The Birthday Party: The spell-binding new summer read from the Number One bestselling author

by Meaney, Roisin

  He filled the glass at the sink and drank until it was empty. She waited, but he made no response.

  ‘Andy?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did you know Eve got a job in the hotel?’

  ‘Nope.’ He rinsed the glass and set it to drain. He took his time.

  ‘Andy,’ she said again, and stopped, not able to put words on what she wanted to ask him.

  He took Nell’s basket from the table. ‘Better go – I’m late already. Nell’s going to ring Laura in a while, when Tommy’s in bed.’ He put an arm around her and kissed her mouth lightly. ‘See you tomorrow, sleep well.’

  He left through the scullery, the way he’d come in. She stood listening to the sound of his departing steps.

  She was imagining things. She was being paranoid. He had nothing to hide. She trusted him absolutely.

  But he’d sure moved awfully fast once Eve’s name had been mentioned.

  Her phone rang. The number was unfamiliar.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that – Tilly?’

  A woman’s voice. Soft, hesitant. She tried to place it, and couldn’t. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Imelda – Hugh’s … I was married to Hugh, Nell’s uncle.’

  Imelda, now a widow. Tilly had seen no sign of her during her time on the island. ‘Sorry for your loss,’ she said, the cliché coming unbidden, sounding terribly trite to her.

  ‘Thank you … I got your number from Nell – she told me what happened to Poppy. I’m just ringing to know how she is, and if I can help in any way. I didn’t want to disturb Laura.’

  Tilly filled her in and thanked her for the call, and told her they were all sorted. Another person who could have stepped in instead of Eve. She hung up and made out a shopping list for Gavin and brought it into the sitting room, where she found him switching off the telly.

  ‘I’m going for an early night,’ he told her. ‘I’m bushed. What’s happening in the morning?’

  She told him Eve was lined up to come at eight.

  ‘Right. I can give you a hand till she gets here.’

  ‘Thanks Gavin. Sleep well.’

  Left alone, she flicked through the channels and found a just-begun episode of Friends that she’d seen more than once. She left it on, wanting the comfort of its familiarity. When it was over, she switched off the TV and wandered about the room, running a finger along the spines of the books on the shelves. Dickens and Hardy and Brontë, she read, and other names that were unknown to her. She brought her face close to them and breathed in their rich old smell. Here since the previous owner’s time, Laura had told her. She and Gavin still referred to them as Walter’s books.

  His portrait hung in the hall, painted after his death by Nell’s husband James, given as a housewarming present to Laura and Gavin when they’d moved in. Tilly had imagined she’d seen him, shortly after she’d come to the house for the first time. She’d looked out of an upstairs window and there he’d been, standing among the chickens in the coop. He’d glanced up and lifted his hat to her, and then walked out of the coop and vanished.

  Except, of course, that it hadn’t happened, because he’d died a few years before. Funny, the tricks the mind could play.

  She tidied the magazines on the coffee table, and plucked a sock from beneath it. In the kitchen she stole one of Nell’s scones and ate it with butter and blackberry jam, listening to Charlie’s sleeping breaths and the steady tick of the wall clock. Eventually, having run out of things to do, she climbed the stairs and went to bed, setting her phone to wake her at a quarter to seven.

  Eve

  SHE WAS DEEPLY UNCOMFORTABLE: THAT MUCH WAS plain. She could hardly look Eve in the eye. ‘Three guests have already eaten,’ she said, peeling rashers apart, laying them on a pan, ‘so we have just eleven to go.’

  She wore one of Laura’s aprons over grey trousers and a navy top. Her hair was pulled into a short ponytail, her face free of makeup apart from pink lip gloss. She looked about sixteen.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Eve asked. It felt weird, just the two of them.

  ‘Can you make porridge? I need two bowls. Laura does it in the microwave.’

  ‘I know how she does it.’ Stating a fact, not meaning anything by it, but Tilly’s cheeks went pink all the same. Such a sensitive soul.

  When the phone call had come last evening, Eve had felt obliged to give what help she could. She’d been feeling guilty for all but ignoring Laura’s recent texts, and for letting on not to be at home when Laura had called around a few days ago: here was something she could do to make up. Her boss at the hotel had been fine when she’d explained the situation. Try to get here as close to ten as you can, he’d said. The others can cover for you. Please send my best wishes.

  ‘Is Poppy OK?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so. Laura just wants to stay with her. Poppy sleeps in their room when I’m here.’

  Eve knew the house well from her time helping out. Gavin and Laura’s corner room was bright and airy, with two windows that both gave splendid views of the sea. She wondered where Tilly slept when she stayed. She couldn’t have her own room, not with the place full of guests. No chance for Andy to creep from the house next door and climb through a window.

  It would be funny, she thought, if he appeared now and saw his ex and his girlfriend working together.

  ‘Handy for you,’ she said, taking porridge from the microwave, setting a new bowl in its place. ‘Being next door to Andy, I mean.’

  Tilly didn’t respond, didn’t turn from the cooker. Eve regarded her rear view, her slim-as-a-boy’s figure, and wondered what he saw in her. She remembered looking out at his house when she was cleaning the rooms on that side. She remembered being almost sick with excitement, counting the minutes until it was time for him to come and pick her up.

  They worked mainly in silence, Tilly ferrying dishes and pots to the dining room, asking on her return for toast, a refill of a coffee pot, sliced tomatoes, beaten eggs, grated cheese. Ben and Seamus materialised and took over the fetching and carrying, which lessened the tension a bit.

  In due course Evie and Marian put in an appearance, still in pyjamas, feet bare.

  ‘Hi Eve,’ they chorused, rushing to hug their crèche teacher. Someone at least was glad to see her.

  ‘Hello there,’ she said, squatting to pull them into her. ‘Are you having a lovely summer?’

  ‘Poppy fell down the stairs,’ Marian announced. ‘Her arm got broke.’

  ‘I know it did. Poor old Poppy. I’ll sneak up and see her when we’re finished.’ Because she couldn’t leave, she’d decided, without showing her face upstairs. She’d keep it brief: hopefully Laura would be too preoccupied to bring up the pregnancy, or probe any deeper into it.

  ‘Can we have sausages?’

  ‘You can when you’re dressed,’ Tilly replied, lifting an egg from the pan. ‘Go back upstairs and put on your same clothes as yesterday, and your sandals. Hold the banister when you’re coming down.’

  Bossy. Trying to sound like their mother. Eve half hoped for a note of protest, but they turned obediently and left the room.

  By half nine everyone was fed, and the dishwasher loaded. Eve turned to Gavin, back from his rounds and eating leftover toast. ‘OK if I go up to see Poppy before I leave?’ No way was she asking Tilly’s permission.

  ‘Sure. Bring Laura up a coffee, would you?’

  She looked wretched. The skin beneath her eyes was bluish. She looked like she hadn’t slept a wink, which she probably hadn’t. She sat on the end of Poppy’s small bed, her back against the wall. Poppy sucked placidly on a soother, a ragged little rabbit beside her on the pillow. There was a dark blotch on her cheek, like someone had pressed hard against it for a while.

  The sight of her arm in a cast reminded Eve of the time when Keith, not much older, had climbed through the kitchen window at home and cracked his elbow. Questions had been asked – Mam was out; a neighbour had brought him to the hospital – bu
t miraculously, he and Eve hadn’t been taken into care. That hadn’t happened for another few years.

  ‘Gav sent this,’ Eve said, handing over the coffee.

  ‘I don’t want to leave her,’ Laura said, cradling the mug. ‘I don’t want to take my eyes off her again. I’m terrified.’

  ‘You’re her mother,’ Eve said. ‘It’s to be expected.’ Because most people had mothers who cared. ‘But she’s OK, isn’t she?’

  ‘She has a broken arm,’ Laura replied, a little tartly. ‘I’d hardly call that OK.’

  A beat passed. ‘Well,’ Eve said, ‘I’d better—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Laura said. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m mad at myself, nobody else. Pull over that chair, sit for a minute,’ and Eve obeyed, giving Poppy a bright smile. She didn’t know the child well. She was booked into the crèche for September, which meant that Eve would have just two months with her.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ she said. ‘I’m due at the hotel.’

  ‘Thanks for pitching in at such short notice. I forgot you were working there. How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s alright, not too bad.’ Susan must have told her, or someone else. News got around Roone, one way or another.

  Another moment of silence. Eve heard the small sucking sounds that Poppy was making.

  ‘And how are you feeling?’

  Here we go, she thought. ‘I’m OK. I’m fine.’

  ‘Not queasy any more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re still keeping it?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re quite sure it’s what you want?’

  ‘Yes … Listen, I really should—’

  ‘Eve,’ Laura said, ‘something’s been bugging me.’

  Eve curled her toes inside their shoes, instantly wary. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with me.’

  ‘What about?’ But she knew what was coming. She sensed it. She should get out now, she should just get up and walk out, but she seemed rooted to the chair.

  ‘About who the father is.’

  There was no way she could know. No way. Fear crawled around in Eve’s belly. ‘I told you—’

  ‘I know what you told me, but it doesn’t add up. You’re not the type to fall into bed with some stranger.’

  ‘I was drunk, I told—’

  ‘Really, Eve? Honestly? Is that really what happened? You met a man for the first time, and you got drunk and had sex with him?’

  Her palms were damp. She pressed them to her thighs. ‘Why do you find it so hard to believe? That kind of thing happens all the time.’

  ‘Well, maybe not so much on Roone, but I take your point.’ Laura looked down into her mug but didn’t drink. ‘I just, I don’t know. It’s not ringing true for me.’

  Eve made no response. A voice inside her was screaming to get out, get out, but still she was unable to move.

  Laura lifted her head. ‘Won’t you tell me who he is, Eve?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ she said, everything clenched so tightly inside her that she thought she might snap. ‘It’s better if you don’t ask.’

  ‘Are you protecting him? Is that it?’

  Eve squeezed her hands into fists. She could feel her face becoming hot. ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘Please stop asking about him. It’s … complicated.’

  ‘Yes, you said that before. Eve, you don’t have to do this alone. He needs to take responsibility.’

  ‘He will. I’ll let him know – I’m going to talk to him, but I have to—Look, I can’t tell you, I just can’t. You have to stop asking me.’

  ‘So it’s someone you know. It’s someone on the island.’

  Eve practically leapt to her feet, the sudden movement causing Poppy to start. ‘I have to go, I’ll be late.’ She strode towards the door.

  ‘I know who he is,’ Laura said – and something in the words, something in the tone, something made Eve stop. She turned and stared.

  She knew. She did know.

  She’d guessed.

  She couldn’t have.

  ‘Eve,’ Laura said, steadily, quietly, ‘he’s with Tilly.’

  Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Eve felt the heat leave her face, felt a trembling in her legs. ‘It’s not him.’ But even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convincing.

  ‘I think it is, Eve. I know it is.’

  How? How could she have guessed? Had Eve let something slip in their conversation? Had she given it away?

  ‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘it wasn’t meant to happen, I swear to God. We didn’t plan it, it just—’ She broke off. She rubbed her face hard. ‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘That much is true. It was after Frog Hackett’s party, his twenty-first. Look, I’d give anything to—’ She stopped again. ‘Please, Laura,’ she said, ‘don’t say anything. Don’t tell … anyone. Please.’

  Laura’s face. So cold it had become. Looking at Eve as if she was a piece of dirt. ‘You were drunk. Was he?’

  ‘I – yes, he’d been drinking—’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t sober. Look, I have to go—’

  ‘You must tell him,’ Laura said.

  Eve stopped again, her hand on the doorknob. ‘I will. I’ve said I will. I’m waiting until Tilly leaves. Can’t I wait till then? I’m trying to protect her – you must see that.’

  ‘Protect her,’ Laura repeated, and Eve heard how stupid it sounded. How ironic, or hypocritical, or whatever it was.

  ‘Thank you for helping us out today,’ Laura went on. Voice cold as stone. ‘I’ll get Gavin to drop over some money later.’

  ‘I don’t want money. I didn’t do it for money.’

  ‘I’d rather pay.’

  She was angry. She was so angry. In her little bed Poppy sucked calmly on her soother, impervious, but Eve felt the anger leaking into the room, hanging between the clipped words. Colouring the silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry it happened, and I’m sorry I involved you. I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Laura replied, in the same icy tone. ‘You’ve put me in an impossible position. You’re asking me to keep something from my sister, and from my best friend.’

  ‘I know. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Tilly is crazy about him. This is going to break her heart. How could you have done it? How could you have been so cruel?’

  ‘I keep telling you it wasn’t deliberate. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. And I’m not the only one to blame, it wasn’t only me.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that.’

  Eve said nothing more. She could think of nothing else to say. She wished herself anywhere else but there in that room. She’d been a fool ever to open her mouth.

  Laura lowered her mug to the floor. It was still practically full. She leant back and closed her eyes. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘You won’t tell? Please don’t tell, not yet.’

  Laura made no response. When it became evident that none was coming, Eve left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She made her way along the corridor and went downstairs, meeting nobody. She stood in the hall and listened to a burst of girlish squeals from the kitchen.

  Laura wouldn’t tell. She wouldn’t want to upset Tilly or Nell. She’d leave it to Eve to do that.

  She opened the front door as quietly as she could and left the house – and with every step she took in the direction of the hotel, a chant beat like a drum inside her head.

  What now?

  What now?

  What now?

  Susan

  IT WASN’T LONDON.

  The city was every bit as vibrant and colourful and cosmopolitan as she remembered. It was the same melting pot of nationalities, bursting with culture and commerce and history and innovation. It was the same eccentric juxtaposition of ancient and modern, the same exotic and beautiful and dirty and characterful and edgy place as it
had been on every one of her previous trips.

  It wasn’t London. It was her.

  Each day she pushed Harry’s buggy through crowded streets, weaving her way around sandwich boards and conversations and camera-toting tourists, past statues and fountains and galleries and mosques and museums, into little cafés and delis that sold alfalfa salads and tofu curries and falafels and wheatgrass shots.

  In the week she’d been in London she’d emailed countless employment agencies and registered her details with them, and had been told that they’d be in touch if a suitable position presented itself. She’d signed up for an online computer course, and checked out a yoga studio close to Rosie and Ed’s house, and called to three preschools in the locality to collect brochures and ask about their enrolment policies.

  And some evenings, after Harry had fallen asleep, Rosie climbed the stairs and the two friends drank herbal tea or hot chocolate, and compared notes on what they knew about the continuing stories of girls they’d been to school with, and Rosie told Susan about her father’s move to France with his second wife, ten years his senior, and about Ed’s sister who owned a coffee plantation in Jamaica, and who’d flown the rest of their family – parents, brothers, in-laws, nieces – to Rosie and Ed’s wedding, which had taken place in a Scottish castle.

  And Luke Potter’s name was never mentioned.

  And in the middle of a city with over eight million inhabitants, Susan had never felt lonelier. It followed her around, the loneliness. It seeped into her days and ambushed her nights, and left her dispirited and fighting to stay positive. Ironic, given the loneliness she’d felt when she was with him, that she yearned for him now. But she’d left him, and she was here, and she was determined to stay here and give it every chance she could.

  Rosie and Ed lived in a tall narrow red-brick terraced townhouse in Chelsea. The top floor – the house was three storey – comprised two fairly good-sized rooms, the front with two mismatched couches, an empty bookshelf set into an alcove, and a bay window; the rear, kitted out as a bedroom, overlooked a little paved courtyard. There was a small bathroom, with a shower but no bath, at the turn in the stairs.