Close My Eyes (12 page)

For a second I experience a mean stab of pleasure, then I think what a cow I am and turn to Art.

‘Who’s this Lorcan?’

‘No one, really,’ Art says, watching the dancers. ‘He was in at the start of Loxley Benson, but . . . it didn’t work out . . .’

A vague memory stirs in the recesses of my brain. Art has mentioned Lorcan before.

‘You were good friends,’ I say. ‘I remember you telling me. The Irish guy who went to drama school? He’s an actor now – he’s been in some Irish soap for
years.’

Art nods. ‘When I knew him he wasn’t an actor. We hung out a lot together. He encouraged me to set up my business but . . .’ Art tails off.

‘You fell out, didn’t you?’ I’m frowning, trying to remember the story.

Art shrugs. ‘Lorcan let me down. He let the company down.’

I wait for him to expand on this but he doesn’t.

‘Anyway,’ he carries on, ‘he left and became an actor and went home to Ireland for a TV show and I haven’t seen him since. He’s not an easy guy. Fun, though. At
least he used to be.’

I consider this. ‘How come he’s coming here tonight?’

‘You’ll have to ask Tris. They bumped into each other at some PR thing last week and Tris invited him.’ Art raises his eyebrows. ‘Typical Tris, eh?’

I grin. ‘So is he right for Morgan?’

Art snorts. ‘No way,’ he says.

I want to ask him why, but at that minute Art gets called away to talk to another couple I don’t recognize.

Morgan has stopped dancing, I notice, and is in deep conversation with Camilla, one of Loxley Benson’s longer-serving receptionists. Hen wanders over and she and Morgan hug
enthusiastically. I watch the three of them. It’s always so weird to see people from different parts of your life getting on. Of course, Hen and Morgan have always hit it off. Everyone likes
Hen.

The party’s divided along friendship lines. Most of the people in this room know me through Art. The ones who were
my
friends originally are in the kitchen. Hen’s the
exception to this, of course. She straddles both groups, thanks to her university friendship with Tris. She’s just started dancing again and looks amazing – as natural and appealing as
Morgan is stiff and unapproachable. It strikes me that, apart from Art and me, Hen is the only person at the party who knows about Lucy O’Donnell. I gaze around the room. Does anyone here
know what really happened to Beth? Could any of our friends somehow be involved?

I shudder. I can’t let myself think like that.

Tris wanders up to Hen and spins her around while Rob just watches. He’s smiling, but I get the impression he’s feeling a bit out of place standing there while his wife gyrates away.
I’m just thinking of heading in his direction when Kyle wanders over with a fresh drink. He looks lost without Vicky, so I ask after his kids then search for something else to say.

‘So d’you know this Lorcan Byrne who’s coming?’ I ask.

Kyle’s eyes widen. He looks completely shocked. ‘
Lorcan’s
coming here?
Tonight
?’

‘Yes, Tris asked him. What’s the—?’

‘Gen, babe, what a great party!’ Tris bounces over, his pupils suspiciously dilated. ‘Are you still talking about Lorcan? He definitely said he was coming.’ He pauses for
dramatic effect. ‘Maybe he’s here already.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Kyle raises his eyebrows. ‘We’d all know if he was. Tris, I can’t believe you invited him.’

‘What d’you mean?’ I’m really curious now. Kyle isn’t the kind of person who normally makes a fuss. ‘What did he do?’

‘It doesn’t matter now.’ Kyle turns to the shelf beside him and reaches for a crisp. Tris and I exchange a look.

‘So do you know Lorcan through Art?’ I persist, trying another tack.

‘Actually Art met Lorcan through me,’ Kyle says, munching on his crisp.

‘Really?’ I stand back to let Siena move past us. ‘I don’t know anything about him. At least, Art hasn’t mentioned him for years.’

‘He did some building work on our house when Art was still at school.’ Kyle looks uncomfortable. ‘We went out drinking a couple of times. Art came along. They became
friends.’

‘A builder?’ I stare at him. ‘I thought Lorcan was an actor?’

Tris laughs. ‘He’s whatever you want him to be, baby.’

‘He’s an arsehole,’ Kyle snaps. ‘He nearly destroyed Loxley Benson.’

My mouth falls open. I’ve never heard Kyle sound so bitter.

Tris frowns. ‘That’s a bit harsh, after all this time.’

‘What the hell did he do?’ I ask.

‘I told you, it doesn’t matter now.’ Kyle plonks his drink down on the shelf so firmly the bowl of crisps shudders.

‘For God’s sake, Kyle,’ I say. ‘If you don’t tell me I’m only going to ask Art.’

‘Go on, Kyle,’ Tris urges. ‘Tell her.’

Kyle gives a defeated sigh. ‘Okay, it was at the start of Loxley Benson,’ he says. ‘Literally, the first few months, before Art met you. We only had two clients and debts
everywhere. Basically, the main client was keeping us afloat. Without him we’d have gone under within weeks. The bank . . . the wages . . .’ He pauses.

‘And?’ I say.

‘This client . . .’ Kyle shudders. ‘Lorcan slept with his wife. That’s why Art fired him. It was the only way to keep the contract. Lorcan’s an irresponsible
bastard.’

‘He’s a player,’ Tris says philosophically.

‘Shut up, Tris,’ Kyle grunts. ‘You just fancy him.’

Tris grins. ‘Busted.’ He turns to me. ‘I bet Art never talks about that time.’

He’s right. The only thing Art hates more than almost failing at something is telling people about it. He has certainly never told me what Kyle has just confided.

‘Lorcan’s
hot
,’ Tris goes on, in a stage whisper.

‘Jesus Christ, Tristan.’ Kyle shudders.

‘Oh, don’t be such a big fag-nag, Kyle.’ Tris turns to me. ‘And tell Morgan not to worry. Lorcan’s
definitely
straight.’

‘Gen.’ Art appears and pulls me away from Tris. ‘Come and meet John and Sandrine.’

I follow him across the room and allow myself to be introduced to a woman with a Cleopatra bob and sparkling eyes, and her husband – shy and immaculately dressed in a suit and tie.

‘Sandrine’s my main ally on the PM’s committee,’ Art says with a classic Art smile – slightly flirtatious but also deeply sincere. ‘She was with me in
Brussels the other day. I told you about her, remember?’

I nod, recalling the woman I heard in the background when Art and I were on the phone. I take a closer look at Sandrine. She’s very pretty – as groomed and elegant as Morgan but with
an animated smile that makes her look a whole lot more fun.

‘We’ve been focusing their minds on how to present an ethical stance on investments, haven’t we, Sandrine?’ Art says with a chuckle.

Sandrine smiles back, revealing a dimple in her cheek. ‘If we can just get them to understand the principle of negative screening instead of all that preference bullshit . . .’ She
laughs and it strikes me that she is just Art’s type – bubbling over with personality and sexy as hell thanks to her curves in that simple silk dress and her French accent. I suddenly
feel terribly scruffy and unglamorous in my high street jeans and split ends.

‘I know.’ Art gives a mock groan. He glances at Sandrine’s husband, whose name I’ve already forgotten but whose jacket pocket contains a perfect triangle of red
handkerchief. ‘What d’you think, John? It would help if we could agree on an SIP but getting everyone to even define the terms looks like it’s going to take about ten bloody
years.’

‘Well, that’s politicians for you,’ John says smugly, removing an invisible speck of dust off his lapel.

‘What’s your view, Geniver?’ Sandrine says.

‘I guess politicians have a lot to juggle,’ I say noncommittally, not having properly understood the subject under discussion.

What I
do
want to say is that I think her husband is quite possibly the most anal-looking man I’ve ever met in my life and I have no idea what the vivacious Sandrine sees in him;
but I do my best to nod in all the right places as the three of them carry on their conversation.

After five minutes or so I murmur something about having to check on the food and scuttle away. I stop at the door, taking stock of the room. People are dancing and chatting. Everyone has a full
glass. So far, so good. I’m almost ready to feel relieved. The party’s working.

Art catches my eye and smiles. He looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks, clearly enjoying his conversation with Sandrine and her husband. I turn away. I can handle Art’s
business contacts for a while, but right now I need time with some of my own friends. All my anxieties about Beth are still there, but the party has pushed them into the background, and what I want
right now is to let off some steam, to find some relief from the stress of the past few days.

Hen and Morgan have withdrawn to the kitchen. They’re chatting with a group of women, including Sue and a couple of old uni friends of mine. Morgan smiles at me as she leaves to use the
bathroom, but the others are so deep in conversation they don’t even notice as I approach, eager to join in.

‘It’s bloody ridiculous having to put their names down at three.’ Sue jabs her finger as she speaks.

A couple of the other women nod. I’m right next to them now but they still haven’t noticed me.

‘I know, but that would have been better than going through a transfer at this stage.’ Hen sighs, her forehead furrowed with a deep crease. ‘Meadway has
got
to be
better than the school he’s at now. It’s a total sink – the class sizes are ridiculous . . .’

My enthusiasm for the conversation is fading fast. It’s not that I don’t care, but I can’t be anything other than a spectator on this topic.

‘It’s not just the class sizes,’ Sue says confidentially. ‘The teachers have such low expectations. When we went to Alfie’s last parents’ evening she actually
said “There’s no problem with Alfie so there’s nothing to talk about,” as if so long as he wasn’t falling behind and messing up their league tables it didn’t
matter about him.’

‘I know.’ Hen shakes her head. ‘It’s just so expensive to go private, though, especially now there’ll be two of them.’

Two?

I take a step away.

Hen spots me and blinks. ‘Oh, Gen, hi . . . are you okay?’

I stare at her face. It’s flooding red with guilt and embarrassment. My chest tightens as I realize exactly what she was saying.

‘I’m fine.’ I try to smile.

‘I’ve only just found out,’ Hen says quickly. ‘I was going to tell you – that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’

I look around. All the others share Hen’s guilty look. They all knew she was pregnant, then.
All
of them.

‘Hey, that’s great news,’ I say, trying to hide my embarrassment. ‘When are you due?’

‘Ages.’ Hen rubs her nose. ‘September.
Late
September.’

I nod, working it out. Roughly three months gone, then. Which means, even allowing for how scatty Hen is, that she
must
have known for at least a month. She certainly must have known
earlier today, when she helped me get ready for the party. A little voice inside my head reminds me that I have been full of my own concerns lately, that it would have been hard for Hen to tell me
about having a second baby when I was being forced to relive the trauma of losing my first. Even so, the hurt of being left out of what I know is great news for my best friend still stings.

I can’t help remembering when she found out about Nat. She told me before anyone else, just as I’d confided in her first about being pregnant with Beth. We kept each other’s
secret for over a month. She didn’t even tell her mum.

And now I’m among the last to know.

The music is pounding away in my ears. Everyone is watching Hen and me, looking concerned. No one says anything.

I finally force a smile onto my face. I’m not being fair on Hen and, anyway, I’m genuinely pleased for her. I am. I kiss her cheek. ‘That’s really fantastic. So what were
you guys talking about? Schools?’

‘Yeah, but that’s so boring.’ Sue grins. ‘Hey, great party. The Black Forest gateau is
amazing
. My mum used to make those, though she used grapes instead of
cherries.’

‘Thanks.’ I keep smiling but I know it must look rigid. Truth is, I can’t bear this being treated like an invalid around the topic of children. I look at Hen again and she
looks away.

Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with anger. Before, Hen and I were pregnant at the same time. But now she’s a proper mother and I’m just the ghost of one, and the fact that our babies
were due at the same time makes the whole thing so much worse. Nat’s birthday six days before Beth’s reminds me of her every year. Except Beth didn’t have a birthday. Not one
single one. Ever.

My eyes fill with tears.
Shit
.

‘Oh, Gen, I’m so sorry.’ Hen’s touches my arm. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t,’ I say, more fiercely than I mean to. ‘For God’s sake, it’s fine.’

There’s an awkward pause. I look down at the floor and the anger fades and I feel overwhelmed by the future. By my future – in which everyone else gets to talk about their kids and
schools and exams and universities and unsuitable boyfriends and then, in twenty or thirty years’ time, about their grandchildren and
their
schools and exams and so on . . . and
I’ll be left out of the whole bloody conversation.

Forever.

I look up and force another smile onto my face at the sight of the pity on Hen’s. I back away from her and Sue. ‘I’m good. I’m great, in fact. I just need to check on
some stuff.’

I turn and fight my way through the room to the hallway. Various people try to talk to me as I pass, but I ignore them. I think of going out into the front garden, but then the doorbell rings
and the front door is instantly blocked by bodies moving to open it.

I turn, ignoring the whoops behind me as the door is opened and head the long way around to the kitchen, intending to shut myself in the utility room for a couple of minutes. I hate feeling this
sorry for myself . . . if I could just sit still for a few minutes I’m sure I’d be able to let it go. I reach the utility room and open the door, only to find Art’s PA inside.
Siena is deeply immersed in a snog with one of the young guys from the office. They jump apart when they see me and I’m so embarrassed I just say sorry and walk out again.