The Birthday Party (10 page)

Being the daughter of an incredibly wealthy man was fraught with hazards. Justine never knew if men fancied her for herself
or for her fortune. She’d had her fingers burned more than once with gold-diggers, and now she was very wary. It grieved her
that it was unrealistic for her to socialise with the kids she’d been at school with. They’d made her part of who she was,
and although she would never turn her back on them, their worlds were miles apart. She’d tried, of course she’d tried, but
it was always awkward. Driving up to a grotty estate in a soft-top Mercedes was asking for trouble, but she didn’t want to
pretend she wasn’t something she was, just as she didn’t expect them to be pretend to be something they weren’t.

Money was a pain in the arse, she’d long decided. But the making of it was her legacy. She wasn’t going to turn her back on
it. She was going to be as big a success as her father. If only he would let her prove to him that she was capable. Now.

Bollocks to Benedict. She wasn’t going to let him spoil her evening. The compe`re had come on to introduce Violet Rafferty
and the audience was settling down.

‘You will absolutely adore her.’ Alex leaned over and spoke in her ear. ‘Honestly, she’s enough to turn me straight.’

Smiling, Justine put down her drink and turned expectantly towards the stage.

As Violet walked out of the dressing room, the stage manager handed her a glass of incarnadine Campari. Moments later she
was on the stage, greeted by raucous applause, whistles and whoops of joy.

She smiled over at Sammy who was tuning his double bass, then nodded at the pianist who had taken his position. As the introduction
began, the piano and the bass entwining round each other, she scanned the faces in front of her. She always picked someone
to sing to. Whether a man or woman, girl or boy, she sought out someone she could focus on, someone she could pour her heart
and soul into. It wasn’t a freaky declaration of love; it helped make her performance more personal and gave it some meaning.

Tonight she scanned the audience with an expert eye. A girl at one of the tables near the front caught her attention. She
was striking, with dark eyebrows that gave definition to her heart-shaped face. She was on a table with a group of boys she
recognised, her staunch gay fans. As she stepped up to the microphone she caught the girl’s eye and stared right at her.

‘Hello.’

Her voice was sultry, smokily suggestive, and commanded instant attention. The chatter subsided immediately.

‘I hope you’re all ready to have a good time. And welcome to the Tinderbox, if you haven’t been before.’

She smiled again at the girl, who held her gaze. Good. She needed someone responsive, someone who could be her gauge.

Her pianist began the intro to her opening song. She took a small sip of her Campari, breathed in, and began.

‘I left a note on his dresser …’

She began the melancholy lyrics, the story of a woman leaving her husband, and the audience were immediately under her spell
as the narrative unfolded. She was very measured to begin with, holding back for the time being, but by keeping the words
almost matter-of-fact the impact was somehow greater. She needed to build throughout the set. By the end she would let rip
and let them have the full force of her emotions. Violet knew exactly how to take her audience on a journey. She chose the
sequence of her songs very carefully, taking them up, then back down, then towards an earth-shattering climax that would leave
them drained.

‘Remember, darling …’

She fixed the girl with the sweetest of smiles.

‘Don’t smoke in bed …’

Justine watched, rapt, as the girl on the stage enchanted her audience, pulling them into her spell, her soft, smoky voice
wrapping itself around them. One moment she would be sultry and seductive, the next wild and abandoned, then she came on like
a dominatrix. Justine was transfixed.

At one point, Alex nudged her teasingly. ‘Oi, stop drooling. I never knew you were that way inclined.’

Justine nudged him back with her elbow and rolled her eyes.

‘I can think she’s gorgeous without being a—’

‘She certainly seems to like you.’ He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear. ‘She hasn’t taken her eyes off you all evening.’

For some reason Justine found herself blushing. She thought
Violet had been catching her eye, and she found it flattering. The girl was utterly gorgeous, after all. Spellbinding, mysterious,
but with a mischievous sense of humour that showed she didn’t take herself too seriously, she interspersed her songs with
little stories and anecdotes, some rather risqué.

She had to admit she’d felt a little peeved, a little spurned, when Violet had turned her attentions to the wild-haired bass
player during the last song, draping herself around him, singing seductively in his ear, trailing her fingers down his cheek.
He had smiled, as if he was used to her toying with him. Were they an item? Justine wondered. They were certainly both exotic
and talented, living in a world far removed from most people’s experience.

When Violet finally turned to look at her again, she felt her heart skip a beat. It was just vanity, she told herself. Who
didn’t like being the centre of someone’s attention, especially someone so compelling? It didn’t mean she was—

A sudden thought occurred to her.

Now that would shake her father in his shoes. If she announced she had a girlfriend. She grinned mischievously as she thought
of the thunderous expression on his face. She felt a hundred per cent sure he wouldn’t like it. For all his pretending to
be broad-minded, that he wouldn’t be able to handle. It would throw him completely.

And Violet Rafferty. There would be uproar. It would be all over the papers. The press would love it! Two beautiful girls,
one rich, one rich and famous – the paparazzi would fall over themselves to get photos of them kissing. The fashion magazines
would chronicle their every outfit. And they would look so good together. It was every red-top editor’s wet dream. After all,
wasn’t it supposed to be every bloke’s fantasy, two hot women together?

Saph-tastic
, thought Justine with a grin. It was perfect. Benedict would be incandescent. He would rage and protest. She would
defend herself. Then finally they would strike a deal. Justine would give up Violet if she got the position she wanted.

Justine took another sip of her cocktail. If Benedict Amador thought he could control his daughter, he had another thing coming.
She could outmanoeuvre him any day. After all, hadn’t she learned at the feet of a master?

She turned casually to Alex.

‘So – has she got a boyfriend at the moment? Or a girlfriend?’

‘Not that I know of.’ He looked at her with a little smirk. ‘Why – you interested?’

Justine felt a little stirring deep inside. She loved a challenge. And she hadn’t met anyone she couldn’t have if she wanted
them.

Yet.

After her set, which included three encores, Violet always came and mixed with the audience. She liked to add the personal
touch, and it wasn’t as if she was in any danger. They were a sophisticated bunch, and far from starstruck – she chatted with
them like old friends, which many of them were. Sammy refused to join her. He was too shy. He would pack up his bass and go
home to the crazy house he shared with a bunch of musicians, despite Violet imploring him to stay on and have a drink.

‘They don’t want to talk to me,’ he protested. ‘You’re the star.’

‘Rubbish! You’re part of the show. You’re as important as I am. And look at all those adoring girls out there—’

He backed away in horror at that. Sammy didn’t like the idea of being hit on by a fan one bit. Violet laughed and kissed him
goodbye, then wove her way through the tables, greeting her fans, shaking hands, signing copies of her CD, posing for photographs.
It was one of the advantages of not being a huge star. She would hate to be whisked off back-stage by security and driven
off in a car with blacked-out windows or shoved onto a tour bus to the next destination.

By the time she reached the front, where her lucky mascot
had been sitting, she was feeling very mellow. The girl with the dark eyebrows stood up as she approached, held out a hand
and drew her towards their table.

‘Come and have a glass of champagne.’

There were two bottles of vintage Dom Perignon lolling in an ice bucket. Violet knew this crowd were wealthy, showy and sybaritic.
They always bought the best. The girl pulled one of the bottles out of the bucket and poured the golden bubbles into a fresh
glass. She handed it to Violet as she picked up her own, then went to clink her glass against hers.

‘I’m Justine, by the way,’ she informed her. ‘And I loved your show. You’re a complete star.’

‘Thanks.’ Violet was used to people heaping praise on her. ‘You’re a friend of these guys? They’re my regulars.’

‘Alex does my hair.’ Justine ran a hand over her glossy mane. ‘He knew I’d had a bad day so he asked me along to cheer me
up. And it really did. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Violet gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘It’s just good old-fashioned entertainment. A little bit naughty, a little bit glamorous.
Everyone wants a bit of escapism in their lives.’

Justine put her head on one side and surveyed Violet boldly.

‘You were looking at me
all
the way through.’

Violet didn’t look away. She smiled and took a sip of her champagne before she answered.

‘Not all the way through.’

Her eyes were laughing.

Justine dropped her gaze down to Violet’s mouth, and then back up again. She was trying to be cool, but her heart was beating
very fast. This was a new game for her. She leaned in, until her lips were right by Violet’s ear. She could feel her warmth,
smell her scent – something expensive and exclusive.

‘I’d love to talk to you about doing a showcase at some of our hotels.’

‘Hotels?’

Justine nodded. ‘It’s my family business. We have a chain of luxury hotels. And we’re always looking for top-class
entertainment. You’d go down a storm. Maybe Moscow. Tokyo … definitely New York.’

‘That sounds … wonderful.’

‘Perhaps we could set up a tour? A week in each? You’d have five-star accommodation, first-class flights.’

Violet laughed. It was a wonderful sound, deep, musical, but filled with genuine mirth.

‘Where do I sign? It sounds … too good to be true.’

Justine flicked a glance down to her Piaget watch. It was eleven thirty. Not too late. She could take Violet to the Ivy –
they served until the early hours without complaint.

‘Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?’

Violet looked thoughtful. She loved the idea of what this girl was suggesting. She prided herself on not using her parents’
contacts in her musical career. She hated the thought of Delilah or Raf pulling strings on her behalf. Every gig she had got
she had got for herself. She knew the name Rafferty probably opened a few doors, but she couldn’t help who she was. She just
didn’t approve of outright nepotism.

This was an exciting opportunity, a proposition she wanted to hear more about. She thought the girl was genuine. She only
had to look at her clothes, her jewellery, the confident way she carried herself, to know she was successful. She wasn’t stringing
her a line.

She made up her mind in a split second.

‘Give me a chance to freshen up and get my things. I’ll meet you by the stage door in ten minutes.’

Justine watched her go, gliding through the crowds in her black dress, serene, elegant, stylish. She drained her champagne,
and felt the bubbles hit her stomach, where they joined the ones that were already fizzing. She put her glass down on the
table. She didn’t want to have too much to drink. She wanted to go into this with a clear head.

She sidled over to Alex, slid her arm around his neck from behind, putting her hand over his mouth as she whispered in his
ear.

‘I’m taking Violet Rafferty out for dinner. Don’t you dare breathe a word to anyone. I’ll text you later.’

Alex’s eyes were as round and wide with scandal as she had ever seen them, but he nodded his agreement to keep quiet and she
took her hand away. Then she hurried to the cloakroom to touch up her make-up, pulling out her mobile as she went. She had
the Ivy on speed-dial and the
maître d’
was on the waiting list for a job at Amador. She didn’t usually call in favours, but this was an emergency.

Half an hour later, the two girls were led to a table for two in a discreet but well-positioned corner, which meant they were
hidden from view but could see the rest of the room. The infamous restaurant was still buzzing with diners. Several well-known
faces could be spotted – a newsreader, a best-selling author and a couple of racing drivers – so the two of them didn’t stand
out.

Justine waved away the menus and ordered from the waiter rapidly, pausing only to ascertain that Violet wasn’t a vegetarian.

‘We’ll have the roast poulet des Landes for two with some pommes allumettes. And some creamed spinach. And a bottle of Pouilly
Vinzelles.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Violet murmured, suddenly realising she was ravenous. She rarely ate much before she performed, not because
she was nervous but because it played havoc with her digestion. And she often found that by the time she was finished she
was too far gone to eat.

The chicken arrived, and the two girls fell on it greedily. Justine realised she hadn’t had anything since her cupcake earlier.
They devoured the matchstick-thin fries with their fingers, hot and salty. As they ate, they chattered idly, filling each
other in on their lives. They realised they were both very different, but at the same time they were under similar pressures.
They each had ambition, and they each had things that were holding them back, though neither of them could exactly
complain about their position in life. They were both very privileged, yet in some ways this made the frustrations even more
difficult to deal with, because they could hardly expect sympathy.