Free Absent Light by Eve Isherwood

typical car salesman’s stance: feet wide apart, chest sticking out, blokeish grin. He was signalling frantically for her to come and join him. She nodded and waved, weaving her way slowly through various groups of people, stopping every so often to say hello, dipping in and out of conversations.
    â€œSmashing dress,” Jen commented, a little tipsily, Helen thought.
    â€œYou look pretty good yourself,” Helen said. Jen’s enviably curvaceous form was squeezed into an electric-blue creation with a plunging neckline, her blonde curls, newly unleashed, cascaded over her shoulders. She was standing next to a man Helen didn’t recognise.
    â€œJames Saunders,” Jen said, doing the introductions. Although he wasn’t particularly short, in her heels Helen towered over him. With his small eyes and heavy-framed spectacles, he looked all head and no body. She guessed he was an academic.
    â€œHi,” he said.
    Helen murmured the usual pleasantries.
    â€œHelen’s a photographer,” Jen explained. “Portraits.”
    James cracked a smile.
    â€œShe works for Ray Seatt,” Jen laboured the point.
    The smile widened. “Oh, right,” he said in a knowledgeable fashion.
    â€œYou know him?” Helen asked.
    The smile faded. Ridges appeared across his brow. “Don’t think so.”
    There was a stilted silence. Jen flashed a weak smile in Helen’s direction and took the opportunity to disappear to see to the food .
    â€œNice party,” James said, smiling again.
    Helen muttered a meaningless reply, secretly cursing Jen for dumping him on her. “So what do you do, James?” It was a pretty lacklustre opening but she couldn’t think of anything else to say.
    â€œI’m a court welfare officer,” he said firmly, proud of it.
    â€œHere?” Helen said.
    â€œIn Corporation Street. My work’s mainly with children.”
    â€œSo you’re a sort of social worker,” Helen said.
    â€œA mediator. Often between warring spouses,” he laughed lightly. “I work for CAFCASS.”
    She felt the blood leach from her cheeks. She could have gone on the attack about the cases that slipped through their bureaucratic fingers, about focusing on the detail and missing the obvious. She could have asked if he remembered a girl called Rose Buchanan. Instead she forced a smile. “Must be challenging,” she mumbled, trying to conceal her dismay. She took a quick snatch at her drink.
    â€œExtremely rewarding. The work’s varied, and you get to meet some interesting people,” James said, warming to his theme.
    â€œI can imagine.” She heard her own voice sounding artificially bright as she glanced over his shoulder.
    â€œI like to think we enjoy a fair degree of success,” he twitched a smile.
    â€œMmmm.” Nausea wended a speedy path to her throat. “Well, it’s nice talking to you, James, but I think Jen could do with some help.”
    She shut herself in the bathroom, washed her hands, went to the loo, washed her hands again. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, she thought, looking in the mirror at her strained reflection. It was too soon after her stay in hospital. She was still fragile. Somehow she couldn’t shake off the feeling that the Fates, not content with being thwarted, were conspiring against her. By the time she’d recovered and joined Mark, he was in full spate.
    â€œI mean, can you believe it?” Mark said, his voice rasping from a pack-a-day habit, “this bloke actually wanted to name his son after his motor.”
    â€œAnd what was that?” a guy with a pockmarked complexion chipped in.
    â€œMaverick,” Mark grinned.
    â€œGood job he didn’t drive a Hyundai,” Helen said.
    The assembled gang roared with laughter, fuelled more by booze, she suspected, than her sparkling wit.
    â€œHow you doing?” Mark said, slipping his arm around her waist