The Birthday Party (33 page)

As for the lack of sex in the past couple of months, if you read the statistics it wasn’t so unusual. It certainly didn’t
excuse what he had done. Which was, essentially, succumb to lust. He wasn’t in love with Pandora Hammond. He didn’t even have
that excuse.

So when she stood in his doorway, in the same silky robe she had worn on set earlier that day, he just smiled and stood to
one side to let her in.

‘You know this doesn’t mean anything,’ he said, sliding his hands over her shoulders, pushing back the silk to expose that
porcelain skin he’d been thinking about all afternoon.

‘Course it doesn’t,’ she countered. ‘You’ve got a stunningly beautiful, talented wife who you adore. This is just sex. And
anyway,’ she continued, tracing her fingers gently across his lips, ‘what goes on tour, stays on tour.’

‘It bloody better,’ said Raf, a slightly threatening tone to his voice. ‘No one finds out about this. OK?’

‘Course not,’ replied Pandora, thinking that for a one-time alcoholic serial adulterer who still lived in the public eye,
he was pretty naive.

‘D
elilah.’

It was Miriam. Delilah’s agent. And when she said Delilah’s name like that, she knew it was bad news. If it was good news,
she burbled on for a few minutes about nonsense.

‘As you know, I’ve been talking about renegotiating your contract with the production company.’

‘Are they baulking at my fee?’ They shouldn’t be. In the light of the current climate, Delilah hadn’t been unreasonable in
what she was asking.

‘No.’

‘Then … what?’ Shit. They wanted her to have a co-host. Well, that would depend very much on who it was—

‘Dee – they’re not renewing your contract. They’re … dropping the show.’

Delilah sat down on a nearby stool.

Not in a million years had she considered this possibility. The ratings for the last show had been great. She was easy to
work with. She turned it in every time. She did all the publicity they needed and more. She’d given that programme a hundred
and ten per cent, and they had the audience share to prove it.

‘Wh … why?’ she stammered, truly shocked.

‘You know how it is. They’ve got a new Head of Programming. He wants to put his stamp on the schedule. He thinks the show’s
… done everything it can.’

This was, to a certain extent, true. She’d done everything from avocado mousse to zabaglione.

‘What’s replacing me?’

Miriam cleared her throat.

‘He wants to do a show about self-sufficiency. Making your own bread and jam. Growing your own veg.
The Good Life
for the twenty-first century.’

‘I can do that.’

‘Delilah – he’s made his mind up. There’s nothing I can do.’

‘He thinks I’m too old.’ Age paranoia. It was inevitable, with fifty staring her in the face.

Miriam didn’t reply. Which was as good as saying yes, she was too old.

‘Who’s presenting it?’ Delilah persisted, even though she didn’t really want the answer.

‘Thomasina Brown.’

Thomasina Brown. Her nemesis. Delilah could just imagine how she had gone about getting the job.

‘I’m sorry.’ Of course Miriam was sorry. Fifteen per cent of a lot was a lot.

Delilah’s mouth was dry. She didn’t want to carry on the conversation. There wasn’t much to be said.

‘Let me take it on board,’ she managed. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

She put the phone down. Her hands were trembling.

She’d been stupid to think she was invincible. She had believed her own publicity. She had thought she was a national treasure.
Why hadn’t she seen this coming?

She had a sudden rush of hope. Surely one of the other channels would be glad to have her? She was always being approached.
Why hadn’t Miriam thought of that? She put out her hand to pick up the phone, then stopped. Other channels were happy to poach
you while you were still a success. They probably weren’t so keen on picking you up when you’d been dropped.

She sat down, trying to gather her thoughts. It was only a television show, she told herself. She had plenty of other irons
in the fire. She had offers to do things every week that she
turned down because she was too busy. There was no need to panic yet.

It had been her way of life for so long. It dictated the pace in the house. It governed everything she and everyone else did.
It was the engine.

Why hadn’t the producer had the courtesy to call her himself? Wouldn’t that have been the polite thing to do? But no – he
was too busy wielding his new broom, building himself an empire. And, no doubt, fucking Thomasina Brown. She hadn’t got the
job because of her green fingers. What did green fingers have to do with presenting a cookery show?

Rage and hurt boiled up inside her. Years of loyal service and fantastic viewing figures and they could dump you just like
that.

And then another even more terrible thought occurred to her, and her veins turned to ice.

When the phone rang again half an hour later, she knew who it would be.

‘Delilah.’

She was right. It was her editor.

‘Delilah, I am so, so sorry.’

They were dropping the book. Without the television show to boost its sales, they couldn’t justify the massive print run they
had planned. And without a massive print run, they couldn’t justify the massive production costs. It was a hugely ambitious
project. Without the exposure, the figures just didn’t add up. The publishers were pulling the plug.

‘That’s not to say we won’t try something less ambitious at a later date.’ The editor tried to soothe her, but both of them
knew it was bullshit.

She was yesterday’s news. Tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers.

It was not a good feeling.

She lay in bed all afternoon and on into the evening. She’d spent more and more time there lately. If you lay in bed, you
didn’t have to make decisions. You could let everything wash over you, drift off to sleep if the reality became too painful.

She didn’t want to cry. Or scream. Or throw plates.

She wanted Raf.

Raf would reassure her. Raf would bolster her up. Raf would make sure she didn’t feel like a washed-up old harridan.

She dialled his mobile, looking at the clock. It was nearly nine o’clock. Perhaps he could nip home? He could be back in under
two hours in the Maserati. She just wanted to feel his arms around her, hear his soothing voice.

But the phone went straight to voicemail.

She imagined him in some trendy restaurant in Bath, Pandora Hammond hanging on his every word, Genevieve Duke regaling him
with tales of her lurid past. The three of them wrapped up in that bubble of closeness that working on a film always brings.

Maybe she should drive down there? She wouldn’t know where to find him. She supposed she could go to his digs. Hang out in
his room till he got back. They wouldn’t be madly late, would they? Film sets were pretty puritanical these days. Everyone
was paranoid about getting a decent night’s sleep so they didn’t look their age.

She decided not to leave a message. She’d probably break down in the middle of it and start blubbing. She ran upstairs and
threw a few things into a bag, phoning Polly and asking her to come and collect Doug the Pug – she couldn’t take him with
her. She searched through the file in the office until she found the address of where Raf was staying, wrote down the postcode
so she could programme it into the sat-nav, found her car-keys and locked up the house.

Twenty minutes later she was on the M4.

Genevieve only slept about five hours a night these days. She tended to doze off eventually at about one, then woke up at
six. She was a voracious reader, and she did the crossword every day.

So when she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel outside, her curiosity was roused. Any distraction was welcome at this
time of night. Anything to break the tedium of sixteen across. She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain.

As a figure stepped out of the car and into the light thrown by the front door, she saw it was Delilah.

Shit.

She knew as well as the next person that, despite their best efforts to keep it quiet, Raf was shagging the arse off Pandora.
It was an open secret that had so far been kept from the press. She had come to terms with it, though she made it clear she
didn’t approve. She certainly wasn’t going to stand by now and watch Raf’s marriage go down the pan. She wasn’t going to let
Pandora have that privilege.

There was no time to go up to Raf’s room and warn him. She’d have to go downstairs and ward Delilah off. Without stopping
to put on a dressing gown, she opened the door, shot down the corridor and down the stairs just as Delilah came in through
the front door. They’d long decided it was easier to leave it on the latch than keep remembering their keys.

‘Delilah!’ she beamed radiantly. ‘Thank God. Another human being to talk to. Everyone else is snoring their heads off. I was
just going to make myself a cup of tea. Say you’ll have one with me.’

Delilah looked at her dully. Genevieve saw that she looked dreadful. Her face was drawn and pinched, and she looked as if
she might have been crying.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Fine. Well, not fine. But nobody’s ill or dead or anything.’

‘Oh. Good.’ Genevieve indicated the kitchen. ‘Well, come and have a cup of char and tell me about it. You won’t get anything
out of Raf – he went off hours ago.’

Delilah followed her reluctantly into the kitchen. Genevieve busied herself putting the kettle on, wondering how she was going
to get upstairs to warn the others without arousing Delilah’s suspicion.

‘Bugger,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve left my herbal teabags up in my room. If I have the real McCoy I really won’t sleep. Keep an
eye on the kettle, would you? I’ll just go and fetch them.’

Delilah smiled wanly in acquiescence. Genevieve padded up the stairs, then turned right instead of left until she reached
Raf’s room at the end. She knocked as loudly as she dared. It had to be hard enough to wake them.

There was no reply. She rattled the knob. Eventually she heard footsteps. She put her finger to her lips so that whoever answered
the door would know to be quiet. It was Raf.

‘Shh!’ Genevieve’s eyes were wide with alarm as she stepped past him into the room. ‘Delilah’s downstairs. I’m making her
a cup of tea, but I don’t know how long I can distract her. Get rid of Pandora!’

She could see the girl’s inky black hair spread out on the pillow. She was fast asleep. Raf rushed over and shook her awake.

‘Pandora, Pandora – quick. Wake up!’

She was one of those irritating people who don’t respond well to being roused out of their slumber. She sat up, sleepy and
confused.

‘What is it?’ She saw Genevieve and smiled. ‘A threesome?’

‘For Christ’s sake—’

A panic-stricken Raf was practically dragging her by the arm.

‘Ow! Let go.’

‘Delilah’s here,’ he hissed.

Pandora swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stretched up her arms and yawned. It was almost as if she was trying to be
annoying. Genevieve felt the urge to slap her, but couldn’t risk the noise.

‘Hurry up!’

‘OK, OK.’

Pandora stumbled sleepily across the room, stark naked, making no effort to cover herself, her long, dark hair tumbling over
her shoulders.

Thank God, thought Genevieve. Just in time.

And turned to see Delilah behind her, taking in every bit of the scene.

‘Oh God, am I sleepwalking again?’ attempted Pandora valiantly, then pretended to realise she had no clothes on. She gave
a little squeal and tried to cover herself up. ‘I’m so sorry … oh my God, how embarrassing …’

‘Save it for the director.’ Delilah gave her a withering look, then turned to Raf. ‘A leopard never changes its spots, does
it?’

D
elilah wasn’t sure what was blurring her vision: her tears or the torrential early summer rain that was falling in heavy sheets.
As she drove blindly through the streets of Bath, her sat-nav became increasingly hysterical.

‘Turn around where possible! Turn around where possible!’

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ screamed Delilah in reply, stabbing wildly at the buttons to turn it off, then peering through the windscreen
for any clue as to where she was. Eventually she saw a blue motorway sign for the M4.

Bastard. Bastard bastard bastard. All those years she had put up with his infidelity, and she had excused him, thinking it
was the drink. Time and again she had smiled bravely, even though her heart was crackle-glazed with tiny fissures, and taken
him back, because she loved him – and she thought he loved her, despite his errant ways. Incredulous journalists used to ask
how she could find it in her heart to forgive him when he had betrayed her so publicly. She would shrug and say the affairs
meant nothing, because she didn’t think they did. She thought the only thing that was truly important to Raf was his family,
and that somehow their love was stronger for all his betrayal. And besides, the Raf who was unfaithful to her wasn’t the real
Raf – it was the Raf who had been taken over by the demon drink. She never held him accountable – it was always the fault
of Mr Gordon or Mr Bailey or Mr Hennessey. She didn’t care that some women derided her for her loyalty, and accused her of
enabling men to think it was all right to take a lover or a mistress just because they were drunk.

When you found a love like hers, you didn’t let it go that easily.

And once he had fought his final battle against alcohol and won, she thought she had at last been vindicated. Raf had shown
no signs of straying in his sober years. She had been right to stand by him. He wasn’t the guilty party. The booze was.

Only now, she was faced with the truth. Booze had nothing to do with it.

She’d seen the evidence for herself. A stunning, inky-haired, milky-skinned floozy in his bed. And he was stone-cold sober.
She would know if he’d been drinking. The signs were engrained in her. She only had to look at his eyes to know if he’d hit
the bottle. The look he had given her was one of shock mixed with sorrow. And fear. But not alcohol.