The Party Crasher(24)

       Yes, it’s amazing! I only met him today, at an event I was waitressing at. He asked me about the lemon sorbet and we took it from there. He’s an Olympic athlete.



  Even as I’m pressing send, I’m wondering if “Olympic athlete” is going a bit too far, and sure enough, Bean’s reaction proves it.

       WHAT?? Which kind?



      Yikes. I don’t know anything about the Olympics. Jumping? Throwing? Better dodge that one.

       He doesn’t do it anymore. He’s a businessman. And philanthropist.



  I’m about to add something about his yacht, when Bean exclaims, “Joe!” and I drop my phone, then scrabble to pick it up.

  Oh God. He’s here.

  I mean, I knew he might be. Obviously. But I never expected—

  OK, Effie, breathe. Breathe. It’s fine. He can’t see me. He’ll never look in this direction. And in a way, it’s interesting to view him like this, neutrally, from a distance, now that he’s become a celebrity.

  As he comes into view, I can’t help scanning him greedily through the rose branches. Hair a bit longer than the last time I saw him. Eyes a bit more tired-looking? Smile just as intriguing.

  There’s always been something about Joe’s smile. It’s not just an expression of happiness. It hints at wryness and wisdom, a rueful amusement with life. Although he’s looking more wry and less amused tonight. His dark hair is swept back and his face is thinner than it was last time I saw him, which makes his cheekbones stand out. He’s in a very elegant dinner jacket, I’ll give him that.

  Now he’s kissing Bean on the cheek and my own cheek tingles in a weird kind of sympathy.

      “Hi, Bean,” he says in his deep, familiar voice, and without wanting to, I have a sudden memory of lying with him on the grass, aged about seventeen, dappled sunshine on our faces, feeling as though we had forever.

  More memories start cascading in—and I don’t know what’s worse, remembering what went wrong or what went right. That night we edged together for the first time at the sixth-form disco. The blissful intoxication of that first, dreamy summer. The way it all seemed meant to be.

  It’s only now I’ve tried making it work with other guys that I realize how natural Joe and I were together. Sex came easily. I never winced or said, “Ow! Sorry…” or invented sexy noises to fill a vacuum. I never fibbed or faked. Why would I fib to Joe?

  We learned everything together. How to be students. How to survive a hangover. The names of bones. That was for Joe’s exams, but it mattered to me, too, so I was his revision buddy. One time, I decorated his room with all the Latin words on Post-its, and for months, “Tibia” was stuck on the wall above his bed.

  Then we were out in the real world, with new challenges. Work. Colleagues. Finding a London flat in about Zone 1,000. Building a bed out of a box. For a while I cajoled Joe into rowing on the Thames every weekend. We were both pretty rubbish, but it was fun.

  We didn’t have to explain ourselves. We knew we were on the same side. Yes, we got stressed out, and yes, we argued, but in the same way that we used to argue in English lessons at school. Respectfully. Never bitterly or meanly.

  And somehow, however well we got to know each other, there was always a magic. A mystery. We could lie in bed looking silently at each other, not needing to speak. Joe’s eyes were never boring. He was never boring.

      What I’ve learned since being out in the dating field is: A lot of men are really boring. Or else they’re not boring, they’re super-fun and exciting, but they have four other secret girlfriends they never mentioned….

  I heave a familiar sigh and screw up my eyes, willing my brain to clear.

  “So, end of an era,” Joe’s saying to Bean, in the grave, empathetic tones that the whole nation has come to love. “How do you feel about it?”

  “Oh, fine!” says Bean brightly. “I mean, it’s all for the best. So.”

  “Right.” Joe nods several times, looking wistful. “I always loved this place,” he adds. “I mean, how much time did I spend here as a kid? Remember those bonfire parties up on the mound?”

  Both he and Bean automatically turn their eyes toward the grassy mound, looming up on the east side of the house.

  “Yes, they were fun,” says Bean after a pause.

  “And the tree house.” He shakes his head reminiscently. “I think one summer we spent every single day in the tree house. Slept out there, everything. It was like a second home.”

  I’m breathing hard with indignation as I listen. The tree house? How can he refer to the tree house so casually? Does he not have any feelings?

  Maybe that’s it. Yes. I made the mistake of falling in love with a man without any feelings. Now it all makes sense.

  “We were very lucky, growing up here.” Bean’s smile is fixed, and even from this distance I can see her eyes are starting to shimmer. Joe seems to realize it, too, because he adds, “But all for the best.”

      “Exactly. All for the best!” Bean says, even more brightly. “You have to move on.”