The Birthday Party by Veronica Henry Page B

tonight. Let’s see that pretty smile.’
    Violet rolled her eyes.
    ‘What’s the point, Sammy?’
    It wasn’t the first time she’d asked him this.
    ‘The point is people love you. You bring them pleasure.’
    ‘Great. I might as well strip for a living. It would amount to the same thing.’
    ‘Don’t give me that tortured-artist shit. You’ve got a talent most people would give their right finger for.’
    ‘Arm.’ Violet giggled despite herself. Even after all these years Sammy got his sayings muddled. ‘Right arm.’
    Sammy shook his head and held up his pinky, grinning.
    ‘Right finger. Right finger is very important when you play bass.’ He leaned in to her. ‘So stop complaining and enjoy what
     you are good at.’
    Violet shook her head, pouting. ‘It’s not fair, Sammy. I want to write. I want to write beautiful songs that tear people’s
     hearts open. Songs that make them think,
That’s exactly how I feel
. Songs that people want played at their weddings, their
     funerals …’
    ‘You know what? You can’t force it. So just enjoy what you can do and wait.’
    She gave him a playful punch on the arm.
    ‘You’re an unsympathetic bastard, you know that?’
    He took her chin in his fingers, turning her to face him.
    ‘You know what? Maybe you haven’t suffered enough to write songs like that.’
    ‘You mean I’m a spoilt brat with nothing to say?’
    Sammy shrugged. Violet scowled.
    ‘Anyway, I have suffered.’
    He nodded. ‘Sure you have.’
    Violet felt tears stinging the back of her eyelids. Why was it that just because you were the daughter of rich and famous
     parents, people thought you had it easy? She could still remember those terrible years. The shouting, the crying. The insecurity.
     The gnawing tightness in the pit of her stomach that she went to sleep with, woke up with and that didn’t leave her all day.
     Violet remembered crying in bed one night and Delilah crawling in next to her, hugging her, and Violet realising that the
     tears on her cheeks weren’t her own but her mother’s.
    OK, so now they lived a Sunday-supplement perfection. And she had her Grade Two listed flat, with its high ceilings and wooden
     floors. She wasn’t exactly struggling like a lot of Sammy’s friends. Not to live and eat, anyway. She was struggling in her
     own way.
    Now wasn’t the time to put her side of the argument. It was ten minutes until they were on. She needed to touch up her make-up,
     then go through the running order once more to see if she wanted to make any last-minute changes.
    She didn’t get nervous before a gig. Just excited. She supposed she should be grateful for that, at least. Some of her friends
     who were performers had crippling stage fright, to the extent that she wondered why on earth they put themselves through the
     ordeal. She wasn’t afraid to sing. Ever since she had been tiny, she had loved performing. She remembered her parents standing
     her on the dining table when she was only three so she could sing ‘There’s A Worm At The Bottom Of My Garden’, to the delight
     of the assembled guests. Of course she had moved on to more sophisticated renditions since then, but it never bothered her.
     She would perform at the drop of a hat, with no rehearsal, to anyone.
    As soon as she smelled the audience she knew if they were on her side, if they wanted a good time or if they wanted topick a fight. The Tinderbox audience was always a joy. She examined herself in the mirror one last time, smoothed down her
     perfectly arched eyebrows, and applied another slick of Chanel lipstick. She was ready.

Seven
    J ustine fought her way through the crowds in the Tinderbox, astonished that such an inconspicuous door could lead down to such
     a hot spot. The atmosphere was fantastic: laid-back, lively, people laughing, chattering, gossiping, drinking cocktails. She
     finally made it to Alex’s table. He had the same one every week, to which he brought a selection of