Party Games (16 page)

‘Have you told him how you feel?’

‘I’ve tried, but it always seems to come out wrong. What do I say? “Sorry, John, you’re just
too
perfect.”’

‘Aah, no one’s perfect, not even our John!’

Catherine stared at the heart on the top of her froth. ‘We’ve been trying, you know, for a baby. I’m healthy, John’s healthy, but nothing’s happening.’

‘You just have to give it time, darling. I’m sure it will work out in the end.’

‘That’s what John keeps saying.’

‘Doesn’t make it any easier, though, does it?’

The two exchanged a smile. ‘I don’t mean to sit here and moan,’ Catherine said. ‘I’m just having a bit of a wobble.’

‘You’re perfectly entitled, darling. We all have them.’

There was something in Ginny’s voice. Catherine didn’t know why she asked the next question. ‘Do you see Beau much?’

Ginny gave a sad little smile. ‘Not often.’

‘Do you think Felix and Beau will ever make up?’

‘Felix believes Beau has let him down very badly. He’s very black and white about things.’ Ginny trailed off. ‘It’s a difficult situation.’

There was a commotion inside. Jonty was at the counter, complaining loudly about something. They
watched him stagger off to a table, nearly taking a waitress out on the way.

‘Excuse me for speaking out of turn,’ Catherine said. ‘But how the hell does Felix put up with Jonty?’

‘Felix is very loyal.’

‘Why isn’t he our MP? Everyone loves him.’

‘I think his days of running for MP are behind him. Besides, Felix is very good at being chairman.’ Ginny emptied another sachet of sugar into her cappuccino. ‘You know, he ran against Jonty once, years ago.’

‘No way! And Jonty beat him?’

Ginny suddenly looked terribly anxious. ‘You won’t tell Felix I told you, will you? I’d hate him to think I’d been talking behind his back.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Jonty was rather sharp back in the day.’ Ginny gave a weak smile. ‘I think we’re all hoping he’ll sort himself out.’

Catherine didn’t share her optimism. If Jonty didn’t lose his seat to Tristan Jago in the next few years it would be a bloody miracle.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

The waiter nodded and melted away. It was the fifth time he’d been over in as many minutes. The over-solicitousness was all a bit embarrassing; he didn’t look that much older than Fleur.

She watched the couple at the next table gaze gooily at each other, oblivious to their plates of pasta. She turned away and looked round Bar 47’s restaurant instead. The lights were dimmed low, candles on each table casting a warm glow over the white walls. The full-length windows at the front had been pulled open, bringing in a warm breeze from the street.

An old lady dining with friends across the room caught her eye again and gave her a sympathetic smile. Fleur gritted her teeth and smiled back. Was she the first person ever to eat out by herself? She started to count the array of vodka bottles behind the bar for something to do, wishing people would stop staring.

‘Your lobster ravioli, madam.’ The waiter reappeared
back in front of her, holding a large white plate. He placed it down with a flourish.

‘Is there anything else you’d like? Some sides perhaps? More bread?’

‘I’m fine, really.’ She wished he’d go away.

He finally got the message and left her to it. Fleur picked up her cutlery and started to eat. The ravioli was succulent and spicy, dressed in a rich tomato sauce. She tried to concentrate on the flavours, imagining what she’d write if she were a food critic.

The new Adele album was playing gently in the background. A gentle hum of conversation reverberated from other tables. Fleur chased a piece of lobster round her plate and forked it up. Her chewing sounded thunderously loud.

She reached for her wine nonchalantly, as if she dined out alone the whole time. The old lady gave her another stoic smile. Fleur looked back at her plate.

As tasty as it was, the ravioli was taking an awfully long time to get through. Each mouthful seemed to get stuck in her throat. She battled with an ever-growing feeling of self-consciousness.

‘You’re an independent, modern woman,’ she muttered. ‘You can do this.’

The girl on the next table exchanged a look with her boyfriend. Great. Not only was Fleur a total friendless loser, but she was now the mad girl who talked to herself.

The plate of food was insurmountable. She put her fork and spoon down. The next moment the waiter was back at her side.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Lovely.’ She looked apologetically at the half-finished food. ‘I’m just really full.’

‘Would you like to see the dessert list?’

It felt like the whole room was watching her: the couple, the old lady, the waiter behind the bar polishing the glasses.

‘Can I just get the bill?’ she said.

‘No coffee?’ he asked.

‘I have to go.’ She got up so quickly she nearly knocked her chair over. Three minutes later she was back out on the High Street. Her meal had lasted a grand total of thirty-three minutes.

She unlocked the door of the Land Rover and climbed in. Her heart was racing, palms clammy.
Pathetic
, she told herself. You can’t even have a bloody meal by yourself.

She sat in the darkness, trying to calm herself down. After a minute or two, she reached across and opened the glovebox. She pulled out the long white envelope.

The interior light was broken, but she could just about see in the glow from a nearby streetlamp. It was a generic pink card with a bunch of flowers on the front. The official message read ‘Special wishes on your special day’. Her sister’s neat, officious writing was underneath. ‘To Fleur, love from Claire, Graham, Olivia and William.’

Fleur sat back. ‘Happy birthday,’ she told herself sadly.

An African sky yawned over the valley as Catherine stood in the ensuite that morning, attacking her teeth with the electric toothbrush. They couldn’t have wished for a better day for Beeversham’s Big Charity Game Show.

John came in with a coffee. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘Mmm,’ she said through a mouthful of toothpaste.

He put it down on the side. ‘So I’ll see you downstairs?’

She spat out a mouthful into the sink. ‘Perfect. Give me ten minutes.’

Their eyes met in the mirror. Her husband gave her a cautious smile. ‘Great. I’ll go and lock up.’

He hadn’t said anything, but she knew he was keeping his distance. As if he were married to a neurotic house cat who could go wild at any minute.

She didn’t blame him. Tetchy, up and down for no good reason, she knew she was acting irrationally. The problem was, she had no idea how to stop it.

The SNOW committee met on the terrace of Bar 47 for breakfast. It was already hot enough to feel the sun burning on skin.

‘I can’t wear a bra, I burnt my nipples sunbathing in the garden yesterday,’ Mel was telling Mrs Patel. ‘You can’t tell, can you?’

Mrs Patel, elegant in a wide-brimmed straw hat, looked at Mel’s pneumatic breasts rearing up in the lime-green halterneck.

‘No, dear,’ she said kindly.

‘Let’s have a quick run-down,’ Felix said. ‘How’s
Big Brother
looking at Belcher HQ?’

‘A bit more furniture-arranging in the living room and we’re all set,’ enthused Henry. Amanda, lost for words for the first time in her life, stared into her orange juice.

Mr Patel had been persuaded to do a
Supermarket Sweep
in the mini market and was looking nearly as nervous as Amanda. On the opposite side of the street
I’m a Celebrity …
had been set up on the memorial green.

‘We’ve got six snakes, twenty rats and a box of stick insects on loan from Pete’s Pets’, Felix informed them. ‘And Fleur Blackwater is still coming down with some of her animals for the childen to pet.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘What’s the latest about the Powells?’

Amanda perked up. ‘It’s all under control. I’ve been liaising with their people; Vanessa and Conrad will be here on schedule to open the event.’

Mel and Catherine exchanged looks. Amanda had completely taken over their VIP guests, but Catherine
didn’t mind. The fewer dealings she had with Vanessa the better.

‘I’ve asked if they want a rider,’ Amanda announced.

‘They’re coming by horseback?’ asked a confused Mr Patel.

‘A rider, Dilip,’ Amanda said patronizingly. ‘It’s the list of things celebrities want when they do an event.’

‘I remember hearing J Lo once asked for a room full of red lilies and diamond-encrusted headphones at the MTVs,’ Mel said.

‘We’re a market town, not the Hollywood Hills,’ Felix said firmly. ‘We can stretch to a free bottle of champagne, Amanda, but I’m afraid that’s about it.’

Vincent, Bar 47’s manager, came outside. ‘Felix, there’s a couple of policemen here to cordon off the high street.’

‘Excellent, right on schedule.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘Let’s get this game show on the road.’

It was quickly apparent they had enough booze to sink a battleship. As well as the Prosecco tent, a local vineyard was selling their wine alongside an organic cider stall. There was a row of real ale stands and something called Tipsy Gins.

‘They’ll be more than tipsy by the end of that lot,’ John said.

Catherine smiled. ‘I think that’s the idea.’

There was also a mountain of food on offer, including an ice-cream stall, a hog roast and a customized old-fashioned van selling organic meatballs.

Ginny Chamberlain was manning the SNOW stall. She was putting out a bundle of leaflets as Catherine and John walked up.

‘My lovelies!’ She’d put on a straw hat with a striped pink band that matched her cheeks. ‘Have you had to avert any major disasters yet?’

‘Nope,’ John deadpanned. ‘But there’s still time.’

Ginny came round the stall. ‘I’ll come with you, I need to find Felix.’

An area had been cordoned off on the memorial green. There was a trestle table with a large glass tank on it, containing three brown snakes. Nearby a man wearing a cap saying Pete’s Pets was prodding a cage of comatose rodents.

‘I hope we don’t get accused of cruelty to animals,’ Ginny sighed. ‘Oh, hullo, Fleur! How lovely to see you.’

On the other side of the green a petite young woman with startling red hair was leading two lambs down the ramp of a trailer. She looked up, her freckled face transforming into a smile.

‘Hullo, Ginny.’

‘This is Fleur Blackwater,’ Ginny told Catherine and John. ‘Fleur and her dad live up at Blackwater Farm.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ Fleur said.

‘You too,’ Catherine smiled, thinking what beautiful amber eyes Fleur had. They were huge and wary, like a fox’s. ‘I see you’ve brought quite a menagerie.’

‘Four lambs, one cow, and I managed to borrow a pair of Gloucester Old Spots off a mate of Dad’s.’

The huge pigs were making a fearsome snuffling noise as they burrowed around in straw at the front of the trailer.

‘This is Ben,’ Fleur said, introducing them to the stocky, pleasant-faced young man with her. ‘He’s helping me out.’

‘Thank you, Ben, it’s all very much appreciated,’ Ginny said, then turned back to Fleur. ‘Your dad didn’t fancy it today?’

‘He’s busy at the farm.’

‘Of course,’ Ginny said. ‘Do send my regards to him, won’t you?’

‘It’s dreadfully sad,’ she said in a low voice after they’d walked off. ‘Fleur’s dad was a very successful farmer, but after his wife died, he’s found it hard to cope. Especially with farming the way it is now. Felix does a bit of free legal work for Robert now and again.’

Catherine thought about the determined tilt of Fleur’s chin and decided that she was a girl who could hold her own.

By 11 a.m. people were starting to stream into the streets. Catherine saw the woman from the cheese stall lugging a box towards the back of her van, and she went over to help. ‘Here, let me.’

‘Thanks, love,’ the woman said. ‘Men are never around when you need them, are they?’

‘Can I help?’ John came striding over, sunglasses pushed up on his head.

The woman took one look at the green eyes and big biceps and melted.

‘Ooh, if you wouldn’t mind!’

‘Not at all,’ John said, lifting the box clean out of Catherine’s hands.

‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ the woman sighed as John walked off. ‘You’re lucky having one like that, I can tell you.’

‘Aren’t I just?’ she said sarcastically. She spotted
a small wooden barrel by the car. ‘Does that need moving?’

The woman glanced over. ‘That one’s really heavy. My husband can move it when he comes back.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Catherine declared, walking off. She bent to pick up the barrel. It didn’t move. As she tried again, a pain shot across her back.

‘What have you got in here?’ she joked. ‘Lead weights?’

‘A hundredweight of Double Gloucester. Honestly, love, don’t worry. You look like you’re about to bust a gut.’

John came back over. ‘Here, I’ll do that.’

Catherine adopted the stance of a Bulgarian weightlifter. ‘I’m fine.’ Face purple, she managed to lift the barrel a few inches off the ground.

‘Put it down, you’ll strain your back.’ He went to prise it out of her fingers, but she clung on to it.

‘I said I’ve got this!’ she cried. ‘Get off!’

‘Cath,’ he said in a low voice. ‘What are you
doing
?’

She ignored him. ‘Where do you want this?’ she puffed to the woman.

‘Er, over there by the stall, please,’ the woman replied, sounding rather astonished. She and John watched as Catherine staggered across to the stall with the barrel banging painfully against her shins. Lumping it down defiantly, she turned round.

‘What’s next?’

‘I think that’s all, thanks,’ the woman said, clearly thinking she was dealing with a nutter. ‘Oh look, I can see my husband anyway.’

They walked off, a spasm twingeing painfully across
Catherine’s lower back. ‘Don’t treat me like a child,’ she said grumpily. ‘I am capable of doing things.’

John looked at her, bent over like an old woman. ‘Fine. I just thought you needed help.’