The Birthday Party (14 page)

Suddenly Justine reached out for Violet’s other hand, clutching it as she pressed her thighs together and lifted her pelvis
off the bed, her cries sounding like desperation but a wild look in her eyes and a smile on her lips assuring Violet this
was far from the case. She lay back on the pillows, panting.

‘Oh my God … Oh my God … !’

Violet rolled on top of her. She could feel Justine’s body still trembling beneath her with post-coital aftershock.

‘So, what do we do now?’ she asked, with a mischievous smile.

Justine reached out and stroked her cheek.

‘I don’t know …’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never done this before.’

‘Never?’ Violet was surprised. Justine had been so assured. ‘I thought … You seemed so …’

Justine laughed. ‘Instinct, I guess. I just … did what I’d want someone to do to me.’

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment.

‘I haven’t either,’ Violet admitted.

‘Really? I thought maybe …’

‘No. I think people think I have because I do all that decadent, vampy Marlene Dietrich gay icon stuff, but no.’

Violet felt moved by the softness of the body beneath hers. It was so alien but it felt so … right.

‘This is so weird.’

She rolled off Justine and onto her back, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t know what to think. What the hell had come over
her? She’d never so much as looked at another girl before. And it wasn’t as if she’d gone off men overnight either, she didn’t
think. The thought of a male touch certainly didn’t repulse her, as far as she could make out.

It was, she supposed, about the person. About the chemistry. And boy, did they have chemistry. She’d never had an orgasm like
it – it had seemed deeper, sweeter, longer than anything a man had ever given her. Though maybe it had just been the novelty
of the situation. The naughtiness. Doing it with a girl.

Her eyes wandered over to the clock. Shit – it was nearly eleven o’clock. She was due in Richmond for lunch. She threw back
the covers.

‘I need to get going. I’ve got lunch at my parents’.’

Justine watched Violet slip into her kimono. Even now, she couldn’t believe the girl had fallen into her hands quite so easily.
It had been like picking the ripest plum from a tree – and things had moved faster than Justine could have predicted. What
had started out as a calculated plan had turned into the most incredible night of … well, passion was pretty much the only
word. As she watched Violet tie the silk sash of her kimono tight round her waist, pull her hair back and then shake it loose,
the memory of what had happened between them made her throat tighten with desire.

‘Come for lunch,’ she could just hear Violet saying as the blood pounded in her head. ‘My parents won’t mind.’

Justine sat up. Lunch at the Raffertys’? Now that would be interesting.

‘Really?’ she managed in reply.

Violet looked over at her.

‘The more the merrier, that’s Mum’s motto.’

Justine grinned. ‘We’re not going to mention anything, are we? About what’s happened?’

Violet came and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment.

‘I don’t think so. Mum and Dad are pretty broad-minded, but it might be a bit of a shock even for them.’ She bit her lip as
she looked at Justine. ‘Anyway, we don’t know what’s going to happen yet, do we?’

The two girls looked at each other. Justine swallowed.

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘We don’t. But … it was kind of fun. Right?’

She looked at Violet for reassurance. Her kimono had fallen open, revealing the curve of a perfect breast. Justine wanted
to lean over, push away the silk, put her mouth around the cherry-pink nipple she knew lay underneath.

‘Yes. Yes, it was fun.’ Violet reached out and stroked Justine’s hair, a swift, affectionate gesture that did nothing to reassure
her. ‘I’m going to jump in the shower.’

And suddenly she was gone, in a flash of red silk and dark hair.

Justine lay entwined in the sheets that smelled of Violet’s perfume and salty, musky sex. She felt uncertainty fluttering
in her stomach. She had to remind herself why she was doing this. Berlin. Or if not Berlin, then some other prime location.
And so far, she’d achieved what she’d set out to do. She’d seduced Violet, secured an invitation to lunch chez Rafferty, got
her feet under the proverbial table. When you looked at it, it was all going to plan. So why did she feel so unsure of herself?

She just had to focus. Justine was ambitious. She remembered her fury and her frustration when Benedict had rejected her proposal
yesterday. This was all about her getting what she wanted, and if she had to use Violet to do that, so what? At no point in
the evening had she held a gun to her head. The girl was fully compliant—

‘Come on!’ Violet bounded back in, still damp from her shower, covered in a white towel. Justine looked at her
porcelain flesh and felt a sudden urge to reach out and touch it. ‘Get your arse out of there and get dressed.’

Justine threw back the covers. She walked out of the bedroom, surprised to find that her legs were trembling. She wasn’t used
to feeling like this. She’d had plenty of one-night stands, nights of passion, but they’d never made her feel weak at the
knees. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and gave herself a sheepish smile.

Yesterday she’d been a pragmatic, opinionated, heterosexual girl about town. A girl who never took no for an answer and had
nerves of steel. And she never let anyone get to her. Well, apart from her father. Which was how this whole bloody thing had
come about.

And here she was, turning to jelly. Get a grip, Justine, she told herself.

She found her clothes in the middle of the living room, crumpled, where she’d discarded them the night before. She wrinkled
her nose in distaste. Justine never wore yesterday’s clothes, ever. Everything went straight to the laundry or the drycleaner.
She picked up her blazer and shook it, hoping the creases would fall out.

‘Borrow something of mine. We’re about the same size,’ Violet offered. She was tidying up, opening the curtains and taking
the empty glasses through to the kitchen. ‘And help yourself to underwear. I’ve got truckloads. Tyger gives me all the samples.’

‘Thanks.’ Justine smiled at her. Violet smiled back. She breathed in her scent as she walked past and her stomach turned over.
A cold shower, that’s what she needed.

A few minutes later Justine stood under an icy deluge of freezing water that took her breath away. Soon her head cleared,
and she felt able to concentrate on the task in hand. This was just an exercise in Justine Amador-Fox getting what she wanted.

While Justine was in the shower, Violet sat down at the piano. She practised every day without fail, even if it was just for
ten
minutes, and she knew she probably wouldn’t get another chance – she’d be lucky to be back home from her parents by midnight.

She lifted the lid and caressed the ivory keys gently, wondering where to start. She felt rather light-headed, strangely dreamy.
And hypersensitive to everything around her – she could feel the morning light on her skin; the freesias in the vase filled
her head with their scent. She picked out three notes gently, seemingly at random, and the sound reverberated around the room,
bright and clear. She added three more, then repeated the pattern. She stopped for a moment. Something was happening. Something
or somebody somewhere was telling her what to play.

She watched in astonishment as her fingers danced across the piano keys, picking out a melody that was haunting in its simplicity.
She barely dared to breathe until it was finished. As the last note died away, she sat very still.

Could she recapture it? Or was it going to tease her? Elude her? She tried not to think too hard. She let her fingers do as
they wanted, allowing instinct to take over. Just as they had with Justine … And they did just as she had hoped. The song
was there. Her own composition that had come from who knows where, but that moved her from somewhere deep inside.

She swallowed. She had to capture it. If she left the room and went away, by the time she came back it might be gone. She
lifted the piano seat and pulled out her little tape recorder from the secret drawer that held her sheet music. Pressed the
button to record, then shut her eyes and played the song again. It was as perfect as it had been the first time.

She felt elated. She wanted to dance and shout and laugh. She wanted to tell the world. She had written a song. A beautiful
song. OK, it didn’t have words yet, but she knew that it was special. She wasn’t being arrogant. She just knew. She had spent
so many years studying other people’s work, she could recognise what made a song a work of art.

She sat very still for a moment, her head bowed. She wanted to savour the moment that she had spent so long waiting for. It
was a mixture of relief and elation. Part of her wanted to lock the doors and windows and shut the rest of the world out,
then spend the day trying to perfect her work, maybe add some lyrics. But she couldn’t let her family down. She couldn’t turn
Justine away, now she had invited her.

Justine. Was it Justine, or her experience with her, that had unlocked her? She did feel different today, lighter of heart,
almost feline – contented, sinuous, as if she could lie in a shaft of sunlight all day purring. She looked at her reflection
in the Venetian mirror that hung over the piano. Did she look different?

Yes. Her eyes were sparkling. Her lips were curled into a satisfied, secretive smile.

Bloody hell. She’d had no idea that a girl was what it would take.

Justine came out of the shower and started to look through Violet’s clothes to find something to wear. She wanted to look
good. She wanted to make an impression on Raf and Delilah, for a start. Not to mention Violet’s sisters. Even though they
wouldn’t know the details of their relationship, she would still be under scrutiny.

She ran her hand over the rack of Violet’s dresses, mostly vintage, an enticing collection of silk and lace, a million miles
from the sharp, tailored clothing she wore – stuff that said ‘Don’t mess with me’. These clothes said, ‘Look at me, feast
on me, fall in love with me.’ She pulled out a button-through dress in sage-green chiffon spattered with tiny white dots,
which would work well with the four-inch courts she’d had on the night before. It was a whole new look for her – softer, more
feminine.

Putting on Violet’s underwear was an experience in itself, just knowing that her breasts had been inside the bra, that the
knickers had touched her in the most intimate of places. Her
heart was pitter-pattering, a little pulse between her legs mirrored its pace. No man had ever made her feel like this. Fizzy
and bubbly and helpless. As she slid the dress over her head, felt the sensual fabric that had been so close to Violet, she
had to sit down on the bed.

Eventually she managed to stand and look at herself in the cheval mirror. She was astonished at what she saw. A softer, prettier
version of herself. The fabric clung in all the right places. Usually her clothes gave her angles, but this dress gave her
curves.

‘Wow.’ Violet was in the doorway. ‘That looks amazing. You’d better have it.’

Justine laughed. ‘This is so not my look. But I quite like it.’

‘It really suits you. Here.’ Violet scooped back her hair and tied it with a white silk camellia. Justine shivered at the
touch of her fingers on her neck.

They looked at themselves in the mirror, their arms round each other’s waists.

‘Butter wouldn’t melt,’ murmured Violet.

Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Justine, but I might …

Genevieve Duke paid even more attention than usual to her wardrobe that morning.

She had been delighted with the invitation when it came through from her agent. Lunch at the Raffertys’, in that infamous
orangery. It was just a shame that it was going to be a private function, and the cameras wouldn’t be there. There would be
plenty of time for that, she told herself.

The problem was how to look chic and fashionable without looking like mutton. Or frumpy. Short was out. Sleeveless was out.
Black was out because it was April, and was very draining without heavy make-up, which was inappropriate for daytime.

She’d finally chosen a Bottega Veneta chinoiserie silk dress in a coppery-tea colour. Pretty, elegant and chic, and suitably
spring like. Not too formal. To the knee and with little capped sleeves, which removed the upper-arm problem. Genevieve
hadn’t descended into bingo wings yet, but there was no denying that women of a certain age should not go sleeveless. And
the sleeves had raw edges, which made it a little bit – well, edgy, because the last thing she wanted to look was matronly.

She was seven years older than Delilah, though only three on paper. That had been a tricky one to circle around while she
wrote her autobiography – how did you lose four years without some clever clogs working out from what you were wearing when
you were fourteen exactly what age you must now be? She thought she’d excised them successfully. However, there was nothing
like sitting next to someone supposedly close to your own age for showing you up. A dewy complexion soon showed up against
open pores and a crêpey neckline.

Her hairdresser had painstakingly painted cool ash tones into her graduated bob the night before. Her make-up artist had been
through her make-up bag only last week, and had been out with her to purchase new foundation and powder. Your skin tone changed
all the time when you were ageing. And it was definitely a question of less is more. There was nothing worse than the sight
of foundation settling into wrinkles.

A tinted moisturiser, a little judicious highlighter around the eyes, a sweep of pink on the cheeks, a light coating of mascara
and some neutral lipstick. She had the bone structure, and her neck was holding up well.

She gave herself the renowned Genevieve Duke icy smile. She hadn’t met a man yet who had been able to resist the gauntlet
it threw down. But none of them had interested her for more than a year, which was why she had never married. She had been
the subject of much speculation over the years, not least the rumour that she was having a long-running affair with one of
the nation’s best-loved newsreaders. The truth was she simply preferred her own company – although she and Jeremy did meet
up regularly for long lunches. Very long lunches. Yet Genevieve preferred waking up alone in her own bed. Not having to confer
with anyone else about what to have
for supper. Not listening to someone’s protests if you decided not to go to the theatre or to a party.