The Birthday Party (30 page)

In a room down the corridor, Genevieve was rubbing Laura Mercier primer into her skin before applying her foundation. She
too had booked a room. She was jolly glad she had. The accommodation at Bablake House was charming. Stripped back, fresh and
luxurious – the best linen sheets, brightly coloured mohair blankets, a wonderful claw-footed bath by the window that looked
out onto the rolling hills. A mini-bar stuffed with all sorts of enticing witticisms – designer jelly babies, for heaven’s
sake. And any number of gorgeous toiletries, including, she noticed sensual massage oil. And a very discreet pack of condoms
in the bedside table. Not that she had much use for those these days – the risk of her reproducing was pretty much nil – but
she supposed sex, if she were to have it, should be safe.

She needed to make sure she looked her best tonight. The character she was playing in the film was supposed to have gone to
seed, which was the reason for her husband having an affair, but that didn’t mean she had to look like a thick-waisted frump
all the time. Hair, make-up, dowdy clothes and a bit of padding would transform her when she was filming, but off camera she
was determined to look her radiant best. She didn’t want anyone wondering why on earth she had been cast as Raf Rafferty’s
wife.

Even she felt rather tingly when she thought about Raf. Genevieve Duke, who had dallied with more of the nation’s heart-throbs
than anyone could count, found him mesmerising. He had a calm and laid-back manner that belied his former reputation, yet
there was still a flash of the rebel in him – the way he laughed at something, a dry and off-the-cuff remark, a gleam in his
eye.

Raf Rafferty was definitely a challenge. She wanted to prove to herself that she could still cut it. She didn’t want to wreck
his marriage. Far from it. She just wanted irrefutable proof that she was irresistible. Delilah’s blithe assumption that he
wouldn’t be tempted had spurred her on. Besides, there was nothing Genevieve liked more than seducing attractive men.

The ensuing affairs were usually brief but intense, and they gave her a renewed vigour for life. Until the next one.

She’d seen Raf Rafferty look at his wife adoringly. But she could also see he was kept on a pretty tight rein. It was screamingly
obvious that Delilah wore the trousers in The Bower. And Genevieve had done her research. This was going to be Raf’s first
time away from home for years. And once an infidel, always an infidel. In her experience – which was, by anyone’s standards,
pretty vast.

She didn’t feel guilty about Jeremy. She wasn’t being unfaithful, because she’d never promised him fidelity. She’d never promised
anyone fidelity. They were just … what was the term? Fuck buddies. Friends, good friends, who enjoyed each other’s company
and sometimes found solace in each other’s bodies, with no strings.

She stood in front of the mirror. Dressing was a layering process. First, her underwear. Kiki de Montparnasse. The bra boosted
her cleavage to inviting rather than obscene, the briefs covered her arse in a perfect fit, nothing digging in or spilling
over the edges. Over that she slipped on a sexy, pinstriped Vivienne Westwood skirt: she loved Vivienne’s clothes, they had
a twist to them that the more mature woman could get away with because they were so fabulously cut. She teamed it with a scoop-necked
black cashmere sweater with short sleeves, and a towering pair of Terry de Havilland snakeskin wedges that made her legs seem
endless. She finished the look with smoky-grey eyes and a swipe of red lipstick.

She examined herself critically in the mirror. Yep. Sophisticated, alluring, knowing. She hadn’t lost her touch.

Pandora Hammond made people realise that any woman they had considered beautiful in the past was merely pretty. A cloud of
dark hair hung just past her shoulders, and her face peeped out from amidst the curls, her skin paler than pale, the whites
of her eyes dazzling, her irises the colour of violets. She seemed fragile, yet she had perfectly proportioned breasts and
hips, making her feminine, not just a coat-hanger. She was the sort of girl who made men want to throw their cloaks over the
merest puddle. She should have been in a low-slung sports-car hurtling along a perilous road in the Pyrenees, or in the casino
of a hotel in Monaco, or sipping cocktails on the terrace of a Cape Cod beach house.

She knew this film was her turning-point. She was already being fêted as the one to watch. The quality magazines –
Vogue, Tatler, Vanity Fair
– had all done features on her, fawning over her beauty and her potential. Pandora knew that this sort of puff was all very
well, but you could fade into oblivion pretty quickly if you didn’t make your mark. She was banking on
Something for the Weekend
to send her into the stratosphere.

‘It’s such a wonderful script,’ she had told the press, ‘and the chance to work with Genevieve Duke and Raf Rafferty? It’s
a dream come true. I know I’m going to learn so much from them.’

She was standing awkwardly now at the edge of the ballroom at Bablake House, glass in hand. Her dress was a simple silk shift,
purple shot through with gold, that she’d had made up in Hong Kong while shooting her most recent film. Apart from Dickie
and the casting director, she knew no one. A lot of the crew had worked together before, so there were shouts of recognition
and people clapping each other on the back. It was often like this at the beginning of a shoot. You felt conspicuous, the
new girl that no one wanted to talk to, but by the end of the evening they would all be best friends. It took everyone a few
drinks to start mingling, but it would happen. She took another sip of her elderflower cocktail, reminding herself not to
drink
too
much in case she let her guard down. It might be fun, but it was enormously damaging. The paps were always after pictures
of stars looking worse for wear, flashing their gussets as they got into a cab. Pandora wanted to look as fresh at the end
of the evening as she did at the beginning. Not for her spider-web eyes and blotchy skin.

She checked out her surroundings while she waited for
Dickie to arrive. She loved the bar, which was covered in quilted white leather, the tongue-in-cheek papier mâché hunting
trophies on the walls, the funky Italian bar stools. She wished she could have booked a room here for the duration of the
shoot, but the main cast had been billeted in a house in the city. She’d checked in there earlier. There hadn’t been anyone
else around, and she’d had a moment of homesickness as she unpacked her clothes and hung them up. She hadn’t had the nerve
to knock on any of the other doors, so she’d got changed quickly and called a taxi to take her to the party.

It was going to be fine, she told herself. Everyone else was probably as nervous as she was.

‘You must be Pandora.’

Someone touched her on the arm and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned, and looked into a pair of the bluest eyes
she had ever seen. They crinkled at her in a smile of greeting.

‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to make you jump. I’m Raf. I don’t know a soul here,’ he said as he leaned in confidentially, ‘so can
I talk to you?’

It was one thing seeing a person on television or in a magazine and imagining what they were like in real life. It was another
when they were there in front of you, living and breathing, exuding a charisma and sexuality that you could almost smell,
yet so totally understated, dressed in black linen jeans and a pale blue shirt.

Pandora felt quite giddy as she took his hand.

‘Yes, of course. Yes, I’m Pandora. Hammond. It’s lovely to meet you. Can I get you a cocktail … ?’ Fuck. He didn’t drink.
What a complete idiot. How could she have forgotten? It was always the first thing that was mentioned in articles about him.
‘I mean, can I get you something to drink? A soft drink …’

Shut up, Pandora! She was making it worse. She blushed beetroot at her faux pas. How totally uncool. Just because he
didn’t do alcohol didn’t mean she couldn’t offer him a drink. He didn’t seem bothered, though. Just grinned.

‘I’ve got my own jug of elderflower cordial behind the bar,’ he replied.

Pandora took another glug of her cocktail to calm her nerves and racked her brain for something to say next. She wasn’t a
stupid girl, she’d got a first-class honours degree in drama from Bristol University, but she felt completely starstruck and
tongue-tied. She’d better get over it. Tomorrow she was going to be working with this man. Playing his mistress.

‘It’s always nerve-racking, isn’t it? The first night? I always feel so self-conscious. Of course, what I used to do is get
totally and utterly bladdered, but I can’t any more,’ Raf confided.

Pandora found herself melting even more. What a lovely man. Self-deprecating, unstarry, down-to-earth. She managed to find
her tongue.

‘Have you been to the house we’re staying in?’ she asked. ‘It’s not bad.’

He nodded. ‘It’s going to be great. Like being students. I hope you’ve put your name on your Marmite.’

Pandora giggled, and felt a huge wave of relief. This wasn’t going to be so difficult after all. Raf was going to be a joy
to work with.

‘Darling.’ There was a low, sexy growl behind them. Pandora turned to see Genevieve Duke. She radiated stardom and effortless
glamour as she kissed Raf on both cheeks. ‘Have you been to the house yet? Is it grim? I’ve checked in here for tonight –
I want one last night of luxury.’

She ignored Pandora completely.

‘The house is lovely. Pandora and I were just saying what fun it’s going to be …’ Raf chivalrously brought her into the conversation.
‘Pandora, this is Genevieve. Genevieve, Pandora.’

Genevieve turned and held out her hand. She smiled, but her eyes didn’t. As lovely and easy-going as Raf was, Pandora
instinctively knew she was going to have her work cut out with Genevieve.

‘I’m so thrilled to be working with you, Miss Duke,’ she breathed.

It was the subtlest of slights. Referring to her as Miss Duke was respectful on the surface, but was a thinly disguised dig
at the fact that Genevieve was twice her age. Pandora met her icy gaze with a beguiling smile, safe in the knowledge that
she had scored the first point in the battle that was inevitable.

Luckily at that moment Dickie bumbled up.

‘Oh good, you’ve all found each other. Now listen, you’re going to hate me for this but I’m not going to allow you to stick
together in a clique just because you’re the stars …’

Pandora didn’t miss Genevieve looking at her askance.

‘… I’m going to force you all to circulate. There’s going to be no hierarchy on this set. Everyone’s equal.’

Pandora raised her glass to her lips.

‘Only some are more equal than others,’ she murmured, and heard Raf give a little snort beside her. She felt a thrill at this
gesture of solidarity. She wasn’t going to let Genevieve Duke put her in her place.

Genevieve wasn’t taken in by Pandora Hammond for a second. That naive, fragile, haven’t-a-clue-what’s-happening thing she
had going on? It was utter bollocks. She was as disingenuous as they come, totally calculating, ruthlessly ambitious.

How did she know? Because she recognised herself, that was how. That trick of catching someone’s eye, smiling bashfully, then
looking away, slightly distracted, as if you had something of vital importance on your mind? Genevieve had perfected that
look more than thirty years ago. The trick of leaning into a man as he spoke to you, nodding thoughtfully, lashes lowered?
That was the best way to get him to notice your cleavage that she knew of. That dress that looked so demure on the surface,
but was surprisingly revealing if one knew where to peer, so a
man felt he had sneaked a free glimpse of your breast or your thigh? Genevieve had worked that look for years. Still did.
She knew that subtle worked far better than overt. She knew that Pandora knew that if you stood behind her, in a certain light,
her frock was entirely see-through, but no one could accuse her of choosing it for that reason, as it looked perfectly respectable
in a normal light. That walk, the slightly aimless drift with the little-girl-lost look? The wide-eyed expression of slight
surprise? Oh please.

As they say, it takes one to know one.

What she also recognised, however, was that Pandora was more dangerous than she had ever been, because she was needy. She
had it rolling off her. That was one thing Genevieve had never been. Too far the other way, some would have said. Frighteningly
independent. Time and again men were shocked at how easily she accepted the end of an affair, and moved on to the next. She
never allowed herself to get emotionally involved.

As soon as she had walked into the room she had seen them together. They were laughing, and they looked so right. In that
split second she realised that she had no chance whatsoever with Raf while Pandora was around. She might be a revered actress
with a raft of awards on her mantelpiece, she might still have a great pair of legs and an impressive embonpoint, she might
still be upheld as a sex symbol by the press, but in the cold light of day she was no competition against youth and beauty.