The Birthday Party (43 page)

Bang! Suddenly all the lights went on, and a mass of black-clad figures swarmed into the room. With her heart in her mouth,
Coco looked round for an escape, until she realised with relief that they weren’t hijackers or kidnappers, but police.

Relieved, that is, until she remembered that the remains of
her stash were still sitting in her handbag. And that this was very probably the Drug Squad.

As a burly officer approached her, she saw Neal over his shoulder, a look of ill-concealed glee on his face.

It was ironic, thought Coco as she made her one phone call from the police station, that this was about the time she would
have been sitting down with Benedict to make her confession. Her heart pounded as his mobile rang. He answered straight away.

‘Benedict, it’s Coco. Listen – I need your help …’

He didn’t judge. He barely reacted at all. Just asked which station she was at, then promised to phone Tony and let him know
what had happened.

‘I’ll be there as quickly as I can,’ he told her.

She hung up and looked at the officer. He gave her an awkward smile, and passed a piece of paper over to her.

‘I wouldn’t usually ask but … could I have an autograph? For the missus. It would make her day.’

Coco sighed, and took the Biro he proffered. She couldn’t even get arrested without some invasion of privacy. She scrawled
her name, thinking that this might be the last time she was asked for her autograph. There was every chance she would be dropped
from the show. She knew they had a zero tolerance policy. Having a coke-head for a star was not the sort of publicity they
wanted. No matter how beautiful and talented she was. How could she have been so stupid? But that was one of the problems
with cocaine. It made you think you were invincible and blinded you to the obvious.

Benedict had Coco out of the police station and all charges dropped in the blink of an eye. She wasn’t sure how he did it
– she didn’t see any money change hands – but within fifteen minutes of his arrival she was released with just a caution.

They held hands as they came out into the street, and were immediately blinded by a barrage of flashbulbs.

‘Damn them,’ said Benedict, throwing his jacket chivalrously over her head and guiding her to his car.

That would have been Neal as well, thought Coco grimly as she scrambled into the back seat. Of course he’d called the papers.
He would have made sure she was well and truly buried. Benedict gunned the car away from the pavement, scattering photographers
in his wake.

‘Welcome to my world,’ said Coco wryly. He looked sideways at her with a Roger Moore eyebrow.

‘It doesn’t have to be this way.’

She looked down at her lap. She was ready for him to bawl her out. But he reached a hand over and patted her arm.

‘I’m not going to have a go. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Right now we need to find Tony. He’s waiting at The Bower. We have
to do some damage limitation.’

Tony was going to be furious. He wouldn’t hold back. How many times had he lectured them about drugs? About not putting themselves
into compromising positions? They knew the rules. They’d been instilled in them since birth. Coco leaned her head back against
the headrest and groaned.

‘Tomorrow’s fish and chip paper,’ said Benedict. ‘Just hold on to that.’

‘I’m an idiot.’

‘You are,’ he confirmed. ‘You are.’

There were a couple of photographers outside The Bower, but Coco kept her head down in the front seat and once they were through
the gates, they were out of sight.

Raf’s Maserati was parked next to Tony’s car.

‘What’s Dad doing here?’

‘I’m guessing Tony called him,’ said Benedict.

‘He’s in Bath. That’s two hours’ drive away.’

‘Not in that thing.’

Coco looked at the front door with trepidation.

‘I don’t want to do this.’

Benedict gave her a gentle push in the small of the back.

‘It’s called facing the music.’

Coco put her key in the lock. At least he hadn’t called her ‘young lady’.

Raf was incandescent with rage.

‘Are you crazy? You’ve got everything in the world going for you and you throw it away on that shit.’

He was pacing up and down the kitchen, his eyes blazing with fury. Coco sat in a miserable ball on the sofa.

‘You’ve got no right to judge me like this,’ she retorted. ‘No right at all.’

‘I’ve got every right. I would have thought you’d learned by my mistakes.’

‘Hold on,’ Tony stepped in between them. ‘Before we start blaming each other, we need to look at our options. We can stop
this getting out.’

‘How?’ demanded Coco.

Raf and Tony looked at each other. They obviously had a plan.

‘We horse-trade …’ said Tony.

‘I give them my story about Pandora,’ finished Raf. ‘It’s worth far more than possession of half a gram of coke.’

Coco stood up. ‘No way. I’m not going to betray Mum just to get myself out of trouble.’

‘You’re going to ruin your career.’

‘That’s my problem.’

‘Come on,’ said Raf. ‘I’m happy to do it. I’m happy to face the consequences.’

Coco looked at him coldly. ‘What about Mum?’ she asked. ‘Have you thought about her? Do you think she wants that splashed
all over the papers? It would be totally humiliating. Though of course, it’s not as if she’s not used to it.’

Raf flinched.

Tony stepped forward.

‘It’s a good solution, Coco. But we need to act quickly.’

‘No.’ Coco stood firm. ‘I don’t want the world reading about bloody Pandora Hammond just to get me out of trouble.’

She turned to Benedict, who had wisely kept quiet throughout the exchange.

‘Would you mind driving me home?’

‘Let me take you, sweetheart.’ Raf pulled out his keys. ‘Or why don’t you stay here. We can talk.’

‘What about?’

There was an awkward pause.

‘Why did you do it, Coco? I didn’t think you were into coke. I thought you’d got more sense.’

‘I was under pressure, Dad. It helped. You should get that – better than anyone, I’d have thought.’

‘Why didn’t you just … come and talk to me? We’ve always been able to talk, haven’t we?’

‘Well, yes …’ She paused, then delivered the death blow. ‘Except you’ve been too busy fucking C-list actresses just lately.’

Raf felt winded.

She turned to Benedict. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Keep in touch, Coco,’ Tony said. ‘I’ll do as much fire-fighting as I can but they got you bang to rights.’

‘Don’t worry.’ She put her chin in the air. ‘I know I deserve everything I get.’

Raf watched his daughter go. He’d let her down. He’d let all of them down. He threw himself onto the kitchen sofa. Tony had
gone into the office to make some calls. He rubbed his face wearily.

Delilah. Where was she? He needed her so desperately it hurt. But they were no closer to tracking her down. They’d pleaded
with the bank to let them have the details of where she was spending money, but they’d refused. They couldn’t get onto her
online bank accounts, because no one knew her passwords. They’d tried to trace her mobile, but the company said she hadn’t
used it since the night she had left. They even
phoned the DVLA, to see if she had got any parking tickets or speeding fines, but there was nothing. They all phoned each
other, every night, to see if any one of them had heard anything, but none of them ever had.

He looked at the clock. He’d make himself another coffee, swap notes with Tony, then he’d better make his way back to Bath.

Benedict drove Coco back to his house in Little Venice. They both thought it was probably best to avoid her flat, in case
the paparazzi were staking her out. He ushered her inside, led her up to the master bathroom, and ran her an enormous, steam-ing-hot
bath. While she was soaking, he made her a mug of Valrhona hot chocolate.

She sat swathed in a soft towelling robe, sipping the velvety sweetness.

Benedict looked at her.

‘You were very brave,’ he told her. ‘And I admire you for protecting your mum like that.’

Coco rolled her eyes. ‘Brave? I’ve been totally stupid. There’s nothing to admire. I’m an idiot.’

‘I have to ask,’ he looked at her gravely. ‘Do you think … you’re an addict?’

She put her head to one side while she thought about it.

‘I don’t know. I think about it most of the time. And … I can’t kick it. I’ve been kidding myself that I’m in control, but
I’m not.’

A salty tear plopped into her nearly empty mug.

Benedict reached out and stroked her hand.

‘I can get you help.’

Coco looked at him in surprise. ‘You mean you don’t want to end things?’

There was a long silence. Coco felt her eyes fill up with tears. She’d screwed up. Benedict was going to help her, but he
didn’t want any more to do with her—

‘Definitely not,’ he said finally. ‘You’re the best thing that’s happened to me for a very long time.’

He put his arms around her and Coco buried her face in his chest.

‘I wish Mum was here.’

‘I know …’

‘Everyone thinks it must be so great, being a Rafferty. But it’s not. It’s like a bloody computer game. Just when you think
you’ve conquered one demon, another one pops up. Sometimes I wish I’d just been born normal.’

‘Come on.’ Benedict led her gently towards the spare room. It was decorated in French grey and silver, with a sleigh bed covered
in sumptuous satin the colour of rain clouds. ‘You need to get some sleep. We’ll talk everything through in the morning.’

She felt very small in the middle of the emperor-sized bed. He piled the pillows and cushions up around her, tucked the sheets
and blankets up to her chin. Her lids felt heavy. She couldn’t stay awake. She closed her eyes and felt him patting her gently
until she fell asleep.

Bath was coming to life in the early-morning sun as Raf came out of the front door at Collingwood. He had finally crawled
into bed around dawn after flooring it back down the motorway, but he couldn’t sleep. He decided he would go and check out
the papers.

Joggers, dog-walkers, postmen – he passed them all on his way to the twenty-four-hour shop he knew was just three roads away.
He felt envious of them all. He would have swapped places with any one of them. He, who had everything a man could possibly
want. Fame, fortune, stardom, dazzling looks, three stunning and talented daughters, the woman every man in the country lusted
after. A Maserati.

How wonderful, he thought, to be a postman on a bike. To wake up knowing exactly what it was you had to achieve each day,
and how you were going to do it. And once you were
done, once all those bills and letters and parcels were delivered, you could go home without giving any of it a second thought.
Until the next morning. There was a pleasing rhythm and simplicity to it. Why couldn’t God have left out the looks and the
talent and the self-destruct gene when he was born, and made him a postman?

He turned the corner and saw the shop. There were bundles of newspapers still strapped up, waiting to be unpacked and put
on the shelves. And there they were – the headlines. Not in
The Times or the Telegraph
, of course, but in the tabloids. The predictable play on words –
Coco-caine, Cocaine Coco
–
Top TV star in drugs bust
. Et cetera, et cetera. There were photos of Coco, looking pale but dignified, being escorted out of the station by Benedict
Amador.

He didn’t pick any of them up to read what was inside. He knew the editorial line. Family history of substance abuse, history
repeating itself, blah blah blah. They would trot out all the old anecdotes about him. Theories about the pressures of acting.
Following in her father’s footsteps. The price of fame.

He should have been there for her. He should have seen the signs. He knew exactly how hard it was, to do what she was doing.
He should have been checking in with her on a regular basis, making sure she was coping. He had blithely assumed, because
Coco looked calm, cool and in control, that she was.

A good father should have known better. A proper father would have looked below the surface, seen the signs. Instead, he had
been focusing on resurrecting his own pathetic career, preening himself, wallowing in his comeback.

Never mind, he thought bitterly. It looked as if she had found herself another father figure. No doubt Benedict would sort
it all out for her. Find some therapist who would put the blame fairly and squarely on Raf.

He turned and walked away from the accusing headlines. Down to the back of the shop, where rows and rows of brightly coloured
cans and bottles displayed themselves proudly, fighting amongst themselves for his attention.

He went for vodka. A cheapo brand, red and silver with mock Russian graphics. It would taste like lighter fuel, but who cared?
The final effect was the same, whether it was cheap shit or Chateau d’Yquem. Raf had never drunk for the taste.

He took it up to the till.

‘Are you sure you want that, mate?’ the assistant asked.

He obviously recognised him. He’d clocked him and didn’t want the responsibility of being the man who had pushed Raf Rafferty
off the wagon.

‘Are you in the business of selling alcohol, or are you just a fucking busybody?’ snarled Raf, chucking a twenty-pound note
on the counter.

The bloke said nothing after that, just rang up the purchase. He went to put the bottle in a bag, but Raf grabbed it off him.

‘Do you want your receipt?’

He was talking to thin air. Raf was gone.

No ice. Straight from the bottle. Sitting on a park bench overlooking the city as it got ready for the day ahead.

He was a loser. He’d lost his wife. He was losing his kids. He was going to lose his career. Again. How could he ever have
thought he could conquer it? Of course it was going to win, every time. You might keep it at bay for a small amount of time,
but it crept back up on you, stealthy, insidious, waiting for that moment of weakness. And then it offered its slimy claw
of friendship, reaching out for you, luring you back on-side.