Chapter 9

      The gallery was an intimidating strip of a building in Mayfair. Wide plate-glass windows shone silvery white light on to a line of expensive-looking cars outside. The crowd queuing up to get in looked po-faced. But I was glad to arrive.

      Clare had asked far too many questions about Martin on the way there. I didn’t want to divulge anything about his circumstances, particularly how we met, and I wanted to keep the good stuff private – the weekends we had spent in bed, watching box-sets and eating takeaways, or our Sunday-afternoon drive to Lulworth Cove, where we sat on the cliffs and watched the colours of the tide shift from emerald to peacock blue. And I didn’t want to tell her how upset I had been the night Martin had gone to meet Donna to ‘talk’ about the divorce. How I’d gone to the gym after work that evening, driven myself to my physical limit, pushing weights, running hard until sweat dripped from every pore of my body, hoping to take my mind off the fact they were meeting up. How it hadn’t stopped me calling him – calling him three times, even though each attempt went straight to voicemail, or how I went home and drank two bottles of wine and woke up the next morning to find vomit in the toilet basin. I didn’t tell her, because although I knew I was falling in love with Martin Joy, I didn’t love the way he sometimes made me feel. Helpless, adrift and out of control with my emotions, the person I used to be, another lifetime ago.

      ‘So is he here?’ she whispered, as we each accepted a flute of champagne from the waitress. We’d been waved past the velvet rope and found ourselves in a parallel world where elegant people in towering heels and loafers dropped a year’s salary on some remedial daubings they declared ‘amusing’. The artist du jour was Helen North, a painter who printed huge monochrome photos of naked elderly people, then covered those images with thick slashes of black and white paint. I found them depressing, but then I wasn’t here for the art.

      Looking past the designer dresses and Savile Row blazers, I didn’t recognize anyone, let alone Martin. But I wasn’t looking for him, I was looking for Donna, terrified that she would walk in, larger than life and twice as glamorous. The art world, after all, was Donna’s territory. Even if she hadn’t heard that Martin had been invited – along with a mystery plus one – there was a strong chance that a juicy opening night like this would bring her out from whatever rock she’d crawled under. I cursed myself. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t sink to hating Donna, however tempting it was. As a family lawyer, you only got to see one side of a relationship. As a girlfriend, even more so. I wanted to see Donna as uncaring and selfish and malicious, but it was never that simple, was it? However happy Martin made me, he couldn’t be entirely blameless: which of us were?

      Perhaps reading my mood, Clare touched my arm.

      ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘Yes, fine. Just a little nervous about you meeting Martin, I suppose.’

      ‘You really like him, don’t you?’

      ‘He’s nice,’ I said with contrived breeziness.

      ‘Then why do you want me here, playing gooseberry?’

      I looked at her.

      ‘Because you’re my best friend and it’s important to me that you like him too.’

      Clare nodded. ‘OK, but do tell me when to scarper. I assume you’re going home with him.’

      ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

      ‘I’m good – provided you have a clean pair of undies and a toothbrush in your handbag.’

      ‘I’ve got a toothbrush at his place.’

      She raised an eyebrow. ‘Not quite a ring on your finger, but it’s a start.’

      ‘Well, considering he’s still technically married, I’d say so.’ I forced myself to watch Clare’s reaction. Not shocked or disapproving, just confused.

      ‘He’s married?’

      ‘Separated. Six months ago.’

      ‘At least he’s not a client,’ she replied with an arched brow. I smiled nervously.

      ‘Actually …’ I began, but a blonde whirlwind swept up, arm outstretched.

      ‘Fran! How are you?’ Sophie Cole pulled me into a hug, air-kissing both sides, like a long-lost sister. ‘I didn’t know you’d be here!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was worried the whole night was going to be deadly dull.’

      She looked at Alex, who arrived at her side, for confirmation. He gave only a short nod of assent, but at least he was smiling.

      ‘Oh, this is Clare, my friend,’ I said, snapping into formal mode. ‘Clare – Sophie and Alex Cole. They’re Martin’s business partners.’

      ‘More like his agony aunt, in my case,’ said Sophie, shaking Clare’s hand. ‘So what do you think of the art, Clare?’

      I waited to hear her response. Clare was much better at judging these things than I was. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘I like the way she uses light and shade.’

      Sophie paused, then laughed. ‘No, I can’t stand them either!’ She leant in to whisper: ‘But Helen’s a good friend of Martin’s, so don’t repeat that in front of him.’

      I looked at her in alarm. I didn’t like the sound of ‘good friend’.

      ‘Are you a lawyer too?’ said Sophie, looking at Clare.

      ‘Psychotherapist,’ said Clare.

      ‘Sophie’s dream friend. All she likes to do is talk about herself,’ chided Alex.

      She swatted his arm. ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband, he’s an idiot.’

      ‘She’s the co-owner of a restaurant as well, aren’t you, Clare.’

      I couldn’t resist getting in a plug for Dom’s new restaurant. Sophie and Alex were the sort who ate out every night and, besides, I liked the thought of our friendship groups intertwining.

      ‘Hardly co-owner. It’s my husband’s. Launches next month.’

      ‘Darling, you’re friends with a divorce lawyer. Speak to her and then tell me you don’t want your name above the door, however much of a sleeping partner you might be.’

      ‘Believe me, I don’t want to get involved,’ laughed Clare. ‘If I tell my husband I want more involvement, he’ll have me making choux pastry swans before I know it. And I hate cooking. I can’t even make fairy cakes.’

      ‘Well, remind me to introduce you to my friend at The Times. Food critic. Maybe we can all go