The Birthday Party (21 page)

As predicted, Benedict was in the living room, an elegant room that took up the whole of the first floor, furnished in simple
luxury with sleek furniture and some stunning pieces of art. He was stretched out on the U-shaped Roche Bobois sofa in front
of the television. His supper things were still on the coffee table, the papers were spread round him, and he was nursing
the last third of a very good bottle of red wine.

Benedict was healthy and handsome, if a little stockier and a lot balder than he would otherwise have liked, but put him in
a well-cut suit and he was a very attractive proposition. A year-round tan helped – acquired from visiting his further-flung
hotels – and he only drank at weekends. He looked fit, prosperous and discerning.

‘Hey!’ He looked up and smiled as his daughter came in. As far as he was concerned, their argument was forgotten. They might
spar, in a healthy way, but they never fell out for long, and he certainly didn’t bear grudges. ‘Where’ve you been?’

He wasn’t interrogating her, just being politely curious.

She put her bag down, and he frowned. She was in a strange dress. Strange both because he didn’t recognise it and because
it was a million miles from what she usually wore. It suited her. It was more feminine than her usual garb.

‘Nice dress,’ he commented. ‘Change of image?’

‘I borrowed it … from a friend,’ she told him. ‘Violet Rafferty?’

He rolled through his mental Rolodex. ‘Violet Rafferty as in Delilah Rafferty?’

‘Yeah. I’ve been to their house for lunch.’

‘I didn’t know you knew them.’

‘I didn’t, till today.’

Benedict flicked off the telly. He’d rather talk to Justine than watch reruns of
CSI Miami
. She was standing in front of the
drinks cabinet, surveying the bottles, deciding what to have.

‘You’re not out tonight then?’

‘Um … no. Bit of a mad one last night. I could do with a quiet night in.’

Benedict looked at his daughter askance. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed in on a Saturday. He wondered if
she was going to use the opportunity to have another go about Berlin. Justine never gave in until she got what she wanted.

As soon as they had finished their conversation yesterday, he had got straight on to the agent about the derelict hotel and
put in an offer. He knew his daughter would have done her homework. Now, she just had to prove to him that she really was
hungry enough to take on the project. He was sure she had the wherewithal to make it a success – he’d been through her proposal
and was favourably impressed. Of course, he expected nothing less. She’d learned at the feet of a master.

But to his surprise, she didn’t bring it up. She poured herself a glass of elderflower cordial, kicked off her shoes, sprawled
on the sofa – and fell asleep.

‘Cheers,’ said Benedict, raising his glass to his comatose daughter.

Violet flew in through the door of her flat, not even pausing to take off her jacket before throwing open the lid of her piano.
All day long she had been longing to get home and start writing. She had felt the music bubbling up inside her, but she knew
she couldn’t make her escape until it was polite. Tearing herself away from Justine had been hard, but she couldn’t risk her
inspiration drying up. She needed to be alone.

Thank God the man who lived upstairs was away for the weekend. He would have had every right to come storming down as she
pounded out the notes, her fingers flying. Black dots danced across the pages of her manuscript paper as phrases occurred
to her – she couldn’t get it all down fast enough. She was terrified it would disappear into the ether.

By four o’clock in the morning she had three songs. Not perfect, not finished, but she had captured their essence on
paper. They couldn’t get away from her now. She wanted to phone Sammy. He would understand her euphoria. She wanted to play
her songs to him, to start arranging them, working out what instruments she would need – whether to go for stripped-back and
bare, or big, brave over-the-top lushness with a full orchestra. But even nocturnal Sammy probably wouldn’t appreciate a call
at this hour of the morning. She would ring him tomorrow.

This was the moment she had been waiting for all her life. She knew she could write. She had never given up hope. All the
time she had spent analysing other people’s music, picking it apart to see how it worked, how it was structured. She had the
tools. She’d just needed the catalyst – the life-changing moment that unlocked her.

She dragged herself to the bedroom and fell onto the bed. She couldn’t be bothered to get undressed. She pulled the sheets
to her and breathed in. The scent of Justine lingered, and the memory made her insides flutter. She would see her again tomorrow.
They’d go for lunch somewhere, sit outside in the sunshine, drink strawberry Bellinis, go shopping … she pictured the two
of them trying on dresses, spraying perfume onto each other’s wrists, teetering around shoe shops in impossibly high heels,
laughing. The images floated in and out of her head, becoming faster, then becoming fuzzy, as sweet sleep eventually overtook
her.

Delilah couldn’t sleep at all that night.

She tried separating all the anxieties out and examining them. Individually, she could cope. It was when they all melded into
one that she began to panic, tossing and turning, flipping her pillow over when it became overheated. More than anything right
now she needed her sleep. She couldn’t cope with the smallest of problems if she was tired.

Maybe she should get up and try to get a couple of hours’ work done? That would tire her out – she could slip back into bed
later and sleep. It was Sunday. She didn’t need to get up.

But the thought of tackling the book only increased her panic. It was an unwieldy beast – a mammoth task but somehow uninspiring.
She didn’t feel her usual enthusiasm. It was merely a chore.

She gave a huge sigh, and Raf opened one eye, drowsy but concerned.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I don’t know. Everything and nothing.’

‘You worry too much.’ He closed his eyes and patted her consolingly, clearly eager to fall back to sleep.

Delilah gritted her teeth. Of all the platitudes, she hated this one the most. How dare he patronise her? It was her bloody
worrying that had got them where they were: on top. If she hadn’t worried, where would they be? Surrounded by lawsuits and
bankruptcy charges, no doubt.

‘It’s all right for you to say that,’ she said, her voice tight with anger. ‘It’s OK for you. There’s always someone there
to pick up the pieces.’

Her. She was always there, two steps behind, protecting him from the world, making sure that nothing happened to knock him
off his perch and send him back to the bottle. All anyone did when she was feeling the pressure was belittle her and imply
that she brought it on herself.

She’d tried not worrying. Of course she had, but the moment she took her foot off the gas and tried to relax, there was a
crisis. So she was permanently coiled, waiting for things to go wrong, ready to take on the world and start trouble-shooting.
No wonder her stress levels were sky high. No wonder she felt exhausted.

Raf stroked her arm.

‘You need a break.’

That was another platitude she hated. Of course she needed a break, but she wasn’t going to get one. She was on a never-ending
roller-coaster ride that didn’t stop to let anyone off. Even if she had managed to take time off from her schedule,
she would only worry about the workload that was building up while she was away. It wasn’t worth it.

‘Roll over. I’ll give you a massage. It might help you sleep.’

Gratefully, she turned onto her stomach, and leaned her head on her arms. Raf drizzled a lavender-scented massage oil onto
her bare skin, and started rubbing it in gently, working at the knots in her muscles. After a few minutes, she realised that
his hands were straying, that he was stroking her bare arse. He wasn’t interested in making her relax at all. It was pure
self-interest.

She rolled over and sat up.

‘For God’s sake,’ she shouted. ‘All anyone ever wants from me is money, sex or reassurance. I’ve had enough of it. Why can’t
you leave me alone?’

She scrambled out of bed, half-crying. She fled the room without looking back, knowing that Raf would have an expression of
hurt and shock on his face that she wouldn’t be able to bear. She ran down the stairs, into the kitchen and fell onto the
small sofa she kept in there, for visiting guests to sit in sipping wine while she cooked. Doug the Pug flopped out of his
basket and waddled over to her, his eyes wide with alarm at this unaccustomed interruption. She scooped him up and held his
fat, warm body. Already guilt was creeping over her. She had behaved appallingly. She’d been totally unreasonable. Raf had
been trying to help in the only way he knew how.

That was what was so frustrating. She wanted more than murmured reassurance and a massage. She wanted someone to take the
pressure off. She was overworked, overwrought, overwound. She was just so sick of the
responsibility
…

And she didn’t like the person she was becoming. She was a million miles from her public persona. Glamorous, fun-loving, laid-back
Delilah Rafferty? The woman who had got it right? People would be shocked if they knew the truth. Everyone thought that her
life was one happy social gathering after another, that she just wafted from one to another with a smile on her face. No one
knew the graft, the angst, the juggling, the
mental energy that went into it all. Not to mention the fear that it was all going to go wrong, that the nation would get
bored with her, that her books would be consigned to the remainder bin.

That was what was really bothering her, she decided. That bloody article in the paper this morning. She had told herself to
ignore it, but she couldn’t. Somehow it summed up everything she was afraid of. The comments had hurt, and they had knocked
her confidence.

She tried to curl herself up and lie down on the sofa, but it was annoyingly small, and Doug was snuffling. She should go
back upstairs and apologise to Raf, but she couldn’t help feeling resentful. In the end she plopped Doug back into his basket,
went into the office and turned on the computer, where she stared at her work-in-progress for a good half-hour before falling
asleep with her head in her arms.

Louis had the dream again that night. It had been several months since the last one, and he had thought he was free of the
curse and turned a corner. But no. This time, if anything, it was worse than ever.

The sight. A pair of melting brown eyes pleading with him. How the hell could he ignore the sheer terror manifest in the being
that had once trusted him?

The sound. The pathetic whimper, the only sound that could be managed, but in his head it was amplified to a desperate keening
that echoed around his head.

And the smell. The stifling stench. He didn’t know you could dream smells, but the odour was suffocating him, acrid, putrid,
unforgettable. He gasped for breath, crying out, knowing the ending before it even happened, because it happened the same
every time—

‘Hey, hey! Louis! Baby, what’s the matter?’

Tyger’s arms were round him, but he fought them away. He had to get away. Tears were streaming down his face, sweat was pouring
from his brow.

‘Louis!’

At last he surfaced, the vestiges of the dream slipping away. He saw Tyger looking at him, her eyes wide with anxiety. He
slumped onto her. She held him, her voice soothing as she stroked his back.

‘Shh – it’s OK. You’re all right.’

‘Oh God …’ he groaned. He held onto her tightly, not wanting to let her go, relishing the comfort of her warmth. Eventually
his heart rate subsided and his breathing eased. He felt calm.

Tyger frowned, her little face screwed up with concern. ‘What were you dreaming about, anyway?’

‘I don’t know. Just … weird shit.’ He got out of bed. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’

His T-shirt was drenched in sour-smelling perspiration. Not the sweat that poured out of him when he did a gig, but sweat
that stank of fear. And cowardice.

He was nothing but a fucking coward. But it was too late. There was nothing he could do now. The stakes were too high.

He looked over at Tyger. She had fallen back onto the pillows. He gazed at her mussed-up blonde crop, the bright pink camisole
and boy pants she was wearing. She was a jewel. She totally got him – or at least the ‘him’ he was prepared to show her. She
was one in a million, but there was no way he could confide in her. She would never understand. And he wasn’t going to mess
up the one properly good thing that had happened to him.

Millions of people could only dream of the rock ’n’ roll life that had been foisted on him. But it had never given him a moment’s
happiness. Performing for him wasn’t a high, it was more of an exorcism. Writing songs was a purging process, excruciatingly
painful. And all the shit that went with it: the riders, the limos, the ass-kissing – it only made him feel more of a fraud.
He was playing a role. The snarling, capricious, arrogant Louis Dagger was completely at odds with the real person inside
him, but now he was trapped. He was never
going to be at peace with himself until he’d confronted the past. If he had done it at the beginning, it would be all right
by now, but every day that went past only increased the severity of his crime.

He came out of the shower feeling clean, on the outside at least. He slipped on another white T-shirt and boxers, but he didn’t
want to get back into bed. His side was still soaked in sour sweat, and he dreaded falling asleep. Instead, he sat by the
window, and lit a cigarette, knowing he’d still be sitting there when the dawn broke, trying to find a way out.

C
oco was finally settling into a routine at the studios.

Her self-esteem had risen tenfold, although she was very strict with herself about how she administered her illicit confidence
booster. She never took it more than once a day. Luckily, most of her scenes seemed to be scheduled for the mornings, which
meant a cruelly early start, but she could leave the studios by mid-afternoon, then get home and have a nap before the evening
began. And if she had a precious day off, she didn’t touch it. There was absolutely no need. She could deal with everyday
life. It was just the horrible fear of exposure, of letting her colleagues down, the nerves, the lack of self-belief in her
own ability that was her Achilles heel. Why did actors do it to themselves? she wondered.