He smiles and leans down to kiss me on the lips. 'It's great, Gen. Thanks so much.'

We look at each other and, for a moment, it's as if it's just him and me in the room. Over the years I've learned marriage is like this a lot of mundane jogging along and compromise, punctuated by times when you're almost ready to walk away, and then those rare, lovely moments where the power of the bond between you puts everything else in the shadows.

'Hey,' I say, looking deep into his dark eyes. 'Kyle just told me about Lorcan and why he left the company. How come you never mentioned it?'

Art shrugs. 'Like I told you, Lorcan let the company down. Why talk about it?'

'So Kyle said you were, like, really close . . . best friends even?'

Art shrugs. 'I don't think in terms of best friends.'

I roll my eyes. It's true, of course. Art's friends with everyone, but that doesn't really answer my question.

'Look, it's complicated.' Art sighs. 'I just don't trust him. He isn't all bad. In fact he's smart and creative and he was the first person who suggested I should set up my own company.'

'Really?' I'm genuinely surprised. 'I thought Loxley Benson was your idea?'

'It was. I mean, specifically I came up with Loxley Benson itself, but long before then Lorcan focused my head on the idea of running my own business. I was a kid, sixteen or something, and he was doing carpentry work. He built Kyle's parents' conservatory. That's how we all met. I'd never come across anyone even vaguely entrepreneurial before. You know what Mum was like, and Kyle's parents. They all had or wanted steady jobs, like working for the local council, with sick pay and paid holidays and all that. I'd dreamed about being rich and successful, but Lorcan was the first person who made me believe I could actually set up my own business one day.'

'Hey, Gen, where's the corkscrew?'

It's Sue, very smiley and a bit slurry. I want to ask Art more, but I hurry off to the kitchen. Morgan is in there again chatting with some of my old friends, while Boris's wife is deep in conversation with Lorcan. To my amazement Boris's wife is actually smiling. Lorcan has wandered off by the time I've found the missing corkscrew and given it to Sue. She asks if I'm okay after Hen's pregnancy revelation. I reassure her that I'm fine. And then Hen herself comes up, all tearful about not telling me before, and we spend about half an hour clearing that up again.

'It's great,' I keep telling her. 'I'm thrilled for you.'

'Really?' Hen sniffs. 'I was going to tell you tonight, Gen. Honest.'

Eventually Rob comes up and I congratulate him on the baby and he blushes, which makes me laugh and then Hen laughs too, at last, and drags him off to dance.

By the time I get back into the living room it's gone midnight and half the couples are thinking about getting back to babysitters. Rob is talking to Boris and his wife, and Art is chatting and laughing with Hen, who is clearly trying to persuade him to dance. There's no chance of that Art wouldn't dance if you paid him. I smile to myself. Hen might have Art's ear when it comes to me, but she doesn't really understand him.

He beckons me towards them but before I can head over, Tris grabs me and spins me around. We dance together for a bit. My iPod is back in the dock and the party playlist is still going strong the Motown section never fails. I take some photos of Art with Hen, then with a bunch of other people: Sandrine and John; Siena, who's emerged from the utility room without the young guy; and Boris and Dan and their wives. Art is smiling in them all.

In the end I collapse onto the sofa. Plenty of people are still dancing, though the party's definitely thinning out. Art's saying goodbye to Sandrine and John.

'Enjoying your party?'

I look up. Lorcan's smiling. He sits down beside me and runs his hand through his hair.

'Course.' I smile back.

Lorcan raises an eyebrow. 'Yeah? I wasn't sure.'

We stare at each other. There's something knowing about his look . . . an edge . . . a challenge. I can certainly see how he could have ended up sleeping with a client's wife.

'I'm fine,' I insist. 'Anyway, it's Art's party really.'

We both look over at Art, still chatting away.

'Art says you're a writer.'

'Did he?' I'm honestly surprised to hear that. After urging me to write for over two years after Beth's death, Art finally stopped talking about it. I can't remember the last time he even mentioned the subject.

'What are you working on now?' Lorcan asks.

'Nothing specific.' God, I haven't had to do this talk about my writing with anyone outside my tutor groups for ages. Everybody else stopped asking me years ago. I stare at the floor for a moment, trying to think of a way of changing the subject.

'Why's that?'

I look up. Lorcan is watching my face, his eyes intent on my answer. His skin is fair and there are faint lines on his forehead. He has soft blue eyes and stubble on his chin. I take all this in without really noticing it. I'm trying to work out what to say. And then, without any warning at all, I tell the truth.

'I haven't been able to write since my baby died.'

Lorcan nods slowly. 'I'm sorry, I didn't know,' he says. 'Art and I haven't spoken in a long time.' He pauses. 'I can understand why it stopped you writing.'

'Can you?'

He nods. 'Sure. Something like that changes who you are, so you have to work out who you are all over again.'

'Which is more than enough creativity to be going on with, you mean?' I laugh gently. 'I guess so. Though, for me, it was also that I just spent so much time thinking about her.'

'What was her name?'

'Hey, Gen, we're going.' Sue and Paul loom up in front of us. I jump, slightly. I'd forgotten about the party still going on around us. I stand up and kiss them goodbye. Then more people come over. Sue and Paul have started a second wave of couples leaving amid yet more explanations about late nights and waiting babysitters. By the time I return to the sofa, it's half past one and there're only about twelve of us left. Tris and Boris clearly off their faces are now dancing to 'Vogue' in the middle of the living room. Morgan and Art are chatting by the door with a group of people from Art's office. Lorcan's still on the sofa, a bottle of beer in hand, talking to Boris's wife. She scowls at me as I sit down.

'Are you alright, Tanya?'

'Yes, except for shoes which are hurting feet.' She looks over at Boris and sighs. 'We must go.'

'Really?' I say. 'That's a shame.'

I catch Lorcan's eye. I can see he knows I'm not that bothered Tanya is going. I sip at my wine, trying not to grin.

'Yes.' Tanya sweeps off to get their coats and I let myself smile.

Lorcan sits up. 'It's kind of strange seeing everyone again.'

I'm curious. I can't help it.

'I heard you left Loxley Benson under a cloud?'

Lorcan wrinkles his nose. 'I thought maybe after all this time they might have forgotten, but . . .'

'Art never forgets.' I hesitate. That sounded kind of disloyal. 'I'm kidding. It's all water under the bridge. I mean, I think Kyle might still be a bit upset, but that's just because he's so devoted to Art. The others looked really pleased to see you.'

A beat passes. Lorcan is still looking at me.

'I don't think Art wants me here,' he says. His tone is neither angry, nor self-pitying. He's just stating a fact.

'Of course he does,' I bluster, my face growing hot.

'Mmmn . . .' Lorcan looks away.

'Tell me . . .' I say, desperate to change the subject. 'Art says you're an actor. But you also apparently built Kyle's conservatory. And you were part of Art's business at the beginning, which has got nothing to do with either acting or building.'

Lorcan laughs. 'Yeah, all those things are true, I guess. I am an actor, but I didn't get into it until I was in my mid-twenties.' He pauses, as if deliberating whether to say more. Then he runs his hand through his hair, pushing it off his face, smoothing it back. 'I did carpentry work back then to earn money.'

I'm held by his look, which is somehow open and yet enigmatic at the same time. 'Art says you were the one who suggested he set up his business.'

'I was only stating the obvious,' Lorcan says. 'You could see there was something about Art, even back then. He was this restless kid with masses of energy and far cleverer than everyone around him. If he wasn't going to end up a gangster he'd become a businessman. He had entrepreneur written all over him, he just needed the time to work out what to "entrepreneur" about.'

'But not you?'

'No way. I mean, I thought it was great Art was setting up a business, but I wasn't cut out to be a part of it. I'd never had a job or a boss. The only thing I was good at then was acting the bollix, as my dad used to say.' He laughs again. 'Art and me used to go out drinking when I was bumming around doing occasional carpentry work and he'd say to me: "This isn't right for you, Lorcan, mate. This isn't enough. There's good money out there, you know? If you're prepared to go after it.'" As Lorcan quotes Art, he changes his voice, imitating Art's North London accent and the eager, intense way Art sometimes speaks.

I grin. It's a good likeness.

'You see I thought I could hack it . . .' Lorcan looks down. He's talking in his natural voice again now. I like the way he speaks, the laidback way he rolls his words around his mouth. 'At the time, before Loxley Benson, Art was working in some financial consultancy, and with his help and a lot ' he grins 'a lot of bullshit on my part, I talked my way into this public relations company, because I was tired of labouring and I wanted more money. And it was good. I mean, it suited me in lots of ways. Then when Art set up Loxley Benson I thought I could handle the PR side no problem.' He sighs, and swigs at his beer. 'But actually I hated it. And . . . and there was loads of other shit going on in my life. So getting out of the business was the best decision I ever made.'

'I thought . . .' I hesitate, wondering if what I'm about to say will sound rude. I decide to say it anyway. There's something about Lorcan that tells me he prefers people to be direct. 'I thought Art fired you.'

'Right.' Lorcan sighs. 'Yes, I would have gone anyway, but yes.'

There's an awkward pause.

'So what was the other shit you mentioned?' I say, hoping to smooth the moment over.

Lorcan widens his eyes dramatically. 'Woman shit.' He laughs.

'Yeah?'

'Yeah. I became a dad, which wasn't planned. At all.'

I glance at his left hand. There's no wedding ring.

'So who is that?' Lorcan points to a photo on the shelf to the right of the sofa. It's one of my favourite pictures of my dad as a boy a close-up of his face: dark floppy hair falling over his forehead, soulful eyes and that expressive mouth, with the top lip fuller than the bottom, pressed into a determined smile.

'That's my dad,' I say. 'He died when I was a kid.'

'So did my mum,' Lorcan confides. 'Well, I was seventeen. Cancer.'

We look at each other for a second, bonded by that invisible tie that exists between all children who lose their parents too young.

Lorcan sits back. 'So what do you do, if you're not writing?'

I hate that question. I don't want to answer it. I want to ask Lorcan about his kid and what happened with the woman shit. And about whether he's with anyone right now. Instead I shrug, feeling stupid. As I speak, I pour myself another glass of wine.

'There isn't anything else I want to do. God, that sounds so pathetic. I mean I do a bit of creative writing teaching and I know how lucky I am that Art . . . that I don't have to earn a living . . . it's just . . . writing's the only thing that I've ever done that felt authentic. You know, "real". The right thing. The thing I'm meant to be doing.'

How pretentious does that sound? I gulp my wine, embarrassed.

But Lorcan is nodding. 'I get that,' he says.

The sound of glass smashing rises above the music. I turn in time to see Morgan staring at her skirt, a glass of red wine on the floor at her feet. Miraculously the glass is only broken into two pieces, at the stem. The man next to her is swaying slightly, looking guilty. I recognize him as one of Art's clients. He's in his fifties, with a red face and pissed eyes.

'Sorry,' he's slurring. 'Sorry 'bout that. Oops did I get your dress?' He reaches forward and tries to brush wine off Morgan's skirt.

She backs away.

'No problem.' Morgan's voice is even more clipped than usual.

I glance over at Art. He rolls his eyes. 'I'll get a cloth.'

As Art and Morgan head for the kitchen, it crosses my mind that I should probably go over and talk to the drunk client. In a second, maybe. Instead, I sip some more wine and turn back to Lorcan. He's watching Morgan and Art leave the room.

'Morgan's amazing,' I say. 'She's been working the room all night.'

Lorcan shrugs. 'She doesn't like me. Didn't when we met the time before, either.'

I don't know what to say to that.

Lorcan grins. 'Hey, I'm not everyone's cup of tea.'

'That's what Art said about you earlier.' I smile. 'So what did you do to piss Morgan off?'

'She thought I was a bad influence on Art,' Lorcan says. 'Which, to be fair, I probably was.'

'She cares about him. They're really close. Art and Morgan are alike in lots of ways.'

'You think?'

'Yes.' I try to work out what I mean. Art and Morgan are both forceful and confident, like I imagine their dad must have been. I'd say the resemblance to Brandon Ryan is strongest in Morgan's case. Not surprising I suppose. She's more imperious than Art by nature and, since their father died, she's taken over the running of one of his core businesses: Ryan Insurance Services. Now she jet sets around the world just like Brandon once did.

Lorcan runs his hand through his hair again. 'Maybe they're both used to getting their own way, but Morgan's much more materialistic. She's like a personification of the Brandon Ryan legend all about making money. Whereas Art . . . well, he doesn't really care about money so much.'

I stare at him. Few people who know Art well would describe him as a man who doesn't care about money, and yet it's true. Art has never wanted to build up riches for the sake of it or accumulate material stuff. He has a Mercedes, sure, but he rarely drives it. And we have this house but it's hardly crammed full of status-bestowing possessions.

'You're right,' I say. 'Sometimes I wonder why Art's so driven when he's not bothered about being rich.'

Art rushes through the door as I speak, a tea towel in his hand. Morgan trails behind, her lips pressed together in irritation. She smoothes her skirt down. I experience a tiny prick of guilt that I haven't gone to help her. Still, the wine stain is barely noticeable on that dark red dress.

'Control.'

'What?' I turn to Lorcan.

'Control,' he repeats. 'That's why Art's driven. He wants total power over his environment. No boss to tell him what to do. No problem he can't solve. No aspect of his life he isn't in complete control over.'

I stare at him. That's exactly how Art is.