Party Games (13 page)

Vanessa watched in horror as he produced his Italian leather wallet and pulled out a slab of twenties. Peeling off two, he threw them down on the table.

‘I think that’s more than generous.’

Dylan’s face was expressionless. ‘It’s all right, I hadn’t done much today.’

‘You’ve worked all morning!’ she cried.

‘You heard the man, darling.’ Conrad pointed towards the side of the house. ‘I’ve spent enough time being good about this, now fuck off,’ he told Dylan. ‘And take that sorry excuse for a tin can with you.’

Vanessa looked wildly between them. ‘Dylan, I …’

‘It’s fine, really.’

Was that a hint of pity in the smile he gave her? Helpless, she watched him walk off. When he was out of sight she wrenched herself out of Conrad’s grip.

‘You bastard,’ she yelled. ‘That was totally out of order!’

He was up in her face in a second. ‘No, darling,
you’re
the one who’s out of order. I come back to find my wife offering herself up like some kind of slut
with the hired help. Did you think you’d fit in a quick alfresco fuck before I got home?’

‘How dare you! Let go, you’re hurting me!’

‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been throwing yourself at him. Living out our Lady Chatterley fantasy, are we?’

She flushed again. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do. My God, he must have thought his luck was in. I might have started to get worried if I’d thought you still had a pulse between the legs.’

Releasing Vanessa’s arm, he strode back inside the house.

The hot weather shimmered on. Weather forecasters started to predict the hottest June for decades, while newspapers warned of imminent hosepipe bans. Barbecues overtook Sunday roasts and the British public enjoyed waking up to uninterrupted skies every morning. Even daily headlines about the faltering economy and the next round of public-spending cuts couldn’t bring down the general
joie de vivre
.

In Beeversham, however, everyone was very much focused on the Big Day Out. That evening the SNOW committee were meeting at the Cooper-Stanleys’ sympathetic new-build in Lavender Close. By the time Catherine and John arrived, the others were already in the back garden being plied with Oyster Bay by the host.

Mel was in the glossy black kitchen, putting the finishing touches to a selection of canapés. She engulfed Catherine in a warm hug that reeked of Trésor. ‘How are you, darling?’

‘All the better for seeing you.’ Catherine looked at the spread before her. ‘This is all very impressive.’

‘M&S’s finest. You know I don’t even know how to turn the cooker on.’

Amanda bustled in. ‘Mel, do you have a water jug? There’s rather a lot of wine going round out there and we need to keep a clear head.’ She looked at the wall clock pointedly. ‘We should think about starting.’

‘I’ll take a tray out,’ offered Catherine.

‘You’re a darling. See you in two secs.’

Catherine found Mr Patel in the corridor, mesmerized by a huge professional portrait of Mel, lounging amongst acres of fluffy rug.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Patel,’ Catherine remarked cheerfully. ‘I think she’s wearing underwear.’

Mr Patel jumped violently. ‘Thank goodness for that!’ he said, rushing back out.

It was a beautiful summer evening. Wisps of clouds coasted across the red and pink sky as people helped themselves to prawn satay and caught up on the gossip. The Powells opening the Big Day Out was the main topic of conversation. People were very excited at the thought of rubbing shoulders with their resident celebrities.

‘I wonder what Vanessa Powell will wear,’ Ginny pondered. ‘She’s so stunning!’

‘Conrad Powell is such a dish, and so devoted to her!’ declared Amanda. She went in for another mini-tartlet. ‘If only the rest of us were so lucky.’

Poor Henry Belcher, who’d forgone a weekend of watching the Ashes to paint the downstairs loo, looked crushed.

‘What are we looking like press-wise, Catherine?’ Felix asked.

‘A bit better, now we’ve got the Powells on board. Cotswold FM have confirmed they’ll be doing a live broadcast, talking to Felix and a few locals etcetera, and the
Cotswolds on Sunday
want to do something too. I said an exclusive interview and shoot with the Powells might be
slightly
unrealistic, but I’m sure we can get a few quotes off them. Oh, and I might have an in with someone at the
Daily Telegraph
. You know how hot they are on green-belt building.’

The others looked impressed. ‘I forgot how well connected your wife was,’ Ginny told John.

‘Hardly,’ Catherine sighed. She decided not to tell them about the other papers she’d tried, unsuccessfully. It was scary how quickly even someone like her fell off the radar.

‘Where’s Jonty, by the way?’ Mr Patel asked. ‘I saw his name on the email.’

‘He’s been held up in London and sends his apologies,’ Felix told them.

Everyone exchanged a look.

‘Never mind, I can fill him in.’ Felix smiled decisively. ‘That’s the press sorted, who’s next?’

People weren’t having much success. Amanda Belcher had been gazumped on two bands. There was a dearth of children’s magicians. The Patels were struggling to fill the food and drink stalls.

‘Most people are booked for Chipping Norton’s food festival on the same day,’ Mr Patel told them gloomily. ‘We’re going to struggle to get the crowds, even with Conrad and Vanessa.’

‘Um, if I could maybe make a tiny suggestion.’ Henry
Belcher gave an apologetic smile. ‘I wonder if all this tombola stuff is a bit predictable?’

‘It’s a fete, Henry,’ his wife said crossly. ‘What else do you expect people to do?’

Henry swallowed nervously. Going against the female rule in his family wasn’t something that happened often. Escaping Amanda’s fish-eyed stare, he appealed to the rest of the table.

‘How about rebranding the whole thing and calling it Beeversham’s “Big Charity Game Show”?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t quite follow, old chap,’ Felix said.

‘I’m not explaining myself very well,’ Henry said sheepishly. ‘Something Olympia was watching gave me the idea, one of these reality TV shows that seem very popular these days. Instead of your bog-standard fete, why don’t we have a game show theme? People could pay a small fee to enter, which we could donate to a local charity. We could get businesses from the area to donate prizes for the winners.’

He pulled out a sheet of paper from his notes. ‘It’s only rough, but I’ve made a few suggestions. The first one is
Big Brother
. I thought we could recreate it in our living room and people could look through the windows and watch. It could go on all day, with people being voted out every hour …’

Amanda Belcher looked aghast but Henry bravely ploughed on. ‘We could still have a petting corner but perhaps we could commandeer some more animals and put on a mini
I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!
’

‘What on earth is that?’ Felix sounded baffled.

‘The jungle one, darling,’ Ginny told him. ‘Go on, Henry, I think this sounds marvellous!’

Henry smiled, encouraged by her reaction. ‘I thought we could also have a more straightforward game show like
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
or even one of the old classics like
Mr and Mrs
.’

‘OMG, amazing!’ Mel said. ‘We have to have
The X Factor!
’

‘Didn’t Churchminster village put on a
Churchminster’s Got Talent
a few years ago?’ Mrs Patel asked. ‘I hear it was a big success. We could hire a stage to put in the market square.’

Henry nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly what I was thinking! I was even wondering if we could do a
Supermarket Sweep
at the mini market. But only if you had old stock to get rid of,’ he added hurriedly, seeing Mr Patel’s face.

Amanda regained the powers of speech. ‘Henry, I don’t know what on earth has got into you! This is preposterous! We can’t turn Beeversham into a giant TV set for the day.’

Catherine watched Henry’s face drop. ‘It’s a brilliant idea!’ she said. ‘Henry’s right, we need something different to draw people in.’

‘I agree,’ Mel declared.

‘Me too,’ said Mike.

John put his hand up. ‘I suggest we vote.’

Felix had been looking a bit surprised by the change of events, but he nodded. ‘Let’s have a show of hands, then. All those in favour of changing it to Beeversham’s Big Charity Game Show.’

Everyone’s hand went in the air, apart from Amanda
Belcher’s. There was a long silence. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said crossly.

Mel gave a hoot of laughter. ‘
Big Brother
, I love it!’

Over more wine the duties were quickly divvied up. Henry’s inspired idea had renewed enthusiasm and everyone had great fun discussing the logistics and whether they really could get a couple of snakes for
I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!
from a reptile zoo. When Mike Cooper-Stanley bought out the excellent cognac he’d picked up in duty-free that week, even Mrs Patel didn’t say no.

Vanessa side-stepped another cowpat and swore loudly. Her vision of arriving gracefully out of the foliage like an intrepid Joanna Lumley wasn’t going according to plan. Instead she was hot, hopelessly lost, and her new silk Etro pants had stains all down them from where she had tripped on a tree root and gone flying.

Despondent, she slumped down on a tree trunk. This whole quest to find Dylan’s yurt was madness. The only reason she was here was because Conrad had gone to London and wouldn’t know what she was up to. She still felt a chill from their encounter yesterday afternoon. Conrad could be caustic, cruel even, but now she wondered if perhaps he might be even more dangerous. If he ever found out about this little trip she would be in deep trouble.

She’d make one more effort to find Dylan. Trying a new route through the woods this time, she came out on to a large overgrown field. On the far side was a little thicket. He had said he lived beyond the woods.
Feeling encouraged, she set off, picking up the hem of her floaty trousers to avoid more lurking cowpats.

She had nearly reached the thicket when an ominous growl started up inside it. There was a rustling of leaves and suddenly the most enormous dog sprang out of the undergrowth. She saw a flash of wolfish eyes as the animal started running full pelt towards her.

Panic-stricken, Vanessa began to run back in the direction of Foxglove Woods. It was no good, the dog was too fast. She could hear it closing in on her, feel its hot rancid breath on her neck.

‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Somebody help me!’

Knocking her over with one fell swoop, the dog jumped on her back. ‘Help!’ she screamed again, blindly whacking it with her Hermès Birkin. ‘Somebody please!’

She curled into a ball, trying to protect herself. The dog opened its mouth and she saw the dripping, canine teeth.
Oh God
, she thought.
It’s going for my face
.

Next moment she was drenched in a succession of frantic licks.

‘Get off me! Urgh!’ she shouted, as a smelly tongue licked her teeth. With a Herculean effort she pushed the dog off. Her sunhat was gone, as was one of the heels on her Brian Atwoods.

‘Vanessa!’ a voice said. ‘Are you all right?’

She looked up. Dylan was standing there, silver eyes full of alarm.

‘I did shout that he was a big softy but you didn’t hear.’

He handed the hat back to her, retrieved from a nearby clump of grass. Her lost heel was lying beside
it. She brushed herself down, trying to regain some semblance of elegance. The Hound of the Baskervilles, aka Dylan’s Irish wolfhound Eddie, was gambolling round in the background chasing a butterfly.

‘I’ve never seen someone move so fast,’ Dylan told her. ‘If you ever wanted to give up this celebrity lark you could always carve out a career as an international sprinter.’

They both started to laugh, Vanessa more from sheer nerves than anything else. Dylan was wearing the same white vest as when they’d first met. To anyone else it would be just an identikit old vest, but she remembered the way it clung to his body, the little stain of rust on the front. Every single detail of Dylan had imprinted itself on her brain.

‘How come you’re here?’ he asked curiously.

‘I was just out for a walk anyway, and stumbled across this place.’

He glanced at her heels. She went red.

‘OK, I came out here to find you,’ she confessed. ‘Dylan, I wanted to say how sorry I was for the way my husband spoke to you.’ She had the impression of grey clouds passing through his eyes, making them impossible to read.

‘Since you’re here,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come and see the yurt?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I’d like that very much.’

Vanessa had been expecting a rustic shack, not this neat little oasis tucked away from the world. In the middle of the camp were the remnants of a campfire, a director’s chair by it. A guitar was propped awkwardly
against the chair, as if Dylan had stopped playing suddenly.

To the left of the grassy clearing was the yurt, a medium-sized canvas tent that looked a bit like a circus top. His green camper van was parked nearby and a hammock stretched out between two of the overhanging trees.

‘Let me give you the guided tour,’ he said. She followed him through the little door into the yurt and was immediately struck by how spacious it felt. And clean. On the floor was a mixture of striped rugs and sheepskins, while a day bed was in the far left, artfully adorned with more striped scatter cushions. There was a low wooden table in the middle of the room, with more cushions to flop down on to. A pair of Moroccan lanterns, not dissimilar to the ones Vanessa had in her own house, were suspended from the roof poles.

‘Dylan, it’s really lovely.’

‘You’re surprised. Were you expecting a troglodyte’s cave?’

‘Of course not!’ Her pink cheeks gave her away.

‘I’m kidding you.’ He gave her one of his lopsided smiles. The yurt suddenly felt awfully close and sticky.

‘Shall we continue the grand tour?’ she said hurriedly.

The kitchen area was under a canopy outside: a small gas cooker with two hobs and a grill. Pots and pans and cooking utensils hung from hooks. ‘I normally cook over the fire in summer,’ he explained.