Party Games (18 page)

‘Vanessa, I’m your biggest fan!’ A man with piercings in every orifice was waving a copy of her calendar at her. ‘Would you mind signing this for me?’

‘Of course not,’ she said automatically, taking it off him.

‘I’m so excited you’re presenting the Silver Box Awards. Do you know what you’re wearing?’

‘Not yet.’

She handed the calendar back with a smile, but the man wasn’t finished yet. ‘Can you give me a hint? Will it be a British designer?’

‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll be sticking close to home.’ She laughed, all the time thinking
Dylan Dylan Dylan
.

She had been scanning the crowd since they’d got
here, hanging on to the futile hope that he would have come along to the charity game show. She’d once or twice caught a glimpse of a dark head and grown hot with excitement, but it was never him. The disappointment was crushing.

Conrad was droning in her ear. ‘Where’s Tamzin with our champagne? Is it not enough I’ve got to stand out here in this searing heat? I’m seriously about to keel over, my blood pressure’s at rock bottom.’

She was about to tell him to shut up, when her stomach lurched. Dylan was outside Bar 47 looking straight at her. He gave her the tiniest of winks. She had to fight to keep the huge smile off her face.

‘Conrad wants to go and find Tamzin,’ her mother said. ‘Are you coming?’

‘You go,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you up in a minute.’

She watched Conrad stomp off, her mother clinging on to his arm for dear life. A woman came up to her, but Vanessa brushed her off with a vague smile. Dylan was still standing across the road, looking more lean and tangle-haired than she’d remembered.

He gave her his lopsided grin. There was a cobbled alleyway leading off the street. She gave a tiny nod as he turned and walked off down it.

The alley was cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the pulse burning between Vanessa’s legs. Dylan was leaning against the wall in a faded denim shirt and jeans. Her heart did another backflip. He just got more and more beautiful.

‘I can’t be long,’ she said, removing her sunglasses with trembling fingers. She glanced back the way she’d
come again, paranoid someone might have followed her.

He took her by the hand further down the alley and stopped at the back of a walled garden. She let him press her against the dry sandy stone.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she told him.

‘I’ve missed you too.’

He started to caress her face. She took the opportunity to drink in every detail of him. His eyelashes were dense and luxurious, flecks of a beautiful violet colour streaking around his irises. God, his eyes were incredible. Up this close, she could see a paper-thin, white scar running through his right eyebrow. The tiny flaw only added to his beauty.

She felt his other hand move to her waist, and then travel down to the hem of her dress. Deftly, he gathered up the silk material to expose a length of Vanessa’s bare thigh.

Bursts of music and laughter drifted up from the street. All Vanessa could hear was her own short, hot breaths as Dylan’s fingers gently pushed inside her.

‘God, that feels so good,’ she moaned, circling her hips to match his touch.

His erection was hard against her. Vanessa pulled her knickers across to one side. ‘I want you in me.’

He didn’t need any encouragement. Putting his hands under her buttocks, he lifted her up and slid inside her.

She could feel her dress snag on the Cotswolds stone, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything else right now.

It got faster and more frenzied. Vanessa started to
feel that glorious internal build-up. She held on to him more tightly.

Voices floated down the passageway. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he panted.

‘Me,’ she moaned, as the orgasm shuddered through her body.

The voices were getting closer. He zipped himself up and pulled her skirt down. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll walk the other way.’

Still in a post-coital daze, Vanessa smoothed her dress down. He picked up her handbag and gave it to her.

‘Do I look all right?’ she asked him.

‘You always look all right.’ Giving her a final kiss, he disappeared back into the myriad of Beeversham’s back streets.

I miss you already
, she thought.

The voices were just round the corner. Vanessa slid her huge sunglasses back and stood up. The transformation into the self-possessed celebrity was instant. She’d swished past the couple before the woman even had the chance to double-take.

The day wore on. In the intense heat people were drinking like fishes, and a long queue snaked out of the Prosecco tent. The elderly couple manning the St John Ambulance were quite overwhelmed with the amount of casualties. Another young woman had just collapsed with suspected heatstroke and her friend had passed out, full stop.

Catherine found the Chamberlains and Patels standing outside Butterflies drinking Pimms from plastic glasses.

‘I’ll get you a drink,’ offered Felix.

‘Thanks, but I might wait for a while.’ Catherine’s head was swimming from the giant glass of white wine Mike Cooper-Stanley had just bought her.

Ginny suddenly gave a gasp. ‘You’ll never guess who’s here!’

They all turned to look. Strolling past, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, was Sid Sykes in pink Pringle. The two heavies either side of him were clearly there to ward off any confrontations. Damien Sykes was also
with them, hair slicked back like a Sicilian gangster, as he talked rapidly into his mobile phone.

Spotting Catherine and the others, Sykes tipped an imaginary hat. The gesture couldn’t have been more insolent. ‘Afternoon, Felix,’ he called in a gravelly smoker’s voice. ‘Lovely day for it.’

Catherine glanced at Felix. He looked completely furious.

‘The cheek of that man!’ Mrs Patel cried. ‘Turning up here and rubbing our noses in it!’

‘Let’s not give him another second of our time,’ Felix said shortly.

The air was shattered by a loud expletive as Talia Tudor staggered out of the crowd, pie-eyed in towering heels and denim hot pants. ‘Get out of my way!’ she screeched, stopping to empty the rest of a plastic cider bottle down her throat.

Mr Patel tutted sadly. ‘Dear, oh dear.’

Talia lurched forward dangerously, banging into the sign outside her mum’s shop.

Ginny took a step forward, but Felix laid a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘No.’ His voice was like steel.

A second later Lynette Tudor came flying out of the shop.

‘Talia! What on earth are you doing!’

Talia’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. ‘I feel sick,’ she moaned. ‘Muuuum.’

Lynette dragged her daughter into the shop. Catherine and Felix exchanged sympathetic glances.

Inside Butterflies loud yelling started up.

In the market square
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
was reaching its climax. Travel TV presenter Gideon Armstrong, who lived in the area, had been drafted in as Chris Tarrant. ‘Third question: for a million pounds, or in this case four tickets to see the Rolling Stones at the O2 …’ he boomed into the microphone ‘… Which revered Indian leader was assassinated in Delhi in 1948? A: Mandy. B: Gandhi. C: Andy. D: Pandy.’

The contestant on stage had used up all his other lifelines. ‘Phone a friend,’ he said.

Gideon made a big show of getting out his mobile and calling up the number the man had given him. He held it close to his microphone. The ringtone echoed round the square.

A man at the front handed his pint to someone and answered his phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Chris?’ asked Gideon.

‘Yeah, but there’s no need to shout, mate. I’m standing right in front of you.’

‘Chris!’ Gideon boomed again. ‘Which …’

He read out the question again. The crowd held their breath. Chris furrowed his brow knowledgeably.

‘I know this! It’s C. Andy.’

‘I’ll go with that,’ the contestant said. ‘Chris is a clever guy, I trust him.’

‘Are you sure?’ Gideon asked.

‘Yup.’

‘Final chance. Your answer is C.’ Gideon winked at the audience.

‘That’s right.’

Gideon banged a gong. ‘The correct answer is B: Gandhi!’

Everyone screamed with laughter. Gideon pulled out a horrific watercolour and handed it to the disappointed contestant.

‘You don’t go home empty-handed! The consolation prize is this,’ Gideon did a double-take at the painting. ‘Er, stunning piece by Cotswold artist Babs Sax.’

The unlucky contestant gazed at the psychotic daubings. ‘I suppose it’s a good burglar deterrent,’ he said gloomily.

The last event of the day was
The X Factor
. Catherine and Mel Cooper-Stanley were judges, along with Dilip Patel and the headmistress of St Gwendolyn’s, who was an absolute hoot and had turned up clutching huge G&Ts for them all. At that moment one of her pupils was massacring Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’.

‘Mother of Moses,’ the headmistress muttered. ‘How much longer
will
this go on?’

They were still killing themselves laughing when Felix announced the next act. ‘Next up is MC Killah, who is performing some of his own material today. Jolly good.’

A rotund little man with owlish glasses got up. The incongruous bandana round his head didn’t really go with the trainspotter’s outfit. He positioned himself in the centre of the stage, head down. The stereo speakers bristled. Everyone stopped talking.

Loud music suddenly blared out, causing several people to spill their drinks. Eyes fixed to the floor, MC Killah started making peculiar noises into his microphone.

‘Is he being sick?’ Mel asked.

‘I think he’s trying to beatbox,’ whispered Catherine. They were all taken by surprise as MC Killah whirled round and hoiked up his private parts at them.

‘Wassup, Beeversham!’ he yelled.

Catherine had barely recovered before MC Killah was marching round the stage, shouting into the mike.

‘They call me MC Killah

Cos I’ll scare you like Thriller

I sting like an elephant

And I’m hung like a bee …’

He stopped, looking furious with himself.

‘I
mean I’m HUNG like an elephant and I STING like a bee All you hos and bitches out there want to take it off me!
’

In the crowd at the front, a group of old ladies were clapping along enthusiastically. ‘He’s awfully good, isn’t he?’ shouted one. ‘Wonderful rhythm.’

As MC Killah grabbed his crotch in front of a startled little girl, Felix rushed on stage. ‘Thank you, Mr Killah,’ he said firmly, grabbing the mike.

‘I ain’t even reached the chorus yet, blud!’ MC Killah cried, in an accent that was pure Gloucester. Felix gave the wannabe rapper a withering look and he skulked off, looking mutinous.

Things just about calmed down enough for the judges to decide the winner, a 65-year-old grandmother from Blockley who’d reduced everyone to floods with an astonishing rendition of Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’.

After the prize-giving, Felix took the microphone
back to address the crowd. ‘I think that just about wraps things up with the game shows. On behalf of the Say No to Olde Worlde team and everyone else in Beeversham, I’d like to say a huge thank you to you all for coming down today. We’ve raised a fantastic amount of money for our hospice, and, hopefully, highlighted our cause and those of other towns and villages facing the same predicament.’

Everyone started clapping. ‘Thank you, Felix!’ someone shouted. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Hear hear!’ called Mike Cooper-Stanley. As the applause died down, one person started up again, a slow, deliberate clap that made people turn and look.

‘Hear hear, indeed,’ a voice said. ‘Three cheers for fabulous Felix.’

It was Beau Rainford, devastatingly handsome in a navy blazer and crisp white shirt. He had an empty champagne flute tucked under his arm and an insolent smile on his beautiful face.

‘You really do deserve the accolade. I can’t think of another person so devoted to his town.’

‘Hell’s bells,’ Mel murmured. ‘Beau could have picked a better moment to get one over Felix.’

‘Congratulations, old chap.’ Beau raised his empty glass. ‘You’ve really managed to pull this one off.’

Felix didn’t miss a beat. ‘Well, we’ve still got lots of things going on here, so all that’s left for me to say is thank you again, and enjoy the rest of your day.’

To a smattering of applause he walked offstage.

Slightly sloshed, Catherine and Mel headed back towards Bar 47.

‘Did you see Ginny’s face?’ Catherine asked. ‘Poor thing looked mortified.’

Mel neatly side-stepped a drain in her heels. ‘I think she’s rather torn. For all his faults, Ginny seems to adore him.’

Catherine shot her friend a quizzical glance. ‘How do you know him?’

Mel laughed. ‘He’s brought enough of his girls into the nail bar. Popped in for a drink by himself a few times, as well.’

Catherine wondered if Mike knew about those little soirées, before chastising herself. She was getting as bad as Amanda.

As they passed one of the alleyways they heard raised voices. Ginny and Beau were standing halfway down, in the middle of a heated discussion. Catherine and Mel exchanged a look. ‘Oh dear,’ Mel said. ‘Trouble in the not-so-happy family.’

In the car park of Bar 47 a bunch of mums and dads were grooving to ‘Up the Khyber’. Catherine could see their embarrassed kids standing on the sidelines, pretending not to know them. Up at the front, Jonty Fortescue-Wellington was dancing like an out-ofcontrol Weeble, a pint of cider sloshing round in his hand. ‘YES!’ he roared, as the bearded lead singer launched into a scratchy version of ‘Your Sex Is On Fire’. ‘Bring it fucking on!’

He staggered past, a streak of white powder clearly visible under his port-drinker’s nose.

‘OMG,’ Mel said. ‘Jonty’s off his man-boobs!’

Tristan Jago was on the other side of the dance floor,
schmoozing a local business bigwig. Luckily for Jonty, neither seemed to have noticed the Class A smeared across the MP’s face.

Mel patted her Louis Vuitton bag. ‘I’m gonna pop off for a quick fag. If you bump into Mike …’