Party Games (38 page)

Her voicemail beeped with a message a few minutes
later.
‘You have one new message,’
the automated voice intoned.
‘Message received today at ten twenty-two p.m.’

‘Bloody get on with it!’ she shouted. Her heart swelled as she heard the familiar Geordie burr.

‘Hi, Cath. I was hoping you’d pick up, but you’re probably out campaigning. I hope it’s going OK, we’re in a pretty remote place but I’ve been getting
BBC News
when I can. I saw you with the Prime Minister the other day. You looked great.’

There was a long, horrible pause. ‘
Cath, sweetheart, we’re in a load of trouble here
.’

She felt her heart detach and roll down to the bottom of her stomach.

‘This is the world’s worst timing. But I can’t keep pretending. I owe you the truth about how I feel
.

‘The truth is, Cath, I’m not sure we have a future together.’
His voice sounded broken.
‘You’ve only ever been the one for me, Cath. I’ve waited my whole life for you. But now I’m starting to wonder if it was just a romantic notion, an ideal I had of us being together.’

Catherine’s legs dissolved underneath her. She slid down the wall.

‘All I’ve ever wanted to do is love you and look after you. You’re an amazing woman, Cath, and I’ve been so proud to call you my wife. Your independence is one of the things I’ve loved most about you, but now I realize you’ve been trying to tell me something. I can’t seem to make you happy, Cath. It’s like I suffocate you, and that’s a bloody horrible way to feel. I’m starting to wonder if I made you feel like that all the way along.’

The line crackled, muffling John’s voice. Or was he crying?
‘I used to think loving someone was enough to make it work. Now I’m not so sure. I can’t be with someone who
doesn’t want to be with me. We’re both too good to live our lives like this
.

‘I can’t believe I’m saying this into a voicemail. Then again,’
a wry note entered his voice.
‘It’s the only time I’ve been able to tell you how I’m feeling without it descending into an argument.’
There was another burst of static.
‘I’m going off on a trip by myself for a few days. I don’t know if there will be any phone reception. I’ll let you know when I’m back. Thinking of you always, good luck on Thursday.’
The call ended abruptly.

Catherine was shaking so much she dropped the phone twice. ‘John!’ she cried. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Please, please pick up.’

It was too late. It went through to voicemail. He’d already turned his phone off.

She put her face on the cold floor and howled.

Fleur drove into the yard that night and immediately sensed something was wrong. The house was too still. Jumping off her quad bike, she raced inside.

‘Dad?’

The dogs hung back at the door, unwilling to come in. Fleur saw the gun cartridges scattered on the kitchen table.

‘Dad!’

She raced down the corridor. ‘Dad!’ She tried the study door but it was locked. ‘Are you in there?’

No answer. She was sweating with fright.
No, no, no
.

‘Dad!’ She started beating on the door with her fists. ‘Let me in!’

She jumped as it was suddenly wrenched open. Her father stood there, eyes puffy and bloodshot.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he growled.

‘I could bloody ask you the same thing!’ she cried. ‘Why do you always lock yourself in?’

The table was strewn with old photographs of her mother. Embarrassed at what she’d stumbled in on,
angry, inordinately relieved, she went for her dad.

‘Why are there spent gun cartridges on the kitchen table?’

‘I’ve been out, shooting rabbits. What are you yelling for?’

She was close to tears. ‘I came in and thought …’

Her dad stared at her. ‘What did you think?’

She bit her lip, holding back. ‘So this is what you come in here to do? Look at pictures of Mum?’

He went back to his armchair. The way he walked reminded Fleur of the tired, stiff way her grandfather had moved round before he had died.

‘Now you know,’ Robert said. ‘The sad secret of a sad old man.’

‘It’s not sad!’ Fleur said tearfully. ‘Why don’t you talk to me about Mum?’

He picked up his glass. She looked back at the desk. There were other photos laid out alongside the ones of her mother. Fleur picked up one of her granddad as a young man. It must have been harvest time; he was standing stiffly in one of the fields holding a pitchfork.

She glanced over the other black and white photographs. The way the farm’s history was all laid out like this; it seemed so final.

Her dad picked up his glass. ‘It’s all right, lass. You’ve got Beau now. Maybe I was wrong about him after all.’

‘What do you mean I’ve got Beau? I’ve still got you, haven’t I? Dad?’ she said. ‘We’ve still got each other, haven’t we?’

Her dad wasn’t listening. ‘I won’t be a burden to you for much longer. Then you can have your life back again.’

‘Dad,’ Fleur said in a tiny voice. ‘You’re scaring me.’

‘Don’t be scared,’ he said distantly. ‘Everything will be all right.’

Fleur went over and knelt down by him. ‘Please tell me you’re not about to do anything stupid. We’ll get through this somehow.’

That night, she hid his shotgun.

Two things dominated the papers the following morning: the Beeversham by-election and the Ye Olde Worlde meeting. The
Sunday Times
ran a headline about the fate of the government being in Catherine’s hands. The
Sunday Telegraph
went with it being crunchtime for the future of rural England, asking: ‘Will it be concrete car parks or fields of dreams?’ Catherine, skimming the papers at 7 a.m. after barely sleeping, had run upstairs to be sick.

She felt utterly helpless. She’d called John obsessively all night, waking up fully dressed at 5 a.m. on the bed, still clutching her phone. Clive and Kitty had taken one look at her and asked if they should call a doctor. Numb, Catherine had gone on to autopilot. She went back out, smiling, cajoling, and talking people round. On the inside she was an empty shell.

Desperate to keep busy, she insisted on knocking on twice as many doors when they went out. By one o’clock, after she’d nearly fainted on someone’s doorstep, Kitty and Clive had persuaded her to take a
break. Unable to bear the concerned looks, Catherine had asked to borrow Clive’s Volvo.

Without thinking she’d found herself driving up to Blaize Castle. The view, as ever, was heart-stopping. She looked out over the swaying fields and wondered what John was looking out on at that precise moment. Was he consumed with wretched misery and thinking about her, the way she was about him?

This place had always brought her happiness, but now it seemed so bleak. How could she stay here without John in her life? She wasn’t being melodramatic. Her husband saw things in black and white. Once he made his mind up about something, there was no going back. Maybe he was right. Maybe she had always kept him at arm’s length, and, little by little, year by year, even he had been worn down. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m so scared I’ve lost you!’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Vanessa asked Dylan for the umpteenth time.

‘She’ll be fine,’ he reassured her. ‘Look, her and Eddie are best mates already.’

They looked over to where a delighted Sukie was rolling in the long grass with Eddie. She’d hared round like a mad thing when they’d first got here, excitedly seeking out all the new sights and smells. Her pristine white coat was already strewn with leaves.

It was one less thing to worry about. The little dog had been getting so anxious with the strained atmosphere in the house, but Vanessa hadn’t been able to put her precious Sukie into kennels, no matter how luxurious.
She knew her dog would be happy and well cared for with Dylan.

She put her arms round his waist. ‘I wish I could stay here as well.’

‘Stay. Let me take care of you.’

‘I just have to get through this week.’ She pressed her face against his T-shirt and breathed his familiar fresh-air scent in.

‘The next time I see you we’ll be together properly,’ Vanessa murmured.

He held her so tight she thought she would break. ‘That’s all I’ve ever wanted,’ he told her.

Catherine was driving back into Beeversham when she saw a familiar Smart Car by the side of the road. The wheezing sounds coming from the engine did not sound healthy.

She pulled up beside the window to see a hysterical Vanessa Powell behind the wheel. She shot Catherine a murderous look.

Two paparazzi motorbikes were zooming down the track out of Foxglove Woods.

‘OH, FUCKING START!’ Vanessa screamed.

Catherine had no idea why she was so desperate to get away, but the woman was in a complete state. ‘Get in,’ she shouted.

Vanessa looked across at her. ‘What?’

‘I said, get in! Unless you want those paps to catch you!’

She could see Vanessa wrestling inwardly, before she grabbed her Birkin handbag and jumped out. She threw herself in the passenger door, almost
sliding off Kitty’s bead seat-covering. ‘Drive, drive, drive!’

Sensing a kill, the bikes weren’t giving up easily. The Volvo roared down Beeversham High Street at twice the normal speed limit. Several people did a double-take but decided it simply couldn’t be the Conservative candidate Catherine Connor at the steering wheel because, at this stage in the campaign, such flagrant law-breaking would be suicidal.

Vanessa had her head jammed in the footwell.

‘Where do you want me to go?’ Catherine asked.

‘Just get rid of them!’ came the muffled cry.

The W reg Volvo was no match for the powerful Yamahas, but Catherine had always driven on the fast side, and she knew the lanes around Beeversham. Zooming through the outskirts, she took a sharp right and floored the car down a little turn-off. Moments later the powerful engines of the bikes roared past.

The car came to a stop under an ancient oak. ‘You can come out now,’ Catherine said.

Vanessa stayed where she was.

‘I said, you can—’

‘I heard you!’ Vanessa said crossly. As she sat up, Catherine was shocked at the state of her. Vanessa’s eyes were red, and her hair was everywhere. Her Chanel sunglasses hung comically off the end of her nose. She glared at Catherine.

Don’t mention it
, Catherine thought.
It’s not like I’ve got other things to do
.

The two women sat there in silence for a while.

‘I’m having an affair,’ Vanessa suddenly announced. ‘With a man called Dylan Goldhawk.’

Catherine tried not to show her surprise. ‘Dylan, the guy who lives behind Foxglove Woods?’

Vanessa nodded. ‘The bikes were waiting nearby when I got back to the car. I was scared they’d put two and two together and go and find him.’

Catherine didn’t know what to say, so she kept quiet. She noticed how slight Vanessa’s wrists were. They looked too fragile to hold the weight of her Cartier watch.

‘I suppose this is your big exclusive,’ Vanessa said bitterly. ‘“VANESSA POWELL’S SHOCK AFFAIR.” You’ll probably have me jumping naked out of a cake somewhere.’

Catherine sighed. ‘Vanessa, what you do in your personal life is no concern of mine.’

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘Are you ever going to get over this? I apologized at the time. It was a bad call and you ended up being well compensated.’
And building your career off it
, Catherine wanted to add.

‘That makes it all right, does it? It was a horrible experience to have to go through. It’s not just the celebrity who gets hurt when you print these things, you know.’

Catherine felt deeply chastised. ‘I’m sorry I made you feel like that.’

‘Yes, well. Maybe you should think next time,’ Vanessa retorted. ‘Just because someone’s in the public eye doesn’t stop them being human.’

Catherine glanced across at her adversary with newfound respect. ‘So what now?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to drop you home?’

‘I hate my husband!’ Vanessa burst out passionately. ‘He’s a total bastard!’

Catherine was about to add that she agreed but she could see it was no time for jokey remarks. ‘I’m leaving him,’ Vanessa said. ‘Right after the Silver Box Awards.’

‘Oh,’ Catherine said inadequately.

Vanessa gripped on to the Birkin in her lap. ‘Catherine, I’m scared.’

It touched Catherine that Vanessa had used her name. ‘What are you scared about?’ she asked gently.

‘Breaking up Brand Powell. The repercussions. All the bad press. I’ve worked so hard to get here, and now I’m about to throw it all away.’ Vanessa’s eyes welled up. ‘The dreadful headlines my mother will have to read. Conrad will try and portray me as a home-wrecker, I know it.’

‘A few bad headlines aren’t the end of the world,’ Catherine told her. ‘And I should know. You just have to be true to yourself.’

Vanessa turned to fix Catherine with her famous caramel gaze. ‘You really think so?’

‘I do. Vanessa, you’ve built yourself back up before. You can do it again. The public will side with you once they find out what an arsehole Conrad is.’ Catherine looked at the celebrity closely. ‘Is Dylan worth it?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said fervently. ‘He’s a wonderful, kind man who loves me for me. Not what I’ve got. I feel like he’s the only person in the world who’s ever understood me. When we’re apart it’s like a piece of me is missing.’

Tears pricked the back of Catherine’s throat. ‘Then do it. Take it from me, life is nothing without the person you love.’

It was fast becoming a two-horse race between Tristan and Catherine. She was second in the latest poll on 31 per cent compared to Tristan’s 40 per cent. As the hours ticked by, the dirty tricks intensified. A pro-Tory street had woken up that morning to find the ‘Vote Connor’ placards in their front gardens had been mysteriously replaced overnight with Tristan’s placards. Meanwhile, Esme Santura was going round pulling the Lib Dem leaflets out of people’s letterboxes (the party was notorious for never posting their leaflets through properly), and replacing them with horoscope sheets promising great things if she got voted in.