The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye

door and hissed, ‘In here. Now.’ His friends had the grace to stop laughing and look at the floor.

      Pete flicked his long black eyelashes at her, looked away, looked back, sighed audibly. When he returned his gaze to her, it was full of insolence.

      ‘Now,’ she repeated through gritted teeth.

      ‘Whatever,’ he said, looking away again. She released her grip and he followed her into the cloakroom, slowly, making her wait. Janice flicked on the light and closed the door behind them. The room smelt of rugby boots and wet wool.

      Janice folded her arms. ‘I saw what you just did.’

      He stared at her insolently.

      ‘Are you drunk?’

      ‘Nope,’ he said and she knew from his clear-headed gaze that he was telling the truth. She wished he wasn’t – she wished that he was pissed out of his head. At least that would partly explain what she had just seen – and his unspeakable rudeness to Liam.

      She exploded with rage. ‘How dare you touch that girl! How dare you! She’s an employee in this house and she should be treated with respect. She doesn’t look a day over sixteen, poor thing.’

      When this failed to make any impression on Pete she added, ‘You could be charged with sexual assault, you do know that, don’t you?’

      ‘I never touched her. She just bumped against me on her way past. Big deal.’

      ‘Liar.’

      He shrugged, looked away.

      ‘And how dare you talk to Liam McCormack like that?’ she said, her voice more controlled now, the rage simmering underneath. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, the adrenaline, released by fury, coursing through her veins. It felt like she was looking at him through a tunnel.

      Again, Pete shrugged his shoulders, sharp at the edges like a hanger. ‘He deserved it. Anyway, I was only having a laugh. Don’t be so uptight, Janice.’ He’d stopped calling her Mum when he was nine, much to her irritation and hurt.

      ‘I didn’t see anyone laughing,’ said Janice. Apart from you. You were unforgivably rude and what’s worse, you encouraged him, knowing the trick would never work.’ In spite of her best efforts, her speech became more rapid and high-pitched as she went on. ‘You set him up. You deliberately set him up.’

      Pete rolled backwards on the heels of his Hush Puppies, the middle-aged man’s shoes now inexplicably hip among his age group. His face was expressionless.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell him it was a hoax as soon as you realised what he was doing?’

      ‘You gotta admit it was funny,’ he said.

      ‘It wasn’t funny. It was horrible.’

      ‘That’s a matter of opinion. Al and Ben thought it was fly when I told them.’

      ‘What are they doing here anyway?’ said Janice. ‘I thought you were going out?’

      ‘We are. Later.’

      ‘If you leave it much later it’ll be tomorrow. And Ben’s had enough to drink. It’s time he and Al left.’

      Pete turned and Janice said, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

      ‘I’m leaving,’ he said, opening the door. The sound of the party, a wall of noise, came crashing through the door. ‘Isn’t that what you want, Mummy dearest?’

      Janice resisted the urge to smack him like she had sometimes done, to her shame, when he was younger. Pete had always pushed the boundaries in a way she was quite sure other kids did not do. She lunged at the door and pushed it closed with the flat of her hand, muffling the noise.

      ‘You’ll go and apologise to that girl first. And then Liam.’

      He snorted derisively. He furrowed his brow in an exaggerated fashion, pretending to give grave consideration to her demand. ‘Nah,’ he said at last, bringing his lazy gaze back to Janice. ‘That ain’t gonna happen.’

      ‘You bloody well will,’ said Janice, putting on a brave face but knowing already, from previous form, that it was a battle lost. How could she make Pete apologise? She had long ago lost the ability to influence him, let alone control him.

      Pete folded his arms and said, ‘And who’s going to make me?’

      ‘We’ll see what your father has to say about this,’ said Janice. Deferring to Keith was her last resort and an ineffectual one at that. She was defeated, and both she and Pete knew it. Angered by her powerlessness, she flung the door open and marched into the hall.

      ‘There you are, Janice!’ cried Keith, over a sea of heads, his face flushed with beer and excitement. He side-stepped a circle of people engrossed in conversation, and, when he reached her, thrust a glass of champagne into her hand. ‘Here, quick, you need a drink! This way.’

      Never more pleased to see him, she followed him into the hot and noisy drawing room. A temporary bar had been set up against one wall, behind a table covered in a nowdrinkstained white cloth. The table was littered with beer-bottle tops and dirty glasses and underneath the table there were great plastic bins of ice containing bottles of white wine and champagne and cans of beer. A thin, pale-skinned young woman brushed past proffering a tray of full champagne flutes. She held the tray in both hands, biting her bottom lip in concentration.

      ‘Did everyone get a glass of champagne, now?’ Keith asked her.

      ‘I think so, Mr Kirkpatrick. Emma’s been round the rest of the house already,’ she said, referring to the other waitress. The one, Janice assumed, Pete had just molested.

      ‘Good, good. You’re doing a grand job,’ he said and the girl smiled, showing uneven teeth. She visibly stood up a little straighter. Keith had the special knack of making everyone that came into contact with him feel that little bit better about themselves.

      ‘Can we talk, Keith?’ said Janice. Her anger had started to subside, replaced by the onset of distress. She felt a pricking sensation at the back of her eyes – if she wasn’t careful she would break down in tears. And she was determined not to cry. If she did, Pete would’ve won – again. ‘About Pete. You’ve no idea…’

      ‘Not now, Janice. Later,’ said Keith. ‘It’s nearly twelve! Lads!’ he called to a group of men from work. ‘It’s nearly time for the bells.’

      The countdown chant arose from the playroom, where someone must’ve switched on the TV, and it rolled out like a wave through the rest of the house.

      ‘But…’ began Janice.

      ‘…five, four,’ shouted Keith, as the chorus grew around them. He threw his arm around Janice’s slim waist and squeezed her until it hurt. He raised his glass into the air like a trophy.

      ‘Three, two, one,’ she joined in. She forced a smile, determined not to spoil this moment for Keith, furious that Pete had spoilt it for her. But he wouldn’t get away with it, she’d make sure of that.

      ‘Happy New Year!’ cried Keith and he clinked his glass against Janice’s so hard she thought the crystal might crack. Then he pulled her to him until they were chest to chest.

      ‘Careful!’ she cried, teetering precariously on her stilettos, the glass in her hand tilting dangerously. ‘You’ll spill the champagne.’

      Keith loosened his grip and placed a soppy kiss on her lips.

      ‘Happy New Year, darling,’ she said, returning the kiss, and he beamed happily. How she envied his contented nature, his ability to always look on the bright side, to see the good in everyone and everything. She loved him for it. Indeed, it was one of the reasons she had married him.

      She had hoped, mistakenly, that some of Keith’s magic would rub off on her, that she would become a happier person just by being around him. But it hadn’t worked that