Party Games (11 page)

‘Chaps, I’ve let you down. I was so positive the plans would get thrown out. All I can say is sorry.’

‘Don’t be silly, Felix!’ everyone cried. Mel Cooper-Stanley patted his arm.

‘Felix, you weren’t to know. None of us were.’ She shook her head. ‘Those protestors didn’t help.’

‘Professional troublemakers with too much time on their hands,’ Mr Patel said crossly. ‘They don’t care about Beeversham at all.’

Catherine kept quiet. Her hunch about Damien and Sid Sykes having something to do with the protestors suddenly seemed rather silly.

‘They haven’t actually got planning permission yet,’ Mike Cooper-Stanley pointed out. ‘From what the report says they’ve got some pretty big hurdles to get over.’

Everyone looked hopefully at John. ‘Mike’s right,’ he said carefully. ‘Let’s not worry unless we have to.’

Ginny had a resolute look on her face. ‘Darlings, it’s not all over yet! We have to stay positive and not give up.’ She dived into her voluminous bag and brought out a Purple Ronnie notebook. ‘I suggest we have a powwow to think of ways we can keep awareness up. People need to be reminded what a special place Beeversham is.’

‘Like a charity luncheon?’ Ursula Patel suggested.

‘That’s a good start. Any more ideas?’

‘I could do a girls’ night in at the nail bar,’ suggested Mel.

‘Or a sponsored fun run?’ Mr Patel said. ‘Catherine
would have to give the rest of us a head start, though.’

There were smiles all round. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said. ‘Instead of lots of little things, why don’t we do one big event? That way everyone can get involved.’

‘What did you have in mind?’ Mrs Patel asked.

‘I’m thinking off the top of my head, but I was imagining a town fair. We could call it something like “Beeversham’s Big Day Out”.’

The others fell on it.

‘What a marvellous idea!’ Ursula Patel said. ‘We could have stalls and a funfair for the children.’

‘We definitely need a band,’ Mel added. ‘Me and Mike love a good boogie.’

‘And a champagne bar,’ Jonty Fortescue-Wellington said hopefully.

Ginny was writing it all down furiously. ‘I could ask Fleur Blackwater to bring some lambs for the children to pet.’

Amanda had the most inspired idea. ‘How about getting Vanessa and Conrad Powell to open it?’

‘Genius!’ Mel exclaimed. Her eyes flashed mischievously. ‘Maybe Catherine should be the one to ask them. You know, as her and Vanessa have so much history.’

‘What history?’ asked Henry Belcher.

‘Oh Henry, you know the story!’ Amanda nudged Catherine. ‘Tell us again, it’s hysterical.’

Catherine caught John’s eye across the table. The sod was grinning with the rest of them. There was no getting out of it.

Afterwards everyone fell about laughing. ‘I don’t know why Vanessa got such a bee in her bonnet!’ Mel
hooted. ‘She’s flashed her bits enough times for her calendars.’

‘Funnily enough, Vanessa didn’t see it that way,’ Catherine said wryly.

‘I don’t think much of Conrad Powell,’ Mr Patel grumbled. ‘The man can’t act for toffee.’

‘I don’t mind going up to the house,’ Ginny said. ‘It would be so nice if they agreed to it. They have so little to do with the town.’

Catherine knew the Powells wouldn’t even scratch their own arses without being offered vast amounts of money, but she couldn’t let Ginny get savaged by an off-duty Conrad. ‘It’s all right, I’ll do it. At least Vanessa knows me.’
Hates me, more like
.

‘Time is of the essence.’ Felix got his pocket diary out. ‘How about Saturday the twenty-ninth?’

‘Cripes,’ Mel gasped. ‘That’s less than a month away!’

A BBC news headline rolled across the tiny television on the top of the bar. ‘SHOCK VERDICT AT COUNTY HALL.’

It had a galvanizing effect. ‘Don’t get too confident, Mr Sykes,’ Ginny declared. ‘You’ve chosen the wrong town to mess with!’

Fleur didn’t know what Felix had said to Mr Stanley, but he was their saviour. The bank agreed to give them until the end of August to start paying back their loan. She felt like a prisoner on death row who’d been granted a last-minute reprieve.

She didn’t tell her dad about her visit to Felix. Robert Blackwater was a proud man and she knew he would be angry at her ‘peddling’ their private business. Instead Fleur had been spending her evenings at the kitchen table writing business plans. Her idea to sell lamb burgers online had been put on hold when she realized how much it would cost to even get a proper website designed. An easier, quicker option was renting out the top fields. It was still a drop in the ocean compared to what they needed, but it was a start. All she could do was keep thinking up ways to bring in more money. If by some miracle she saved the farm, maybe she’d be able to save her dad as well.

Ironically, the farmhouse had never looked prettier that evening, bathed in half-light, as Fleur drove back
down the hill. It was only on closer inspection that the peeling paintwork and the perilously sagging roof became obvious.

She parked the quad bike in the yard and hopped off. The redundant window boxes and old plant pots were still a sorry collection outside the back door. Fleur made a vow to go down to the garden centre that week. A bit of colour round the place might cheer her dad up.

As soon as she walked in the kitchen, she knew no amount of pretty foliage was going to help. He was still where she’d left him at lunchtime, slumped in the old armchair by the empty fire. The sandwich she’d made for him lay untouched on the side table, the edges curled up and dry.

Fleur went over and knelt down in front of him. ‘Dad,’ she said gently. ‘I’m home.’

Robert Blackwood struggled back from some faraway memory.
He looks so old
, she thought wretchedly. There was a large stain down the front of the shirt he’d been wearing for three days.

‘Come on.’ She stood up, desperate to inject some positivity. ‘I’ll get us something to eat. Why don’t you go and freshen up?’

Things didn’t improve at dinner. Her dad toyed listlessly with the spag bol she’d made, staring off at a spot on the wall somewhere behind her head.

‘So Felix Chamberlain has asked if we can bring a couple of the bottle-fed lambs along to this Big Day Out they’re putting on,’ she said brightly. ‘Sounds like fun, doesn’t it?’

There was no response. She gazed up at the ceiling, willing someone to give her the answers.

‘You shouldn’t have to do all this.’

She looked at him. ‘Do what?’

‘Clean up my mess. I’m a bloody burden to you, Fleur, that’s what I am.’

‘I’m not cleaning up your mess, don’t be silly.’

‘You are.’ He fixed her with sad, rheumy eyes. ‘You’re so like her.’

‘Who, Dad?’

‘Your mum. You’ve got the same fighting spirit. I can see it there.’ He touched his chin.

Her throat suddenly ached with tears. ‘If she was here now, she’d say, “Come on, you two! Let’s sort this mess out!”’

‘But she’s not, lass. She’s six feet under.’

‘Dad,’ Fleur said quietly. Did he not know how cruel he sounded?

He laughed bitterly. ‘And a fat lot of good I’m doing you up here.’

It was a relief when dinner ended and Robert Blackwater went into his study and shut the door behind him. Fleur was left to clear up. Afterwards she went to take a long hot bath, but it did nothing to alleviate the horrible, tight feeling round her temples.

The farmhouse was quiet and dark when she came back down in her nightie. There was a sliver of light under the study door but she didn’t linger. Padding barefoot down the corridor, she went back into the kitchen.

It had always been a ritual that her mum had made Fleur an Ovaltine before bed. She hadn’t drunk the stuff for years, but she was suddenly craving it, the
familiarity of an old comfort blanket. She didn’t even know if they had any, but like a mirage across a scorching desert, there was a jar at the back of the cupboard. Getting it out, Fleur cradled it against her chest.

‘I miss you, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘I wish you were here.’

The glass jar started to warm up in her hands, as if it were responding. She gripped it harder. ‘I’m so worried about Dad. I don’t know what to do.’

A half-laugh, half-sob escaped from her throat. ‘Look at me, Mum! Talking to a jar of Ovaltine. I’ve lost it, I’m telling you.’

There was a noise at the window. Fleur nearly had a heart attack. Two faces were looking in from the darkness at her. She dropped the Ovaltine on the counter.

‘I’ve got a gun!’ she yelled, praying it would wake her dad from whatever stupor he was in.

The faces didn’t move. Her heart sank as she clocked a mocking red mouth and pink shirt. Suddenly, Fleur wished the trespassers
were
burglars. Or even bloody axe murderers.

What the hell was Beau Rainford doing at her back door?

He was lounging on the doorstep, a mocking smile playing on his full red mouth. An old-fashioned tandem bike lay on the ground, the back wheel still spinning.

‘Hello,’ he said languidly. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here.’

Fleur could smell aftershave and the sharp tang of
alcohol. She recognized the man with Beau as the idiot who’d driven the Porsche over her land.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, humiliated at being spied on at such a private moment.

Beau’s blue gaze rested on Fleur. She clamped her arms across her chest and desperately wished her nightie wasn’t quite so short.

The other man was gazing unashamedly at her legs. ‘Can we come in? We’ve got a proposition for you.’

‘No, you bloody can’t,’ she snapped again and started to pull the door closed.

‘Hold on.’ Beau put a proprietorial loafer on the step. ‘Spencer here is my business partner. We were just sitting up at mine discussing your farmhouse.’

The two men exchanged a smirk. Their eyes were glittery, euphoric. Fleur wondered if they were on something.

‘What about our farmhouse?’ she demanded.

‘We want to buy it off you,’ Beau said casually.

‘What?’

‘Everyone knows farming is over. This place would make a seriously good spa for all the desperate housewives round here. Spence and I have done quite a few similar projects already, haven’t we?’

‘Yes, mate. I’m imagining the roof terrace already.’

‘We’ll give you a tidy amount for this place and turn it into a seriously profitable business.’ Beau flicked a bug off his sleeve. ‘Add some glamour and excitement to this town. Christ knows it needs it.’ He gave Fleur what was clearly meant to be a winning ‘seal-the-deal’ smile. ‘What do you say?’

She was so angry she could barely get her words out.
‘What I say is, why don’t you fuck off before I take that boot jack over there and ram it up your arse?’

Beau just looked amused, which made Fleur even madder. ‘Come off it, darling,’ he said. ‘Those gingham curtains are hardly an homage to style.’

‘This is my home!’ Fleur yelled. ‘How dare you!’

Across the yard the dogs pulled at their chains. Spencer glanced back at them nervously.

‘You might be used to flashing your cash and getting what you want,’ Fleur hissed. ‘But it’s not going to work with me!’

Beau gazed at her steadily. ‘It worked last time, didn’t it?’

‘
You
—’ There was an old-fashioned scythe resting by the door, which had been left there since Fleur’s dad had used it to trim down the apple trees in the orchard. It wouldn’t cut through butter these days, but they didn’t know that. She picked it up and raised it menacingly. ‘Get out! Now! Or I’ll chop those smug heads right off your bodies!’

Spencer took a step backwards. ‘Christ, Beau, I think she means it.’

Beau didn’t move. ‘You haven’t even heard our offer.’

‘I don’t want to hear it! And don’t bother coming back, because the answer’s still going to be no!’

Slamming the door in his face, Fleur ran out into the hall. She sat on the bottom step of the stairs in the dark and fought the urge to cry.

‘How dare he?’ she muttered. ‘How dare he?’

The study door was still closed. Her dad might as well be dead, she thought bitterly, immediately appalled she could think such a thing.

She waited for ten minutes, until she was sure they’d gone, and went back into the kitchen. That cup of Ovaltine had never been more needed. Fleur looked at the label for instructions, only to realize it was five years past its sell-by date. Throwing the jar across the room she burst into tears.

‘Oh, darling. My darling.’

Conrad gazed into Vanessa’s eyes with just the right mix of lust and tenderness. They were both naked in the missionary position on top of the bed, Conrad balanced on strong forearms above Vanessa. Once or twice she’d caught him checking out his flexed biceps in the mirror.

The crisp accent was replaced by an American one. ‘Oh yeah. Do you like this, baby?’ He started moving faster. She began the countdown in her head.
Ten, nine
.

‘Oh baby …’
Seven, six
.

‘Oh God!’ Fast panting.
Five, four
.

‘Yes! Yes!’
Three, two
.

‘Oh my GOD!’ With award-winning emotion, Conrad shot his load and collapsed on top of Vanessa.

‘Conrad, I can’t breathe,’ she complained.

‘Neither can I,’ he groaned. ‘Maybe I won’t need to do that extra gym session tonight, after all.’

He rolled off her and lay on his back. ‘You didn’t come, though?’

‘I’m a bit tired,’ she lied. Conrad had put on an energetic performance but she’d been strangely disassociated throughout.

‘I’m going for a shower.’ He got up, giving his stomach a satisfied pat in the mirror. He paused at the end of the bed and looked at her. ‘You’ve put on a bit, by the way. I’d keep an eye on things, we all know the camera adds ten pounds.’

‘You bastard!’ she shot back. ‘Don’t be so rude.’

‘Darling, you know I love your curves more than anyone!’ He winked. ‘Maybe you should take up running like that skinny cow, Catherine Connor.’

He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her humiliated on the bed. How dare he drop in that comment about Catherine! Vanessa thought about Catherine’s long toned limbs and seethed even more.