Party Games (37 page)

Except that the Prime Minister’s wife, who was so wonderfully friendly and stylish, insisted on walking up the last part of the High Street to meet some local shopowners. She bought an angel mobile for her daughter from Butterflies and gave all her loose change to the
Big Issue
seller outside the Co-op. By the time the crowd arrived at Tory HQ, the woman was one step away from becoming the new patron saint of Beeversham.

Catherine was feeling sicker by the second. Felix was on hand to reassure her. ‘Take your lead from the PM, he’s done thousands of these.’

The cameras started flashing. The discreet security men began moving the crowd back. The PM and his wife were strolling along as if they had all the time in the world. He was tall and handsome in a petrol-blue suit, his wife bending down to take flowers from the little children.

‘Catherine, hello!’ he exclaimed. ‘Wonderful to see you.’

‘Hello, PM, I mean Prime Minister.’

He grasped Catherine’s hand and allowed the pop of cameras to go off. ‘We’ve had a wonderful morning.’

‘We have indeed.’ The PM’s wife smiled. Close up, she had the most amazing porcelain skin.

Sky News
put a microphone in the PM’s face. ‘Any words of advice for Catherine?’

‘Catherine doesn’t need my advice, she’s doing an admirable job.’

‘What about the fact she’s a complete unknown?’

‘Catherine Connor is a brilliant contender for the job,’ the PM replied seamlessly. ‘I have every belief she can win this by-election. She’s passionate, determined and knows what the people of Beeversham want.’

Champagne Man was pushing his way through to the front. Victoria Henley-Coddington exchanged looks with security. The PM waved goodbye, and the whole group was rushed into the front reception.

‘We need the PM’s car back round like, now, people,’ Victoria announced.

The PM’s wife turned to a star-struck Kitty. ‘Could you show me where the loo is? I’m dying for a wee.’

Everyone was bustling round with a job to do, apart from the PM and Catherine. She suddenly felt very shy and unsure of herself.

‘Catherine, you’re doing a wonderful job,’ he told her.

She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘You sure?’

‘Oh yes. You held your own on cleaning up politics in the ITN interview. You think on your feet, which is good.’

‘You mean bullshit my way out of it when I need to?’

The PM’s eyes twinkled. ‘An essential trait for any politician.’

Everyone poured into the town hall on Wednesday evening for the last Ye Olde Worlde meeting. Photographers were assembled outside, while indoors journalists lined the front row. With the decision on Beeversham’s fate a mere week away, the theme park was big news again.

The PM’s goodwill mission had worked wonders. For once Catherine wasn’t being universally treated like a master criminal.

She found Ginny in the kitchen opening another carton of orange juice. ‘Hiya,’ Catherine said from the doorway.

Ginny’s expression faltered when she saw who it was. ‘Oh, hello, darling.’ She picked up the jug. ‘I’d better take this orange juice out.’

‘Ginny, is something wrong?’

‘Of course not! Why do you think that?’ The protestation was just a little too loud.

Catherine gave a rueful smile. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, and you haven’t returned any of my texts.’ The dark circles were still there under Ginny’s eyes. ‘You don’t seem yourself at the moment.’

‘I’ve just been really busy.’

Catherine decided to play her wild card. ‘You’re not mad at me because I’m running instead of Felix in the election?’

Ginny looked stricken. ‘Of course not!’ She glanced through the door. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should get back.’

As Ginny passed, she stopped and planted a kiss on Catherine’s cheek. ‘You’re doing a wonderful thing,’ she whispered fervently. ‘I’m so very proud.’

Catherine was left completely confused.
What had that been about?

It was past 11 p.m. by the time Catherine walked up the Crescent. The house was dark and quiet. She looked up at the big, empty windows and didn’t want to go in. It felt too scarily like her old life: a big, expensive space devoid of love and laughter.

Her mobile started ringing. She got it out of her bag. It was John again. She wanted to speak to him so badly, but she couldn’t bear hearing the disappointment in his voice and realize how much she’d fucked up. She stared at the small glowing screen.

Answer it
, she willed herself.
Just bloody answer it …

After the tenth ring it cut off. She waited hopefully for a voicemail bleep, but the phone stayed silent. ‘Shit!’ Catherine wailed tearfully. ‘What is
wrong
with you?’

She suddenly desperately wanted someone to talk to. She couldn’t go to Ginny, especially after today. Catherine’s thoughts turned to Mel. Mel’s cheery company was just what she needed. She remembered Mel mentioning Mike was away; Mel would probably appreciate the company. The thought of companionship and a glass of something made Catherine feel happy for the first time that day.

All the lights were off at the Cooper-Stanleys’ house. Disappointed, Catherine started down the path. As she got to the end she heard the front door open and Mel appeared on the doorstep in a leopard-print dressing gown.

Mel was talking to someone inside. Catherine watched in disbelief as a familiar lanky figure appeared
behind Mel. Tristan Jago pulled her into a passionate embrace, holding his briefcase in the other hand.

Panicking, Catherine dived behind next-door’s conifer. She heard the murmur of voices and Mel laugh softly. A moment later Tristan walked down the path, passing her by mere inches. She held her breath, convinced she was about to be discovered, but Tristan strolled off down the close and disappeared into the night.

Everything fell quiet again, but she stayed where she was. Tristan and
Mel?
Catherine couldn’t get her head round it. Did everyone have a secret in this town?

The Powells were back in London. Conrad had insisted on an acoustics test at the Royal Albert Hall so Vanessa, the executive producer, producer, director and a bemused cleaner were watching from the wings as he strode round the stage testing his voice.

‘Lord, Conrad does know he’s going to be miked up?’ the producer muttered. It earnt him a nudge from the director, but Vanessa barely heard. She was in a world of her own.

All week she’d been making surreptitious arrangements, transferring assets, freezing bank accounts, looking into nearby houses she could rent. The meeting with her lawyer had been sobering: they would lose out to the tune of millions by reneging on contracts and losing endorsements. Vanessa had come out and been sick in the loo, and then promptly phoned a legendary PR who was an expert in damage limitation. When Conrad came for her, she’d be ready.

And he’d come earlier than Vanessa had expected. When she stopped by the Dorchester on her way home she found Tamzin on her knees in Conrad’s suite giving him a blow job.

‘Is this why you’ve been spending so much time away?’ she’d yelled after their PA had fled in tears.

‘I needed stress relief from somewhere,’ Conrad hissed back. ‘It’s not like you’re giving me any.’

‘You’re a despicable human being!’

‘I’m also your loving husband.’ He advanced towards her dangerously. ‘If you breathe a word of this, your little home video is going viral.’

With less than a week until election day, campaigning had stepped up to a whole new level. So had the smear tactics, as the parties tried to bring down their rivals by any means possible. An unfortunate photo of the Lib Dem Helen Singh smoking a bong at university had been published in the previous day’s
Sun
. Esme Santura’s real name had been revealed as Elaine Scroggins. The
Guardian
had got hold of a picture of Major Bill Fairclough smoking a cigar with a member of the BNP. The major hadn’t helped his cause by saying the BNP guy had been a jolly nice chap and all serial burglars should face the death penalty.

Catherine had got off relatively lightly. Everyone knew her past. In the face of the colourful new accusations, her ‘Champagne Charlotte’ moniker was seen as a bit old hat. Annoyingly, Tristan Jago was managing to stay squeaky clean as well. The hard-working social worker seemed dedicated to his cause, a pillar of the local community.

It was extremely frustrating as Catherine knew
exactly which member of the community Tristan had been showing his pillar to. But what could she do? Mel was a good friend. She had to stick a smile on and suck it up.

Besides, there was a sense things were starting to change. The PM’s visit had altered everything. Catherine was now third in the MORI polls, behind Tristan and the bong-smoking Helen Singh. The press was starting to describe her as a late contender, a possible masterstroke for the beleaguered government. Perhaps, they were saying, the PM’s wild card would pay off.

Catherine’s campaigning became even more zealous. Desperate not to spend any time at home where the empty rooms reminded her of John’s absence, she passed every waking hour tramping the streets. Even Clive and Kitty were expressing concern she was pushing herself too much, but Catherine did what she’d always done and threw herself into work. She knew her marriage was in real trouble. But every minute she kept busy meant she didn’t have to face up to what was happening.

Catherine was dead on her feet by the time they got back to the High Street that evening. She could see Ursula Patel behind the counter at Soraya closing up for the day. Telling the others she’d see them back at base, Catherine knocked on the door. Mrs Patel looked up and smiled. ‘It’s open,’ she called. ‘Come in!’

The boutique was a wonderful relief from the hot dusty day. ‘My dear, you look exhausted.’ Mrs Patel gestured to the velvet armchair in front of the counter. ‘Take a seat.’

Catherine sank down gratefully. ‘How are you? Please tell me something that doesn’t involve the case against wind farms or someone’s wall falling down.’

Mrs Patel gave a regretful smile. ‘Rather worried, if you really want to know. This council meeting is hanging over our heads like a black cloud. Dilip’s getting up four times a night with the stress.’

‘He’s not the only one. We just have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.’

‘Anyway, to what honour do I owe this visit?’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘You’re a very important and busy person these days.’

‘In fact, I do want something. Or to buy something. I need a new dress for election day.’

‘Of course. Why don’t you sit there and I’ll pull you out a few things?’

In the end Catherine settled on a silk belted Diane Von Furstenberg in peacock blue. Despite her protestations Mrs Patel insisted on giving her a generous discount.

She handed the bag over. ‘Have you heard from John?’

‘A few times.’

Ursula Patel observed her across the counter. ‘My dear, is everything all right?’

‘Not really.’ Catherine felt her lip wobbling, and burst into tears.

The blinds were swiftly pulled down and the door locked. Mrs Patel handed her a box of tissues and let her have a good old cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ Catherine sniffed. ‘I’m just so tired.’

‘Of course you are,’ Mrs Patel said soothingly. ‘This must be a very emotional time for you. All this pressure and stress, and with John being away.’

‘I’ve driven him away,’ Catherine said, bursting into fresh floods of tears.

‘There, there. I’m quite sure that you didn’t.’

‘We haven’t been getting on.’

‘I did think something was up. Oh, my dear.’

Catherine exhaled shakily. ‘It’s all such a mess. You know, with my career I’ve always been so sure of my instincts. I could communicate what I wanted in an instant. It’s completely different with my marriage. John sees me as this problem to fix, but I don’t know what makes me happy.’

‘You have to keep talking,’ Mrs Patel said firmly. ‘Communication is the most important thing in a marriage. Even if it’s something you don’t want to hear.’

‘Do you and Dilip ever argue?’

‘Of course we do. Especially when he leaves his cotton earbuds by the side of the sink!’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘I’m sure I have habits that annoy him as well.’

Catherine looked at this tall, graceful woman whose husband was three inches shorter than her and walked around in socks and sandals all year. ‘How do you make it work? Because I could really do with the advice right now.’

Mrs Patel looked thoughtful. ‘You need common ground. Dilip and I agree on how to raise Pritti, and the importance of family. Respect is important, as is being kind to each other.’ Mrs Patel smiled. ‘Dilip can drive me crazy, but he’s always made me laugh. You have to have fun together.’

‘I can’t remember the last time John and I had fun together,’ Catherine said sadly.

‘Talk to him. Look into your heart, Catherine, and find what’s troubling you.’

‘Do you think I should wait until he gets home?’

‘I think you should do it sooner.’ Mrs Patel looked serious. ‘Be careful. You don’t want to get to the point where you can’t get him back again.’

Catherine got home and headed straight for the loo. Ursula was right, they hadn’t been communicating. Or rather John had, and she – irrational, defensive, stubborn – had pushed him away.

Her behaviour had been reprehensible. Catherine only hoped he’d forgive her. And suddenly, a huge piece of the jigsaw fell into place. The mood swings and low-level nausea she’d put down to nerves. The permanently full bladder and inexplicable craving for McCoy’s ridged steak crisps …

She still had some spare pregnancy tests in the bathroom cabinet. She got one out and re-read the now familiar instructions.

She was still staring at the words ‘Pregnant 3+’ when her mobile started ringing out in the hallway. She knew instinctively it was John.

The phone was lost in the depths of her handbag. ‘Fuck’s sake! Where are you?’ Catherine whipped it out just as John’s number cut off before her.
Missed call
.

‘I’m here!’ she cried, frantically redialling. ‘I didn’t miss you!’ A second later:
‘You’ve reached the voicemail of …’
John was leaving her a message.