The Closed Circle by Jonathan Coe

enjoy himself tonight and he’s going to make sure that we know about it.”
    â€œIt’s got nothing to do with that,” Benjamin said, with controlled insistence, his eyes fixed on the screen of his laptop. “How many times do I have to tell you? I have to back up everything before twelve o’clock.”
    Susan came downstairs and flopped on to the sofa, looking exhausted and stressed out.
    â€œIs she asleep?” Sheila asked.
    â€œFinally. God, it doesn’t get any easier. I’ve been up there with her for—” (she checked her watch) “—three-quarters of an hour. She just lies there next to you and chatters, and sings. You don’t think she could be hyper-active, do you?”
    â€œHere,” said Emily, handing her a glass. “Have a drink.”
    Susan took the glass and immediately got up again, remembering that she had promised to phone her brother Mark before midnight.
    â€œWhere did you say he was at the moment?” Sheila asked.
    â€œLiberia.” (Mark worked for Reuters, and there was no knowing in what part of the world he was to be found, from one month to the next.)
    â€œLiberia? Just fancy!”
    â€œThere’s no time difference, apparently. They’re on GMT too. I’ll only be a few minutes. Don’t worry, Colin, I’ll reimburse you for the call.”
    Colin waved his assent, and Susan disappeared to use the phone in the hallway. Meanwhile, midnight approached. At a quarter to twelve, Benjamin took out his mobile and called the office. Adrian, the company’s system administrator, was meant to be making back-up copies of every single file on their network: more than 4,000 company accounts, he calculated, and at eight o’clock that evening he had still been working on it. But there was no answer when Benjamin rang, so he assumed that the job had been finished in time. He could always rely on Adrian. Still, as one of the senior partners, it was his responsibility to double-check that the clients’ records had been safeguarded.
    â€œSusan, here we are—look! Can you see Paul anywhere?”
    The television cameras had moved into the Millennium Dome, where an invited audience of politicians, celebrities and members of the royal family had gathered to await the striking of Big Ben. Nobody was quite sure how, but Paul Trotter had managed to wangle an invitation at the last moment. There had been no tickets available for his wife, or for his three-year-old daughter; but he had not let that deter him. It was too prestigious an opportunity to miss. He was the youngest Labor MP to have been invited, and great emphasis had been laid on this fact in his latest constituency newsletter (to the no doubt considerable bemusement of its readers). His parents had drawn their chairs up close to the television screen, and were straining to identify him.
    â€œCome on, Benjamin, come and look at this. The clock’s going to strike any minute.”
    Reluctantly, Benjamin rose to his feet, wandered over to join the rest of the family, and sat down next to his wife. She put a hand on his knee and handed him a glass. He sipped from it and winced. Ushering in a new millennium with supermarket Cava, for God’s sake: couldn’t they all have tried a little bit harder, tonight of all nights? He looked at the television and saw the grinning visage of the Prime Minister he had voted for with such optimism two and a half years ago, along with millions of other Britons. He was mouthing the words of “Auld Lang Syne” as he stood next to the Queen, and they were both making rather a poor job of it. Was there anybody who knew the words to that bloody song?
    â€œHappy New Millennium, darling,” said Emily, kissing him on the mouth.
    Benjamin returned the kiss, and hugged his mother and father, and was about to kiss Susan when she caught sight of something on the television and said: “Look, there he is!”
    It