The Birthday Party (28 page)

Her father’s story was a lesson to her. She was going to have to tread carefully on her journey with Violet. Already she had
felt the emotions he described – the sense of wanting to possess someone entirely, the sickening dread when they spoke to
someone else, the desperation when they were out of sight and all the time questions: how did they feel, what were they doing,
would they come back … ?

Benedict had stopped weeping now. He sat back on the sofa, drained.

‘Sorry …’ he muttered, then gave an embarrassed laugh as he wiped away the last of his tears with his sleeve. It was a moving
gesture, almost childlike, and Justine felt tears catch again at the back of her throat.

He put his hand over hers and gave it a tight squeeze, gathering strength as much as giving it.

‘Why today?’ he asked curiously. ‘What made you ask me today?’

She opened her mouth to tell him, then decided against it. Something told her now was not the time to deliver such a shock,
when she had no real idea where she stood or where she was going.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied eventually. ‘Maybe it was … seeing Delilah with all her daughters. It just made me wonder …’

They sat for a while in silence, Justine curled under the crook of his arm.

Benedict sensed she was lying. Something had happened to change his daughter. He could tell. He hoped she hadn’t been hurt,
or wasn’t going to be. He felt a flash of protectiveness – that familiar searing pain in his gut, different from the one he
had felt for his wife, but all-consuming nevertheless.

He wasn’t going to let any harm come to Justine. He wasn’t going to let any bastard harm a single hair on her head. She might
not be forthcoming, but Benedict had ways of finding things out. If there was someone out there with the power to hurt his
daughter, he would know soon enough.

I
t was the day Raf was due to decamp to Bath to start work on
Something for the Weekend
, and for the first time in her life, Delilah thought that perhaps today she just wouldn’t get up. Her limbs felt heavy, and
every thought that made its way into her head was unwelcome. She didn’t feel ill. Just overwhelmed. She genuinely didn’t see
the point in throwing back the duvet. She wanted to snuggle back under the protective cloak of white linen and goose-down
and float away to oblivion.

There had been a hideous, horrible piece in one of the papers after Coco’s screening. An immensely unflattering photo of Delilah
coming out of The Melksham looking puffy and bloated. She wasn’t puffy and bloated, not at all, but the camera angle, and
the fact that she had had her head down, made her look as jowly as Doug the Pug. The long grey silk cardigan over wide-legged
trousers that looked chicly sleek in the mirror transformed her into a ship in full sail when seen through a lens.

The strap-line had read: Who Ate All the Pies?

She knew she should brush it off. She knew she didn’t look old and fat but had been caught unawares by a photographer determined
to make her look her worst, and that no effort had been made to improve her appearance. And she knew what this meant.

The tide was turning. They were out to get her. This was the start. Whereas once she had been revered as a national treasure,
now she was going to be an easy target, overshadowed by her ravishing daughters. The spiteful copy
would increase tenfold. There would be competition as to who could photograph her at her worst. There would be speculation
about her state of mind, her marriage, her health. They wouldn’t be happy until they had destroyed her. She’d seen it so many
times before. While you were a success, you thought you were immune. But nobody was immune. She didn’t know who decided it
was your turn for a downfall. It happened almost as if by osmosis. But it was her turn. She could feel it in her bones.

And once
they
– whoever
they
were, those nameless, faceless arbiters of destiny – had decided your card was marked, you began
to fulfil their prophecy. Loss of confidence, paranoia, ill-chosen decisions all combined to hasten your fall from grace.

She tried to breathe deeply to suppress her rising panic. There was no one she could turn to for reassurance. Everyone around
her was paid to be nice. Polly, Tony, Miriam – they all had a huge vested interest in her continued success. If she voiced
her fears, their response would be biased.

And Raf. She couldn’t turn to him either, even though she had steered him through the most spectacular downfall. The difference
was that he had engineered that downfall – it had been entirely of his own making. The press at the time hadn’t decided to
de-throne him; he had done it for himself. They had recorded it all, of course, but they hadn’t actually brought it about.
And now they were preparing themselves for his resurrection.

Maybe there wasn’t room for two on the throne? Maybe she had to sacrifice herself to make way for him? There was already a
sea-change in Raf that she found difficult to cope with. He had a new energy to him. Where once her phone had rung all day,
now it was his. Production assistants, wardrobe girls, people asking about dates, accommodation, costumes, his dietary preferences.
The production company had sent him a welcome hamper from Daylesford Organic, stuffed with all sorts of culinary delights
to take with him on location. Couriers with updated scripts arrived at all hours. A photographer came
to do a portrait shot for the publicity. And he seemed to be out for lunch or dinner every day of the week. Not that Delilah
wasn’t able to go if she wanted, but she knew how dull it was sitting in on someone else’s gig. The old adage don’t mix business
with pleasure always hit home.

Her phone, in the meantime, was suspiciously quiet. She had finished shooting her latest series, and was battling to finish
the next book. So she was in a fallow period. People should still be ringing her, though. She was on everyone’s wish list.
Wasn’t she?

There was no doubt that the focus at The Bower had shifted.

Delilah hated herself for minding. She wasn’t so shallow and self-centred that she had to be the star of the show all the
time. Or was she? Maybe all those years of being top bitch, the one that ruled the roost, had affected her. Made her think
that she was the one the world revolved around.

And the resonance of Violet’s words were still stinging. Her daughter hadn’t phoned to apologise, or even defend her slur.
In fact, none of them had phoned for days. They were wrapped up in their own worlds. She was no longer needed.

Until they needed a handout, or a favour, she told herself bitterly. One or other of them would be on the phone sooner or
later.

She stared up at the Abigail Ahern chandelier that swung over her bed. On her feet lay Doug the Pug, a dead weight, wheezing
gently.

Come on, she told herself. Get up and go into the gym. Do a workout, eat some fruit, drink some water, have a shower, get
dressed. You’ll feel better.

She still didn’t move. She could hear Polly and Tony talking to Raf downstairs in the kitchen. She didn’t want to know about
what. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t be her. Laughter floated up the stairwell. There’s nothing worse than other people’s
laughter when you are feeling below par. She felt a nasty twitch in her gut; a slightly burning sensation. Was she
ill? Had she eaten something, or caught a bug? Maybe that would explain her lassitude. As she ran over what she had had for
dinner last night, a slow realisation hit her. The boiling acid in her stomach wasn’t food-related.

It was jealousy.

Once more she felt the overwhelming urge to throw the duvet over her head. But she couldn’t. This was Raf’s big day. She didn’t
want to look like a sour-faced old bag, even if that was what she felt like. With a Herculean effort, she extricated her feet
from underneath Doug and got out of bed.

Delilah waited until Raf was lining his cases up in the hall ready to put into the boot of the Maserati before presenting
him with her farewell gift. She dangled it in front of him with a grin.

He took it from her, puzzled.

‘What this?’

‘The key to the most gorgeous bachelor pad in the Royal Crescent. You will absolutely love it.’

‘But Dickie’s sorted the accommodation. He’s rented a house on the outskirts of Bath.’

‘It looks horrible. Didn’t you see the details he emailed?’ Delilah was disparaging. ‘Half the rooms haven’t even got their
own bathroom, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I don’t mind—’

‘What if I want to come and stay?’

‘It’s perfectly good enough.’

‘And you’re going to have to share the kitchen with everyone else.’

‘So? It’s me that’s got to stay there. If I’m happy with it, what’s the problem?’

‘If you’re going to be away from home for three months then you need decent accommodation. And your own space. This is perfect.
It’s got all the mod cons; there’s even a mini-gym in the spare room.’

‘No.’ Raf shook his head, his lips tight. ‘We’re on a strict
budget. Of course Dickie would love to put us all up in some Regency shag palace, but he can’t afford to—’

‘I’m not expecting him to pay. I’ve dealt with it.’

Raf knew this tone in Delilah’s voice. It meant she had made up her mind. Well, this time he was going to dig his heels in.
He had become used to her making all the decisions over the past few years. He’d been happy to go along with it – she had
such firm opinions about things, and he usually wasn’t bothered about details. This, however, was a point of principle.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m staying with the rest of the guys. It’ll look bad if I don’t. Besides, I don’t want to be stuck in some
flat on my own.’

‘But I’ve paid for it up front.’

‘Tough.’ They stared each other out for a moment. They rarely argued like this, but Raf knew that if he didn’t stand his ground,
she would get her way. He felt very strongly about this. He’d be seen as an absolute wanker if he distanced himself from the
others. Surely she could see that? ‘It’s out of the question. I’m sorry.’

He gave the key back to her. She threw it down on the hall table and he could see there were tears in her eyes.

‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘It was a really nice thought. But I’m not doing it.’

‘So what do I do with an empty flat in Bath for three months?’

He was itching to say she should have asked him before she booked it.

‘You could probably sublet it.’

She put her face in her hands. She was crying. Raf felt unsettled. Delilah rarely cried like this. She cried at happy things,
and when something moved her, but not over day-today trivia.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Why won’t anyone let me help any more?’ she sobbed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘All of you. You’re just pushing me away.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘You are! Coco used to call me all the time – every day – but she never does any more. Violet won’t let me help her with her
music. And Tyger’s totally wrapped up in Louis.’ Even as she said it, Delilah realised she sounded self-pitying.

‘Delilah, they’re grown-ups. They don’t need you any more. Not so much, anyway.’

She looked up at him.

‘They’ll need me when it all goes wrong. You watch.’

Raf looked at her evenly.

‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t. You should be happy you’ve brought up three independent, free-spirited girls.’

‘I know, I know, but it’s hard.’ She sniffed. ‘And … I’m going to miss you.’

There. She’d said it. That was what was really bothering her. What on earth was she going to do without Raf around?

‘Hey, come on.’ He drew her into his arms. ‘We all love you, you know we do.’ He started to kiss her. Her hair, her cheek,
then her mouth. As he became more ardent, she pushed him away with a nervous laugh.

‘That’s enough. I’ve got to go and do some work. I want to finish another chapter by lunchtime …’

And she edged out of the room.

Raf watched her go, then turned back to his suitcases with a sigh. He didn’t know what was the matter with her at the moment.
Pressure of work, he supposed, but she didn’t have to keep pushing him away like that. She’d never been one of those wives
who was too tired, or had a headache. He always felt sorry for men who complained about not getting any action. He’d never
had that problem with Delilah – there was a time when she couldn’t go more than a couple of hours without seeking him out,
luring him up to the bedroom. Or not even bothering with that – the island in the kitchen had sufficed on many an occasion.
Just recently, however, she almost seemed to recoil.

He carried his cases out to the car, stacking them neatly in
the boot. It was difficult to know how much to take, but he could always pick up more stuff when he came home at weekends.
If he came home …

Raf would never have said anything to Delilah, but he was really looking forward to three months away. Three whole months
of being his own person, with his own identity. Able to make decisions that wouldn’t be over-ruled, plans that wouldn’t be
changed. He could do what he liked without having to check Delilah’s diary. He could wear what he liked, without her suggesting
a different shirt or another pair of shoes.

He still adored his wife. Of course he did. But he couldn’t deny he was relishing the prospect of no longer being Mr Delilah
Rafferty.

Polly sat in the office, fiddling with the stapler. She had just finished collating all the paperwork that Raf would have
to take with him. She’d waded through all the stuff that had been sent by the production company, chucking out all the boring
bits about health and safety, and putting all the relevant information in the smart, leather-bound file she had got him.

She felt immensely tearful. She couldn’t pin down why. Whether it was over-work. Or general exhaustion. Or PMT. Or the fact
that she had got on the scales this morning and had put on two pounds.

Or was it just the simple fact that today Raf was going? The day she had been dreading for weeks. It was going to be so strange
without him. Whatever else was going on, Polly knew that she could always chill out with him in the kitchen over a cup of
coffee. That he was always calm and kind and considerate, and managed to cheer her up if she was feeling a bit glum. Delilah
and the girls were sweet, but they did take her for granted a little bit. In their eyes, she was good old Polly Wolly, whereas
Raf treated her like a human being.