The Birthday Party (19 page)

Halfway through the afternoon, Justine felt the need for some fresh air. She had eaten ten times more than she had meant to,
and drunk more than she was used to drinking during the day. Add to that the fact she’d had barely any sleep, and it was no
surprise she felt her eyelids closing.

Violet was busy gossiping with Polly, so she pushed the door of the orangery open and made her way out into the garden. A
light breeze caressed her face. She made her way past the still, dark pools and down a set of wide, deep steps to a bench
made up of intertwined serpents. She sat back and shut her eyes, relishing being alone with her thoughts for a few moments.

It had been a wonderful afternoon. After her initial
reticence, she now felt completely comfortable – with Violet, with the Raffertys. By the end of lunch, she had been made to
feel one of the family, unusual for her, for she usually felt such an outsider in other people’s homes. She wasn’t used to
the concept of family.

There had only ever been her and Benedict.

Her childhood hadn’t been a conventional one. Of course it had been marred by the tragedy of her mother’s death, but afterwards
it hadn’t been unhappy as such. Just unusual. She had been like a little companion to her father, who had taken her with him
everywhere on his travels, made her part of his life. She had become used to dining in the grandest of hotels, choosing from
the grown-up menu. Her father had never asked the waiter to ask the chef to rustle up something suitable for a child. She
could swallow oysters raw from the age of five. She was used to sitting at tables, listening to adult conversations. Going
to art galleries, race meetings, plays, cocktail parties – there wasn’t much he left her out of. They were very close. She
had all the love and attention she needed. But it was a strangely formal and slightly claustrophobic relationship. Rather
intense.

She’d seen other families interact, of course she had. She’d been back to girls’ houses for the weekend from school. She’d
never been all that envious. Other people’s mothers were slightly alien to her, creatures who seemed to fuss about the most
insignificant of things. And other people’s fathers were never as handsome or interesting as her own. She had never envied
anyone their family.

But the Raffertys were something else. For a moment she imagined being one of the sisters. They were like a crazy club. It
must have been wonderful growing up together, always having someone to do your make-up and tell your problems to, tell you
whether you looked fat. Delilah was wonderful – warm and caring without being mumsy. And Raf – how could you not fall in love
with Raf on the spot? He wasn’t as voluble as the distaff side of the family, but he had made her feel
welcome nevertheless. Justine had felt completely at home; the whole experience made her feel warm inside. She didn’t want
to leave.

She was sitting in the sunshine, her eyes closed, her face turned to the light, basking in the memory of the last twelve hours
and trying to make some sense of it, when she heard someone on the path.

It was Violet. She came and sat on the bench next to her.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m just enjoying the sunshine.’

‘Are they all too much for you? I know my family’s mad.’

‘Your family’s wonderful,’ Justine told her honestly.

Violet rolled her eyes fondly. ‘There’s always some drama.’

She looked at Justine and Justine’s heart skittered. She put up a hand and stroked Violet’s hair tentatively. Neither of them
took their eyes from the other’s face. It was still there. It hadn’t been a crazy, drunken moment of impulse. The attraction
hovered in the air between them, like a bee heavy with pollen, buzzing with languid contentment.

If last night’s first kiss had been heavenly, this afternoon’s took it into another dimension. As their lips met, Justine
felt herself almost swooning with the most delicious lust, her insides looping and coiling into honeycomb. Not just lust –
an ardent desire to possess another being, make them hers.

‘My God,’ she breathed.

‘I know,’ replied Violet, pulling her even closer.

‘Don’t mind me,’ said a voice, and the two girls’ heads snapped round.

Louis Dagger was observing them wryly through a haze of smoke.

‘You carry on.’

‘Shit,’ Violet said softly. ‘I don’t think Mum and Dad can take another shock. Not today.’

Louis took another drag on his cigarette.

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured them. ‘I won’t say a word.’

‘Not even to Tyger?’

‘No.’

Justine stood up. She marched over to Louis.

‘You better not,’ she threatened, ‘or you’ll have me to deal with.’

He looked at her, his eyes laughing.

‘Whooah,’ he remarked. ‘Feisty. You must be the bloke in the relationship.’

Justine felt an overwhelming urge to slap him, then realised that, if things were going to carry on as they were, this was
probably the sort of remark she was going to have to get used to.

L
ouis wandered back up to the house after his interesting discovery in the garden, walking through the French windows that
led into the living room rather than the orangery. He stood for a few moments admiring the room – like the rest of the house,
it was cool and stylish but still managed to feel homely. Windows dressed in crushed pale gold velvet and stone-coloured walls
gave a neutral backdrop to the stunning collection of seaside paintings that provided bright splashes of colour – jolly fishing
boats bobbing in harbours, children shrimping in rock pools, gaily painted beach huts, they harked back to another, happier
age. An age of innocence. Even Louis was charmed.

He turned when he heard a step behind him. It was Raf.

‘It’s always easy to know what to get Delilah for a present. She’s got quite a collection.’

Louis stood in front of the one that took his eye. A seascape executed in bold, colourful strokes, it depicted coral pink
waves crashing onto red rocks. Why he liked it best he wasn’t sure.

‘Irish impressionist – Roderic O’Conor,’ approved Raf. ‘Probably one of the most valuable paintings here.’

Louis surveyed the painting critically. ‘It’s not about how much it’s worth, is it? It’s about how it makes you feel.’

‘Quite.’

Raf was standing next to him now, arms crossed. The two men stood side by side. Louis felt uncomfortable. He sensed
he was being judged. Well, of course he was. He’d just married this bloke’s daughter.

‘Can we have a chat?’

Louis tensed.

‘What about? My prospects? I’ve got half a million quid in the bank,’ he replied.

‘I don’t give a toss about how much money you’ve got.’

Louis clenched his jaw. He hated confrontation. He usually avoided it by being so antagonistic that no one dared make him
answerable. The problem was this time he cared about the outcome. He wanted to defend himself. To prove himself. But how to
do this without tarnishing his image?. If he was going to live up to his reputation, he should stick two fingers up at Raf,
then go and sit down with a bottle of Southern Comfort somewhere until he was sick in the pond outside.

‘Shall we go into my study?’

Louis nodded cautiously, then followed Raf out of the room, feeling rather like a small boy being led to see the headmaster.
It wasn’t a feeling he was used to.

Raf’s study – although study was a misnomer; he never did any studying in it, he never spent much time in it at all, but it
was his space, his masculine bit of space – was the ultimate in what every man dreamed of. It was monochromatic, with pale
grey walls, charcoal eggshell shelving, and charcoal and grey ticking blinds. There was an iMac, a plasma screen and a Bang
and Olufsen sound system. One wall was lined with paperbacks, everything from Amis (Kingsley and Martin) to Wilbur Smith,
which he was unashamed about enjoying. The other was lined with his DVD collection, which included copies of every film he
had ever been in. Raf wasn’t vain; the girls had clubbed together and given them to him for Christmas one year, not realising
that he would have been happier forgetting those times. He had feigned delight, of course he had, but not once had he taken
one of the films out of its cover and watched it. He waved a hand at one of the club chairs in front of his
desk for Louis to sit down, then sat down behind his desk. He was aware that he had an unfair advantage and that he was asserting
his authority, which wasn’t Raf’s usual way, but on this occasion he thought it was fair enough. If Louis hadn’t done him
the courtesy of asking for Tyger’s hand, he could bloody well fight for it now.

He surveyed his son-in-law critically. Louis was handsome, in a villainous, dissolute way. His dark eyes glittered, his mouth
was cruel, his lean physique suited the tight black jeans and skinny T-shirt. Raf could see the attraction all right. A thousand
hits had been launched off the back of this look – Keith Richards, Steve Tyler, Phil Lynott. It was a cliché, but it worked.
It was inevitable that one of his daughters would fall for such a cliché. It was also inevitable that it would be Tyger, the
one who had pushed the barriers the most, the one who wasn’t afraid to take risks. It was this lack of fear that had made
her such a success, but also made her vulnerable. Fear rose in his belly. Instinct told him Louis could be trouble. He was
at a dangerous stage: rising to the top of his game, used to getting his own way but without the maturity that experience
brought. Potentially explosive. And destructive. He should know. He’d been there.

Raf wasn’t too worried about the fact that Louis and Tyger had tied the knot. It was only a bit of paper. If it all went wrong,
it could be dealt with swiftly. His concern was what would happen to Tyger if it
did
all go wrong. He didn’t want her hurt.
He didn’t want her to make a fool of herself, either. From this point on, all eyes would be on the newly-weds, gleefully counting
down to disaster. Their marriage would be under pressure, almost predestined to collapse. All the papers would want was a
decree absolute, and they wouldn’t much care how they got it. How long had Peaches Geldof’s marriage lasted? Six weeks? They
would be out to beat that, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his funny, feisty daughter being the victim of their manipulation.
So whatever he could do to limit the damage on this marriage, he would do.

‘So,’ said Raf pleasantly – he wasn’t on the attack, there was no point. ‘What do your parents think about you getting married?’

Louis leaned back in his chair and looked at Raf levelly. Raf gave him one point for eye contact.

‘I’m not in touch with my parents.’

‘Any particular reason?’

A bitter smile. ‘Mutual disinterest.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. There’s no love lost on either side.’

‘And what do your management think?’

Louis shrugged. ‘They can think what they like.’

Raf raised an eyebrow.

‘Isn’t that a bit … naive?’

The boy shot him a glance. Raf detected a glimmer of anxiety, which pleased him. Mr Dagger wasn’t as tough and sorted as he
liked to make out. He leaned forward.

‘Look, Louis – I’m not on your case. But Tyger’s my daughter and I love her probably more than anyone could realise. So I
want to make sure she’s going to be OK. I want to make sure you’re going to look after her. It’s my duty as a father. You
might find yourself in the same situation one day. So … is there anything I should know? You might as well tell me, because
I’ll find out in the end. I’m not going to go all Don Corleone on you, but …’

The message was pretty clear. He had people who could rake up the dirt if need be.

There was silence for a few moments. Louis stared at a Damien Hirst skull print on the wall while he considered his reply.
All the while he could feel Raf’s blue eyes boring into him. He wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

The problem was he respected Raf. If he had been some blundering, blustering Victorian father figure, he’d have called his
bluff. But Raf was cool. Louis had never wanted anyone’s approval in his life, but there was something about the guy … Maybe
it was because he knew that in his time Raf had been
wilder than he could ever hope to be, and was now comfortable in his own skin, with no need to prove himself.

He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. What the hell could he do to reassure Raf, and make sure he didn’t go digging about in
his past?

To add to his conundrum, he genuinely liked Tyger. In the short time he’d known her, she made him feel good about himself.
She didn’t know it, but she was the only girl Louis had ever chosen to wake up with. Sure, he’d slept with pretty girl after
pretty girl, but he always threw them out before he went to sleep. But he’d wanted to curl his arms round Tyger and fall asleep
with her.

The snarling bad boy image was so easy to put on. And who wouldn’t enjoy the lifestyle that went with it? Sex and drugs and
rock ’n’ roll. But he’d been getting bored with it recently. Get up late, write a song, sound check, gig, get lashed, get
laid. It became totally meaningless after a while. A pattern that repeated itself day after day, but there was nothing to
get hold of. Tyger had made him realise there was more to life. She had drive. Ambition. Go. And a sense of fun. The last
person he wanted to end up with was some crazy Courtney Love wannabe hell-bent on self-destruction. He wanted someone who
understood what he was doing. Who understood him. And who wasn’t going to drag him under.

He needed Tyger. So he couldn’t blow it with her father. He’d pretend to come clean. He’d give him the sanitised version,
and hope that would put him off the scent.

He sighed heavily, as if he was about to embark on a confession.

‘My dad fucked off when I was three. I haven’t met him since, so he doesn’t know Louis Dagger is me – there’s no way he’d
recognise me. My mum went off with another bloke, a total bastard who didn’t want me around. He wasn’t averse to lamping me
one every now and then when he knew I wasn’t looking. I ran away to London when I was fifteen, before I hit him back, because
I knew I would kill him. I got a job on a
building site, lived in the site manager’s Portakabin, worked in a few clubs in the evenings collecting glasses so I could
listen to live music. Then I moved to a squat in Camden. The guys there had a band – they taught me to play guitar. You probably
know the rest.’