Party Games Page 2

  In another world a million miles before this one, Vanessa had looked up to Catherine. She’d subscribed to Soirée from the age of sixteen. Clever, funny and sophisticated, the magazine was like the older sister she had so desperately wanted. She had thought Catherine was a goddess.

  So when Soirée had printed that bunch of lies it was as if Catherine had personally punched Vanessa in the stomach. The fallout had been even worse: devastating insinuations that Vanessa was a high-class prostitute. The Sun’s front page would be branded in her memory for ever. BUSTED! Good-Time Girl Vanessa Powell POPS out at party of shame! To add to the humiliation they’d superimposed Vanessa’s head on a Carry On picture of a topless Barbara Windsor.

  By then she had reinvented herself as a mesmerizing beauty, but in a heartbeat she was ‘Gyppy Jardine’ again, the bullied, friendless teenager. Her mother had been chased down the street by reporters and asked what she thought about her daughter being a whore. Vanessa had been subjected to even worse. The one saving grace was that her father hadn’t been alive to see it.

  Vanessa had come through it, but she still burnt with anger every time she thought about it – the devastating ripple effect Catherine Connor had created. Clever, opinionated Catherine, who saw women like Vanessa as pointless bits of tits and ass. In a funny way, Vanessa had Catherine to thank. Nothing like a public wronging to send a celebrity’s career into orbit providing you played it right. Seven years on she was one of the most recognizable women in Britain.

  And when it had been Catherine’s turn to get dragged through the tabloids, Vanessa had enjoyed every minute.

  Chapter 3

  Twenty-three-year-old Fleur Blackwater woke alone in her single bed. It felt like she’d only just put her head on the pillow, but the watery sunlight filtering through the curtains signalled another long day ahead.

  The digital clock read 5.28 a.m. Two more precious minutes of rest. She looked up at the sagging ceiling and imagined what it would feel like to have a lie-in. For a blissful moment she was transported away to one of those Greek islands in the holiday brochures. Fleur in a pretty kaftan; sitting on a terrace by the sea enjoying fresh coffee and a leisurely breakfast …

  The drill of the alarm went off, terminating her daydream. All she wanted to do was pull the covers back over her head, but the familiar gnaw of anxiety had already started. Flinging the duvet back, she pulled off the ancient Gap T-shirt that masqueraded as a nightie and went to rummage around for a clean pair of knickers. It didn’t take long to get dressed. Greying bra grabbed from the back of the chair, a fraying polo shirt, jeans that smelt the least offensive close up. As usual the laundry basket was overflowing. Animals came before people in this house.

  Her beauty routine was equally quick. Fleur squinted critically in the mirror above the sink and noticed her freckles had got more pronounced in the sun. She hated her freckles almost as much as she hated her E-cup chest, which had been dropped on her petite frame like some kind of sick joke. Fleur had never understood why all these celebrities wanted to pump themselves up surgically. Her breasts were big and heavy and got in the way of her job. She hid them under baggy tops, wishing one morning she’d wake up to find them magically shrunk.

  Tying her long, luxuriant red hair up (her one redeeming feature) she walked out on to the landing. The farmhouse was quiet, the sound of a faraway cockerel floating in through an open window.

  Her parents’ bedroom was two doors down on the right. The one next to it had been unused for years. Claire, Fleur’s older sister, had escaped as soon as she could and now lived in suburban bliss with her new family in Reading. She came down for a duty visit once a year, itching to get back out of the door as soon as she’d arrived. Fleur didn’t really blame her sister: they were hardly the Von Trapps these days. People dealt with grief in different ways.

  The kitchen door was still closed, a sign her dad hadn’t made it to bed again. Fleur found him slumped on the wooden table, snoring raggedly. A bottle of cheap whisky had been seen off, the empty glass perched precariously in Robert Blackwater’s calloused hand. The chair her mum had always sat in was pulled out, as if Robert had passed out mid-conversation with a ghost.

  Fleur went over. ‘Dad.’ She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

  He twitched and mumbled something. She shook him this time, hard.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘What’s that?’ He blinked bloodshot eyes open. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You fell asleep at the table again.’

  ‘I must have dropped off. All this bloody extra paperwork they keep giving us.’

  The pile of unpaid bills still lay untouched on the dresser. She bit her lip.

  Robert Blackwater got up stiffly, avoiding eye contact with his daughter. He went over to the sink and poured out a glass of water.

  ‘Why don’t you go and have a shower?’ she suggested. ‘I’ll make a start on breakfast.’

  Her dad still had his back to her. ‘Don’t baby me, girl.’

  The smell of stale alcohol was making her queasy. Fleur had to get out of the messy room and its unhappy memories. ‘I’ll go and see to the cows, then.’

  He didn’t answer. After making a run for it, Fleur stood outside in the clean morning air for a moment, gulping it down as if coming up for breath. A minute later the Suzuki quad bike was zooming out of the yard, their two English sheepdogs clinging to the back for dear life.

  Desperate to put distance between herself and the farmhouse, she rattled up the track to the top field. Tinker and Bess had jumped off even before she’d come to a stop, bounding off further up the hill. She stood up on the bike and looked down on her fields. In the nearest, new calves were wobbling round on twiggy legs, following their mothers. The adjoining field held the April spring lambs, little white clouds moving across the expanse of green.

  Predominantly a beef and lamb business, Blackwater Farm supplied meat to supermarkets and businesses across the south west of England. May was calving month, and Fleur was flat out looking after expectant mothers and newborns.

  It was back-breaking work in a tough climate. The farming industry was on its knees and every month they heard about someone else going bankrupt. They had let all their workers go now apart from a local lad, Ben, who came in to help out. Every day it felt like they were only just keeping their heads above water. Sometimes Fleur would wake bolt upright in bed at night, her chest hammering so hard she was convinced she was having a heart attack.

  It didn’t help that she had taken on the lion’s share of the work so that her dad could concentrate on the administrative side. They both knew it was an excuse. Robert Blackwater was no longer fit enough for hard physical labour.

  She gazed angrily down the valley. Why couldn’t she have said something to him just now? Even if it had resulted in a screaming match, at least things would be out in the open. Instead of the two of them going on, pretending everything was OK. You’re a coward, Fleur …

  The gnawing, pounding sensation started in her chest again. Fleur tried a breathing exercise from the meditation book she’d bought, but it didn’t work. Instead, she trained her eyes on on the huge, gleaming white building. That unwanted house had become a physical manifestation to project all her emotions on.

  Fleur had learnt a long time ago to bottle things up. But the day she had found out that her dad had sold a hundred acres of the farm to some bloke called Beau Rainford, she had gone mad. Racing over there, she had found Beau already organizing a team of builders to tear her grandparents’ empty old house down to build his own. She had accused Beau of taking advantage of her father. He’d treated the whole thing as a big joke, telling Fleur he’d done them a favour. Unable to watch the place she’d spent half her childhood in being demolished, she had stormed out, embarrassingly throwing a clod of earth at Beau’s windscreen that totally missed.

  The galling thing was that the money had helped: buying a desperately needed new barn and the animals’ food and upkeep for the la
st two years. It still didn’t make up for the fact that she had to look at that house every day and endure Beau’s helicopter swooping overhead, frightening the livestock. He was an arrogant rich arsehole who had no respect for the countryside or the business the Blackwaters had built up. For the first time, she knew what it was like to really hate someone.

  Chapter 4

  The text message alert woke Catherine with a start. It was John. ‘At Paddington on the 4.15. See you soon. X’

  She typed in a kiss back and put the phone down. A nasty dry taste lurked in her throat and she looked guiltily at the empty bottle of rosé, a leftover from last night’s dinner. Still, Catherine reasoned, rolling off the sunlounger, it wasn’t like she had back-to-back meetings all afternoon.

  Putting her bikini top back on, she padded inside. The cool flagstone floor was a wonderful respite from the heat of the day. The once-dark basement had been transformed into a light-filled kitchen with brushed-aluminium worktops and a sliding glass wall that opened out into the garden.

  She leant on the central island with a glass of water and idly perused her reflection in the window. Last month, in a moment of impetuousness, Catherine had gone to see her old stylist in London and had her shoulder-length brown hair chopped off. Now it curled softly round her long neck and temples, giving her a more impish look. John absolutely loved it. Catherine, who thought it made her nose look big, still wasn’t sure.

  For someone who’d worked in the fashion industry, she had always had a surprisingly functional attitude to her appearance. She knew her strengths: slim, good legs, intelligent blue eyes and a nice smile. She didn’t lose much sleep over the fact that her jaw was too strong or that her boobs were never going to give Katie Price’s a run for their money. Catherine would far rather look in the mirror and see an inquisitive face full of character than a perfect blank canvas. Like Vanessa Powell, she thought rather uncharitably.

  Draining her glass of water, she went back outside. It was hard to believe this beautiful oasis had once been a jungle. The gloomy ivy had gone and had been replaced by scented wisteria that clung delicately to the yellow brick. John had cut down the rotting apple tree at the bottom of the garden and put up a beautiful summerhouse. The triffid-like rhubarb patch had been hauled up and was now a herb garden that threw out wafts of basil, mint and coriander. Catherine, who’d never even managed to keep a tomato plant alive, had watched John’s miracle-working with wonder.

  Catherine gazed round the sun-filled garden. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d ended up in the country. A self-confessed urbanite, the grimy London streets and honking traffic were Catherine’s wildlife and birdsong. As editor of the famed Soirée, she’d blazed a trail through the world of women’s glossies, campaigning for bigger issues than just celebrity and fashion. Soirée Sponsors, the charity she’d started for under-privileged teenagers in the capital, had received much praise and was still going from strength to strength.

  Catherine knew the magazine industry could be cutthroat, but she had no idea just how cut-throat until a rival editor called Isabella Montgomery had revealed her real identity. How the feted editor Catherine Connor was actually Cathy Fincham, daughter of the infamous 1970s ‘Crimson Killer’ Annie Fincham.

  Annie Fincham, a name that until a few years ago had evoked images of a cold-blooded calculating murderer. A single mother from a tough estate in Newcastle, she had been found guilty of the manslaughter of her live-in boyfriend. The Crimson Killer case had been huge (so called because of Annie’s red lipstick that was allegedly found smeared all over the dead man’s face). Society back then had been prejudiced against single mothers, especially young, beautiful single mothers who were suspiciously close to their teenage daughters. Neighbours and even Annie’s own mother blackened her name.

  Speculation was rife about what had happened in the house that night, but Annie had pleaded guilty as charged. Even with her mother in prison, fifteen-year-old Cathy Fincham had become the victim of a witch-hunt, with many, including a corrupt senior police officer who’d sold his story, insisting she had colluded in the murder. When she subsequently ran away from home and vanished into thin air, her persecutors took it as a sign of her guilt. Three decades on, the conspiracy theories still raged.

  Catherine still remembered the terrible moment she’d been exposed with clarity. From reporting the news, she was the news. But Catherine was a survivor, and this time, she was determined to stand up and tell the truth. How her mother had been the victim of domestic violence. How she, Cathy, had pushed Ray Barnard down the stairs that terrible night to stop him from strangling her mother and how Annie Fincham had gone to jail to protect her daughter. How Annie had tragically hung herself fifty-four days into her sentence, convinced her daughter would be better off without her.

  This time the public had been united in sympathy. No police charges were brought against Catherine. Isabella Montgomery had suffered her own spectacular downfall and Catherine went on to write the best-selling Cathy: My Story, donating all proceeds to Refuge. As a result, her mother had been posthumously acquitted.

  She had been vindicated but it had taken its toll. Two weeks after the book came out, she had collapsed at home in the kitchen and been unable to get out of bed for a month. Her doctor had diagnosed acute exhaustion and ordered serious time out. Watching his wife go through everything, John had wholeheartedly agreed.

  When he’d suggested driving out to the Cotswolds town of Beeversham to see a house he’d heard about, Catherine had expected to hate the place. Beeversham, she had scoffed, Are you kidding me? Instead, she’d fallen in love with the dilapidated Georgian house they’d gone on to do up. She had dreaded being the focus of town gossip, but she found the locals to be friendly and surprisingly non-judgemental. Catherine and John had been allowed to melt into country life, enjoying rounds of raucous afternoon barbecues and lively dinner parties.

  John had sold his successful construction company just before they’d moved to the country, but he still consulted on a few projects and often had to go up to London in the week. When he was gone Catherine met people for coffee and had long lunches in sunny back gardens. For the first time in her life, she had real friends.

  Even after a year she found it weird being a lady of leisure, especially on these lazy sunny midweek days when the rest of the world were at work. Her mobile, which at one time had buzzed every minute, was lying silent on the ground. There were no exclusives to chase, no problems to solve. No one needed her. People kept telling her how relaxed she looked. Privately Catherine thought she was so relaxed she was in danger of slipping into a coma.

  She lay back on the lounger and gazed up into the endless blue sky. The sun was like a soporific blanket thrown over her skin. Is this it? she wondered. At the age of thirty-nine, had her chance to make a difference in the world slipped by?

  Chapter 5

  Country life may have been quieter than London, but it still had its fair share of intrigue. Blaize Castle was at the centre of a huge planning scandal after property developers had snapped up the site and applied for permission to build a theme park, ironically called Ye Olde Worlde. The inhabitants of Beeversham were up in arms at the threat of having the Cotswolds equivalent of Disneyland in their backyard. Controversy was already raging about the vast swathes of green belt under threat from the new planning laws. The Beeversham situation had inflamed an already explosive situation.

  The residents had quickly formed an action group: Say No to Olde Worlde (aka SNOW) to fight the proposal. As Catherine and John walked up to the town hall that evening for the first meeting people were pouring in. A pudgy blonde woman with corned-beef arms stood outside bellowing into her mobile. Amanda Belcher, the bossy owner of Wedding Belles.

  ‘When will the fabric arrive then? I can hardly ask them to postpone the wedding!’

  The chatter dimmed momentarily as Catherine and John strolled in. Catherine wasn’t sure if it was because people had Cathy: My Story on their bookshelves,
or more the fact that she was with a six-foot-four gladiator of a man with green eyes and hair the colour of coal dust.

  A plump, brown-haired woman was standing behind a table festooned with SNOW literature. Her large, rather anxious eyes lit up when she saw them.

  ‘My lovelies!’

  ‘Ginny.’ Catherine went up and gave her a hug, inhaling the familiar scent of Anaïs Anaïs. Ginny was married to Felix Chamberlain, the much-respected Chairman of Beeversham’s Conservative Association. Felix was quite devoted to his wife, a legendary cook and homemaker, although it was just the two of them now their children had left home. The couple were an institution in the town.

  ‘Chaps!’ Felix came striding towards them, his thick silver hair making him look more like a benevolent badger than ever. He shook John’s hand and kissed Catherine on both cheeks.

  ‘Delighted you could make it.’ Felix was also the head of the SNOW committee. He’d been the obvious choice. ‘We’ve got the proposed drawings from Sykes Holdings on the wall. Wouldn’t mind getting your opinion, John.’ Felix looked to his wife. ‘Darling, are you all right to man the fort? Ginny’s been quite wonderful,’ he told the other two. ‘Whizzing up leaflets and all sorts on the computer.’

  The two men walked off, John head and shoulders above everyone else. Ginny looked enviously at Catherine’s sleek brown arms. ‘You’ve got the most wonderful colour on you. The moment I step outside I go all pink and blotchy.’