Party Games (25 page)

Catherine began to feel better about her spat with Vanessa. One of Mel’s girls came over with two more wines. ‘Anything else, Mel?’

‘Put the new Bruno Mars album on, will you, babe? All this house music is making my head hurt.’

‘Have you seen Felix or Ginny?’ Catherine asked.

‘Not a squeak. I haven’t seen Felix in his office for days, and Dilip said Ginny hasn’t even been in for her
Cotswolds Life
this week, which is very unusual. They must be keeping a low profile with all the drama going on.’ Mel squinted critically at a cuticle. ‘I’m thinking of offering a “Politics Pedicure” with the different parties’ colours for the by-election. May as well cash in.’

As Catherine left the salon feeling slightly woozy after yet another glass of wine she bumped into someone standing on the pavement.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t …’ Her words fell away.

‘Hello, Catherine,’ the Prime Minister said.

Her mouth opened and shut again. ‘What. Are. You. Doing. Here?’

‘Seeing as you wouldn’t return my calls I decided to come down here in person,’ he said amiably.

‘You’ve come all the way out here to see me?’

The PM glanced at the TAG on his wrist. ‘I’ve got a Cabinet meeting at three and there’s a pack of journalists circling up the road. Can we drive and talk?’

Drive?
Where the hell was he taking her?

The black Jaguar glided out of Beeversham, Catherine and the PM sitting either end of the back seat, separated by a leather armrest. Aside from the discreet Range Rover following behind containing the Prime Minister’s security advisers, they could have been any well-heeled Cotswolders out for an afternoon drive.

She couldn’t stop sneaking amazed glances at him. The PM stared ahead, cool and collected in a sharp navy suit. By the cut of the lapel she hazarded a guess it was Armani. ‘Are you sure you’re not kidnapping me?’ she joked nervously.

The PM looked amused. ‘Perfectly.’

The air conditioning was cool to the point of chilly. An empty Pret A Manger sandwich box was tucked into the seat pocket in front. Proof the Prime Minister was a human being after all.

His iPhone went off. He had ‘Piano Riff’, the same ringtone as her. It was getting more surreal by the moment.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He listened intently. ‘No, I’m not budging. We need more time on the euro.’

‘Trouble at the office?’ she asked when he came off.

He gave her a boyish grin. ‘Isn’t there always?’

Green fields raced by. She still had no idea why she
was there. She glanced at him, tapping away on his phone with long, elegant fingers. He wore a thin gold wedding band.

‘How’s the family?’ she asked.

‘Good, thank you. Sam’s madly into aeroplanes, and Maddie’s just decided she wants to be a tube driver.’

‘How old is Maddie?’

‘Three.’

‘She sounds over-qualified for the job.’

He laughed. ‘I think you’re probably right.’

The drive continued more comfortably. ‘I suppose you’re about to try and convince me to run again,’ Catherine said.

‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ he replied mildly.

‘So where the bloody hell are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

There had been several wild scenarios running through Catherine’s head, but she had never imagined this hot, cramped house with the windows shut despite the heat of the day. The owner was a tiny, greying woman called Linda Giachetti. She’d shown no surprise when she’d opened the door to them, as if they were expected.

Linda was in the kitchen making them a cup of tea that Catherine really didn’t want. She and the PM were in the tiny living room, squeezed into two over-stuffed armchairs either side of the gas fire. Even with his privileged London gloss, the PM looked remarkably at home in the chintzy surroundings. Then again, he was an expert at that sort of thing.

The room was filled with the usual sort of knickknacks and ornaments. Five framed photos were arranged neatly on the mantelpiece. There was one large one of a baby, and several others, including one of a little girl in a school uniform and another of a young woman, dressed up in a cat costume laughing into the
camera. Even with the age differences, Catherine could tell by the dimples and the sparkly green eyes that they were all of the same person.

Linda came back in and handed the Prime Minister a mug with the Royal Lifeboat logo. Catherine’s had a faded floral pattern. Linda’s own mug was put down on the floor still on the tray, already forgotten.

Catherine recognized the haunted tiredness on Linda’s face as typical of somebody who had gone through a huge amount of grief. She thought about Linda’s surname again. Giachetti. Where had she heard it before?

‘How are you, Linda?’ the Prime Minister asked caringly.

Linda gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I got a beautiful card from your wife last week.’

‘My wife is a patron of one of the charities Linda works for,’ the PM explained to Catherine. ‘They’ve become friends.’

‘She’s a lovely woman,’ Linda said. ‘Her support has made such a difference.’

‘What’s your charity?’ Catherine asked, but she already knew the answer.

Linda glanced briefly at the photographs on the mantelpiece. ‘“Behind Closed Doors”, or “BCD”. It’s a domestic violence charity.’

‘Have you heard of it, Catherine?’ the PM enquired innocently.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’ Catherine smiled at Linda, but inside she was seething. How dare he put her in this situation!

He ignored her death stare. ‘BCD is a cause very
close to Linda’s heart, for obvious reasons. You may remember the name Debbi Giachetti.’

Of course, it was all coming back now. Debbi Giachetti had been brutally murdered by her common-law husband, while attempting to protect their two young children. Stabbed through the heart with a kitchen knife, she’d died at the scene. The trial had been all over the news. Her husband had eventually been sent down with a twenty-year sentence.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Catherine said inadequately.

Linda Giachetti gave her an unhappy smile. The PM cleared his throat. ‘I thought you two would have a lot in common.’

There was a long strained silence. The feeling of clutter and memories was overwhelming in that boxy living room. Catherine stared out of the window, desperately wishing she were anywhere but here. She had absolutely no idea what to say to the poor woman.

‘It never leaves you, does it?’ Linda Giachetti said suddenly.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The guilt.’ Linda smiled again, but this time it was emphatic. ‘The guilt that you couldn’t save them.’

Catherine was suddenly transported back to that terrible night at the top of the stairs, all those years ago. A terrified fifteen-year-old, cowering in her bedroom. Her mother’s cries as the brutish Ray Barnard squeezed the life out of her. Her mum’s helpless face as she stared across the landing at her daughter, pleading.

Cathy. Help me. I can’t breathe!

Catherine had saved her mum from Ray Barnard that night, but it hadn’t been enough. In the end, he had still destroyed her. After years of being told she was a worthless piece of scum, that her life was worth nothing, Annie Fincham had come to believe it.

Catherine was horrified to find herself welling up. ‘Me and Debbi were so close,’ Linda continued. ‘I still didn’t see how bad it had got. She put on a brave face, she didn’t want to worry me.’

Catherine thought about her mum explaining away the black eyes and sprained wrists.
Your mam was just being clumsy again, pet
.

‘I should have done something. I
knew
. I tried to convince myself everything was all right because I couldn’t bear what was happening.’ Catherine’s voice caught. ‘I let Mam down.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, Catherine,’ Linda said gently. ‘Your mum, my Debbi, they were trying to protect us. No matter what we think, they thought they were doing the right thing.’

‘Doesn’t make it any bloody easier.’ Catherine sniffed.

Linda took Catherine’s hands into her own worn ones. ‘I’d rather have had them for a short time than not at all. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Yes.’ It sounded trite but Catherine did know.

At the front door Linda gave Catherine a hug. ‘You should come down to the charity one day,’ she told Catherine. ‘They do wonderful work there.’

‘I’d like that very much.’

For the most part the PM had been sitting there quietly, but now he gently cleared his throat. ‘There
are still thousands of women out there, too frightened to speak out. “Behind Closed Doors” do what they can, but they’re desperate for more funding, more people on board. Catherine, these women need our help.’

Catherine didn’t say a word as they drove off.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ the PM said.

‘Well, you did.’ Catherine had wanted to let rip at him in there, but now all she could see was the sweet, smiling face of Debbi Giachatti. She blew her nose with the tissue he handed her.

He pulled an A4 sheet out of his briefcase. ‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’

‘Statistics about domestic violence charities.’

‘I know the statistics. You don’t do enough for them.’

‘I can’t do it all by myself, Catherine. If you became an MP, you could campaign for new laws. What better way to honour your mum’s memory?’

‘That’s a cheap trick,’ she warned him.

He fixed her with big brown eyes. ‘Catherine,’ he said honestly. ‘I wouldn’t pursue this if I really didn’t think there was a chance. I want to change the world and make it a better place. And I know that’s what you want, too.’

‘I hate what you lot stand for!’

He brought his fist down on the armrest. ‘Help me bloody change it, then!’

The passion in his voice surprised Catherine. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she said.

‘So you’ll think about it?’

‘I’ll think about it, but that’s it. No promises.’

‘Of course not.’ His eyes sparkled.

Oh God, Catherine thought. What was she getting herself into?

‘What’s this in aid of?’

Fleur looked at her dad. ‘What?’

‘Eating outside,’ Robert Blackwater said. ‘You’ve gone all Mediterranean on me.’

‘I haven’t.’ She smiled. ‘I just thought it made a nice change from the kitchen. It’s such beautiful weather.’

A ploughman’s on the old picnic table in the garden wasn’t exactly the French Riviera, but the view was still breathtaking. The valley swelled and dipped like a rolling sea, crested on the top with bottle-green woodland. The sun bobbed on the horizon, taking its time to slide out of the day.

Fleur’s dad chewed reflectively on a piece of cheese. ‘I suppose this is to butter me up.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You taking up with Beau Rainford.’

She eyed her dad. Did he really not remember the car crash? As with everything else, the events of that night had been swept under the carpet. Fleur didn’t
know if her dad had really been out of it, or he was just embarrassed.

‘Beau’s OK, Dad.’

‘You’ve changed your tune.’

‘I’m not saying we’re like best friends or anything.’

‘Be careful, Fleur. I’ve met men like Beau before. They’re always after something.’ He gave her a meaningful look.

‘Dad, we are not having this conversation! I told you, we’re just friends!’

Fleur sat out in the garden after dinner, but her good mood had been spoiled. Her dad’s words ran through her head.
I’ve met men like Beau before. They’re always after something
. Did Beau see her as some sort of novelty conquest? She had a sudden image of him in bed with Valentina, their perfect bodies coiled round each other. She bet Valentina’s boobs never rolled into her armpits when she lay down.

‘What are you looking so miserable about?’ a voice suddenly asked.

She nearly fell off her chair. Beau was standing in the shadows at the side of the house. ‘I did knock but no one answered.’ He grinned. ‘I took a punt you weren’t out clubbing.’

Even in faded jeans and a white T-shirt, he radiated devastating glamour. Fleur was horribly conscious she hadn’t washed her hair for days.

He jangled his car keys. ‘Fancy a drive?’

‘Bit late to be going out, isn’t it?’ Robert Blackwater was standing at the back door.

Beau walked up and held his hand out. ‘Evening, Robert.’

For an excruciating moment Fleur thought her dad wasn’t going to take it. He shook Beau’s hand briefly.

‘I just dropped round to see Fleur,’ Beau said.

‘So I see.’ Robert Blackwater was already slurring slightly. ‘Got designs on my daughter, have you?’

‘Dad!’

Beau smiled easily. ‘Fleur and I are just friends. I hope I haven’t caused any upset by coming round.’

She jumped up. ‘You haven’t. Let’s go, shall we?’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said as they drove away. ‘My dad, he’s just a bit protective.’

‘It’s cool, don’t worry.’ Beau glanced at her. ‘I mean it, Fleur. Your dad’s just looking out for you. I’d be the same.’

She gazed out of the window.
The same about what?
she wondered.

Ten minutes later the Mustang was bumping along a grassy track. ‘I know this place!’ Fleur exclaimed. ‘Cooper’s Croft.’

‘Best sunset in the county.’

‘I haven’t been here for years. Wow.’

The ruins of the old crofter’s cottage still nestled amongst the wild grass. Just as she remembered, there was a little opening through the hedge. It led to a ledge jutting out over the valley.

The starry sky had darkened into a million tiny fireflies, hovering above them. The shape of the land reminded Fleur of the voluptuous body of a woman:
the plunge of valley like a cleavage; the high, round rumps of hills. She had sex on the brain. She grew hot again as an image of Beau and Valentina together flashed into her mind again.

‘I used to come up here when I was a boy,’ Beau said. ‘It was about the only place where I couldn’t be accused of causing trouble.’

They sat down on a grassy ledge. Beau’s elbow brushed Fleur’s. Her heart started to gather pace.

He stretched out his legs in front of him. She looked at the stripy espadrilles and bare brown ankles. ‘What is it with all you posh boys and no socks?’