The Birthday Party (8 page)

‘Course I will,’ she replied staunchly, not wanting to think about how
she
was going to cope without him around. Honestly, it was ludicrous having a crush at her age. Thirty-two years old, and she
measured the success of her day by how often she had seen him, what they had spoken about, and whether she had been able to
make him laugh.

She realised with a jolt that she was still clinging on to him. She stepped away, flustered.

‘Do you know what would be really great?’ he was asking, in
that low, slightly gruff voice that made her shiver. His hand was on her arm. He was looking into her eyes.

Oh God. He was going to ask her to come on location with him. He would need a PA, of course he would. All the top stars had
their PAs with them when they did a film.

‘What?’ she asked, trembling, while visions of him stumbling into her room late one night and declaring undying love flashed
through her mind.

He gazed at her, his cornflower-blue eyes crinkling up at the corners. She could feel them drawing her in. She felt quite
helpless.

‘What?’ she repeated in a half whisper.

‘A cup of tea.’

She stared at him, unable to speak. He looked back at her quizzically.

‘I think we could all do with a cup of tea. Don’t you?’

J
ustine Amador-Fox turned on her heel and stormed out of her father’s office, the heels of her Miu Miu whip-snake pumps sinking
into the deep pile of the carpet. Tears stung the back of her eyelids, but she wasn’t going to let them fall until she was
out of his sight. They were tears of rage and frustration, not sorrow. Salty and scalding, they were going to ruin her perfect
make-up. The perfect make-up that went with the perfect navy shift dress that showed she meant business.

It hadn’t convinced him in the least.

She didn’t have to look at her father to know the expression on his face. It would be slightly sardonic, a smile playing on
the corner of his mouth. He would shake his head in fond exasperation at his daughter’s outburst, but by the time she had
reached the lift he would be onto something else, barking out instructions on his speaker phone or jabbing at his calculator.

She had tried so hard to play by his rules for the past couple of years. She knew better than to try and beat him at his own
game. He was invincible. He always knew just which card to play to bring her down. Not because he wanted to beat her, but
because he loved her. And he was moulding her in his own image.

It was so frustrating. She had been determined that this time he wasn’t going to win, but he had her over a barrel.

What she didn’t understand was why? She had done the poxy hospitality course he had asked her to do. Three bloody years of
projects and essays and assessments and placements in hideous hotels that had nothing to teach her. And now he was
expecting her to join the company and do its management course like any other graduate trainee. Did being his daughter count
for nothing?

She had been fed the Amador philosophy from birth. It was in her blood. She had been to every single one of the hotels in
the chain. She understood exactly what it was that made them stand out, why they were bastions of luxury and indulgence, why
they rarely, if ever, received a complaint from one of their guests. She didn’t
need
to have the company ethos drummed into
her by joining the rest of the hopefuls that had been weeded out of the huge number of applications the company received on
an annual basis. Who wouldn’t want to work for Amador, with its super-luxurious hotels in stunning locations? They avoided
the obvious – Vegas, Dubai, Miami – and went for the exotic and out of the way.

Justine didn’t want to be a manager. She wanted to scout for new locations and be instrumental in the development of new hotels.
She wanted to work with the architects and the designers, perfecting and finessing service and facilities for people who wanted
the best but didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by glitz and flash. Just pure understated quality and unrivalled comfort.
‘Heaven on earth’ was the Amador slogan. This meant the ultimate in bedding, superlative chefs, state-of-the-art sound and
lighting, stunning artworks, and the best design in furniture. And none of the hotels was the same. Each was individually
designed, drawing on inspiration from its location, utilising the best local resources and craftsmen.

She had brought her father a proposal that morning, to prove she was ready. She had found a run-down hotel in Berlin that
was ripe for renovation. She had found an architect, drawn up plans, put together a detailed proposal complete with artist’s
impressions and, most importantly, a meticulous budget. Her father had just thrown the folder to one side and laughed.

‘Don’t you think I’d already have it, if it was any good?’

Bastard.

Justine had got the measure of Benedict Amador when she was fourteen and had deliberately engineered her expulsion from her
exclusive boarding school. She was desperate to go to the London day school her friends went to. She couldn’t see the difference,
the results were the same, the facilities were the same, but for some inexplicable reason her father had refused to let her
go there. He had insisted on her staying at Fortescue House. She’d stuck it out for as long as she could bear, but in the
end had organised a prank phone call to the school office, announcing there was a bomb hidden in the gym. The school had been
evacuated, the fire service swept every square inch of the building – and the swotty, spotty cow who Justine had made sure
had overheard the call grassed her up. Her bags were packed and she was put on the train home before everyone had finished
filing back in from the netball courts. A triumphant Justine was certain she would now get her way.

Her father just shrugged and enrolled her at the comprehensive adjoining the sink estate half a mile down the road. You were
never far from slums in London, even if you lived in a six-million-pound mansion like the Amadors.

She had been outraged at first that he would let her go there. She had thrown tantrum after tantrum, but he had been to buy
the uniform himself and driven her to the gates on the first day, giving her a measly two pounds lunch money.

To her surprise, she had thrived. She’d had to be tough to prove that she wasn’t a snotty, spoilt rich kid. It had taken her
six months to be accepted by the other pupils, but she did it eventually. And she was surprised to find they were fun. Far
more self-sufficient than her other pampered friends. They could all look after themselves, looked out for each other. She
learned to stand on her own two feet and became pretty streetwise. She learned how to get into a club without paying, how
to tell good drugs from bad, and how to nick stuff from Selfridges without being caught. She lost her virginity to a drop-dead-gorgeous
boy with waist-length dreadlocks and a cock the size of which she had never encountered since. It had
been a more useful education than anything her father could have paid for. And it had made her tough. Tough enough to cope
with most of his mind games. But not all …

Her father might be the one person who could reduce her to tears, but Justine composed herself in the lift and by the time
she reached the street outside she was filled with resolve. She had to make a plan. Work out how the hell she was going to
outmanoeuvre that lovable bastard. It wasn’t going to be easy. But as he had pointed out to her on numerous occasions, nothing
worth it ever is.

He’d been compared to a lot of entrepreneurs: Richard Branson, Alan Sugar, Rocco Forte. But Benedict Amador was one on his
own. He was a renaissance man. Whatever he decided to turn his hand to was a success. He was sickeningly accomplished. He
studied engineering at university, devised a barrier-breaking computer program, sold out for millions and spent the rest of
his days and his money dabbling in projects for pleasure. Each of his hotels was there for his own personal use – he never
built one in a place he had no intention of visiting. He had a vineyard in Australia which made wine to his specification.
He spent a month every summer on a Greek island painting pictures that were sold through a gallery in Cork Street. He was
an awesome golfer, horseman, sailor – he had sailed the Atlantic twice … The list of his achievements was endless.

They were all generated by his restlessness. He never truly relaxed. Not since his wife, Justine’s mother, had died when Justine
was three. He had never replaced her. No other woman held any interest for him. Jeanne Fox had been his soul-mate, the love
of his life. He had adored her unreservedly. Now, he had women who would accompany him to social functions. And women with
whom he had sex. They weren’t paid professionals, but people he had met who knew the deal and were happy to accept it. No
one had penetrated his heart. He had loved once, passionately, and that was it.

Justine knew that no matter what she did, he would never
cut her off, for she was the living embodiment of her mother. A living, breathing three-dimensional replica that he didn’t
want to lose. Everyone who knew Benedict knew that Justine was his Achilles heel, even though he gave her a hard time. And
what he wanted more than anything was grandchildren. A grandson, to be precise. Someone he could leave his empire to. For
all his maverick ways, a little bit of Benedict clung to tradition.

Although she had inherited her mother’s looks – thick, dark eyebrows over wide, frank eyes and a full mouth – Justine had
her father’s spirit. She was a little fire-brand. Bossy, opinionated, but fun-loving, she breezed through life like a zephyr.
Of course, she could have turned her back on her father when he didn’t give in to her, and made her own way in the world.
But it was his world she wanted to be part of. She just wasn’t sure what she had to do to prove herself to him.

She walked along the pavement with her head down until she reached a little café with tables and chairs outside. She sat down
and ordered a latte and a huge vanilla cupcake as she tried to think herself into her father’s head. How could she outwit
him and trap him into giving her what she wanted? There was no point in going head to head. He would win every time. She had
to think of something leftfield, something that would give her the ultimate bargaining tool.

The cupcake arrived and she scooped the frosting off with her finger, enjoying the cloying sweetness. Then she crumbled the
cake into little bite-size pieces, chewing as she thought.

Two men walked past and checked her out, admiring her tanned arms in the sleeveless shift dress, her long, bare legs, the
thick dark hair smoothed back in a glossy ponytail. Never averse to being admired, she smiled back at them.

An unsuitable man? What if she found a boyfriend her father disapproved of? She could do a deal with him then – drop the bloke
in return for the position she wanted. But Benedict was infuriatingly broad-minded. She couldn’t for the life of her think
of someone she could put up with and he
would want her to drop. He had been immensely tolerant of all the skanky boys she had brought back from her comprehensive,
knowing full well they were just a phase. He would feign approval for as long as it took, she knew he would. He had nerves
of steel.

Her phone beeped to tell her she’d got a text. She crammed the rest of the cupcake in her mouth and pulled it out to look
at it.

Hey babe – going to see Violet Rafferty at the Tinderbox tonight. Coming? Alex xxxxx

She hadn’t thought as far as tonight yet. Alex was her dearest friend and her hairdresser and made everything fun, fun, fun.
A night out with him and his pink pals was just the sort of evening that would help her forget her woes. They were outrageous,
flamboyant and knew how to party. And they didn’t take themselves too seriously, not like some of her other friends.

She texted back straight away:
Count me in xxxx

V
iolet Rafferty sat in front of the baby Bechstein her parents had given her for her twenty-first. Her back was straight, her
hands poised over the keys, but her eyes were shut. She breathed deeply and evenly, trying to remember the notes that had
played themselves to her while she was sleeping during her afternoon nap.

It happened so often. A snatch of some lilting melody that was hauntingly perfect would drift through her semi-conscious mind,
teasing her. And no matter how hard she tried to catch it, it would elude her. She knew they were real and not imagined, but
she still hadn’t found a way of capturing the little wisps of sound.

It was ironic, really, when she only had to listen once to a piece of music composed by somebody else and she could play it.
She had perfect pitch and a phonographic memory. Chopin, Rachmaninov, Coldplay, Gershwin – she could tinkle out anything anyone
asked. Yet when it came to her own compositions, she froze.

How the hell did people do it? How did they manage to lose their self-consciousness? She knew she was a harsh critic – of
other people’s work but particularly of her own. She only had to string three notes together and she shuddered with distaste.
As for lyrics, everything she wrote seemed trite and derivative.

She slammed the lid down in a fury, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t the piano’s fault that she was useless and untalented.

She was destined for a life of singing other people’s songs.
She was, after all, very successful at it. Her shows were usually sell-outs. Not exactly Wembley, admittedly, but intimate
little clubs and bars. Tonight, in a tight black dress and fishnet stockings, her hair slicked back and her lips ruby red,
she would sing Piaf, Dietrich, Kurt Weill – burlesque mixed with jazz. She would become the ultimate seductress – a confident,
sexual vamp who toyed with her audience, flirting, enticing. She knew she had power and presence, but to her it meant nothing.
What was the point in performing something you hadn’t composed? This was just a job. A way of getting a following.