The Birthday Party (4 page)

‘OK, so here’s the pitch. It’s called
Something for the Weekend
. An ironic title, because it all predicates around Hugo – that would be your character – forgetting to use a condom when
he sleeps with his mistress. Because he’s not from the condom generation – he hasn’t slept with someone else since he got
married to his wife in nineteen seventy-nine. So what happens then is his mistress gets pregnant. Oops. And that wasn’t the
plan. She was just supposed to be a mild diversion for his mid-life crisis – he’s been faithful until now, but he can’t cope
with his once-glamorous wife hurtling into jam-making and comfy shoes. Thirty-something Saskia seemed the perfect answer,
happy to have no-strings sex. But now things are complicated – and made even more so by the fact that Hugo’s oldest daughter
has announced she is pregnant, too: he’s about to become a grandfather …’

Dickie sat back with a smile and looked to Raf for his reaction.

He gave an amused grimace. ‘There but for the grace of God …’

‘Exactly!’ Dickie leaned forward again, clasping his hands and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘This could conceivably be
you.’

‘Except I’m not being unfaithful to Delilah.’ Raf fixed him
with a stare. He wasn’t going to be a walkover. He would make Dickie sing for his supper.

‘No. But you have been in the past.’ Dickie knew he had to stand up to Raf. If he didn’t he would have no hope of getting
the actor on board. And it wasn’t as if Raf’s former infidelities weren’t common knowledge. They had kept the nation enthralled
for years. ‘So you understand the temptation. And the ramifications. Just imagine you took up with that waitress over there
…’

Dickie gesticulated towards the very attractive blonde who was taking an order from a sofa full of businessmen.

‘And then Coco or Violet or Tyger announced she was pregnant at the same time as she did …’

Raf sighed and stretched out his legs. ‘That’s pure fantasy. It’s no better than saying imagine if I’d discovered the cure
for cancer.’

‘It’s not that impossible! Come on, play the game.’ Dickie’s desperation was making him irritable. ‘It’s perfectly feasible.
You’ve still got lead in your pencil. And your girls are getting to that age—’

Raf unleashed his famous blue gaze – the one that bored right through you, so you couldn’t be sure what he was thinking.

Dickie squirmed. ‘Come on, Raf, give me a break. I’m talking to you first because I think you’d be perfect. You’d walk it.
And it’s a winner. There’s something for everyone: you for our generation, Pandora Hammond for the next generation, cutting-edge
sound track, great locations – three months’ filming in Bath. What’s not to like?’

Raf swirled the drink in his glass. Dickie didn’t realise it, but he was acting a part now. Playing the reluctant star. He
wanted this part, desperately. Acting was in his blood. He longed to pick up the script, absorb every word of dialogue, immerse
himself in the character, find all the little nuances that would make the role his.

There was just one huge and insurmountable problem. He had never acted sober in his life.

For all he knew, without the crutch of drink he was as wooden as the bloody table the script was sitting on. He didn’t know
if he could do it. And he was reluctant to take a risk with a director he genuinely admired.

Frankly, it was astonishing that Dickie wanted him to so much as carry a spear. But Raf wasn’t a fool. Dickie wasn’t doing
this out of the kindness of his heart. This was a gamble, and if it paid off, Dickie would be credited with resurrecting the
career of one of the best-loved actors of the twentieth century. Like Tarantino had with John Travolta in
Pulp Fiction
. Except
John Travolta hadn’t been a pisshead …

It was ten years since Raf had trashed the epic, multigazillion-dollar production of Homer’s
Iliad
with his legendary binge.
He had been carted off the location and slung into rehab, and he hadn’t set foot on a film set since that day. No one would
touch him. He was a liability.

Raf picked up the script. His heart was pounding. It felt so good – that weighty sheaf of A4 paper, each page unfolding another
step of the story. He scanned the first page. You could always tell straight away if a script was going to be a turkey or
a diamond. At least he could. Which was why he had chosen hit after hit. Until the bloody booze got the better of him.

He scanned the stage directions and the dialogue. By the fifth speech he was already smiling, and could feel the fizz in the
bottom of his stomach – the fizz that made him want to carry on reading. He put the script down hastily. He didn’t want to
look too eager. Any glimmer of enthusiasm and Dickie would start working on him. It had been a long time since he had been
courted. It was only too easy to be flattered and cajoled. He wanted to make this decision with a clear head.

It was strange, being a household name yet not carrying on the work for which you were famous. It was like being in suspended
animation. He felt as if he was half living. And he knew one thing – he didn’t want to carry on as he was, playing
second fiddle to Delilah. Immersing himself in tennis and rowing, writing film reviews for that poncy arts magazine, sorting
stuff out for the girls and their various ventures, teaching himself guitar – he kept himself busy on the surface but nothing
had ever filled the vacuum.

This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. He knew without reading it that the script was a winner, because he trusted
Dickie’s judgement. He completely understood what he was trying to do with this film. It would be romantic, heartwarming,
sexy, thought-provoking. It would make you laugh and it would make you cry. And he knew he was perfect for the role of Hugo.
He knew he could portray Hugo’s agony, the dilemmas of an attractive man of a certain age. He knew he could make Hugo sympathetic
even though he was being unfaithful to his wife.

By taking the role he would be taking a huge risk. Not because he thought he couldn’t do it, but because the very thought
of doing it made him want a hefty slug of vodka in his soda and lime, and it was all he could do not to beckon the waitress
over. And he hadn’t even started acting yet.

He put his glass down carefully.

‘Who’s going to play my wife?’

This was an important question. If the actress was a contemporary, there was every chance that Raf would have had an affair
with her. He didn’t particularly want to open any of those cans of worms.

‘Genevieve Duke.’

Dickie couldn’t help shooting Raf a triumphant look. Genevieve Duke was his ace. She was better known for theatre than for
film, notoriously picky about what she chose. She was the thinking man’s crumpet, incredibly sexy in a way that couldn’t be
pinpointed. Icy reserve, fabulous tits and a voice like dark treacle, all combined with a scathing wit. Sexually voracious,
too, if the legends were to be believed. One famous actor had a particularly filthy anecdote involving a very short ride in
a lift.
More than anything, though, Genevieve Duke was a wonderful actress.

Raf could almost feel himself salivating. The chance to work with Genevieve was tempting. Their paths had never crossed in
his acting days. She had spent most of her time treading the boards at the RSC in Stratford or the National. If he was going
to make a comeback, she was the actress to do it with. And Dickie obviously knew that only too well. They would be dynamite.

He wasn’t going to let Dickie see his excitement. Instead, he frowned.

‘I can’t see Genevieve Duke playing a fifty-something woman who’s gone to seed.’

‘Ah, but here’s the twist: when she hears about Hugo’s affair, his wife re-invents herself and runs off with a man ten years
younger. And at the same time Saskia – the mistress – realises that Hugo has feet of clay and dumps him. So by the end of
the movie, he’s lost both his wife and his mistress. The final scene is him alone in the park with a double buggy containing
his daughter and his granddaughter. And there’s no one to share the experience with him.’

‘The moral of the story being … ?’

Dickie grinned wryly. ‘Always wear a condom.’

Raf laughed appreciatively as Dickie leaned forward again.

‘No – seriously. It’s a tale of our times – about how we give in to our mid-life crises all too easily. And it’s about life
being a cliché – how we all fall into those traps, even though we swear we never will.’

Raf leaned back in the depths of the sofa and shut his eyes. His mind was racing. He loved the pitch. He could see the film
already. It probably wouldn’t be Oscar material – it was a little too lightweight and fluffy – but it would definitely be
a hit. And he would be re-launched. He would get his pick of roles. He could be a star again – someone to be revered instead
of a has-been trailing in the wake of his glamorous wife.

He picked up the script. Dickie looked at him expectantly.

‘Who will you get to play Hugo if you don’t get me?’

Dickie looked him in the eye. Actors, they were all the same. Insecure. Egotistical. He’d already checked out Bill Nighy’s
availability, but he wasn’t going to tell Raf that.

‘I haven’t even thought about it. To my mind, there is only one Hugo and that’s you.’

Raf looked at him through slightly narrowed eyes. The guy did a great job.

‘I’ll read the script and I’ll get back to you.’

Dickie smiled. ‘It’s a done deal, then. The script’s fantastic.’ He handed Raf his own spiral-bound copy in a heavy-duty envelope.
‘Call me when you’re done.’

The two men shook hands. Each had a feeling in their guts that this meeting was going to change the course of their lives,
but neither of them voiced it just yet. There was still a long way to go.

Raf walked out into the streets of Soho. The air smelled of last night’s sesame oil and cigarette smoke. People were jostling
each other: workers on their way to lunch, media types and strippers, waitresses and voyeurs. Triple-X movie theatres sat
next to edgy boutiques and fashionable bars. There was an energy mixed with the scent of decadence. Raf loved Soho. It made
him feel alive. You could be anyone here. Or no one, if that’s what you preferred. Mad, bad Soho, where anything goes. You
could have a Michelin-starred meal or buy a pair of size-twelve skyscraper stilettos. Or both, if you had the budget and the
predilection. Nobody judged you here.

Raf grabbed a table outside his favourite café. It was still a little chilly, the April sunshine was lacking in confidence,
but he wanted to enjoy the few rays it was throwing out. He ordered a coffee and a smoked-salmon bagel from the waitress,
pulled the script out of its envelope and began to read.

No one took a blind bit of notice of him. There was a time when he couldn’t have gone anywhere without being mobbed, or at
least hassled for his autograph. Now he had a more low-key
status as an underground icon. If anyone looked at him now, it probably wasn’t because they recognised him but because he
was still startlingly good-looking.

In his heyday, he’d had a wild mop of curls which he kept long. At the first hint of grey three years ago he had gone straight
to the hairdresser’s and had every lock shorn off. He was surprised to find that it suited him better. The curls had been
so much part of him and his raffish gypsy bad-boy image, but the close crop set off his angular features – the sharp cheek-bones
and the hypnotic eyes – and made him look, if anything, more beautiful. Those looks, together with his immaculate dress-sense
– he’d been voted Best Dressed Man of the Year twice – meant he often received admiring glances.

It wasn’t enough, to be a bit of iconic eye-candy. He was no longer known for what he did best. He was in the shadow of his
dazzling wife. Nobody knew what a struggle it really was. He was the envy of everyone he knew – not having to do anything
but swan about and look the part – but the truth was he was in a gilded cage.

His life was entirely at the mercy of Delilah’s schedule. His house was over-run by a film crew six months of the year. He
couldn’t sit and read the paper in his own kitchen half the time. He was wheeled out to any number of award ceremonies, premieres
and after-parties – and all he really had to think about was what to wear. It was hardly stretching.

So
Something for the Weekend
was a proposition he had to take very seriously. He didn’t want to melt into middle-age a nonentity. He wanted something
for himself, something he could be proud of and that stretched him. His renaissance was long overdue.

The part had to be right, of course. In his time, he had played bad boys, scoundrels, lovable rogues, smooth-talkers. There
had even been talk of him becoming the next James Bond. He’d had the looks. He’d perfected the art of the ruthless stare.
He’d had the animal magnetism. The killer body – fit, lean, not too obviously worked out but panther-like.
There was no doubt it would have taken him onto a whole new level, but he’d blown it.

Did he regret the error of his ways? Would he have swapped those wild years of excess for the chance to be 007? He didn’t
think so. Raf didn’t believe in regret. The party years had made him what he was today, and even if he wasn’t totally enamoured
of who that was, here in front of him was a chance to change, to be who he wanted to be once again.

Half an hour later, his coffee untouched, he picked up his mobile, scrolling through till he found the right number.

‘Dickie? It’s Raf. You’re totally wrong about this script. It’s not fantastic.’

There was a disappointed silence at the end of the phone. Raf grinned.

‘It’s totally fucking out of this world.’

P
olly Fry’s legs were pumping furiously. Her heart felt as if it was going to burst out of her not insubstantial chest, but
she had to keep going. This was going to be the regime that worked, she knew it. She’d snipped up her bus pass so she wouldn’t
be tempted to hop on. She’d bought a huge cagoule so the weather could never provide an excuse.