The Party Crasher(18)

  And then I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding hard, my hand clapped to my mouth.

  Oh God. Oh my God. My Russian dolls.





  I need my Russian dolls. It’s not a question of “want,” I need them. If I close my eyes, I can see them vividly, smell their faint woody, homey smell. One with a crack on her head from when Gus threw her at me mid-fight. One with a blue felt-tip mark, right across her floral apron. One with a water stain from when I tried to use her head as a cup. All loved; all cherished. The thought of never touching them again, never feeling them in my hands, never seeing their familiar faces, makes my stomach curdle with panic.

  But right now they’re in Greenoaks, hidden up a chimney in the box room, which is where I stuffed them six months ago.

  The irony being that I did that to keep them safe. Safe. We’d had a burglary here at the flat. Thankfully the dolls weren’t touched—we only lost a bit of cash—but it freaked me out. I decided my precious dolls would be better off safely cocooned in Greenoaks than in our Hackney flat.

      But I didn’t want to leave them lying around Greenoaks for Krista to get her mitts on. She was already in her “clearing out” and “freshening up” phase. She might easily have “freshened up” my dolls into the bin. So I put them right away, in a hiding place that only I knew about.

  At the back of my mind, I planned to retrieve them sometime. I was relaxed about it. I thought I had forever. I didn’t foresee that I would stop visiting Greenoaks. Or that the house would be sold in such a rush. Or that I would be “anti-invited” to the final family event there.

  I guess everything in the house will go into storage—but the packers will never look up a chimney. The dolls will be left behind. The new people will redecorate, because that’s what people do. I can already see a burly contractor putting his hand up the chimney and pulling them out: What we got here, then? Some old set of dolls. Chuck ’em on the skip, Bert.

  The thought makes me cold with dread. I haven’t slept properly since that night I sat bolt upright in bed, which was five days ago. I have to get them.

  Which is why I am going to the party tonight. But not as a guest. I’ve got it all planned. I’ll get in while everyone’s distracted by the festivities, creep to the box room, grab my dolls, and leave. In, out, gone. I’ll be ten minutes, tops, and the only crucial things are: 1) No one must see me, and 2) Krista must definitely not see me.

  “Are my trainers squeaky?” I ask, pumping them up and down on our dingy green kitchen lino as though I’m in a cardio class. “Can you hear anything?”

      Temi looks up from scrolling on her phone and peers blankly down at my feet.

  “Your trainers?”

  “I need to be silent. I can’t be caught out by a squeaky trainer. It’s quite essential,” I add, as she doesn’t seem to be responding. “You know, you could help.”

  “OK, Effie, slow down.” Temi lifts her hand. “You’re wired. Let me get this straight. You’re going to crash your own dad’s party. A party that you have, in fact, been invited to.”

  “I was anti-invited,” I retort. “As you well know.”

  I stretch out a hamstring, because I have a vague sense I’m going to need all my physical power to pull this off. I won’t exactly be ziplining in, but…you know. I might have to get in through a window.

  I’m wearing all black. Not chic party black but Mission: Impossible black, as befits my quest. Black leggings, top, trainers, and black leather fingerless gloves. Black beanie, even though it’s June. I feel slightly hyper, slightly nervous, and slightly like if I pull this off I could be the next female James Bond.

  Temi looks at me and bites her lip. “Effie, you know, you could just go to the party.”

  “But then I’d have to ‘go to the party,’?” I retort, making a face. “I’d have to ask Krista for an invitation…and smile at her….It would be hideous.”

  “Couldn’t you ask Bean to get the dolls?”

  “I suppose. But I don’t want to ask her a favor.” I look away, because the subject of Bean is a bit sensitive.

      Bean still thinks I should go to the party. In fact, we’ve kind of argued about it. (It’s hard to argue with Bean, as she keeps backtracking and apologizing even as she’s landing killer points—but we got close.) If I once let slip to her that I’m going to be in the vicinity of Greenoaks tonight, she’ll try again to convince me to join the party. She’ll make me feel guilty. And I don’t want to feel guilty. I want to get my dolls and go.

  “You should take a dress, at least,” says Temi, surveying me. “You might change your mind and want to join in the fun. What if you get there and the food and drink look really great and you think, Damn, why didn’t I just go?”

  “I won’t.”

  “What if you see someone you want to talk to?”

  “Won’t happen.”

  “What if you get caught?”

  “Stop it!” I protest. “You’re being so negative! I’ll never get caught. I know Greenoaks backward. I know all the secret routes, all the attics, all the trapdoors, all the hiding places….”