Free Too Close For Comfort by Eleanor Moran Page A

his shoulders slumped, eyes baggy with
sadness.
    ‘I’ve got to go and talk to them,’ said Lysette, her voice rising dangerously like a snatched-up needle ripping across a vinyl record. I put my hand on her arm, but she pulled
away, leaving it suspended uselessly in mid-air. I stood there a second, marooned again, then headed for the groaning buffet table just to give myself something to do.
    ‘Couldn’t resist the sausage rolls?’
    Where had he sprung from? I kept my voice steady. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
    ‘I was going to go home, but Ged thought she might need some babysitting,’ said Jim, nodding towards Lysette, her hands slicing through the air, Sarah’s parents her captive
audience.
    ‘Makes sense Ged asked you. I’m going back to London in a couple of hours.’
    I mapped Jim’s face more closely this time, observed the passage of time etched into his skin. His confidence was so absolute back then, the world not just dancing, but waltzing to his
tune. He was careless with his gifts: where had that taken him? I knew he had a gaggle of kids, a satisfyingly frazzled wife who I’d spotted at one of Saffron’s parties, and a job as a
TV producer. All of that was just information, though.
    ‘So we’ve only got two hours to cover twenty years?’ he said. ‘I hope you can still talk fast.’
    I kept my gaze deliberately cold, ignoring the way he was beckoning me towards our shared history. He cocked his head, smiled at me, his green eyes searching my face. He was still used to doors
swinging open with the lightest of pushes.
    ‘Edited highlights? I’m a psychotherapist, I live in Highgate and I’m about to get married.’ Why did I say Highgate? Patrick’s rabbit-hutch flat was a good two
miles from the leafy, celeb-riddled enclave up the hill. About to get married was an exaggeration too: we couldn’t quite fix on a date, Patrick’s upcoming trial a looming rain cloud
that never quite broke and my work a relentless stream of clients and conferences. My voice was too high, too quick.
    ‘Who’s the lucky bastard? Although . . . I bet you’ve got spreadsheets for the canapés and some kind of ruthless shortlist for the invites.’
    ‘And do you never get out of bed till ten unless you absolutely have to?’
    Jim laughed. He’d won – he’d broken through my Teflon coating – and he was enjoying his victory. I smiled back, I couldn’t help it.
    ‘You bet.’ He held up the plate of sausage rolls, offered me one, eyes twinkling. ‘Although Rowena kicks my arse if I don’t pull my weight.’
    It was stupid, but I felt a twinge inside as he said it. It wasn’t because I wanted to be with him – I’d have taken Patrick’s unwavering kindness over his flighty,
unreliable charm any day – it was the tangible sense of someone else having him. Someone else who’d believed in herself enough to know that kicking his arse was the way to win. Me
– I let him take everything, until there was nothing left for him to stay for.
    ‘What have you got? Three?’ I said, faux casual, as if I didn’t know perfectly well.
    He nodded. ‘That’s my lot. We’ve got to the root of the problem now, we know what’s been causing it.’
    I gave a weak smile. Before I could formulate some kind of witty riposte, Joshua appeared, Max still trailing in his wake.
    ‘Jim. Thanks so much for coming.’
    ‘I wanted to be here.’ He clapped Joshua on the shoulder, which slightly made me cringe. ‘I’m so sorry, mate.’ Joshua nodded, unable to summon any words.
‘This is Mia. She was at school with Lysette, so we go way back.’
    I felt an illogical burst of resentment – did he not want to say that I was his ex? I pushed the narcissistic thought away. It was the first time I’d properly seen Joshua up close,
but even here, when we were inches apart, it was hard to really see him. I felt more absence than presence.
    ‘It was a beautiful service,’ I said.
    Max’s chubby hand