After the Party by Lisa Jewell Page A

magnificent; long and taut and just precisely the sort of brilliantly designed instrument that a laugh of that quality would require.
    â€œSo, Smith tells me you’ve just had a baby?”
    The question picked Ralph up off the wooden floor by the scruff of his freshly scrubbed neck and hurled him against the wall. It took him a moment to recover and when he did he saw Rosey staring at him unblinkingly with her Chromium Oxide eyes, awaiting a response.
    â€œYeah,” he said, a beat too late, “well, not me, my, er, girlfriend, partner, you know. But yeah. A little boy.”
    He watched her response. He could spot a broody woman at ten paces. Something happened to a broody woman when you mentioned the word baby, something raw and animal behind the eyes. The animal thing wasn’t there with Rosey, just a kind of, aw, babies, cute wrinkle of the nose and an indulgent smile, no different from if they were talking about tiny little kittens or watching newborn lambs gambol around a field. She seemed, to Ralph, much younger than thirty-three.
    â€œWhat’s he called?”
    â€œBlake,” he said, clearing his throat, which felt suddenly thick with the sound of his son’s name. “Yeah, Blake.”
    â€œThat’s cool,” she said, “like Amy Winehouse’s fella?”
    Ralph grimaced. Blake was his name. When they’d first started discussing baby names, four years ago, when Scarlett was still a gender-nonspecific ball of cells in Jem’s womb, when Amy Winehouse was still at stage school, he’d said: Blake. If it’s a boy. Blake. Blake for Peter Blake and William Blake and Quentin Blake, not to mention for Blake’s 7 . But not for Blake whatever his name was, who was in prison for beating someone up in a pub. They’d gone ahead with the name anyway, safe in the assumption that by the time their Blake was at school, no one would remember the one in the porkpie hat.
    â€œYes,” he sighed, “but not named for him. Named for some people of actual substance. Named for some geniuses.”
    â€œAh,” she said, her eyes widening with understanding. “Peter and William? And Quentin, too?” And Ralph saw it, a flash of something bright and frightening and exceptional. She knew all the Blakes, the rancid tabloid Blakes and the genuine substantial Blakes. He threw her a look of respect and she smiled at him. “I studied history of art,” she said, “well, for a year, anyway—I dropped out.”
    Ralph was about to ask her about her course and why she’d dropped out but she sensed the question coming and dodged it. “And is he your first, this Blake of yours?”
    Ralph shook his head. “No,” he said, “we’ve got a girl too. Scarlett. She’s three, four in September.”
    â€œAnother cool name,” she said appreciatively. “You and your wife—”
    â€œGirlfriend,” he interjected quickly.
    â€œGirlfriend,” she corrected herself, with a knowing smile. “You have very good taste in names. Any pictures?”
    â€œOf the kids? Erm, yeah, I do actually. Jem made me bring some, to show Smith.”
    â€œOh. Let’s see them,” she cajoled.
    Ralph went back to his room and delved around in his rucksack, looking for the shiny wallet Jem had forced on him when he was packing on Friday night with the words: Smith will want to see your kids. “No he won’t,” Ralph had countered, “he won’t have the slightest interest.”
    â€œOf course he will,” Jem had said, “and even if he doesn’t, won’t you want them for yourself, just to, you know, look at?”
    Ralph hadn’t replied, just taken the wallet and stuffed it into his bag, wondering why it was that women always thought you should feel the same things they felt and care about the same things they cared about. But now he was glad he had them. He wanted this amazing