Party Games Page 3

  ‘I’ve been sunbathing in the garden all afternoon,’ Catherine confessed. ‘It’s horribly lazy.’

  A vast bulk barged into her and nearly sent her flying. Jonty Fortescue-Wellington, drunk as usual, walrus stomach gaping out of the bottom of his shirt. The Conservative MP for Beeversham, Jonty was terrible at his job and a raging alcoholic. His bloodhound eyes fastened on Catherine’s legs. ‘Where’s the plonk, Ginny?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s just tea or orange juice, Jonty,’ she said firmly.

  A gust of sandalwood heralded the arrival of Tristan Jago. Tall, rakish and energetic, Tristan was the big name in Beeversham’s Labour Party. Half Jonty’s age and weight, Tristan was chomping at the bit for the MP’s job. Jonty wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

  ‘Missed you at Lavenham’s WI meeting last night, Jonty. The plight of our hedgerow robins not important enough for you?’

  ‘I was sitting in Parliament,’ Jonty slurred pompously. ‘Shipping reforms.’

  Tristan’s eyes gleamed behind his trendy black-rimmed spectacles. ‘Really? I thought that was last week.’

  ‘Jonty, let me find you a seat.’ Ginny came round the table and ushered him to the back before he caused any trouble.

  Catherine went to find a place herself. Felix was standing at the front, a reassuring figure in jaunty mustard slacks.

  ‘Evening, everybody. Thanks so much for coming along on this wonderful spring evening. I know you’re all keen to know what’s been happening, so let’s get started.’

  John came to sit down beside Catherine. ‘What do you make of the plans?’ she whispered.

  ‘The bloke’s got balls if nothing else. It looks like a bloody monster.’

  ‘I’ll give you a brief history of Ye Olde Worlde,’ Felix continued. ‘I’m sure you’ve read all about it in the newspapers.’

  It made for grim listening. A chain of theme parks across the USA, Ye Olde Worlde was a mawkish, whimsical interpretation of British culture. For eighty dollars per head, customers could experience delights such as the Oxford University Terror Plunge (a bare-knuckle ride through the dreaming spires) and the Loch Ness Log Flume. There was even a waxwork museum dedicated entirely to the Middletons, reportedly featuring a statue of Pippa M’s bottom. It was a billion-dollar brand and a property developer called Sid Sykes had bought up the first UK franchise.

  Tristan Jago’s hand shot up. ‘Sykes is claiming Ye Olde Worlde will create hundreds of new jobs. Three million people are out of work under this Conservative government, the highest level for three decades. Since your lot got us in the mess in the first place, why aren’t you creating more jobs?’

  ‘Ye Olde Worlde would also ruin any existing tourism in the area, Tristan,’ Felix said patiently. ‘I can’t imagine who’d want to come and visit a national heritage site with a theme park looming in the background. Not to mention the disastrous effect it would have on the High Street.’

  Mr Patel wasn’t quite as diplomatic. ‘Oh, be quiet, you silly man!’ he cried. ‘What’s going to happen in a few years’ time when you want your gluten-free banana flapjacks and I’ve gone out of business?’

  Realizing he’d misjudged the mood horribly, Tristan sat down. But moments later his hand was back in the air like a jack-in-the-box.

  ‘I’d like to know what our own MP has to say about all this,’ he said piously. ‘Surely as our representative in Parliament, he should be campaigning for stricter planning rules in rural areas?’

  Everyone turned round to look at Jonty. He tucked a hip flask back in his pocket. ‘What’s that?’

  Felix gave a pained smile. ‘Tristan, as I’m sure you’re aware, planning issues generally come under the county council’s remit, not central government’s.’

  ‘Fat lot of help they’re being,’ someone grumbled.

  ‘The county councillors are reasonable people,’ Felix said. ‘I’m sure they think Ye Olde Worlde is just as much of a bad idea as the rest of us, but they have to go through the proper procedures.’

  They all started to feel a lot better. If anyone knew what they were talking about, it was Felix.

  There was a slithering noise and a loud thump. Jonty Fortescue-Wellington had passed out and fallen off his chair. Ginny rushed over with a glass of water. ‘All right everyone, nothing to see here!’

  ‘Anyone fancy the pub?’ someone asked.

  After a quick drink at Bar 47 Catherine and John headed home. As they crossed the road he put his arm round his wife’s shoulders. Catherine snuggled into his chest. At five foot nine she was hardly a short-arse, but her husband still dwarfed her.

  A couple were walking down the street towards them. Catherine watched the woman’s eyes fasten on John. Her gaze moved over him like a tourist taking in a vast, magnificent view.

  ‘You totally just got checked out then,’ Catherine said afterwards.

  ‘By who?’

  ‘The woman who just passed with the huge knockers! Don’t say you didn’t notice.’

  John grinned down at his wife. ‘I’ve only got eyes for you, my love.’

  ‘Liar,’ she scoffed. He gave her a wink. They continued down the street in a companionable silence. ‘Do you think Ye Olde Worlde will get the go-ahead?’ she asked.

  Her husband hadn’t said much. ‘These things look clear-cut, but you never can tell. From what I’ve heard, Sykes is a slippery bugger.’

  ‘What if it did create more jobs though?’ She played devil’s advocate. ‘Wouldn’t that outweigh the negatives?’

  ‘You mean at the risk of taking others down, like Felix said?’ John gave her a squeeze. ‘I’d keep those thoughts to yourself if I were you.’

  The Crescent was a handsome curve of Georgian houses just off the top of the High Street. Catherine and John were at No. 4, halfway along.

  She got her keys out and opened the front door. The hallway was in darkness. She went to switch on the light, but his hand curled over hers.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said softly.

  He pushed her against the wall. They stood there for a moment framed in the half-light from the porch. Catherine lifted her hand to trace the six o’clock shadow on the strong chin, the nose broken years ago playing rugby. The lines on her husband’s face were as familiar to her as her own.

  His hand slipped up inside Catherine’s T-shirt to caress the warm flesh of her stomach. A moment later her top was off, dropped on the floor beside him. Underneath, Catherine’s breasts were encased in the simplest of nude bras. She’d never been one for pomp and ceremony when it came to underwear.

  As John bent his head to nuzzle her cleavage she felt herself grow warm. She reached for the buttons of John’s shirt and popped them open one by one, running her hands across the vast pectorals sprinkled with dark hair.

  He pulled her bra up to expose her breasts, fingering a hard, dark nipple. ‘You still do it for me, Cath.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ she told him, wriggling out of her skinny jeans.

  He smiled and lifted her up on to the sideboard. She felt the cold ceramic of the car keys bowl pressing against her right buttock. They started to kiss, slowly at first, but then it intensified until their lips were jammed together, tongues moving in and out of each other’s mouths. It had been a while since they’d kissed so deeply and she felt aroused by the slightly frantic messiness, as if they were two schoolkids getting it on for the first time.

  She heard the clink of metal as he undid his belt buckle. She leant back against the wall and pulled the fabric of her knickers aside. John started slowly at first, getting her used to him again, but as they found their rhythm, he gripped Catherine’s hips and started driving harder. She arched her back, taking him in, giving him everything …

  They both came at the same time, slippery with a sheen of sweat. ‘Still got it,’ John gasped.

  ‘Still got it,’ Catherine gasped back.

  He sank his head on her shoulder and Catherine wrapped her legs and arms round him, floating on her own
cloud of euphoric bliss. In the darkness their breathing eventually subsided. John stood up, and pushed a tendril of hair off her forehead.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of a drink.’

  ‘Round two afterwards?’

  He grinned. ‘If my knees hold up.’

  Arms around each other, they stumbled towards the stairs, Catherine wondering if her husband was thinking the same as her. Was this the one that had struck lucky?

  Chapter 6

  It was hard to believe that Felix and Beau Rainford were related. Felix was fifty-seven, Beau twenty-four years younger. The two shared the same mother and piercing blue eyes, but the similarities stopped there. While Felix was charm personified and had time for anyone, Beau had a reputation for breathtaking rudeness and arrogance. As much as Felix maintained the equilibrium, it seemed Beau did everything he could to upset it.

  The two men’s backgrounds were also worlds apart. Felix was a grammar school boy made good, the son of a bank manager and a local farmer’s daughter. Sally Chamberlain was only nineteen when she’d married twenty-nine-year-old Trevor Chamberlain and their only son, Felix, had soon followed. The Chamberlains had lived in a cottage on the outskirts of Beeversham and seemed the perfect family. Everyone had been stunned when Sally met American racing driver and real-estate heir Doug Rainford at a local polo tournament and ran off with him afterwards.

  At the time Felix had been in his second year at university. Despite his mother running off and Trevor Chamberlain dropping dead from a heart attack six months later, Felix had emerged with a 2:1 in Law and the wonderful Ginny on his arm. They had returned to Beeversham to settle and Felix started his own solicitor’s practice, Chamberlains & Co., on the High Street. Property disputes, wills, conveyancing, Chamberlains were the one-stop shop for everything. ‘Get Felix to do it’ was the most overused phrase in town, because everyone knew he would.

  Beau’s upbringing was straight out of the pages of Tatler. Born to Sally and Doug Rainford four years after she’d left Felix’s father, Beau spent his early years travelling the world on the Formula One circuit with his parents. Doug Rainford partied as hard as he drove and at age eight, Beau was sent to Gordonstoun school to board. Tragedy struck the Rainfords’ charmed lives a year later when Sally was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour.

  Just eight weeks later, Sally had died. Not long after that, a devastated Doug Rainford had checked himself into rehab in Arizona. Despite the humiliation of his mother leaving, blood had been thicker than water for Felix. He and Ginny became Beau’s legal guardians, but it had been a tempestuous relationship, with a teenage Beau wreaking havoc round Beeversham when he came back for the holidays. When he had turned eighteen he had got his hands on the Rainford inheritance and gone off into the world without a backward glance.

  Despite a complete lack of scholarly discipline, Beau had somehow managed to sail through his A levels and, to the astonishment of everyone, had landed a place at Cambridge to read Classics. There he had managed to last a whole year before setting fire to a punt on the River Cam and causing a near-death collision under the Bridge of Sighs with a boat of terrified Japanese tourists. The exasperated head of his college did not buy Beau’s excuse that he’d been recreating a traditional Hindu funeral pyre to mourn the death of his pet gerbil, Afro, and kicked him out.

  From then on Beau devoted himself to a party lifestyle and caroused his way round the world. Men wanted to be him or be with him, while women openly surrendered to the taut, strutting body and famous cobalt gaze. In his early twenties he surprised everyone by hooking up with Lindsay St John, a buxom fifty-three-year-old rich widow. The relationship had lasted a whole two years before Beau was back on the scene, more badly behaved than ever. The society pages had breathed a sigh of relief and celebrated the return of this outrageous blond playboy who acted like he was king of the world.

  Somewhere in between Beau started up a chalet company, selling it for millions a few years later. But it was the British property market where he came into his own, snapping up ailing stately homes and old buildings for renovation. He quickly acquired a ruthless reputation, swooping in to make desperate owners offers they couldn’t refuse. His business ethics may have been questionable, but his profits were not. His property company, Beau Rainford Real Estate, or BRR, was one of the most successful in the UK.

  When word first spread that he’d bought a place in the Cotswolds the Gloucestershire set had gone into meltdown. At first Felix had turned a blind eye to all the loud parties and Beau’s vintage Mustang roaring down the High Street at three times the speed limit. He had kept a tactful silence over Ridings when most other people were up in arms. But when Beau had turned up at Felix’s fifty-fifth birthday party two years ago, drunk, and tried to pick a fight with his brother in front of a hundred guests including a visiting dignitary and a lord, Felix had put his foot down. There had been a furious exchange of words in the summerhouse at the bottom of the garden and the two hadn’t spoken since.

  The Amanda Belcher brigade saw Beau as the devil’s spawn, out to impregnate their daughters and destroy their idyllic town. Beeversham’s serving staff adored him because of his generous tipping, while the schoolkids worshipped him because he bought them fags and booze from the off-licence. Blond, beautiful, controversial and compelling, no other person had ever divided so much opinion. Love him or loathe him, since he’d moved back Beau had certainly livened things up.

  He was the hot topic of conversation when Catherine walked into Mr Patel’s at lunchtime. Amanda Belcher was at the counter, deep in conversation with a woman in a tailored floral sundress. Glamorously statuesque, Mrs Patel owned Soraya, Beeversham’s exclusive boutique shop.

  ‘… And apparently the place just reeked of sex!’ Amanda declared.

  Mrs Patel gave Catherine a relieved smile.

  ‘Catherine!’ Amanda summoned her over. ‘I was just telling Ursula here what that depraved sex addict has been up to now.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Catherine said mildly.

  ‘Nicola – who does the flowers in my shop – her sister Karen’s neighbour Angela got asked to do some cleaning for Beau last week. So she went up to Ridings, expecting nothing more than pushing the Hoover round …’

  Amanda paused for effect. ‘When she drove in, the swimming pool was seething with naked people. Playing water polo!’ Amanda’s froglike eyes bulged. ‘They had a net up and everything.’

  Catherine raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Can you believe it!’

  ‘Well, Nicola said Karen said Angela had told her she’d turned round and driven straight back out again. When she got home she only found a used condom stuck to the front passenger wheel!’

  ‘You just said it was an empty sausage-roll packet,’ Mrs Patel said.

  Amanda flapped an impatient hand at her. ‘Of course it was a condom!’

  ‘I don’t really think you should be going round saying such things.’

  ‘I’m just telling you how it is, Ursula! We need to keep our wits about us. Next thing Beau will be trying to ensnare Olympia and your Pritti into his den of lust. Nothing is sacred to that man.’

  Poor Mrs Patel went a funny shade of green.

  Catherine emerged from the shop and turned left down the street. As she passed the door of Butterflies gift shop it was suddenly flung open. A teenage girl in St Gwendolyn’s uniform came flying out, straight into her.

  ‘Watch where you’re fucking going!’ Talia Tudor shrieked.

  ‘Watch where you’re going!’ Catherine retorted. ‘And mind your bloody language.’

  Talia Tudor gave her the evil eye. ‘God, what is it with people round here?’

  The gift-shop door opened again and a woman rushed out. Lynette Tudor, owner of Butterflies and Talia’s mum. Her thin, worn face was etched with stress.

  ‘Talia …’ she started.

  ‘Fuck off, Mum! Stop getting in my face!’

  ‘You’ve got your history exam tomorrow!’ Lynette wa
iled. ‘Talia, these are your GCSEs!’

  ‘So what?’ Talia stormed off, school skirt hoiked up to gynaecological levels. ‘Like I’m going to pass them, anyway!’

  She walked out into the road without looking, causing a Renault Espace to jam on its brakes. Flipping the driver the finger, Talia stomped off down the street. Bursting into tears, Lynette fled back into the shop. Catherine was left open-mouthed on the pavement. Here she was thinking they’d moved to Beeversham for the quiet life.

  Chapter 7

  There was one anomaly in Vanessa’s well-ordered life: Renata, their Polish housekeeper. She’d been with the family on and off for years and had started off answering the phone at Vanessa’s dad’s carpet-fitting business.

  Small and shrivelled like a Californian raisin, Renata could have been anywhere between seventy and a hundred. She’d rejected the nice pink tunic Vanessa had bought her and instead wore her own uniform of tracksuit bottoms and Disneyland sweatshirts. A pair of 1970s-style NHS glasses dominated her face. The glasses actually were from the seventies; Vanessa had once asked her.

  Alarmed by the amount of dust Renata missed, Vanessa had offered countless times to buy her a new pair but the offer had always been turned down. Renata was also selectively deaf, especially around Dominique. Vanessa’s mum constantly moaned about their useless housekeeper, but Vanessa felt bound by a sense of loyalty. Luckily they also had thirty-pound-an-hour cleaners that came in once a week.

  The house was quiet that morning. Conrad was in his study reading a script his agent had sent, ‘a sci-fi version of Downton Abbey’. Dominique had gone back to bed with one of her headaches. Vanessa found Renata in the den in the basement watching a Dr Phil repeat on Sky.

  Vanessa hovered in the doorway. ‘Renata, I was just wondering why you’d chopped the heads off all these roses.’

  ‘They were bad kochanie.’

  ‘Bad?’ Vanessa repeated blankly.

  ‘Yes, funny colour. Not like roses should be.’

  ‘They’re meant to look like—’ Vanessa looked down at the massacred Spring Vintage bouquet. They’d only been delivered from Wild at Heart yesterday.