The Party Crasher(21)

  But that’s all I achieved. One flabbergasted expression and one double take, then radio silence. Joe left before the mulled-wine reception. We didn’t even exchange words.

  And for that I had to put up with Humph’s braying voice and terrible kissing and alarming views on life. (“I mean, women’s brains are smaller, Effie, that’s a scientific fact.”) Until I kindly parted ways with him on Boxing Day. We’d been together three weeks, but that was already too much.

  We never slept together, a fact I often reiterate to myself. I found a list online—10 excuses not to have sex—and went down them methodically, from I’ve got a headache to Your dog’s watching me. But we were “an item,” which was enough.

  Of course I regret it now. It was an immature thing to do. But, then, I regret a lot of things, like believing that Joe and I would have grandchildren together one day.



* * *



  —

  The noise of throat-clearing breaks my thoughts and I look up to see Temi watching me.

      “So, Joe’s no big deal?” she says. “Effie, you should have seen your face just now. You didn’t even notice me come in. And don’t pretend you weren’t thinking about him.”

  Temi doesn’t know the whole story of what happened with Joe, but she knows he’s still under my skin. (It really doesn’t help that he’s on the Daily Mail website nearly every day.)

  “He split up from his girlfriend, didn’t he?” she adds, as though reading my mind. “It was in the Mail. What was her name again?”

  “Not sure,” I say vaguely, as though her every detail isn’t etched on my brain. Lucy-Ann. TV research assistant. Very pretty, with flowing brown hair. They were photographed in Hyde Park, arm in arm.

  “I’m going to ask again,” says Temi patiently. “What if you see him? You need a game plan.”

  “I don’t,” I contradict her. “Because I won’t see him. I’ll be in the house for ten minutes, if that, and I won’t go near the guests. I’m going to creep in through the back field, up through the shrubbery—”

  “Someone’ll spot you,” objects Temi, and I shake my head.

  “The shrubs go pretty much up to the kitchen door. Remember how we used to play hide-and-seek? So I’ll get in there, dodge up the stairs—”

  “Won’t there be people in the kitchen? Caterers or whatever?”

  “Not all the time. I’ll hide in a shrub and wait till I have my moment.”

      “Hmm,” Temi says skeptically—then her face changes. “Hey, what’s happening to the tree house?”

  “Nothing.” I shrug. “The new people will have it.”

  “Damn.” Temi shakes her head sorrowfully. “I mean, fair enough, but damn. We used to live in that place.”

  Despite everything that happened there, I can still appreciate it’s a good tree house. It has two stories, with a rope ladder and even a trapeze. On summer nights we would go out and lie on the wooden boards with blankets, looking up at the stars. Dreaming, listening to music, planning our lives.

  And then having our hearts broken. Or maybe that was only me.

  “Whatever,” I say, almost brusquely. “It’s only a tree house.”

  “Effie…” Temi’s eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. “Listen. Are you sure about this?” She sweeps a hand over my black outfit.

  “Of course.” I jut out my chin. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “This is your last farewell to Greenoaks.” She looks wistful. “Even I loved that house, and I didn’t live there. You should be saying goodbye properly, not slinking around in the shadows.”

  “Goodbye to what?” I can’t help having an edge to my voice. “The house isn’t the same…our family isn’t the same….”

  “Even so,” she says, refusing to give up. “You need to take a moment while you’re there. Be with it. Feel it.” She clasps her heart. “Or you might look back and regret that you just rushed through, you know?”

      Her eyes are on mine—my oldest, wisest friend, gazing at me in concern—and I flinch inwardly, because she’s reaching a secret, tucked-away part of me. My inner Russian doll, the tiniest baby one. Which still, after all this time, feels raw and hurt.

  I know what she’s saying makes sense. But here’s the truth: I don’t want to “feel it.” I’m tired of “feeling it.” I need my outer protective layers to click shut, quickly. Doll after doll. Shell after shell. Click, click, shut, shut. Safe inside.

  “Whatever.” I pull down my beanie until it’s nearly over my eyes. “It’s just a house. I think I’ll be fine.”





  OK, I’m not fine. Not fine at all. This is not going as I envisioned.

  How I envisioned it: I would approach the house under cover of the shrubbery, silent as a jaguar, stealthy as a fox. I would shimmy silently through the kitchen and be upstairs in three minutes. I would be out again in five. It would all be seamless and easy.