Party Games (2 page)

The car purred along Pavilion Heights, the most exclusive road in Beeversham. Billy their chauffeur turned a smooth right into the private road leading to the gates of Tresco House. Moments later the car was pulling up outside the ten-bedroom mansion the Powells called home.

Conrad got out and went round to open his wife’s door. Helping her out, he dropped an extravagant kiss on her hand. ‘Back at last,
ma chérie
. Thank fuck for that.’

He flashed a wicked grin, looking heart-stoppingly like the old Conrad, before turning and taking off on long legs across the courtyard.

Smiling wryly, Vanessa followed in his wake. A bundle of white fluff shot out the open front door and threw itself at her Louboutins. It was Sukie, the Maltipoo cross; beloved by her and despised by Conrad after it had left a present in his Italian loafers.

‘Hello, my angel, did you miss your mummy?’ She picked the squirming ball up and pressed her face into soft fur. Mindful of hairs on her dress, she put Sukie back down carefully and went inside.

Vanessa had grown up in a small Ealing terrace with a garden the size of a cotton-wool pad and neighbours crowding in from every direction. She always got a thrill walking into her beautiful renovated manor house. White marble floors stretched the length of the ground floor, while a white staircase swept up into a circular balcony above. Tall, opulent vases of lilies stood on the heavy Moorish side tables she had specially imported in. The look was very LA; exactly what she’d asked the interior designer for.

‘Mrs Powell, where shall I put this?’ Billy was hovering on the doorstep, an exquisite cake box in his arms.

‘In the kitchen please, Billy.’ On closer inspection Vanessa could see that some of the flowers in the nearest vase were brown and wilting. Why hadn’t Renata put in fresh ones, as she’d requested?

Conrad had already disappeared to the gym to do his stretches; his hamstrings always played up after a long car journey.

‘Vanessa.’ A statuesque figure in a purple kaftan and Cartier diamonds stood at the top of the stairs. Slowly, dramatically, Dominique Salijan started her descent. Her heavy Samsara perfume engulfed Vanessa in place of a hug.

‘You’re late,’ she said in her heavy accent. ‘I was getting worried.’

‘The traffic was bad,’ Vanessa said apologetically.

‘You were the belle of the ball.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Of course.’

Even at fifty-five Dominique had an essence that could turn heads. When Vanessa had been little she’d thought her mother looked like Sophia Loren; certainly Dominique had always felt as remote and beautiful as the famous actress. It was to Dominique that Vanessa owed her high cheekbones and famous caramel-coloured eyes.

Her mother gave her daughter the usual once-over, missing nothing. Automatically Vanessa pulled in her stomach.

‘I got Billy to stop off at Patisserie Valley,’ she offered. ‘I got your favourite, framboise gateau with white chocolate.’

Her mother sighed, as if she’d been disappointed hugely. ‘Oh, darling, I wish you hadn’t. You know how I’m trying to keep my figure.’

‘I thought it would be a nice surprise.’

How stupid of me
.

‘I would just prefer flowers. You always get me such beautiful flowers.’

The Victoria Beckham dress was starting to chafe at Vanessa’s curves. ‘Fine.’ She sighed. ‘I’m going upstairs to get changed.’

‘You look tired, put on some eye cream,’ her mother instructed. ‘I’ll be waiting with drinks on the terrace.’

Vanessa peeled off her dress and hung it on the wardrobe door, ready for dry-cleaning. The La Perla bra and knickers were next, dropped into the rose-scented laundry basket. She turned to look at the line of mirrored wardrobes that dominated the master suite. Anyone else would have seen an exotic beauty with a knockout body standing there, cappuccino mane cascading down her back. Vanessa, however, focused on the minutiae. Her mother was right. The slight tautness around her eyes was a sign that Vanessa hadn’t drunk enough water today.

She knew not to rise by now, but her mother’s comment still rankled. Why couldn’t she just approve for once? Vanessa made sure Dominique wanted for nothing. The more she gave, the more critical her mother seemed to become.

She surveyed her reflection in the glass: the sensuous hips and tiny waist, the impressive natural breasts with large, dark nipples. Vanessa had always been limited as a model: her womanly dimensions were more suited to the old-school glamour of a 1950s pin-up, but even so she had made a fortune.

Slipping into her silk dressing gown, Vanessa walked across to the French windows. As with everything
in her life the gardens were groomed to perfection. Striped lawns were centred with a regal stone fountain and an elevated mosaic swimming pool looked down from the far end. Their gardener, Paul, was bending down in one of the flowerbeds, his T-shirt rising up to reveal an expanse of pink flesh.

Her mind wandered back to Catherine Connor. Not that Vanessa would ever say so, but she thought Catherine had looked great. She would never want Catherine’s figure – muscles were so unfeminine – but her arch-enemy had looked glowing. Retirement in the country clearly suited her. For a moment Vanessa was wantonly jealous of Catherine’s life, the freedom she had to do whatever she wanted.
Can you imagine me jogging through town without a scrap of make-up?
Her mother and Conrad would have a blue fit.

In another world a million miles before this one, Vanessa had looked up to Catherine. She’d subscribed to
Soirée
from the age of sixteen. Clever, funny and sophisticated, the magazine was like the older sister she had so desperately wanted. She had thought Catherine was a goddess.

So when
Soirée
had printed that bunch of lies it was as if Catherine had personally punched Vanessa in the stomach. The fallout had been even worse: devastating insinuations that Vanessa was a high-class prostitute. The
Sun
’s front page would be branded in her memory for ever.
BUSTED! Good-Time Girl Vanessa Powell POPS out at party of shame!
To add to the humiliation they’d superimposed Vanessa’s head on a
Carry On
picture of a topless Barbara Windsor.

By then she had reinvented herself as a mesmerizing
beauty, but in a heartbeat she was ‘Gyppy Jardine’ again, the bullied, friendless teenager. Her mother had been chased down the street by reporters and asked what she thought about her daughter being a whore. Vanessa had been subjected to even worse. The one saving grace was that her father hadn’t been alive to see it.

Vanessa had come through it, but she still burnt with anger every time she thought about it – the devastating ripple effect Catherine Connor had created. Clever, opinionated Catherine, who saw women like Vanessa as pointless bits of tits and ass. In a funny way, Vanessa had Catherine to thank. Nothing like a public wronging to send a celebrity’s career into orbit providing you played it right. Seven years on she was one of the most recognizable women in Britain.

And when it had been Catherine’s turn to get dragged through the tabloids, Vanessa had enjoyed every minute.

Twenty-three-year-old Fleur Blackwater woke alone in her single bed. It felt like she’d only just put her head on the pillow, but the watery sunlight filtering through the curtains signalled another long day ahead.

The digital clock read 5.28 a.m. Two more precious minutes of rest. She looked up at the sagging ceiling and imagined what it would feel like to have a lie-in. For a blissful moment she was transported away to one of those Greek islands in the holiday brochures. Fleur in a pretty kaftan; sitting on a terrace by the sea enjoying fresh coffee and a leisurely breakfast …

The drill of the alarm went off, terminating her daydream. All she wanted to do was pull the covers back over her head, but the familiar gnaw of anxiety had already started. Flinging the duvet back, she pulled off the ancient Gap T-shirt that masqueraded as a nightie and went to rummage around for a clean pair of knickers. It didn’t take long to get dressed. Greying bra grabbed from the back of the chair, a fraying polo shirt, jeans that smelt the least offensive close up. As
usual the laundry basket was overflowing. Animals came before people in this house.

Her beauty routine was equally quick. Fleur squinted critically in the mirror above the sink and noticed her freckles had got more pronounced in the sun. She hated her freckles almost as much as she hated her E-cup chest, which had been dropped on her petite frame like some kind of sick joke. Fleur had never understood why all these celebrities wanted to pump themselves up surgically. Her breasts were big and heavy and got in the way of her job. She hid them under baggy tops, wishing one morning she’d wake up to find them magically shrunk.

Tying her long, luxuriant red hair up (her one redeeming feature) she walked out on to the landing. The farmhouse was quiet, the sound of a faraway cockerel floating in through an open window.

Her parents’ bedroom was two doors down on the right. The one next to it had been unused for years. Claire, Fleur’s older sister, had escaped as soon as she could and now lived in suburban bliss with her new family in Reading. She came down for a duty visit once a year, itching to get back out of the door as soon as she’d arrived. Fleur didn’t really blame her sister: they were hardly the Von Trapps these days. People dealt with grief in different ways.

The kitchen door was still closed, a sign her dad hadn’t made it to bed again. Fleur found him slumped on the wooden table, snoring raggedly. A bottle of cheap whisky had been seen off, the empty glass perched precariously in Robert Blackwater’s calloused hand.
The chair her mum had always sat in was pulled out, as if Robert had passed out mid-conversation with a ghost.

Fleur went over. ‘Dad.’ She put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Wake up.’

He twitched and mumbled something. She shook him this time, hard.

‘Dad!’

‘What’s that?’ He blinked bloodshot eyes open. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You fell asleep at the table again.’

‘I must have dropped off. All this bloody extra paperwork they keep giving us.’

The pile of unpaid bills still lay untouched on the dresser. She bit her lip.

Robert Blackwater got up stiffly, avoiding eye contact with his daughter. He went over to the sink and poured out a glass of water.

‘Why don’t you go and have a shower?’ she suggested. ‘I’ll make a start on breakfast.’

Her dad still had his back to her. ‘Don’t baby me, girl.’

The smell of stale alcohol was making her queasy. Fleur had to get out of the messy room and its unhappy memories. ‘I’ll go and see to the cows, then.’

He didn’t answer. After making a run for it, Fleur stood outside in the clean morning air for a moment, gulping it down as if coming up for breath. A minute later the Suzuki quad bike was zooming out of the yard, their two English sheepdogs clinging to the back for dear life.

Desperate to put distance between herself and the farmhouse, she rattled up the track to the top field.
Tinker and Bess had jumped off even before she’d come to a stop, bounding off further up the hill. She stood up on the bike and looked down on her fields. In the nearest, new calves were wobbling round on twiggy legs, following their mothers. The adjoining field held the April spring lambs, little white clouds moving across the expanse of green.

Predominantly a beef and lamb business, Blackwater Farm supplied meat to supermarkets and businesses across the south west of England. May was calving month, and Fleur was flat out looking after expectant mothers and newborns.

It was back-breaking work in a tough climate. The farming industry was on its knees and every month they heard about someone else going bankrupt. They had let all their workers go now apart from a local lad, Ben, who came in to help out. Every day it felt like they were only just keeping their heads above water. Sometimes Fleur would wake bolt upright in bed at night, her chest hammering so hard she was convinced she was having a heart attack.

It didn’t help that she had taken on the lion’s share of the work so that her dad could concentrate on the administrative side. They both knew it was an excuse. Robert Blackwater was no longer fit enough for hard physical labour.

She gazed angrily down the valley. Why couldn’t she have said something to him just now? Even if it had resulted in a screaming match, at least things would be out in the open. Instead of the two of them going on, pretending everything was OK.
You’re a coward, Fleur …

The gnawing, pounding sensation started in her
chest again. Fleur tried a breathing exercise from the meditation book she’d bought, but it didn’t work. Instead, she trained her eyes on on the huge, gleaming white building. That unwanted house had become a physical manifestation to project all her emotions on.

Fleur had learnt a long time ago to bottle things up. But the day she had found out that her dad had sold a hundred acres of the farm to some bloke called Beau Rainford, she had gone mad. Racing over there, she had found Beau already organizing a team of builders to tear her grandparents’ empty old house down to build his own. She had accused Beau of taking advantage of her father. He’d treated the whole thing as a big joke, telling Fleur he’d done them a
favour
. Unable to watch the place she’d spent half her childhood in being demolished, she had stormed out, embarrassingly throwing a clod of earth at Beau’s windscreen that totally missed.

The galling thing was that the money had helped: buying a desperately needed new barn and the animals’ food and upkeep for the last two years. It still didn’t make up for the fact that she had to look at that house every day and endure Beau’s helicopter swooping overhead, frightening the livestock. He was an arrogant rich arsehole who had no respect for the countryside or the business the Blackwaters had built up. For the first time, she knew what it was like to really hate someone.

The text message alert woke Catherine with a start. It was John.
‘At Paddington on the 4.15. See you soon. X’