The Birthday Party (3 page)

Of course, she’d have to take care. There were people all around her just waiting for her to make a wrong move. At least she
had her own space. She jumped up to make sure her door was locked, then chopped out a line with precision. Not too much. Then
she brought out a pink straw she’d pinched from the cocktail bar the night before and carefully snipped it into quarters with
her nail scissors.

For a moment she hesitated. She thought she could hear a tiny alarm bell in the back of her mind. Think of Dad, she told herself.
Look how he destroyed himself. Images of that terrible time replayed themselves like a montage. Her mother’s tears. Her father’s
protestations and empty promises. Rows. Pledges. Shattered hopes. Knowing looks from her classmates; sympathy from her teachers.
Embarrassment. Lying under the covers praying he would stop … Which he eventually did, but not before he had done a lot of
damage and ruined one of the most promising acting careers of the twentieth century. Presumably he had started just like this
– one small drink, to give him confidence. She didn’t know. She had never spoken to him about it. As far as the Rafferty family
were concerned, those years were ancient history, not to be revisited. A decade and a half of wanton destructiveness had been
swept under the carpet.

Raf hadn’t wanted her to act, she knew that. Which was why she had tried several other things before finally going to drama
school, but in the end she couldn’t shake the desire. He hadn’t stopped her, but he certainly hadn’t encouraged her. Presumably
he was afraid that she would take the same path as
him, that she would inherit his weakness and his fear and his addiction.

But she was different. Her father hadn’t been in control. He had let drink take over completely. That wouldn’t happen to her.
Coco knew exactly what she was doing. This was a calculated risk. Not even a risk, in fact. A tactical move to help her survive.

She bent her head and snorted up the line carefully.

Looked in the mirror and checked for evidence.

Breathed in again deeply and smiled, as the magic powder whooshed into her blood stream.

Would anyone be able to tell? Shit, would they all look at her and see straight away she was as high as a kite? She’d be sacked
on the spot. There was zero tolerance on the set, though the producers didn’t go as far as random testing, not least because
the backlash of someone testing positive would be such an inconvenience. The perpetrator would have to be disciplined, given
a warning, the press would find out – the press always found out, no matter how confidential these matters were kept.

For a moment, she panicked. Someone would sniff her out straight away. They were all out to get her, after all. Then she told
herself to stop being paranoid. She’d had a little line, a tiny pick-me-up – barely enough to even count.

She took a deep breath and waited a little longer for the cocaine to take effect.

‘Bring it on, baby,’ she said to her reflection.

There was a knock at the door. She answered it with a radiant smile. The little girl who did her make-up looked at her in
surprise.

‘We’re ready for you, Miss Rafferty.’

‘Call me Coco, darling,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll just get my bag.’ Moments later she glided down the corridor, ready to
take on the world.

For once, Coco enjoyed having her make-up done. Usually she was quiet and withdrawn, as once you were in make-up it was
only a matter of time before you went onto the set. She used the time to go over her lines yet again. She lived in terror
of drying up in the middle of a scene and letting her fellow actors down. They were ruled by the clock in the studio, with
a set number of scenes to get through each day, and woe betide anyone who held up the process.

Other people fluffed their lines. Of course they did. It happened all the time. But Coco was a perfectionist. She wouldn’t
allow herself to fail. She had to have an unblemished track record. After all, everyone was waiting for her to slip up.

Today, however, she let herself relax. Ruby, her make-up girl, had all the tools of her trade spread out around her – brushes,
tweezers, sponges, eyelash curlers. The actual makeup was piled up in a huge muddle on a shelf, but Ruby’s deft fingers knew
exactly which tube she wanted, which mascara, which powder. As she played a nurse, Coco’s make-up was fairly toned down and
neutral, but it took time nevertheless.

As Ruby worked, George Michael’s ‘Faith’ was blaring out.

Coco smiled and clicked her fingers in time to the music. ‘God, I love this song.’

Ruby looked at her in surprise. Coco was usually monosyllabic – she’d given up trying to chat with her – and she certainly
never started a conversation.

Ruby flicked a glance at the other two other actresses having their make-up done in neighbouring chairs.

‘George Michael. What a waste,’ she sighed.

‘My mum says he’s lovely,’ offered Coco. ‘She did a photo shoot with him once.’

‘Oh yeah – she used to be a model, right?’

Coco nodded. ‘In the eighties. Before she met my dad.’

‘Wow. I bet they’ve got some stories.’

Coco’s lips curled into a little rueful grin. ‘You could say that.’

She took a sip of her coffee, not wanting to say much more, because she never spoke about her family, but feeling pleased
that she had made the first move for once. Deftly she switched the conversation.

‘Where do you get these eyelash curlers? They’re amazing – I can never get mine to work.’

‘I’ll get you some if you like,’ offered Ruby. ‘I’ve got to go to the warehouse to pick some stuff up.’

‘That would be great,’ answered Coco, feeling warm inside. She felt, almost, like one of the girls.

Ruby picked up a lipstick.

‘How about we try this colour today? Just for a change.’

Coco nodded, just as Neal bounded in. He played Zak, the boyfriend in a coma, so he needed a suitably corpse-like complexion,
which took hours to achieve.

‘Hey, girls, you ready for me?’

‘Hey, Neal.’ Coco greeted him with a smile.

Neal took the cue and put both of his hands on Coco’s shoulders, kneading them lightly. Whereas before she would have shot
him an icy glance in the mirror, she gave herself up willingly to his fingers, tipping her head back.

‘Mmmm. You’re good at that.’

‘I am.’

He looked straight at her in the mirror.

‘You seen next week’s scripts?’

‘Not yet …’

Coco never looked ahead, in case she got confused. She got the week’s filming out of the way, then read the following week’s
scripts as soon as she got home on Friday night, to embed them in her brain as quickly as possible.

Neal leaned forward and grinned.

‘We have sex.’

‘How? You’re in a coma!’ Coco feigned horror. ‘Emily’s not going to turn into some kind of … necrophiliac, is she?’

Everyone burst into laughter and again Coco felt gratified that she had made a joke. This was great.

‘Relax.’ Neal grinned. ‘It’s a dream sequence. It’s Emily’s
fantasy. And she turns out to be one hot little mama under that uniform.’

He winked at her reflection.

Coco couldn’t be sure if Neal was winding her up. This was exactly his sense of humour. He liked to think he was a bit of
a joker, but in fact he was a bit of a prat, as the rest of the cast and crew had already found out. Behind his drop-dead-gorgeous
surfer looks, he was as insecure as the rest of them.

She wasn’t going to let him think she was fazed, however. She responded gamely.

‘Wow. That’s going to be a ratings puller – Sister Emily finally gets her knickers off.’

Neal flopped down in a spare chair and pushed his shoulder-length blonde locks back from his face.

‘It’s going to make a change from me lying still on the bed trying not to laugh.’

Coco looked at him.

‘It must get boring.’

‘It’s not what I went to drama school for.’

Ruby gave her face a final dusting with Cornsilk powder.

‘You’re done.’

Coco stood up.

‘Cheers, Ruby. See you later.’ She’d be back in after lunch for a touch-up. The make-up never lasted long under the bright
lights. She wiggled her fingers at Neal. ‘And if you think we need some rehearsal time for those steamy scenes …’

As she went, Neal looked round at the others with a raised eyebrow.

‘Someone’s been on the happy tablets …’

Coco bounced into the green room, her mood still buoyant. The cast were sitting around, some of them nibbling on the plate
of Danish pastries and croissants, others on fruit. They were variously perusing the daily papers, texting, going through
their lines. One was actually knitting, supporting the myth that this was the preferred activity of waiting actors.

‘Hi!’ she offered gaily, and her colleagues looked up in surprise. Coco rarely ventured into the green room.

‘Is there an apricot Danish left?’ She rushed over to the plate and picked one out, sat in a chair and began to munch. ‘Are
they nearly done?’

She indicated a screen in the corner showing a feed through to the studio, where the cast and crew were running through a
scene about to be filmed in the operating theatre.

‘They’ve rehearsed. It shouldn’t be too long. It’s only a two-hander.’

Coco walked over to the noticeboard, which displayed a variety of adverts for lodgings, invitations to parties, stuff for
sale, yoga classes, and incriminating photos of cast members. There was a poster announcing a social night at a local bowling
alley.

‘Anyone got a pen?’

The knitter put down her knitting and burrowed in her bag, proffering a chewed Biro.

‘Thanks.’ Coco took it gratefully and added her name to the list of people attending. ‘Should be fun.’

Mike, a twinkly eyed round fellow who played one of the hospital porters, nodded. ‘Yeah, well, you know what they say. All
work and no play.’

‘I haven’t had much chance to socialise since I’ve been here. I’ve been having some work done on my flat – I always need to
get home and survey the damage, clear up the mess … To be honest, it’s been stressing me out. But it’s done now.’

The lie was effortless. Coco hoped it was convincing. Maybe they’d swallow this explanation for her standoffishness and word
would get round.

‘Well, you’d better get in training if you’re coming out for the night with us lot. It can get pretty hairy,’ Mike warned
her.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay the pace.’

She heard the floor manager call her for the next scene on the Tannoy, jumped up and raised a hand in farewell. ‘See you all
later.’

As the door shut behind her, everyone looked at each other. ‘Has she had a personality transplant?’ offered Mike.

Coco teased Neal all the way through the rehearsal, trying to make him laugh as he lay in his coma. She cooed over the floor
manager’s pregnant bump, gossiped with the medical adviser who sat through every scene to make sure it was totally authentic,
chatted through a couple of changes with the director – normally she would have freaked out at any suggested alteration, but
today she could handle it.

She could totally handle it. All of it. She felt as if she could take anything they threw at her. She went at the scene with
a renewed energy. She always gave a good performance, but this time she lifted it just a little higher. Her mood seemed to
be catching – everyone reacted off her and the scene they finally got in the can was a scorcher.

Coco left the studio feeling elated. She had just begun to get a headache, which wasn’t unusual. The lights in the studio,
the concentration, the stress – but it didn’t matter. Today she had given the performance of a lifetime – and enjoyed it!
And if she could do it once, she could do it again and again and again. Thank you, Harley, you bloody little genius, she thought,
as she opened the door of her dressing room and slipped inside.

T
he great thing about the Soho Hotel was, no matter how famous you were, there was always someone more famous than you in there.
But no one ever batted an eyelid, because it was uncool to be starstruck, or stare. If you saw Daniel Craig waiting for the
lift, you had to pretend not to notice.

So it was the perfect place for Raf Rafferty and Dickie Rushe to meet. They wouldn’t be bothered for autographs, but it was
a given that word would be out before they had even finished their meeting – a discreet whisper would insinuate its way through
the streets of Soho and reach the ears of every other producer and director who had their offices in the hallowed streets
of London’s media-land.

Raf stretched out on the apple-green sofa in the drawing room and nursed a tall glass of soda with freshly squeezed lime juice
and crushed ice. One of the problems with giving up the booze had been the question of what to drink, and this was the concoction
he had finally settled upon. It looked as if it could conceivably contain alcohol and it tasted pleasant enough, and he enjoyed
giving instructions to the bartender – a whole lime, plus two wedges from another and a grating of zest. Ritual was everything
when you were on the wagon. It helped take your mind off the longing. The longing that never left you.

He looked over at Dickie, who was perched on the edge of a squashy pink armchair. Dickie was tall and gangly with hornrimmed
glasses: a bundle of gentle enthusiasm and nervous energy, all knees and elbows. His first two movies,
Bed Head
and
Bad Hair Day
, had been cult hits on both side of the Atlantic, with their kooky charm and naive wit, but despite his success,
he still dressed like a penniless student. Today he was in jeans, a V-necked jumper that was four sizes too small and battered
desert boots. Raf was in essentially the same outfit – a fine gauge sweater in pale pistachio, jeans and Paul Smith brogues
– but he felt positively overdressed in comparison.

Dickie was so immersed in his work, so passionate, that he didn’t bother with small talk, for which Raf was grateful. He spent
enough time talking nonsense with all the hangers-on that were in their lives. Raf was good at chit-chat, but it was a relief
not to have to bother. Dickie cut straight to the chase.