Free The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry Page B

vanilla cupcake as she tried to think herself into her father’s head. How could she outwit
     him and trap him into giving her what she wanted? There was no point in going head to head. He would win every time. She had
     to think of something leftfield, something that would give her the ultimate bargaining tool.
    The cupcake arrived and she scooped the frosting off with her finger, enjoying the cloying sweetness. Then she crumbled the
     cake into little bite-size pieces, chewing as she thought.
    Two men walked past and checked her out, admiring her tanned arms in the sleeveless shift dress, her long, bare legs, the
     thick dark hair smoothed back in a glossy ponytail. Never averse to being admired, she smiled back at them.
    An unsuitable man? What if she found a boyfriend her father disapproved of? She could do a deal with him then – drop the bloke
     in return for the position she wanted. But Benedict was infuriatingly broad-minded. She couldn’t for the life of her think
     of someone she could put up with and hewould want her to drop. He had been immensely tolerant of all the skanky boys she had brought back from her comprehensive,
     knowing full well they were just a phase. He would feign approval for as long as it took, she knew he would. He had nerves
     of steel.
    Her phone beeped to tell her she’d got a text. She crammed the rest of the cupcake in her mouth and pulled it out to look
     at it.
    Hey babe – going to see Violet Rafferty at the Tinderbox tonight. Coming? Alex xxxxx
    She hadn’t thought as far as tonight yet. Alex was her dearest friend and her hairdresser and made everything fun, fun, fun.
     A night out with him and his pink pals was just the sort of evening that would help her forget her woes. They were outrageous,
     flamboyant and knew how to party. And they didn’t take themselves too seriously, not like some of her other friends.
    She texted back straight away:
Count me in xxxx

Six
    V iolet Rafferty sat in front of the baby Bechstein her parents had given her for her twenty-first. Her back was straight, her
     hands poised over the keys, but her eyes were shut. She breathed deeply and evenly, trying to remember the notes that had
     played themselves to her while she was sleeping during her afternoon nap.
    It happened so often. A snatch of some lilting melody that was hauntingly perfect would drift through her semi-conscious mind,
     teasing her. And no matter how hard she tried to catch it, it would elude her. She knew they were real and not imagined, but
     she still hadn’t found a way of capturing the little wisps of sound.
    It was ironic, really, when she only had to listen once to a piece of music composed by somebody else and she could play it.
     She had perfect pitch and a phonographic memory. Chopin, Rachmaninov, Coldplay, Gershwin – she could tinkle out anything anyone
     asked. Yet when it came to her own compositions, she froze.
    How the hell did people do it? How did they manage to lose their self-consciousness? She knew she was a harsh critic – of
     other people’s work but particularly of her own. She only had to string three notes together and she shuddered with distaste.
     As for lyrics, everything she wrote seemed trite and derivative.
    She slammed the lid down in a fury, then immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t the piano’s fault that she was useless and untalented.
    She was destined for a life of singing other people’s songs.She was, after all, very successful at it. Her shows were usually sell-outs. Not exactly Wembley, admittedly, but intimate
     little clubs and bars. Tonight, in a tight black dress and fishnet stockings, her hair slicked back and her lips ruby red,
     she would sing Piaf, Dietrich, Kurt Weill – burlesque mixed with jazz. She would become the ultimate seductress – a confident,
     sexual vamp who toyed with her audience, flirting, enticing. She knew she had power and presence, but to her it meant nothing.
     What was the point in performing something