Party Games (3 page)

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 The gloomy ivy had gone and had been replaced by scented wisteria that clung delicately to the yellow brick.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?

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.’

‘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?’