Chapter 18

Champagne arrived in flutes on trays and we emptied them with gladness in our hearts.

Roman Payne

I stride past the baggage carousel at Dublin Airport, happy that I only needed carry-on luggage for my trip to my parents Mallorca. It was the first Christmas I'd spent with them for a few years, and it was more enjoyable than I'd expected. We have a complicated relationship. My dad is an absolute sweetheart but lives in a world of his own. Mum is . . . well, not a million miles away from Pamela Boyd-Miller, if I'm honest. There's the same spikiness about her. The same way of telling it like it is when sometimes a white lie would be better. And just as Pamela apparently criticised Charles when he was younger, Mum was always on my case to study harder, do better, live up to my potential. She never really indicated what she thought my potential was, but maybe she was right, because I always try to do that anyway, and (this rather shitty year aside) I generally succeed.

In Mallorca, she's mellower, more chilled and prepared to go with the flow than before. When I was a child, she wrote lists. Lists of chores. Lists of achievements. Lists of where we had to be and when. She was a relentless list-maker. But all that has changed, and when I arrived at Villa Hibiscus with its picturesque views of Palma Bay, she greeted me with a glass of cava and told me to leave unpacking till later. She and Dad have a whole new network of retired friends whose main aim in life is to have a good time, so there were plenty of lunches and dinners and parties to go to. On Christmas Day itself, we ate at a restaurant on the promenade of their local beach, and I didn't once think back to the Christmases Charles and I spent together curled up in the living room of Riverside Lodge, drinking red wine and thinking that life couldn't get any better. I messaged him, of course, as I always do, a photo of me wearing a Santa hat with the Mediterranean as a backdrop, and he sent one back of himself and Ellis at her house.

As much as his mother and I locked horns, I got on reasonably well with Ellis, who's very much her own person. Like Charles, she's creative, although her creativity comes in painting and pottery. Her home is in Enniskerry, a picturesque village about 30 kilometres to the south of Dublin, and she works from a shed in her back garden. When we first met, she was also working in a library, but shortly after Charles and I married, she bought the house and set up her own business. She's sharp and smart and good at communications, and she's also very talented. I have two of her paintings in my office, and in my apartment a long, slender vase that she made for my birthday one year. We used to meet up quite a lot when Charles and I were married, and I considered her to be a friend. I still do, even though I haven't seen her in ages. I should've sent her a Christmas card.

I'm getting into a taxi when my phone buzzes.

What time are you home?

On the way now. Anything wrong?

No. Just checking you're coming to my party

I always come to your party. I ORGANISE your party!

I'll see you this evening. Don't be late

I'll be there before midnight!

Honestly, Charles is like a baby sometimes. And when he says ‘my party' as though I'm a casual invitee, he's being disingenuous. The reason I do the organisation for him is because he uses it as a kind of promotional thing. He invites a few of the better-known reviewers along, and they always come, even if only for a short time, because Charles is an excellent host. Despite the hassle of being in charge, I enjoy it myself. I like our status as a civilised ex-couple who are still best friends. And occasional lovers.

Although that hasn't happened in quite a while.

Should my New Year's resolution be to make it less occasional? Or would that be an absolute disaster?

I remind myself that I don't make New Year's resolutions. I'd never keep them anyway.

I am, as always, the first to arrive at Riverside Lodge. I need to be there to make sure that the caterers and bar staff have arrived, that everything has been set up, that there's enough booze and non-booze for everyone, and that Charles himself is prepped for the onslaught.

I first had the idea of the party the year of Charles's Booker win. Winter's Heartbreak was topping the bestseller lists and I thought it would be a nice way to celebrate his success, thank everyone for all their hard work and have a good time. It was great fun and Charles was happy to make it an annual event. We've had the same caterers every year. The MD of the company, Ash O'Halloran, contacts me in October to run through the plans, and updates me regularly, so I already know that everything is in hand and there's nothing for me to worry about. She's even dealt with Charles's last-minute request to have a Caribbean theme (I should have thought of it myself, to be honest) by introducing new canapés and adding pina coladas and tropical sunsets to the cocktail list.

Now, standing beside Charles and looking around the two rooms with the interconnecting doors open so that the already big space is even bigger, I feel myself relax. The food is prepared, the bar staff are ready for the influx that will shortly descend on us, and he and I are sharing a well-deserved glass of champagne. (I'll be sticking to fizz despite the tropical cocktails.)

‘I don't say it often enough, but you're a real marvel,' he says as we clink our glasses together.

‘I know.'

‘Thanks for this, and for everything you've done for the book. I know the change of direction was a gamble.'

‘It was a challenge.' I smile. ‘But all's well that ends well, and hopefully we'll have a massive hit on our hands next year.'

He puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulders just as the doorbell rings and our first guests arrive. The literary set are always on time, afraid the wine will run out if they're late. It never has, of course. I always order more than enough. The journalists arrive promptly too, although they'll feck off to other events before midnight. But it's good to get a piece in the paper about how great the party is and how much Charles is loved. I haven't got him named as a national treasure yet, but sooner or later somebody will use the phrase.

It's a more relaxed party than the Xerxes celebration. Maybe that's because most of the guests are Irish and aren't treating it as a work event. As far as they're concerned, it's a good night out. We always invite Graham, but he only ever came to the London parties. Sydney Travers, Charles's new editor, was a late invitee. I was surprised when she accepted, but she said it was a good opportunity to meet him in person, and when she arrives, I introduce her to him straight away.

‘I'm so looking forward to working on your book,' she tells him. ‘I enjoy your work and I definitely want to make you as successful a crime writer as you are a literary genius.'

Charles is melting under the gaze of her enormous brown eyes, which are positively smouldering without the barrier of her glasses. Mind you, they're the only thing about her that is smouldering, as she's channelling that black-and-white vibe again – if her hair was in plaits instead of a loose bun on the back of her head, she'd be a ringer for Wednesday Addams. I hide a smile at the thought and leave them to their discussion as more arrivals walk into the room.

Within half an hour, the atmosphere is loud and jovial. The champagne is doing its job and I'm doing mine by chatting to everyone and telling them all how much we appreciate them. The waiters bring around trays of food, and I'm glad that Charles actually remembered to roll up the rugs, because otherwise he'd be paying for professional cleaning.

‘Ariel! Ariel!' Brandon Heath, the organiser of one of the country's biggest literary festivals, waves me over. ‘Ariel, sweetheart, is it true? That the king of literary fiction has written an actual thriller?'

Brandon also contributes to the literary pages of the newspapers, highlighting the ‘books of the season' a few times a year. He always picks the most obscure titles it's possible to choose. And not that I don't think lesser-known books shouldn't get lots of lovely publicity (I have a few authors who'd kill for a mention from him), but I do think it would be nice if he made an occasional mention of an author readers have already heard of. He's never given Charles the nod in any of his pieces, although I sent him an advance copy of Winter's Heartbreak before it came out. After that, of course, Charles was too famous to merit his attention.

‘A literary thriller. It's brilliant.' I take a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, along with a delightfully named island spice profiterole from another.

‘I'm not hugely keen on writers diluting their talent,' says Brandon.

‘Hardly diluting.' My words are muffled due to my having stuffed the entire profiterole into my mouth. ‘More expanding,' I add as I swallow it. ‘And hopefully bringing his work to a wider audience.'

‘I'd have thought his audience was wide enough already.' Brandon's eyes narrow. He's jealous of Charles, naturally.

‘It's a fun but thought-provoking read,' I say as I glance around the room to see who I can palm Brandon off onto. I spot Sydney on her own and wave her over. At the same time, I see Charles talking to someone I don't know, a young woman with spiky hair wearing a green silk dress and an uncomfortably high pair of heels. She must be a new bookseller. I'll introduce myself later.

I leave Brandon and Sydney together and make my way around the room, stopping to talk to all the people who need to be talked to. I take a moment to wonder about the last time I went to an event that wasn't in some way work-related. In all the years of our relationship, Charles and I only ever socialised with literary people, and since our split, the only times we're together in public are for book-related things too. Even before Charles, all my socialising was literary because I was trying to make a name for myself. I've never really thought about it before, and even if I had, it wouldn't have bothered me, but right at this moment, I wish there was a part of my life that was just for me.

I need to go out more with people who don't give a toss about the written word. And then I remind myself that I'm back from a few days in Mallorca, where we didn't talk about books once. It's the whole New Year thing that's making me feel maudlin. My only non-fiction author, a celebrity psychologist, who's a friend of a friend, wrote a book about seasonal depression, pointing out it often peaks on New Year's Eve. It's all to do with reflection on the year past, and high expectations for the one to come. If we feel we haven't achieved as much as we should, if we set the bar too high and think we've failed, all the enforced jollity can be a bit much.

But if any of the guests here tonight are feeling seasonally depressed, they're hiding it well. The buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter are fuelled by the limitless champagne and brightly coloured cocktails. Apparently one of the things that triggers seasonal depression is concern about finances. Charles spends an absolute fortune on his New Year's Eve party. I do hope it's tax-deductible. I look after many things for him, but not his accounts. Given his previous career, he does that himself. He says he finds it therapeutic.

I continue to work my way around the room, stopping to talk to various guests before looking for Charles again. I can't see him, and nor can I hear his distinctive voice over the hubbub of conversation. The champagne has loosened people's tongues and their inhibitions. Myles McGuigen, a mid-list writer of historical fiction, has his arm around Bettina Boyle, whose bookish podcast has been one of the year's successes. Seán óg O Faolain (Irish history) and Briain MacCártaigh (Irish genealogy) are having an animated argument about the 1916 Rising, and Shane Wilson, curator of a summer literary school, is actively kissing PR guru Kate Collins. It's all a bit bacchanalian, but it's also fun, and it makes me feel a bit less stressed too.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes to go. I'd better find Charles before the fireworks start.