The Party Crasher(19)

  I can see myself now: Sidling into the box room, a mysterious silhouetted figure. Grabbing the dolls in one seamless move. Clambering down a drainpipe and doing a forward roll on the lawn before I dash through the darkness to safety.

  “You want a partner in crime?” says Temi, and I shake my head.

  “Thanks, but I’ll be better going solo.”

  “Well, if you need me, I’m available. I’ll triangulate your position. Sort out a chopper for your escape.”

  “I’ll let you know.” I grin at her.

      “What if you see Joe?” Temi’s words catch me off guard, and I hesitate. Because this has crossed my mind too. Of course it has. Endlessly.

  “I won’t,” I say. “So it’s fine.”

  “Hmm,” says Temi skeptically. “When did you last see him?”

  “Couple of Christmases ago. He was walking past our gate. We chatted. No big deal.”

  I head out of the kitchen before Temi can question me any further, sink down on the sofa in the sitting room, and pretend to be checking my phone. But now I’m thinking of Joe. And that night four years ago, when I returned from the States and everything imploded.

  We’d always had insecurities about being “high school sweethearts.” We both kept wondering, Is everyone right? Are we too young? So when an exchange program to San Francisco came along at my work, it seemed the perfect opportunity for a trial break. Joe could move in with a friend. We would spend six months apart and hardly even text each other. We would be free to date other people, explore life without each other. And then when I came back…

  We never actually said it out loud, but we both knew it. We would commit.

  The night before I left for the States, we went out for dinner at a posh restaurant that we really couldn’t afford, and Joe produced a tiny gift-wrapped parcel which made my nerves flutter, because his finances were pretty stretched.

  “I know you say you’re not a ‘big diamonds’ kind of girl,” he began, and I felt a jab of alarm, thinking, Oh God, has he taken out a mortgage to pay for some stupid rock?

      “I’m really not,” I replied hastily. “Really not. And you know, there are always refunds.” I nodded at the parcel. “If you wanted to take that back, I wouldn’t mind. We could pretend this didn’t happen.”

  Joe burst out laughing then—and, of course, I should have known he was cleverer than that.

  “So I went a different way,” he continued, his eyes crinkling. “And I’m very proud to say I have bought you”—he handed it over with a flourish—“the Smallest Diamond in the World. Trademark.”

  I started laughing myself—partly in relief—and began to unwrap it.

  “It’d better be the smallest one in the world,” I said, as I pulled the paper off a jewelry box. “Don’t be palming me off with ‘quite little.’?”

  “It’s actually invisible to the naked eye,” Joe replied, deadpan. “Luckily, I took a microscope along with me when I bought it. You’ll just have to take my word for it that it exists.”

  Joe could always make me laugh. And cry. Because as I opened the box to see a little silver candle charm, with a tiny diamond for a flame, my eyes went misty.

  “That’s me,” he said. “Burning steadily for you all the time you’re away.”

  As I looked up, his eyes were sheeny, too, but he was resolutely smiling, because we’d already vowed we weren’t going to be anything but upbeat tonight.

  “You have to have fun,” I said. “With…you know. Other girls.”

  “You too.”

      “What, have fun with girls?”

  “If you like.” His eyes glinted. “In fact, great idea. Send me the photos.”

  “Seriously, Joe,” I said. “This is our chance to—” I broke off. “To know.”

  “I already know,” he said quietly. “But yes. I get it. And I promise to have fun.”

  I enjoyed San Francisco, I really did. I didn’t mope around or pine. I worked hard, I got a tan, I cut my hair differently, and I went out on dates with American men. They were nice. Polite. Funny. But they weren’t Joe. They couldn’t compete. And with every “meh” date, I felt more sure.

  Joe and I were deliberately keeping our texts to a minimum, but sometimes late at night I would send him a photo of my candle charm, which was now hanging round my neck on a silver chain. And sometimes my phone would ping with a photo of a candle burning on his desk. And I knew.

  It was my idea to reunite in the tree house at Greenoaks on midsummer’s night, where we’d hung out so many times over the years. I’d landed the day before, but I’d told Joe not to meet me at the airport. Airports are stressy, functional places, and it’s never like the movies. Everyone watches you greeting each other and you’re always struggling with some extra carrier bag full of crap and then you have to get on the tube. I was very much not up for that. So, instead, we would have our grand reunion in the tree house at Greenoaks, under the midsummer sky. I didn’t tell any of the family, just took the train to Nutworth, crept round the house and into the field. It was going to be our precious secret encounter.