The Birthday Party (15 page)

Pleasing yourself.

That was the title of her autobiography.
Pleasing Myself
. She liked the slightly naughty connotations. It was going to be
explosive, revealing intimate details about her leading men over the years. The publishers had given her a substantial advance
on the basis that she would pretty much spill all, because over the years she had bedded a startling number of heart-throbs
and pin-ups. Genevieve knew she was selling out, but so what? She had spent so many years keeping these secrets that they
were now worth a fortune, and she was ready to cash in on her discretion. She had no loyalty to any of her paramours. And
as the saying goes, it takes two.

This book was her pension plan. It was obvious that the roles were going to start drying up as she hurtled towards sixty.
A best seller would give her enough publicity to ensure a few plum parts over the next couple of years, and then she could
retire gracefully. She longed to be at peace mentally and put her career to bed. She wanted to tell her agent ‘no more’. Then
she could get up in the morning and not sit and wait for the phone to ring, or leaf through the papers to search for reviews
either of her own work or of her competitors.

Doing a movie with Raf Rafferty was just the boost she needed. Media interest in how the movie was going would be constant,
as the press seemed to be obsessed with the Raff-ertys: there wasn’t a week went by without one or other of the family in
the news – whether it was Tyger’s inappropriate attire, Coco on the arm of some super-hunk, or Delilah charming a member of
the royal family. It would multiply her own column inches tenfold, guarantee her bum on the sofa of every chat show – they
would all want to know what it was like working with Raf. So much easier than tedious book tours, pressing the flesh and talking
to the WI, which was what she was in danger of facing if she didn’t raise her game.

With any luck, she could time the publication of her book to
coincide with the release of
Something For the Weekend
. Genevieve had always handled her career with a businesslike precision, choosing her parts carefully and strategically.
She had never done something she wasn’t proud of. She wouldn’t have accepted this film if the script hadn’t been razor sharp
and uplifting but at the same time thought-provoking – there were few pieces around that reflected the love and sex lives
of those in advanced middle age. And she was proud of her book, too. She wrote well, with a waspish pithiness and a wicked
wit. She’d been trained to observe, and this came out in her anecdotes. Yes, decided Genevieve, she deserved to have a best
seller on her hands, and she was determined to do whatever she could to make sure that happened.

The phone rang. She picked it up, in case it was the cab firm wondering where her house was.

‘I’m thinking a walk round the new exhibition at the Serpentine, and lunch at Café Anglais?’

It was Jeremy, with that rich, creamy voice he used to deliver the headlines to the nation. It usually made her feel warm.
But today she felt slightly irritated. He was interrupting her train of thought.

‘Sorry. I’ve got a lunch. A work thing. Maybe next weekend … ?’

She heard the taxi driver ring the doorbell.

‘I’ve got to go. My cab’s here.’

She hung up, gave herself a little spritz of Guerlain, and ran down the stairs, not feeling guilty that she’d been a bit curt.
She had never made Jeremy any promises. And her final move was coming into play. After this, it was a life of lolling by the
Italian lakes without a care in the world.

The flight from Vegas landed at Heathrow at eleven twenty-five local time.

For a moment Tyger was tempted to throw caution to the wind and walk out with Louis. The Veuve Clicquot had given her a false
confidence.

No, she told herself. It was quite likely there would be some stray paps stalking the arrivals hall. They often met the flights
from the US, usually the ones from LA, to see who they could catch unawares stumbling off the red-eye not looking their best.
They’d leave the airport separately, get two cabs. It wasn’t far from Heathrow to Richmond. They would be at The Bower in
perfect time for lunch.

She headed for Baggage Reclaim. On the other side of the carousel, Louis was waiting, arms folded. He stared at her, playing
the game, not a hint of recognition in his eyes. She stuck out her tongue. He didn’t bat an eyelid. She felt a sudden lurch
of fear. What if he was getting second thoughts about what they had done?

She looked at him again and he gave an almost imperceptible wink, reached out for the battered Gladstone bag that had held
the few clothes he had brought, then strode towards Customs without a backward glance.

‘Excuse me, sir?’ The customs officer beckoned the tall young man in the top hat to one side.

Louis Dagger looked at him with an easy smile.

‘Did you pack this bag yourself?’

‘I certainly did, sir.’

‘Would you mind if I took a look inside?’

‘No problem at all, sir.’

The officer zipped open the bag with an accomplished flourish and began to extricate Louis’ belongings, pawing through them
and scrutinising each item with an expert eye.

‘What was the reason for your journey?’

‘I got married, sir.’

The officer flicked him a doubtful glance.

‘So where’s your wife?’

‘She’s following on behind. We couldn’t get on the same flight.’

The officer didn’t comment or offer congratulations. That
wasn’t his job. Instead he turned his attention to the inside of Louis’ bag, undoing the zip on the inner pocket.

In the queue behind, Tyger saw what was happening and felt her stomach fall into her boots. Louis was being searched. Shit,
what if he had taken something with him? Or what if he’d left something in there from a previous trip that he’d forgotten
about? Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid, or take such a risk? Would he?

As she waited in line, her heart hammering, she realised she had no idea whether he would or not. When it came down to it,
she knew absolutely nothing about her husband or what his habits were. She had a horrible feeling he was a very big risk-taker
indeed. She thought back to the few hours they had spent in the casino – he’d been reckless, cavalier, ready to gamble everything
on the roll of the dice. Luck had been with him, he’d won a few grand, but he’d just as soon have lost. The thrill for him
was in the risk, not the winning, she could see that.

So it was perfectly possible he could have something stashed away in his bag.

Tyger looked at the ground. She couldn’t bear to watch. Was she going to have to turn up to lunch at her parents’ and admit
that her husband of three days had been arrested? What had she done? She’d hardly known him a week. She suddenly felt filled
with uncertainty. Love at first sight was all very well, but maybe she should have waited. Why the big hurry to hitch herself
to a man she hardly knew, and then only by ill repute?

The ink was barely dry on her wedding certificate and she was already having doubts. Why couldn’t she have thought twice before
he’d led her into that bloody chapel in her vintage Ossie Clark?

She forced herself to look up. The officer was handing Louis back his bag. Sweet relief zinged through her. She wanted to
rush over and throw her arms around him, but this was the most dangerous part of the journey; the leg they were most
likely to be spotted on. Just another hour and she could hug him all she liked. She shifted up another place in the queue
and smiled at a man in a grey suit who was busy texting on his BlackBerry. Couldn’t the poor guy give himself a break? What
was so important that he couldn’t even wait before he’d cleared Customs?

The taxi pulled up to the gates of The Bower. She saw Louis’ taxi pull up behind. She checked around for cameras. You never
knew. Sometimes they turned up on the off-chance.

There were none.

She slipped out and paid the driver, just as Louis came up.

‘Can I have your bag?’

‘Sure.’

She beamed, charmed by his chivalry, then frowned as he put it on the floor, bent down and started to rummage through it.

‘What are you doing?’

He didn’t reply, just pulled out her wedding shoes – vintage YSL – and slipped a hand inside, pulling out a small bag.

‘What the fuck?’ Tyger exploded. ‘What the hell is that?’

She went to grab it off him, but he stood up and held it in the air. She was six inches shorter than him. She had no hope
of reaching. He was killing himself laughing.

‘It’s not fucking funny. Did you plant that on me? What is it?’

‘You don’t need to know.’ He tucked it into his pocket.

‘You used me to take your shit through Customs? What kind of a stunt is that?’

She started to punch him. He was laughing. She was furious. Finally he grabbed her wrists.

‘Tyger, Tyger – hold on. Stop.’

‘You bastard! How could you do that to me?’

He pinned her wrists behind her and looked into her eyes.

‘Tyger – they’re hay fever tablets.’

She stared back at him.

‘What?’

‘I got them in the pharmacy. American antihistamines are way better.’ He nodded at the row of cherry trees on the road outside,
heavy with blossom. ‘And this stuff makes me sneeze like crazy. I don’t want to meet everyone with my nose running and my
eyes streaming.’

Tyger was speechless. He reached out and stroked her cheek. Inside she melted.

‘Did you wind me up on purpose?’

‘You wind yourself up,’ he told her. ‘Come on.’

He picked up their bags and loped towards the gate. She followed him, not sure what to think. She was suddenly incredibly
nervous. She cleared her throat.

‘Um – we’ll wait till everyone gets here before we announce what we’ve done. Is that OK?’

‘Sure.’ He curled an arm round her shoulders as she typed in the security code. ‘Whatever you think’s best.’

Coco negotiated the Richmond traffic expertly. She’d grown up here. She knew all the rat runs. She stopped to let a pair of
boys cross the road in front of her, then gave them a little wave as they recognised her through the open car window. She
could see them in the rear-view mirror, open-mouthed. She giggled. In a couple of weeks’ time, when Emily Farraday hit the
screens, she would be even more famous.

She felt happier than she had done for months. She had spent the morning on her tiny balcony overlooking the Thames, a pot
of peppermint tea at her side, her scripts on her lap. She had gone through them meticulously, plotting her story arc, making
sure she understood what her mind-set was in every scene, jotting down notes to ask the director or script editor. And coming
up with suggestions to make the scene better. Making television was a collaborative process. The script was being finessed
at every stage of the game. What ended up on the screen would be a million miles from what
had been delivered by the writer at first draft. And Coco knew it was the actor’s job to lift the script even higher.

Before, she had been too nervous to risk suggesting any changes. She learned what was there in black and white. But now she
had found a way to conquer her fear, she felt brave enough to contribute. And the more time she spent in Emily’s skin, the
more the part would become hers.

Turning the corner made her feel triumphant. At long last she could hold her head up at home. She had felt like a fraud of
late, convinced she was going to fail. It was hard being in a family of success stories. Tyger was coining it in with her
knicker empire and was always being interviewed in her role as a young female entrepreneur. Violet had endless glowing reviews
and articles written about her in the weekend supplements and a huge following on MySpace and Facebook. Coco felt inconsequential
in comparison. She was often in the papers, but not for
doing
anything.

Her parents had always done their best to treat them all equally, but it was very hard not to judge yourself against your
own siblings, even more so when the press were happy to do it for you. Coco, despite being the eldest, was the least confident
of the Rafferty sisters. Perhaps it was because she had borne the brunt of those years of turbulence. She had always felt
the need to protect the other two, taking them up to her bedroom to play loud music when the rows got heated, reassuring them,
telling them it was going to be fine. Which it always was, until the next time …

Now, of course, it was hunky-dory. Though how damaged any of them were it was hard to say. Perhaps not at all. Raf and Delilah
had smothered them in love, if not each other. Maybe it had made them better equipped to deal with life. None of them expected
it to be a fairy tale. So the only way was up.

As she reached the bottom of Richmond Hill, she felt her heart soar. A beautiful sunny day, lunch with her family, lines learned,
and the answer to all her troubles in the bottom of her handbag.

‘Woo hoo!’ she whooped, and put her foot right down, to the disapproval of two old ladies tottering out of their mansion block.

As she pulled up outside The Bower, she saw an elegant blonde getting out of a taxi. On closer inspection the woman was older
than she looked, but she was very striking. Confident. Elegant.

Coco frowned. It was Genevieve Duke. She was certain of it. She was one of her heroines. A proper actress, of the old school.
One of those women who oozed sex appeal but without feeling the need to have it all out on display. She had spent many hours
watching DVDs of her films, watching how she took on a role, managing to make the part her own, remaining true to herself
but creating an entirely believable character.

What on earth was she doing here?

As the woman approached the gates, Coco pressed the button to roll down her car window and leaned out with a smile, holding
out her hand.

‘Miss Duke? Coco Rafferty. It’s lovely to meet you. Have you come for lunch?’

D
elilah knew she shouldn’t read her press cuttings. She especially shouldn’t read her press cuttings before Tony had been through
them and taken out anything remotely derogatory. She could never resist it, though. She picked up the sheaf of clippings that
had come in overnight from the cuttings agency.