Birthday Party, page 8
For some reason Justine found herself blushing. She thought Violet had been catching her eye, and she found it flattering. The girl was utterly gorgeous, after all. Spellbinding, mysterious, but with a mischievous sense of humour that showed she didn’t take herself too seriously, she interspersed her songs with little stories and anecdotes, some rather risqué.
She had to admit she’d felt a little peeved, a little spurned, when Violet had turned her attentions to the wild-haired bass player during the last song, draping herself around him, singing seductively in his ear, trailing her fingers down his cheek. He had smiled, as if he was used to her toying with him. Were they an item? Justine wondered. They were certainly both exotic and talented, living in a world far removed from most people’s experience.
When Violet finally turned to look at her again, she felt her heart skip a beat. It was just vanity, she told herself. Who didn’t like being the centre of someone’s attention, especially someone so compelling? It didn’t mean she was—
A sudden thought occurred to her.
Now that would shake her father in his shoes. If she announced she had a girlfriend. She grinned mischievously as she thought of the thunderous expression on his face. She felt a hundred per cent sure he wouldn’t like it. For all his pretending to be broad-minded, that he wouldn’t be able to handle. It would throw him completely.
And Violet Rafferty. There would be uproar. It would be all over the papers. The press would love it! Two beautiful girls, one rich, one rich and famous – the paparazzi would fall over themselves to get photos of them kissing. The fashion magazines would chronicle their every outfit. And they would look so good together. It was every red-top editor’s wet dream. After all, wasn’t it supposed to be every bloke’s fantasy, two hot women together?
Saph-tastic, thought Justine with a grin. It was perfect. Benedict would be incandescent. He would rage and protest. She would defend herself. Then finally they would strike a deal. Justine would give up Violet if she got the position she wanted.
Justine took another sip of her cocktail. If Benedict Amador thought he could control his daughter, he had another thing coming. She could outmanoeuvre him any day. After all, hadn’t she learned at the feet of a master?
She turned casually to Alex.
‘So – has she got a boyfriend at the moment? Or a girlfriend?’
‘Not that I know of.’ He looked at her with a little smirk. ‘Why – you interested?’
Justine felt a little stirring deep inside. She loved a challenge. And she hadn’t met anyone she couldn’t have if she wanted them.
Yet.
After her set, which included three encores, Violet always came and mixed with the audience. She liked to add the personal touch, and it wasn’t as if she was in any danger. They were a sophisticated bunch, and far from starstruck – she chatted with them like old friends, which many of them were. Sammy refused to join her. He was too shy. He would pack up his bass and go home to the crazy house he shared with a bunch of musicians, despite Violet imploring him to stay on and have a drink.
‘They don’t want to talk to me,’ he protested. ‘You’re the star.’
‘Rubbish! You’re part of the show. You’re as important as I am. And look at all those adoring girls out there—’
He backed away in horror at that. Sammy didn’t like the idea of being hit on by a fan one bit. Violet laughed and kissed him goodbye, then wove her way through the tables, greeting her fans, shaking hands, signing copies of her CD, posing for photographs. It was one of the advantages of not being a huge star. She would hate to be whisked off back-stage by security and driven off in a car with blacked-out windows or shoved onto a tour bus to the next destination.
By the time she reached the front, where her lucky mascot had been sitting, she was feeling very mellow. The girl with the dark eyebrows stood up as she approached, held out a hand and drew her towards their table.
‘Come and have a glass of champagne.’
There were two bottles of vintage Dom Perignon lolling in an ice bucket. Violet knew this crowd were wealthy, showy and sybaritic. They always bought the best. The girl pulled one of the bottles out of the bucket and poured the golden bubbles into a fresh glass. She handed it to Violet as she picked up her own, then went to clink her glass against hers.
‘I’m Justine, by the way,’ she informed her. ‘And I loved your show. You’re a complete star.’
‘Thanks.’ Violet was used to people heaping praise on her. ‘You’re a friend of these guys? They’re my regulars.’
‘Alex does my hair.’ Justine ran a hand over her glossy mane. ‘He knew I’d had a bad day so he asked me along to cheer me up. And it really did. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Violet gave a self-deprecating shrug. ‘It’s just good old-fashioned entertainment. A little bit naughty, a little bit glamorous. Everyone wants a bit of escapism in their lives.’
Justine put her head on one side and surveyed Violet boldly.
‘You were looking at me all the way through.’
Violet didn’t look away. She smiled and took a sip of her champagne before she answered.
‘Not all the way through.’
Her eyes were laughing.
Justine dropped her gaze down to Violet’s mouth, and then back up again. She was trying to be cool, but her heart was beating very fast. This was a new game for her. She leaned in, until her lips were right by Violet’s ear. She could feel her warmth, smell her scent – something expensive and exclusive.
‘I’d love to talk to you about doing a showcase at some of our hotels.’
‘Hotels?’
Justine nodded. ‘It’s my family business. We have a chain of luxury hotels. And we’re always looking for top-class entertainment. You’d go down a storm. Maybe Moscow. Tokyo … definitely New York.’
‘That sounds … wonderful.’
‘Perhaps we could set up a tour? A week in each? You’d have five-star accommodation, first-class flights.’
Violet laughed. It was a wonderful sound, deep, musical, but filled with genuine mirth.
‘Where do I sign? It sounds … too good to be true.’
Justine flicked a glance down to her Piaget watch. It was eleven thirty. Not too late. She could take Violet to the Ivy – they served until the early hours without complaint.
‘Why don’t we talk about it over dinner?’
Violet looked thoughtful. She loved the idea of what this girl was suggesting. She prided herself on not using her parents’ contacts in her musical career. She hated the thought of Delilah or Raf pulling strings on her behalf. Every gig she had got she had got for herself. She knew the name Rafferty probably opened a few doors, but she couldn’t help who she was. She just didn’t approve of outright nepotism.
This was an exciting opportunity, a proposition she wanted to hear more about. She thought the girl was genuine. She only had to look at her clothes, her jewellery, the confident way she carried herself, to know she was successful. She wasn’t stringing her a line.
She made up her mind in a split second.
‘Give me a chance to freshen up and get my things. I’ll meet you by the stage door in ten minutes.’
Justine watched her go, gliding through the crowds in her black dress, serene, elegant, stylish. She drained her champagne, and felt the bubbles hit her stomach, where they joined the ones that were already fizzing. She put her glass down on the table. She didn’t want to have too much to drink. She wanted to go into this with a clear head.
She sidled over to Alex, slid her arm around his neck from behind, putting her hand over his mouth as she whispered in his ear.
‘I’m taking Violet Rafferty out for dinner. Don’t you dare breathe a word to anyone. I’ll text you later.’
Alex’s eyes were as round and wide with scandal as she had ever seen them, but he nodded his agreement to keep quiet and she took her hand away. Then she hurried to the cloakroom to touch up her make-up, pulling out her mobile as she went. She had the Ivy on speed-dial and the maître d’was on the waiting list for a job at Amador. She didn’t usually call in favours, but this was an emergency.
Half an hour later, the two girls were led to a table for two in a discreet but well-positioned corner, which meant they were hidden from view but could see the rest of the room. The infamous restaurant was still buzzing with diners. Several well-known faces could be spotted – a newsreader, a best-selling author and a couple of racing drivers – so the two of them didn’t stand out.
Justine waved away the menus and ordered from the waiter rapidly, pausing only to ascertain that Violet wasn’t a vegetarian.
‘We’ll have the roast poulet des Landes for two with some pommes allumettes. And some creamed spinach. And a bottle of Pouilly Vinzelles.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Violet murmured, suddenly realising she was ravenous. She rarely ate much before she performed, not because she was nervous but because it played havoc with her digestion. And she often found that by the time she was finished she was too far gone to eat.
The chicken arrived, and the two girls fell on it greedily. Justine realised she hadn’t had anything since her cupcake earlier. They devoured the matchstick-thin fries with their fingers, hot and salty. As they ate, they chattered idly, filling each other in on their lives. They realised they were both very different, but at the same time they were under similar pressures. They each had ambition, and they each had things that were holding them back, though neither of them could exactly complain about their position in life. They were both very privileged, yet in some ways this made the frustrations even more difficult to deal with, because they could hardly expect sympathy.
‘Everyone thinks you’ve got where you are because of who you are,’ sighed Violet.
‘Exactly,’ sympathised Justine. ‘But in fact my father is harder on me because I’m his daughter. If I was some random person who’d worked my way up through the ranks, I’d be where I wanted to be by now.’
‘It’s nice to talk to someone who understands.’ Violet put her knife and fork together on the plate. ‘I can’t moan to my own family. And other people don’t really get it. I mean, it’s not exactly a sob story, is it? I’m really lucky to have got where I am. It’s just … it’s not enough. I want to be up there singing my own stuff, not churning out other people’s. But I just can’t seem to …’
She trailed off, realising with embarrassment that her voice had gone wobbly. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t exactly a fucking tragedy. But it was to her. She knew she could do it. So what the hell was stopping her?
She put her hands on her eyelids to stop the tears that were threatening to leak out.
‘Sorry …’ She smiled, mortified that she was showing herself up in front of Justine, who had just offered her the opportunity of a lifetime. What a brat.
Justine took her hand, stroking the back of her knuckles with her thumb.
‘It’s OK,’ she said softly. ‘I know what it’s like. You’re expected to appreciate what you’ve got, and not want more.’
Violet nodded, grateful for the comfort, grateful for the fact that there was somebody who seemed to understand. She threaded her fingers through Justine’s, not wanting the physical contact to stop. They sat in silence, staring at each other, both feeling a connection, but neither sure quite what to say, while the chaos of The Ivy carried on around them.
The waiter arrived with the dessert menu. Reluctantly, they let go of each other and looked down the list.
‘I’m full,’ declared Justine doubtfully.
‘Me too. I think …’
‘But I just fancy something sweet to finish off.’
‘Mmm …’
‘Let’s share a chocolate mousse.’
‘Perfect.’
The mousse arrived, wickedly dark and luscious. They both dug their spoons in, conscious that this sharing was intimate, sensual. They barely spoke until the unctuous mixture was finished.
Violet licked the last of the chocolate from her lips.
Justine was staring at her.
‘Where now?’ she asked huskily.
Violet stared back. They both knew how they were feeling. It was strange and new, but exciting. This was the moment when they could choose to step into forbidden territory, or to stay on familiar ground. It was up to her to make the choice.
‘Come home with me.’
Justine put down her glass, her hand trembling slightly, and motioned to the waiter to bring the bill.
Justine was utterly enchanted by Violet’s flat. It was a riot of girliness, but not twee in any way. Everywhere you looked there was something pretty to feast your eyes on. A gilt sofa covered in Cecil Beaton roses. A dainty writing desk. Nineteen twenties figurines on side tables. Hundreds of pictures in different frames. Lalique vases stuffed with freesias. A baby grand piano. Lace panels hung at the window, framed on either side by dusty hot-pink velvet curtains. A low coffee table was covered in books and magazines and a fruit bowl piled high with peaches and grapes. The mantelpiece was covered in invitations, thank-you letters, photographs, postcards.
It was a million miles from Justine’s annexe in her father’s house, which was sleek and minimalist and, she realised now, quite characterless.
Violet moved around the room, lighting scented candles that soon filled the room, flicking on a couple of lamps, turning on some music. Astrud Gilberto began to sing.
For a moment, time stood still as the two girls looked at each other.
Justine held out her arms.
‘Dance with me,’ she whispered.
Without demur, Violet slid into her embrace. For a few moments, the two of them moved to the music together. Justine could feel the warmth and softness of the other girl’s breasts against hers. She moved in so that their cheeks were touching, their hair entangled. Their fingers were entwined again, just as they had been at the table in the restaurant.
They turned to look at each other, and began to kiss.
It was like meringues, marshmallows, cotton candy. It was soft and very, very sweet. And quite delicious. Justine was shocked at how easy it was, how natural it felt, how completely and utterly delectable.
She gave a little sigh and Violet stroked her cheek.
‘Come on,’ she whispered, and led her by the hand through to the bedroom.
Eight
Three thousand miles away, Tyger Rafferty was starting to tear her hair out.
She’d been in the bathroom for the past half-hour, furtively emailing the office on her iPhone while she left the shower running for cover. It wouldn’t do to let her brand-new husband know she was in contact, but she didn’t like to remain out of communication for long. She’d sent through some images she’d snapped – she was constantly looking for inspiration and there had been plenty of it in Vegas – and checked on sales figures for the last three days, as well as lining up several meetings for the following week. When you were a knicker magnate, you couldn’t afford to stand still, not even on your honeymoon.
Now she was striding around the hotel room, naked and still damp from her shower. Louis was lying on the bed, again. It was all he seemed to have done these past few days, but as he pointed out the rest of the time he was constantly on the go. If he couldn’t rest on his honeymoon …
‘You’re supposed to have packed,’ she chided him. ‘We’re supposed to check in at nine.’
Louis Dagger shrugged. He was used to turning up late, catching planes by the skin of his teeth. Sometimes they waited, sometimes they didn’t. He wasn’t bothered. There was always another one.
‘Mum will wig if we don’t make it back in time for lunch tomorrow.’
He reached out and grabbed her, pulled her on top of him. She looked down at him indignantly.
‘Seriously. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.’
He patted out a drum beat with his hands on her bare arse.
‘You belong to me now, baby,’ he said, in his best slow Southern drawl. ‘You don’t have to do anything Momma says any more …’
‘I so do,’ Tyger corrected him. ‘And if you don’t get your ass off that bed right now and start packing, I’m filing for divorce.’
She scrambled off him and began to retrieve her clothes, peeling a stocking off a lampshade and a bra from under the bed, then stuffing them haphazardly into one of the cases. From time to time she stopped to admire the Theo Fennell ring on the third finger of her left hand – a ruby encrusted skull with a white diamond snake threading itself through the eye sockets. Not, it has to be said, everyone’s taste in wedding jewellery, but a very appropriate gift from the baddest new kid on the rock ’n’ roll block.
When you meet him, you’ll know.
That’s what their mother had always told the three girls when they were growing up. They had loved hearing her talk about the day she had met their father. It had almost become a fairy tale for the three of them. How Delilah had been a model, and had been asked to play a cameo role in a movie Raf was starring in, and how it had been love at first sight. They had met and married before the movie was even wrapped. It had become a showbiz legend.
And Tyger had held on to that legend throughout all the years of heartache. The rows, the shouting, the weeping. The door slamming. The headlines in the papers that her school-friends could never help pointing out. She knew Delilah and Raf loved each other passionately underneath all the drama, but it had been hard to live with all the same. Especially when your whole life was on show. Other people’s parents had their problems, but they weren’t splashed all over the news. Other people’s fathers had affairs, but it wasn’t public knowledge who their mistresses were. Almost every time Dad started a new film, the inevitable happened. The whispers began.
It had all calmed down now, of course. Their twenty-five-year marriage was held up as living proof that true love could exist and flourish. Delilah and Raf were the perfect showbiz couple. Time and again they were asked for the secret of their relationship. Raf would just smile his enigmatic smile, and Delilah would laugh her infamous, infectious laugh, and they would both shrug.
