Page 93 of All Our Missing Pieces

‘Maybe it would,’ Beatrice had admitted, smiling her smile that was like Orla’s, yet not Orla’s.

‘You’re all good,’ Emily said now. ‘Come on, hand over that lippie. Not that it’ll last, the amount I plan on drinking tonight.’

‘It’s New Year’s Eve.’ I watched as she carefully coloured in her full lips. ‘If you can’t get shitfaced tonight, when can you?’

‘Exactly. Vanessa’s promised a fry-up and Bloody Marys in the morning, so let’s do it.’

‘Let’s do it.’

With a final swish of our hair, we headed downstairs. Guests had already begun to arrive, spilling from the kitchen into the front room, plastic glasses of cava in their hands, chatting and laughing and slotting CDs into the stereo. I fetched myself a drink and poured a packet of crisps into a salad bowl, handing them round as an excuse to introduce myself to people.

By midnight, the flat was heaving. I’d danced with Vanessa’s brother and had an incoherent conversation about politics with a group of Josh’s friends. I’d jokingly reprised my long-running argument with Emily about whether pineapple on pizza was sacrilege or the food of the gods. I’d kicked off my shoes to join the pile of other discarded heels people kept tripping over on their way to the toilet. I’d laughed until my face hurt.

Now, I found myself face to face with a man I’d never met before. He was blond and stocky, taller than me but not as tall as Luke, his hair standing up at random angles as if it had been carefully combed into place earlier in the evening but disarranged by his fingers running through it. His eyes were green and smiling.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘And where have you been all night?’

‘I’ve been here,’ I said. ‘I live here.’

‘That would explain it.’ His voice was soft, his accent noticeably posh. ‘Since I’ve only just arrived. I’m Tom. I work with Emily.’

‘I’m Livvie,’ I echoed. ‘I share the house with Emily.’

‘Then we’ve got something in common already. And soon we’ll have something else.’

‘What’s that?’ I couldn’t help returning his smile – his confidence was infectious.

‘We’ll have seen the New Year in together. Hello 2006, adieu 2005. A turning point in our lives.’

‘Which way are you thinking your life’s going to turn?’ I asked.

‘Oh, upwards. Always upwards. And onwards, obviously.’

‘Okay,’ I said slowly. ‘That sounds good to me, Tom.’

He leaned in towards me to say something else and I caught the scent of his cologne, smooth and expensive like his leather jacket. But whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the voices around us beginning the countdown and the chimes of Big Ben coming from the television.

Around us, voices erupted into shouts of, ‘Happy New Year!’ and several champagne corks exploded at once.

Tom smiled at me and I smiled back. The rims of our plastic glasses touched each other and then, with what didn’t feel like any conscious decision on either of our parts, our lips met too in a kiss that was something less than passionate but definitely more than friendly.

‘Happy New Year, Livvie.’ He laughed down at me once the kiss had ended.

‘Happy New Year, Tom.’

And in that moment, I truly believed it would be.

FIFTY-SEVEN

1 JANUARY 2006

It is after midnight and therefore a new day, but more importantly a new year. It is also the first time I am picking up my pen to write these pages since Christmas morning, and it is only the knowledge that if I did not, I might never begin again that has impelled me to do so. In all these years – not when I left Adrian, not when I learned of my grandmother’s death, not when Beatrice revealed that she was my daughter – have I not written my Morning Pages.

But Beatrice’s inadvertent revelation on Christmas Day left me reeling with shock to the extent that I have been unable to find words to write until now. At first, when I saw his face in her painting, I thought I might be sick or faint, but I didn’t. The fresh air helped. I managed to get through that walk – barely feeling the ground beneath my feet or the cold air on my face – and then I said I had a headache and came up to bed, leaving Beatrice and her Neil downstairs alone.

Was it some trick – some kind of cruel joke Beatrice was playing on me? It was the kind of thing she might have done months ago, when she first came to Damask Square, but not now. Surely not now. And there was nothing in her face to suggest that – she was full of diffident pride at the beautiful portrait she was showing us.

The portrait of her parents. Ruth and Declan.