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‘Ten more minutes in here, then we’ll go through. And whatever you do, mention the seamless transition from indoor to outdoor space to Johnnie, will you?’
I laugh. ‘Deal.’
The sight of what seems like the entire street gathered in one room almost has me running for the door. The space reminds me briefly of Glastonbury, or how I imagine Woodstock once was, or the Christmas lights at Kew Gardens perhaps – that same magical property, pulsating runs of coloured lights beckoning you forward, the hubbub of chatter, a soft samba vocal that sounds like Astrud Gilberto. The lights pulse, tiny pinpricks changing from red to orange to blue to green running around the perimeter. There must be floor lights too, because the polished concrete underfoot appears to glow. The work surfaces are snow white, high gloss, and the air is heavy with the sticky-sweet aroma of the cocktails, with spice, with floral scents that drift around us in a heady mix. It is almost too much, a sensory overload, and for a moment I fear I cannot go in.
But Jen is at my elbow and silently coaxes me forward. I am too hot with Fred strapped against me, but there is no alternative. I spot some neighbours I recognise: Matt is talking to Pete Shepherd, Bella is pinching the fabric of Louise Parker’s top between her fingers, and Active Wear Lizzie, who is talking to Johnnie, has on what I presume is the dress she bought – a bold red frock with an overlapping ruffled neckline that puts me in mind of a pirate. They are quite taken up with one another. No one is looking at me, I tell myself. This party is about the Lovegoods and their spectacular extension, their amazing house, not about me trying to face the world again; the only person who is thinking about Abi is me.
A breeze drifts in from the garden – equally hazed in rainbow colours – cooling the sweat on my forehead. The back wall of the house is almost entirely absent; the guests spill onto the rear patio, some sitting on gargantuan deep grey velvet sofas to the rear. On the left of what I think is the end of the house is a thick graphite strip of what must be a collapsed and incredibly expensive set of floor-to-ceiling glass doors. The kitchen space itself is even bigger than I could have imagined. Bigger than the outer dimensions of the house, it seems. I say as much to Jen, who laughs.
‘The joys of having a structural engineer for a husband,’ she says, and then, quickly, ‘And of course Neil worked miracles. Such a good builder. Johnnie recommends him to anyone who’ll listen.’
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Johnnie materialises in front of us.
‘Internal to external space,’ he says, following my gaze. ‘No boundary. Worth every penny, those doors. What do you think?’
I’m not sure whether I find him horribly brash or whether his asking what I think hints at a core of vulnerability or, actually, if I’m refreshed by his honesty. He has invited us here to admire the refurbishment – why pretend otherwise? And now he is looking at me so earnestly with his odd-coloured eyes that I don’t have the heart to let him down. He is, as his wife hinted, a kid.
‘It’s amazing,’ I oblige. ‘It’s so huge! But not cold, you know, in terms of atmosphere. I mean, it’s modern. But it’s welcoming.’
‘That’s the glass,’ he says, throwing his arm in an arc, as if to describe a vision for an expanse of land, a settlement, say, or a kingdom. ‘It’s amazing what they can do now. And the colour base of whites and greys is actually green, which creates warmth within the pale colour palette without being twee; what I call your Boden brigade decor.’
‘I love that you haven’t boxed in the steels,’ I say, saving up everything he has just said for Matt whilst admiring the great metal struts across the ceiling. ‘Very industrial, in a cool way.’
He is pressing his lips tightly together in an attempt to suppress his glee. The result is even more smug than the smile would have been.
‘We wanted modern,’ he says. ‘None of this in keeping with the period property nonsense, what I call granny extensions; no, we wanted something bold, a contrast. A statement. People will think we’re mad, sure, but hey, I’ve always been something of a maverick.’
I nod. I feel a little dizzy, which may be the cocktail or may be the boast pummelling I’ve just taken to the head.
‘You should speak to Matt,’ I say. ‘He’s a commercial architect; I’m not sure if you know that. He’s working on an extension for some listed buildings up in London at the moment actually.’
He flicks his hand back, just once. ‘I didn’t bother with an architect. Drew up the plans myself. Fat pen sketch is easy enough, then it’s just the numbers, really.’
‘Right.’ I almost gasp, for some reason feeling like I’ve entered Matt into a competition of some kind without realising.
‘And Neil did a great job,’ he adds. ‘Safe pair of hands. A solid guy, you know?’
‘He speaks well of you.’
‘Well that’s nice to hear,’ he says, missing the irony. ‘Such a hard worker. Diligent. Always there bright and early before we even left for work, wasn’t he, Jen?’
Jen nods. ‘He was. Like clockwork. And smart too, and tidy. I liked that a lot about him. And he was so sweet with the girls.’
‘Johnnie,’ someone says. ‘Are these LED lights?’
‘Actually, they’re…’ Johnnie moves away, delighted to have found a willing victim.
Jen meanwhile has been collared by Louise Parker, from down the road, who is gesticulating towards the garden. For a moment, I am paralysed, my canvas pumps stuck to the floor. Everyone else seems to be talking animatedly, laughing, enjoying themselves. I am alone, utterly. I have no idea how to break into this crowd; any social skills I once possessed deserted me long ago. I glance around the enormous room. There are champagne bottles everywhere, a large silver container is filled with blue ice, stacked high with bottles of beer whose labels I don’t recognise. The low lighting pulses steadily; the music is instrumental now – Cuban, I think, judging by the loose chord progressions, the salsa rhythm. I let my eyes wander over the pale grey hand-made units, the artisan snacks on small black square plates on the bar, around to the open back of the house, where, through the heads, I spot Neil, standing beneath the weeping willow that forms the centrepiece of the garden, giving the lawn the appearance of a Japanese lake. He sips from a bottle of lager and glances about him. He looks tense, as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
He isn’t the only one.
With a jolt, I realise I have never taken the time to think about his feelings. Only by observing him now, at a distance, am I able to see that he, like me, is miserable. He is drinking fast, with intention rather than enjoyment. In this momentary parting of the clouds, I forget my own heart for a second and understand with piercing clarity that he was broken too that day – of course he was. For him, and for Bella too, socialising with us for the first time since has brought back painful memories, just as it has for us. He doted on Abi, and Abi adored him. He spoilt her rotten, used to throw her in the air and make her squeal with delight, used to make her laugh so much I’d have to tell him to stop for fear she might not be able to catch her breath. I haven’t really thought about how hard that morning, that day, that night, and what followed, must have been for such a robust, capable man. To be faced with his own impotence in such a dreadful catastrophe would have offended his very masculine brand of pride at the very, very least. It will have been devastating. I can still remember his face when we asked him and Bella to be Abi’s godparents. He struggled to keep it together; his eyes shone and he half coughed his thanks into his hand. It was a privilege, he said. An honour. It was a job he took almost too seriously, showering her with presents and attention as if she were his own.
My God. I have not thought about Neil at all, but now I study him and see that he is alone, alone like me in this crowded space, and I see his tortured face that day, the tears it must have cost him so much to shed, and my cheeks burn with shame. He is grieving too. There were two men broken on my front step in those black and desperate hours – Matt, the father, and Neil, the godfather. It has been worse for Matt and me, yes, yes, of course, but it has been awful for Neil too. And for Bella, who barely knows where to put herself in front of me anymore, wittering nervously over drinks just now like she didn’t know us at all, trying to fix me with a haircut and colour, another layer of make-up, a manicure.
But I can’t take that on. I can’t take on their grief too. I have enough of my own.
My glass is empty. I know I shouldn’t have more. I should stay sober.
