The Birthday Party (35 page)

He hung up.

Pandora grabbed his arm.

‘Can I come and see you there?’

‘Of course you bloody can’t.’ His tone was sharper than he meant it to be, but she really wasn’t making things easy.

Genevieve came and sat on the edge of the bed while the crew looked back over what they had shot.

‘Any news from Delilah?’

Raf looked glum. ‘Not a squeak.’

He rubbed his face with both hands and ran his fingers through his hair, the picture of despair. ‘I’m going to have to tell
the girls.’

‘Ready for another take?’ The assistant floor manager came up to them politely, as the make-up girls descended to retouch
their powder.

Dickie bounded up.

‘OK, guys, that’s just great. We’re going to shoot it all from Genevieve’s POV now, so we’ll be on you. Just imagine how you’re
both feeling. Wrapped in each other’s arms one minute, faced with the wrath of the wronged wife the next …’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Just imagine,’ said Raf drily.

There was a horrible atmosphere hanging over The Bower, and it was unsettling Polly. She wasn’t used to this silence. There
was always something going on in the office, but today even the phone wasn’t ringing. Except when Raf called to bark out some
curt order. It wasn’t like him to be rude. There was definitely something wrong.

Where had Delilah gone, for a start? Her mind turned over all the options, until she hit on the most likely possibility.

She’d gone to get some ‘work’ done. She was sneaking off for a quick face lift, or maybe an eye job. Polly knew that Delilah
was feeling increasingly sensitive about her age, with her fiftieth birthday looming, and although of course she didn’t need
a thing doing, it was hard to convince a woman of a certain age that she didn’t need to turn back the clock.

And Raf had obviously got wind of what she was doing, and was furious. Although that didn’t explain why he wanted to stay
at Bablake House. Maybe the communal living was getting to him? Raf was quite a private person, after all.

Polly sighed. She eyed the pile of invitations to Delilah’s party that had arrived from the printers yesterday. They were
very simple, on thick square card with a lilac bow threaded through the top. That would be the perfect task to take her mind
off it all. She’d work her way through the guest list and get them all in the post this afternoon, with a bit of luck. There
were over three hundred, and she was already dreading the replies, with their ridiculous dietary requests and the travel arrangements
and the demands for suggestions for presents that it would be up to Polly to sort out.

She took out the thick-nibbed fountain pen that she’d had since school, and a pot of deep purple ink. She’d done a calligraphy
course at the local college, and she couldn’t wait. It was going to take her hours to make them look perfect, but it would
be worth it. She imagined the invitations perched on A-list mantelpieces all over the country. It was what the Raffertys needed,
a good party …

The one thing she didn’t want to think about was what she
was going to wear. Delilah had very sweetly given her a cheque to buy whatever she wanted, but Polly had looked and looked
online and although she’d seen plenty of dresses she liked, there wasn’t one she’d be able to fit into. And now it was too
late to lose all the weight she had been planning to lose when the party was first mentioned.

As if it mattered, she thought glumly, putting an elaborate flourish on the end of the first guest’s name. No one was going
to notice her anyway. Dickie Rushe had virtually ignored her at Coco’s screening. Not that she had expected him to sweep her
off her feet, but he had been very nice to her when he had come round to lunch, invited her down to watch the filming, and
it would have been nice to have been … well, at least acknowledged …

Underneath the desk, Doug the Pug broke wind and gazed up at her, unrepentant.

In a small town, Delilah stopped at a shop that was clearly aimed at tourists: all linen handkerchiefs with shamrocks in the
corner. She bought two capacious Arran sweaters – it might be June, but Ireland was running true to form, wet, windy and chilly
– a pair of cords, some stout walking boots and a grey tweed flat cap that made her look about twelve. She added a pair of
plain sunglasses, a million miles from the large, blingy Loewe pair she usually wore. With her hair tied back she hoped she
was unrecognisable – like an outward-bound tourist about to stride up the nearest mountain. She didn’t want people assailing
her, asking for her autograph or tips on how to get their cupcakes the same size. Usually she didn’t mind chatting to members
of the public in the least, but right now she just wanted to be alone.

Dressed in her new guise, she carried on her journey. At four o’clock that afternoon, she drove over the hump-backed bridge
over the river Laune into the market town of Killorglin. Grey stone buildings with gaily painted doors lined the wide street
– mostly pubs, bookmakers, hotels and funny little
supermarkets. She found a parking place and headed for the tourist office.

‘I want somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks,’ she told the girls behind the desk. ‘Somewhere nice and quiet, but pretty.
Which preferably does food, so I don’t have to go out. I’m …’ She searched around in her brain for a plausible explanation.
‘I’m going to be writing my family history. They came from round here.’

The girls nodded. They heard this often enough. Plenty of people came to Kerry in search of their roots. Usually Americans.

‘Your best bet would be Mrs Glass’s place out on the lake,’ said one helpfully, in her singsong lilt. ‘She usually only opens
at the weekends out of high season, but seeing as there’s just the one of you …’ She handed her a slim brochure. ‘Will I call
her?’

Delilah turned the brochure over in her hands. Gortnaflor, the place was called, which apparently meant Garden of Flowers.
It promised traditional accommodation in a splendid lakeside setting, and home-cooked food.

‘Please do.’

‘Will I take your name?’

She hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t thought about a name. Giving her real one was going to be a complete giveaway, if they
hadn’t recognised her in her disguise.

She’d give her maiden name, and her childhood nickname.

‘Dee,’ she told her. ‘Dee MacBride.’

Half an hour later, she was on her way, with a garbled set of instructions, and a hastily drawn map.

‘Sure, if you don’t find it, just ask anyone for Gortnaflor,’ the girls told her, and she set off out of Killorglin following
the finger sign posts to Caragh Lake.

The scenery was spectacular. Knowing that her journey was soon going to be at an end meant Delilah was more inclined to take
in her surroundings. The sky was grey against the bruised
purple of the hills, the colours smudged in as if a painter had been over it with a wet brush. The hedges were low and tangled
with fuchsia, hot pink amidst the lush greenery. Every now and again she would pass the entrance to a bungalow, often painted
a dirty yellow with gateposts proudly displaying a set of eagles or horse heads. She could see scars in the fields where the
peat had been cut out. It felt like a very foreign land indeed.

Eventually she turned into a road that followed the curve of the lake, which she couldn’t yet see as it was lined with thick
rows of pine trees protecting it from the onlooker’s gaze, as if a glimpse was only the privilege of those who lived on its
shores. She slowed down so as not to miss her destination. So many of the gates had no name, it was a guessing game.

Finally she spotted an old wooden sign with painted letters telling her this was Gortnaflor. The drive didn’t look very promising:
it was pitted and overgrown. To her surprise it was a good quarter of a mile long, with the trees overhanging – although the
rain had stopped the drops collecting on the leaves still fell with a pitter patter. It was eerie, silent but for the raindrops,
and from time to time an ethereal wisp of cloud drifted across her path. She felt an increasing sense of unease, not sure
what to expect.

Then she rounded the corner and her breath was taken away. The lake loomed before her, the late-afternoon mist rising off
it as the sun broke through. It was the most extraordinary colour – a deep emerald green that seemed to glow with phosphorescence.
And just by its shores, a grey stone house nestled amongst the trees, its windows winking a coy welcome in the sunlight. The
garden surrounding it was a riot of deep pinks and blues and reds, unashamedly glorious and clashing, unrestrained in its
ebullience.

She parked the car in the gravelled semi-circle in front of the house and stepped out. All around her she could hear joyous
birdsong, the kind you get after heavy rain has just stopped.

She breathed in: the air smelled peaty and damp, but so fresh. She couldn’t fill her lungs with enough of it.

The dark red front door was wide open, leading into a porch area stuffed with wellingtons, fishing tackle, trugs and walking
sticks, then on into a large, cool hallway with a stone floor and several doors leading off. There were a few good paintings,
and fish in glass cases, a fine grandfather clock, and a vase of carelessly arranged flowers that had obviously been picked
from the garden.

‘Hello!’ Delilah called, wondering if there was a reception desk, or a bell. Before she could explore any further, a woman
strode out of the kitchen. She must have been in her late seventies, tall, with a cloud of white hair and clothes that had
once been expensive – mostly Jaeger, Delilah suspected – but were now rather worn and out of date. But they suited her – tweed
and silk and lambswool, and sensible brogues.

She had the gentle Irish accent of one who had spent a lot of time with English people.

‘You found us. Grand. You wouldn’t believe how many people miss the sign. If they’re particularly gullible Americans I tell
them the leprechauns have been up to their tricks.’ She gave a wonderfully rich laugh, then looked at Delilah anxiously. ‘You’re
not a gullible American, are you? The girls would have said.’

‘No.’ Delilah laughed, warming to her hostess immediately. ‘I’m perfectly English.’

The woman held out a large hand.

‘Elizabeth Glass. Welcome to Gortnaflor. I hope they explained, I only really open at weekends at the moment. So you’ll have
to take me as you find me.’

‘Dee MacBride,’ equivocated Delilah smoothly, getting used to her new identity. ‘The house looks wonderful. And I won’t be
much trouble.’

Elizabeth peered at her and she suddenly felt the need to validate her reason for being here.

‘I’m going to be writing a history of my family. They’re
supposed to be from round here.’ She could go and buy notebooks and pens to back this up tomorrow.

‘Ach, half the world comes from County Kerry, on account of so many people trying to get out of it.’

‘I don’t know why. It looks beautiful.’

‘It’s beautiful all right. But you won’t be getting any Michelin-starred restaurants or nightclubs.’

‘Good,’ said Delilah. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’

Elizabeth led her up the staircase with its faded rich red carpet to a large bedroom on the first floor. The furniture was
antique and well-polished. A vase of sweet peas sat on the bedside table. The bed was wide and high, and made up with proper
sheets, thick Irish blankets and a mound of pillows. Best of all was the view of the lake from the window, in front of which
was a little writing desk. Perfect for her fictional oeuvre.

‘Will I bring you a cup of tea? And something to eat?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Delilah gratefully, realising she’d had nothing since her unappetising sandwich early that morning.

Ten minutes later a tray arrived. A silver tea pot, a proper cup and saucer, a plate of thickly buttered soda bread, a glass
dish of raspberry jam and another plate with a wedge of sponge cake and a date slice.

‘You’re welcome to have your dinner with me tonight,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘It’ll be nothing fancy. Lamb chops and potatoes,
and some vegetables from the garden.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

Elizabeth left her in peace. Delilah opened her bag and unpacked the few items she’d brought with her, as well as her purchases.
She put her toothpaste and toothbrush in the little en-suite bathroom, and carefully positioned her skincare products on the
wooden shelf over the sink.

Then she sat on the bed.

Right. So. What was she going to do with the rest of her life?

There was no sound in the room but the ticking of a carriage
clock on top of the dressing table. It was just over twenty-four hours since she’d been dropped from her show and her book
had been dumped. Coming up to a day since she’d found her husband in bed with another woman. Until now she had got by on the
adrenalin of running away. Now she had stopped, she wasn’t sure what to do. She felt a tiny swoop of panic in her chest as
her maternal instinct kicked in. She really should phone the girls and see if they were each all right.