The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry Read Free Book Online Page B

agent, the director, her mother, the milkman. Good for nothing, ne’er-do-well womanising
     drunk was the general consensus. She’d been quite certain that she would be immune to his looks and his charm. She’d fought
     off enough come-ons from men who thought they were God’s gift. Raf Rafferty wasn’t going to cause her any problems.
    He took her breath away on sight. Nothing could have prepared her for the depth of his blue eyes, the clarity of his skin,
     the perfection of his bone-structure. She had never seen anything so close to a deity, and this was a woman who mixed with
     perfection in her job every day. And she hadn’t been prepared for his sincerity, though a little voice inside her
told
her
     he was an actor, that it was an act, that this was what he did day in, day out for a living, and she shouldn’t be fooled.
     When he looked at her, she felt her soul trying to fight its way out of her body and into his. When he told her – told her,
     not asked her – he was going to kiss her three days into the shoot, she was lost.
    Everyone working on the film saw it. It was as if they were the only two people who existed, with an invisible force field
     around them. The crew rolled their collective eyes at the predictability of it – there hadn’t been a leading lady yet who
     Raf hadn’t worked his magic on. But this time it was different. This time he wasn’t playing a role. This time he truly was
     in love, and it shone out in his performance, as his character burned with an unrequited passion. There were even hushed rumours
     of an Oscar. And by the end of the film, they were Mr and Mrs Rafferty. The cast and crew attended the wedding; the photos
     were on the front page of every newspaper in the world.
    The first six months of married life were bliss, as both Raf and Delilah decided to take some time off. They bought a hugegarden flat in Kensington, furnished it from antique stalls, went out for dinner, caught up with their respective old friends
     and made new ones, took little trips to places they’d never been – Florence, Marrakesh, Portmeirion. And then Delilah had
     discovered to her delight that she was pregnant. She couldn’t wait to become a full-time mum. The film had bought and paid
     for the flat between them; she had plenty of savings. And Raf was thrilled to be becoming a father. They did a sumptuous shoot
     for Nigel Dempster, Delilah in a floaty chiffon dress leaning back on Raf, who had a proud hand on her stomach. They were
     the golden couple, fêted by everyone, a fairy tale.
    And the drinking wasn’t a problem. Yet. Of course she knew Raf drank. It was like breathing to him. But he seemed to have
     it under control, because he was content. On the set, he hadn’t raised hell, because he had been absorbed in the pursuit and
     capture of Delilah, much to the relief of the director and producer. It had been the easiest Raf Rafferty movie to shoot,
     and the industry kept its fingers crossed that Delilah had tamed him, and that from now on casting him would not be so fraught
     with fights, hangovers and broken-hearted actresses who had fallen for his charms and then been dropped like a hot potato.
     For the time being, his drinking was something he did a lot of, but in a sociable, acceptable way. Sure, there were always
     empty wine bottles piled up, but they were a newly married couple having fun.
    It was a marriage made in heaven …
    Delilah felt tears well up as she remembered the simplicity of those days, pottering about with her burgeoning bump, a paintbrush
     in one hand. It had always seemed to be sunny, though of course it wasn’t. The biggest decision she ever had to make then
     was what to cook for Raf’s supper—
    ‘Are you OK?’
    She jumped. Polly was standing in the doorway.
    ‘I’ve brought you up a cup of tea – and some things to sign.’
    Delilah sat up wearily. Couldn’t she even have a lie-down without someone interrupting her? But it was her own fault.