The Party Crasher(100)

  “I read about a baby who walked at eight months,” I say casually to Bean. “And another one walked at seven months. It was on YouTube. It does happen.”

  “I’m not pushing her to walk early just so she can totter along at your wedding.” Bean shoots me a ferocious mother-tiger glance. “So don’t get any ideas.”

  We both survey Skye, who beams back in that sunny, adorable way she has. She’s lying on her sheepskin rug in her Peter Rabbit–themed nursery, apparently fascinated by her own hands. To be fair, I’m quite fascinated by them too. In fact, I’m fascinated by all of her and spend most of my spare time round here at Bean and Adam’s place, helping as much as I can.

      “What about crawling?” I suggest. “Could she be a crawling bridesmaid?”

  “A crawling bridesmaid?”

  “She could have her own little white train.”

  “She’d look like a caterpillar,” says Bean fondly. “Or a little white slug, edging her way up the aisle.”

  “No she wouldn’t!” I say. “No you wouldn’t, would you, Skye?” I bury my face in Skye’s tummy, just to hear her delicious gurgle. Late-summer sunshine is coming in through the muslin curtains, and from downstairs I hear a pop, which means Aperol spritzes are on the way. It feels like a celebration. Every family get-together feels like a celebration recently. There was Bean’s engagement and wedding, and then the arrival of Skye, and then me and Joe…I twist my engagement ring round my finger, still unused to the feel of it.

  “Nice rabbit,” I say, noticing a new blue crocheted bunny on the rocking chair, and Bean’s face lights up.

  “Mimi made it.”

  “Of course she did.”

  Mimi was born to be a granny. She’s been round here most days, ever since Bean got out of hospital, putting on washing or taking Skye for a little walk round the block. As she’s pointed out often enough, she never did give birth or look after a newborn, so it’s a new adventure for her too. For all of us.

  I feel different in the family, these days. More equal to my siblings. When Adam got caught up on a work trip and couldn’t make one of Bean’s scans, it was me who went and held her hand. And I keep sending her vitamins. It’s become a running joke.

      Bean still tries to do too much. She can’t help herself. But Gus and I now try to get there before her. So at Christmas, I organized all the presents. I even hosted family festive drinks on Dad’s birthday, and we decorated my tiny tree.

  We all shifted generation, that day that Adam phoned up with the news about Skye. I became an aunt. Dad, a grandfather. We all instantly went up a level. Gus said it best, when I saw him at the hospital the next day. He gave me one of his wry, comical looks and said, “We’re really not the kids anymore, are we, Effie? We’d better grow up or something.”

  He’s been dating a bit since Romilly, although he hasn’t found anyone long term. And Dad’s been dating too. It took a while for everything to shake down following the party, but a few months later, he announced at one of our new, regular lunches that he was buying a modest flat in Chichester.

  It suits Dad, Chichester. He’s started to sail a bit, and he’s neighbors with an old friend from university days. Recently he’s been talking about a “rather special lady friend” he’s going to introduce us to, but he’s keeping her low profile for now. No photos on Instagram this time round. We’ve been to visit him lots, and the last time, as we walked along the coastal path, I actually found myself saying to Joe, “Aren’t you glad Dad moved here?”

  Bean is blissfully happy in her cottage, with Adam and little Skye gurgling in her nursery. I’m loving being engaged to Joe. (Apart from that hideously unflattering photo of me in the Daily Mail, caption: Childhood sweetheart of Doctor of Hearts flaunts new engagement ring on coffee-shop outing. I was just getting coffee!)

  I’ve had so many messages from old school friends, saying things like, We knew you would and What took you so long?! Humph was particularly charming in his card and promised us, as a wedding present, an alpaca blanket from one of his seventy new alpacas. (He’s given up on the Spinken method and now describes himself as a “farmer.”)

      And I have a job. At last. At last. I just kept applying. Every day. Never giving up. And at last I struck gold, with an events agency that I’d already applied to but had a new opening. It’s early days, but so far, so good.

  Gus is thriving too. Ever since he got rid of Romilly, he’s been a different person. Less lost in work, more engaged in the real world. Maybe because the real world is more appealing now.

  Our family is like one of those games where you shake the plastic box and then try to get the silver balls into all the little hollows. Sometimes it seems impossible. But if you wait long enough, it’ll happen; everyone will eventually find their place.

  As we head downstairs from the nursery to the kitchen, I hear Dad chatting with Adam about bread dough and chew my lip, trying not to laugh. Something we’ve learned about Adam since he joined our family is, he’s borderline obsessive about making bread. He’s twice pressed a jar of sourdough starter on Dad, and twice the sourdough starter has died because Dad didn’t take care of it properly. But it sounds as though he’s trying for a third time.