The Birthday Party (11 page)

‘Everyone thinks you’ve got where you are because of who you are,’ sighed Violet.

‘Exactly,’ sympathised Justine. ‘But in fact my father is harder on me because I’m his daughter. If I was some random person
who’d worked my way up through the ranks, I’d be where I wanted to be by now.’

‘It’s nice to talk to someone who understands.’ Violet put her knife and fork together on the plate. ‘I can’t moan to my own
family. And other people don’t really get it. I mean, it’s not exactly a sob story, is it? I’m really lucky to have got where
I am. It’s just … it’s not enough. I want to be up there singing my own stuff, not churning out other people’s. But I just
can’t seem to …’

She trailed off, realising with embarrassment that her voice had gone wobbly. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t exactly
a fucking tragedy. But it was to her. She knew she could do it. So what the hell was stopping her?

She put her hands on her eyelids to stop the tears that were threatening to leak out.

‘Sorry …’ She smiled, mortified that she was showing herself up in front of Justine, who had just offered her the opportunity
of a lifetime. What a brat.

Justine took her hand, stroking the back of her knuckles with her thumb.

‘It’s OK,’ she said softly. ‘I know what it’s like. You’re expected to appreciate what you’ve got, and not want more.’

Violet nodded, grateful for the comfort, grateful for the fact that there was somebody who seemed to understand. She threaded
her fingers through Justine’s, not wanting the physical contact to stop. They sat in silence, staring at each other, both
feeling a connection, but neither sure quite what to say, while the chaos of The Ivy carried on around them.

The waiter arrived with the dessert menu. Reluctantly, they let go of each other and looked down the list.

‘I’m full,’ declared Justine doubtfully.

‘Me too. I think …’

‘But I just fancy something sweet to finish off.’

‘Mmm …’

‘Let’s share a chocolate mousse.’

‘Perfect.’

The mousse arrived, wickedly dark and luscious. They both dug their spoons in, conscious that this sharing was intimate, sensual.
They barely spoke until the unctuous mixture was finished.

Violet licked the last of the chocolate from her lips.

Justine was staring at her.

‘Where now?’ she asked huskily.

Violet stared back. They both knew how they were feeling. It was strange and new, but exciting. This was the moment when they
could choose to step into forbidden territory, or to stay on familiar ground. It was up to her to make the choice.

‘Come home with me.’

Justine put down her glass, her hand trembling slightly, and motioned to the waiter to bring the bill.

Justine was utterly enchanted by Violet’s flat. It was a riot of girliness, but not twee in any way. Everywhere you looked
there was something pretty to feast your eyes on. A gilt sofa covered in Cecil Beaton roses. A dainty writing desk. Nineteen
twenties figurines on side tables. Hundreds of pictures in different frames. Lalique vases stuffed with freesias. A baby grand
piano. Lace panels hung at the window, framed on either side by dusty hot-pink velvet curtains. A low coffee table was covered
in books and magazines and a fruit bowl piled high with peaches and grapes. The mantelpiece was covered in invitations, thank-you
letters, photographs, postcards.

It was a million miles from Justine’s annexe in her father’s
house, which was sleek and minimalist and, she realised now, quite characterless.

Violet moved around the room, lighting scented candles that soon filled the room, flicking on a couple of lamps, turning on
some music. Astrud Gilberto began to sing.

For a moment, time stood still as the two girls looked at each other.

Justine held out her arms.

‘Dance with me,’ she whispered.

Without demur, Violet slid into her embrace. For a few moments, the two of them moved to the music together. Justine could
feel the warmth and softness of the other girl’s breasts against hers. She moved in so that their cheeks were touching, their
hair entangled. Their fingers were entwined again, just as they had been at the table in the restaurant.

They turned to look at each other, and began to kiss.

It was like meringues, marshmallows, cotton candy. It was soft and very, very sweet. And quite delicious. Justine was shocked
at how easy it was, how natural it felt, how completely and utterly delectable.

She gave a little sigh and Violet stroked her cheek.

‘Come on,’ she whispered, and led her by the hand through to the bedroom.

T
hree thousand miles away, Tyger Rafferty was starting to tear her hair out.

She’d been in the bathroom for the past half-hour, furtively emailing the office on her iPhone while she left the shower running
for cover. It wouldn’t do to let her brand-new husband know she was in contact, but she didn’t like to remain out of communication
for long. She’d sent through some images she’d snapped – she was constantly looking for inspiration and there had been plenty
of it in Vegas – and checked on sales figures for the last three days, as well as lining up several meetings for the following
week. When you were a knicker magnate, you couldn’t afford to stand still, not even on your honeymoon.

Now she was striding around the hotel room, naked and still damp from her shower. Louis was lying on the bed, again. It was
all he seemed to have done these past few days, but as he pointed out the rest of the time he was constantly on the go. If
he couldn’t rest on his honeymoon …

‘You’re supposed to have packed,’ she chided him. ‘We’re supposed to check in at nine.’

Louis Dagger shrugged. He was used to turning up late, catching planes by the skin of his teeth. Sometimes they waited, sometimes
they didn’t. He wasn’t bothered. There was always another one.

‘Mum will wig if we don’t make it back in time for lunch tomorrow.’

He reached out and grabbed her, pulled her on top of him. She looked down at him indignantly.

‘Seriously. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’

He patted out a drum beat with his hands on her bare arse.

‘You belong to me now, baby,’ he said, in his best slow Southern drawl. ‘You don’t have to do anything Momma says any more
…’

‘I so do,’ Tyger corrected him. ‘And if you don’t get your ass off that bed right now and start packing, I’m filing for divorce.’

She scrambled off him and began to retrieve her clothes, peeling a stocking off a lampshade and a bra from under the bed,
then stuffing them haphazardly into one of the cases. From time to time she stopped to admire the Theo Fennell ring on the
third finger of her left hand – a ruby encrusted skull with a white diamond snake threading itself through the eye sockets.
Not, it has to be said, everyone’s taste in wedding jewellery, but a very appropriate gift from the baddest new kid on the
rock ’n’ roll block.

When you meet him, you’ll know.

That’s what their mother had always told the three girls when they were growing up. They had loved hearing her talk about
the day she had met their father. It had almost become a fairy tale for the three of them. How Delilah had been a model, and
had been asked to play a cameo role in a movie Raf was starring in, and how it had been love at first sight. They had met
and married before the movie was even wrapped. It had become a showbiz legend.

And Tyger had held on to that legend throughout all the years of heartache. The rows, the shouting, the weeping. The door
slamming. The headlines in the papers that her school-friends could never help pointing out. She knew Delilah and Raf loved
each other passionately underneath all the drama, but it had been hard to live with all the same. Especially when your whole
life was on show. Other people’s parents had their problems, but they weren’t splashed all over the news. Other people’s fathers
had affairs, but it wasn’t public knowledge
who their mistresses were. Almost every time Dad started a new film, the inevitable happened. The whispers began.

It had all calmed down now, of course. Their twenty-five-year marriage was held up as living proof that true love could exist
and flourish. Delilah and Raf were the perfect showbiz couple. Time and again they were asked for the secret of their relationship.
Raf would just smile his enigmatic smile, and Delilah would laugh her infamous, infectious laugh, and they would both shrug.

‘You don’t go through everything we’ve gone through and then give it up,’ was the only clue Delilah would provide.

Raf wasn’t as forthcoming. He played his cards very close to his chest. He always had. It was Delilah who was bubbly and effusive,
who let slip intimate details, who let each journalist who interviewed her feel as if they had come away with a scoop.

Of course, it was all carefully orchestrated. Delilah never let anyone know anything she didn’t want them to. But by opening
her eyes wide, and dropping her voice to a whisper, like a schoolgirl divulging a piece of salacious gossip, she could turn
the most inconsequential nugget of information into a story, thereby deflecting attention from the truth. Tyger had seen her
do it on countless occasions. Delilah was the mistress of media manipulation. She got away with it because she was gorgeous
and charming and everyone adored her, even the most hardened editor of the most scurrilous red top.

Time and again she had traded off photos of herself for covering up the girls’ misdemeanours while they were growing up. Their
publicist, Tony, spent his whole time horse-trading with the tabloids. A good photo of Delilah was usually worth more than
a blurry snap of one of her daughters out on the town. The camera loved her and the public loved her, so it was valuable currency.
Sexy, curvaceous, with that infamous cleavage and those tumbling chestnut curls, she worked a different look for every photo
opportunity with the help of her tireless stylist. And no sooner was the look worked than it was copied
by women all over the country. There had been a run on round-necked leopard-skin cardies, rope-soled wedges, multi-stranded
strings of pearls, bandanas, berets, feather-trimmed evening bags – you name it, if Delilah Rafferty wore it, it would be
sold out by the end of the week.

Thus Tyger had learned enough from her mother while growing up to know that she needed to order two limos for the trip to
the airport, and that she and Louis should check in separately. The hotel had been discreet, because it had to be. But once
they were outside, they were easy prey.

She looked over at her husband of three days and her tummy turned over. Delilah was right. You did know. Tyger remembered
the feelings she had described and had felt them herself the moment she clapped eyes on Louis. Temporary inability to breathe,
racing heart, butterflies in the stomach but at the same time a sense of incredible peace. A relief, almost, that the search
was over.

That had been six days ago. Six days that now felt like a lifetime. And clearly he had felt the same, for here they were,
Mr and Mrs Dagger. The thought still gave her a thrill. Tyger could feel desire bubbling up inside her even now. They hadn’t
left the room for a day and a half. But time was ticking by.

Louis grumbled as she forced him to pack up his clothes.

‘Come on! You need to leave ahead of me. At least fifteen minutes.’

She didn’t trust him to follow on behind. She had to see him into the limo.

‘What’s the big deal? Why all the skulduggery?’

‘I don’t want my family to find out about us from the papers.’

Louis frowned. ‘We’re both grown-ups, aren’t we? You’re over the age of consent.’

Tyger’s phone went again. It was Polly. Chasing her about lunch tomorrow, no doubt. She let it go to voicemail, feeling a
tiny bit guilty because she knew Polly would be stressed at not being able to get hold of her.

‘One more day,’ she pleaded. ‘We can tell them tomorrow.’

‘Do I get to sit next to you on the plane?’

He nuzzled his face into her neck and she felt her cheeks go pink as she thought of what he had done to her under the blanket
on the way out.

‘I’ve checked us in online. Two seats together. We’ll have to board separately, though.’

They’d just have to hope and pray that there wasn’t anyone sitting near them likely to sell their story. There probably wouldn’t
be. There was an unwritten code in First Class that most people seemed to adhere to.

The room phone went.

Tyger picked it up: their cars were waiting.

‘We’ll be down in twenty minutes,’ she promised the receptionist, knowing full well it would be more like an hour. But that
was her life all over. She was a busy girl. She always kept people waiting.

‘Welcome aboard.’

The hostess smiled at Tyger as she took her boarding card, then directed her towards her seat. Louis was already in his, feet
stretched out, eyes closed, earphones on.

Tyger glanced around the cabin before she sat down. No one seemed to have clocked her, and Louis wasn’t properly famous on
this side of the Atlantic yet, only if you were into underground music. But it was only a matter of time. And really, the
way he dressed, there was only one thing he could be. He oozed the dissolute decadence of a rock star; he reeked of glamour
and groupies.

No more groupies, Tyger hoped. She supposed that strictly speaking that was what she had been. Though your average groupie
didn’t have an Access All Areas pass that allowed you to barge straight into the lead singer’s dressing room after a gig and
tell him he was a genius, which is what she had done. Only last Saturday night, she realised.

She’d expected Louis to be disinterested. He had a
reputation as a moody, arrogant twat. He’d looked her up and down once, then twice, and she saw a flicker of recognition in
his eyes.

‘Your mum’s the cookery bird,’ was his reply.

Tyger rolled her eyes and sighed. Everywhere she went, men fancied her mother more than they did her. Delilah seemed to be
the object of desire for every male in England from sixteen to sixty. Even, it seemed, the moody rebellious Louis Dagger.