Read Online The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online
Authors: Veronica Henry
Ads: Link
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 footdown 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 hewatched 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
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 footdown 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 hewatched 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
Similar Books
