The Birthday Party (12 page)

‘Yes …’ She sighed.

He swaggered over to her. She could smell the post-gig sweat on him. It made her feel slightly faint.

‘Great … gig,’ she managed to murmur, feeling very self-conscious all of a sudden. Tyger was never tongue-tied. Never intimidated
by anyone.

He surveyed her coolly for a few more moments.

‘Let’s get out of here.’ He picked up his jacket. She looked at him quizzically. He jerked his head towards the door. ‘You
didn’t just come here to make polite conversation, did you?’

Actually, she had. Not in a million years did she think Louis Dagger would be interested in her. She had just wanted to tell
him how much she’d enjoyed his performance. His songs were melancholy, bitter-sweet, but had somehow struck a chord with her.
She’d come away feeling as if he had laid his soul bare. It probably wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but Tyger wasn’t one for
mainstream.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be going to the after-show party … ?’ she asked, but he took her arm, leading her out of the dressing
room and down the gloomy corridors until they reached the fire exit. She struggled to keep up with his loping stride in her
five-inch heels.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘My place.’

Outside the theatre a car was waiting. They jumped in the back. No paparazzi, thank God – the photographers were all inside,
not thinking that any of the stars of the evening would be escaping yet. A wordless driver drove them through the
streets of London, the tyres swishing through the puddles. Louis picked up her hand and held it, leaning his head back against
the leather seat and shutting his eyes. Tyger didn’t know what to think or do. He was running his thumb gently up and down
hers. The hairs on her arms stood on end. She shivered. Was it the air conditioning, or … ?

He opened his eyes and looked straight at her.

‘Sometimes you just know, you know?’

She gazed back at him, feeling like a rabbit trapped in the headlights. She nodded. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him
for a second – why else had she gone to seek him out in his dressing room? But what did he see in her? Until ten minutes ago
he probably hadn’t even known she had existed.

She wasn’t going to argue. She wasn’t going to break the spell. She leaned against him, snuggling in, breathing in his smell,
relishing the warmth of his body.

His place blew her away. It was a warehouse apartment overlooking the Thames. Round the four walls of the main room ran a
low shelf that held his collection of LPs. There must have been thousands, all pristine, all in alphabetical order.

‘Wow,’ breathed Tyger, pulling one out.

‘What do you like?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got everything.’

Tyger felt her mind go blank. Tyger, who was never at a loss for words, suddenly felt under pressure to request something
hiply obscure. All she could think of was Fleetwood Mac, for some reason, which was neither hip nor obscure.

‘Surprise me,’ she managed finally.

He pulled out an album and went and put it on a vintage record player. Mellow jazz oozed out of hidden speakers. She was surprised
at his choice. She’d expected something radical and discordant, but in fact the gentle tinkling of the piano and the lazy
saxophone were perfect.

He was fixing drinks at a bar. He handed her a chunky tumbler of Cointreau and ice. Again it was perfect. Damn, this boy was
good.

The only thing in his bedroom was a bed. A black wrought-iron four-poster, seven foot wide. Oh, and hundreds of fat candles
in an open fireplace, their dancing flames the only light in the room. As he carried her across the room, Tyger wondered dreamily
if he left them burning all the time, or if he had somehow phoned ahead to get some mysterious housekeeper to light them.

He laid her gently in the middle of the bed, and she felt as if she was sinking into a cloud. He undressed her as carefully
as a mother with a newborn baby, and she didn’t resist. His fingertips glided over her skin. At times she couldn’t be sure
if he was really touching her. She felt his lips on her breasts, his tongue flickering over her nipples. It was almost imperceptible
but sent the most incredible feeling shooting through her. As she arched her back in pleasure she reached out to touch him,
eager to explore him too, but he pushed her hands away.

‘Shhh … don’t move,’ he whispered, and she lay back obediently. She felt dizzy with the shock of it all.

When he finally slid inside her, she cried. And as they came together, she looked into his eyes, into his soul.

‘Marry me,’ he said.

How could she refuse?

It was insane. Of course it was insane. She didn’t stop to think for a minute about the practicalities or the consequences.
To deliberate would be to stop this incredible roller-coaster. Tyger was used to making her mind up quickly and trusting her
gut. It was why she was such a successful businesswoman. Besides, she was twenty-one. She had her own money and she knew her
own mind.

By the next day she had booked flights to Las Vegas and a hotel, dug out the necessary paperwork, and just found time to dive
into her favourite vintage shop where she found a perfect Ossie Clark wedding dress. She said a word to no one, existing in
a bubble of excitement that was unmatched by anything she had ever experienced before. The rest of the time she spent
with Louis in his apartment. He seemed unruffled by the turn of events. When she’d commented on the whirlwind nature of their
relationship, he just shrugged and smiled.

‘Meant to be,’ was all he would say.

It was only now, as the captain welcomed them on board and announced the flight time, that Tyger realised she was going to
be back on English soil in less than ten hours and that reality would be waiting for her. She couldn’t put off her family
any longer. She couldn’t put off work any longer – she’d told them she was on a ‘research’ trip talking to buyers. And she
suspected that she couldn’t put off the press any longer.

The butterflies fluttering at the bottom of her stomach weren’t the same ones that had been there all week. These ones were
churning up anxiety and apprehension. She took a big gulp of the Veuve Clicquot the hostess had handed her. Instead of soothing
her, it burned. Louis was sipping his quite happily, drumming his fingers on the arm-rest, singing something softly to himself.

She wasn’t going to say anything to him. Technically they were still on their honeymoon. She didn’t want to spoil it. She
leaned back and closed her eyes, trying to relive every single second of the past crazy week, starting with the moment she
had first set eyes on Louis on stage. And gradually, as she worked her way down the glass of champagne, her anxiety subsided.

It was going to be fine, she told herself. After all, everyone loves a wedding. Don’t they?

Three seats back, a delegate who had been attending a mind-numbingly dull conference peered with interest down the aisle.
This was the highlight of his trip to Vegas. Everyone had told him the place would blow his mind, but it wasn’t nearly as
interesting as the couple he had been watching since take-off. The stewardess was emptying yet another bottle into their glasses,
and they were getting careless.

You’d have to be dead not to recognise Tyger Rafferty. She or one or other of her sisters was in the papers constantly. And
that was definitely Louis Dagger, who was being cited by the press as Pete Doherty’s natural successor. It wasn’t hard to
figure out what they’d been doing in Vegas – not attending the monumentally tedious conference he’d been at, that’s for sure.
The way she kept looking at the hideous ring on her finger gave it away – it couldn’t possibly be real diamonds, could it?
– as did the way they were devouring each other in between gulping champagne. He took several photos very discreetly on his
mobile, ready to email as soon as he landed. They wouldn’t be printable quality, but good enough to guarantee a decent wedge.

It wasn’t in his nature to blab to the press but someone was going to do it, so it might as well be him. And although his
company paid him to travel First Class, he was only on a short-term contract. A few grand in the bank could come in very useful.
He thought about picking up the in-flight phone and calling a newspaper, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t be overheard,
and besides the rates were astronomical. He’d wait till he landed. The pictures he’d already got were worth a mint.

I
t was half past ten on Saturday morning, and The Bower was already crawling with people. Raf stood at his bedroom window looking
out onto the garden and stretched with a yawn. All he wanted to do was to go down to his own kitchen and enjoy a pot of freshly
brewed coffee and leaf through the
Independent
in his boxers, but he knew there was no point. The kitchen would be a hive
of activity. The bell had rung three times already with deliveries – flowers, organic vegetable box, wine and ice …

He could see Delilah gesticulating in the office adjacent to the house, talking to Tony, their publicist. He supposed he should
be in there, as it was his new venture they would be discussing, but he wasn’t bothered which bloody rag got the scoop or
when. As far as he was concerned, he just wanted to get on with the job and bugger the hoo-ha that went with it, but that
wasn’t the deal in this house. No one in the Rafferty family could blow their nose without a press conference. That was the
price of being successful, photogenic and high profile.

They were valuable, that was the problem. You couldn’t just give your stories away. Each headline had a price, and it was
Delilah who made sure that it went into the Rafferty coffers. She wasn’t by nature particularly attention-seeking or money-grabbing,
but she had cottoned on to the fact that there was money to be made for doing not much more than you were already doing. But
it involved military precision and planning.

Every week was a constant trade-off. Interviews, photo-shoots, public appearances, guest slots. If it wasn’t
Hello!
rummaging around their knicker drawers then it was a personal appearance on some chat show or compe`ring a charity auction.
They had to be seen at every glittering occasion in the social calendar, from Ascot to Glastonbury to the Serpentine summer
party. Polo at Windsor. Harry Potter premieres. And none of them was ever seen in the same outfit. Admittedly they got a lot
of the clobber for nothing – designers were desperate for their clothes to be seen on the back of celebrities – but Raf did
find the nation’s obsession with what they were wearing, well … wearing. He liked to look good, but he didn’t want to be neurotic
about wearing the same shirt twice. So he had favourite items of clothing – why shouldn’t he get good use out of them?

There was a large lever-arch file in the office with Polaroids of what they had worn to every public event. Their stylist,
Karen, completely freaked if they didn’t keep it up to date. He liked Karen, he really did, and it was thanks to her that
he had his Best Dressed Man accolades, but honestly … it was almost immoral, the time and attention and not least money that
were spent agonising. At least today he could wear what the hell he wanted. Jeans, and a black-and-white floral Paul Smith
shirt that should have looked ridiculous on a man of his age but somehow didn’t.

He wished fervently that it was just the girls and close friends coming today. Although in theory it was a social occasion,
they were all on parade. They couldn’t just kick back and relax. Raf wanted to chill with his daughters, catch up on their
gossip, make sure they were each all right. It was why they had established this monthly ritual, otherwise the weeks just
slipped by and any one of them could have a serious problem that was overlooked because the wheels just kept on rolling. It
was very difficult for the girls to be themselves with strangers in the camp. They wouldn’t let their guards down.

He felt a flicker of annoyance at Delilah. Why did she have to turn everything into a bloody three-ring circus? After yesterday’s
momentous decision, they should have just relaxed
amongst themselves, not least because they hadn’t actually told the girls about the movie yet.

Oh well, he thought. Maybe the hangers-on would have the sensitivity to bugger off and leave them alone after lunch. Though
Raf knew from experience that this was unlikely. Delilah’s über-generous hospitality, the endless bottles of wine, the appearance
of yet more food just when you thought you couldn’t eat another thing, meant they were probably in it for the duration. Maybe
he could persuade the girls to stay the night, and they could have brunch tomorrow, catch up, chew the fat. That was unlikely
too – the chances of them not having to do something on a Saturday night were remote.

He thought wistfully back to when they were little. It was always a painful memory. He had wasted so much of their childhood
in a drunken haze. He remembered Violet finding him crashed out on the trampoline one morning. He’d gone to sleep there the
night before after a skinful, wanting to look at the stars. She’d been delighted to find him. She wanted him to bounce with
her. He’d struggled to his feet reluctantly, managed three bounces, then thrown up spectacularly over the edge, to Violet’s
joint alarm and disgust. He remembered the look of horror on her face, and her concern – her sweet, innocent, childlike concern
that her daddy was ill.