As the evening progressed and the air temperature outside began to fall, more of the guests came inside and the room began to fill. The sound of chatting and laughter grew louder and eventually she and Angie gave up trying to talk and simply watched. For all the stench of entitlement that came off them, the guests were a fascinating bunch to observe. They were all good-looking and groomed to a level that Maggie could never achieve, but she noticed how they never focused on the people that they were talking to and always had one eye on the rest of the room. Many of them spent all their time taking photos of themselves, often without anyone else in the shot. It was a level of narcissism that was alien to Maggie, but which these Millennials seemed completely at ease with. In a way, Maggie was envious of their self-assured confidence, but surely life wasn’t just a series of Instagram opportunities? At some point, even those as privileged as this lot appeared to be would have to face some of life’s hard edges. She checked herself. She was starting to think like an old person; like her mother, in fact. What was wrong with celebrating the here and now and recording it to share with others? Just because she couldn’t imagine doing it herself didn’t make it reprehensible.
Maggie’s mind turned to Leon, sitting, as he would be, on his sofa watching whatever was on the television, and her heart gave a fond little flutter. She had thought she might tell Angie about the two of them this evening, in a quieter moment, but the room was too loud and the moment all wrong. She had waited this long to say something. She could wait a little longer.
‘Shall we go in a few minutes?’ asked Angie, blowing her lips out and shaking her head at the parade of beauties before them. ‘I’m not sure I can take much more of this spectacle!’
Maggie nodded and lifted her half-empty glass. ‘When I’ve finished this one?’ she asked, and Angie nodded.
They continued to watch. Someone new had arrived, a man dressed more casually than the majority in well-worn jeans and a T-shirt, with dark hair, greying slightly at the temples. He wasn’t as picture-perfect as most of the others and had at least ten years on them. He made a beeline for Hope, approaching her with open palms, all apologies. Hope rolled her eyes but then she leant in and embraced him. This would be the boyfriend, Maggie thought. He really was late. It must have been approaching ten thirty. Still, Maggie couldn’t help but have a sneaking admiration for him and his failure to get sucked into whatever this was.
She turned to pass her thoughts on to Angie, but Angie was also looking at him, staring in fact, her jaw slack.
‘That must be the errant boyfriend.’ Maggie laughed. ‘Looks like he’s forgiven, though.’
‘Shall we go?’ said Angie, turning on the spot to face the exit.
Maggie, slightly thrown, looked at her half-filled glass, then at Angie and then back to the glass. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just let me . . .’
But Angie was gone, pushing through the crowds and out into the cool evening beyond.
37
Angie did not sleep at all that night. When she got back to the flat, having said a rather perfunctory goodnight to Maggie （she would need to apologise for that, claim that she hadn’t been feeling well or something）， Romany was still awake and watching some reality TV programme that seemed to be populated by the kinds of people that Angie had just left behind at Hope’s party.
‘You’re back early,’ Romany said, without looking up from the screen. ‘Was it any good?’
‘Yeah, it was nice,’ replied Angie. ‘But I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.’
She walked over to the sofa and stood between her daughter and the television and then, cupping Romany’s face in her hands, she bent down and kissed her forehead.
‘Mum! I can’t see!’ Romany objected, squirming free and twisting to look around her and back at the screen.
Angie smiled weakly. ‘You shouldn’t watch this crap. It’ll fry your brain,’ she said, but she didn’t do anything to prevent it. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Once in her room, the door closed behind her, she flopped on to the bed and curled herself up in a tiny ball.
Jax.
It had been Jax. Even from a distance there was absolutely no doubt in her mind. Jax, Daniel Jackson, was Hope’s boyfriend. Older, more conventional-looking, but most definitely him. His hair was longer than when she had last seen it and he had filled out over the years, but it suited him. Where he had been sharp-edged and pointy in the past, he was softer now, less angry-looking. Angie had always found him handsome, but objectively he perhaps hadn’t been before. Now, though, fifteen years on, he seemed to have grown into his looks and was attractive in a scruffy, slightly chaotic way.