The Party Crasher(23)

      Dear God, please send me some form of hand grenade….

  And just then, into my field of vision appears pretty much the opposite of a hand grenade. The softest, gentlest, least explosive person in the world: Bean.

  She’s not in party gear—she’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and Ugg boots and is lugging along something that is made of stone and clearly heavy, as she’s panting with the effort. As she dumps it down and mops her brow, I recognize it as the birdbath from the walled garden. She takes her phone out of her pocket, taps at it, and a moment later my own phone buzzes with a WhatsApp notification. Shit! She’s WhatsApping me!

  I jump in alarm and peer through the tangle of rose branches at Bean, to see if she heard the telltale buzz. But the hubbub from the party is obviously loud enough to mask it. Now I just have to decide whether to reply.

  What’s she bothering me for, anyway? Doesn’t she have a posh party to go to?

  But she might have some gossip or important news. I can’t ignore her. Feeling slightly surreal, I click on her message and read it.

       Hi, Effie, I’m at Greenoaks. Just to let you know, I’m going to take the birdbath. I really wish you were here. Do you want me to take anything from the garden for you? Any pots or anything? Like, the terracotta one with herbs in? You might want it one day? Xxx



      Part of me thinks I should stay silent right now. But on the other hand, I don’t want Bean getting worried that I haven’t claimed some manky old terracotta pot and will regret it forever. So I type briskly back:

       No thanks, I’m good on the pot front. Have fun. Xxx



  “Good evening!” comes a jolly, booming voice, and through the rosebush I see the Martins from the Old Rectory coming up the drive, toward the house. As they greet Bean, she jumps and blushes furiously, and I smirk, safe in my hiding place. We haven’t been able to look the Martins in the eye since the yoga statue incident.

  We went for drinks at the Old Rectory last year, and Bean and I were surreptitiously looking everywhere for it, but no sign. Not even in Jane’s bedroom, where we brushed our hair. So we agreed it must be in their secret sex room and got a bit hysterical, and then Jane came up, in her nice floral dress, and said pleasantly, “What’s the joke?” and we nearly died.

  “Hi!” says Bean now, in a slight fluster, and she gestures at her jeans and Uggs. “Don’t look at me, I’m not party-ready yet.”

  “You always look lovely,” says Jane kindly, giving her a kiss. “Is Effie coming?”

  “Don’t…think so,” says Bean, after a pause. “She couldn’t make it. But the rest of us will be here.”

  “Big night for you all,” says Andrew, looking around the grounds. “You’ve been here a long time. Hard to say goodbye to a house like this.”

      “Yes,” says Bean, her cheeks becoming pinker. “Quite hard. But…you know, good too. Good in lots of ways.”

  There’s a short pause, and I can tell no one knows quite what to say. The Martins are very tactful people, the type who would never take sides or bitch or say, “What has your dad’s girlfriend done to that beautiful kitchen?” like Irene in the pub did.

  “Well, see you in there!” says Jane. “Goodness, a doorman!” she adds, twinkling at the bouncer. “How very grand!”

  The Martins give their names to the bouncer and are admitted to the house, and I continue watching Bean. I’m expecting her to hurry in to the party, but she doesn’t seem in any rush. Her face creases up as though with an anxious thought—then she pushes her hair back off her brow and starts typing again. A moment later, my phone buzzes.

       Are you all right?? You’re not sitting on your own in the flat, brooding, are you? Mimi told me you wanted to have supper with her but she couldn’t make it. I know she was hoping you would change your mind about tonight. Hope you’re OK xxxxx



  As I read her words, I’m simultaneously touched and offended. So is this what everyone thinks? That I’m some tragic, brooding loner? I am not sitting alone in my flat. I am sitting alone behind a rosebush. I almost want to inform Bean of that fact. But then I have a better idea. Briskly, I type a new message:

            Actually I’ve got a date. So don’t worry.



  I send it, then add a casual follow-up:

       You could tell people at the party. Like Krista. Or Joe, if you see him. You could tell him I’m on a date.



  From behind the bush, I can see Bean’s face. She looks so genuinely delighted by my news, I feel a fresh pang of affection for her. She types something hurriedly and a moment later it arrives:

       A date! That’s fantastic! You never said. Details?



  Details. Right, come on, Effie, details. As I start typing, I mentally forgive myself for fibbing, because all I’m trying to do is set my sister’s mind at rest. She will enjoy the evening far better if she thinks I’m on some shit-hot date.