The Birthday Party (25 page)

She threw back the rest of the mojito. What the hell. She should stop feeling guilty, and enjoy the relationship for what
it was.

Benedict Amador knew there was something wrong with his daughter.

Not that she seemed to be suffering. On the contrary, she was blooming. He knew he was biased, but she looked more beautiful
than ever these days. She had changed her image completely. Justine had always been tailored, understated, reined in. Now
she drifted into the office in brightly coloured silk maxi dresses that showed off her cleavage, set off with eye-catching
jewellery, her dark hair loose and flowing. She even smelled different, an exotic scent redolent of frangipani that was a
million miles from the classic Chanel No. 5 she had worn since she was sixteen.

And she was dreamy. She had a cat-that-got-the-cream smile on her face. She was still efficient and motivated, but she had
lost her headstrong bullishness. Once, she would have been in his office every day, badgering him for what she wanted, bombarding
him with ideas. Now, she did everything she was asked, and with impressive results, but that was it.

He decided to call her bluff.

They were at the oyster bar in Bibendum, just the two of them. Sharing a bottle of champagne and a tiny pot of sevruga caviar.
She was wearing a Melissa Odabash kaftan, linen Capri pants and flip-flops, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy topknot,
and big hooped earrings. She looked as if she should be in some glitzy beach bar in Ibiza, not in Knightsbridge.

He watched as she spooned a tiny mound of glistening black pearls onto a piece of toast. His beautiful daughter, who made
him so proud. His beautiful daughter, who was keeping a secret from him.

He thought about the file lying on his desk. The file that she had brought him with all the details of the hotel in Berlin
she had discovered. The file which now contained a final contract ready for him to sign. His daughter’s hunch had been correct,
unsurprisingly. As soon as he had put in the offer, he sent a surveyor and an architect out on the next plane. His team had
reported back to him with their findings – pleasingly close to the conclusions Justine had drawn.

‘I’ve got some exciting news for you,’ he told her now.

She looked wary as she bit into her toast.

‘Berlin,’ he said. ‘I was wrong not to listen to you. It was a very good idea. I’ve got an offer in on the property – we’re
about to exchange contracts. I want you out there as soon as. I want the hotel up and running by Christmas.’

He flashed her a smile, an ill-disguised gauntlet.

For a moment, she looked completely horrified. She put down her caviar spoon. Then she composed herself.

‘Why the sudden change of heart?’ she asked. ‘I thought you weren’t interested?’

‘Well, I changed my mind. And I think you’re ready for the challenge. I think you’d bring a certain energy to the project.’

Justine stared at him in disbelief.

‘I’ve got an apartment lined up,’ he went on. ‘I’m sending back the contract next week. You can be on site as soon as we complete.’

Justine picked up her champagne. Her stomach was churning. He couldn’t do this to her. He couldn’t. It was bloody typical
Benedict, moving the goalposts.

‘I don’t know if I’m ready for it.’

‘Hang on a moment. You were begging me. You told me it was your dream. You told me you could make this place the jewel in
Amador’s crown—’

‘Well, I was wrong. I was being unrealistic. Over-confident. I was trying to run before I could walk. I’ve got so much to
learn. I’m not ready for a challenge like this.’

‘You’d cope. You know you would. You’ve got back-up. I can always be on the next flight if there is a problem. I trust you.’

Their gazes locked.

‘I can’t just drop everything.’

‘Whyever not? There’s nothing spoiling, is there?’

Justine realised in a flash just what this was all about. Her father was testing her. He wanted to know what was going on.
But she wasn’t ready. She thought quickly.

Berlin was perfect for Violet. She would thrive on its edgy, decadent ambience. She could get any number of gigs out there,
make a name for herself. A six-month break while Justine set up the hotel.

‘Can I have some time to think about it?’

Benedict surveyed her coolly.

‘What exactly is there to think about?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Is it a man? Who is he? Maybe we can get him a role—’

‘It’s not a man.’

‘Well, what then?’ He was completely mystified. Something or someone had got hold of his daughter and made her unrecognisable.
Not in a bad way. She was just … different.

‘I need to sort my head out. I’m not sure who I am or where I’m going right now.’

Benedict frowned. Justine had never wavered about her identity or her direction in life.

‘Let me know,’ he told her, and passed her the tiny pot of caviar. ‘Here – you finish it.’

But Justine shook her head. She felt sick.

‘And remember: I’ve got plenty of employees who would jump at the chance of a lifetime.’

He couldn’t resist a dig. He hated the way she was shutting him out. He was desperate for her to come clean, but it was obvious
she wasn’t going to. There was, after all, only one thing he cared about in the world. He cared not a jot for his empire,
his millions, his magnificent home, his art collection, his cars. He cared not a jot for any of his staff beyond a vaguely
paternalistic concern for their well-being. Or any other human being he came into contact with during his business or personal
life. But Justine – Justine was the centre of his universe. He would walk over burning coals to ensure her happiness. Not
that he thought she was unhappy at the moment. He just sensed that she was slipping away from him, in which case he wanted
to know exactly who, what, why, when and where.

On Sunday morning, after a sleepless night apart from Violet, Justine turned up at her flat with a posy of sweet-smelling
freesias and a box of macaroons. They ate them cross-legged on the carpet, dipped into huge cups of milky coffee.

‘I’ve got a proposal,’ said Justine, her eyes shining. She’d
thought of nothing else for the past twelve hours, and she was sure it could work. ‘My father wants me to go to Berlin, to
open a new hotel. Why don’t you come with me? It would just be for six months, till the place is up and running—’

‘Berlin?’ said Violet. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘But it’s perfect for you! They love your sort of music over there. You could sing every night of the week if you wanted.
Get a new following. It’s the coolest city – you’d love it.’

Violet put her cup down, frowning.

‘Justine, I can’t. It’s all about to happen for me here, I can feel it. I’m finally writing my own stuff. I’m getting together
a demo. I need to see about getting a deal—’

‘They’ve got recording studios in Berlin. Come on – it’s an amazing opportunity. Just think of the art, and the restaurants,
and the clubs. You’ve told me more than once you’re bored of London.’

‘Yes, but it’s my home.’

‘This isn’t for ever. Six months. Where’s your sense of adventure?’ Justine put her hands on her hips. ‘I thought you had
more about you than that.’

‘If it’s what you want to do, Justine, you go. I can come and visit you.’

Justine looked down at the floor. She pressed her finger into a few macaroon crumbs while she thought. Eventually she looked
up.

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘You’re too important to me. I’ve spent my life putting my career first, and now I’ve found someone
who matters. So you come first.’ She smiled, a little uncertain. ‘I’ll tell my father to send someone else. There’ll be other
opportunities.’

Violet wondered if she should insist that Justine go. She thought that would take the pressure off the relationship. She didn’t
want to end it, but it was a little intense. And there was so much she needed to do. There wasn’t room in her head for song-writing
and recording
and
Justine. But she couldn’t bring
herself to do it. There was something in her that wanted Justine around. Something in her presence that she found both comforting
and stimulating.

‘I’m glad,’ she said, and the next moment they were kissing. Justine tasted of coffee and sugar and strawberry-scented lip-gloss.

She couldn’t get enough …

Later in the week, Violet took the first few songs she had recorded round for Delilah and Raf to listen to.

‘No Dad?’ she asked, as she put her iPod into the docking station in the kitchen.

Delilah sighed. ‘Lunch with a journalist or a publicist or a columnist or some sort of –ist.’

Violet looked at her mother. There was an edge to her voice that wasn’t usually there. She hesitated for a moment.

‘Come on,’ said Delilah, ‘let’s have a listen.’

Violet decided she must have imagined it, and pressed Play. As her voice filled the room, accompanied by piano and Sammy on
the double bass, she felt a surge of pride. It was exactly as she wanted it to sound. Sammy was a genius. He understood her
so completely. Anyone else would have felt the urge to have layer upon layer of different sounds, but Sammy was as brave as
she was.

‘Darling, it’s completely fantastic,’ declared Delilah. ‘Get me a copy and I’ll send it round to Max Ridley straight away.
If he doesn’t sign you on the spot I’ll eat my hat.’

Max Ridley was an old friend, the head of Locomotion Records, a hit factory with a talent for spotting the next big thing.
Delilah had recently catered Max’s sixtieth birthday, on a huge yacht moored in St Catherine’s Dock.

‘No,’ said Violet. ‘I’ve told you before. I don’t want you to pull any strings.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s not pulling strings. I’d be doing him a favour. He’d be furious if I didn’t make sure he had first refusal.’

‘Mum, I want to make my own way. I don’t want people to think I only got a contract with Locomotion because you know him.’

‘He wouldn’t sign you if you didn’t have talent.’

‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘I don’t get why you want to make life hard for yourself, no. It’s tough enough, Violet. If you’ve got contacts, you should
use them. Everyone else on the planet does.’

‘Well, they’re not me, are they? Success off the back of someone else’s string-pulling is meaningless.’

‘So why don’t you change your name? Then no one could ever accuse you of nepotism.’

‘I’m not going to pretend to be someone else either.’

Delilah shook her head in bewilderment. Her middle daughter had always been obstinate, and managed to find ways of making
life difficult.

‘Look,’ she tried to cajole her, ‘being the daughter of famous people has its drawbacks as well as its advantages. You might
as well take the advantages, because the drawbacks will kick in some day. It all evens itself out in the end.’

Violet snatched her iPod out of the docking station.

‘I wish I’d never played them to you now. I wanted your opinion, not a lecture.’

‘I think you’re being childish.’

‘Because I won’t play things your way?’ Violet demanded. ‘Admit it, Mum. If I make it on my own, then you don’t have control.
That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? I won’t be part of the Rafferty franchise.’

Delilah choked on her peppermint tea.

‘How dare you?’

‘It’s true. You might not like it, but it’s true. Everything’s tickety-boo as long as we’re doing what you want. The minute
we step out of line, you start playing your face …’

Delilah put down her teacup with a shaking hand.

‘If that’s what you really think, you might as well go now. I don’t have to listen to your spiteful bile. I was trying to
help.’

‘You were trying to interfere.’

Violet shoved her iPod back in her handbag and stormed out of the house, tearful and angry. Delilah had infuriated her. Of
course, she should have known that by playing her the demo Delilah would want to get involved. She should have seen it coming.
And she hadn’t meant to say what she had said. Delilah only wanted to do the best for all of them, which technically did make
her a control freak, but for all the right reasons.

She paused at the gate. She should go back and apologise. Her mother had looked genuinely shocked at her outburst, and Violet
knew she had over-reacted. She knew why, too: because her relationship with Justine was playing on her conscience. Half of
her wanted to talk to Delilah about it, because she trusted her mother’s opinion and she wanted her advice. But the other
half of her knew that once the cat was out of the bag, she would have to make a decision, when all she really wanted to do
was keep things going as they were. No real commitment, just a delicious secret between the two of them. Once it was out in
the open then real life would kick in.

Was she selfish to want to keep things as they were? Violet hadn’t ever needed anyone’s advice before on affairs of the heart.
She was very definite about where she stood. This time, she was thoroughly confused.

The pragmatist in her said she was living a lie, and exploiting someone she was supposed to love. The hedonist in her said
stop worrying and enjoy it. The hedonist in her had no conscience.

The hedonist won.

She shut the gate behind her and walked off down Richmond Hill without a backward glance.

‘Delilah?’

Delilah turned her attention back to Polly wearily. They were going through the sample menus the venue had sent over for her
party, and she hadn’t felt inspired by any of the suggestions
so far. But then, she didn’t feel much like having a party at all. Why on earth had she even thought of it?

Violet’s words had stung Delilah more than she could realise. Is that really how her family saw her? As some megalomaniac
matriarch, manipulating them all to her own advantage? It was incredibly hurtful to imagine that might be so.

She tried to analyse the past ten years. She had been nothing but supportive and encouraging. Or so she thought. Perhaps she
had been smothering? Maybe they couldn’t wait to get away and carve their own futures?