The Party Crasher(13)

  Now, as Temi sinks back down beside me and hands me a mug of tea, she surveys the blank repainted kitchen again. She loved Mimi’s creation, too, and once even added her own little drawing of a chick, at Easter.

  “Bitch,” she says succinctly.

  “Yup. Oh, guess what, she’s holding a house-cooling party,” I add glumly. “A big show-off event so everyone can say goodbye to Greenoaks and she can swan around and be queen bee.”

  “What are you going to wear?”

  “I’m not going,” I say flatly. “It’s Krista’s party.”

  “So what?” retorts Temi. “Ignore her! Say goodbye to the house, see your friends and family, have some drinks….If it were me, I would dress up in the most awesome outfit and I would show that woman.” Temi’s eyes go distant, and I can tell she’s already planning what she would order from Net-a-Porter.

      At that moment, my phone buzzes, and I open WhatsApp to see a message from Bean:

       Just got my invitation. By email, from Krista. Have you got yours yet?



  I log on to emails and scroll down—but there’s nothing new from Krista, so I send back a reply:

       Nope.



  A moment later, she messages again:

       It’ll be on its way. I’ll forward mine. It sounds fun! I really think you should come.



  “It’s Bean,” I explain to Temi, who’s been watching me. “She thinks I should go.”

  “She’s right,” says Temi firmly. “You should drink all the drink, eat all the food, have yourself the best party ever.”

  At that moment, Bean’s email arrives on my phone, and with grudging interest I open the attachment. It’s a posh e-invitation, with a virtual envelope and a card with grand swirly writing.

  “So pretentious,” I say at once. “It looks like a royal wedding.”

  “Ms. Krista Coleman and Mr. Antony Talbot cordially invite you to a ‘house-cooling’ party at Greenoaks. Champagne and Cocktail Reception, 6:30–9 p.m.,” Temi reads over my shoulder. “Champagne and cocktails. You see? It’ll be amazing!”

      “There’s another card,” I say, clicking on the second. “Family Dinner, 9 p.m. till late.”

  “Two parties!” exclaims Temi. “Even better!”

  “?‘Family Dinner’ sounds dire.” I make a face. “Do I have to stay for that?”

  “The family dinner is for the A-list!” Temi contradicts me. “It’s the VIP event. She’ll serve at least five courses.”

  Temi’s right, I realize. It’ll be the most massive, swanky show-off-fest of a dinner, and now I secretly want to see it.

  “She’ll serve lobster,” I say, gazing at the grand swirly writing. “No, roasted swan.”

  “A roasted swan, inside a deep-fried ostrich.”

  “With a sparkler round its neck.”

  By now both of us are giggling, and as my phone lights up with a call from Bean, I’m still smiling.

  “Hi.”

  “So, did you see it?” she says, in her typical eager-yet-anxious manner. “Are you going to go?”

  “Dunno,” I say. “Maybe. It sounds pretty big. The drinks bit, anyway.”

  “Oh yes, Krista’s gone super-grand. She’s inviting stacks of people. People from the village, friends of hers, friends of Dad’s…” Bean pauses, then adds cautiously, “She’s asked the Murrans. But I don’t know if they’re all coming.”

  She means, I don’t know if Joe’s coming. I close my eyes briefly. Great. Joe Murran. Just to add to everything.

      “Well, I’ll think about it.”

  “Oh, come!” Bean’s enthusiasm pours down the phone line. “It won’t be the same without you, Effie. Anyway, you want to see the house, don’t you? And pick out whatever things you want to have? The packers are coming on Monday, and they’re going to deliver all my stuff to me, so you could do the same. I’m going to have all my old books. And my old bedroom furniture.”

  “Your Peter Rabbit furniture?” I laugh in surprise. “Where will you put it?” Bean’s cottage bedroom is already furnished, with a proper, grown-up, super-king bed.

  “I’ve cleared out the spare room,” says Bean triumphantly. “My guests can have Peter Rabbit, and anyone who laughs at it needn’t come to stay.”

  “No one will laugh at it!” I say fondly. “And I’m definitely coming to stay in your Peter Rabbit room.” There’s a pause, then I add reluctantly, “So…what are you wearing?” and Bean whoops.

  “You are coming!”

  “Maybe,” I allow.

  Perhaps I’m not as stubborn as I think. Perhaps I do want to raise a glass to Greenoaks. Perhaps I’ll make it up with Dad.

  Put another way, if I don’t go, will I ever make it up with Dad?