Greenwich Park(47)

I tried my best to make conversation with them both, but my efforts floundered. I didn’t really know anything about music, or curing fish, or the architecture of British churches, and Mathilde looked blank whenever I said anything about my pregnancy. I kept glancing around for someone I could safely introduce them to, but was unable to identify a single suitable candidate. Daniel and Charlie were busy with the fireworks, and there was no sign of Katie yet. Instead, the house was filling up with strange, edgy people I didn’t recognise, none of whom seemed remotely interested in speaking to us, or in trying Mathilde’s home-made gravadlax, which lay barely touched on the sideboard.

Within an hour of their arrival, I could tell by their faces that Arthur and Mathilde were mentally plotting their escape. I cringed as guest after guest barged past us, forcing Arthur to wheel round out of the way and Mathilde to pin herself up against the larder cupboard door. By now, the noise from the garden was making it increasingly difficult to hold a conversation. Arthur’s eyes darted nervously over my shoulder every time there was a smash of glass, a snap from the bonfire, a burst of explicit rap music. When Mathilde was knocked against the kitchen sideboard by a bloke in a purple dress and trainers carrying a huge speaker – ‘She’s only just had her hip done,’ a stunned Arthur muttered – I could see that all was lost.

Soon after that, the two of them were politely making their excuses. They were terribly tired – too old for parties these days, they said, with rueful smiles, hurriedly pulling on their scarves and gloves. They kept repeating what a lovely time they’d had, thanking me so profusely for inviting them that it made me want to cry. I helped them with their coats, apologising over and over about the sideboard incident, telling them how lovely it would be to catch up with them both again, though in what context, after this, I couldn’t really imagine. As I closed the door after them, Arthur carrying the barely touched gravadlax plate, Mathilde wobbling as she reached for the railings, I dreaded the thought of what they’d be saying on the way home.

It is not long after their departure that I start to feel odd. I head out to the garden, hoping some fresh air might help. The lawn is already littered with decaying pears, cigarette butts, spent fireworks in fairground colours, cans bent double. I close my eyes. There is a smell of gunpowder and rot. I can’t understand why the fire is producing quite so much black smoke.

My eyelids feel heavy, like I’m using all my strength to keep them open. After a while, I can’t even seem to see things properly – it’s as if I’m looking at everything through tinted glass. I wonder if it is the smoke from the fire affecting me – I keep rubbing my eyes on my jumper sleeve.

I go back inside, thinking my eyes might feel better. But it seems to be almost as foggy in here. Perhaps people are smoking indoors. Despite my begging, Charlie has brought two towering black speakers, plugged them in where Mummy’s floor lamp was. As I pass, bending to dab at a wine-splattered wall with damp kitchen roll, a shaven-headed guy at the decks looks up at me, one headphone on and one off, like I’ve seen Charlie doing. He just nods, then closes his eyes again.

Bass vibrates through the house, shaking the glasses in the cabinet. In the gaps between, the dehumidifier clicks and hums. Charlie dances into the room, eyes half closed, nodding to the music.

‘Who on earth are all these people?’ I hiss at Charlie.

He shrugs. ‘Mates.’

‘You could have come and spoken to Mathilde and Arthur.’

‘Who?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Our neighbours,’ I snap. ‘The ones who have lived here forever, who were friends with Daddy, who used to always throw your football back for you.’

He stares at me blankly.

‘They asked after you. It felt rude.’

Charlie still looks puzzled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t even know they were here.’

I rub my forehead. My head is throbbing. Charlie smiles, tries to catch my eye. ‘Honestly, don’t look so worried, Helen. Everything’s fine.’ I squint at him suspiciously. He’d better not be up to his old tricks again. I note that, as usual, he is looking faintly unwashed and in need of a haircut. I turn away. Sometimes it hurts even to look at Charlie. His face is all Mummy – her wide smile, her light brown eyes.

‘How’s Ruby?’

‘She’s fine. At her mum’s.’

‘Is Katie here yet?’

Charlie shrugs again, as if I’ve mentioned some passing acquaintance rather than his girlfriend. ‘Haven’t seen her,’ he says. ‘What about your new mate? Rachel? Is she here?’

‘I don’t know where she is,’ I say. ‘She went out for cigarettes this afternoon. She’s been ages.’ I narrow my eyes. ‘Why? What do you want with her?’

‘Nothing,’ Charlie says distractedly. He plucks a joint from behind his ear. ‘I just wondered. How about Rory, is he coming? And Serena?’ He taps his pockets for a lighter.

‘Charlie, you can’t smoke in here!’ I snap. ‘Tell your friends they can’t smoke in here.’

‘Relax, Helen!’ He laughs, putting the joint back. ‘I was just getting it ready!’

‘I don’t know if Rory and Serena are coming,’ I say crossly. ‘Rory has better taste in parties than you. Whatever his other faults might be.’