Close My Eyes

by Sophie McKenzie

  I let Boris drag me over to where the others are dancing. Dan and Perry both got married last year and they’re with their new wives. Two tall, dark, handsome men with two petite, pretty, blonde women. I start moving to the music – George Michael, ‘Outside’, which I don’t remember being on my iPod. I glance over at the stereo . . . a different iPod is in the slot.

  Tris – very posh, very gay, very camp – grabs me around the waist and starts twirling me round. He’s tall and smells lightly of something vaguely musky and hugely expensive. He sings the chorus in my ear, then laughs. ‘You look gooorgeous, darling. I love that bracelet.’

  I glance down at Morgan’s gift which has been getting admiring comments all evening.

  ‘Is this yours?’ I shout over the music, pointing at the iPod.

  Tris makes a mock-penitent face. ‘What could I do, darling? George was just begging to be played.’

  I grin. Tris throws his hands flamboyantly up in the air. I try to give myself up to the dance, letting Tris twirl me around. I don’t want to think about IVF and Beth and all my unanswered questions right now, and yet, despite the music and the chatter and the general organized chaos of the party, my doubts cling to me, refusing to be put down.

  After a minute or two, Boris drags me away. He’s half Tris’s height, but built like a brick – solid and ruddy-faced. I’ve always suspected he had a bit of a crush on me.

  ‘She’s mine, you ridiculous queen,’ he says.

  I glance over at Boris’s wife, standing in the corner. Like Boris she’s Russian; unlike him, she has never fitted in. At this moment, she’s staring at me as if she’d like to kill me.

  I disentangle myself from Boris and back away, into Kyle.

  ‘Gen? How’re you doing?’

  I smile up at him. Kyle Benson’s a sweetheart. A big, lumbering bear of a man and Art’s partner at Loxley Benson. He’s fiercely protective of Art. Morgan might know the facts of our session at the IVF clinic, but if Art’s told anyone about our argument over whether or not to go ahead – and how he feels about it – it will have been Kyle.

  They met when Art was fourteen and his mum wasn’t coping with either her life or her teenage son. Art, by his own admission, was out of control – in trouble at school and getting into petty crime: joyriding and shoplifting beers, that kind of small-scale stuff that social workers with serious faces warn can easily escalate.

  Anna was working as a receptionist at a beauty salon at the time and one of the beauticians knew someone who knew someone who took in troubled boys for weekly, informal fostering. It could have been a disaster, unpoliced and unregulated as it was, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Art. The couple who fostered him on and off over the next couple of years already had a teenage son, Kyle, and the two boys became firm friends.

  ‘I’m good, Kyle, thanks,’ I say. ‘How about you?’

  Kyle shrugs. ‘Fine. Work’s been manic though. Has Art told you about meeting the PM?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say to Kyle with a grin. ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘I bet.’ Kyle’s solid, jowl-heavy face splits into a huge smile. ‘It’s good to see him happy about something. That is . . .’ The grin vanishes and he groans. ‘I mean . . . shit, Gen, I didn’t mean he isn’t happy . . . it’s just he told me you were thinking about the IVF again and I know how hard that is on both of you . . .’ He blushes, his face weighed down by embarrassment.

  ‘It’s okay.’ I smile, trying to make him feel better. He’s kind and dependable and has stood by Art all their lives. At Loxley Benson he pads around in the background, and while Art’s the dynamo coming up with creative ideas and driving them through, I sometimes wonder if it isn’t Kyle who holds everything together. ‘So what impact do you think The Trials has had on business?’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Art seems to think it’s all positive – better name-recognition, that sort of thing. D’you think there are any downsides?’

  Kyle grins. ‘Only the bunny boilers, and they’re tailing off now it’s not on the air any more.’

  I smile back. Art has shown me a selection of the emails sent to him at Loxley Benson. They range from the sweetly admiring to the blatantly sexual. Several women even attached topless pics of themselves.

  ‘If I Were a Boy’ comes on Tris’s iPod and he starts writhing about, performing what looks like some sort of pole dance using Hen as the pole. Almost everyone in the room is watching and laughing.

  A thought strikes me. ‘Does Art ever talk about . . . about other stuff from the past . . . from when we had our baby?’

  I look closely at Kyle. He’s reddening again, looking awkward, then he shakes his head. Does he know something about Beth? Surely not. Kyle is so open and honest, I’m sure I would be able to tell if he was keeping secrets. He’s just embarrassed.

  I look through the window towards the dark street beyond. The reflections from the fairy lights Hen strung up earlier twinkle in the glass.

  ‘Are you okay, Gen?’ Kyle’s kindly face creases with a frown.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I give myself a shake. ‘Tell me about the meetings with the PM Art’s been having. Don’t they take a lot of his time away from Loxley Benson?’

  ‘Not as much as you’d think.’ Kyle looks relieved. ‘At the moment I think they’re focusing on the Work Incentives programme. It’s great publicity for the company. In some ways it’s even better than The Trials. Our clients are seriously impressed.’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ I say.

  ‘It is . . .’ Kyle pauses. He lowers his voice, so I can barely hear him over the music. ‘I know how Art can be, and he’s even more sure of himself since The Trials, but Vicky and I . . . well, we just want you to know that we think this should be your decision . . . whether you try IVF again, I mean.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I squeeze Kyle’s arm, genuinely touched.

  ‘No, seriously, it’s unbelievable what you’ve gone through. Vicky and I can’t imagine . . .’

  Vicky is Kyle’s wife of fifteen years and the mother of their four children. Like him, she’s solid and kind.

  ‘Thanks.’ I look around, realizing I haven’t seen Vicky yet this evening. ‘Where is Vicks?’

  ‘Babysitter let us down.’ Kyle makes a face. ‘Shame, she’d love to be here.’

  I wonder if he means that. I’ve always felt Vicky is a bit intimidated by Art and the other directors and their wives . . . by how slick and sophisticated they are. Maybe she couldn’t face a party full of slim, attractive, designer-clad women. I know how she feels.

  As if to illustrate my point, Morgan chooses this moment to make her entrance. She looks amazing: the savage stilettos have been teamed with a deep red dress that fits Morgan like a sheath. It finishes just below the knee and is off-the-shoulder and slash-necked, with thin straps – kind of fifties-looking, like something out of a Grace Kelly movie or early Mad Men.

  All the men stare. In fact, so do the women. Art’s PA, Siena, a posh, slightly plump twenty-something with creamy skin and over-plucked eyebrows, actually drops her jaw.

  Morgan stands in the doorway, looking around. I’m willing to bet her dress alone cost more than every other item of clothing in the room combined. She looks amazing – but totally unapproachable. There’s something self-contained in the way she’s gazing at the rest of us which, combined with her ultra-groomed look, sets her apart. She’s so shiny she almost gleams. No wonder the poor woman can’t get a man. You’d need nuclear levels of confidence to walk up to her.

  The music is still blaring out – some trance track I don’t know – but the dancers have stopped moving. As hostess, I should go over and claim Morgan – she has met the Loxley Benson board on a couple of occasions and knows Hen, of course, but underneath the poise she’s looking a bit self-conscious right now. Luckily Tris saves the day. He trips towards her.

  ‘Morgan, honey,’ he says, ‘I bring fabulous news. I’ve got the perfect man for you.’

  ‘Really?’ Morgan raises an
expertly manicured hand to brush back an invisible wisp of hair. ‘So when does he arrive?’

  ‘Lorcan Byrne,’ Tris goes on. ‘Irish guy from way back. Maybe you met him with Art when you were younger? They were, like, best friends. And Lorcan is gorgeous. Remember?’

  Morgan wrinkles her nose disdainfully. ‘Hmmmn . . .’

  I move closer, arriving at Morgan’s side at the same time as Art. Behind us the dancers have started up again.

  ‘Isn’t Lorcan the guy you were with that time in the States?’ Morgan turns to Art. ‘Kind of a wild guy?’

  ‘Er, yeah.’ Art makes a face. ‘You didn’t really hit it off. Lorcan isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’

  Morgan looks like she wants to talk some more, but Tris whisks her off to join the knot of dancers. She’s only a few years older than they are – and could easily pass for younger with her skinny hips and suspiciously smooth skin – but there’s a sedate, middle-aged quality to Morgan that makes her look out of place. She can’t dance, either – and those spiky shoes certainly don’t help.

  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 s
ays 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.