The Birthday Party (42 page)

William’s face softened.

‘I know you are. Look, I’ll run into Killorglin and bring us back a take-away and a bottle of wine. How about that? No cooking
for anyone tonight.’

‘Until the next lot arrive.’

The Dutch had left that morning. The next lot of visitors weren’t due until Tuesday. They had a bit of breathing space.

‘Would you … stay on and keep the place running?’ William was tentative.

‘Sure,’ said Delilah. ‘I’ve nothing else keeping.’

‘The dead relatives can wait, eh?’

She looked at him sharply and he gave her an imperceptible wink.

‘Sadly I’ve got to go back to Dublin in a week, so I won’t be much use. I’ve a big case coming up I can’t delegate.’

Delilah felt a prick of disappointment. She had got so used to him being around the place, she couldn’t imagine Gortna-flor
without William’s comforting male presence, shinning up a ladder or sawing up logs.

‘I’ll have a chicken korma. And some pilau rice. If we’re still on for that take-away,’ she told him by way of reply. And
then wondered what the hell she’d let herself in for. Running a bed and breakfast in deepest, darkest Kerry? Life took some
strange turns sometimes.

They had their Indian in the drawing room, sitting on the floor in front of the fire, sharing out the dishes. William had
completely overdone the order, and even after stuffing themselves there was a mountain left over. He wouldn’t let Delilah
lift a finger – he cleared everything away himself and took it into the kitchen. She sat with her back against the sofa, a
glass of wine in her hands, dreamily going over the time she had spent here.

Elizabeth was right. Gortnaflor was a magical place. It had allowed some sort of rapid healing process to take place in her
heart. When she thought about home, it seemed a million miles away, her family people she had known in her distant past. When
she thought about the reasons for leaving, it still hurt, but only like a scar that tugged every now and again when you overdid
it.

There were a few things that nagged at her. The arrangements for her party, in a few weeks’ time – the organisers
would all be pestering Polly to death for decisions. She should really phone up and cancel everything, but she couldn’t be
bothered. She was tired of being responsible, tired of making the decisions, tired of having to oversee everything and make
sure people did their jobs.

And the girls. Polly had been keeping her updated by email, even though Delilah still refused to respond, apart from an official
notification that she had read each missive. They were all fine, carrying on with their lives. She knew Polly would let her
know if anything was wrong, but she still worried about them.

And Doug. Even though strictly speaking, he was Tyger’s, not hers, she missed his presence, his wide-eyed concern, the sound
of his snuffling.

But none of it was enough to make her get back on the ferry.

She stretched and yawned. The tiredness she’d felt in her old life was a totally different tiredness to the one she felt now.
A wonderful tiredness brought on by hard work, fresh air, good food and a little too much heavy red wine. The gentle sound
of rain falling outside soothed the worries from her mind; she felt herself drifting off in the warmth of the fire.

She heard William’s footsteps as he came back into the room, but try as she might she couldn’t open her eyes. She heard him
walk over to the window.

‘Dee.’ He spoke softly. ‘Come here.’

She tore herself out of her stupor and struggled to her feet. He beckoned her over without taking his eyes off whatever he
was looking at. She stood next to him, and he put an arm round her, drawing her close and pointing outside with the other
hand.

A full moon hovered low over the lake, and an arc of light sprang from it, spanning the width of the garden and bathing it
in a silver glow.

‘Do you know what that is?’ breathed William in wonder. ‘It’s a moonbow.’

‘You mean like a rainbow?’

‘Yes. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before. They’re supposed to be very good luck.’

‘Are they … ?’

There was a pause, and then he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her in towards him.

‘I believe so. Very good luck indeed.’

She could feel her heart triple in pace. His lips were in her hair. Not kissing, not quite. It made her shiver. She felt quite
languid in his arms. Time felt as if it was going to stand still for ever. They were trapped in the radiance of the moonbow,
the pair of them.

She only had to turn, and their lips would meet. He would run his fingers through her hair. She would slip her hands around
his waist, feel herself against the broadness of his chest. The thought made her woozy. It was so enticing. She just wanted
to—

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t. I want to, but I can’t.’

He turned her round to face him. She closed her eyes. If she looked at him, she would give in. But she knew this wasn’t the
answer. This way more heartbreak lay. It would throw up more problems than solutions.

‘It’s OK,’ he answered. ‘I understand.’

She didn’t want him to understand. She wanted him to protest. Hell, she wanted him to force himself upon her. So she couldn’t
be accused of having made the decision.

The decision to commit adultery. The decision that Raf had taken so easily, again and again and again. Now she understood
– how tempting it was; how easy it must be to give in. She could be in William’s arms in a heartbeat, in his bed in two.

Maybe Raf wasn’t a monster after all. Maybe he was simply … human.

William was holding her face in his hands.

‘Dee …’ he murmured. ‘I can’t tell you how much I want to kiss you.’

A kiss wouldn’t hurt. Just a kiss. Just a dreamy, sleepy brushing of lips. Lips that tasted of wine …

‘You’ve no idea who I am. What I am. Have you?’ she asked him later as they stumbled up the stairs, unable to keep their hands
off each other.

He stopped for a moment, feigning shock.

‘You’re not some sort of banshee, are you? About to bring me some portentous … portent?’

She couldn’t help laughing.

‘No …’

‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ And he pulled her the rest of the way up the stairs and into the bedroom.

Y
ou could have cut the air in the studio with a knife. The crew stood ready for action, holding their breath. On the edges,
onlookers chewed their nails – the medical adviser, the girl in charge of prosthetics, the script editor, all the people who
often didn’t bother turning up on set were there for today’s recording. Even Lisa, the executive producer, had made it down
from her office to watch.

The storylines had been building to this climax: the moment when Zak’s medical condition deteriorates, and the doctors tell
Emily that they must switch the machine off. The nation would be on the edge of their seats watching this tragedy in a few
weeks’ time. The broadcasters were hoping for record viewing figures.

So the pressure was on to get the scene just right.

Coco was pacing like a race-horse. The cameras were going to be on her all the way through the scene. There was a fine line
between acting and over-acting. She had been over it with the director, and they had both decided that dignity and restraint
were far more moving than hysterical weeping.

‘We’re ready for you, Miss Rafferty.’

She smoothed down the skirt of her nurse’s uniform and took her place on the set. Neal was already on the bed, under the sheet,
attached to the life support machine. As she sat on the chair next to him, he turned to look at her.

‘Bye, then,’ he said drily. ‘It’s been nice knowing you.’ And he shut his eyes, ready to assume his near-death state.

According to Lisa, Neal had taken the news of his
character’s demise surprisingly well. Mind you, Lisa wouldn’t have stood for any whingeing. When you worked on a long-running
series, you had to be grateful for whatever length of time you were employed, and you went graciously when that time was up.
Lisa’s philosophy was that actors had to take care of their insecurities in their own time, on their own dime. Anyone who
wailed and gnashed their teeth blew any chance of a come-back, or of working on any other series Lisa was involved with.

Neal had behaved like a perfect gentleman. He hadn’t bitched or blamed anyone for the fact that he was being written out.

‘Hey,’ he’d been heard to say, ‘mine’s going to be the most high-profile death on TV this year. It’s great publicity.’

He had redeemed himself, with Coco and with the rest of the cast and crew. They were throwing a leaving party for him tonight,
in a nightclub up the road from the studio. It was the sort of place Coco wouldn’t usually be seen dead in, but she owed it
to Neal to be part of his send-off. He had been if not charming, then at least polite to Coco since the tongue-biting incident,
so she would go along tonight, buy him a drink, see him on his way, no hard feelings.

There was no dialogue in this final scene, as the machine was finally switched off and Zak took his dying breath. But that
just made it even harder. There were no cues, just a minute and a half focused on Emily as the doctors did their thing.

In the end, they did the scene in one take. Coco didn’t know how she managed to sustain the intensity of emotion, letting
it build gradually until the final close-up when a single, glistening tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away, but
she knew she’d given her finest performance yet.

Yet as she walked away from the set and back to her dressing room, it wasn’t pride she felt, but despair.

Her nerves had got the better of her when she arrived at the studio that morning, and she had given in. She had done so
well since making the promise to herself, but the pressure had been too much. She had told herself it was the last time, that
this was a one-off, a stressful situation that justified her needing a boost. And the minute she had done a line, she felt
as if she could cope. Her confidence came rushing back, her fears evaporated. And it got her through.

Now, however, her mood plummeted. The applause in the studio meant nothing to her. She had let herself down. Unbeknownst to
Benedict, she had let him down, too

Since she had met Benedict, she felt so much stronger. Without him, she’d have fallen apart at her mother’s disappearance,
would have wound herself up into a frenzy at her father’s infidelity. But Benedict provided a cool, calm voice of reason.
He made her feel as if everything was going to be all right and he was the first person in her life to make her feel like
that.

Her own family always made her feel as if she was standing on shifting sands, that she was responsible when things went wrong.
It was probably because she was the oldest of the girls. It had always been Coco reassuring Violet and Tyger. How different
to have someone providing her with reassurance and support. Benedict seemed so solid; nothing could ever go wrong while he
was around.

Which was why she’d decided to kick the coke. If she had any hope of a future with Benedict, common sense told her it had
to go. She never wanted to be sitting in a restaurant with him again, desperate for a line, unable to think about anything
else …

Coco looked in the mirror. How the hell had she let herself become the person that was looking back at her? Tears of self-pity
welled up in her eyes, but she brushed them away. There was no point in crying.

She realised now that she wasn’t going to be able to do this on her own. She was going to have to come clean to Benedict and
ask for help. And if that meant losing him, she had no one but herself to blame. She began to take off her make-up. She
just wanted to go home, but she had to go to Neal’s party. It would be really letting the side down if she didn’t. Even if
she didn’t owe it to him – wanker that he was – she owed it to all the others, who had been so amazing today and had given
her their support, even though she didn’t deserve it.

Neal’s leaving party was a riot. Lisa had put a couple of hundred quid behind the bar, and there was a scrum on to see who
could drink the most before it ran out. Coco tried to look as if she was enjoying herself, and desperately wished she
could
. Despite the hideously tacky surroundings, there was a real sense of team spirit and excitement that comes from being part
of a success. Lisa had announced before everyone left the studio that
Critical but Stable
now had its biggest audience share since the programme started, so everyone was on a mission to celebrate. Coco mustered
up her best acting talents, smiled and laughed and chattered, but inside all she could feel was a cold lump of dread at the
thought of the confession she was going to have to make to Benedict. She couldn’t carry on stringing him along. She respected
him too much. She
loved
him too much.

By twenty past ten, she thought she could probably slip away discreetly. She’d drunk a couple of glasses of champagne – well,
the revolting cava that the nightclub passed off as champagne – and danced to Sister Sledge, Chic and Earth, Wind and Fire.
She managed to extricate herself from a rowing session during ‘Oops Upside Your Head’. She was a sport, but she wasn’t going
to sit down on a sticky floor in her Roland Mouret for anyone. Everyone else was sliding into drunken riotousness and wouldn’t
notice if she left. She found her jacket, fumbled in her bag for her keys—