The Birthday Party (31 page)

It hurt. Oh how it hurt. It ripped through her in a savage swipe, eviscerating her. In one moment, her magic had gone. She
would still be respected, but she no longer held men in her thrall. She had walked over some invisible finishing line and
there was no going back.

She realised with a jolt that this was life imitating art. That this was how her character was supposed to feel, on seeing
her husband with his mistress. Sour bile filled her mouth. She caught sight of her face in the mirrored backdrop of the bar.

How on earth could she have thought she was God’s gift, or that she was in with a chance? She looked over-made-up, her skirt
was too short, her heels were too high, her cleavage too exposed. She wanted to rush upstairs and change, wipe off her lipstick,
come back down in something more fitting to a woman of her age.

As she stood in the middle of the room she suddenly felt invisible. Apart from Raf, she was probably the oldest person there
by about twenty years. She looked around and the place was buzzing, full of people chattering and laughing – sound guys in
their jeans and band T-shirts, girls from costume and make-up in gregarious huddles, people in black with trendy thick-rimmed
glasses looking earnest, a gaggle of rebels on the terrace sharing cigarettes. Once she would have been surrounded, unable
to move without someone asking if she wanted another drink.

What on earth was happening to her? She had never lacked confidence, never in her life. Not even when she was starting out.
She had been a cocky, bolshy little madam from the very beginning. Now she felt frozen. She watched as Raf and Pandora worked
the room independently. She felt petrified. Who was she going to walk up to? What was she supposed to say?

To her horror, she thought she might cry. She turned hastily to the bar before anyone could notice, and busied herself looking
at the cocktail menu.

There was a tap on her shoulder.

‘Genevieve?’ It was Raf, looking at her, concerned. ‘Come and join us.’

‘We’re not supposed to gang together,’ she joked, just managing to keep the tremor out of her voice.

‘Rubbish. Safety in numbers. Come on.’

He took her by the arm and led her into the throng. Genevieve didn’t protest, but she felt mortified that Raf had obviously
spotted her discomfort.

In that moment she vowed that she wouldn’t let Pandora
Hammond get her claws into him. She knew exactly how the little puss would operate. She would use her affair with Raf Rafferty
to push herself into the limelight and get into the gossip columns. It wouldn’t do her any harm, but it would harm Raf. This
was his chance to turn over a new leaf and prove himself. A sordid affair with a girl half his age would be great copy, but
terrible for his reputation. As a happily married man, it could destroy him.

And it would certainly destroy Delilah.

For the first time in her life, Genevieve felt a strong urge of protectiveness for another woman. It was up to her to make
sure that Delilah didn’t get hurt. It wasn’t just a question of sour grapes. Maybe she was trying to atone for all those years
of affairs with married men? She may never have caused a marriage break-up, but there was no way her paramours hadn’t gone
home unchanged. Looking back on it now, she felt grubby. How could she have been so smug? Stealing someone else’s husband
for the duration of a film shoot, for her own personal pleasure and gratification, was selfish and shallow. And where had
it left her?

Alone. That’s where it had left her. Alone, with a clutch of sordid conquests as memories. She felt her head throb. How tempting
it was to excuse herself, slip away back up to the luxury of her bedroom and get into bed.

Then she caught sight of Pandora. She was looking across the room at Raf. She caught his eye, and gave him a little smile,
together with a slight roll of the eyes, as if to say,
When can we get out of here
?

No way, baby, thought Genevieve. You’re not going to get him that easily, not if I’ve got anything to do with it. She grabbed
a full glass off the tray of a passing waiter, took in a deep breath and introduced herself to a group of young men huddled
in a corner.

Moments later, she was gratified. Far from ignoring her, they fawned over her, competing with each other to name their favourite
Genevieve Duke film. And when Raf passed nearby,
she reached out a hand to draw him into the circle, and very quickly felt like her old self again.

It had been a momentary crisis of confidence, she told herself.

Nerves and shyness and being totally overwhelmed by meeting Raf, combined with having had little for lunch and less for supper,
meant that Pandora had more to drink than she had intended. The problem with prosecco and elderflower was that it tasted so
innocuous; before she knew it she had drunk five. Once you’d drunk five, all caution went to the winds. And of course, once
you realised that, it was far, far too late to do anything about it.

She was standing by a tall palm by the French window leading out onto the terrace. Her head was swimming. She had met so many
people; she was never going to remember all of their names. She put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. Her vision
was a bit blurry. She really should try to get to the bar and get some water …

Moments later all she could hear was a babble of voices. One in particular cut through the rest.

‘Take her up to my room. No, I insist. I can go back to the digs. It’s no problem at all. Poor girl – nerves, I expect.’

Genevieve Duke? Wasn’t that Genevieve Duke talking? Pandora opened her eyes and realised she was looking at the ceiling. Four
of the crew were standing over her, about to lift her to her feet. Dickie was crouched by her, concerned.

‘Can you speak, Pandora? Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Yes …’ She could hear him, but really she just wanted to go back into the safe, warm tunnel she had been in a minute
ago.

‘Shit,’ Dickie muttered to the first assistant director who was next to him. ‘That’s all I need, to lose one of my leading
ladies on the first night.’

‘She’ll be fine. She’s just had a skinful. Bit rough tomorrow, though.’

Were they talking about her? Pandora wondered dreamily as she felt herself being lifted up and carried across the ballroom.

Genevieve bit her lip to stop herself from smirking. She couldn’t have stage-managed it better if she’d spiked the girl’s
drink herself. Raf appeared, concerned and anxious.

‘You know what actresses are like these days. They don’t eat, they’re all on slimming tablets and anti-depressants, and they
wonder why they keel over at the first sniff of a cork.’

‘It was good of you to give her your room.’

Genevieve shrugged. ‘Can’t have her getting in a taxi in that state. She’ll only throw up everywhere.’

Raf nodded agreement, and Genevieve felt pleased. If Raf didn’t drink he was hardly going to be attracted to someone who’d
shown herself up in public like that, and Pandora had certainly lost her charm. She hadn’t looked such an enticing prospect,
sprawled on the floor, her eyes rolling round in the back of her head.

The next morning Pandora crept into the rehearsal room in jeans, sneakers and a hoody, wearing Maui Jim sunglasses to shield
her eyes from the bright light and hide the fact that they were hideously bloodshot. She had been in two minds whether to
do a runner when she had woken up. She had put in a call to her agent and sobbed down the phone, then run away to be sick.
Her agent called her back.

‘You won’t be the first and you won’t be the last. And you’re working with Raf Rafferty, for heaven’s sake – he made Oliver
Reed look positively abstemious.’

‘I know, but he’s so lovely and he doesn’t drink at all now. He’ll think I’m awful.’

‘He’ll think you’re a bit silly, and by tomorrow it will all be forgotten. Get back on the horse, Pandora. Phone room service
– get paracetamol, poached eggs on toast and a taxi to the rehearsal room. They’ll be more pissed off if you’re late than
because you overdid it last night.’

She obeyed, of course, because the alternative – total humiliation at the hands of the press – was worse. But only just. She
tried to sneak into a seat unnoticed, but Raf spotted her straight away. He came and gave her a huge hug.

‘I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry …’

‘Don’t be. I’ve got three daughters. I’ve seen worse, let me tell you.’

He handed her a can of Coke and a bag of jam doughnuts.

‘My secret cure. Trust me – you’ll feel better in an hour. You’re talking to an expert.’

When Genevieve arrived, she found Pandora and Raf sitting together. Pandora jumped up straight away.

‘Miss Duke – I just want to say thank you for letting me have your room last night. And apologise – I feel such an idiot—’

‘Darling, we’ve all done it. Got over-excited on the first night. Haven’t we?’ She looked at Raf for affirmation.

‘Yes, we have and I bloody well miss it,’ he admitted, and Pandora hugged him.

‘You’re just saying that to be nice. Oh God, there’s Dickie. I’d better go and apologise.’

She ran across the room. Genevieve watched after her, eyes narrowed. It was going to be harder than she thought, keeping this
girl in her place. She had a magical charm that worked on everyone, it seemed, except her. Raf was watching after her soupily.

‘It’s good of you to keep an eye on her,’ she remarked, hating herself for sounding waspish. ‘You must be missing your daughters.’

By lunchtime, it was apparent to everyone that the chemistry between Raf and Pandora was spectacular. As they read through
the script, they barely needed to act. The seduction of Hugo by Pandora’s character Saskia was scorching hot and entirely
believable. And Genevieve didn’t have to try hard to
portray the wronged wife. She was genuinely tight-lipped and boot-faced.

At the end of the day, Dickie thanked everyone with the broadest of smiles on his face.

‘This is going to be a winner,’ he proclaimed to them all. ‘I am so proud of everyone. We’re going to have a hit on our hands.
I can feel it in my bones.’

T
he waiter from Wild Honey nodded as Coco gave him her name, and gestured for her to follow him without even checking the reservations.

‘This way, madam.’

Coco smiled, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and followed him through the restaurant to a discreet booth at the back,
where she could see Benedict was already waiting. Thank goodness. She hated being first, sitting waiting for a date to arrive,
feeling like a lemon – yet she hadn’t wanted to be late. She had arrived bang on time, so to find him already here was a relief.

He stood up and kissed her lightly on one cheek, then sat down and poured a glass of champagne from the bottle chilling on
the table while she sat down on the chocolate suede banquette. He discreetly ushered the waiter away – he was perfectly capable
of pouring it himself. Benedict wasn’t the sort of man who needed staff grovelling round him to make him feel good about himself.

‘Have you been here before?’ he asked as she picked up the menu.

‘No. But I’ve heard great things.’ She cast a glance around the room. It was buzzy, but not over-full, the clientele sufficiently
self-interested not to notice her. She had kept a fairly low profile since her first transmission, but she knew that intrusion
was going to be inevitable. Not, however, in Michelin-starred Mayfair restaurants.

She picked up the menu and started to study it intently, but
she found she couldn’t focus. She felt fidgety, on edge. She took a gulp of the champagne, but to her it tasted of bitter
almonds.

She was desperate for this evening to go well. But she couldn’t relax.

The waiter arrived to take their order.

‘What are you going to have?’ Benedict put his menu down with the air of one who had already decided.

‘Um …’ Coco ran her eye down the delicious-sounding selection of dishes. She didn’t have a clue what she wanted. She couldn’t
think about food.

‘I’ll have the heritage beetroot with ricotta,’ she told the waiter at last. ‘And the sea bream with artichokes.’

Benedict nodded his approval and went on to give his order. She barely heard what he was saying. She knew what she needed.
But she didn’t have any more. And she’d promised herself. She didn’t need it any longer. She’d proved herself – to several
million people. She had the reviews to back it up – overall, the television critics had given her performance the seal of
approval. And a mature, sophisticated man like Benedict wouldn’t be interested in someone who dabbled in class-A drugs.

The trouble was she didn’t know if she could get through the evening without it. It was all she could think about.

All she needed was a little lift. Just to get her through the early stages of this relationship. It wasn’t unlike stage fright,
after all – the nerves of a first date. Once they were established; once she was more confident …

She took her napkin off her lap and put it on the table.

‘Excuse me.’ She smiled charmingly, and of course he didn’t demur. She made her way to the Ladies. It was downstairs, and
she prayed she would get a signal. Two bars – thank goodness. She dialled Gavin, and he answered after three rings.

‘It’s Coco. Where are you? I need a delivery. Urgently.’

Relief flooded through her. He was five minutes away, in the West End. Of course he was. Where else did your average
scuzzy wannabe drug dealer hang out on a Saturday night? She told him to make it over as quickly as he could, then text her.
She’d meet him outside the restaurant.

The minutes before Gavin’s arrival seemed like hours. The conversation with Benedict was stilted – she was groping for answers
to his questions. The starter arrived, but she barely ate. It was as dry as dust in her mouth.

She was staring at her half-eaten sea bream when her phone chirruped at her. A text.

‘I’m so sorry; it’s my producer,’ she said to Benedict. ‘I need to call her back. Probably some script changes for tomorrow.’