Party Games (29 page)

Fleur gazed at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t
believe the radiant, leggy person looking back was really her. The dress skimmed her narrow waist and hips, the fabric emphasizing her bust just the right amount. The vivid colour brought out the rich tones of her hair and complemented her pale skin.

‘Hold on,’ Ivanka said, taking some make-up out of a box by the mirror. She wiped away Fleur’s amateurish eyeliner, and deftly shadowed and mascaraed her eyes until they were huge and dewy.

Ivanka whipped a lipstick out of her pants pocket. Fleur baulked when she saw how red it was.

Ignoring her protests, Ivanka dabbed it on. Fleur gazed at her mouth. It looked so big and shiny and sexual. ‘I’m really not sure,’ she said.

Before she could wipe it off, Ivanka took her by the hand and led her back out. ‘I think we’ve done it,’ she told Beau.

He had been staring out the window, but now his blue gaze swept over Fleur. ‘I knew you had a pair of legs under there somewhere.’

The unashamed way his eyes were lingering on them made her flush even more. ‘I’m not sure I can walk in these heels,’ she said.

He stood up. ‘You’d better practise, then, while I go and pay.’

‘I can’t let you pay for this!’

He ignored her. ‘Ivanka, darling, can you throw in a bikini as well?’

Fleur was perplexed. ‘What do I need a bikini for?’

‘When you go in my pool, of course.’

‘How about this?’ Ivanka held up two scraps of black material.

‘No way!’ Fleur spluttered.

‘Yes way,’ Beau said. ‘Let’s get a move on; we’ve got a re-entrance to make.’

Ivanka was at the till ringing things through. Fleur caught sight of the price of the bracelet and nearly had a heart attack. Three hundred and seventy quid! She couldn’t bear to think about how much the dress was.

‘What shall I do with the other dress?’ Ivanka asked.

‘Burn it and put the poor thing out of its misery. Otherwise, it will make somebody a wonderful Halloween costume.’

‘I’ll hold on to it in case you change your mind,’ Ivanka told Fleur.

Beau kissed Ivanka on both cheeks. ‘
Ciao, bella
. Thank you for coming to our rescue.’

He sauntered out, back on the phone.

‘Thank you,’ Fleur told Ivanka. ‘You’ve been really nice to me.’

‘Incredible, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’ Fleur asked.

Ivanka smiled wistfully after Beau. ‘The way he looks at you. It makes you feel like you’re standing in the sun.’

She turned back to Fleur. ‘Enjoy your time with him.’ The look of pity was clear.

Fleur tugged on the hem of her dress, wishing she’d invested in some fake tan. Despite the car’s air conditioning she could feel a line of sweat trickling down her back. It was very distracting having Beau sprawled out next to her, his long limbs taking up half the seat. The swell of hard thigh under his suit trousers was making her tummy turn over.

He’d been his usual flippant self so far, and she had been starting to wonder if their kiss had ever happened. But since they’d got back in the cab, there had been a weird electricity between them. It was the speculative way he eyed her, with new interest. Dressed in a designer dress, jewels at her ears and on her wrists, she felt like his equal for the first time.

The car pulled up at red traffic lights. Two leggy blondes sauntered past, both with tiny chihuahuas on leads. She glanced at Beau, but it was impossible to tell under the Ray-Bans where he was looking.

He yawned as the car pulled off. ‘I could sleep for a week.’

‘Late night?’ She immediately wished she hadn’t asked.

He smiled enigmatically. ‘You could say that.’

This time they were whisked through a private entrance, no questions asked. Fleur started to feel sick again. What if Valentina and her cronies were still there? Her python-skin heels were perilously high.
Oh God, please don’t let me fall over in front of them
.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

She nodded, unable to speak.

‘You look gorgeous, sweetheart,’ he said softly. ‘Relax.’

Next moment she’d got her feet in a tangle and nearly went flying. Beau caught her. It was like running into steel. Fleur went all wobbly again.

‘Baby steps,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got you.’

They walked round the side of the gallery. The music got louder, echoing the drumming of Fleur’s heart. On the outskirts of the garden, Beau stopped. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this all night.’

He pulled the combs out of Fleur’s hair and ran his fingers through it, raking out the lacquer. ‘At last. The spirit of Great-Aunty Muriel has been laid to rest. I don’t know why you don’t wear your hair down more often, it’s really very sexy.’

‘Gets in the way,’ Fleur mumbled. Her scalp felt on fire from his touch, tingling, dripping down her body like melting candle wax.

He put his arm round her. ‘Let’s show them what you’re made of.’

Before, Fleur had been an invisible wallflower. Now she met artists and aristocrats, sheikhs and celebrities. She air-kissed television presenters and chatted with a famous singer about how wonderful it was to have no rain this year. Everyone wanted to know who was the tiny Titian-haired girl in Gucci hanging off Beau Rainford’s arm.

‘Love your dress!’ gushed one woman. ‘I’m going to get one put on hold first thing.’

‘You look very familiar, darling!’ said another anorexic crow in black. ‘Do you work in fashion?’

‘Fleur throws around straw bales for a living,’ Beau said, guiding her away.

She was completely star-struck when Beau paused to kiss the Prime Minister’s wife, elegant in floor-length navy. The two chatted away like old friends for ten minutes.

‘We were at Cambridge together,’ he told Fleur as they walked off. ‘She was a very naughty girl in her youth.’

She got excited when she spotted Vanessa and Conrad Powell with a group of men. Vanessa was as beautiful as ever, but Fleur thought she seemed a bit sad and distant, standing apart from the others.

‘All this arse-licking is boring the, well, arse off me,’ Beau said. ‘Let’s take a breather.’ He steered her over to the oyster bar.

‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’ she asked. Everyone was clamouring to talk to him, especially the women, but Beau treated the majority with mild disinterest or open disdain.

‘It’s just the same old crap. Who’s-doing-who-with-how-much,
everyone gushing over everyone else and stabbing them in the back the second they walk away.’ Beau saw her fallen face. ‘But I am having a good time, darling. Are you?’

Fleur was too high on life and champagne to stay down for long. ‘Fan-bloody-tastic!’

A tall, chunky man in a black tuxedo and jeans came up. ‘Bro, I was wondering where you’d got to.’

The two men bumped fists. The man looked at Fleur. ‘You’ve been hiding this one away, Beau. Who is she?’

The Ronseal tan and weak chin looked familiar. She realized it was Spencer, the awful friend Beau had brought round that night when he’d tried to buy the farmhouse.

‘You’ve met before, this is my neighbour Fleur Blackwood. Fleur, this is Spencer Churchill.’

‘Hello,’ she said stiffly.

Spencer didn’t bother hiding his astonishment. ‘Crikey. No wellies this time?’

‘They’re in the car,’ she replied sarcastically. She didn’t like the sly look he was giving Beau, as if there was some secret between them she didn’t know about.

‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it,’ Spencer said. ‘Mate, there’s an after party at Raffles we’re going on to if you fancy it,’ he told Beau. ‘Antonia’s going.’

‘We’ll probably head home.’

‘No worries. Laters, bro.’ Bumping fists with Beau again he swaggered off.

‘Do you really like him?’ Fleur asked.
And who the hell was Antonia?

‘Spence is all right once you get to know him. We boarded together all the way through school.’ He
drained his glass. ‘Do you fancy meeting Elle Macpherson?’

Orange skies merged into inky blue as Fleur drank champagne and met more fascinating people. Everyone was interested in who she was, what she had to say. Tonight, she was one of them. For a few hours, she could forget her problems and pretend.

It was getting on for eleven and she had been talking to a charming, silver-haired banker who apparently owned half of Chelsea.

His hand slid around her waist. ‘You really are very sexy,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve got a suite at the Dorchester we can go and fuck in.’

She felt herself being whipped out of his grasp. Beau flashed a charming, cold smile.

‘Hello, Evan,’ he said, putting his arm round Fleur. ‘How’s that gorgeous wife of yours?’

‘That guy has slept with half of London,’ he told her as they walked off. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

Fleur really was quite drunk by now. ‘Pot calling kettle,’ she quipped.

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Sorry?’

The renowned DJ Rev, fresh back from a set in Hamburg, had been providing the music until now. Rumours were circulating that some special guests were about to make an appearance. The crowd was buzzing about who they could be.

‘I heard it’s Coldplay,’ Fleur overheard someone say.

‘That would make sense, Gwyneth’s here,’ her companion replied.

All the champagne was playing havoc with Fleur’s
bladder. ‘I have to go to the loo. Will you be all right by yourself?’

He looked amused. ‘I think I’ll survive, don’t worry.’

Fleur dreaded running into Valentina and her cronies again, but thankfully the Ladies was empty. When she came back Beau was talking to a short, round little man in a flamboyant paisley jacket.

‘Ah, there you are. Fleur, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine, Prince Karim of Brunei.’

A prince? Aside from the serious bling round his neck he looked very normal. Not that she was sure what princes were meant to look like.

‘How do you do, Fleur?’ The prince’s accent was pure Eton.

The music stopped and DJ Rev’s cockney tones came through the microphone. ‘Evening, ladies and gents. I hope we’re all having a good time tonight.’

Fleur took the opportunity to grab another flute of champagne off a passing waiter.

‘Careful,’ Beau told her. ‘You’re lethal enough on those heels as it is.’

‘I’ll just have to rely on you to catch me, then,’ she said flirtily. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. DJ Rev started stirring the crowd up.

‘Now listen, people! I know rumours have been flying about our special guests tonight. Coldplay, Mick and the boys, someone’s even mooted the resurrection of Michael Jackson.’

The crowd cheered. ‘Michael, I love you!’ a woman cried.

‘RIP, Michael, you legend.’ DJ Rev bowed up to the sky. ‘I’m happy to tell you however, that the next act
is very much alive and kicking. Ladies and gents, put your hands together for The Cavalry!’

A corner of the garden that had been out of bounds all night suddenly lit up like a fireworks show. The Cavalry appeared, framed in a white stage that was meant to look like a photo frame. For the next thirty minutes they played all their hits, including a world premiere of their new single. The jaded crowd went wild, Fleur included. She’d never seen or heard anything so incredible.

Afterwards the band came over to see Beau and they all hugged Fleur, increasing her cachet amongst the other partygoers. Jonny Faro, the lead singer, sporting a new tattoo and an amazing quiff, put his arm round her.

‘What did you think of the set?’

She couldn’t believe he was asking her. ‘You were amazing!’

The lead singer grinned. ‘Right answer. Make sure you talk to our manager and get tickets for our next gig.’

For the thousandth time that night, she had to ask herself if this was really happening.

As The Cavalry were led off to speak to the press, Beau came back over to get her. ‘Having fun?’ he asked.

‘It’s been the most incredible night of my life,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it to end!’

A furious voice cut across the chatter. ‘So this is where you are. If I wasn’t such a fucking hot property, Beau, I’d think you were avoiding me.’

Fleur went cold. Valentina had materialized in front of them like an avenging demon.

Valentina’s eyes were hostile and black. One of her wings of eyeliner had smudged, giving her the appearance of a sinister clown.

Beau didn’t miss a beat. ‘V, darling. How are you?’

‘As if you care!’ she hissed. ‘I thought you were busy. Why did you lie to me?’

‘I didn’t lie to anyone.’

Valentina swayed on the spot. ‘I demand an explanation!’

Conversations screeched to a halt around them. This was a stand-off people didn’t want to miss.

Beau eyed Valentina coolly. ‘I wasn’t planning on coming. It was a last-minute thing.’

‘You still had time to invite
her
.’ Valentina glared at Fleur. ‘What, you’re buying her a new wardrobe now? Making her into one of your little Beau clones?’

He checked his Rolex. ‘We should get going,’ he told Fleur.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Valentina said. ‘You’re screwing that over me?’

‘Shut it, V.’ His voice was pure ice. ‘Shall we?’ he asked Fleur. ‘This party has suddenly become very boring.’

Valentina put a hand on his arm. ‘Beau,’ she pleaded. ‘Why you do this to me?’

Her accent had suddenly become a lot stronger. Fleur watched, transfixed, as a thin red line of blood trickled out of Valentina’s right nostril.

‘Baby, I love you. Please come back.’

Beau gazed into the supermodel’s eyes. ‘The only thing you love are your Class As. If you carry on this way, your lovely looks aren’t going to last long.’ He shook Valentina’s hand off him. ‘Let’s be honest, sweetheart, you’ve not got much else going for you.’

Her face collapsed like a soufflé. ‘You bastard!’ Bursting into tears, she fled, leaving a trail of open-mouthed onlookers in her wake.

Fleur stood there in shock. She actually felt
sorry
for Valentina.

‘I have no intention of becoming the latest “Bystander” gossip,’ Beau told her. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Fleur was very quiet on the journey out of London.

‘What’s up with you?’ Beau asked. They were in his Mustang, Beau flagrantly breaking speed limits as they hammered towards the M40. He’d obviously not drunk much, like Fleur.