The Birthday Party (5 page)

Surely cycling three miles to work and back every day would have an effect? It was bloody torture, so there ought to be some
payback. She was halfway across Richmond Bridge now – nearly there, though she still had that ghastly hill to navigate. She
knew she would probably have to get off and walk, but that was still exercise, wasn’t it? And she would arrive at work red-faced
and panting, but no one would mind. It had been Delilah’s idea, after all. It was Delilah who’d ordered the bike for her birthday,
after she’d found Polly sobbing in the cloakroom two weeks ago.

She’d polished off the rest of the cranberry and coconut cookies after the afternoon’s shoot – even though they had been under
the bright lights all day. She hadn’t been able to resist. She’d been good all day – porridge for breakfast and a salad pitta
bread for lunch. But the cookies had smelled so delicious. And once she’d had a bite of one – sugary, buttery, slightly salty,
soft but crumbly – that was it. The whole lot had to go.

Why hadn’t she been able to stop at one? Or even two? Like a normal person? She had to trough the whole lot, until she felt
sick. And she couldn’t even be sick. She didn’t have the nerve
to stick her fingers down her throat and chuck it all up. She wasn’t bulimic; she was just a pig. She ate like a pig and looked
like a pig.

Working with beautiful people didn’t help. Delilah wasn’t thin, she was curvaceous, but it was all in proportion, the classic
hourglass figure. And the girls were all perfect – not an ounce of fat on one of them. If Polly wanted a reminder of her gluttony,
she only had to compare herself to one of the Raffertys.

She’d worked for them for nearly ten years. She’d been taken on when Delilah was writing her first book. The publishing company
had sent her along to collate the recipes, check them and make sure the measurements were correct. It had been hard work,
deciphering Delilah’s elaborate scrawls with the asterisks and squiggles and scratchings-out. Most of her recipes were from
her head. But Polly was a plodder, meticulous and organised, and had done the most brilliant job.

She had been shocked at the chaos of the Rafferty household. Gradually, over the three months she had been employed, she had
sorted out their lives. The girls had all lived at home then, which only added to the confusion. Polly had established some
sort of order, starting with a huge calendar wall-chart she put up in the kitchen with a sticker system – a different colour
for each of them. They had all been astonished at the difference it had made, and clearly thought Polly was a genius.

When her contract came to an end, Delilah had begged her to come and work for them full time and Polly had agreed. She didn’t
have a title. She wasn’t a PA, because she could turn her hand to anything. Cook, chauffeur, hairdresser, sticker-on-of-false-eyelashes:
her job description covered every eventuality. She never knew what she might be asked to do when she turned up in the morning.
And she never knew quite what time she might go home at night. And she loved it. She loved being at the heart of this mad,
noisy family

She had a stock answer when people asked her what the
Raffertys were like. ‘They’re lovely, absolutely lovely.’ And that’s all she would ever say.

She could never leave. Polly Wolly Doodle Dolly, they used to call her. They were her family, her social life, her entertainment,
her sounding-boards. Her parents and her children in one. And in return they couldn’t live without her. Her calm, her common
sense and her meticulous organisation had kept the Rafferty family afloat for a decade. She was the voice of reason in a house
full of neurotic mayhem.

Her parents and some of her friends had often expressed concern. They felt she was living in the Raffertys’ pockets, that
she had no identity of her own, and that they exploited her good nature. Her father thought it was incestuous and her mother
felt the family were too dependent on her, given that she wasn’t paid a huge salary, though the perks were spectacular. If
the truth was known, Polly would have worked for them for nothing. She adored the girls – they were like sisters to her. Naughty
little sisters who came to her for advice. She worshipped Delilah. And as for Raf …

She would walk over burning coals for Raf. Stick pins in her eyes. She adored him, unreservedly. Of course she knew he was
out of her reach. He and Delilah belonged together. But as long as she could be near him, feast on him with her eyes every
day, breathe in the same air that he breathed, then she was happy. Besides, he would never look at a pudding like her.

All in all, Polly was perfectly content with her lot, except for her wretched weight. It was getting out of hand. She was
no fashion plate, but even she knew that size-sixteen stretch jeans with elasticated waist bands were hideous. She wore them
with a rotation of baggy sweatshirts, topped with a padded waistcoat when it was cold. And loafers. She knew she dressed like
a frumpy English cliché, but girls like her didn’t have much choice when it came to fashion. The baggy layers were an institution
to hide behind. There were carbon copies of Polly all over the Home Counties – women to whom skinny jeans were as inaccessible
as the moon. Her face was pretty – round,
with twinkly eyes and a mass of unruly curls that she tied back in a scrunchy – but she felt sure no one saw beyond the massive
arse and wobbly stomach. Not to mention the thunder thighs.

She reached the bottom of Richmond Hill. There was no way she would be able to cycle to the top. Her legs were already trembling,
so she climbed off and began the ascent.

‘I
will not ask a lovelier dream, A sweeter scene, fair Thames, than thine
…’ she murmured as she looked down at the famous
view – the only view in England to be protected by an act of Parliament. And rightly so – the sight made her heart soar every
time. The lush green meadows, the mighty trees, the silver thread of the river pushing its way determinedly through the verdant
landscape, and in the far distance, on a clear day, the outline of Hampton Court. It was a slice of English countryside in
the middle of town, and the reason why so many celebrities had made Richmond their home. With the centre of London only twenty
minutes by train, yet the splendours of the Thames and Richmond Park on your doorstep, it was the perfect compromise. And
the spattering of high-end boutiques, delis, restaurants, the theatre, and the Green – what more could a wealthy, aspirational
family ask for?

Eventually, panting and perspiring, she reached the crest of the hill and came to a halt outside the electronic gates of The
Bower. Delilah and Raf had resisted this type of security for years, but had eventually capitulated, after several attempted
break-ins, prowlers and press intrusion.

The house was an estate agent’s dream. Queen Anne listed, it was perfectly proportioned, a large family home that was neither
ostentatious nor unmanageable, with every twenty-first-century luxury sympathetically integrated into its gracious walls.
Polly pressed the code that allowed her access through the tradesman’s gate, pushed her bike through and left it propped against
the garage wall before slipping through another gate into the garden and down the path that led to her
office, housed in a little lodge that also contained a gym and the massive laundry room.

It was Friday, which meant she had to order up food for tomorrow’s lunch, as well as flowers. She needed to check with the
housekeeper that scented candles and soaps were all in stock. She needed to organise deliveries from the butcher, greengrocer,
cheesemonger, wine merchant and bakery, depending on what Delilah had decided to cook. Extricating this information from her
was the most difficult task: Delilah hated to be pinned down, but unless Polly got the menu from her by midday, she wouldn’t
get the ingredients. The days of Delilah having either the time or the inclination to wander into Richmond and do the shopping
herself were long gone. And Polly knew her likes and dislikes only too well by now, her preferred brands and varieties.

She flicked on the lights, booted up the computer and pottered across the garden, into the main house by the back door then
through into the kitchen.

This room was familiar to nearly everyone in the land, as it was where Delilah’s cookery show was shot. Nearly thirty foot
by twenty, it was fitted with hand-built cupboards painted in rich cream, limestone flooring and a semi-circular island topped
with white marble, behind which Delilah cooked the mouth-watering food that was emulated in virtually every kitchen nationwide.
The canary-yellow Lacanche cooker into which she slid her concoctions was almost as famous as she was.

Adjoining the kitchen was the orangery where Delilah’s guests were filmed devouring the food she made in each episode. This
in turn overlooked the walled garden, where a stone terrace looked down on a series of three tiered ink-black pools. Here
and there were dotted pieces of antique statuary mixed with more modern pieces of garden sculpture – Raf’s passion – the pride
of which was an entwined couple made of wire. This had been Delilah’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary present to him.

Delilah was sitting on a high stool at the island, her paraphernalia around her. She was just hanging up her phone. She looked
pale, slightly shocked.

‘Delilah?’ Polly rushed forward, anxious.

‘It’s Raf …’

Polly’s heart gave a lurch. What had happened to him? Had there been some sort of accident? An image flashed into her mind,
of Raf’s beautiful body crushed under a lorry. She couldn’t bear it. Her mouth was dry with panic. She could barely speak.

‘What’s happened?’ she croaked.

To her relief, Delilah smiled. ‘He’s doing the movie. He’s taken the part.’

Sweet relief flooded through Polly. ‘That’s … fantastic,’ she breathed, still feeling a bit shaky.

‘I know. I think …’ Delilah replied. ‘It’s going to be … weird.’

For a moment she looked totally at a loss. Then she slapped her hands decisively on the worktop. Delilah was never thrown
by anything for long.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘action stations. We need to get Tony over here for a meeting as soon as. And Miriam. Work out when we’re
going to announce this. And who to. Get on to the film company – tell them part of the deal is we control the publicity. Ask
Dickie Rushe for lunch tomorrow. And Genevieve Duke – she’s going to play Raf’s wife …’

Polly had already grabbed a notebook out of her bag and started writing notes. She’d been expecting a quiet day, and now it
was going to be anything but. The Rafferty machine was whirring into action.

Tony was the Rafferty publicist, responsible for keeping bad things out and getting good things in to the press. Miriam was
the Rafferty family’s agent – although Raf hadn’t acted for years, she still dealt with various things he was asked to do,
occasional public appearances and voice-overs. She would be
negotiating his contract, just as she had recently negotiated Coco’s.

Delilah was running her hands through her mane of hair, looking slightly overwhelmed. Polly knew her mind would be working
overtime, working out all the ramifications of this new departure. There was no doubt it was going to have a huge impact on
all of their lives.

‘The girls …’ she was saying. ‘We need to tell the girls.’

‘They’re coming tomorrow, aren’t they?’

‘I think so. Coco’s being tricky. I don’t know what’s up with her. I’m sure Violet will come. And I haven’t heard from Tyger
all week.’ Delilah looked at Polly. ‘Track her down for me, will you?’

Polly nodded, scribbling furiously. Any thoughts she’d had of a restorative cup of tea were out the window. Any thoughts she’d
had of escaping early tonight to attend Weight Watchers at the local primary school were out the window. Life was going to
be full-on for the duration. Still, when it was hectic there was less opportunity to eat.

Welcome to the Rafferty diet …

Having given Polly her orders, Delilah ran up the sweeping staircase and along the upstairs corridor to the master bedroom.
She threw herself onto the bed, shutting her eyes and breathing in deeply to try and calm herself.

Why did she feel so horribly unsettled?

Ever since Raf had phoned to tell her he was doing the movie, she’d had a tight knot in her stomach. She should be ecstatic,
jumping up and down for joy. She was the one who had encouraged him, after all. Instead, she felt nothing but dread. Now it
was a reality, she suddenly wished she’d told Dickie it was out of the question when he had first mooted the idea.

Had she secretly hoped that Raf wouldn’t take the bait? That he wouldn’t have the courage? What kind of a bitch was she, that
she couldn’t be happy for her husband? Was she …
jealous? She knew he was going to be in the limelight. Was there some kind of green-eyed monster lurking in her that was resentful
of his incipient success?

He would be successful. Of that she had no doubt. The formula was practically tried and tested. With all those talented people
on board, the film was hardly going to bomb at the box-office. And that would lead to other things. More roles. A higher profile.

Wasn’t this exactly what she wanted? To be relieved of the responsibility of being the breadwinner and to take a back seat?
She’d felt so tired of late. Not physically, necessarily, though it did take a little more effort to bounce out of bed in
the morning than it had in her youth. But mentally. She was tired of juggling everything in her head. Trying to assess what
mental state each of the girls was in. Trying to assess what mental state Raf was in. Finding ways to keep her show fresh
and exciting and inspiring, as well as her books, in a market that was fiercely competitive. Keeping herself looking good,
without resorting to anything extreme. Did anyone have any idea how much work it took to look youthful, to keep her figure
just the right side of fulsome without running to fat? It was easier to be thin than aesthetically curvaceous. If she dieted
too much it instantly went off her breasts, yet if she ate too much her stomach ballooned. Being the woman every woman wanted
to be and the woman every man wanted to shag was exhausting. You didn’t get a day off, you couldn’t go out looking anything
other than fabulous, even if it was an artless fabulous that suggested she had just thrown on the first thing that came to
hand. Those sneaky photos that made you look bloated and unkempt could do untold damage, and the papers and magazines seemed
particularly enamoured of them these days, as if they were trying to reassure their readers that glamour and beauty were just
smoke and mirrors.