The Birthday Party (7 page)

The fee and the advance were more than enough to keep the wolf from the door …

The rest was history. Over the next ten years, Delilah made cooking sexy. She wrote eight recipe books which between them
sold millions. She won Television Personality of the Year, was top of the guest list at every party worth going to, was the
darling of every chat show host and on the cover of every magazine. Her fans were legion and her detractors few and far between
– there was nothing to dislike about Delilah Rafferty, and anyone who was sniffy about her was accused of being jealous. And
Delilah fatigue didn’t seem to have settled in by any means, mainly because she worked so hard at coming up with new ideas
and always had something positive to say. She was popular because she was natural and uncontrived and made everything look
easy. And she wasn’t a hypocrite. In magazine articles she was always honest about the tough time she had had with Raf, and
how she had doubted herself – even hated herself at times – and took the blame. Her self-effacing honesty endeared her even
more to the nation.

Now Delilah was tired of being the nation’s darling; the woman who inspired others. She was the goose that laid the golden
eggs, but she’d reached stalemate. She just wanted to flop, to do all the things she longed to do but never had time for.
Just simple pleasures, like reading a book because she wanted to read it, and not because she had been asked to give a quote.
Or going horse riding in Richmond Park – it was on her doorstep, for heaven’s sake. Or making jam that didn’t have to be double-tested
for inclusion in a book. And she wanted to spend more time with the girls. Now they weren’t at home any longer, it was becoming
impossible to fit them into her schedule as they had mad schedules of their own. She should be having lunch with Coco today
– she’d sounded on edge, she really ought to get to the bottom of it. She should be going to Violet’s gig tonight, but with
all the people coming for lunch
tomorrow she would be up till all hours preparing food. And she should find out what Tyger was up to. Silence from Tyger was
unusual.

Yes, thought Delilah, with Raf taking this film, here was the ideal opportunity for her to take a back seat. But as she lay
on the bed, the scent of wisteria curled in through the window, making her feel slightly nauseous. Why wasn’t she giddy with
relief, ecstatic with excitement, planning her new, relaxed lifestyle?

Because she wasn’t going to be in control.

She sat up as the realisation hit her. She’d put her finger on it. She was no longer going to be the one calling the shots.
That was how they had kept it together for the past ten years. She had been at the helm, making the decisions, earning the
money, writing the cheques, dictating the pace. It was the only way they could have survived. If she hadn’t fought, she might
have gone down with Raf, watched him destroy first himself, then their marriage and finally their family. It was sheer determination
and hard work that had kept them on course and made them one of Britain’s most successful showbiz families. On the surface,
at least. She’d been clever enough to hide the cracks, paper over them before they became a problem, steering the press in
a different direction in order to deflect attention. But without Raf under her thumb, the dynamics were going to alter drastically.

She would just have to learn to let go.

She took a deep breath in and out again. For God’s sake, Delilah, she told herself, Raf has been sober for ten years. He knows
who he is. He will manage. You will manage. Don’t be such a controlling bitch.

After his phone calls to Dickie and Delilah, Raf made his way to the car park in Soho, then headed out of London towards the
motorway. Most people would do anything they could to avoid the M25 on a Friday afternoon, let alone drive there voluntarily
if they didn’t need to, but he wanted to put his foot
down and clear his head. Delilah always chided him for driving into town: by the time he had paid the petrol, the congestion
charge and the parking, it was ten times more expensive than jumping on the train. But he loved his car. It was his space.
His vice. The pleasure that he refused to feel guilty about. A Maserati Quattroporte, it was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and
he loved nothing better than opening it up. The thrill of its acceleration always made his blood tingle. He would sink back
into the soft leather, turn up the music and glide through the traffic. It was one of the few good things about not drinking,
being able to drive this car.

His pulse was still racing from the excitement. There was no going back now. Even though the terms of his contract hadn’t
actually been negotiated, Raf knew the film company would fall over themselves to meet whatever demands he made. Not that
he was going to demand a ridiculous fee. How could he? He hadn’t acted for ten years, his reputation was far from unsullied
and he’d never been a greedy man. There would be plenty of time to increase his demands once he had proved himself – to himself
as much as to anyone. He turned Aero-smith up full blast and hoped and prayed that this new venture was going to be the start
of his becoming the person he really wanted to be.

Until now, his life had been divided into Jekyll and Hyde. The drinking years had unleashed the monster he hadn’t wanted to
be, the monster he had constantly battled against but couldn’t restrain. The monster who filled him with disgust. He was able
to bury the memory on a day-to-day basis, but there were always those times when a reminder brought him up short and took
his breath away. His family were caring enough not to bring up his misdemeanours, but the press weren’t as sensitive. And
sometimes on the television there would be a movie that brought it all flooding back. Or even worse, a clip – like the time
he had been on
Wogan
three sheets to the wind. They loved playing that one. It went down as television history, as well it
might. He cringed when he
watched himself slurring and sliding off the sofa and trying to come on to the female guest, who did her very best to rebuff
him as politely as she could. He couldn’t believe what a total and utter tosser he had been. He couldn’t imagine why Delilah
had wanted to marry him. Unlike others, he was unable to see the charm. He made himself feel sick.

The problem was, he was no more enamoured of the flip side of this monster. For the past ten years he had been a sober, upright
citizen who always knew that monster was capable of being unleashed, and had battled to keep it locked up. No one knew how
hard that was. It never left you. Sometimes you could be distracted. Sometimes something took his mind off it and made him
forget, perhaps for an hour. But then the needling feeling came back. He had found nothing to fill the vacuum. He knew other
drinkers who had found solace in physical exercise, religion, fishing, charity work – and although he had found pastimes he
enjoyed, none of them plugged the gap.

Maybe, just maybe, when he was driving in his car, this car, like he was right now, nudging the needle up past ninety, up
towards a hundred – maybe then he got a sense of freedom, a sense of self, a sense of euphoria that made him almost complete.
But he couldn’t drive round the M25 for ever.

He really longed to find a happy medium. He longed to be free of the spectre of that monster, to be able to relax without
fear of its reincarnation. But to keep it at bay he had to live a life of restraint. The real him wasn’t either of those people.
He wasn’t the monster or the sober upright citizen, but someone in between. He wanted to be able to let his hair down, laugh
and joke, relax with his friends and family with a bottle of wine.
A
bottle of wine, not four or six. But somebody up there
had determined he was incapable of doing that. He was never going to be the person he wanted to be.

As a result, he wasn’t happy. Not truly happy. He could pretend on the surface, but he felt as if he was acting out a role.

And he had to accept his lot. After all, that was his punishment. He had to atone for all that dreadful behaviour.

He didn’t blame Delilah. Of course he didn’t. Without her, they would have come apart at the seams, and God knows what mess
their lives would have been in by now. But he had felt like half a person for the past ten years.

Mr Delilah Rafferty.

He wasn’t the only man on the planet playing second fiddle to a successful wife. It was a modern way of life. But it still
ate away at him. He knew Delilah loved what she did, thank God. But he still felt guilty that he had forced her into it.

He remembered a drunken man leaning across a dinner table one evening. ‘Don’t you feel emasculated?’ he’d asked belligerently.
‘Don’t you feel as if she’s chopped off your balls and used them for earrings? Don’t you feel as if you should … contribute?’
Raf had wanted to grab him by the tie and push his face into the tiramisu in the middle of the table.

And Delilah was as loyal as could be. She always said that she couldn’t have done any of it without his support, and that
he was as important to the Delilah Rafferty brand as she was. But he knew that wasn’t true, that she could have done it without
him – even better probably, because he wasn’t easy. He knew he wasn’t.

It was time to pay her back. He could take the pressure off. She could have a year off, recharge her batteries, do all the
things she had been longing to do but never had time for. The things normal wives did.

Raf left the motorway, went round the roundabout and headed back in the opposite direction. He’d had his thinking time, and
now he was going home. A light April shower fell as he drove, turning the tarmac from grey to black. He loved the sound of
his tyres slicing through the wetness, the damp smell of spring through the half-open window.

Life was good.

Delilah jumped off her bed when she heard the low purr of the Maserati come through the gates. She ran down the stairs as
Raf walked through the door and into the hallway, bringing with him the scent of blossom and fresh rain. She slid her arms
round him, burying her face in his neck, the April droplets evaporating on the warmth of his skin. He smiled down at her,
and when she saw the light in his eyes, the hope, the anticipation, her fears evaporated just as the rain was.

‘Hey, movie star,’ she murmured.

‘Shit, Delilah,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I’m scared.’

‘You’ll be wonderful.’

Of course he’d be wonderful. He’d been wonderful in every film he’d ever made. Before now, that had been at too high a price.
But this time round …

She took him by both hands, walking backwards towards the stairs, smiling.

Any normal couple would have cracked open a bottle of champagne, but that wasn’t an option. And putting on the kettle for
a cup of tea was hardly a way to mark today’s triumph. There was only one way Delilah could think of to celebrate. They were
on the bottom step, his warm hand on her hip, guiding her upwards, when the house phone starting ringing.

‘Ignore it,’ she muttered through slightly gritted teeth, but the ringing persisted. At the same time, the phone in his pocket
started to chime. She pulled it out and dropped it into the vase of lilies on the hall table. He watched in horror as it sank
slowly to the bottom, coming to rest amongst the stems.

‘You mad bitch!’ he said, more in wonder than ire.

She laughed and pulled him into her arms, just as Polly came into the hallway with the phone in her hand.

‘Delilah, it’s Tony on the phone. He needs to speak— Oh God, sorry.’

Polly blushed to the roots of her hair as she realised what they were doing. Delilah disentangled herself from Raf with a
sigh and held out her hand.

‘It’s OK, Polly,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll take it.’

Plus ça change.

‘Hi, Tony,’ Delilah said wearily, walking back through the hall towards the kitchen.

Polly looked at Raf and smiled, still feeling rather awkward.

‘Congratulations. Delilah told me. About the movie …’

She watched his face light up as he smiled back. He looked like a small boy who has just been given his first bicycle. Her
heart melted as she realised how much this deal meant to him. She rushed over and hugged him on impulse, her awkwardness forgotten.

‘It’s so exciting. You must be absolutely thrilled to bits …’ Why did she always have to gush like an Enid Blyton schoolgirl?

Her heart turned over as he squeezed her to him. She was close enough to breathe in the scent of his cologne. Black Vetyver
Café. She knew because Delilah had dispatched her to Jo Malone to buy it for his Christmas stocking. She’d gone through all
the scents with the assistant until she found the one she thought suited him the best. It made her tummy flip, as it always
did. She kept a stash of scented strips under her pillow, so she could breathe in its deep velvet muskiness as she drifted
off to sleep. She thought she was probably insane.

‘You’ll look after Delilah for me, won’t you, Poll?’ he was saying. ‘I’m going to be on location for a while. I don’t know
how she’ll cope without me around.’