The Birthday Party (16 page)

Nothing much. A nice picture of her at a charity lunch. An interview she had done for a women’s magazine about her skincare
routine. A picture of her in Julien MacDonald next to an actress wearing the same dress – she came off more favourably, thank
goodness, thanks to Karen’s impeccable accessorising and dexterity with the tit tape that made her look comely, not slutty.

The last clipping was a piece from Wednesday’s
Daily Mail
. It was a profile of Thomasina Brown, a winsome twenty-six-year-old
with a gardening slot on daytime television. She wore dungarees with not a lot on underneath, and was, apparently, the latest
object of lust for the nation at large. She was currently on the cover of a leading lads’ mag with nothing more than a trug
covering her decency and the hideous strap-line,
‘putting the ‘‘ard’ into gardening’
. Delilah rolled her eyes, then narrowed
them when she spotted her name towards the end of the rather fawning article.

There are rumours that Thomasina aspires to a cookery programme, utilising the fresh produce coaxed out of the ground by her
green fingers. And judging by her popularity, she could be the logical successor to
Delilah Rafferty, who has graced our screens for long enough now. Surely it’s time for a change?

Delilah felt slightly sick as she read the article again. Was that what everyone thought? That she had been around for too
long?

That was it. Her time was over. Once the press turned on you, it was only a matter of time before the public followed. An
article like this could be hugely influential, not to mention damaging. Everyone would jump on the bandwagon and start Delilah-bashing.
She’d been lucky to make it this far, to be honest. She knew in her heart of hearts that she was past her sell-by date – ironically,
something she told her viewers and readers to be scrupulous about.

Then she told herself not to be so ridiculous. It was one tiny line in a single article tucked away in the women’s section
of the paper. And it was probably Thomasina’s publicist who had planted the idea in the journalist’s head. It was a throw-away
remark that no one would notice. She was just being paranoid.

She screwed up the clipping and threw it in the bin, determined not to give it a second thought.

Tony Allan had been the Raffertys’ publicist for nine years, and he knew them better than they knew themselves. He was baby-faced,
clean-shaven and box fresh, his uniform of striped shirt and jeans always crisply ironed, his shoes polished, his cufflinks
gleaming. He looked like an off-duty banker and talked like a barrow boy. He was quick-witted, one step ahead of the game
and a fierce negotiator. He understood exactly the value of every story and every photo he had at his disposal. Working with
the press was a delicate operation. You had to build up relationships, and be careful not to destroy them. Letting one paper
or magazine have an exclusive inevitably pissed off one you might need another day. He was constantly calling in favours,
doing trades, building bridges, making contacts. He had three mobiles – one for clients, one for photographers and
one for the press. On a bad day – or good, because Tony thrived on chaos – all three phones would be going at once.

He was devoted to the Raffertys. They were his most important clients, because there were so many of them, and over the years
he had almost become one of the family. He didn’t have one of his own. He was married to the job, on call twenty-four hours
a day. Delilah had tried to match-make on several occasions, but he insisted he was happy on his own.

‘Why do I want a bird around? She’ll just bitch about me being on the blower all the time. And ask me what time I’m going
to be home.’

He had a point. The hours he kept weren’t conducive to a healthy relationship. So Delilah spoiled him whenever he came over,
fussing over him, feeding him, giving him food parcels to take home because she was convinced he lived on Marks and Spencer
sandwiches. She always had him and his old mother, whom he adored, over on Christmas Day, and spent as long choosing his Christmas
present as she did Raf’s.

Today Tony was on a high. He was blown away by Raf’s new venture, and was salivating at the thought of all the coverage the
movie was going to bring. He had already put a new white board up in the office and started charting out a campaign. They
would announce the film at the beginning of next week, then line up interviews, starting with the heavyweight Sunday supplements,
moving on to the glossy monthlies, then the daily papers. Raf was too old to target the celeb magazines just yet. None of
their readers would remember his first incarnation, but once the movie was a hit he would become prime fodder. He still had
the looks. Bastard, thought Tony fondly.

He was sitting at the island in the kitchen with a coffee, drafting out a press release. Polly’s MacBook was open on the other
side. She’d been going through all the emails that had come in overnight – even on a Saturday there would be hundreds to deal
with. Poll was a diamond, he thought. Having a relationship with her would be ideal – she understood the
nature of his job, wouldn’t start bitching if he had to drop everything. It was just a pity he didn’t fancy her, but she was
too ‘jolly hockey-sticks’ for him. She was the type to put on another jumper instead of turning on the heating in winter.
He was very fond of her, nevertheless. She was a grafter, and Tony respected grafters. There weren’t many around in this day
and age. Everyone seemed to want a free lunch and a party bag to go with it.

As he worked through his press release, he heard the front door slam and voices in the hall. The bell hadn’t gone, so it must
be one of the girls. He looked up as Tyger bounded in. Trailing behind her was a lanky figure in skinny jeans and a top hat.
His heart sank.

Louis Dagger. He hoped to God this was a one-night stand. He knew Dagger’s reputation. The guy was a nightmare. Shot his mouth
off about all the wrong things and wouldn’t dish the dirt on what everyone really wanted to know. He turned up to press conferences
late or drunk or both. Working for a client like Dagger was all about damage limitation. Tony certainly didn’t want any of
his shit rubbing off on Tyger, who was already the most controversial of the sisters, being outspoken, gregarious and impulsive.
He was always having to tell her off for being indiscreet.

‘Tony-babes!’ Tyger threw her arms round him and gave him a big kiss. ‘This is Louis. He’s a
rock-star
…’

‘I know who he is,’ Tony replied slightly stiffly.

‘Tony only likes Bruce Springsteen,’ Tyger explained to Louis, who was looking shifty in the doorway. ‘He won’t have heard
any of your stuff.’

‘Tyger’s not being fair. I like the Rolling Stones, too,’ Tony defended himself. ‘And actually, I loved that track you did
– the zombie one.’

One of Louis’ hits had been the soundtrack to a cult television show – the one every kid in the country wanted to see and
every parent wanted banned.

‘Hey, Tony – be careful,’ teased Tyger. ‘You’re getting dangerously close to entering the twenty-first century.’

Tony ignored the jibe. He was used to Tyger calling him an old fart.

‘I don’t know where your mum and dad are. Help yourselves to a drink …’

But Tyger wasn’t listening. She was already throwing her arms around Polly, who was coming back in from the office.

‘Polly Wolly! I want you to meet Louis. My … new best friend.’

‘Hello, Louis. Lovely to meet you.’

Tony smothered a smile as the unlikely pair shook hands: Polly beaming and blushing, Louis cool and aloof. The wholesome Polly
and the dissolute Mr Dagger. Polar opposites.

Tyger pulled open the fridge.

‘Louis – what do you want to drink? We’re already completely tanked,’ she announced to the room at large. ‘We had two bottles
of champagne on the …’ She trailed off. ‘On the balcony at breakfast,’ she finished brightly.

Tony tensed. She was lying. What was Tyger trying to hide?

‘I’ll have a beer,’ said Louis.

So he can speak, thought Tony darkly, when he wanted something.

Tyger pulled out a bottle of Peroni.

‘Tony?’ She smiled at him innocently. He knew her well enough by now to know she was up to something.

‘I’m fine with my coffee, thanks,’ he said, staring her out. She blushed, turned back to the fridge.

Guilty, guilty, guilty
. But of what?

Before he had time to enquire further, Coco floated in. With Genevieve Duke two paces behind her.

‘Hey, guys, look who I found at the gate.’

Everyone turned to stare. Genevieve smiled, quite unflus-tered. Tony hurried forward, hand outstretched.

‘Miss Duke. I can’t tell you how thrilled we are. Raf is so excited.’

‘About what?’ demanded Tyger.

‘Dad’s doing a movie. With Genevieve. A romantic comedy,’ Coco told her.

‘No shit!’

‘Hopefully not shit.’ Genevieve chuckled in her famous throaty drawl, immediately getting them all on side.

‘Well, it’s got to be more champagne, then,’ said Tyger, pulling a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck out of the fridge door. ‘That
really is something to celebrate.’

Tony didn’t miss her catching Louis’ eye. He was trained to observe. They were definitely complicit in something. He just
hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

As Tyger poured the champagne, getting more of it over the work surface on the island than in the glasses, Violet arrived
with a tall, tanned, glossy-haired brunette in tow.

‘Everyone, this is my friend Justine.’

‘Isn’t that Violet’s dress?’ Tyger asked, handing her a brimming glass.

Justine felt a blush creeping over her cheeks.

‘She crashed at my place last night,’ explained Violet airily. ‘I lent it to her.’

‘Suits Justine better than it does you.’

Violet thumped Tyger’s arm.

‘Are you in the music business?’ Tony asked. He liked to keep track of exactly who the girls were friends with so he wasn’t
caught unawares. Like he had been this morning.

‘I’m in the hotel business,’ Justine replied. ‘I work for Amador.’

Tony looked impressed. ‘Nice. They’re a great chain. Have you been with them long?’

‘Well, kind of all my life.’ She might as well tell him now. There was no point in hiding the fact. ‘My father’s Benedict
Amador.’

He surveyed her thoughtfully. ‘You’re Justine Amador-Fox?’

Justine looked startled that he knew her full name. ‘Yes …’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tony reassured her. ‘It’s my job to know who all the movers and shakers are in London. And I do quite a lot
of business in your father’s hotels. Anyway, welcome to the madhouse.’

He grinned at her and raised his glass. Justine started to relax. She was going to be accepted as one of Violet’s friends.
She didn’t have to explain herself. Nobody suspected anything. Why would they?

She looked over at Violet, in a white Grecian dress with gladiator sandals, leaning up against the fridge, talking to Louis
Dagger. She was listening intently to what he was saying, running her finger around the rim of her glass, her eyes fixed on
his. She felt a sudden rush of jealousy. Was Violet interested in him? They’d have a lot in common, both being singers, musicians
… He would probably have more in common with her than Justine did. And he was devastatingly attractive. She took another sip
of her drink, feeling slightly self-conscious. It wasn’t like Justine to feel out of place, but she’d never slept with a girl
and been brought home to meet her family before. And this was one high-profile family.

Justine was used to wealth and glamour. She’d been brought up with the world’s elite. Not showbiz types, but powerbrokers
and oligarchs and entrepreneurs, most of them infinitely wealthier than this lot. But the kitchen was crammed with more than
its fair share of A-listers. It was as if the pages of a magazine had come to life. For the first time in her life she felt
slightly awkward.

But then it was all right, because Violet left Louis Dagger and came over to her and dropped a kiss on her shoulder, unnoticed
by anyone else.

‘You OK?’

‘Fine,’ replied Justine. Wild horses wouldn’t get her to admit that she was just the tiniest bit starstruck.

‘That Louis Dagger’s hard work,’ Violet confided. ‘I was just being polite and asking about his music, but I could hardly
get a word out of him.’

Justine smiled. ‘He’s probably shy. It’s quite scary, being thrown in at the deep end with you lot.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Violet shot her a quizzical glance. ‘We’re just the same as anyone else. Dad!’

And just to prove that her last statement was entirely preposterous, she put down her glass and threw open her arms as the
living legend that was Raf Rafferty walked into the room.

Wow, thought Justine. No photo she had ever seen did him justice. He had to be – what? – fifty-five? As old as her father,
for sure. But that chiselled face, the blue eyes that were glacial yet kind and pulled you right in when they looked at you,
the laughter lines that softened the perfect bone structure that could otherwise have been harsh. And his body – it was slight,
yet there was power in his shoulders, a feline grace to the way he walked. Not feminine – far from it. Despite his floral
shirt, his beauty and his elegance, he was overwhelmingly male.

He seemed unaffected, too – very laid-back and down-to-earth. He hugged his daughters, greeted his guests, grabbed himself
a bottle of soda from the refrigerator. And when Delilah arrived, it was obvious he only had eyes for her. It made Justine
feel sad for a moment. She knew her father had worshipped her mother. Not from Benedict – he never spoke about Jeanne – but
from snippets she had gleaned from other people over the years. He had worshipped her so much so that he had never replaced
her.

Had her father looked at her mother the way Raf looked at Delilah?

‘Penny for them,’ Violet whispered in her ear, and she shivered. She caught her hand, holding it tight.