Party Games (9 page)

‘Look, I know Herbert Stanley,’ Felix said. ‘He’s
a reasonable sort of chap. I’ll have a word with him and see if they can extend their grace period for a bit longer. At least it would give you a chance to market the property for a decent price.’

It wasn’t the solution she wanted, but at least it gave them more time. ‘Oh Felix, thank you so much!’ Fleur blushed suddenly. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve got no money to pay for your time.’

‘Think of it as a helping hand.’

‘I promise I won’t let you down.’

‘I’m sure you have every intention of being honourable, Fleur. I’ll let you know what Mr Stanley says.’

Fleur stepped out into the sunlight, feeling some of the stress had been lifted. Even if she had to work every hour of the day and night and eat baked beans for a year, they’d pay that loan back. Every last penny. In the meantime, she would think of new ways for the farm to make more money. Fleur marched back towards the Land Rover with a new resolution. Whatever the outcome, she wasn’t going down without a fight.

Conrad’s study door was closed. Vanessa went in without knocking. ‘Conrad, have you seen …’

He was on the phone, legs tossed up on the desk. ‘Out!’ he hissed under his breath. ‘As I was saying, Jasmine, I use Valiant Hair Colour for Men because I just love the tone and texture it gives my hair. All of us need a little help now and again, don’t we, Jasmine? Although I’m sure your hair is just lovely as it is …’

She’d completely forgotten he was doing an interview with
ELLE
. Mouthing an apology, she beat a sharp exit and went down into the den. She found Renata reading the latest James Patterson, holding the book an inch from her nose.

‘Have you seen my mother?’ Vanessa asked, wondering if such grisly material was suitable for a woman Renata’s age.

‘Sorry,
kochanie
.’

The trouble with three people living in a house this size was that you never knew where anyone was half the time.

‘I’ll keep looking.’ Renata didn’t respond. ‘I said, “I’ll keep looking,”’ Vanessa said more loudly.

‘I hear you the first time. Oh! There was a man. Here, the other day. He ask for you.’

‘A man?’ Vanessa repeated.

Renata put the book down. ‘Derek?’

‘Dylan?’ Vanessa prompted. ‘Dylan Goldhawk?’

‘Yes, that him.’ She giggled girlishly. ‘Nice bottom!’

Vanessa was reeling. ‘When did he come?’

‘Sunday? Monday?’

‘It’s Thursday today!’

Renata looked philosophical. ‘The time, it go so quickly these days. He say something about gardening work? I say to him: “Mrs Powell will work you like slave, but she pay good money.” I tell him your mother a bitch but she never come out to garden.’

‘Is he coming back?’ Vanessa asked impatiently.

‘I think he come in the morning.’ Renata’s tiny eyes gleamed under the heavy glasses. ‘He is handsome,
kochanie
, is he not?’

‘I really wouldn’t know,’ Vanessa said primly. ‘And next time we have visitors, do try and remember to tell me.’

The next morning Vanessa was in her office by 7 a.m. Nearly two hours had gone by and she was beginning to lose hope. Dylan would have arrived by now if he was coming. Renata had obviously got it wrong.

At that moment, Vanessa nearly choked on her San Pellegrino. Dylan had materialized outside the open window. He was nut-brown and sinewy in a faded blue vest.

‘Hello.’

‘You’re late,’ she said brusquely. ‘I like my staff to start at eight-thirty prompt.’

He gave an easy smile. ‘I’ll work late, then.’

‘We have schedules in this house, Mr Goldhawk …’ There she was again, sounding like a nineteenth-century countess! Vanessa took a deep, calming breath. ‘Sorry. You just startled me.’

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘Start?’ she said stupidly.

‘The garden?’

‘Um …’ she waved vaguely. ‘You could start with tidying the flowerbeds up.’

Dylan gave a heart-melting smile. ‘I’ll get started, then.’

It was such a beautiful day Vanessa decided to have lunch in the garden. She fixed herself a salad and took a tray into the garden. Dylan was on the far side of the lawn, expertly deadheading a rose.

Arranging herself prettily on the daybed, she started to pick at her food while surreptitiously watching him from under her Chanel shades. He bent down to pick up a handful of grass cuttings, exposing a flash of rib under his vest. He really didn’t have a spare inch of fat on him, she thought. Good shoulders, though.

Not that she was looking.

When he came over ten minutes later Vanessa pretended to be engrossed in her BlackBerry. ‘Sorry, I was miles away!’ She looked at the little red fruits in his hand. ‘What are they?’

‘Wild strawberries. Try one.’

‘Have they been washed?’ she asked dubiously.

‘They won’t kill you.’ He smiled and tipped a few into her hand.

She hesitated before picking the reddest one. ‘It’s gorgeous!’ she exclaimed as a sweet intense flavour flooded her mouth.

‘Much nicer than anything you’ll find in Daylesford Organic.’

‘I didn’t know we had these in the garden.’

‘Nature has a way of infiltrating even the best-kept places.’

Dylan’s smile was as light and warm as the day. It was impossible not to smile back. ‘So where do you live?’ she asked.

‘Vanessa!’ Conrad stopped dead on the terrace. ‘Who the hell is that?’

She flushed at his rudeness. ‘This is Dylan, our new gardener. Dylan, this is my husband, Conrad.’

Ignoring Dylan, Conrad turned to Vanessa. ‘I’ve just been on the phone to Marty about the Selfridges launch. The paps are going to be all over it. Have you thought about what you’re wearing?’

‘The Roland Mouret,’ she replied, uncomfortable about having this conversation in front of Dylan.

‘
Far
too Carol Vorderman,’ Conrad sniffed. ‘Go for the caramel Victoria Beckham with your nude Louboutins. And don’t forget to ring Billy so he knows what time to pick us up.’

Giving Dylan’s khaki shorts a disgusted look, he swept back indoors. Vanessa smiled awkwardly. ‘My husband doesn’t mean to be rude, we’ve just got a big day tomorrow.’

‘No worries. What’s a pap?’

‘A pap? You know, a paparazzi, someone who takes your picture when you’re out and about.’

‘And this is a good thing?’

‘Yes, if you’re looking good,’ she said, feeling a bit uncomfortable again. ‘They’ll sell them on to the papers and mags and they’ll use them, hopefully in something like a “Best Dressed” feature. It’s a way to keep people interested in you without really having to do anything.’

Dylan raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you and your husband do then? Run some kind of marketing firm?’

Did he really not recognize her? Vanessa thought he’d just been playing it cool. ‘Well, I’m Vanessa Powell and my husband is Conrad Powell.’

Dylan looked blank.

‘Now we run a kind of brand, putting our names and faces to things,’ she said, suddenly aware of how vacuous it sounded. ‘You know, a bit like the Beckhams.’

‘So you’re a celebrity?’ Dylan blinked. ‘Sorry, I’m not really good with all that stuff.’

Something in his manner made Vanessa feel embarrassed. Why should Dylan have heard of her?

‘Is gardening your main line of work?’ she asked.

‘Anything outdoors, really.’

‘So you’re not actually a qualified gardener?’

‘Not officially, I guess.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘Of course not,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re doing a marvellous job.’

They smiled at each other. ‘You still haven’t told me where you live,’ she said.

‘You know Foxglove Woods? I’m in the field behind it at the moment.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said politely. ‘And you live in a caravan?’

‘A yurt.’

‘Like a giant tent?’ The only time she had been in a yurt was a silk one that had served oysters at the Cartier polo one year.

The window above them was suddenly flung open. Conrad lifted his wrist and jabbed at the Rolex. ‘I’m not paying you to talk to my wife!’

‘Conrad!’ Vanessa was mortified.

‘I should get back to it,’ Dylan said easily. ‘See you later.’

Vanessa shot a filthy look up at Conrad. Giving her a
What did I do?
shrug, he slammed the window.

Vanessa was shopping in Selfridges with Victoria Beckham, the two arm in arm as they strolled the womenswear department with the ease of two A-list stars who’d been friends for years. As they reached the Stella McCartney section suddenly the racks of clothes turned into wild, curling hedgerows and long grass sprouted all over the floor tiles. Dylan appeared in front of them like a genie, impossibly sexy in a black Hugo Boss suit.

‘Mrs Beckham, can I interest you in our wild strawberry collection? They’re really rather good this time of year.’

Vanessa gave a snort of laughter. She could feel Victoria pulling on her arm. She tried to answer but her mouth wouldn’t move. All that was coming out was a funny groaning sound.

‘Mrs Powell?’

She peeled one eye open. Dylan was standing over her, looking quizzical.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m off now if that’s OK.’

‘I must have dropped off!’ She struggled to sit up, hoping she didn’t have dribble on her chin. ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘Whatever you think it’s worth, I don’t set a rate.’

‘Can you come back?’ she said, quickly taking two fifty-pound notes out of her purse. ‘I mean, there’s so much more to do.’

‘Don’t you want to have a look first? Make sure you’re happy?’

‘I’m sure you’re fine. I mean, it’s fine.’

‘OK, great,’ he replied. ‘Day after tomorrow suit you?’

‘Um, yes, that’s fine.’

‘I’ll see you, then. Enjoy the paps.’

‘The paps?’ she said stupidly.

‘Paps, paparazzi?’ he said teasingly. ‘Surely you know what they are?’

‘Oh yes. Ha ha.’

He gave her his crooked grin. ‘See you, Mrs Powell.’

She smiled back. ‘Call me Vanessa.’

Catherine got back in the car and burst into tears. ‘I feel so stupid. How can I have been such an idiot?’

In the driver’s seat, John looked stricken. ‘Cath, you’re not stupid. Please don’t say that.’

She wasn’t pregnant. They had bounded in there like a pair of excitable teenagers, thinking the test would only be a confirmation of what they already knew. Ten minutes later the doctor had gently broken the news.
A phantom pregnancy. The symptoms are quite common
. Catherine had thought the woman was winding her up.

‘It felt so
real
.’ She buried her face in her hands. How could her own body have tricked her like that?

‘Cath.’ John put his arms round her. ‘The doctor said these things happen. You will get pregnant, I promise.’

‘You don’t know that.’ Catherine started sobbing even harder. ‘She didn’t have any answers. You saw her face!’

‘Cath, we have to keep trying. It will be fine.’

‘It’s
my
body,’ she wept. ‘Please don’t tell me what it
can and can’t do. OK? Just leave it, John, please. Just let me have this …’

He sat and held her until she’d stopped crying.

John was all set to cancel his meeting in London, but Catherine made him go. All she wanted was to go home and mope in peace. After dropping him at the station she stopped on the High Street to pick up something for dinner. Things went on. They had to.

As she passed Wedding Belles Amanda was rearranging the skirts on a gargantuan puffball. Catherine put her head down and tried to hurry past, but there was a bang on the glass. Come in! Amanda mouthed at her.

Catherine groaned inwardly. She really couldn’t cope with Amanda today. Pushing the door open, she was immediately assaulted by the cloying scent of rose potpourri.

Amanda was wearing a polka-dot pussycat blouse that did nothing for her matronly bosom. ‘I’m so pleased to see a friendly face. Anything to take my mind off tomorrow.’

It was the day before the public meeting at county hall. Nervous anticipation had gripped the town.

‘Are you all right?’ Amanda peered at Catherine. ‘You look a bit peaky.’

‘I’m just tired.’ Catherine gazed round the shop. It was a shrine to neutrals: white walls, cream carpets, cream and white striped curtains. The far side of the room was completely taken up with a rail of dresses. Catherine hadn’t seen so many sequins and corsages since the
Soirée
fashion cupboard.

‘Wish you could do it all again?’ Amanda said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Get married! The most important day of a woman’s life.’ Amanda’s nose twitched knowingly. ‘Still, I’m sure you and John are thinking about the next stage now. You’ll want to make him a daddy before too long!’

Don’t you dare
, Catherine thought.
Or I will get that tiara over there and shove it right up your massive arse
.

‘Henry and I were only ever able to have Olympia, but what a blessing she’s been.’ Amanda smiled obliviously. ‘Children give you such a purpose in life, don’t they?’

On cue the bell tinkled and Amanda’s daughter thundered in. ‘OMG, Mum, guess what?’

‘Ooh, what?’ Amanda cast a delighted look at Catherine. ‘Girls’ gossip!’

Olympia put her hands on a pair of meaty Belcher hips. ‘Talia Tudor has only, like, gone and got a massive dragon tattoo on her lower back! She’s put a picture up on Facebook, where she’s sprawled all over the bonnet of this bloke’s Fiat Punto totally, like, wearing this crop top to show the tattoo off. She is so going to fail her exams and become a prostitute and get AIDS or something.’

‘Olympia!’

‘All right then, a lap dancer.’ Olympia patted her swept-over fringe. ‘Anyway, have you got any money on you?’

Back on the street Catherine was actually shaking. What right did Amanda have to ask her such a personal question? No wonder they’d only had one kid,
who’d want to sleep with such a monstrous woman? Henry Belcher must have been Rohypnoled when he impregnated her.

Her mobile started ringing. Catherine didn’t even have to guess who it was. She stopped outside Butterflies to take the call.

‘Hi.’