Party Games (32 page)

It had been agreed that it would be best to hold off announcing Catherine’s name until the last minute, giving her much-needed time to prepare. Meanwhile, debate raged about who would run. For the first time ever in that part of England, anti-Tory feeling was at a high. People were fed up with the government, fed up with Jonty, and fed up with the country going to the dogs. Catherine got the feeling that any articles about the Conservative candidate being thrown to the wolves were being skilfully whisked out of her way.

Charles Knatchbull was still treating her as if she was a member of an alien race, but the worst was Aubrey Taunton-Brown. Anti-modern, anti-change, he was a vile snob of a man who’d made it clear he thought Catherine had no place running in the election. Just as bad was his horrific wife, Viola. A scrawny cordon-bleu chef, she came by the Conservative Association HQ to give Aubrey his vitamin tablets and drop snide comments about how women shouldn’t be Members of Parliament.

Thank God for Felix. Placatory, diplomatic, stepping in to calm Catherine down when she was on the verge of losing it. The only thing they had disagreed on was the campaign’s official slogan. She wanted something fresh and modern. He had told her she couldn’t run the risk of alienating people. They’d finally decided on the rather unimaginative ‘Vote Connor’, but as he had said, at least it did what it said on the tin.

As her campaign manager, Felix was the man in charge. He was the one drumming up funds from party donors, deciding which areas she’d be canvassing and the local ‘meet and greets’ she’d go to. He was also in charge of fielding all press enquiries and liaising with the national Conservative Party. If central government announced a new policy, or something controversial like cutting welfare, Catherine would be expected to know which line to take. From being a complete amateur, she was now supposed to be an expert on the political system.

Aside from Tristan Jago, three other candidates had already been announced. The Lib Dems were putting forward Helen Singh, a rising young star in the party. There were also two independents running: a pagan witch called Esme Santura who was campaigning to get an astrologer appointed in central government, and William ‘Bill’ Fairclough, a retired colonel who had a manic eye twitch and an even more manic desire to bring back capital punishment. It was still widely assumed that Tristan, super-hot on local issues, had it in the bag.

If Catherine had let herself think about it, she would have died of terror. Instead she threw herself into the
job, making Kitty and Clive give her geography tests on every town, village and hamlet in the constituency. She memorized the names of influential farmers, shopkeepers, WI members; people who could win or lose the campaign for her. It was exhausting and overwhelming but she was beginning to feel alive. It was inspiring being part of a team again who wanted to bring about change.

On the downside, she had barely seen her husband. Away at the crack of dawn, not returning until late, they were like two ships that passed in the night. Dinner, if they had it together, was on laps in front of the television, because all the surfaces were taken up with paperwork as she frantically tried to cram every policy and piece of legislation that had been implemented in the last twenty years.

They were being civil to each other, but their relationship lacked the intimate familiarity of before. Catherine knew she’d messed up, but her pride wouldn’t let her explain to John that she’d wanted to prove that she could do something by herself. He was clearly still angry she’d gone behind his back. Both were obstinate and strong-willed and neither was willing to back down.

‘So what’s he like, then?’

Catherine looked at her husband across the table. ‘Who?’

‘Your new mate the Prime Minister.’

She forked up a mouthful of pasta. ‘You can see what he’s like on television.’

‘I meant in person. You’ve spent quite a lot of time on the phone to him.’

‘No, I haven’t.’ She felt herself becoming defensive. ‘What does that even mean, anyway?’

‘It means nothing, Cath. Unless it should?’

‘For God’s sake!’ She laughed awkwardly. ‘What are you insinuating? He’s a happily married man!’

He gave her one of those hard looks that she seemed to be increasingly on the end of, and went back to eating his dinner. ‘I had my meeting in London with Jeff.’

‘Shit, sorry. I completely forgot! How did it go?’

‘Good. Jeff won the bid.’ He put his fork down. ‘He wants me to go out to Costa Rica with him and take a look.’

‘Oh, right,’ she said neutrally. ‘Are you going to go?’

He gave a shrug. ‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘It might be worth it, seeing as I’m going to be tied up for a while.’

They exchanged a polite smile across the table.
This is all wrong
, she thought.

She put down her fork. ‘Do you actually have any faith I might win?’

‘I think you’re capable of anything, Cath,’ he said carefully. ‘What I’m worried about is that these people are using you. I don’t think you’re strong enough to deal with something like this at the moment.’

‘I am used to dealing with people. I edited a major magazine in case you’d forgotten.’

‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’

He was still speaking in that slow tone, as if she were a small child. ‘God, John! Why do you always make me feel so useless?’

‘Jesus, why do you take everything the wrong way?
You’re not yourself, you haven’t been for a long time, as I think even you would agree. Now, the hopes of the nation are being put on your shoulders. I’m just asking you to think, really think about what you’re doing. I’m worried about you.’ He paused. ‘I’m worried about us.’

‘Do you think I’ve made the wrong decision?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said bluntly. ‘I think you need to concentrate on you, Cath, not this hare-brained idea of being the saviour of Beeversham. Go and see someone, get better, and then go out and do whatever you want. I’ll back you all the way.’

Catherine, exhausted, stressed, terrified he was right, went on the attack again. ‘Why can’t you just be happy for me? I’m sick of the way you always treat me like a victim. You’ve always treated me like a victim, John. Does it make you feel better about yourself or something?’

She knew instantly she’d gone too far.

His chair went flying as he got up. ‘That is the most fucking insulting thing you could ever say to me.’

‘I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.’

‘Jesus Christ, Cath.’ He walked out in disgust.

She was left at the table, tears streaming down her face. Why was she jeopardizing the most important thing in her life?

The following day came the shock announcement that Catherine Connor, ex-magazine editor and bestselling author of
Cathy: My Story
, was running as the Conservative candidate in Beeversham’s by-election. ‘We’re extremely pleased to have Catherine running for us,’ Felix said in the official statement. The Prime Minister’s
endorsement was even more resounding. ‘She’s a bright star, a face for the future, and a huge asset to the Conservative Party,’ he told the assorted press outside Downing Street. ‘There’s only one thing left to say: vote Connor!’

‘Have you seen this?’

Vanessa looked up from her BlackBerry. Her husband was in the corner of the room getting a foot rub from the make-up artist. He shook the front page of the
Daily Telegraph
at her. The headline was about Catherine Connor running as the surprise candidate for the Beeversham by-election. There was also a box-out on Catherine’s career and the Crimson Killer case.

Actually, Vanessa wasn’t that surprised. Catherine had always been fanatically campaigning for one issue or the other when she’d edited
Soirée
. The woman just loved being in the thick of it.

‘What’s her manifesto going to be?’ Conrad continued. ‘Picking off the entire constituency one by one? God, they must be desperate!’ He flashed a smile at the young make-up artist. ‘Careful, sweetheart, I’ve got sensitive arches. Ballet dancer’s feet, I’ve been told.’

Their
OK!
‘at home’ shoot was actually taking place at an oligarch’s mansion in south-west London. The house was full of people. As well as the journalist, there
was the picture editor, the art director, the fashion editor, the fashion editor’s assistant, the photographer and the photographer’s assistant. Outside caterers had been brought in to provide lunch; they didn’t want to mess up the spotless kitchen.

The Powells had brought their entourage: Vanessa’s hair and make-up person, Marty, Tamzin and their PR guru Simon Ferrari, who was conducting the couple’s four-week press campaign before the Silver Box Awards.

Tamzin came in with a Starbucks tray. ‘Coffees are here.’ She handed Vanessa an Americano and took the other cup over to Conrad.

‘Skinny decaf dry cappuccino with sugar-free hazelnut syrup?’ he said, without looking up from his BlackBerry.

‘Yes, Conrad.’

He stuck his hand out. ‘No organic cinnamon dusting?’

‘No, Conrad.’

Vanessa gave Tamzin a sympathetic smile. She was a sweet girl. Not for the first time, she thought how lucky they were to have her as their PA.

The kitchen shoot was first. Vanessa went off to get changed. The fashion editor pulled out a pair of white jeans and a turquoise silk vest. ‘I thought we could try these. With the wedge espadrilles. It’s very summery and “kitcheny”.’

‘“Kitcheny”?’ Vanessa repeated.

‘Yes, you know, “kitcheny”.’ The woman looked a bit panicked. ‘The whole domestic goddess thing.’

‘Fine,’ Vanessa sighed. ‘Let’s go for kitcheny.’

Conrad’s hair and make-up took so long they were late getting started. Terry Johnston, the fabulously flamboyant photographer, soon got them going.

‘Conrad, look into Vanessa’s eyes! If you can both hold the knife. Conrad, put your hand over Vanessa’s like that – perfect! Now give me your best smiles. Gorgeous!’

Next up was the two of them lovingly reading copies of
OK!
in the opulent living room. Vanessa changed into knee-length Missoni, while Conrad was in a seductively unbuttoned shirt and Italian loafers, Ralph Lauren jeans rolled up just enough to show off his fine ankles. Sukie, fragrant and fluffy after a special fifty-pound trim and blow-dry, was brought in to sit on Vanessa’s lap.

Vanessa’s make-up artist reapplied another layer of lip gloss. ‘And that’s for you, darling,’ she said, touching Sukie’s button nose with her powder brush. ‘Can’t have you looking all shiny.’

Terry started snapping again. ‘Conrad, if you stare at the page, and Vanessa, giggle, as if you’re pointing something out. Beautiful!’

A restless Sukie shoved her nose in Conrad’s crotch. ‘Conrad, pick Sukie up,’ Terry said. ‘Perfect! Adorable!’

‘You breathe on me, mutt, and you’re history,’ Conrad beamed through gritted teeth.

The dining room was next, with the couple lounging languorously in evening wear at a table to sit thirty. Afterwards they went to change into matching bathrobes for the bedroom scene. Though she normally had an iron stamina for shoots, Vanessa’s head was starting
to throb. It was a relief when Terry called a wrap and they stopped for lunch.

Marty found Vanessa wandering barefoot round the end of the garden, Sukie in her arms. ‘They want to start the interview,’ he said.

‘OK. Just give me a minute.’

Marty glanced at her. ‘You all right, kid?’

Vanessa had spent the last ten minutes sobbing quietly into her dog’s fur. ‘Just a bit of hay fever,’ she lied.

‘I’ll get Tamzin to go out and get something for you.’ Marty put his arm round Vanessa. ‘Come on.’

They did the interview in the living room, Vanessa and Conrad on opposite ends of the sofa. The journalist was perched awkwardly on a pouffe in front of them.

‘You must be so excited about presenting the Silver Box Awards!’

‘Oh, extremely excited,’ Conrad gushed. ‘To host an evening amongst one’s peers, it’s a tremendous honour.’

‘Conrad, obviously you had a very successful four years on the long-running soap
The Saviours
.’

‘Four and a half,’ he interrupted with a smile.

‘Sorry, I meant four and a half.’ The journalist looked at her notes. ‘Was it a massive disappointment getting dropped from
Mice and Men
?’

Conrad’s smile faltered. ‘Obviously it wasn’t ideal, but it happens to all the greats. Martin Sheen, Gary Oldman, Billy Bob. The director’s prerogative is an occupational hazard.’

‘Are you hoping Silver Box will resurrect your career?’

He looked pained. ‘It’s not as though it needs
resurrecting. In fact I was reading an extremely exciting script on the journey in.’

Conrad had spent the entire car journey on the fashion website Mr Porter. ‘Yeah, right!’ Vanessa scoffed without thinking.

They both looked at her strangely. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I mean, Conrad has been sent some amazing scripts recently. It’s a credit to him what an incredible actor he is.’

‘Incredible,’ the journalist echoed. ‘Vanessa and Conrad, you’ve been happily married for seven years now, and you’ve built up a multi-million-pound business together. What’s your secret to your successful relationship?’

‘There’s only one secret,’ Conrad said, gazing fondly at his wife. ‘Love.’

It was gone seven o’clock by the time they got back to Tresco House. The electronic gates swung open to let the Bentley pull in.

Conrad had barely said two words the whole journey. He was out of the car in a flash, disappearing into the house.

Vanessa lifted Sukie out and put her down. The dog raced off after a passing butterfly.

‘Thanks, Billy. You can go now.’

The chauffeur nodded. ‘Thanks, Mrs Powell.’

She went in and dragged herself upstairs, stopping to look at herself caught in the mirror on the landing.
All I want is Dylan
, she thought, looking at her huge unhappy eyes and defeated shoulders.
I’m trapped in a life I don’t want
.

Conrad was standing by the bedroom window as she walked in. Vanessa went over to the dressing table to take her earrings out. ‘I thought you were in your study.’