Party Games (45 page)

You little beauty
, Catherine thought. She garbled something as Vanessa turned back to the cameras.

‘If you’re in a fix, Catherine Connor is the girl to come to your rescue. She’s a passionate and dedicated campaigner and I’ve no doubt she’ll make a fine MP.’ She took Catherine’s hand and held it aloft. ‘So vote Connor!’

There was nothing like a celebrity in the middle of a scandal to hot up a campaign. Vanessa was arguably the most famous woman in Britain, the tragic heroine caught in a glamorous love triangle. She could have turned out to endorse Saddam Hussein and won him votes.

It gave Catherine the impetus she needed. Doors stopped being shut in her face. It had become a race against time: the polling stations closed at 10 p.m. on the dot. A lot of constituents had started tucking
into their evening drinks and were unable to drive. Desperate not to let votes slip through their fingers, the Blue Rosettes set up a constant shuttle service in and out of the town. Aubrey Taunton-Brown was most put out at having to get his vintage Rolls-Royce out to ferry a gaggle of grannies in from the local nursing home.

By nine o’clock Catherine was dead on her feet. Taking a break from the madness outside, she went back to Tory HQ.

The O2 network was still down. ‘Have I had any messages?’ Catherine asked the Blue Rosette manning the phones.

‘Thousands of press requests. And the Prime Minister called again.’

‘Nothing …’ Catherine bit her lip. ‘There’s been nothing from my husband?’

The woman looked apologetic. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Catherine had been holding on to that last bit of hope that today, of all days, John would have tried to get in touch. She sank on to the floor in a heap.

‘I can’t do it! I’m so scared I’ve lost him.’

The door opened behind her. ‘Oh, piss off!’ she screamed. ‘I’m not doing another bloody interview!’

‘Catherine.’

She looked up through a mist of tears. Mel and Mike were standing there, along with the Patels, Lynette, Amanda and Henry, even the headmistress from St Gwendolyn’s. Catherine blinked; was that really Talia Tudor, smiling ironically under an inch of fake tan?

‘Come on, babe, get up,’ Mel said gently. She and Mike lifted Catherine to her feet.

‘What are you all doing here?’ Catherine sobbed.

‘We’ve come to help,’ Ursula Patel said.

‘Knock on doors,’ Dilip said.

‘I’ve made sure all the girls from WeightWatchers are going to go down and vote,’ added Amanda Belcher.

Catherine started crying all over again. ‘Thank you,’ she wept. ‘Oh, thank you so much.’

They walked the streets as an army, the troops turning out for their general. Gideon Armstrong turned up and enticed people out with the offer of audience tickets to watch his new series being filmed. Talia Tudor used her mobile to get on Twitter, urging all her friends to go and vote. Mel had the biggest success with her nipple-skimming nautical boob tube.

Catherine was exhausted to the point of no return. Mel and Mike had to practically prop her up on the last circuit of the streets. ‘Babe, you need a break,’ a worried Mel told her.

‘I have to keep going.’

‘You’re about to drop dead!’

‘Mel.’ Mike touched his wife’s arm.

‘Mike, someone’s got to say something. For God’s sake, look at her.’

Her words faded away. Catherine turned to see what they were both looking at, and suddenly everything went perfectly still.

Was it really him? John, her John, standing on the other side of the road in his green check shirt, with his wonderful familiar smile?

She ran across, nearly getting flattened by a 4 × 4 in the process. ‘John!’ She flew into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry!’

‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.’ He hugged her
fiercely, before pulling away. ‘The baby … am I hurting you?’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘Of course not.’

He gazed at her. ‘Is it really true?’

‘I’m eight weeks and counting. I went to the doctor’s yesterday. I mean, we need to have the three-month scan but …’ She dared to smile. ‘It’s all looking good.’

‘Oh, Cath.’ He hugged her again. ‘I can’t believe we’re having a baby! I’m so sorry I haven’t been here for you both. I got the first flight back when I heard your message, and then I couldn’t bloody get through to you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she sobbed. ‘You’re here now.’

He held her until her tears subsided. ‘I thought I’d driven you away,’ she told him.

John shook his head. ‘I can’t believe we let it get to this. I thought you didn’t need me. How can I have been so bloody stupid?’

‘I’m the stupid one. All you’ve ever done is fight for me.’

They fell into each other’s arms again. ‘I’m the one who owes you an apology,’ John said. ‘I know I can be an awkward bugger at times. I just want to protect you. And when you don’t let me, I guess I get frustrated.’

‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful.’

‘You’re not.’ John traced his hand down her cheek. ‘I’ve been going about it all wrong. Protecting someone isn’t trying to shield them from the world, it’s about supporting and understanding them so they can be the person they want to be.’

‘I can’t stop crying,’ she bawled. ‘This is so embarrassing.’

‘We’re a right pair, aren’t we?’

‘Just as long as we are a pair,’ she sobbed, from the depths of his chest.

‘We are. We always were.’ His own eyes filled with tears. ‘I love you. I love our baby. I promise you, Cath, I will never, ever leave you again.’

‘Oh John, I love you so much.’

He lifted her up and kissed her right out of her heels. A car drove past and beeped. John released his wife and grinned. ‘Haven’t we got some votes to get? Where’s Felix?’

Catherine sighed. ‘I guess you haven’t heard.’

The polling stations had closed. Catherine and the other candidates had done all they could. The official count was taking place at County Hall and was expected to go on well into the early hours.

When Catherine and John arrived at eleven o’clock the place was bustling. Teams of volunteers sat behind long trestle tables, methodically counting. The returning officer, the tall, whiskery man in charge of the proceedings, was striding round officiously, making sure everyone was doing their jobs. Each ballot box was opened and counted, and the contents stacked in bundles on a big central table. Tristan Jago’s pile already resembled the leaning Tower of Pisa. Catherine’s heart sank.

The upstairs balcony was crammed with press doing live broadcasts. It was an extraordinary night by anyone’s standards, with several county councillors being investigated for misconduct. The returning officer was stoically avoiding reporters’ questions. Felix had been such an integral part of the local politics
scene. No one could yet believe what had happened.

The clock ticked on. Thousands more votes were counted. Conversations started to fall away as people stood on the sidelines, watching anxiously. Another box of votes was added to Tristan’s pile. Catherine’s depression intensified. They hadn’t a hope in hell.

A ballot box from another village was brought over. ‘Hold on,’ Kitty said. ‘They’ve always been pro us, I’ve got a good feeling.’

Sure enough, when the box was tipped out and counted, most of the voting were added to Catherine’s pile.

‘Forget Esme Santura,’ she told Kitty. ‘You want to predict a few more of those?’

It was incredible. More Conservative bundles started to stack up. By 3 a.m. her’s and Tristan’s piles were neck and neck. The Lib Dem Helen Singh had about half their number of votes, and, surprisingly so did the bloodthirsty Bill Fairclough. Esme Santura had the smallest pile, along with a used Euro Lottery scratch card someone had put in, the words ‘Thanks for nothing’ scrawled across it.

A palpable tension took hold of the room. Everyone was red-eyed and exhausted, running on nerves and sheer adrenalin.

‘Whatever happens, Cath, you’ve done your best,’ John told her. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

It was clearly a close call between Catherine and Tristan. Tristan had been his usual smug self until about an hour earlier, but he had gradually fallen silent. He was standing with his gang on the other side of the
room, all of them chewing their fingernails nervously.

Half an hour later all the ballot boxes had been counted. The returning officer cleared his throat. It was showtime.

Catherine was gripping John’s hand so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers. She was holding on to Kitty with the other hand.

‘Ladies and gentleman, the results for the Beeversham by-election are as follows,’ announced the returning officer. ‘The independent candidate Colonel Bill Fairclough, four thousand, three hundred and two. Esme Santura, also an independent, fifty-three votes.’

The pagan witch looked thrilled. ‘Fifty-three, that’s wonderful!’

‘Wish I was so easily pleased,’ Catherine muttered to her husband.

‘Helen Singh from the Liberal Democrats, fourteen thousand, one hundred and twenty-seven votes.’

The young Lib Dem gave a stoic grin. The returning officer looked back at his sheet.

‘The Conservative candidate Catherine Connor …’

She thought of all her friends back in Beeversham, of all the thousands of faces she’d met over the last month. She thought, too, of Linda Giachetti, mother of the murdered Debbi, and all the people like her that she’d promised to help.

‘… Thirty-one thousand, four hundred and sixty-five.’

John squeezed Catherine’s hand. ‘Tristan’s got more, I bloody know it,’ she muttered.

The returning officer paused dramatically. Everyone held their breath.

‘Tristan Jago, the Labour candidate, thirty-one thousand, four hundred and …
sixty-five
.’

The press balcony erupted. ‘A bloody tie! That’s never happened before!’

Tristan Jago’s lot were heckling even before the commotion died down. ‘Recount, recount!’

The returning officer sighed. ‘OK, let’s start again.’

Two nail-biting hours later, the count was in again. It was exactly the same.

No one seemed to know what to do. ‘What happens now?’ Catherine asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ Clive said. ‘It’s been close before, but no two candidates have ever got exactly the same number of votes. It’s incredible!’

Tristan Jago was arguing loudly with the returning officer over one of Catherine’s voting forms.

‘That’s a tick, not a cross! It’s not a valid vote.’

‘Stop holding your thumb over it,’ the returning officer said wearily. ‘That’s definitely a cross.’

People milled around, looking uncertain. ‘I can’t go through this again,’ Catherine wailed quietly.

Tristan started arguing with the returning officer again. The press swarmed amongst everyone, getting reactions. John pushed another microphone out of Catherine’s face.

No one noticed a red-haired lady in a quilted waistcoat walking back to one of the empty ballot boxes. She peered inside and pulled something out. Her eyebrows went up. Rushing up to the returning officer, she dragged him away from a disgruntled Tristan Jago.

A moment later the returning officer shushed the
room. ‘Er, it seems we have overlooked a remaining vote. And, as all the boxes were sealed when they came in, it has to be counted as legitimate.’

There were sharp intakes of breath. Tristan Jago went a funny sage colour. John had to physically prop Catherine up.

The returning officer triple-checked, just to be certain. There was no way he was ballsing this one up. ‘The vote is for … the Conservative candidate Catherine Connor.’

Pandemonium erupted. Clive started hyperventilating. Catherine rushed over. She had to see for herself. It was a postal vote. She took one look at the name and burst into tears.

‘It’s from Ginny.’

Two weeks later

It had been officially recorded as the hottest summer since 1935. Even by mid-September it was still unseasonably warm, and there was actually relief at the prospect of moving into a cooler autumn.

Three things were dominating the press: a new fuel crisis, the recently elected MP Catherine Connor and her first few weeks in Westminster (she’d already had a stand-up row with a backbencher at Prime Minister’s Questions) and last but not least, the scandalous downfall of Conrad Powell. He was now on remand at Wandsworth Prison, awaiting trial. The press were salivating at the tale of the cruel husband, his beautiful wife and her star-crossed lover. Ironically, there was already talk of film rights.

Beeversham had become the most talked-about place in the country, yet as the villagers mingled on the
lawns at Beau’s house that day, the scene was one of relaxed conviviality.

For most of them, it was their first visit to Ridings. No one could believe what a beautiful restoration job had been done, or what a gracious host Beau was. Affable, blue eyes twinkling, he moved amongst his guests with easy conversation and an ever-full bottle of champagne. Mr Patel, who only ever had half a lager on Christmas Day, was already becoming very jolly.

The change in Fleur Blackwater was equally incredible. Beeversham’s new coupling had surprised everyone, but as soon as they saw the pair together it all made sense. Beau was so sweetly protective of Fleur, constantly fussing over her, playing with her hair as they talked, asking her if she wanted anything. She had blossomed before everyone’s eyes, and looked beautiful in a sunflower-yellow dress that danced against her red tresses and brought out her amber eyes, but it was Fleur’s new radiance that everyone commented on. Finally, she was being allowed to be a girl again.

It was 4 p.m. by the time Catherine screeched up in her MG. The last two weeks had been completely manic. She’d spent most of the morning haggling for a computer and printer for the tiny office in Westminster she was sharing with two other MPs. So much for the glamour.

She got out of her car, marvelling at Ridings’ clean precise lines framed against the empty sky. The building was a work of art.

A young waitress was waiting at the entrance to the garden. ‘Champagne, madam?’

‘Can I have an orange juice, please?’

Her mobile went off. It was the Prime Minister again. Pressing ‘End’ she chucked it in her bag and went to find her husband.