Party Games (23 page)

The helipad with its red H painted on the grass was in a nearby field. ‘The helicopter’s in for a service,’ he told her.

‘Yeah, mine too. It’s a bugger.’

His eyes flashed amusedly. ‘Do you think I’m showing off?’

‘I don’t know what to think,’ she admitted.

Beau’s office was a converted stable block, knocked through to create one massive space. His desk was glass and dominated the entire room. On the top was a small, framed picture of a sultry blonde woman.

‘Lindsay St John,’ he told her. ‘One of the most fun people ever to grace the earth.’

‘Who was she?’ Fleur had a closer look. The woman was definitely on the mature side, but there was no mistaking the winning smile and mischievous dark eyes.

‘An ex-girlfriend who taught me a lot about life.’ He looked at the picture for a long moment. ‘She’s dead now.’

On the far wall was another blown-up cover, this time of
Time
magazine. A sandy-haired Doug Rainford, sprawled across the bonnet of a Ferrari in a pair of seventies-style bathing trunks. It was clear where Beau got his strutting good looks from. Fleur blushed. Doug wasn’t just big in the talent department.

Beau stood behind his desk, rapidly working his way through a pile of glossy envelopes.

‘Why don’t these people move into the twentieth century and use email?’ He opened another invite. ‘Oh look, a weekend with the Henley-Bassets. She’s fun, but he’s a fucking bore. Atrocious nostril hair. There’s no way I’m schlepping all the way up to East Yorkshire.’

The invite sailed into the bin. He continued to rip through the rest, verbally demolishing each one.

‘Tamara Houseman’s thirty-fifth at Maggie’s. She certainly was the size of a house when I last saw her, grouse-massacring in Scotland. I hate the shooting season. Oh look, another gallery opening! If I have to listen to one more coked-up arsehole gushing on about how Caesar’s latest African dunghill installation is a remarkable interpretation of the Third World’s quest for enlightenment, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’

‘What parties do you like?’ she giggled.

‘Any that aren’t in this country. Who the hell is
this
? “The break-out star from TV’s
Made in Chelsea
”?’ He shuddered. ‘God!’

‘Have you ever met the Duchess of Cambridge?’

‘A few times.’

She tried not to sound impressed. ‘Is she nice?’

‘If you like the Home Counties type. I prefer my girls with a bit more chutzpah.’ Beau looked up, fixing her with his brilliant gaze.

She flushed and changed the subject. ‘So, you have your own company?’

‘Yup, we buy up old wrecks and do them up.’

‘Like my farm?’ Fleur challenged.

‘No, not like your farm, as it happens. You’ve made yourself loud and clear.’

A strained silence followed. ‘I didn’t get you up here to try and talk you round,’ he told her.

‘Didn’t you?’ she asked boldly.

‘Of course not!’ He sounded irritated. ‘Look, Fleur, I invited you round tonight in the hope of cementing us Not-Being-Friends, and to try and show you I’m not this complete bastard who bowled in and ripped your
grandparents’ house down. If you’d rather, I can take you home …’

‘No! No.’ She bit her lip, feeling ungrateful. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ he sighed. ‘You’ve got every right to be suspicious, but I can assure you, I have no untoward intentions. Well, none that involve your farm.’

He gave her a smile, the easy charm back again. ‘Shall we have dinner? I don’t know about you, but I’m bloody starving.’

A fish pie was produced from somewhere and they ate on the terrace, a sweeping stretch with an uninterrupted vista across the valley. Bats swooped across the pink and orange sky, the last streaks of sunset filling the huge panes of glass. It was wonderful, as if the windows were glowing with light. Up close, Fleur could see how the house had been cleverly moulded to make stunning use of the landscape. There were breathtaking views from every window, the sharp corners and skylights framing the sky and greenness perfectly. She had lived in Beeversham all her life, yet it felt like she was seeing it all through new eyes. There was a depth of glamour that had never been there before.

‘How the hell do you keep everything so clean?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to see this place in winter!’

Beau forked up a huge flake of salmon. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m never here in winter.’

‘Where do you go?’

‘I’m thinking of Buenos Aires this year.’

Fleur, who’d never been further than Spain, thought it sounded impossibly glamorous.

They sat and worked their way through dinner. The fish pie was delicious, but she was too on edge to eat.
She reached for her wine again. The alcohol was going to her head.

‘This is really nice,’ she asked. ‘What is it?’

‘A Meursault,’ he said, pronouncing it impeccably.

She stuck her nose in the glass. ‘Smells like honey.’

‘Spot on. We’ll make a wine connoisseur of you yet.’

He looked over and grinned at her. Fleur’s heart suddenly seemed to falter, before resuming in a rather wobbly manner. Suddenly she understood why so many women threw themselves at Beau, why she herself had been so desperate to get back in his good books earlier. When he looked at you like that, it was like being caught in a ray of sunlight.

‘Beautiful night,’ he remarked, looking up at the stars.

The wine loosened her natural reserve. ‘Do you ever get lonely up here by yourself?’

‘I’m rarely by myself up here.’

She’d walked into that one. ‘So
is
Valentina your girlfriend?’ she asked, determined to have an adult conversation.

‘Well, she is a girl and we’ve certainly been friendly.’ Beau surveyed her through his blue eyes. ‘You are a funny little thing, aren’t you?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Don’t get so defensive. It’s a compliment.’

Fleur felt an unexpected glow. She looked out across the valley, to the golden rooftops of Beeversham.

‘Do you think your brother might go for Jonty’s job? He’d make a much better MP.’

Beau picked his glass up. ‘I’ve got about as much idea as you have.’

She tried again. ‘It must be hard, I mean being
brothers and not talking to each other, in a small town like this.’

He gave her an amused look. ‘What’s with all the questions?’

‘I guess it’s just nice to have a proper conversation with someone,’ Fleur admitted.

‘Me too,’ he sighed. ‘Valentina and I are definitely bigger on screwing than talking.’

He was trying to embarrass her again but she wasn’t having it. ‘How about Ginny?’ Fleur persisted. ‘Do you get on?’

Beau looked genuinely sad for a moment. ‘Ah, Ginny’s not allowed to speak to me. I’m
persona non grata
in my family.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Nothing to say, really. I’d far rather hear what skeletons you’ve got in your family closet.’

‘I haven’t got any skeletons.’

‘Tell me, anyway.’

She gave him a brief life story, leaving out the years since her mum had died and how her dad had gone to pieces. He listened in silence, his sharp eyes constantly roving round the terrace. Fleur wondered if she was boring him.

‘Have you always wanted to go into the farm thing?’ he asked.

‘I actually wanted to be a trading standards officer. But then my mum died and my dad—’ She stopped. ‘I had a place at college but I gave it up to work on the farm.’

They looked out across the fields to where a lone light burnt at Blackwater Farm. She snuck a glance
at Beau. His face was relaxed, unreadable.
Can I really trust you?
she thought.

A car horn blared from up the drive, making her start. Beau checked his watch. ‘The Cavalry have arrived. Come and say hi.’

As they walked round to the front of the house, a souped-up Range Rover with blacked-out windows was pulling up. The sound of the bass horn reverberated through the glass. The back doors opened and four very familiar faces tumbled out.

‘Oh my God, it really is The Cavalry!’ she squeaked.

One of the hottest new bands in the UK, The Cavalry had arrived under the cover of darkness to record their much-anticipated second album. They greeted Beau like an old friend, giving him high fives. Fleur got a picture with them and they all gave her a hug, smelling of cigarette smoke and aftershave, before they were bundled down to the studio to start work.

‘I’ll never wash again.’ She touched her cheek with wonder where Jonny Faro, the gorgeous lead singer, had kissed her.

Beau raised an amused eyebrow. ‘So you
are
impressed sometimes.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Nothing. Come on, let’s get you home.’

Beau put on the stereo as they drove back towards Blackwater Farm. Fleur couldn’t believe it as the opening strains of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ blasted out of the speakers.

‘Bonnie Tyler? You are kidding me. My mum used to love her!’

‘Never underestimate an eighties power ballad,’ Beau said gravely. ‘Bonnie Tyler is a goddess.’

‘This is comedy!’ she hooted. ‘I thought you’d be much more 50 Cent.’

‘As a strident feminist I’m strongly opposed to the objectification of women.’

‘Yeah, right. Wanting to sleep with loads of women doesn’t make you a feminist!’

He laughed out loud. She grinned back, ridiculously pleased she’d made him laugh.

Bonnie’s gravelly vocals filled the car, drowning out conversation. In the compact space of the car, Fleur realized how powerful Beau was, his shoulders almost touching hers, the long muscular thighs nestled under the steering wheel. She crossed her arms, trying to quieten her thumping heart.

All too soon the Mustang pulled up at the farmhouse. He left the engine running.

‘Thanks for a nice evening,’ she mumbled. ‘I really enjoyed myself.’

‘My pleasure.’ In the dark, his grin was brilliant white.
Crocodile teeth
, she thought from nowhere. He leant across to open the passenger door for her, his arm brushing her right breast.

‘Night then. Sweet dreams.’

‘Night.’ Fleur tried not to feel too disappointed. What had she been expecting?

‘What perfume are you wearing, by the way?’ he asked, as she was about to shut the door. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask all evening.’

‘Oh! Um, I think it’s Stella McCartney,’ she lied.

‘It’s very distinctive.’

She shut the door. He whirled the car round and zoomed out of the gates without a backward glance. She raced up to her bedroom to find the perfume he had liked so much. She stared at the bottle in horror.

She’d only sprayed on flea repellent meant for the dogs.

As she had done every day for the past week, Catherine was in the living room slumped in front of the television. Empty chocolate bar wrappers were scattered on the sofa beside her. When her mobile went off she was in such a sugar slump it took a moment to locate it under a cushion.

‘Hello?’

‘This is Quentin Fellowes. Private secretary to the Prime Minister,’ said the crisp male voice on the other end. ‘I’ve got the PM on the other line.’

‘Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ snapped Catherine. ‘So why don’t you piss off?’ She hung up.

Bloody crank callers! She was gloomily staring at the chocolate stain on her camisole top when the phone rang again.

‘What now?’ she howled. It was clearly some scam, a way to try and take her money.
Have it all
, she thought, pressing ‘answer’.

‘Catherine?’ a voice asked.

‘Can’t you think of something a bit more original?’
she sighed. ‘How about my credit card’s about to spontaneously combust and you need my pin number? Or that I’ve won fifty million quid on the Bosnian lottery, and a helicopter’s on its way to whisk me away to Sarajevo?’

‘Sorry?’

She warmed to her theme. ‘I may as well warn you, I’m a woman on the edge. My husband thinks I’ve gone completely mad and he’s probably right. Do you know I’ve just sat here and troughed my way through a family-size bar of Dairy Milk. Didn’t even touch the sides. And before that, a biscuit sandwich! I don’t even have a sweet tooth!’

‘What’s a biscuit sandwich?’

‘I just made it up. You get two biscuits, and stick them together with chocolate spread. Or anything else sweet, like honey or
dulce de leche
. Unfortunately we’re all out, so I had to make do with cream cheese, which is why I went on to eat my own body weight in chocolate. And I’ve got half of it down my top, so now it looks like I’m sitting here with a bloody great skidmark.’

There was an amused snort at the other end. She sat up. ‘Sorry, who is this? Why do you want to know about my biscuit sandwich?’

The deep voice spoke again. ‘It’s the Prime Minister.’

‘Not this again! I just told your mate to do one.’

‘Catherine, it really
is
me. Do you want me to send you a picture for verication?’

She sat bolt upright. Unless it was Rory Bremner on the other line doing a bloody good impression, those rich, caressing tones were unmistakable.

‘Fuck a duck,’ she gasped. ‘It really is you!’

The Prime Minister gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Sorry to let you down. The Bosnian scam sounded quite exciting.’

Catherine froze in shock. Their PM was something of a pin-up, even among rival parties. Young, dynamic and boyishly handsome; she’d only just been watching him on
BBC Breakfast
that morning.

‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.

She switched off
The Jeremy Kyle Show
. ‘Nothing that can’t wait.’

There was a pause.

‘How are you these days?’ he asked, as if they were old friends. ‘It’s been quite a while since I saw you at the “Women In Media” lunch.’

‘I know, it seems like ages ago.’

‘I took on board what you said about the donkeys, by the way.’

She cringed. Fired up on several glasses of cheap Downing Street white wine, she’d ended up ranting at him about how ‘fucking braying’ donkey sanctuaries got more funding than domestic violence charities. The memory still made her toes curl in horror.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be. It was a valid point.’