Close My Eyes (13 page)

I wander back to the living room.
Bloody hell, how many people are here?
The house is crammed full. Five minutes ago I was having fun and now I just want everyone to leave so I can get
back to missing Beth and worrying over Lucy O’Donnell’s claims and all the other pathetic elements of my miserable, non-writing life.

Feeling furious and upset, I walk into the living room and look up, just in time to see Art shaking hands with a man I don’t know in a black jumper and jeans.

The whole of the Loxley Benson board are standing around them and, though the dance music is still playing, everyone in the room is watching Art and the stranger. I glance at Kyle’s face.
He’s not smiling.

This has to be Lorcan Byrne.

Lorcan Byrne is tall, a couple of inches taller than Art, so about six-two-ish. He has broad shoulders and dark auburn hair that curls onto his neck.

Art stands back and the man turns round. He’s as good-looking as Tris promised, with even features and a square jaw. He’s grinning, apparently undaunted by the effect his entrance
has made.

Art beckons me over.

‘Gen, this is Lorcan Byrne.’ He sounds as relaxed as usual on the surface, but underneath I can hear the ice in Art’s voice.

‘Hi.’ I smile.

‘Hi.’ A soft Irish accent. Lorcan shakes my hand. ‘I can’t believe we’ve never met.’

‘I’d like to say “I’ve heard so much about you”.’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’ Lorcan laughs. I’m struck by the way it’s his whole face laughing and laugh myself.

Then Tris wafts up and Lorcan’s negotiating the hug. Kyle turns away but Boris and Perry wander over, and suddenly the party’s back on track, the tense atmosphere evaporated.

After a few minutes I manage to get Art alone for a second.

‘Having fun?’ I put my arms around him.

He smiles and leans down to kiss me on the lips. ‘It’s great, Gen. Thanks so much.’

We look at each other and, for a moment, it’s as if it’s just him and me in the room. Over the years I’ve learned marriage is like this – a lot of mundane jogging along
and compromise, punctuated by times when you’re almost ready to walk away, and then those rare, lovely moments where the power of the bond between you puts everything else in the shadows.

‘Hey,’ I say, looking deep into his dark eyes. ‘Kyle just told me about Lorcan and why he left the company. How come you never mentioned it?’

Art shrugs. ‘Like I told you, Lorcan let the company down. Why talk about it?’

‘So Kyle said you were, like, really close . . . best friends even?’

Art shrugs. ‘I don’t think in terms of best friends.’

I roll my eyes. It’s true, of course. Art’s friends with everyone, but that doesn’t really answer my question.

‘Look, it’s complicated.’ Art sighs. ‘I just don’t trust him. He isn’t all bad. In fact he’s smart and creative and he was the first person who
suggested I should set up my own company.’

‘Really?’ I’m genuinely surprised. ‘I thought Loxley Benson was your idea?’

‘It was. I mean, specifically I came up with Loxley Benson itself, but long before then Lorcan focused my head on the idea of running my own business. I was a kid, sixteen or something,
and he was doing carpentry work. He built Kyle’s parents’ conservatory. That’s how we all met. I’d never come across anyone even vaguely entrepreneurial before. You know
what Mum was like, and Kyle’s parents. They all had – or wanted – steady jobs, like working for the local council, with sick pay and paid holidays and all that. I’d dreamed
about being rich and successful, but Lorcan was the first person who made me believe I could actually set up my own business one day.’

‘Hey, Gen, where’s the corkscrew?’

It’s Sue, very smiley and a bit slurry. I want to ask Art more, but I hurry off to the kitchen. Morgan is in there again chatting with some of my old friends, while Boris’s wife is
deep in conversation with Lorcan. To my amazement Boris’s wife is actually smiling. Lorcan has wandered off by the time I’ve found the missing corkscrew and given it to Sue. She asks if
I’m okay after Hen’s pregnancy revelation. I reassure her that I’m fine. And then Hen herself comes up, all tearful about not telling me before, and we spend about half an hour
clearing that up again.

‘It’s great,’ I keep telling her. ‘I’m thrilled for you.’

‘Really?’ Hen sniffs. ‘I was going to tell you tonight, Gen. Honest.’

Eventually Rob comes up and I congratulate him on the baby and he blushes, which makes me laugh and then Hen laughs too, at last, and drags him off to dance.

By the time I get back into the living room it’s gone midnight and half the couples are thinking about getting back to babysitters. Rob is talking to Boris and his wife, and Art is
chatting and laughing with Hen, who is clearly trying to persuade him to dance. There’s no chance of that – Art wouldn’t dance if you paid him. I smile to myself. Hen might have
Art’s ear when it comes to me, but she doesn’t really understand him.

He beckons me towards them but before I can head over, Tris grabs me and spins me around. We dance together for a bit. My iPod is back in the dock and the party playlist is still going strong
– the Motown section never fails. I take some photos of Art with Hen, then with a bunch of other people: Sandrine and John; Siena, who’s emerged from the utility room without the young
guy; and Boris and Dan and their wives. Art is smiling in them all.

In the end I collapse onto the sofa. Plenty of people are still dancing, though the party’s definitely thinning out. Art’s saying goodbye to Sandrine and John.

‘Enjoying your party?’

I look up. Lorcan’s smiling. He sits down beside me and runs his hand through his hair.

‘Course.’ I smile back.

Lorcan raises an eyebrow. ‘Yeah? I wasn’t sure.’

We stare at each other. There’s something knowing about his look . . . an edge . . . a challenge. I can certainly see how he could have ended up sleeping with a client’s wife.

‘I’m fine,’ I insist. ‘Anyway, it’s Art’s party really.’

We both look over at Art, still chatting away.

‘Art says you’re a writer.’

‘Did he?’ I’m honestly surprised to hear that. After urging me to write for over two years after Beth’s death, Art finally stopped talking about it. I can’t
remember the last time he even mentioned the subject.

‘What are you working on now?’ Lorcan asks.

‘Nothing specific.’ God, I haven’t had to do this – talk about my writing with anyone outside my tutor groups – for ages. Everybody else stopped asking me years
ago. I stare at the floor for a moment, trying to think of a way of changing the subject.

‘Why’s that?’

I look up. Lorcan is watching my face, his eyes intent on my answer. His skin is fair and there are faint lines on his forehead. He has soft blue eyes and stubble on his chin. I take all this in
without really noticing it. I’m trying to work out what to say. And then, without any warning at all, I tell the truth.

‘I haven’t been able to write since my baby died.’

Lorcan nods slowly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ he says. ‘Art and I haven’t spoken in a long time.’ He pauses. ‘I can understand why it stopped
you writing.’

‘Can you?’

He nods. ‘Sure. Something like that changes who you are, so you have to work out who you are all over again.’

‘Which is more than enough creativity to be going on with, you mean?’ I laugh gently. ‘I guess so. Though, for me, it was also that I just spent so much time thinking about
her.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Hey, Gen, we’re going.’ Sue and Paul loom up in front of us. I jump, slightly. I’d forgotten about the party still going on around us. I stand up and kiss them goodbye.
Then more people come over. Sue and Paul have started a second wave of couples leaving amid yet more explanations about late nights and waiting babysitters. By the time I return to the sofa,
it’s half past one and there’re only about twelve of us left. Tris and Boris – clearly off their faces – are now dancing to ‘Vogue’ in the middle of the living
room. Morgan and Art are chatting by the door with a group of people from Art’s office. Lorcan’s still on the sofa, a bottle of beer in hand, talking to Boris’s wife. She scowls
at me as I sit down.

‘Are you alright, Tanya?’

‘Yes, except for shoes which are hurting feet.’ She looks over at Boris and sighs. ‘We must go.’

‘Really?’ I say. ‘That’s a shame.’

I catch Lorcan’s eye. I can see he knows I’m not that bothered Tanya is going. I sip at my wine, trying not to grin.

‘Yes.’ Tanya sweeps off to get their coats and I let myself smile.

Lorcan sits up. ‘It’s kind of strange seeing everyone again.’

I’m curious. I can’t help it.

‘I heard you left Loxley Benson under a cloud?’

Lorcan wrinkles his nose. ‘I thought maybe after all this time they might have forgotten, but . . .’

‘Art never forgets.’ I hesitate. That sounded kind of disloyal. ‘I’m kidding. It’s all water under the bridge. I mean, I think Kyle might still be a bit upset, but
that’s just because he’s so devoted to Art. The others looked really pleased to see you.’

A beat passes. Lorcan is still looking at me.

‘I don’t think Art wants me here,’ he says. His tone is neither angry, nor self-pitying. He’s just stating a fact.

‘Of course he does,’ I bluster, my face growing hot.

‘Mmmn . . .’ Lorcan looks away.

‘Tell me . . .’ I say, desperate to change the subject. ‘Art says you’re an actor. But you also apparently built Kyle’s conservatory.
And
you were part of
Art’s business at the beginning, which has got nothing to do with either acting or building.’

Lorcan laughs. ‘Yeah, all those things are true, I guess. I am an actor, but I didn’t get into it until I was in my mid-twenties.’ He pauses, as if deliberating whether to say
more. Then he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it off his face, smoothing it back. ‘I did carpentry work back then to earn money.’

I’m held by his look, which is somehow open and yet enigmatic at the same time. ‘Art says you were the one who suggested he set up his business.’

‘I was only stating the obvious,’ Lorcan says. ‘You could see there was something about Art, even back then. He was this restless kid with masses of energy and far cleverer
than everyone around him. If he wasn’t going to end up a gangster he’d become a businessman. He had entrepreneur written all over him, he just needed the time to work out what to
“entrepreneur” about.’

‘But not you?’

‘No way. I mean, I thought it was great Art was setting up a business, but I wasn’t cut out to be a part of it. I’d never had a job or a boss. The only thing I was good at then
was acting the bollix, as my dad used to say.’ He laughs again. ‘Art and me used to go out drinking when I was bumming around doing occasional carpentry work and he’d say to me:
“This isn’t right for you, Lorcan, mate. This isn’t enough. There’s good money out there, you know? If you’re prepared to go after it.’” As Lorcan quotes
Art, he changes his voice, imitating Art’s North London accent and the eager, intense way Art sometimes speaks.

I grin. It’s a good likeness.

‘You see I thought I could hack it . . .’ Lorcan looks down. He’s talking in his natural voice again now. I like the way he speaks, the laidback way he rolls his words around
his mouth. ‘At the time, before Loxley Benson, Art was working in some financial consultancy, and with his help and a lot –’ he grins – ‘a
lot
of bullshit on
my part, I talked my way into this public relations company, because I was tired of labouring and I wanted more money. And it was good. I mean, it suited me in lots of ways. Then when Art set up
Loxley Benson I thought I could handle the PR side no problem.’ He sighs, and swigs at his beer. ‘But actually I hated it. And . . . and there was loads of other shit going on in my
life. So getting out of the business was the best decision I ever made.’

‘I thought . . .’ I hesitate, wondering if what I’m about to say will sound rude. I decide to say it anyway. There’s something about Lorcan that tells me he prefers
people to be direct. ‘I thought Art fired you.’

‘Right.’ Lorcan sighs. ‘Yes, I would have gone anyway, but yes.’

There’s an awkward pause.

‘So what was the other shit you mentioned?’ I say, hoping to smooth the moment over.

Lorcan widens his eyes dramatically. ‘Woman shit.’ He laughs.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I became a dad, which wasn’t planned. At
all
.’

I glance at his left hand. There’s no wedding ring.

‘So who is that?’ Lorcan points to a photo on the shelf to the right of the sofa. It’s one of my favourite pictures of my dad as a boy – a close-up of his face: dark
floppy hair falling over his forehead, soulful eyes and that expressive mouth, with the top lip fuller than the bottom, pressed into a determined smile.

‘That’s my dad,’ I say. ‘He died when I was a kid.’

‘So did my mum,’ Lorcan confides. ‘Well, I was seventeen. Cancer.’

We look at each other for a second, bonded by that invisible tie that exists between all children who lose their parents too young.

Lorcan sits back. ‘So what do you do, if you’re not writing?’

I hate that question. I don’t want to answer it. I want to ask Lorcan about his kid and what happened with the woman shit. And about whether he’s with anyone right now. Instead I
shrug, feeling stupid. As I speak, I pour myself another glass of wine.

‘There isn’t anything else I want to do. God, that sounds so pathetic. I mean I do a bit of creative writing teaching and I know how lucky I am that Art . . . that I don’t have
to earn a living . . . it’s just . . . writing’s the only thing that I’ve ever done that felt authentic. You know, “real”. The right thing. The thing I’m meant
to be doing.’

How pretentious does that sound? I gulp my wine, embarrassed.

But Lorcan is nodding. ‘I get that,’ he says.

The sound of glass smashing rises above the music. I turn in time to see Morgan staring at her skirt, a glass of red wine on the floor at her feet. Miraculously the glass is only broken into two
pieces, at the stem. The man next to her is swaying slightly, looking guilty. I recognize him as one of Art’s clients. He’s in his fifties, with a red face and pissed eyes.