The Party Crasher(15)

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Don’t yet. Sleep on it.”

  I’ve never understood the “sleep on it” thing. What, have a miserable, sleepless night, brooding on your problem, simply in order to do the thing you were going to do the night before—only now you’ve delayed by twelve hours. How is that a good idea?

  “Nothing to think about,” I say, and start typing, fast.

       Dear Krista,

   What a wonderful, inviting email!!!

   I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the invitation you sent Bean, which I see was a bit different. How clever of you to do different invitations for everyone. Super-personalized!

   Unfortunately, I must decline your welcoming offer. I’ve remembered I will have another engagement that night. I’m just not sure what it is yet.

   You must be so looking forward to showing off our house to the whole village!!! I do hope all goes well, and thanks again for including me on the email that you sent.

        All best regards,

   Effie



  I press send before I can have second thoughts, or indeed any thoughts—my head feels weirdly empty—then get up.

  “Where are you going?” demands Temi. “Effie, are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m going to Mimi’s.”





  Our family is broken, and that’s just a fact.

  As I stride along the street to Mimi’s flat, my thoughts are fast and furious and wretched. Bean can say whatever UN peacekeeper-y things she likes, but look at us. We used to be the closest-ever family, meeting up for lunches, picnics, cinema outings…. But now we never get together. I haven’t seen Dad for weeks. Gus has gone AWOL. Even Bean is on the quiet side. And now this.

  Miserably, my mind travels back to how my rift with Dad began. Because it wasn’t my fault, it really wasn’t. The day after I stormed out of Greenoaks, I phoned him. I didn’t get through, but I left him a message. I suggested maybe we could have lunch or something?

  Then I waited. A day went by. Two days. Three days. I kept planning all the things I would say when we talked it over. I even wrote myself a kind of script. I would apologize for overreacting. And for yelling at Krista. But then I would explain that we three didn’t see a nice “fresh” kitchen, we saw our childhoods wiped out. I would explain that I feel constantly uneasy round Krista. I would explain that this has all been harder than he maybe realizes….

      But we never did talk it over. On the fourth day, Dad sent me an email, and my heart thumped frantically as I opened it—but it was the most soul-crushing missive I’ve ever received. He said that my post was still arriving at Greenoaks and perhaps I should get it redirected.

  Post? Post?

  Nothing about that night. Nothing about Krista. Nothing about anything that mattered.

  My hurt rocketed to a whole new level. For a while I considered not answering at all. But then I decided to send a short, dignified reply back: Sorry my post has been troubling you, I do apologize, I will get it redirected forthwith. And that’s been the tone of our exchanges ever since. Short. Functional. Formal. The next correspondence we had was when Dad informed me that some distant relative I’d never heard of had died. I expressed my condolences as though I was addressing the royal family. Then, a week later, he said he was sending me some old school reports he’d found in the clear-out, and I replied that he needn’t trouble himself. And that’s it. Our only communication. In two months.

  It’s as if Dad’s whole personality has changed along with his outfits and his fake tan. He doesn’t care about the things he used to care about. And I miss the old Dad so much, it makes me ache. I miss asking his advice when things go wrong in the flat. WhatsApping him jokes about the news. Texting him photos of wine lists in restaurants, asking, What should we order? and waiting for him to joke, The second-cheapest one, of course, before sending some proper advice.

      I never understood headlines or TV shows about estranged families. I would wonder, How can that even happen? But now I’m in one myself. And I feel a kind of dizzy horror whenever I let myself think about it.

  I can’t bring myself to tell Bean how bad things are. It’s just too awful. Plus, she’s so softhearted she’d get all stressed and probably decide it was somehow her fault. In fact, there’s only one person I can think of who could possibly help. It was Mimi who patiently solved all our tearful arguments when we were growing up, unpicked the rights and wrongs, sorted out our burning injustices. If anyone could listen, counsel, and gently negotiate, it would be her.

  But, of course, she’s the one person I can’t possibly ask.



* * *



  —

  I find Mimi in the garden, pruning her single rosebush, looking tanned after her recent trip to France. Mimi’s taken to traveling a lot recently: She does city breaks and art trips and went on a wine-tasting tour of South Africa that took a whole month.

  “Darling! Didn’t hear you!” Her face lights up as she sees me, and she comes forward to hug me. I’m fully intending to make small talk before launching into the main subject—but then I discover that I can’t.