Party Games (28 page)

Get me out of here
, Fleur thought frantically. At that moment she’d have done anything to be back in the farmhouse kitchen, in her stinky old work clothes with the dogs.

Except there was no turning back now. Following a tiny blonde woman who looked very much like Geri Halliwell, she walked up to the park gate. A huge bank of photographers was lined up outside, taking pictures of a pair of stunning blonde girls.

‘Cara! Give us another smile, darling. Poppy – look this way. Lovely!’

The photographers took no interest in Fleur. She gave her ticket to the smartly dressed woman on the gate. She half expected it to be handed right back, but the woman smiled.

‘Come on through. Have a fantastic evening.’

A big 1930s-style pavilion lay directly in front of her. She had no idea where to go, so she followed the stream of guests walking round the side of the building. The scene that greeted her was like nothing she’d seen in her whole life.

It was like walking on to a Hollywood movie set. The beautiful and famous stood amongst the landscaped gardens, shoulder to shoulder. She spotted Pierce Brosnan talking to a surprisingly short Kevin Spacey. Over in the corner Cheryl Cole, ravishing in a backless dress, stood clutching a glass of champagne
as she chatted to fellow Girls Aloud band-mate Nicola Roberts.

The Serpentine lake shimmered seductively in the distance. The view of the royal park was unbelievable: miles of impossibly green, perfect grass stretching out like a kingdom. A giant-sized chess set, with real people dressed up as the pieces, was being played by a stylish couple, giggling as they instructed their knights to move.

The
pièce de résistance
was a huge mirrored canopy that stretched over the revellers like a big, shiny, expensive puddle. Waiting staff moved through the crowd seamlessly, topping up glasses and refreshing cocktails.

Fleur couldn’t see Beau anywhere. She tried his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Where was he? Someone handed her a drink and she gulped it back without knowing what it was.

‘Cheska, darling!’ Two stick-thin women wearing diamonds the size of eggs effusively air-kissed in front of her.

‘You look amazing,’ one said. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Kenya.’ She pronounced it: ‘Keen-ya.’ The first woman linked skinny tanned arms with her companion. ‘How are you, darling? Is Rollo here?’

They drifted off into the crowd. Fleur checked her phone again, Beau still hadn’t called. She started to get a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.

With no one to talk to, she concentrated on people-watching. Even though almost everyone was undeniably beautiful, there was something curiously identikit about the crowd. The faces and smiles were a little too frozen, jutting clavicles favoured over any
kind of bust. She was gawping at a one-time famous model who’d had far too much plastic surgery when two men walked past, deep in conversation. ‘They say he paid two billion for the Alexis deal,’ one said.

‘Two billion?’ snorted the other. ‘They’re talking out of their arses.’

She gazed open-mouthed after them. Two billion? She couldn’t get her head round that kind of money.
I don’t belong here
, she thought again, panic-struck. Where the bloody hell was Beau?

Leaving the garden, she went inside the gallery and wasted a few minutes walking through the different rooms. She stopped at a huge photograph of a Tibetan man floating upside down in a sea of orange fabric.

‘Fabulous interpretation of the uprising, isn’t it?’ the woman next to her drawled.

‘Fabulous,’ she spluttered. ‘Can you tell me where the toilets are?’

Hoping to find respite, or at least a cubicle to go and hide in, she pushed the door to the Ladies open. Three women stood in a row at the mirrors, preening at their reflections. They were all tall and skinny, the middle one wearing a sheer column dress that left little to the imagination. Fleur looked into the glass and her blood ran cold. She turned to make a run for it, but Valentina’s eyes had fixed on her.

‘Don’t I know you?’

‘Don’t think so,’ Fleur mumbled.

Valentina swung round, her dark eyes flashing maliciously. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognize you without all the cow gunk.’

Valentina’s friends had the same predatory, beautiful
faces. They circled Fleur like a pack of malevolent giraffes.

‘Who
is
this, V?’ the blonde one said.

‘No one,’ Valentina said nastily. ‘On the serving staff tonight, are we?’ she enquired.

‘I was invited,’ Fleur said stiffly.

‘You? Invited?’ Valentina’s right eyebrow shot up. ‘Who would invite you?’

Fleur clutched her mum’s bag protectively across her chest. ‘Beau did, actually.’

The three women exchanged looks. ‘That’s bullshit,’ Valentina snapped. ‘If Beau was going to invite anyone, it would be me.’

‘Has he, then?’ Fleur asked boldly.

The supermodel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what kind of charity ticket you’re on, but someone’s playing a big joke. Beau didn’t invite you. Why would he, when he’s not even coming himself?’

A horrible unease started to creep through Fleur. ‘What do you mean?’

Valentina’s smile was triumphant. ‘He’s away on business, darling. I’m surprised you didn’t know if you’re
such
good friends.’ She gave Fleur a sneering once-over. ‘Didn’t you read the dress code? Nightgowns are like, so twenty years ago.’

‘And ugly shoes,’ her blonde friend added.

Fleur started to burn up. She flinched as the brunette girl raised her hand.

‘Is that for real?’ She touched Fleur’s hair. ‘Oh my God, it doesn’t move!’

Valentina smirked. ‘I had no idea they were doing auditions tonight for the lead role in
Hairspray
!’

The three of them fell about, honking with laughter. Fleur looked past them into the mirror and saw how short and frumpy she looked with her with hideous helmet hair.

Eyes streaming, she fled down the corridor towards the exit, not caring who saw her. This was the worst night of her life. How could Beau do this to her? ‘You bastard,’ she sobbed. ‘I trusted you!’

She was crying so hard she ran slap bang into someone just inside the gallery entrance.

‘Take it easy,’ a voice said. ‘Where’s the fire?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I was just leaving.’

‘Why on earth would you do that? You’ve only just got here.’

She gazed up through a mist of tears. Beau was standing there, wearing a light-blue suit that made him look more tanned and blond than ever.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ he asked, guiding her into a corner.

‘W-where have you been?’ she heaved.

‘A work thing came up, I’m sorry. What’s happened?’

She sucked up a noseful of snot. ‘I j-j-just had a r-run-in with Valentina. She was really horrible to me.’

‘Valentina’s horrible to everyone, don’t take it personally.’

‘She said I was a mess, and she’s right,’ Fleur gulped. ‘It’s really nice of you to invite me, but I don’t fit in here.’

‘Of course you do.’ He produced a hanky. ‘Most people here have red noses from all the coke they do, anyway.’

‘It’s not a joke. I can’t go out there again, Beau, I can’t,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t make me.’

Beau looked out at the party thoughtfully. ‘I have a plan.’

‘More champagne, madam?’

‘Yes, please.’ Vanessa let the waiter give her a refill.

‘Sir?’

‘No,’ Conrad said rudely.

The waiter moved on. Vanessa lifted her glass.

‘Don’t get pissed and embarrass us, we’re here to work,’ Conrad told her.

She glared at him. ‘As if I would.’

A handsome silver-haired man came up to them. It was Les Goodman, head of ITV1. Conrad snapped into charm mode.

‘Les!’ he exclaimed, pumping the man’s hand.

‘Conrad,’ Les replied. He kissed Vanessa on both cheeks. ‘You look wonderful. Chanel, isn’t it?’

‘I’m impressed!’

‘My wife is Chanel-obsessed.’ Les smiled. ‘How are my star presenters doing?’

‘Wonderful!’ Vanessa gushed. ‘I can’t tell you how excited we are.’

As Conrad started to hog the conversation, Vanessa
took the chance to observe the party. It was so strange how she’d once loved these things: the intoxicating mix of the rich and the powerful. She used to look round and think she’d made it. Now she saw it for the sham it was. All these awful people who pretended they were your best friend one minute and cut you dead the next. They were like sharks with their dead eyes and big white teeth. How could she ever have wanted to be part of it?

‘Vanessa, darling!’ A TV presenter Vanessa knew vaguely rushed up. She’d lost a terrific amount of weight since the last time Vanessa had seen her, the Temperley dress hanging off her starved frame.

They air-kissed extravagantly. ‘My God, how amazing you’re doing Silver Box.’ The woman nudged Vanessa with a sharp elbow. ‘I can tell you, it’s set the cat amongst the pigeons, but I said to everyone: “Vanessa is a complete professional. I just know she’ll pull it off.”’

She flashed a cosy, artificial smile. ‘Who are you wearing?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Oh, come on. You can tell me.’

‘Really, I haven’t decided yet.’

The woman’s eyes were already flickering over Vanessa’s shoulder. ‘Oh, there’s Les! Les, darling!’ She practically pushed Vanessa out of the way to get to him. ‘Les! How are you?’

Vanessa felt her mobile start buzzing in her evening bag. It was a local Beeversham number she didn’t recognize. She rushed off to stand under a tree. ‘Hello?’

‘Vanessa?’

‘Dylan?’ she said frantically. ‘Where are you calling from?’

‘A phone box. I know it’s dangerous, but I had to speak to you.’

‘Oh, darling.’ Just the sound of his voice made her feel a million times better.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

She watched her husband slap Les on the back and roar with laughter. ‘At an awful party.’

‘I miss you. Every day without you feels like a week.’

‘Me too.’
Oh God, it was so hard
. Vanessa blinked away the tears.

‘Hey, you OK?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘When can I see you?’

‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘OK. I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ she whispered.

Les had a big smile on his face when Vanessa returned. ‘Conrad’s just been telling me about
OK!
I love the idea!’

The Gucci store on Sloane Street was the most intimidating place Fleur had ever been in. A vast glass-fronted space with items of clothing laid out beautifully, it felt more like an art installation than a clothes shop.

Ivanka, the ice-blonde Amazonian assistant behind the till, had broken out in a huge smile when she’d seen Beau walk in. He’d told Fleur the two of them were old friends. Judging by the adoring way Ivanka was looking at Beau, Fleur thought they might have been a lot more than that.

‘We need at least to drag Fleur into this decade,’ he told Ivanka. ‘Something that shows off her figure.’

Ivanka cast an expert eye over Fleur. ‘You’re a size eight, right?’

‘I guess so.’

‘And a big chest!’ Ivanka smiled. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’

Fleur wanted to die, especially when Beau grinned like a Cheshire cat.

‘Take a seat,’ Ivanka told them. ‘I’ll get some pieces. You want champagne?’

Beau threw himself down on an armchair. ‘You read my mind. Thank you, darling.’

Ivanka disappeared in a waft of something musky.

‘You get champagne?’ a gobsmacked Fleur asked him.

‘It’s the only way to shop.’ He was already back on his phone.

‘I’m not sure how much money I’ve got on me.’

‘Don’t worry. It’s all part of the service.’

She perched on the other chair, trying to look as if she frequented these sorts of places all the time. Ivanka reappeared with two fizzing flutes. She handed one to Fleur. ‘You enjoy this, I’ll get to work.’

‘Ivanka is a maestro when it comes to styling,’ Beau told Fleur. ‘She’ll have you shipshape in no time.’

He went back to whoever he was texting. Fleur gazed at a glittery scrap of material hanging off a rail. Ominously, she couldn’t see any price tags.

Ivanka was back within five minutes with a selection of dresses laid across her arm. ‘We’ll just experiment until we get it right,’ she told Fleur.

‘I feel like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
!’ Fleur joked nervously.

Ivanka’s eyes widened. ‘Wasn’t she a prostitute?’

There was a snort of laughter from behind them.

In the changing room Ivanka helped her on with the first dress. It was long and black, heavily boned round the corset. She looked at her bare shoulders and décolletage. She would never show off this much flesh normally.

‘Redheads are huge on the catwalk this season,’ Ivanka told her.

‘Come on, then,’ Beau called.

Fleur shuffled out of the changing room feeling hideously self-conscious.

‘Oh look, it’s the Scottish Widow.’ He tipped the last of the champagne down his throat.

‘You’re right,’ Ivanka agreed. ‘Far too serious.’

‘Nice freckles, though.’ Beau’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Do you have them everywhere?’

Fleur fled back into the cubicle. The next one was a wraparound dress in a geometric print. Beau glanced up from his phone. ‘Perfect! If we were about to go to the annual Rotary Club dinner.’

Fleur was starting to feel like one of her cattle at market. The third dress was so short it was practically gynaecological. Ivanka had to shove her out on to the shop floor.

Beau looked up again. ‘That’s more like it.’

‘No way,’ Fleur spluttered, fleeing back into the changing room.

She was beginning to lose hope, until Ivanka held up the last dress. Bottle-green and above the knee, it had a high neckline and cute capped sleeves. Simple, but so stylish.

‘Stunning,’ Ivanka declared. ‘Now for accessories.’

She came back with a pair of beautifully delicate strappy heels and a gold clutch bag. The shoes felt as soft as clouds, adding a good four inches to Fleur’s five-foot-four frame. After fastening a gold cuff bracelet on Fleur’s wrist and fitting on dangly gold earrings, Ivanka stood back to study her protégée. ‘Now I’m happy.’