What's she saying, that I'm some hopeless, loser wife, just along for the spending money, not really good enough for my golden husband? Thanks to her, and Morgan and Hen earlier, I'm feeling more than a little bruised; not the best start for a party.

'Okay, Mum.' I'm itching to snap at her but she's thousands of miles away and the last thing I want is to start an argument, so I just get off the phone, wave at Art and head upstairs for my shower.

When I come down again I can hear Morgan and Art talking in the living room. I can't make out what they are saying. They're sitting side by side on the sofa and look up as I enter. Art smiles with unmistakable relief. In contrast, Morgan looks annoyed. Still in her robe, she holds up two almost-identical black shoes. Both are narrow and elegant with high, spiky heels. They make my feet hurt just looking at them.

'What d'you think, Gen?' she says. 'I can't decide.'

I glance at Art who, very subtly, rolls his eyes. I suppress a grin.

'They're both gorgeous,' I say, honestly.

'These are Manolos.' Morgan holds one shoe higher than the other. 'But I'm thinking of wearing these.' She raises the other shoe. 'They're from a new designer I found in New York. You wouldn't have heard of her but she's really building a reputation stateside.'

I stare at the shoes more closely. The second shoe is slightly sleeker than the first, with a marginally more pointed toe and thinner stiletto heels.

'Like I say, they're both lovely.' I glance at Art again. He gazes up at me, appealing to be rescued. He's still in his suit from work.

'Hey, darling, you should go and change,' I say, wandering over and resting my hand on his shoulder.

'You're right.' Art smiles gratefully at me. He stands and leaves.

For a second, Morgan looks exasperated, though whether with me, Art or herself I can't tell. Then she smiles and follows Art out of the room.

I take a breath and study myself in the mirror.

My hair is brushed now, curling over my shoulders. My fringe is still too long and there are still shadows under my eyes but, thanks to Bobbi Brown and Urban Decay, I don't look as haggard as I did earlier. The top I'm wearing is semi-fitted and suits my curves, though I'm sure Morgan thinks I could have chosen something more glamorous than a pair of GAP jeans to go with them.

I turn sideways, eyeing the slight roll of my stomach. Before I was pregnant I had a flat tummy. Now I'm just like all the mums out there with stretch marks and bulges. Only without the baby, of course. There'll be here soon, some of those mums, full of chat about their kids. I'll probably end up talking to the guys about their work; at least they won't pity me. I glance at my watch. This is always the worst moment before a party, when there's nothing more to prepare but nobody's here yet.

Will enough people turn up? Now I'm standing, waiting for our friends to arrive, I can't help but feel a twinge of nerves. I make a face at myself in the mirror. It's no big deal. Just thirty-odd people coming round for snacks and a few beers. As with work, so with home: Art hates anything that looks or feels elitist.

I can hear Art humping the second of Morgan's cases up the stairs. Looking in the mirror again, I can't help but wonder what she really thinks of me. On the surface she's all smiles and appreciative noises, but underneath I suspect she thinks Art could have done better. In so many ways Art is echoing the career of their father but when it comes to women, he's made very different choices.

Brandon Ryan was born in Glasgow towards the end of the Second World War. He never spoke much about his childhood, at least not in public, but from what I've picked up from the articles and occasional hints dropped by Morgan, it was a pretty brutal upbringing. As a boy, Brandon was beaten by his father and regularly went hungry. He cut all ties with his family at the age of eighteen and travelled to London in the early 1960s, determined to make his fortune. He was a born entrepreneur a millionaire within five years and a billionaire before he died. He fathered three children Morgan and her two younger brothers with his wife, a beautiful socialite called Fay Langham. I've never met Fay. She and Art don't exactly get along.

Brandon and Fay moved to Edinburgh when the children were little, but Brandon still spent much of his working week in London, which is where he met Anna, Art's mum. Brandon was, as far as I can gather, as ruthless about the affair as he was in his business dealings. At the time, Morgan was not yet two and the first of her younger brothers had just been born, and I'm guessing here, obviously maybe he felt like he wasn't getting enough attention at home. He met Anna at some fancy club where she was working as a waitress. At the time, Anna apparently had ambitions to be an actress and, according to Art, Brandon hinted he would help with her career. He was in his prime then a good-looking man with piercing eyes. Even in the photos you can see he exuded power. Fragile, naive Anna didn't stand a chance. When I met her, over twenty years later, she still had 'victim' stamped on her forehead.

Anyway, Fay found out about the affair after Anna became pregnant with Art. Brandon gave Anna money for the abortion, but Anna refused to have one about the only moment in her life when she stood up to anyone. I suspect Anna could have got quite a lot of money out of Brandon if she'd handled the situation more cannily but, in the end, Brandon gave her nothing and the whole story was hushed up. Fay stood by her man, on condition that Brandon cut all ties with both mother and child.

When Art tracked him down, aged eighteen, Brandon was cold and uninterested. Art hates talking about their meeting. In fact it's only thanks to Morgan that I heard about it at all. Apparently when Art arrived on the doorstep Brandon refused to let him into the house. There was a big scene, which Morgan witnessed from the landing. Art left, having been completely humiliated. Morgan ran out of the house after him and they talked on the street. I've asked Art about this showdown with his father several times but he's only ever talked about it once shortly before our wedding saying it was the worst moment of his life.

When Brandon died soon after their only meeting, Art was, unsurprisingly, left out of his will. Fay refused to entertain the idea that Art was entitled to any money, despite Morgan's pleadings. However, Art has told me, often, that even if he'd been offered an inheritance, he wouldn't have taken a penny; that he 'wouldn't give the cold-blooded bastard the satisfaction'. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to see the root of Art's drive and ambition in Brandon's rejection, but Art always dismisses such notions. He doesn't like to feel his father has had any influence over him whatsoever.

'Gen?' Art calls from upstairs. 'Gen, have you seen my black shirt?'

With a sigh, I turn away from the mirror as the doorbell rings with the first guest. What with Morgan all brittle and exasperated and Art exhausted from work, it feels like it's going to be a long night.

CHAPTER SIX.

The Prodigy followed by an old Basement Jaxx song followed by my favourite disco track of all time: 'Disco Inferno'. I smile to myself, watching the party's hardcore dancers Tris and Boris and Art's PA, Siena, plus Dan and Perry with their wives.

The party is in full swing. The majority of Art's colleagues are here. I haven't seen most of them for a while, though I know practically all the Loxley Benson staff well: Art doesn't stand on ceremony and runs his office with something I once heard Tris describe as a 'flat hierarchy'.

The room is also full of the friends who were once mine and are now ours: Sue and Hen and their husbands among them. Hen squeezes my hand when she arrives.

'Sorry I was on edge before,' she whispers. 'I need to talk when you get a moment.'

I nod, wondering what on earth she has to tell me that she couldn't have said earlier. For a second I wonder if it's something to do with Beth, but before I can ask, Hen has moved into the middle of the living room, and half the guys from Art's work have surrounded her. She's in her element, though poor Rob looks a little stiff and awkward. He has followed her over and is sticking to her like she's going to save his life, which, socially, I imagine she often does. I watch, fascinated, as Hen flirts and charms her way around the group, while Rob gazes at her in adoration.

Art's working the room, chatting and smiling to everyone. I should have known that no matter how tired he feels, he wouldn't let it show in public. He's easily as charming as Hen, but there's something commanding about him too a way he has of making everyone he speaks to feel like the only person in the room. Right now he's with a couple I don't recognize. Must be clients. Personally, I wouldn't have invited business contacts, but Art likes to mix business and pleasure. Well, to Art, business is pleasure.

I don't mind, but it does mean Art and his colleagues have to watch how outrageous they get. And I do too, I suppose. Not that anyone's likely to get that out of control.

'Hey, Gen, come and dance!'

It's Boris, one of the Loxley Benson directors and a good friend of Art's. The whole board are here: Boris, Dan, Perry, Leo, Tristan and, of course, Kyle.

I let Boris drag me over to where the others are dancing. Dan and Perry both got married last year and they're with their new wives. Two tall, dark, handsome men with two petite, pretty, blonde women. I start moving to the music George Michael, 'Outside', which I don't remember being on my iPod. I glance over at the stereo . . . a different iPod is in the slot.

Tris very posh, very gay, very camp grabs me around the waist and starts twirling me round. He's tall and smells lightly of something vaguely musky and hugely expensive. He sings the chorus in my ear, then laughs. 'You look gooorgeous, darling. I love that bracelet.'

I glance down at Morgan's gift which has been getting admiring comments all evening.

'Is this yours?' I shout over the music, pointing at the iPod.

Tris makes a mock-penitent face. 'What could I do, darling? George was just begging to be played.'

I grin. Tris throws his hands flamboyantly up in the air. I try to give myself up to the dance, letting Tris twirl me around. I don't want to think about IVF and Beth and all my unanswered questions right now, and yet, despite the music and the chatter and the general organized chaos of the party, my doubts cling to me, refusing to be put down.

After a minute or two, Boris drags me away. He's half Tris's height, but built like a brick solid and ruddy-faced. I've always suspected he had a bit of a crush on me.

'She's mine, you ridiculous queen,' he says.

I glance over at Boris's wife, standing in the corner. Like Boris she's Russian; unlike him, she has never fitted in. At this moment, she's staring at me as if she'd like to kill me.

I disentangle myself from Boris and back away, into Kyle.

'Gen? How're you doing?'

I smile up at him. Kyle Benson's a sweetheart. A big, lumbering bear of a man and Art's partner at Loxley Benson. He's fiercely protective of Art. Morgan might know the facts of our session at the IVF clinic, but if Art's told anyone about our argument over whether or not to go ahead and how he feels about it it will have been Kyle.

They met when Art was fourteen and his mum wasn't coping with either her life or her teenage son. Art, by his own admission, was out of control in trouble at school and getting into petty crime: joyriding and shoplifting beers, that kind of small-scale stuff that social workers with serious faces warn can easily escalate.

Anna was working as a receptionist at a beauty salon at the time and one of the beauticians knew someone who knew someone who took in troubled boys for weekly, informal fostering. It could have been a disaster, unpoliced and unregulated as it was, but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Art. The couple who fostered him on and off over the next couple of years already had a teenage son, Kyle, and the two boys became firm friends.

'I'm good, Kyle, thanks,' I say. 'How about you?'

Kyle shrugs. 'Fine. Work's been manic though. Has Art told you about meeting the PM?'

'Yeah,' I say to Kyle with a grin. 'Once or twice.'

'I bet.' Kyle's solid, jowl-heavy face splits into a huge smile. 'It's good to see him happy about something. That is . . .' The grin vanishes and he groans. 'I mean . . . shit, Gen, I didn't mean he isn't happy . . . it's just he told me you were thinking about the IVF again and I know how hard that is on both of you . . .' He blushes, his face weighed down by embarrassment.

'It's okay.' I smile, trying to make him feel better. He's kind and dependable and has stood by Art all their lives. At Loxley Benson he pads around in the background, and while Art's the dynamo coming up with creative ideas and driving them through, I sometimes wonder if it isn't Kyle who holds everything together. 'So what impact do you think The Trials has had on business?' I say, changing the subject. 'Art seems to think it's all positive better name-recognition, that sort of thing. D'you think there are any downsides?'

Kyle grins. 'Only the bunny boilers, and they're tailing off now it's not on the air any more.'

I smile back. Art has shown me a selection of the emails sent to him at Loxley Benson. They range from the sweetly admiring to the blatantly sexual. Several women even attached topless pics of themselves.

'If I Were a Boy' comes on Tris's iPod and he starts writhing about, performing what looks like some sort of pole dance using Hen as the pole. Almost everyone in the room is watching and laughing.

A thought strikes me. 'Does Art ever talk about . . . about other stuff from the past . . . from when we had our baby?'

I look closely at Kyle. He's reddening again, looking awkward, then he shakes his head. Does he know something about Beth? Surely not. Kyle is so open and honest, I'm sure I would be able to tell if he was keeping secrets. He's just embarrassed.

I look through the window towards the dark street beyond. The reflections from the fairy lights Hen strung up earlier twinkle in the glass.

'Are you okay, Gen?' Kyle's kindly face creases with a frown.

'I'm fine.' I give myself a shake. 'Tell me about the meetings with the PM Art's been having. Don't they take a lot of his time away from Loxley Benson?'

'Not as much as you'd think.' Kyle looks relieved. 'At the moment I think they're focusing on the Work Incentives programme. It's great publicity for the company. In some ways it's even better than The Trials. Our clients are seriously impressed.'

'Sounds brilliant,' I say.

'It is . . .' Kyle pauses. He lowers his voice, so I can barely hear him over the music. 'I know how Art can be, and he's even more sure of himself since The Trials, but Vicky and I . . . well, we just want you to know that we think this should be your decision . . . whether you try IVF again, I mean.'

'Thanks.' I squeeze Kyle's arm, genuinely touched.

'No, seriously, it's unbelievable what you've gone through. Vicky and I can't imagine . . .'

Vicky is Kyle's wife of fifteen years and the mother of their four children. Like him, she's solid and kind.

'Thanks.' I look around, realizing I haven't seen Vicky yet this evening. 'Where is Vicks?'

'Babysitter let us down.' Kyle makes a face. 'Shame, she'd love to be here.'

I wonder if he means that. I've always felt Vicky is a bit intimidated by Art and the other directors and their wives . . . by how slick and sophisticated they are. Maybe she couldn't face a party full of slim, attractive, designer-clad women. I know how she feels.

As if to illustrate my point, Morgan chooses this moment to make her entrance. She looks amazing: the savage stilettos have been teamed with a deep red dress that fits Morgan like a sheath. It finishes just below the knee and is off-the-shoulder and slash-necked, with thin straps kind of fifties-looking, like something out of a Grace Kelly movie or early Mad Men.

All the men stare. In fact, so do the women. Art's PA, Siena, a posh, slightly plump twenty-something with creamy skin and over-plucked eyebrows, actually drops her jaw.

Morgan stands in the doorway, looking around. I'm willing to bet her dress alone cost more than every other item of clothing in the room combined. She looks amazing but totally unapproachable. There's something self-contained in the way she's gazing at the rest of us which, combined with her ultra-groomed look, sets her apart. She's so shiny she almost gleams. No wonder the poor woman can't get a man. You'd need nuclear levels of confidence to walk up to her.

The music is still blaring out some trance track I don't know but the dancers have stopped moving. As hostess, I should go over and claim Morgan she has met the Loxley Benson board on a couple of occasions and knows Hen, of course, but underneath the poise she's looking a bit self-conscious right now. Luckily Tris saves the day. He trips towards her.

'Morgan, honey,' he says, 'I bring fabulous news. I've got the perfect man for you.'

'Really?' Morgan raises an expertly manicured hand to brush back an invisible wisp of hair. 'So when does he arrive?'

'Lorcan Byrne,' Tris goes on. 'Irish guy from way back. Maybe you met him with Art when you were younger? They were, like, best friends. And Lorcan is gorgeous. Remember?'

Morgan wrinkles her nose disdainfully. 'Hmmmn . . .'

I move closer, arriving at Morgan's side at the same time as Art. Behind us the dancers have started up again.

'Isn't Lorcan the guy you were with that time in the States?' Morgan turns to Art. 'Kind of a wild guy?'

'Er, yeah.' Art makes a face. 'You didn't really hit it off. Lorcan isn't everyone's cup of tea.'

Morgan looks like she wants to talk some more, but Tris whisks her off to join the knot of dancers. She's only a few years older than they are and could easily pass for younger with her skinny hips and suspiciously smooth skin but there's a sedate, middle-aged quality to Morgan that makes her look out of place. She can't dance, either and those spiky shoes certainly don't help.

For a second I experience a mean stab of pleasure, then I think what a cow I am and turn to Art.

'Who's this Lorcan?'

'No one, really,' Art says, watching the dancers. 'He was in at the start of Loxley Benson, but . . . it didn't work out . . .'

A vague memory stirs in the recesses of my brain. Art has mentioned Lorcan before.

'You were good friends,' I say. 'I remember you telling me. The Irish guy who went to drama school? He's an actor now he's been in some Irish soap for years.'

Art nods. 'When I knew him he wasn't an actor. We hung out a lot together. He encouraged me to set up my business but . . .' Art tails off.

'You fell out, didn't you?' I'm frowning, trying to remember the story.

Art shrugs. 'Lorcan let me down. He let the company down.'

I wait for him to expand on this but he doesn't.

'Anyway,' he carries on, 'he left and became an actor and went home to Ireland for a TV show and I haven't seen him since. He's not an easy guy. Fun, though. At least he used to be.'

I consider this. 'How come he's coming here tonight?'

'You'll have to ask Tris. They bumped into each other at some PR thing last week and Tris invited him.' Art raises his eyebrows. 'Typical Tris, eh?'

I grin. 'So is he right for Morgan?'

Art snorts. 'No way,' he says.