Party Games (41 page)

There was a green Golf parked outside when Fleur pulled up. Fleur found Sergio, Beau’s personal chef, in the kitchen, whisking up egg whites.

‘Hi, Sergio. Is Beau around?’

‘Sorry, Miss Fleur. He’s gone out for the day.’

Fleur looked at the pile of ingredients on the side. ‘Cooking for someone?’

Sergio looked a bit uncomfortable. ‘Mr Rainford just said he had someone special coming to dinner.’

A heaviness settled in the pit of Fleur’s stomach. ‘Well, I won’t keep you. Oh, and Sergio?’ She paused
at the door. ‘Can you not mention to Mr Rainford I was here?’

Outside in the hot sun, she started shivering. How could Beau have just replaced her like that?

As she walked in, she could see that his office was empty, the fully stocked wine fridge humming away in the corner. An unopened Fortnum & Mason picnic hamper was on the floor by the desk. Fleur’s anger flared up. What woman was he intending on sharing that with?

God, you’re an idiot. You let him wine and dine you like all the rest
.

She crossed the room and went behind his desk. She was entering dangerous territory and she knew it. She clicked on the computer mouse, her eyes flickering back and forth from the door. The screen came up immediately. She clicked again on Outlook. She expected Beau to have a password, but his inbox immediately came up, for all to see.

Valentina’s name was at the top. Her stomach heaved. Heart in mouth, Fleur opened it.

‘Baby, I miss U so much. I’m straight now, I promise. I’ve been going 2 rehab and I’m feeling really positive about the future. UR right; I did need 2 get clean. Can’t we work this out? Candice is having her party on the fifteenth, I would love U 2 to come with me. Call me, text me, email me. Anytime. I miss U. V xxxx’

Fleur didn’t know how to feel about that one. At least he hadn’t been sleeping with Valentina behind her back. He hadn’t replied yet either, although that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to.

The next few emails looked disappointingly normal,
including one from Spencer titled ‘Boys’ Ski Trip’. There was also one from someone called Francesca B. Fleur clicked on it, and got an eyeful of Beau in a hot tub, with his arm round a topless ravishing blonde.

‘Found this the other day and it brought back memories! Hope all’s good, darling. See you at Goodwood next month? F xx.’

Fleur closed it promptly, feeling sick. It took a moment for her to focus on the next one. It was from an Anthony Protheroe at something called Beauchamp & Associates.

‘Beau. Re: Blackwater Farm
.

The funds are in. Do you want me to go ahead and transfer?

Ant.’

She gazed at the screen in confusion. Who was Anthony Protheroe? What was he talking about, funds for the farm?

Her hands had started to shake violently. Fleur moved the mouse on to the ‘Sent’ items. There had been a response from Beau at 11.44 that morning.

‘Ant
,

Great, go ahead. The deeds should be with you later.’

Fleur fell back as if the desk was contaminated. Beau had never been interested in her. He’d seduced her to get to the farm.

She was hit by another sucker punch, as vicious as the first. How could her dad have gone behind her back and done this?

Fleur collapsed in the chair. She couldn’t breathe. Her head swam as her heart tried to pump blood round her shocked body. The colossal betrayal was literally overwhelming her.

Her eyes fell on a photo lying on the desk. The incongruousness snapped her back into the present. It was a picture of Talia, Lynette Tudor’s daughter, sulkily ravishing in her school picture. Fleur frowned, distracted for a moment. Why would Beau have a picture of Talia Tudor on his desk?

She stared at it. Suddenly everything began to fall into place. The penetrating blue eyes, the sublime bone-structure. The arrogant tilt of Talia’s chin. It was unmistakable. Beau was Talia’s father.

For the second time that day, Fleur’s world caved in.

Her father was in the kitchen eating a piece of bread and cheese.

‘Dad.’ Fleur’s voice was unnaturally calm. ‘Have you sold the farm to Beau?’

Her father stopped chewing. He put his knife down slowly.

Fleur started to pray.
Please, please, tell me there’s been some kind of mix-up. Please, Dad
.

Robert eyed his daughter carefully. ‘How did you find out?’

‘Is it true?’ she shouted.

‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘How could you?’ she whispered. ‘How could you betray me like this?’

Robert started to get up. ‘Lass, listen. Fleur, wait!’

But Fleur was already running.

Vanessa emerged from her hotel suite. Her stylist and make-up artist gasped.

‘You look stunning,’ her make-up artist cooed, rushing over to add a last touch of highlighter to Vanessa’s cheekbones. ‘I adore the new you.’

The dress, by famed British designer Bibi Brown, was far edgier than Vanessa would normally go for. Her cleavage was covered up for once, the green-gold fabric plunging deep off one honey-brown shoulder instead. With all the stress, Vanessa had lost weight. It had accentuated her collarbones and tiny waist, giving her a leaner, more feline look. Two hundred thousand pounds of diamonds dripped from her wrist and ears.

While her stylist fussed round with the hem of her dress, Vanessa stared at herself in the full-length mirror. By this time tomorrow she would have left her husband and Brand Powell would be over. Her stomach turned over. It wouldn’t take Conrad long to drag her through the press as a scheming adulteress.

It was 5.45 p.m. It would be a thirty-minute drive
to the Royal Albert Hall in this traffic. Then it would be the red-carpet run; posing for the cameras and being interviewed. The awards kicked off at 8 p.m. An estimated six million people would be tuning in.

Vanessa’s stomach lurched again. She shut her eyes and tried to imagine herself back with Dylan at the camp, lying in his arms on the grass. It was her safe, happy place, and it made her feel a fraction better.

Her mother came out of the adjoining guest suite looking regal, in Oscar de la Renta. Vanessa turned back to the mirror to fix her earrings and avoid looking at her.

‘You look beautiful, Vanessa.’

‘Thank you,’ she said tonelessly. ‘So do you.’

The two women had been avoiding each other as much as possible at home, exchanging brief polite pleasantries. Vanessa had expected her mother to side with Conrad, but Dominique had kept to herself and barely come out of her bedroom.

‘Vanessa?’

She turned round, and was shocked to see her mother’s heavily made-up eyes brimming with tears.

‘Mother, what’s wrong?’

‘I’m sorry for not being a mother to you.’ Dominique sat down heavily in a chair. ‘I’m sorry for everything. The truth is, I’ve been jealous of you and Conrad, still having each other.’ She started to weep. ‘How awful, to be jealous of your own daughter.’

Vanessa went over and knelt down beside her. ‘What’s brought this on?’

Dominique’s hands were twisting in her lap. ‘I know I’ve always been hard on you. I just wanted you to
make something of your life, and not be like me.’

‘You did make something of your life. You had a wonderful marriage.’

‘Your father was the only one who ever understood me. I never felt like I fitted any place in the world until I met him.’ She started to cry again. ‘I miss him dreadfully.’

There was a shout from next door. ‘Vanessa! Get your arse into gear. We need to go.’

Vanessa’s own eyes filled up. ‘I miss him, too,’ she told her mother. ‘But we’ve still got each other.’

‘Are you still leaving Conrad?’

‘Yes. Tonight, after the awards. Don’t look frightened. I’m going to take care of you. You have to trust me.’

‘VANESSA!’ Conrad roared. ‘What the fuck are you doing in there?’

Dominique gazed at her daughter through huge eyes. ‘I trust you.’

Vanessa reached for a tissue and dabbed her mother’s face. ‘I’ll always be here for you. OK?’

The door flew open and Conrad burst in, lean and menacing in his new dinner jacket. He glared at the two women. ‘
So
sorry to interrupt your little chat, but when you’ve got a moment, our car’s here.’

They headed out into the rush-hour traffic, tailed by paparazzi motorbikes. It was a balmy evening in the capital, street cafés and bars packed with people. The well-heeled passers-by barely gave a second look to the gleaming Bentley swooping down Sloane Avenue like a presidential car. They were well used to such sights in that part of London.

The temperature outside was still at twenty degrees. Inside the car it was considerably colder. Conrad had instructed Billy to turn the air conditioning up to full blast so he wouldn’t arrive at the Albert Hall looking flushed.

Vanessa was shivering violently, although she couldn’t tell if it was from pure terror and nerves. ‘Conrad, can we turn the AC down a bit?’

‘Shut up,’ he said, staring out of the window.

The traffic came to a halt again. A pap bike pulled up beside Vanessa and started snapping through the tinted windows. Gritting her teeth, she gave the man a smile.

‘Oh, come on.’ Conrad crossed his arms impatiently. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

‘We’ve got lots of time, don’t worry.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you’d become director of London traffic.’

She felt Billy’s eyes on her in the rear-view mirror. A white-hot rage started to build up inside her.

They pulled up at the traffic lights on to Kensington Road. She looked at her husband’s profile, the cruel dark eyes and petulant mouth. What a disgusting human being he was.

‘Conrad?’

He was staring at his fingernails. ‘What?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I’m leaving you.’

‘What are you talking about?’ he said irritably. ‘We travel in the same car, don’t we? If you want your own car, get your own fucking driver.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘I said, I’m leaving you,’ she said, louder. ‘I want out of this marriage.’

He turned to her, almost looking amused. ‘You want what?’

‘I want a divorce, Conrad!’ she cried. ‘I was going to wait until after the show, but I can’t do it. I can’t pretend any longer.’

He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Oh, that is funny.’

‘I’m serious. I’m leaving you, and there’s nothing you can do about it!’

She watched him digest the information. ‘You want to leave
me?
I made us, darling, and don’t forget it.’

‘
I
made us,’ she said furiously. ‘I’m the one who put in the hard work, negotiated the contracts, smoothed things over when you upset everyone! I’m the one who made Brand Powell!’

The Botox made it hard to gauge Conrad’s reaction. It only made him even more dangerous, an unknown quantity.

‘You’re a talentless bitch, Vanessa, who’s used her tits and arse to make her fortune.’

‘And you can’t act for toffee,’ she shot back. ‘They only hired you tonight because Hugh Grant couldn’t do it!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You lying bitch.’

‘You want to know another truth?’ she cried. ‘I’m leaving you for someone else!’

She watched his mouth fall open. He held himself in such godly esteem it would never have occurred to him that she would find someone else.

The word shot out like a bullet. ‘Who?’

She swallowed. ‘Dylan, the gardener.’

A flashbulb went off outside Conrad’s window. Out of habit he flashed a smile. ‘You’re leaving me for the
fucking gardener?’ he hissed. ‘Are you insane?’

‘No, I’m bloody miserable!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve wasted too many years putting up with you. I love Dylan, and he loves me.’

The Royal Albert Hall was just ahead. Hordes of excited fans were lined up outside.

Billy slowed down. ‘Do you want me to pull over?’

‘Keep going!’ Conrad snarled. He whipped back to Vanessa. ‘I’ll fucking ruin you. How dare you do this to me?’

‘Because you’re the biggest bastard that ever walked this earth! Try what you want, Conrad, anything’s better than being married to you!’

The car pulled up. People started screaming their names.

‘You are not breaking up Brand Powell,’ he said, enunciating every syllable.

‘Oh yes I am! Then see where you are, Conrad! I want to be married for love, not money!’

‘Get out of the car,’ he snarled.

‘No! This charade has gone on long enough!’

‘I said,
get out of the fucking car!’

His phone was on the seat beside him. Vanessa took the opportunity and lunged.

‘What the hell are you doing? Give me that back,’ Conrad ordered.

‘No!’ She shoved it in her clutch bag. ‘I’m not letting you put that video of me out there!’

A face outside Conrad’s window made Vanessa catch her breath. Dylan! He’d made it!

‘Oh,’ she breathed. Dylan looked at her, concern on his face.
Are you all right?

Conrad followed her gaze. ‘He’s here?’ he shrieked. ‘You brought him here to humiliate me?’

Vanessa tried to open the door. Her husband wrenched her hand away. ‘Let me go!’ she cried.

‘You’re not going anywhere!’ he snapped.

She pressed the window button and the glass slid down. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be presenting the awards tonight,’ she cried. ‘I’m divorcing my husband.’

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Conrad roared, but it was too late. The assorted press gasped. There was a moment of stunned silence. A microphone was shoved through the window.

‘Vanessa! Can you confirm you’re leaving Conrad?’

The whole interior was ablaze with flashbulbs. She could barely see. Conrad was wild-eyed; the stunned expression of a man who’d just lost the dream. He lunged through the seats, landing on the chauffeur in a grotesque jumble.

‘The fucking
gardener!’
He grabbed the wheel.

Vanessa watched in horror as the car aimed straight for Dylan.

Six and a half million people tuned in to watch the Silver Box Awards. Six and a half million people watched a berserk Conrad Powell drive his Bentley into a crowd of onlookers, scattering them like dominoes. Ambulances quickly arrived on the scene. Conrad was led away in handcuffs. Stephen Fry gallantly stepped in and offered to host the occasion.