Party Games (5 page)

Sukie rolled on her back and started cleaning her bits.

Charming
, Vanessa thought, reaching for the suncream. Even though she was blessed with her mother’s dark colouring, she was meticulous about sun protection. She was meticulous about everything to do with her appearance: still water served at room temperature and sipped at fifteen-minute intervals, no carbs after 1 p.m., only the occasional glass of champagne. Vanessa had been the dumpy kid at school and it was the power behind her relentless self-control now.

There was a shout from the far end of the garden.

‘Vanessa!’

‘Up here, Conrad!’ she called back.

Her husband came up the lawn, looking very French in navy shorts and a pink Armani shirt. He plonked himself down on the end of her sunbed.

‘How was the script?’ she asked.

‘Fucking atrocious.
Brideshead Revisited
meets
Button Moon
. The writers must be on crack.’

‘Sounds quite fun to me,’ she joked, getting a death stare in return.

‘Don’t take the fucking piss.’

‘I was—’

Bristling with anger, Conrad sprang up. ‘You think it’s funny, sitting up here with that mangy mutt as you conjure up our next tacky deal? I’m a talented actor, Vanessa.’ He spat the words out at her. ‘Do you think I like being wheeled out as your bloody plus one?’

‘Of course not, I didn’t mean it like that.’ Vanessa
tried to soothe him. ‘Conrad, you’re
amazingly
talented, you just need another break …’

He looked at her in disdain. ‘What the fuck would you know?’

‘Where are you going?’ she cried.

‘Back inside, away from you!’

Dismayed, Vanessa watched him go. She’d committed the cardinal sin of making fun of his career. She hadn’t meant it, of course, but Conrad was so touchy these days. He seemed to spend most of his time Googling himself and checking how many new followers he had on Twitter. Everything was Colin Firth’s fault, apparently, because he’d ‘stolen’ Conrad’s life. Vanessa was seriously starting to worry her husband was becoming obsessive.

She lifted her hand to inspect the huge wedding ring from Graff. The pink and yellow diamonds twinkled back at her prettily. She recalled the first time they’d met: Conrad had been at the height of his success and intrigued by the self-possessed beauty sitting alone at The Collection bar in Chelsea. He’d come over and complimented Vanessa on her Swarovski earrings, offering his commiserations over the Catherine Connor scandal. Ten years her senior, he was funny, charming and romantic. Vanessa had been swept off her feet. The deal had been sealed with a fairy-tale wedding in the Maldives six months later.

Her father had never got to meet Conrad, but he’d had Dominique on his side from day one with a dazzling array of flowers and perfume. The dashing leading man had arrived in both women’s lives just
when they had needed him. Of course, Vanessa had seen the financial benefit in marrying Conrad Powell. But she’d also been madly in love with him.

Paul was still hard at work as Vanessa came back down the lawn. ‘Paul, there’s a branch hanging down from one of the birch trees.’ She’d just spotted it. ‘Would you mind doing something about it?’

The gardener nodded. ‘I’ll make it my next job, Mrs Powell.’

She bestowed a gracious smile on him. ‘Thank you.’

A familiar cockney drawl floated down the corridor as she went back in. Vanessa frowned. It sounded like their manager, Marty. Did they have a meeting scheduled? It was unlike her to forget. She hoped at least that Renata would be organizing drinks for their guest but there was no sign of her. Annoyed and confused, Vanessa went upstairs to change out of her kimono.

When Vanessa walked into the drawing room twenty minutes later in a flowing Cavalli maxi dress, there was a new energy in the air. Conrad was sprawled in one of the Louis XIV chairs looking a lot happier than when she’d last seen him. ‘Darling!’ he exclaimed exuberantly. ‘There you are!’

Marty jumped up out of his own seat. ‘How are you, kid? You look as gorgeous as ever.’

She kissed her manager on both cheeks and glanced between the two men. ‘What’s going on?’

Conrad had a smile on him like a Cheshire cat. ‘Guess what Marty’s landed us.’

‘What?’

‘Go on, guess.’

She wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. ‘What is it?’

‘Only presenting this year’s Silver Box Awards!’

‘The Silver Box?’ she repeated. ‘Are you being serious?’

Now this was exciting. Held at the end of August at the Royal Albert Hall, the Silver Box Awards combined the credibility of the BAFTAs with the commercialism of the National Television Awards. Last year seven million people had tuned in to watch it on ITV1. A Silver Box award could send an actor’s career into the stratosphere.

Conrad was striding about excitedly. ‘Every producer and casting agent in the industry will be there. This is exactly the kind of exposure I need.’

‘What about Brand Powell’s exposure?’ Vanessa asked, but she couldn’t stop grinning. ‘Conrad, this is amazing news!’

‘We need to set up a meeting with the producer and whatnot, but it’s pretty much in the bag,’ Marty said. ‘
They
approached me, Vanessa.’

‘You hear that?’ Conrad shouted. ‘I’m back, baby!’

‘You haven’t landed the Oscar just yet.’ Vanessa started thinking rationally. ‘I assume you’ve discussed money?’ she asked Marty.

‘Yeah, we’re talking high-end six figures.’

Now
she was getting excited. This was just the thing to take Brand Powell to the next level! She had a vision of floating on to the stage in Oscar de la Renta and air-kissing Dame Helen Mirren as she gave her the Lifetime Achievement Award.

Conrad picked Vanessa up in a twirl. ‘We’ll be the toast of the film industry! Brad and Ange will be begging us for a dinner date!’

It was lovely to see genuine happiness on his face. ‘I wouldn’t go that far!’ she laughed.

‘Why not? Reach for the stars.’ Conrad put her down on the floor. ‘I love you, darling.’

‘I love you too. Conrad, I’m sorry about earlier …’

He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Don’t give it another thought.’ Releasing her, he looked round. ‘I think champagne’s in order. Where’s Renata?’

Vanessa’s euphoria faded slightly. ‘It’s fine, I’ll get it myself.’

‘Don’t be stupid, what do we pay her for?’

They all jumped as the door handle suddenly rattled furiously. ‘Mrs Powell!’ Renata’s voice sounded frantic.

Vanessa rushed over and pulled it open. Renata had gone completely grey and was clutching at her chest.
Oh my God
, Vanessa thought.
She’s having a heart attack
.

‘Renata! Are you all right?’

The housekeeper shook her head. ‘Paul, he fall off ladder! I think he dead!’

Paul wasn’t dead. Vanessa had flown out to the garden, breaking the heel of one of her Jimmy Choos, to find the young gardener dazed but very much alive. An ambulance was quickly called and at the hospital Paul was diagnosed with concussion and a broken left arm. He would be out of action for at least eight weeks.

Racked with guilt, she immediately arranged for flowers to be sent. If she hadn’t sent him up there to see to the branch in the first place, none of this would
have happened. On a more practical note, thank God they had insurance.

Conrad, on the other hand, was furious with Renata for spoiling his big moment. ‘Couldn’t the decrepit old bat see he was breathing?’

‘She got confused,’ Vanessa told him. ‘She’s an old woman, don’t be too hard on her.’

‘She looks like she’s about to croak any second. We’re not running the Cotswold branch of Dignitas here.’

‘Conrad!’

‘I’m just saying, darling, it makes me
nervous
. She should be in a nursing home where she can’t cause trouble. Your mother agrees with me.’

They were in the living room, both nursing strong G and Ts. Vanessa’s nerves were in shreds: she’d sent Renata to have a lie-down. Marty had headed back to London shortly after the ambulance had left.

Conrad drummed his fingernails on the arm of the sofa. ‘Anyway, back to business.’

‘The Silver Box Awards?’

‘What else?’ His brown eyes glinted. ‘My God, I’m going to have the power to make or break a career, Vanessa! Let them bloody know how it feels to be stuck out in the wilderness for a change.’

‘We’re only presenting them, not deciding who wins,’ she pointed out.

Conrad wasn’t listening. ‘We’re the face of Silver Box, beamed into millions of living rooms all over the country! People aren’t going to remember Stephen Fry’s nauseating speech about how he owes it all to his dead cat, but how great your tits looked and the
magnetism of my screen presence.’ He sighed happily. ‘I’m going to be batting off the roles afterwards.’

‘You’re incorrigible,’ she smiled.

‘No, I’m fucking horny.’ The thought of being back up where he belonged had given Conrad a raging hard-on. He put a hand on Vanessa’s knee.

‘We can’t,’ she protested, half laughing. ‘My mother will be down soon.’

He whipped off a cufflink. ‘You’d better get your clothes off quick, then.’

Fleur was on her way back from Evesham market with Ben. As the lorry pulled up at traffic lights she took the chance to wind the window down discreetly. The smell of cheap aftershave was overpowering.

‘It’ll be better next time,’ Ben said stoically. The price they’d got for the ewes had been disappointing. The supermarket meat buyers were paying less too, even though lamb was making good money elsewhere.

‘We said that last week,’ she sighed. ‘And the week before. Face it, Ben, things are crap.’

He looked uncertain, as if the conversation had suddenly got far deeper than he was comfortable with. The same school year as Fleur, he was the archetypal farmer-in-the-making: sturdy and straw-haired, with solid arms and a permanently sunburnt neck.

She gazed out gloomily through the windscreen. Even when things had been better she’d dreaded going to market. There wasn’t much that didn’t get round the farming community. Everyone knew Robert Blackwater had hit the bottle since his wife had died
of cancer. Fleur saw it in people’s faces every time she went.

‘How’s your dad these days, young Fleur?’ they’d enquire.

She would answer brightly, with a big smile. ‘He’s great, thanks! Farm’s keeping him busy.’

There was always a fleeting look of sympathy, followed by a stoic nod. Farmers weren’t known for being big talkers, thank God.

As they pulled up outside the farmhouse she could see her dad’s truck in the yard. He hadn’t gone out shopping then, like he’d promised. Fleur noticed the sheds still hadn’t been hosed out. She sighed again; another job to do.

‘Are you tired?’ Ben asked. ‘I can take over from here if you want.’

His thigh was almost touching hers on the seat. ‘Actually, would you mind?’ Fleur said. ‘I should really go and check on the heifers.’

She took the quad bike up the hill, frustration burning in her ears. Why did things always have to get complicated? She and Ben used to have such a simple, safe relationship. Now he turned up to work smelling like he was going out on a Saturday night and kept getting caught looking at Fleur’s chest. It was a toss-up out of the pair of them who went redder.

‘Men!’ Fleur exclaimed. As if she had time for a love life anyway.

As soon as she pulled up at the field it was clear something was very wrong. One of the pregnant cows was lying on her side in the throes of labour. Her calf’s head
was hanging out the back. It was obvious the mother was in great distress.

‘Shit.’ Fleur should be able to see the tips of the calf’s front feet as well, otherwise there was no way of pulling it out.

There was no time to call Ben. She hurriedly assessed the situation. If she pulled the baby out by its head, she risked breaking its neck. If she did nothing the vet would have to be called out for an emergency caesarean and the calf might die anyway.

The thought of another vet’s bill galvanized her into action. Very carefully and slowly, she pushed the calf’s head back inside the mother. After a painful struggle she managed to unhook its front legs and straightened them out. Tying a rope round each one, she started to pull. It felt like the tiny limbs could snap at any minute but finally the calf came slithering out in a pile of water and mucus. Fleur gave his navel a spray of iodine and got out of the way. Cows could get very protective of their newborns.

‘I do hope you’re going to wash your hands before lunch,’ a voice drawled.

Fleur whirled round. A couple in evening dress were standing on the other side of the five-bar gate. The woman’s sequinned gown glittered incongruously in the sunlight. Fleur clocked the man’s familiar blond hair and her stomach dropped.

Beau Rainford rested his arms on the top bar, loose bow tie dangling around his tanned neck. ‘Flora, isn’t it?’

‘It’s Fleur, dickhead,’ she snapped. Did he really not remember?

Beau’s eyes rested on her. They were bright blue and glassy, reminding Fleur of a fathomless lake. His companion was nearly the same height as him and anorexically thin. Judging by their ruffled appearance and their evening dress, neither had been to bed yet.

‘Did that cow just shoot its load over you?’ Beau enquired. ‘I’ve heard how kinky you country folk can be.’

The girl gave a malicious shriek of laughter. ‘Oh, that’s
disgusting
!’

Fleur’s cheeks burnt with humiliation. ‘It’s a
she
, you idiot, so I very much doubt it. And she and her calf nearly just died then!’

‘They look all right to me,’ Beau drawled.

Fleur turned back and was inordinately relieved to see the calf standing on shaky legs, suckling its mother.

‘We don’t care what you get up to in your spare time,’ Beau continued, that maddening grin still stuck on his face. ‘Valentina here is very open-minded. Aren’t you, darling? Although until about half an hour ago, I didn’t realize
how
open-minded.’

The two smirked at each other. ‘If you don’t mind,’ Fleur said scathingly, ‘some of us have better things to do.’

‘Really? This must be more fun than it looks.’ Beau draped his arm round Valentina’s shoulders, his hand resting deliberately over one perky breast.