One Minute to Midnight

CHAPTER Twelve



New Year’s Eve 2003

London



Resolutions:

1. Pitch three-part series on refugees to BBC



2. Organise killer hen-do for Alex



3. Lose half a stone



4. Organise North Korea research trip



5. Try a relationship with a grown-up. You are too old for bad boys on bikes.

TALKING OF BEING grown up, I was ‘cordially invited’, the embossed white card read, ‘To a housewarming/New Year’s Eve Party at Number Six, Tabard Wharf, the brand-new and exclusive digs of Messrs Karl Schnelle and Julian Symonds. Drinks from 6.30.’

It was very grown up. Very civilised. Not exactly rock and roll. Particularly as there were only six of us in attendance: the hosts; Mike and Alex; me and my new boyfriend, Dominic.

‘I think we could do with a nice, calm New Year’s Eve,’ Julian said to me when I asked him when we’d become so incredibly boring. ‘Plus, Alex and Mike are skiing in Verbier until the thirtieth, so they’re going to be all partied out. And you must be knackered, too.’ It was true, I’d only just returned from filming in Russia. ‘Plus, I’m off on the third, so …’

‘Off where?’

‘I’ll tell you on the night.’

Julian and Karl, who had been renting a flat together in Camberwell for a couple of years, had finally taken the next step. They had made the big commitment. They had got a mortgage. And it must have been a pretty big commitment, because they used it to buy a warehouse conversion just around the corner from Borough Market with a glimpse, just a sliver of a glimpse, of the Thames. It was the dernier cri in urban industrial chic. They even had a lift.

‘It’s like living in Manhattan,’ Alex said as they welcomed us into the flat.

‘That’s the idea,’ Karl replied. ‘Since I can’t persuade him to move to New York, I can at least pretend.’ Karl had been agitating for a move to Manhattan for ages; but Julian, who had always dreamed about New York as a teenager, was refusing to live in a country run by George Bush.

‘Because Tony Blair is so much better?’ Karl argued.

We were sitting on reproduction Corbusier sofas in the middle of Julian and Karl’s vast open-plan living area drinking champagne (‘It’s not a living room,’ Julian told me with a wry little smile. ‘It’s a living space. There are no rooms in this apartment. Oh no. There are spaces.’) Dom, who I’d only been seeing for a couple of months, perched on the edge of the sofa next to me, his back ramrod straight. Alex watched him with an amused expression on her face, every now and again she and Julian exchanged a look. I knew what they were thinking. Well, I could imagine what they were thinking, anyway. They were sizing up the new boy, taking in his sandy blond hair and fair skin, checking out the neatly pressed chinos and the jumper from The Gap (fashion wasn’t really Dom’s thing), judging his diffident manner, comparing and contrasting. At least that’s what was going on in my head.

‘So Jules,’ I said trying to get them to stop smirking at each other, ‘where are you off to? You said you were going somewhere in a couple of days.’

‘Oh yes, where is it this time? Paris? Milan? The Bahamas?’ Alex asked.

‘Monrovia, actually,’ Julian replied.

Alex looked at him blankly.

‘It’s in China,’ Mike told her, patting her on the knee.

‘Not Mongolia, Monrovia.’ Now Mike looked blank. ‘Liberia. West Africa.’

‘Liberia?’ I repeated, stunned. Julian was going to Liberia? Julian couldn’t possibly go to Liberia.

‘You’re doing a fashion shoot in Liberia?’ Dom asked, incredulous. ‘Isn’t that a bit … insensitive? I mean, the war’s barely over.’

‘It’s not a fashion shoot,’ Julian said with a smile. ‘I’m doing a reportage piece for Time. I’ve wanted to move out of fashion for ages. I’ve done some photojournalism here – I got a really good response to the shots I did on the anti-war demo.’

‘Those were great,’ Alex conceded, ‘but still – Liberia? Not Paris? Not Milan? Are you sure? I just don’t think I can picture it …’

‘He’ll do great,’ Karl said, putting an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders. Julian gave him a peck on the cheek, then looked over at me, smiling reassuringly.

‘I think I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to do something more challenging for ages, wanting to stretch myself …’

I smiled thinly at him. ‘Well, Liberia’s certainly a stretch,’ I said.

Karl went into the kitchen ‘space’ to finish preparing the starter (Jerusalem artichokes, porcini mushrooms and parmesan ‘hats’, apparently). I volunteered to help. He did a brief double take, but then smiled and thanked me.

‘You’re worried about him,’ he said to me once we were out of earshot of the others.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but this is what he wants to do, Nicole. Do you not think he worries about you all the time? A woman, running around filming people traffickers and drug-crazed boy soldiers?’

‘But I’m tougher than he is,’ I said. ‘Plus, I don’t think he really does worry. He’s never said so.’

Karl, who was shaving porcini mushrooms into wafer-thin slices with a mandolin, stopped and looked up at me, an expression of disbelief on his face.

‘You think because he never says anything he doesn’t worry? He never says anything because he doesn’t want to upset you, he doesn’t want to make you feel bad. He’s proud of you. He admires you. He supports you.’ He went back to his mandolin and his mushrooms and – without looking at me – added: ‘You might want to do the same.’

Chastened, I returned to the living space, giving Julian a kiss on the top of the head as I reclaimed my seat.

‘Congratulations, Jules,’ I said, and he beamed up at me.

‘Thanks, Nic. I’m really excited about it. You know I’ve been wanting to do something like this for ages and this opportunity … well, it just came up.’ There was something odd about the way he said this, something in his expression which gave me pause, but I didn’t have time to say anything. ‘You’ve just been doing so well,’ he said, squeezing my hand, ‘and I’m jealous! I want some of that. I want to do be doing something more … meaningful. You know?’

It was true that I had been enjoying a pretty stellar year or two. After the sex trafficking film I’d made for Simon Carver’s firm, I’d lucked out on Boys’ Club, an award-winning piece on sexism in the workplace, partly based on personal experience. After that, the work just kept on coming. I’d been to Uganda to produce a film on the child soldiers of the Lord’s Resistance Army, I’d made an Unreported World feature on the futility of the war on drugs, and most recently I’d been in Russia researching a film on Chechen separatists. It had been an exhausting, exhilarating, mind-blowing time; I’d barely stopped to catch my breath.

‘So, what’s the focus of your Liberia story?’ Dom was asking Julian. ‘Do you have a specific idea in mind, or do you just go out there and see what happens? I’m not really sure how this kind of thing works.’

‘There is a specific angle,’ Julian said.

‘Which is?’ Alex prompted.

Julian looked shifty for a moment. ‘I’m going to visit a couple of centres which are helping kids who’ve been traumatised by the war.’

‘That sounds interesting. Is that UNICEF or World Health?’ Dom asked.

‘It’s uh…. with MSF,’ Julian said, swallowing the last part of the sentence so that we could barely hear him.

‘With whom, sorry?’ Dom asked.

‘MSF,’ Julian said again. He was looking at his shoes. So that’s why he looked shifty before.

‘MSF?’ Mike asked. ‘What’s that?’

‘Médecins Sans Frontières,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘It’s a French medical charity.’

I stood there for a second, not knowing what to do. I wanted to get away from everyone, but I couldn’t leave the room, since there was no room to leave. I couldn’t just go and stand in the corner, so in the end I just went to the loo and sat in there for a while, feeling betrayed.

After about five minutes, there was a soft knock at the door

‘It’s occupied,’ I said.

‘Nic, please come out.’ Julian.

‘Go away,’ I said. I was behaving like a child. I unlocked the door.

‘Come on,’ he said, and took my hand. He led me out of the flat, to the end of the corridor and out onto a fire escape. There was a narrow, iron spiral staircase that led up to the roof.

‘Christ, it really is like New York,’ I said, clinging onto the guard rail, trying not to look down.

Julian and Karl had already colonised their corner of the roof, cordoning it off with pot plants and placing a couple of deckchairs in the centre. He and I sat down, side by side, looking out towards the river. It was a mild night for December, the clouds low and the smell of rain in the air.

‘It’s amazing up here when it’s clear,’ Julian told me. ‘You can see the top of the Eye, Canary Wharf … Not tonight, though.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘It’s not with her,’ he said eventually. ‘She doesn’t even work for MSF any more.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I was being childish. It’s not like it matters in the grand scheme of things, does it?’

‘It matters to me. It was Bertrand who organised access for me. I saw him a couple of months ago when he was over in London. Poor f*cker, he’s a shadow of his former self. Don’t think he’s over it …’

‘Sorry to hear that.’ I took the cigarette from Julian’s hand, took a drag and handed it back to him. ‘How are the happy couple, anyway? You heard from him?’ I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question even though I didn’t want to know the answer.

‘Laure left him for some Spanish bloke.’ I felt a surge of adrenalin, an ignoble rush of delight.

‘When? Why didn’t you tell me? Have you seen him?’

Julian sighed and flicked the cigarette butt over the edge of the building.

‘Because it’s been two years, Nic, and I really hoped that you no longer cared.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Of course you don’t.’ He draped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me closer, kissed me on the head. ‘I saw him two months ago, when my grandmother died. He was at the funeral. I don’t know when they split up, he didn’t seem to want to talk about it.’ He finished his cigarette and crushed the butt beneath his foot. ‘Shall we go back down? Your boyfriend will be wondering where you’ve got to.’

* * *

We climbed back down the fire escape and made our way to the dining space where Karl was serving the starter. Dom took my hand and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I replied. He pulled out a chair for me to sit down. I could feel Alex and Julian’s eyes on us again.

‘Remind me how you two met?’ Alex said to Dom.

Dom looked sheepish. ‘I was a fan,’ he said, giving me a shy smile. ‘I’d watched that Channel 4 programme Nic made last year, the Boys’ Club one. Anyway, I thought it was very interesting – it’s kind of my field, employment issues, that kind of thing – and then I saw an interview with her in the Independent and they had this picture …’

Julian started laughing ‘Oh god, the one where she’s wearing that … er. … rather fitted top?’

‘Oh shut up,’ I said, giving him a kick under the table. I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks.

‘That’s the one,’ Dom said. ‘I thought she was gorgeous. And would you believe it, a couple of weeks later I’m at a dinner party thrown by an old mate from college, and there she is. He’d been a consultant on the programme.’

‘So it was fate,’ Alex said with a smile.

‘I don’t know about that,’ Dom replied, ‘but the moment I saw her, I was finished. Love at first sight.’

Alex and Julian laughed, Karl whistled, Mike stifled a yawn. I went from a gentle blush to puce.

* * *

After dinner, in the kitchen space I found Alex and Julian in the corner, gossiping in hushed tones. They fell silent as I approached. Alex handed me a glass of champagne.

‘So, rebound man seems nice,’ she said with a cheeky grin.

‘He’s not the rebound man!’ Julian said, feigning outrage. ‘Didn’t you hear? It was love at first sight!’

They both giggled, peering through an archway to get another look at Dom, who was attempting to engage Mike in conversation. At just five foot eight and slight of build, he looked almost childlike, dwarfed by Mike’s six foot something rugby player’s frame.

‘Honestly,’ Alex said, ‘he’s so sweet.’

I rolled my eyes at them. ‘He is sweet, and he is not a rebound man. It’s been two years since I split up with Aidan.’

‘And since then you’ve had how many relationships?’ Julian asked. ‘Oh, right, that would be none at all.’

‘Bollocks!’ I said, a little too loudly. Mike and Dom looked up from the table where they were having a rather stilted conversation about the prospects for Warwickshire in the county cricket championship. ‘There was Heath …’ I whispered.

‘I said relationship, not one-night stand.’ Julian corrected me.

‘… and Peter …’

‘… whom we never met. I’m still not convinced he actually existed,’ Alex said.

‘What about Clive?’

The two of them burst out laughing.

‘Oh my god, Clive!’ Alex exclaimed, snorting with mirth. I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned Clive. ‘Clive with the slip-on shoes? He was brilliant. Wasn’t he a trainspotter?’

‘A planespotter, actually. It’s entirely different.’

‘Didn’t he take you to Heathrow for your first date?’

‘It was the Renaissance Hotel, actually. In Hounslow. It’s one of the premier plane-spotting hotels in Europe.’

Alex and Julian clung to each other, helpless with mirth.

‘All right, all right,’ I said, stifling my own giggles. ‘I’ll admit, Clive was a bit of a low point. And okay, I haven’t had any real relationships since Aidan. But that does not make Dom a rebound man. He’s kind, funny and attractive. He’s a grown-up.’

Alex yawned.

‘Don’t be rude about him, Alex. You might just be looking at my future husband in there.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she said with a wry smile. She grabbed another bottle of champagne from the fridge and sauntered off into the living space, singing ‘Inbetweener’ as she went.

‘He’s not a prince, he’s not a king, he’s not a work of art or anything …’

‘Shut up, Alex,’ I warned her, beaming at Dom who was now discussing Gus Van Sant’s latest film with Karl. Mike was reading text messages on his phone.

Mike was a bit of a mystery to us all. It was true that Alex and I had never had similar taste in men, but in the past at least I’d understood the attraction. However, with Mike it was a source of persistent amazement to me – and to Julian – that he was still around. He had his good points, of course. He was good-looking, he had lots of money, he drove a very nice car, he lived in a flat in Chelsea. I could see how he’d be attractive for a brief fling, but more than that … I just didn’t get it.

Alex knew I didn’t get it, and we’d agreed to disagree on the subject.

‘He treats me well, Nic. He’d do anything for me,’ she told me. I believed her: he did treat her well, he bought her great presents, he paid for expensive holidays like the skiing trip they’d just been on to Verbier. But I never saw them laughing together. Plus, I couldn’t bear the way he felt it necessary to slap her on the arse every time she walked past him. Or the fact that he read the Daily Mail, and voted Tory and was forever complaining about ‘bloody immigrants’ despite the fact that he was about to marry one. The wedding was to take place in April and I was maid of honour. So I just had to grin and bear it.

I had to grin and bear the wedding chatter, too. Over dessert we’d covered dates for the final three (three!) fittings for my bridesmaid’s dress (‘Just in case you put on weight,’ Alex explained. ‘Or lose it,’ she added diplomatically); the choice of vehicle to carry Alex to the church (‘Classic Roller or something more sporty? Or should I just go full-on princess and get a horse-drawn carriage?’); and had a lively debate on the pros and cons of a tian of prawn and crab versus classic smoked salmon as a starter. Now she’d moved onto speeches.

‘I think Nicole should make a speech,’ she announced, as I choked on my wine.

‘No …’ I spluttered. ‘I really don’t think that’s a great idea.’

‘Women don’t make speeches,’ Mike said. ‘It’s not traditional. And women are never very funny, are they? How many great comediennes do you know?’

‘I think they’re just called comedians now,’ Julian said. Mike harrumphed.

‘Mike’s absolutely right,’ I said, to looks of amazement from Julian and Karl. ‘Women should be seen and not heard. They’ve no place giving speeches at weddings.’

‘You’re just chicken,’ Alex muttered.

‘I’m a traditionalist,’ I retorted, prompting disbelieving laughter all round. ‘But I tell you what, if you move the wedding to Cape Town, rather than Sussex, I’d be prepared to cast aside my conservatism and write a few lines …’

‘Exactly!’ Julian said. ‘I can’t believe you’re getting married in some cutesy English village rather than giving us an excuse to go on holiday to South Africa.’

‘Yes, well,’ Mike said gruffly, getting to his feet, ‘not everything about this wedding revolves around Alex’s friends.’ And with that he headed off in the direction of the bathroom.

Alex pulled a face. ‘He’s a bit touchy about the whole Sussex thing. Everyone’s been complaining that we’re not going to South Africa. I think he’s feeling a bit hurt.’

‘It’s understandable,’ Karl said diplomatically. ‘If I were going to get married, I’d probably want to do it in my home town.’

‘If you were to get married?’ Julian asked him with a smile. ‘Not very likely, is it?’

‘Well, maybe not a full church wedding, but they are going to allow civil partnerships here shortly, aren’t they? So why not?’

Julian sighed dramatically. ‘Christ, I always thought one of the great things about being gay is that you don’t have to get married. Why would we want to pretend to be heterosexual? It’s a horrible way to live. Homos have much more fun.’

Alex and I exchanged a familiar glance: a look of affection, tinged with just a touch of envy. We’d spoken about Karl and Julian’s perfect relationship before. It couldn’t be improved upon. They never tired of each other; they never bickered. They backed up each other. They adored each other. And, so Julian told me, they had great sex together. They were absolutely right for each other. It was incredibly annoying.

* * *

At a few minutes to midnight, Karl opened yet another bottle of champagne, poured us each a glass and tinged his flute with a fork.

‘Right. Since we’re not allowed to share our resolutions because that’s Julian and Nicole’s thing and they’re completely weird about sharing their little ritual, despite the fact that everyone on the planet does it, I think that to ring in the New Year we should all say something we’re grateful for.’

‘Like Thanksgiving?’ Mike suggested.

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ll go first then,’ Mike said, getting to his feet. He cleared his throat and raised his glass, turning to face Alex. ‘It’s pretty simple, really. And pretty obvious. I’m thankful that the most beautiful girl in the world has agreed to marry me.’ Alex smiled coyly and fluttered her lashes at him ‘And the thing is, the thing people don’t realise, is that her beauty isn’t even the best of her. She’s generous and kind, she’s going to be a great mum …’ There was a little ‘oooh’ at this point from Julian and Karl. ‘And I love her, and I’m so happy we’re going to be together. That’s it.’

And in that moment I caught a glimpse, as I occasionally did, of how lovely Mike was with her, and of how much he loved her, and I chastised myself, yet again, for allowing my liberal feminista sensibilities to prevent me from embracing my friend’s husband-to-be.

Alex, wiping a tear from her eye, got to her feet next. ‘Can I be grateful for two things?’ she asked.

‘She’s so greedy,’ Julian tutted.

She giggled. ‘I’ll be brief. Number one, I’m thankful for my amazing husband to be …’ she held out her hand to him and he kissed it, ‘… and number two, I’m thankful for my bloody amazing job!’ Alex had just been promoted to the head of marketing at Scribe, the little publishing house where she worked, quite an achievement for a twenty-six-year-old. ‘I really am a very lucky girl.’

Julian was next to his feet. ‘I could go on about new opportunities and new horizons and of course I’m thankful for that, but obviously the two things in the whole world I am most thankful for are the love of my life, who I found three years ago today …’ he stopped to give Karl a kiss, ‘… and the best friend I’ll ever have, who I found thirteen years ago today. Lucky for some,’ he said, raising a glass to me.

Karl went next. ‘Well, I know I’m supposed to say I’m thankful for Jules because we’re all being all lovey dovey and things, but really right now I’m most thankful for my fabulous new apartment,’ he said with a grin. Everyone gave a little cheer. ‘And of course for the fact that I sold four paintings this year, which is four more than I sold last year.’

There was a little round of applause and then silence fell as Dom got to his feet, blushing before he even started speaking.

‘Dom shouldn’t have to do this,’ I objected, ‘he doesn’t even know you all.’

‘Oh yes he should!’ came the chorus from the rest of them.

‘I’m grateful for the opportunity to spend the evening with you all,’ Dom said diplomatically, ‘and of course I’m grateful to have met Nicole. And for Radiohead. Hail to the Thief is a f*cking work of genius.’

I breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down. I wasn’t quite ready for another declaration of love.

And then it was my turn. ‘Well,’ I said, feeling faintly ridiculous as I got to my feet, ‘I’m thankful for us. For all of us. It feels like … things are coming together for us all. We have good jobs, we have great lovers, some of us have fabulous apartments … so I think that’s plenty to be thankful for. And now I think it’s almost midnight so I think we should all drink our champagne and snog and stop being so f*cking cheesy!’

And with that we counted down to midnight, and more champagne corks popped, and cheesy or not I did feel like things were coming together for us, for Julian, Alex and me. And for the tiniest fraction of a second that made me nervous. And then Dom kissed me and I forgot all about my nerves and realised that for the first time in ages I didn’t really have anything to worry about.

After midnight, Julian grabbed a blanket from the mezzanine that served as the bedroom space, and he and I snuck away, back up to the roof, to exchange resolutions. We sat side by side on the deckchairs, the blanket draped over our knees.

‘Well,’ Julian said, ‘obviously I’m going to quit smoking.’

‘And I’m going to lose half a stone.’

‘I’m going to start keeping a journal.’

‘Oh a journal. Not just a diary.’

‘A journal, darling. To form the basis of my memoirs.’

‘Excellent. And I am finally going to get my refugee pitch ready for the BBC.’

‘That’s brilliant, Nic, it’s about time.’

There was a noise behind us, a clattering, as someone else climbed up the fire escape. Then there was a thud, the sound of someone falling, followed by soft cursing.

‘Jules? You up here?’

My stomach did a little flip. I’d know those soft Glaswegian tones anywhere.

‘Julian?’ the voice called out again.

‘Oh shit,’ Julian said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m over here.’

I turned around and saw Aidan swaying through the darkness, a hip flask clutched in his hand.

‘Happy New Year,’ he said when he saw us, raising the flask to his lips, before breaking into a tuneless version of ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Even in the firelight, I could see he didn’t look good. Paler, thinner, haggard almost. Even more dissolute than usual. He smiled at me.

‘Hello, Nic,’ he said. ‘You look pretty. Don’t I get a kiss?’

‘I’m going back down,’ I said to Julian. I climbed over the pot plants and pulled my arm away when Aidan tried to grab hold of me as I went past.

‘You never wrote back!’ He called out after me. ‘You could have at least replied.’

After Paris, I’d seen him only once, when I went back to the flat on Queenstown Road to pick up my stuff. He tried to talk to me then, but I refused, I ignored him as best as I could and when he wouldn’t let me be, when he insisted that we talk, I screamed at him and shoved him out the door. A couple of months later he wrote to me, telling me how sorry he was, how much he’d loved me, how – as he’d told me on the boat that night – he’d never meant to fall for someone else, he’d never meant to hurt me. He told me how I’d always hold a special place in his heart. That made me gag; he could at least have tried to avoid cliché. I never wrote back to him. I didn’t think he deserved it. I kept his letter though, and every now and again, when I was feeling low or had had too much to drink, I got it out, just to torture myself. Like picking at a scab, I wouldn’t let the wound heal.

Downstairs, Karl was hovering near the front door looking nervous.

‘I didn’t know what to do,’ he said to me when he saw me. ‘I’m sorry, Nicole, but I couldn’t exactly tell him Julian wasn’t here …’

‘It’s okay,’ I said, giving him a hug. ‘He’s just a bit pissed. I’m sure he’ll leave in a bit.’ Dom was sitting on the sofa, looking at me questioningly. I shook my head as I approached.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said, but my hands were shaking as I picked up my glass of wine. I looked over at Alex who mouthed, ‘Okay?’ at me.

There was a clattering from outside, they were coming back down.

‘I’ll put some music on, shall I?’ Karl said brightly, and everyone agreed, a little too enthusiastically. Outside, in the hallway, I could hear Julian trying to persuade Aidan to leave.

‘We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Later today, whatever.’

‘But I want to see your new gaff …’

‘Not now, Aidan. It’s not a good time.’

‘Just a quick peek …’ And there he was, reeling through the door. ‘F*cking hell Jules! What did this place cost? It’s a f*cking palace!’ Craning his neck to get a look at the height of the ceilings, he stumbled into the room, knocking over a lamp as he went. Julian put an arm out to steady him, he brushed it away. ‘All right, Karl!’ he called out, ‘All right there, Alex? And er … I don’t think we’ve met?’ he said, holding out a hand to Dominic.

Dom got to his feet, introduced himself, shook Aidan’s hand. Aidan was standing there, swaying slightly, trying to focus.

‘You the new guy are you?’ he asked Dom. My heart fell ten storeys.

‘I’m sorry?’ Dom replied politely.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ he said, waving a hand in Dom’s direction. ‘You’ve done well, mate. You’re a lucky man.’ Dom gave me a quizzical look; I just shrugged helplessly.

‘All right, Aidan, I think that’s enough …’ Julian said, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the door.

I went immediately to Dom’s side and slipped my hand into his, whispering ‘Sorry’ into his ear.

‘So that’s the ex is it?’ he asked softly. ‘Seems … interesting.’ He was smiling but there was a tautness about his jaw and a colour to his cheeks that betrayed his irritation.

‘He’s just drunk,’ I said, slipping my arms around his waist.

‘Aah, look at that. Aren’t you two cute?’ Agonisingly, Julian still hadn’t managed to manhandle Aidan out of the flat. He was standing in the doorway, looking back at us. ‘I mean it, mate. You’re a lucky man. She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Isn’t she gorgeous?’

At last Julian pushed him out of the door and closed it behind him.