The Birthday Party (34 page)

As she drove away from Collingwood, she could feel all the fissures she’d acquired over the years start to join up, and a
giant crack formed in her heart. It almost took her breath away, but she had to keep driving. He would be following her, she
was sure of it, and there was no way she was going to keep ahead of him for long.

She couldn’t face him. She quite simply couldn’t face him. What on earth could he say to her that would make it all right?
Excuses, platitudes, justifications, denial? Or worse, the revelation that he was in love with whoever-she-was. Pandora bloody
Hammond. She remembered her conversation with Genevieve, how she’d asked her to keep an eye open. She’d been half-joking at
the time; she hadn’t really viewed Pandora as a threat.

She slowed the car down as she reached the motorway roundabout. How long would it take her to get home? How far behind her
would he be? She looked nervously over her shoulder, as if expecting to see him flashing his lights behind her. If she beat
him back, she could bolt lock the doors from the inside. It wasn’t what she wanted, to barricade herself inside her own home,
and he’d find a way in eventually, but
she really wasn’t ready for what lay ahead. God, it was so sordid. There was no way of making her immediate future anything
other than high-octane, hysterical melodrama.

An impatient beep behind her made her realise she had been sitting at the roundabout for quite a while, staring through her
tears and the relentless rain.

Without really thinking about it, Delilah indicated left and pulled out onto the roundabout, then took the slip-road leading
to the motorway. Gradually a plan formed in her mind. She had a change of clothes in the boot in her overnight bag. She kept
her passport in her handbag. And at the end of this road was Fishguard, and the ferry to Ireland.

In the kitchen at Collingwood, Pandora was sobbing uncontrollably. She wasn’t such an attractive proposition with a bubble
of snot protruding from one nostril. Genevieve looked at her with distaste.

‘For God’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘If you want to play with the grown-ups …’

Pandora glared at her through swollen eyes.

‘You say that as if you never did it.’

‘I never got caught.’

Raf came in with his car keys. He looked pale, but resolved.

‘I’m going after her.’

‘I’ll come with you.’ Genevieve stood up decisively. ‘You’ve had a shock. You shouldn’t drive on your own.’

‘What about me?’ wailed Pandora.

‘What about you?’ asked Genevieve. ‘You’ve got nothing to lose. Except your reputation.’

She couldn’t resist this last snipe. She was exasperated. The whole debacle was so predictable. She’d seen it coming a mile
off, and had tried to prevent it, but how could you prevent the inevitable? Now she felt like the form captain, trouble-shooting
for a bunch of naughty pupils who’d been caught out.

The door opened and Dickie came in, his hair sticking up at all angles, looking like a little mole without his glasses.

‘What’s going on?’

Everyone looked at each other.

‘Pandora’s just … a little upset about something,’ said Genevieve brightly. ‘No need to worry. Off you go back to bed.’

The last thing they wanted was for Dickie to get a whiff of the scandal. He’d only panic. He didn’t show any sign of going
back to bed. He sat down at the kitchen table.

‘If there’s any tea going, I’ll have a cup. Can’t sleep. Bit keyed up about tomorrow.’

Tomorrow they were shooting the big scene where Hugo’s wife discovers he’s been having an affair with Saskia.

Raf started to laugh hollowly. Dickie blinked up at him.

‘You might as well know,’ said Raf, as Pandora desperately signalled to him to keep quiet. ‘Delilah’s just caught me in the
sack with Pandora.’

Dickie went pale.

‘Shit.’

‘Shit indeed,’ replied Raf gravely. ‘Sorry, mate, but I’ve got to go after her.’

‘I’ll make sure he’s back in time for the shoot tomorrow,’ Genevieve added helpfully.

Dickie slumped until his forehead rested on the kitchen table.

‘I knew it was going too well,’ he groaned. For a moment, he said nothing, then he looked up, remembering that he was the
director, he was in charge. ‘Right. Off you two go. Be back here by eleven tomorrow – we can have a late start. The important
thing is none of this gets out to the press. We don’t want them crawling all over the set like a rash.’

‘Too right,’ agreed Raf. ‘And I don’t want the girls getting wind of this.’

For some reason, everyone was looking at Pandora.

‘Why are you looking at me?’ she demanded.

‘You wouldn’t be the first person to use a bit of star-fucking to further their career.’

Dickie and Raf both flinched at Genevieve’s bluntness. Pandora fought back.

‘You never did, I suppose?’

‘Nope,’ said Genevieve. ‘I didn’t. Come on.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘I’ll share the driving with you.’

Raf stopped in front of Dickie.

‘I’ll be back. I won’t screw things up for you, I promise.’

Dickie nodded wearily.

Genevieve wanted one last shot at Pandora.

‘I’d go to bed if I were you. And put cold-water compresses on your eyes, or you’ll look like death in the morning.’

A few moments later Dickie and Pandora heard the throaty roar of the Maserati start up in the car park.

‘Oh dear,’ sighed Pandora. ‘I feel awful about all this.’

Dickie gave her a withering look and left the room.

Delilah just managed to get on the midnight boat to Ireland.

She parked her car in the bowels of the ferry, inhaling the smell of diesel, and made her way up onto the deck. She leaned
her arms on the side, shivering in the cold night air and watching the lights of Fishguard slip away. She felt drained, unable
to focus her mind on what had just happened, but grateful for the distance being put between her and reality.

She could feel her phone go in the pocket of her jeans. Raf, of course. And before long it would be the world and his wife,
feigning concern. They’d all be on, wondering where she was, what was going on. It would be full-scale panic. Tony would wig
as soon as he found out. There would be lectures, contingency plans, press releases, publicity stunts to ensure the press
didn’t get any sniff of what had happened.

She didn’t want to go through it. She didn’t want to sit in the bloody office having her private life picked over yet again.
It was humiliating. She’d done it for long enough. They could all figure it out for themselves. She was going to worry about
herself for once.

Her phone went again. She took it out and looked at it.

She’d been a slave to it for years. She was never without it. It ruled her life from dawn until dusk. She ignored it at her
peril. Without thinking twice, she held it out over the side and dropped it into the churning sea below.

As the rain started to fall again she realised she was the only person mad enough to be out on deck, and she made her way
to her cabin. She passed the purser, who told her cheerfully it was going to be the roughest crossing for weeks. She lay on
her bunk, her stomach churning, her mind whirling, tears running down her cheeks as she pitched and rolled with the ship.

Her only consolation was things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Raf and Genevieve arrived at The Bower to find the house in darkness.

‘Maybe she’s not here yet. We must have overtaken her on the motorway. ‘

Raf was prowling around, opening doors, as if he might find his wife cowering in the downstairs loo or the coat cupboard.

They sat down in the kitchen to wait. Genevieve thought about making tea, but decided that apart from the ritual it would
be no help whatsoever.

By two o’clock, Delilah still hadn’t arrived.

‘I’m calling the police,’ said Raf. ‘She might have had an accident. And why isn’t she answering her phone?’

‘Because she doesn’t want to talk to you?’ suggested Genevieve. ‘And don’t phone the police. That’s the quickest way to get
the press on the case.’

Raf paced the kitchen, then stopped.

‘Where’s Doug? Where’s Doug the Pug?’ He looked in the corner where Doug’s basket usually lay.

‘She must have him with her.’

‘But all his stuff’s gone: his bowls, his food.’

Raf was opening cupboards frantically.

‘Delilah must have it,’ reasoned Genevieve.

Raf picked up the phone.

‘I’m calling Polly.’

‘You can’t call her at this time of night.’

‘She’ll know what’s happened—’

‘Raf, it’s half past two in the morning. The poor girl—’

‘We pay her more than enough to be entitled to wake her up.’

Genevieve raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment any further. Raf was obviously under pressure. That wasn’t his usual attitude,
thank goodness.

‘Polly! It’s Raf. Have you got any idea what’s going on?’

Polly sat up, her heart racing. She hated being woken by the phone in the middle of the night. Doug was dozing at the bottom
of the bed. He opened one eye in recognition of the interruption, then went back to sleep.

‘Delilah called me at about nine,’ Polly told Raf. ‘She asked if I’d come and collect Doug. She didn’t say where she was going
– I thought she was with you?’

‘No.’ Raf’s reply was curt. ‘Call me if you hear from her, will you?’

‘Of course. Has something happened?’

But Raf had already rung off.

Polly sank back onto the pillow. What on earth was going on? She sensed a Rafferty crisis. The dust had only just settled
since Tyger’s wedding fiasco. As she snuggled back under the duvet, she knew she wouldn’t get back to sleep.

‘Come here, you.’ She scooped Doug up and tucked him under her arm, comforted by his warm, velvety presence.

Sometimes she wished she’d gone and done the teacher training course she’d meant to go on all those years ago. She’d be at
some primary school by now, supervising finger painting and stick insects and times tables. She might have a normal life,
then. Instead of a vicarious A-list whirlwind, when you were at someone else’s beck and call at all hours of the day and night
with no hope of a life of your own. Every time she booked a day off, something would happen and she would be called in
to the office. And she was expected to be in on all their social occasions. Of course it was lovely being considered one of
the family, but actually, what she would really like was …

A family of her own?

Fat chance, thought Polly gloomily. While she was mixing with stars and celebs she would never get a look-in. No one she met
was ever potential husband material. They were always well out of her reach. As long as she was fat she had no hope. While
she was working for the Raffertys she could never lose weight. Delilah had told her to use the gym any time she liked, but
there was never a minute.

She was never going to move forward until she had the courage to break free. And while they were paying her what they paid
her, and she was working for people she cared about and loved, and while she still got a little bit of a kick out of the glamour,
she was never going to find that courage.

The ferry arrived in Rosslare just after dawn. A watery sun smiled down upon the town as Delilah drove her car down the ramp.
She felt light-headed with fatigue, but strangely exhilarated.

She didn’t need any of them. Her feckless husband, her selfish children, her bloodsucking agent, publicist, editor, producer
… the list was endless. She felt a tiny prick of guilt about Polly. Polly, who was resolutely loyal and never asked anything
of her. She shrugged it off. Polly was still going to get paid. At the end of the day, looking after the Raffertys was just
a job to her.

She pulled into a petrol station to fill up her car and buy a decent map, a sandwich and a bottle of water. Her stomach had
just about settled, and she sat in the driver’s seat chewing on slightly stale bread and ham as she looked at where she was.
And decided where she might like to go.

Where exactly did a woman who had been sacked, dumped, cuckolded and ignored head for?

‘T
he tragic thing is, Hugo, I’m really not surprised. You are such an astounding clicheé. It was the cowboy boots that gave
it away. Any man over fifty who wears pointy crocodile-skin cowboy boots is in denial about his age
.

Genevieve’s performance was magnificent. She was towering over the end of her marital bed, in which she had just caught her
husband and mistress in flagrante delicto. She was unrecognisable. Clad in comfortable slacks, Clarks sandals, a pie-crust
collar and sporting an iron-grey perm, she was the personification of a stalwart of the WI. Her diatribe would have made any
errant husband quiver with fear and trepidation.

Raf and Pandora were each finding shooting this scene almost unbearable. It was too close to the truth for comfort. As the
floor manager called cut, they both lay back on the pillows, drained and exhausted. Neither of them had had any sleep.

‘You OK?’ Raf turned to look at Pandora, who had dark purple rings under her eyes that were already starting to show through
her make-up.

‘I’m fine,’ she assured him. ‘I’m just wondering … what happens next?’

‘I suppose we’ll do a couple more takes then break for lunch—’

‘I mean … about us?’

‘Us?’

Oh shit, thought Raf. Hadn’t he spelled it out to her at the
very beginning? He thought she’d understood. He really, really didn’t need this – a clingy, needy actress who imagined that
just because they’d been fucking like snakes for the past fortnight that they were some sort of item.

He’d have to tread very carefully.

He stroked her hair in a tender gesture he didn’t mean.

‘We’re just going to have to play it all right down. Until I can find Delilah. In fact, it’s probably best if I move out of
the house, to stop any tongues from wagging.’

He pulled out his phone and called Polly.

‘Poll – it’s Raf. Can you call Bablake House and get me a room for the next few days? Try to knock them down a bit if you
can, but it doesn’t really matter. Starting tonight.’