The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry

you hadn’t composed? This was just a job. A way of getting a following.
    She tried to shake off her gloom. She loved performing, of course she did. Why else would she do it? She had no other need.
     It wasn’t as if the pay was that extraordinary – if she needed to work for her living she could make far more as a backing
     singer. She loved the dressing up, taking on another persona.
    She left the piano and went into her bedroom to get herself ready. She let her red silk kimono drop to the floor, and began
     to put on the outfit she had laid out on the bed. She put on a black corset that squeezed her waist down to twenty-two inches.
     Black fishnet stockings with proper suspenders. Her favourite vintage dress – black moiré silk with a plunging neckline and
     a thigh-high slit. A black jet necklace. Skyscraper heels.
    Then the make-up. Foundation paler than pale, her eyebrows a delicate arch. False eyelashes. And the famous red pout, which
     took ages to construct with lip-liner, lipstick and gloss, to achieve the perfect Cupid’s bow.
    To finish, she dabbed her pulse points with her signature perfume, breathing in its heady almond scent. She had to be the
     part completely, and to smell right was essential. She couldn’t have gone on stage without perfume any more than she could
     have gone without a dress.
    She picked up the phone and called for a cab, ignoring the winking light on her answer machine. Whatever it was shedidn’t want to know. She hated any sort of distraction when she was about to perform. Moments later she was gone, leaving
     behind the faintest trace of Le Baiser du Dragon.
    The Tinderbox was tucked under an insignificant three-star hotel in Paddington. It was a well-kept secret, but it was always
     packed to capacity nevertheless, thanks to its manager’s skill in creating an intimate but buzzy atmosphere and the incredible
     live music. It showcased performers from all over the world, a lot of it experimental and avant-garde, but time and again
     people who had debuted here went on to become huge stars, because what they all had in common was talent.
    The décor was slightly decadent, with purple velvet banquettes, lamps trimmed with ostrich feathers and neon-pink lighting;
     it was camp but cosy. A small stage allowed as many tables as possible to be crammed in. By rights it should be smoky, but
     with the ban that was impossible, yet it still had the atmosphere of an intimate club from a bygone era.
    Violet had a devoted following at the Tinderbox. She sang there twice a month to a full house and the audience had become
     her friends. They were a mixed crowd of arty middle-aged, flamboyant gays and younger people who enjoyed dressing up – gloves,
     basques, false eyelashes, fishnets and beauty spots abounded. She loved the venue because of the sense of self-expression
     it nurtured, but at the same time there was no pressure – if you turned up in jeans no one cared, as long as you appreciated
     the music. So she always made sure she put on her best show, and tried to introduce something new so her loyal followers wouldn’t
     get bored.
    She was in the tiny dressing room, gargling with warm water mixed with manuka honey to coat her throat. It was cramped and
     shabby, but she loved its familiarity, the huge foxed mirror she checked her make-up in, the postcards all over the wall from
     people who had played here over the years, the sofa spewing stuffing out of its cracked leather.
    Sammy, who played the double bass for her, was standing inthe doorway. He was half Cuban, half French, the son of a wild
Parisienne
who had enjoyed a night of steamy passion in Havana
     and had come home with more than duty-free rum and a box of cojibas. Sammy was as poor as a church mouse, but he didn’t care
     a jot, because he lived for his music. As well as playing for Violet, he sessioned for a number of other bands who played
     wild improvisational jazz, inaccessible to all but the most die-hard of