Ben’s fair hair, Niall has mussed-up dark locks that curl around his ears and to the collar of his black leather jacket; an acoustic guitar hangs on a strap across his body. His skin is the colour of warm toffee, and he has large almond-shaped brown eyes. Dark flecks of stubble dot his chin and upper lip and, although I usually detest facial hair on men, it suits him. His scruffy demeanour reminds me a little of Callum.
Beatrice positions Niall next to me and sits herself on the opposite sofa between Maria and Grace, while Edward joins the men. Monty seems to know them all quite well, although I don’t recall seeing any of these people at his party last month.
Wine is passed around while Niall busily rolls a spliff. I sit quietly, sipping my wine while surveying the room. Niall, to my right, has hardly said two words to me and I suspect he’s already stoned. Ben is still standing with Monty, Archie and Edward by the French doors, a cigarette between his long fingers, and Beatrice is nattering away with the two women opposite me. She makes no effort to draw me into the conversation. I’m the only one who notices Cass slink into the room like a nervous greyhound, all big eyes and long limbs, her gaze intently fixed on Beatrice as she places some more wine glasses on the coffee table, along with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I catch her eye and smile encouragingly but she turns away and perches on the edge of the Louis XIV style chair next to Beatrice.
When Beatrice realizes that Cass has arrived she reaches across Grace to give her knee a reassuring squeeze before resuming her conversation. There is something familiar and caring about the gesture. Inclusive. And I suddenly feel left out, sitting by a mute Niall. The women are all laughing at something Beatrice is saying, their faces turned to her adoringly; even the older, frumpy Maria seems enraptured. What is it about her? Her voice is clear and soft and almost hypnotic. I glance across at Ben, hoping to catch his eye, but he has his back to me, the striped shirt he’s wearing accentuating his broad shoulders.
As Monty’s booming voice reverberates around the room, the sweet scent of marijuana tickles my nostrils and I ask Niall if I can have a drag. Why not? I think as I lean back against the velvet sofa and inhale deeply. I haven’t smoked weed since I was at university with Nia, but it beats sitting here not being able to chat with Beatrice. Niall suddenly seems a lot more interesting, and the two of us sit giggling and smoking alone on the sofa. Every now and again I notice Beatrice look up from her conversation to glance over at us, an impassive expression on her face.
Later, as the sun goes down and the others have either gone home or to bed, I find myself alone with Beatrice. The room has darkened and Beatrice closes the French doors and flits about the room, lighting the candles on the mantelpiece.
‘Did you enjoy meeting everyone?’ she asks as she flops on to the sofa next to me. ‘They’re a great bunch.’ When I don’t answer, she turns to me, concerned. ‘Didn’t you have a good time? Is it about Lucy? If you want to talk—’
‘I’ve got my counsellor for that,’ I snap, my jealousy of earlier still niggling at me. I want to hurt her, push her out. Even as I do it, I know I’m not being fair.
Her eyes widen in shock and an injured expression flashes across her face. Instantly, I’m remorseful. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just tired, I didn’t mean to snap.’ And before I know it I’m opening up to her about seeing my counsellor, the post-traumatic stress disorder, my problems with paranoia, although I omit the details about Alicia and all that came afterwards.
‘Oh, Abi,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘Thank you for telling me. And I’m here for you, if you ever want to talk. You know, I’ve had my own problems – nothing like yours, admittedly, but I had a kind of breakdown. I was …’ she pauses as she rests
Beatrice positions Niall next to me and sits herself on the opposite sofa between Maria and Grace, while Edward joins the men. Monty seems to know them all quite well, although I don’t recall seeing any of these people at his party last month.
Wine is passed around while Niall busily rolls a spliff. I sit quietly, sipping my wine while surveying the room. Niall, to my right, has hardly said two words to me and I suspect he’s already stoned. Ben is still standing with Monty, Archie and Edward by the French doors, a cigarette between his long fingers, and Beatrice is nattering away with the two women opposite me. She makes no effort to draw me into the conversation. I’m the only one who notices Cass slink into the room like a nervous greyhound, all big eyes and long limbs, her gaze intently fixed on Beatrice as she places some more wine glasses on the coffee table, along with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I catch her eye and smile encouragingly but she turns away and perches on the edge of the Louis XIV style chair next to Beatrice.
When Beatrice realizes that Cass has arrived she reaches across Grace to give her knee a reassuring squeeze before resuming her conversation. There is something familiar and caring about the gesture. Inclusive. And I suddenly feel left out, sitting by a mute Niall. The women are all laughing at something Beatrice is saying, their faces turned to her adoringly; even the older, frumpy Maria seems enraptured. What is it about her? Her voice is clear and soft and almost hypnotic. I glance across at Ben, hoping to catch his eye, but he has his back to me, the striped shirt he’s wearing accentuating his broad shoulders.
As Monty’s booming voice reverberates around the room, the sweet scent of marijuana tickles my nostrils and I ask Niall if I can have a drag. Why not? I think as I lean back against the velvet sofa and inhale deeply. I haven’t smoked weed since I was at university with Nia, but it beats sitting here not being able to chat with Beatrice. Niall suddenly seems a lot more interesting, and the two of us sit giggling and smoking alone on the sofa. Every now and again I notice Beatrice look up from her conversation to glance over at us, an impassive expression on her face.
Later, as the sun goes down and the others have either gone home or to bed, I find myself alone with Beatrice. The room has darkened and Beatrice closes the French doors and flits about the room, lighting the candles on the mantelpiece.
‘Did you enjoy meeting everyone?’ she asks as she flops on to the sofa next to me. ‘They’re a great bunch.’ When I don’t answer, she turns to me, concerned. ‘Didn’t you have a good time? Is it about Lucy? If you want to talk—’
‘I’ve got my counsellor for that,’ I snap, my jealousy of earlier still niggling at me. I want to hurt her, push her out. Even as I do it, I know I’m not being fair.
Her eyes widen in shock and an injured expression flashes across her face. Instantly, I’m remorseful. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m just tired, I didn’t mean to snap.’ And before I know it I’m opening up to her about seeing my counsellor, the post-traumatic stress disorder, my problems with paranoia, although I omit the details about Alicia and all that came afterwards.
‘Oh, Abi,’ she says when I’ve finished. ‘Thank you for telling me. And I’m here for you, if you ever want to talk. You know, I’ve had my own problems – nothing like yours, admittedly, but I had a kind of breakdown. I was …’ she pauses as she rests
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