The Party Crasher(22)

  Instead: I am stuck behind a rosebush in the front garden, breathing in the scent of mud and leaves, watching the front door as well-dressed guests approach the bouncer to have their names checked off a list. The bouncer. Krista hired a bouncer. How pretentious is that? I never imagined that. Nothing is as I imagined it. And I don’t have a new game plan.

  I’m refusing to panic; not quite yet. But I do feel a little wired. And I’m still pulsating with rage at whoever cut back the shrubbery and ruined my whole plan.

      It was all going so well. I’d gotten to Nutworth without anyone seeing me. I’d arrived by train, snuck through the back roads of the village, and made my way down a little lane used by tractors. And OK, yes, I was planning to trespass, but only on farmland owned by our neighbor John Stanton. He’s an old man with a kind soul, and I felt instinctively he wouldn’t mind. Sometimes you just know these things about your fellow human beings.

  I climbed over a fence, ripping my leggings slightly on the barbed wire, but never mind. I hurried along the side of John’s field, dodging cowpats, until I was at the boundary to our land and the turret of Greenoaks was in view. I clambered over the next fence into our field and automatically glanced up at the tree house.

  At that point, I felt a sudden pang. A yearning to climb up into the tree house again. To lie down on the smooth wooden boards, gaze up at the sky through the open windows, and just…remember.

  But I chose to ignore it. If you listened to every pang, you wouldn’t get anywhere in life.

  So instead I crept along the hedge line, ignoring the gazes of curious sheep, toward the yew hedge which marks the beginning of the garden. By this time, I was pumped. I was energized. I was ready to scamper through the shrubs, light-footed and swift, just like when I was nine years old.

  And then, as I emerged from the yew hedge, I got the shock of my life. All the shrubs had been cut down. Cut down! The back of Greenoaks was exposed, with some dismal brand-new patio area laid down, complete with a shiny black firepit. It looked naked and uncomfortable and just…wrong.

      I felt such a visceral pang of dismay, tears came to my eyes. Because how much time did I spend playing in those shrubs as a child? How much affection did I have for their woody, peaty, leafy embrace? They always felt like benevolent, ancient members of the family, ready to shield you at a moment’s notice. And now they’d been brutally chopped down…by whom? Dad? Krista?

  And more urgent: Where was I supposed to hide now? I couldn’t conceal myself on the new, bare patio. Then things got worse. As I was peering out from behind a beech tree, a couple of people came out of the kitchen. They looked like catering staff. One dumped a couple of empty bottles in a plastic tub; the other lit up a cigarette and leaned against the wall. And I realized the awful truth: The caterers were using the patio as a service area. They would be constantly in and out. They would spot me in a heartbeat.

  I was stuck. Stuffed.

  For a few minutes I just stood there, thinking hard. From where I was standing, I could see a glimpse of white canvas on the west side of the house. I realized there must be some sort of marquee or awning off the dining room. That’s where the party was going on. That was where I should avoid.

  So I sidled into the garden on the other side of the house, stopping dead every time a member of the catering staff appeared outside; trying to blend into the foliage; barely daring to breathe; half-thinking, Could I climb in through an unobtrusive window? But I already knew it was hopeless. The east side of Greenoaks has hardly any windows. It’s the dead side, all mossy stone and storerooms that no one uses.

  I carried on creeping slowly, silently, stealthily round, until I emerged in the front drive. And then my nerves really did start twanging, because there were guests. Actual guests. People I knew, crunching over the gravel, holding small gifts or bunches of flowers. I could see a distant guy in a high-viz jacket directing cars to turn in to a field to park. It was all more formal than I’d imagined. More organized.

      No one noticed me slinking breathlessly from the hornbeam hedge to the ornamental bench to a crouching position in the rose border, about five meters from the house. And this is where I still am. Hiding behind a rosebush, trying to formulate a plan.

  I can hear the distant hum of conversation and the bass thrumming of music playing over a sound system. The odd trill of laughter too. Everyone’s clearly having a wonderful time at Krista’s wonderful party.

  Meanwhile, my legs have started to ache, and I cautiously change position, wincing as I catch my arm on a thorn. Two women in sparkly dresses are walking up the circular drive to the door. I don’t recognize them; maybe they’re friends of Krista’s. They give their names to the bouncer and he squints at his list. Then he mutters something into his headset—his headset—and finally lets them in.

  I mean. Who does Krista think she is, Victoria Beckham?

  I stare resentfully at the bouncer with his clipboard and broad shoulders and steady gaze. If it weren’t for him, I could easily dart in, between guests.

  Could I distract him?

  In an action movie I would have a hand grenade about my person that I would roll, unnoticed, along the ground. It would explode and the bouncer would rush forward, drawing his weapon, and by the time he looked round again, I’d be safely inside. That’s what I need: a hand grenade. Only without explosions. Maybe I should appeal to a higher being.