody English!’ he roared.
With great reluctance, Fleur stood up and started to take off her shorts. His eyes gleamed. ‘And the rest.’
Her T-shirt was next. ‘We’re really going to have to get you some new underwear,’ Beau told her, as she stood in her bra and knickers. ‘I’m sure they stopped making knickers like that after the Second World War.’
After that, it took some cajoling to get the offensive garments off. Fleur stood in her naked glory, feeling horribly exposed. ‘Come on then, what are you waiting for?’ Beau yelled.
It was now or never. She took off like Usain Bolt and skidded on a puddle at the water’s edge. In slow motion her legs flew up in front of her and she landed on her back in the pool, making the most colossal splash.
Beau was killing himself laughing as he rescued her. ‘I’ve never seen Tom Daley perform that manoeuvre. Are you all right?’
Water was cascading out of her nose. So much for being sexy. She clutched on to his shoulders until she got her breath back. Her boobs were bobbing merrily between them. ‘Your tits look fantastic,’ he told her. ‘Have you ever thought about having sex in a pool?’
His body was like a big slippery eel wrapping around her. ‘No,’ she gasped as he pushed her against the wall.
This time they came together, Fleur wrapped round him like an orgasmic monkey. ‘You’re getting very good at this,’ he groaned.
She felt ecstatic. ‘I’ve got a very good teacher.’
They stayed locked together, Beau cradling her in his arms. The sun was on her back and shoulders, the water like a warm bath. She laid her face against his smooth chest and tried to remember a time she’d felt so happy.
‘I’ve got to go and make a phone call,’ he murmured. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
He put her down with a smile. ‘Stay out here and enjoy the sun, I’ll be back soon.’
Hauling himself out, he strolled off towards the house, naked as the day he was born. She marvelled at his wide back and taut buttocks like a pair of beach-balls, and marvelled at the fact she’d just had sex with him.
Half an hour later Beau hadn’t reappeared. Wrapping the towel from his sunbed round herself, Fleur decided to go and find him.
There were no signs of life in the house, but
she heard the murmur of voices in the kitchen. Did he have visitors? She crept along the corridor, ready to duck into the downstairs loo if someone came out.
The door was only open a crack, but it was enough to see Beau – now in a vest and chinos – and the blonde woman standing by the counter. There was something about their close proximity that made Fleur feel uncomfortable. The woman looked familiar, attractive in a slightly faded way. Fleur suddenly recognized her: it was Lynette Tudor, who owned the gift shop. That was weird. What was she doing here?
Clearing her throat, she pushed the door open. ‘Hi.’
Beau turned round. ‘Sweetheart. I was about to come and see if you’d drowned. Have you met Lynette? She does a bit of housekeeping for me.’
Lynette gave Fleur the briefest of smiles. ‘I should get going,’ she told Beau.
‘Sure. I won’t be a minute, angel,’ he told Fleur.
She gazed round the kitchen dully. It didn’t look like it had just been cleaned.
Beau was back within a minute. ‘Sorry about that. Lynette dropped by to pick up her wages.’
‘I didn’t know you knew her.’
He went over to the fridge and opened it. ‘I just told you; she cleans for me sometimes.’ He came over with two beers and handed one to Fleur. ‘Let’s take these upstairs.’
Chapter 64
The Powells were in London, doing a script read-through for the Silver Box Awards. The setting was a boardroom at London Television Centre, overlooking the South Bank. They’d been looked after wonderfully, but Conrad still wasn’t happy.
‘I’m not sure it has enough pizzazz,’ he said.
‘It’s great, Conrad,’ the executive producer told him.
‘Perfect,’ the producer agreed.
The director checked her notes. ‘We’re running over as it is.’
‘Les loves my ideas,’ Conrad sniffed. ‘As the controller of ITV, I think he knows what he’s talking about.’
There were subtle eye-rolls all round. Conrad’s incessant tweaking was starting to drive them all mad. Anyone would think he was delivering a presidential speech, not reading out the nominations between awards.
‘What do you think, Vanessa?’ the executive producer asked. ‘It’s slightly more geared towards Conrad at the moment, are you happy with that?’
‘Yes, I really don’t mind.’
The ITV people exchanged another look. They’d been warned Vanessa was a perfectionist, but she’d spent most of the meeting staring out of the window.
I don’t blame her, the director thought. If Conrad was her husband she wouldn’t want to be there either.
In the afternoon the Powells went on The Scott Mills Show at Broadcasting House. Their PR, Simon Ferrari, was rather concerned afterwards.
‘Are you all right, Vanessa?’ he asked her. She’d called Scott ‘Steve’ twice on air and had to be asked three times what she was wearing to the awards.
Conrad shot her a cold look. He’d been in a foul mood after being asked if he thought Colin Firth would win Best Actor.
Vanessa stared blindly ahead. Under the YSL sunglasses, her eyes were full of tears.
Mercifully her husband was staying in London for the night. After they’d dropped him off, she was like a zombie on the journey back home. She didn’t even realize they’d reached the front door of Tresco House.
‘Mrs Powell?’
‘Oh.’ Vanessa reached for her handbag. ‘Thank you, Billy.’
For the first time ever, Billy took her hand as she got out. ‘Are you all right, Mrs Powell?’
She looked into the concerned face of her loyal chauffeur.
‘I’m fine, Billy, just a bit tired. Would you mind taking my mother’s lilies into the house?’
Unable to face going in, Vanessa went straight into the garage and started up the Smart Car. It was a huge risk going out with the amount of press swarming round, but she was at breaking point.
At the end of the drive she nearly collided with a green estate car. Three people wearing blue rosettes looked back at her.
‘Er, Vanessa?’
She gazed at the woman in the passenger seat. Catherine Connor gave an apologetic smile. ‘Hi, I just wanted to …’
‘Fuck off!’ Vanessa shrieked. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’
She screeched off. When she got near enough, she left the keys in the ignition and ran sobbing through Foxgloves Woods and out into the field beyond. She hadn’t even got halfway across when Dylan came racing out of the thicket. ‘Eddie was whining,’ he told her, as she collapsed into his arms. ‘Vanessa. My God. What the hell has happened?’
Before she could stop herself, Vanessa found herself telling him everything – Conrad filming her, his threats, the rape. When she’d finished telling him, her sweet, gentle Dylan was shaking with fury.
‘That bastard. I’m going round there.’
His eyes were wild, face taut with anger. She had never seen him look like that.
‘He’s not there, and anyway, you mustn’t, Dylan!’ she pleaded. ‘It will only make things worse.’
‘I want to kill him.’ He put his arms round her. ‘I want to kill him for what he’s done to you.’
‘I’m OK,’ she sobbed. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘You’re not OK. I’ll go and get Sukie and your things from the house. We’ll go to the police station together. He can’t get away with this.’
It was all happening too quickly. ‘I can’t just walk out.’
‘Yes, you can! What if there’s a next time?’
‘There won’t be. I’ve got my mother and Renata around. Please, Dylan, just trust me. I have to do the awards. The minute they’re over, I’m leaving him.’
‘Forget the awards! Forget the press, or whatever else it is you’re worried about. Your safety is more important.’
‘We signed a contract, there would be huge repercussions. I can’t just ride off into the sunset with you.’
His eyes burnt unnaturally bright. ‘Promise me you’ll leave the house, then. You can come here, or stay in a hotel or anything you want. I just want you to get away from him.’ His voice broke. ‘I can’t stand what he’s done to you.’
Somehow his anguish gave Vanessa strength. Knowing he loved her so much made her feel like she could cope with anything.
‘It will all be over soon,’ she said. ‘Then we can be together.’
An unspoken fear hung between them, as palpable as a storm cloud. What was Conrad capable of before then?
Chapter 65
As Catherine dragged her head off the pillow early that morning, she felt like a cast member from The Living Dead. Her feet were in shreds, her throat hurt and her face was bright red from forgetting to put on suncream. At least it matched her knuckles, which were red raw from knocking on doors that never opened.
Catherine’s popularity was showing no signs of improving. Derided for being a metropolitan feminist, she’d been stonewalled by the formidable ‘Turnip Taliban’ electorates of the Cotswolds. Tristan Jago was streaking ahead in the opinion polls. His tactic was basic but effective: slagging off the government and siding with Joe Public. He’d got 42 per cent of the votes in the latest YouGov poll, while the Lib Dem Helen Singh had come in next on 28 per cent. The two independents, Colonel Bill Fairclough and Esme Santura, were next. Catherine had trailed in last with a humiliating 6 per cent. She couldn’t believe she was being beaten by a witch.
Dragging on her dressing gown, she went down to the kitchen. John was making a pot of coffee. Sunrise Radio, their local station, was on in the background.
‘I hope that’s extra strong,’ she said, flopping down at the table. ‘I’m barely capable of stringing a sentence together.’
He handed her a mug. ‘More of the same today?’
‘Yes, if you mean being somewhere on the social spectrum between Rose West and a puppy drowner.’
He gave an unexpected snort. Seeing his old, familiar grin was like watching the sun come out
after weeks of rain.
They looked at each other and began to laugh. ‘What the hell have I got myself into?’ she groaned. ‘I just want to stay here with you and pull the curtains shut.’
‘Do it, Cath!’ he urged.
‘You know I can’t,’ she sighed.
A moment later Tristan Jago’s voice seeped into the room.
‘We’re extremely pleased with how things have gone so far.’
‘It’s six-thirty in the morning!’ Catherine howled. ‘Does the man not bloody sleep?’
‘What do you think of the Conservative candidate, ex-Soirée editor Catherine Connor?’ the Sunrise Radio DJ asked.
‘Here we go,’ Catherine muttered.
‘I think we have to ask, what are Catherine Connor’s real motives for running?’ Tristan asked. ‘The woman is desperate to claw her way back into the limelight, by whatever means are possible. Unfortunately, she’s been allowed to use the Beeversham by-election to do it.’
‘Motherfucker!’ Catherine yelled. ‘You lying, lanky streak of piss!’
Tristan was just getting warmed up. ‘The whole thing’s a joke. What the good people of Beeversham need is a local person who cares about local issues …’
‘Like you, Tristan?’ the DJ asked.
‘Exactly like me. Instead of some over-the-hill magazine editor who’s written a tawdry tell-all book to get more exposure. Vote Catherine Connor? I’d say more like “Champagne Charlotte”!’
John looked at his wife. ‘Cath, don’t.’
‘He’s not bloody getting away with this!’ she said, furiously dialling 118. ‘Hello? I’d like the number for Sunrise Radio. Urgently, please!’
Beeversham was slowly starting to wake up. People moved round their kitchens buttering toast and putting on pots of coffee. The upbeat pop songs of Sunrise Radio were a popular choice to start the day. As Gerry and the Pacemakers faded out the DJ came back on.
‘Today we’ve got Tristan Jago in the studio, Labour candidate in the Beeversham by-election. I’m also joined on the line by Catherine Connor, the Conservative candidate. Can you hear me, Catherine?’