The Birthday Party (9 page)

She tried to shake off her gloom. She loved performing, of course she did. Why else would she do it? She had no other need.
It wasn’t as if the pay was that extraordinary – if she needed to work for her living she could make far more as a backing
singer. She loved the dressing up, taking on another persona.

She left the piano and went into her bedroom to get herself ready. She let her red silk kimono drop to the floor, and began
to put on the outfit she had laid out on the bed. She put on a black corset that squeezed her waist down to twenty-two inches.
Black fishnet stockings with proper suspenders. Her favourite vintage dress – black moiré silk with a plunging neckline and
a thigh-high slit. A black jet necklace. Skyscraper heels.

Then the make-up. Foundation paler than pale, her eyebrows a delicate arch. False eyelashes. And the famous red pout, which
took ages to construct with lip-liner, lipstick and gloss, to achieve the perfect Cupid’s bow.

To finish, she dabbed her pulse points with her signature perfume, breathing in its heady almond scent. She had to be the
part completely, and to smell right was essential. She couldn’t have gone on stage without perfume any more than she could
have gone without a dress.

She picked up the phone and called for a cab, ignoring the winking light on her answer machine. Whatever it was she
didn’t want to know. She hated any sort of distraction when she was about to perform. Moments later she was gone, leaving
behind the faintest trace of Le Baiser du Dragon.

The Tinderbox was tucked under an insignificant three-star hotel in Paddington. It was a well-kept secret, but it was always
packed to capacity nevertheless, thanks to its manager’s skill in creating an intimate but buzzy atmosphere and the incredible
live music. It showcased performers from all over the world, a lot of it experimental and avant-garde, but time and again
people who had debuted here went on to become huge stars, because what they all had in common was talent.

The décor was slightly decadent, with purple velvet banquettes, lamps trimmed with ostrich feathers and neon-pink lighting;
it was camp but cosy. A small stage allowed as many tables as possible to be crammed in. By rights it should be smoky, but
with the ban that was impossible, yet it still had the atmosphere of an intimate club from a bygone era.

Violet had a devoted following at the Tinderbox. She sang there twice a month to a full house and the audience had become
her friends. They were a mixed crowd of arty middle-aged, flamboyant gays and younger people who enjoyed dressing up – gloves,
basques, false eyelashes, fishnets and beauty spots abounded. She loved the venue because of the sense of self-expression
it nurtured, but at the same time there was no pressure – if you turned up in jeans no one cared, as long as you appreciated
the music. So she always made sure she put on her best show, and tried to introduce something new so her loyal followers wouldn’t
get bored.

She was in the tiny dressing room, gargling with warm water mixed with manuka honey to coat her throat. It was cramped and
shabby, but she loved its familiarity, the huge foxed mirror she checked her make-up in, the postcards all over the wall from
people who had played here over the years, the sofa spewing stuffing out of its cracked leather.

Sammy, who played the double bass for her, was standing in
the doorway. He was half Cuban, half French, the son of a wild
Parisienne
who had enjoyed a night of steamy passion in Havana
and had come home with more than duty-free rum and a box of cojibas. Sammy was as poor as a church mouse, but he didn’t care
a jot, because he lived for his music. As well as playing for Violet, he sessioned for a number of other bands who played
wild improvisational jazz, inaccessible to all but the most die-hard of aficionados. Sammy stayed up all night and slept all
day, lived on his native
Moros y Christianos
– black beans and rice – and wore a rotation of faded jeans and worn granddad
shirts, a selection of silver rings on his long, thin fingers. He spoke perfect English but his accent was indefinable – transatlantic
tinged with French. Sometimes his crazy mother came to visit, with her wild black hair that Sammy had inherited now tinged
with grey, and they would go out all night, partying till dawn, and Violet got an insight into how Sammy had grown up: a bohemian,
nomadic life lived on a shoestring.

Violet had always kept Sammy away from her family. There was something so pure about him, ascetic almost. She knew he would
be shocked by the opulence she lived in, and by the values her family held. Sammy lived for the moment, cared nothing for
possessions apart from his double bass. He valued people above things, experience above everything else. She had learned a
lot from him. He didn’t crave fame – he wanted people to enjoy the music he played, but he didn’t want a deal or to become
a star. His existence was the polar opposite of what she was used to. The Rafferty ethic revolved around seeking the limelight,
material gain, success, adulation. Violet sensed it was wrong, but it was what she had been brought up with and it was very
hard to shake. She knew that no matter how much time she spent with Sammy, she could never be as pure as he was. The Rafferty
drive to succeed was too engrained.

She stood up to hug him, winding her arms around his body.

He was as thin as a rake, not an ounce of meat on him, but so warm, his shirts always so soft.

‘Hey, Violet,’ his low, musical voice breathed into her ear. ‘What’s happening?’

She was tempted to tell him how she had been trying and trying to write a song, but couldn’t do it. How it made her feel frustrated
and claustrophobic. How it made her want to scream and throw things at the wall. But she wasn’t sure he would understand.
He and his friends found it so easy to create. They improvised together, throwing in ideas and running with them. Writing
was like breathing to them. They had no trouble capturing their collective muse. Music trickled out of them freely. To admit
her failing to Sammy was to admit weakness. She wanted him to have respect for her, not think she was a loser.

Instead, she handed him some sheet music: ‘Wild Is The Wind’, made famous by Nina Simone. She was going to try it tonight
as her final song, hoping she would do its soul-baringly sensual lyrics justice. She’d worked hard to find a way to make it
her own and bring something special to the composition – a lot of her audience would know the song, and she wanted to surprise
them.

Sammy put the music on a stand and started moving his supple fingers over the strings. She adored the way he played. He seemed
to know instinctively just how long she wanted him to hold a note, when to be silent, when to fill her silence. They were
magic together. Like lovers. Even though they weren’t. Violet knew that if they ever crossed that line, it would be very dangerous.
Their partnership was too precious to be ruined by sex.

She began to sing, weaving her voice around the sonorous bass. It sent shivers down her spine.

At the end, Sammy looked at her in something bordering on astonishment.

‘Hey, Violet – that was something special.’

It wasn’t easy to impress Sammy. Everyone he worked with
had talent. Yet his words meant nothing to Violet. The magic was in the writing, not the performance. She felt her mood crash.
What she was doing was pointless, masquerading behind other people’s genius.

Why couldn’t she write music like this?

Sammy could feel Violet’s gloom. It enveloped the room, bringing with it a chill. He was used to bolstering her up. It was
part of his role as her accompanist.

‘Hey. Come on. We’ve got a full house tonight. Let’s see that pretty smile.’

Violet rolled her eyes.

‘What’s the point, Sammy?’

It wasn’t the first time she’d asked him this.

‘The point is people love you. You bring them pleasure.’

‘Great. I might as well strip for a living. It would amount to the same thing.’

‘Don’t give me that tortured-artist shit. You’ve got a talent most people would give their right finger for.’

‘Arm.’ Violet giggled despite herself. Even after all these years Sammy got his sayings muddled. ‘Right arm.’

Sammy shook his head and held up his pinky, grinning.

‘Right finger. Right finger is very important when you play bass.’ He leaned in to her. ‘So stop complaining and enjoy what
you are good at.’

Violet shook her head, pouting. ‘It’s not fair, Sammy. I want to write. I want to write beautiful songs that tear people’s
hearts open. Songs that make them think,
That’s exactly how I feel
. Songs that people want played at their weddings, their
funerals …’

‘You know what? You can’t force it. So just enjoy what you can do and wait.’

She gave him a playful punch on the arm.

‘You’re an unsympathetic bastard, you know that?’

He took her chin in his fingers, turning her to face him.

‘You know what? Maybe you haven’t suffered enough to write songs like that.’

‘You mean I’m a spoilt brat with nothing to say?’

Sammy shrugged. Violet scowled.

‘Anyway, I have suffered.’

He nodded. ‘Sure you have.’

Violet felt tears stinging the back of her eyelids. Why was it that just because you were the daughter of rich and famous
parents, people thought you had it easy? She could still remember those terrible years. The shouting, the crying. The insecurity.
The gnawing tightness in the pit of her stomach that she went to sleep with, woke up with and that didn’t leave her all day.
Violet remembered crying in bed one night and Delilah crawling in next to her, hugging her, and Violet realising that the
tears on her cheeks weren’t her own but her mother’s.

OK, so now they lived a Sunday-supplement perfection. And she had her Grade Two listed flat, with its high ceilings and wooden
floors. She wasn’t exactly struggling like a lot of Sammy’s friends. Not to live and eat, anyway. She was struggling in her
own way.

Now wasn’t the time to put her side of the argument. It was ten minutes until they were on. She needed to touch up her make-up,
then go through the running order once more to see if she wanted to make any last-minute changes.

She didn’t get nervous before a gig. Just excited. She supposed she should be grateful for that, at least. Some of her friends
who were performers had crippling stage fright, to the extent that she wondered why on earth they put themselves through the
ordeal. She wasn’t afraid to sing. Ever since she had been tiny, she had loved performing. She remembered her parents standing
her on the dining table when she was only three so she could sing ‘There’s A Worm At The Bottom Of My Garden’, to the delight
of the assembled guests. Of course she had moved on to more sophisticated renditions since then, but it never bothered her.
She would perform at the drop of a hat, with no rehearsal, to anyone.

As soon as she smelled the audience she knew if they were on her side, if they wanted a good time or if they wanted to
pick a fight. The Tinderbox audience was always a joy. She examined herself in the mirror one last time, smoothed down her
perfectly arched eyebrows, and applied another slick of Chanel lipstick. She was ready.

J
ustine fought her way through the crowds in the Tinderbox, astonished that such an inconspicuous door could lead down to such
a hot spot. The atmosphere was fantastic: laid-back, lively, people laughing, chattering, gossiping, drinking cocktails. She
finally made it to Alex’s table. He had the same one every week, to which he brought a selection of friends.

She adored Alex, who had been doing her hair since she was fifteen. He was a terrible gossip, a shocking flirt, a shameless
tease, and what he didn’t know about other people he made up. She had often bewailed his preference for his own sex, for she
felt sure they would have made the perfect couple. They sometimes went shopping on a Saturday and ended up choosing the same
things. Besides, being married to the man who made you look beautiful was surely the best move a girl could ever make?

He was dressed in skinny jeans, an immaculate white shirt and grey cashmere tank top, his hair backcombed into a messy black
bob, his face white, his lips carmine, his eyelashes preposterously long. He looked perfect. A preppy geisha boy. He kissed
Justine and she smelled Annick Goutal’s Eau d’Hadrien.

‘Darling, sit.’ He gestured to a spare seat on the table, which was already filled with his eccentric and fashion-conscious
friends. Justine suddenly felt dull in her jeans and tuxedo blazer. While she had probably paid more for her outfit than the
whole table had paid for theirs combined, she favoured
sharp, classic tailoring. Clothes for her were like armour; in a well-cut designer outfit, with killer heels and a sharp hairdo,
she felt in control. Cream, navy, taupe and black were her palette. Alex often bemoaned her when she went to have her hair
done.

‘With that budget you could go crazy, darling. And that figure. You dress like an uptight New York businesswoman, not a twenty-three-year-old
wild child.’

He’d tried to press her towards more outré designers, but she felt uncomfortable with anything remotely edgy or artistic.
Tonight’s outfit was as unstructured as it got. Anyway, she always looked good, and she knew how to do the look she favoured.
She could never learn to let go like Alex and his friends – mix and match and experiment. But it certainly hadn’t ever stopped
her getting a man.

Alex ordered up the house cocktail, and soon she relaxed and forgot her slight self-consciousness. As the drink went down,
the tension in her shoulders eased off, and the memory of her altercation with Benedict began to fade. Soon she was helpless
with laughter as one of the other stylists from Alex’s salon began describing the hideous behaviour of one of their clients
– he was utterly outrageous, totally indiscreet and quite hilarious. She loved this bunch. They knew how to have fun, their
anecdotes got increasingly preposterous, and she didn’t have to worry about whether any of them fancied her or she them.