The Birthday Party (2 page)

Delilah rolled her eyes. It was such a typical Coco call – no greeting, no goodbye, just a curt question. Sometimes she found
her eldest daughter irritatingly self-absorbed. Or maybe Coco felt so close to her that she didn’t need to be polite?

She went back to her planning, and her heart quailed. This party was going to be a fracas, no matter how carefully she planned
it. There would be squabbles and scenes and tantrums, about who was wearing what and who was bringing who and who was sitting
where. The Rafferty sisters could be guaranteed to make a drama out of a crisis. She supposed it was her own fault. She’d
brought them up to be feisty and independent, able to voice their own opinions, so she shouldn’t complain when she was on
the receiving end of it. And they would all be as good as gold on the night, she was sure of it. She knew perfectly well Coco
would turn up in the end.

As she looked down the list for the hundredth time, racking her brain to see if she had left anyone off, a thought occurred
to her. She
hadn’t
heard from Tyger, for over a week. She usually phoned every couple of days, her breathless, rushed tones
imparting the latest scandal, but there had been nada since … Delilah couldn’t remember when she’d last spoken to her.

Delilah scrolled through the names on her phone and pressed dial. It went straight to voicemail:
Hi, it’s Tyger. You know
what to do
.

Delilah hung up. There was no point in leaving a message. It would be one of a thousand. She’d see her tomorrow. Of all the
girls, Tyger was the most loyal, even though her life was lived at a hundred and ten miles an hour. She lived in a whirlwind
of business meetings, press launches, PR stunts and parties. She never returned anyone’s phone call, but she got away with
it because of her impish charm. And because most people needed her more than she needed them.

But she never failed to turn up for the Saturday lunch. Never.

The Presidential Suite at the Bellagio looked as if it had been turned over by the Las Vegas Police Department. Open suitcases
disgorged a trail of clothes that led to the bed, the bathroom, the wardrobe and back again. Plates of half-eaten food – sushi,
Caesar salad, pizza, melted ice-cream – were strewn over every available surface. In the middle of the floor was a half-eaten
three-tier wedding cake. Iced in red, white and black and studded with treble clefs and musical notes, it proclaimed around
the bottom layer, ‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’. Two champagne glasses lay amongst the crumbs, accompanied by several empty bottles
of Krug. A phone in the corner of the room rang insistently, then stopped, tired of being ignored.

Room service had tried to get in but the ‘do not disturb’ sign had been up for thirty-six hours, and the management had advised
the cleaners to steer clear.

Honeymooners. They’d set off the smoke alarm six times with their cigarettes. And the noise of the music … Even
now, at half past eight in the morning, Audioslave blared out from the sound system. On the bed, a young man lay strumming
along on his guitar. He was skinny and sinewy; the physique of a man who burned his fuel before it even hit his stomach. He
wore ripped jeans and a leather waistcoat, his torso bare, covered in a mass of tattoos. On his head was a battered top hat.

A girl came out of the bathroom. She had a spiky peroxide crop and a cute little face with a turned-up nose and freckles.
She looked about twelve, dressed in a red polka-dot dress with sky-high scarlet stilettos. She bounded across the room, scrambled
onto the bed and straddled him. She could feel the buckle of his belt digging into her and she rubbed against it, enjoying
the sensation of cold metal against her hot clit. He ran his hands over her taut arse appreciatively, sliding his fingers
under the skimpy lace of her knickers. He twisted the flimsy fabric in his hands and gave a sharp tug. The knickers came away
in his hand.

‘Cheap shit,’ he commented with a grin.

‘Cheap shit that retails at sixty-five quid.’

‘You were robbed.’ He held up the flimsy scrap disparagingly.

The girl lowered her face down to his and wrinkled her nose.

‘Cheap shit that’s paid for this room.’

They locked gazes for a moment.

‘So, Mrs Dagger,’ he said softly, ‘what do we do now for kicks?’

C
oco chucked her phone on the passenger seat and put her foot down. Her white Scirocco responded eagerly. It wasn’t her choice
of car, but her mother had insisted on something safe and practical that didn’t attract too much attention, and Coco had finally
given in. And she had to admit the little car was nippy and comfortable, with its truffle leather seats and all the gadgets
she needed. White was a questionable choice of colour, but she soon had a deal going with one of the guys who looked after
the vehicles at the studios. He was quite happy to boast that he washed and valeted Coco Rafferty’s car. She hated mess, but
not enough to muck out the empty cans, gum wrappers and cigarette packets herself.

She pulled up at the security gates of the studio compound. A passer-by would never guess that behind the unassuming grey
breeze-block wall was the lot where one of Britain’s most popular dramas was shot.
Critical but Stable
was young in comparison to some of its long-running competitors, but its steamy storylines, featuring the staff and patients
of a fictional London hospital, had made it must-see viewing for an incredible six million viewers per episode.

Coco had been drafted in to build on that success. The producers never let themselves get complacent. They knew they had to
work to keep up their viewing figures, so they were always looking for ways to improve the show. Coco was under no illusion
that she had been employed for her acting ability, but for her name and her body, which were equally hot. She
was, after all, the daughter of living-legend Raf Rafferty. And her perfectly proportioned physique looked dynamite in that
navy nurse’s uniform, her waist cinched in with a webbed belt, a watch pinned to one of her 34C breasts.

She played Sister Emily Farraday, a virgin who was destined to break the heart of every surgeon, consultant, anaesthetist
and registrar in the hospital, not to mention the lowlier porters and security guards. She was saving herself for her boyfriend
Zak, currently on a life-support machine at the hospital following a tragic surfing accident.

Each episode began with Sister Farraday sitting at Zak’s bedside, filling him in on her life, the hospital gossip, her thoughts,
her dreams and her prayers for him to come back to her. And throughout each episode, Zak sent her messages from limbo – not
only could he read minds where he was, but he could see into the future. So Emily found herself interfering with Fate on a
daily basis – more often than not steering her colleagues away from the wrong decisions and saving patients’ lives in the
process.

It was a complicated and risky premise that sat nicely between traditional medical drama and the more experimental shows that
dabbled in the dark side. A hybrid formula that the production company were hoping would prove a hit with all ages, harnessing
both the populist and the cult. With Coco’s episodes in the can but not yet transmitted, it was too soon to say whether the
risk would pay off.

Needless to say the rest of the cast resented Coco somewhat, because her character was becoming the main focus of the show.
The producers had done their market research. She would be a role model for the younger viewers, a bit of eye-candy for the
older men, and the heartbreaking romance of her situation would be a sop for the middle-aged housewives. It was no wonder
that the other actors were miffed. They’d been working hard to establish the show over the past two years, after all – they
had to take some credit for the existing loyal fan-base. Coco sensed they felt it was a cheap stunt bringing in
a celebrity, complete with column inches courtesy of her infamous parents. But it wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t turn the
part down on the basis that the role of Emily Farraday was a cynical marketing ploy.

Now she was on board, she desperately wanted to break down the barrier she felt existed between her and her colleagues. As
the new girl she felt isolated, but because of the status that had been thrust upon her, she found it well nigh impossible
to break through and become accepted. For a start, everyone knew she was being paid a vast amount of money, and that she’d
insisted on her own dressing room. None of this would endear her to them. Especially as she wasn’t all that experienced as
an actress – she’d only left drama school nine months before, having enrolled at the age of twenty-two. To be fair, it was
her agent who had negotiated her immorally high fee, but the dressing room had been the deal breaker for Coco. Everyone else
had to share, but she desperately needed her own space. Quite simply because she was crippled with nerves.

She was good, she knew she was good, and they wouldn’t have taken her on if she couldn’t act. But she was inexperienced and
lacking in confidence. Every day she woke up feeling sick to her stomach at the thought of having to face the cameras. She
would have loved to have gone to the catering bus at lunchtime and sat with the others eating free-range chicken and ratatouille,
but she couldn’t eat, not until the day’s filming was over. Instead she went back to her tiny dressing room and sat in a beanbag
going over and over her lines for the afternoon, doing her breathing exercises to relax her.

As a result, the others thought she was snotty. She knew she should try to break the ice, go out with them one night to the
pizza place they frequented near the studios, have a few drinks and let her hair down, let them see the real her. They saw
evidence of it often enough in the tabloids and gossip magazines. The problem was she couldn’t wait to leave the studios every
night. She escaped as soon as the floor manager told her
it was a wrap, fled to her car and drove as fast as she could back to her flat, where she could finally face food. And although
she knew she should stay in and get an early night, she so longed for non-judgemental company that she often ended up taking
a cab into town, meeting friends in a club or a bar, then dancing till two in the morning. She’d been out last night, to her
favourite private members’ club in Dean Street, and glugged down one too many lychee martinis. Not enough to give her a hangover,
but enough to make her feel groggy.

She found a space in the car park, switched off the engine and slid out of the car. She was wearing a grey tracksuit and an
outsize satin parka, her honey-blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, her face make-up free. Despite her late night and
overindulgence, she still looked a million dollars. Great bone structure, her mother’s flawless skin and her father’s swimming
pool eyes. God bless good genes.

Inside, she felt a wreck. She felt light-headed and her stomach was churning, as it always did first thing in the morning.
Her nerves were shredded. Would she be able to remember her cues? Would her performance be up to scratch? Would there be an
unexpected cut that she wouldn’t be able to take on board? It always threw her when the director changed things at the last
minute, which he inevitably did. The script was constantly being altered because of continuity or because it was running too
long or because the executive producer wanted to change the nuance of a story. So Coco could never be certain that the lines
she had learned would be the ones she was expected to deliver.

She clutched today’s scenes to her chest as she made her way down the long passage between the warehouses that held the scenery,
then in through a non-descript door and along a corridor. Either side of her were doors leading to costume, make-up, the prosthetics
department: inside she could see people already beavering away industriously. It never ceased to amaze her how many people
were involved in getting
Critical but Stable
onto the screen. They all put in such long hours, and
most of them weren’t even getting a tenth of what she was getting.

She turned left down another long corridor that was lined with stills from the series. It unnerved her, seeing her co-stars
peering out at her. Finally she reached the door to her dressing room. It was dark and poky. The window looked out onto a
dingy courtyard filled with dumpsters. She’d done her best to make the space her own: a chenille rug to cover the threadbare
beige carpet, some framed prints, a big silver beanbag, but it was still no better than a prison cell.

Anyone who thought acting was glamorous was seriously deluded.

She put the scenes she had to go through down on the dressing table, shrugged off her parka and sat down.

She stared at her Marc Jacobs tote.

She could almost sense the tiny little bag inside burning a hole in the soft leather.

Last night, after three martinis, she’d finally confided in a friend. She’d known Harley for years, so she trusted him enough
to reveal her insecurities and anxieties. She explained about the torture she felt, day in, day out. How she desperately wanted
to belong to the team, but how she felt so far from being a team player. He’d found it hard to believe. Coco Rafferty, so
bright and sexy and confident when she was out with her mates, crippled with doubt?

But he’d come up with a solution – a very practical one. To go with it, he’d given her a list of strict instructions: she
must ration her use, not become over dependent, and, above all, must make sure she wiped her nose clean every time she used
it.

‘You’d be amazed how many people come out of the toilet with white around their nostrils,’ he’d said, slipping her a little
package under the table.

Coco got it out now and stared at it. She’d never been a big drug user. She and her sisters had always been more than aware
of the dangers of addiction, whatever the substance.
This was just going to be an ice-breaker, to get her over her self-consciousness and give her the confidence to make friends.
And maybe forget her nerves. Harley hadn’t given her enough to develop any sort of habit, anyway. She would be fine. Lots
of people she knew were light users. You didn’t become a complete coke-head with a rotting septum overnight.