Conflict of Interest

was a great mix of people, Chris thought, moving up from the lawn to the verandah. He was happily into his second drink and talking to a very tasty art director from M. & C. Saatchi. Blue eyes, long legs and mind on a different planet – where did Bernie find them all? Apart from the regular Oxford crowd and work associates from Salomon’s, there was a fair sprinkling of less conventional types at the party: an actor who made regular TV appearances in The Bill; a hypnotherapist who’d helped Bernie kick smoking; an art director, Carole, who claimed she couldn’t draw to save her life, but who, thought Chris appreciatively, could be forgiven any multitude of sins with a body like that.

Food began appearing some time after nine. Bernie could always count on a bevy of willing female friends, including his long-suffering girlfriend Trisha, to produce a lavish buffet for his parties. Chris had collected a plate and was reaching out for an avocado Ritz when he found himself hip to hip with Judith.

‘Hey!’ he greeted her carefully.

She’d arrived when he was out on the verandah. Out of the corner of his eye he’d watched her coming into the sitting room. He’d always liked her in black; somehow it seemed to heighten her edge. And tonight she looked as desirable as ever. Almost as a reflex action he had checked to see if she’d brought anyone with her. Hadn’t looked like it.

Now their greetings were restrained. None of the hugs and kisses they had for other friends of the opposite sex. It was easier this way.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Judith.

He met her eyes. Long enough to seek innuendo, without assuming the intimacy between them which no longer existed. She seemed straight-up.

‘I’m fine,’ he nodded. Then, glancing down over her, ‘You’re looking very well.’

‘You too.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t seen much of the sun lately.’

They moved down the buffet.

‘Working hard?’ asked Judith.

‘Yeah. Big project on the go.’

Her glance was empathetic. ‘Know the feeling.’

A couple of times over the meal he was aware of her glancing over at him. Once, they caught each other’s eyes and exchanged smiles; he never knew what to make of her. Then Bernie marched through from the freezer with a massive crystal bowl filled with Dom Pedro, a concoction of vanilla ice cream and whisky he’d come across on a trip to South Africa, which he was insistent everyone quaff in large quantities. The accumulation of alcohol was soon loosening tongues and inhibitions. And in Bernie’s capacious sitting-room, with its comfortable sofas and subdued lighting, the intimacy was inescapable.

After the food and desserts came yet more cocktails. The tide of good feeling rose with the night and, at some point, dancing started out on the verandah – just the Pet Shop Boys and a few couples to begin with. Then Trisha hauled out Abba and turned up the volume; the blast from the past was a sure-fire way to engender good feeling. And as Abba was succeeded by Wham and then Sade, it wasn’t long before just about everyone in the room was up there, strutting their stuff – a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.

Things were passing by in a cheerful, alcoholic blur. Inevitably a circle had formed on the dance floor and Chris was swept up in it, linked arm-to-arm on each side. Judith was there too, directly opposite, and as the circle swirled round, amid much gaiety and high spirits, they looked over at each other, laughing without restraint. For a while it was as though nothing had changed between them, thought Chris. It was as though time hadn’t passed. Was this some kind of game she was playing?

There was, as usual, a good crowd at Bernie’s, and as soon as Judith arrived, she was corralled into a corner by Sebastian Hayes – conversational sparring partner since lazy, student evenings at The Trout. The cocktails were flowing thick and fast. Voices rose. Everyone round her was getting quietly smashed, and she reckoned she might as well do the same. Catching sight of Tina Aldren, she crossed the room.

‘I thought you were in the middle of Africa?’ They exchanged kisses.

‘Back on holiday,’ replied Tina.

‘Rhinos doing OK?’

‘Stormin’ Norman’s a proud dad yet again.’

‘You little Cupid!’ She reached over and squeezed Tina’s cheek.

At college they’d hung out a lot together, the two of them very similar, both petite, and equally outspoken to compensate for their lack of height. Tina had always been the more gregarious of the two – one of those people whom everyone liked to confide in. She’d surprised them all by taking a job with Andersen Consulting, where she’d flown very high, very fast, for five years, then she’d surprised them all even more by throwing everything up and heading to Zimbabwe to help in a breeding programme of the endangered black rhino.

She didn’t spend much time in England these days. Even so, she seemed to know more about what everyone was doing than most of Judith’s London friends. Now the two of them exchanged news and gossip over the obligatory Singapore Slings, Tina telling Judith about her boyfriend, the tobacco farmer, and Judith filling Tina in on Alex Carter and Ted Gilmour. As usual, they ran through all their closer friends and acquaintances, inevitably coming to Chris.

‘So, you’re still being a cow to him?’ Tina grinned.

‘Not deliberately!’

‘Moo!’ The other pulled a cheeky face. ‘Mooo!!

‘It’s not like that.’

‘I’d say calling him an anally-retentive pillock was pretty bovine.’