The Party Crasher(29)

  “Chocks away,” he replies, in his “World War II pilot” voice. “We’ll all be home for Christmas.” He winks at me, then swings away toward the bouncer.

  “How would your girlfriend feel about a little video message? You’ll have to film it, though.”

  “Mate!” The bouncer’s eyes widen. “You kidding?”

  “Let’s do it here.” Joe beckons the bouncer away from the door, across the gravel. “Better light, you see. No, even farther. Yes, this is a good place. OK, face me with your phone, keep it steady…What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  I have to admit, Joe’s a genius. Not only is the bouncer now several meters away from the door, he’s totally engrossed in filming Joe. As quietly as I can, I emerge from behind the rosebush. The coast is clear. I carefully tiptoe over the gravel, then skitter the last few feet, dive breathlessly through the front door and into the oak-paneled hall, where I immediately dart into the Christmas tree alcove.

  I’m in. I’m in! Now, I just need to get up the stairs—

  Shit.

  I freeze as I see Jane Martin at the end of the hall with a woman in a green dress, chatting away and gesturing at the banister. What are they doing in the hall? I thought the guests would all be nicely contained in the party area, not roaming free-range around the house.

      And now they’re moving this way. Oh God, I’m done for. Any moment they’ll spot me. I can already imagine Jane’s cheerful greeting: Oh, Effie, you’re here, after all!

  I only have one option. The coat cupboard door is open, a foot away from me. It’s a big built-in cupboard, full of old coats and junk. Without pausing, I dive in, pull the door closed, curl myself into a ball behind an ancient overcoat, and shut my eyes, as if I’m still a child playing hide-and-seek.

  After a few motionless moments, I open my eyes again. I think I’m safe. Soundlessly, I release my right foot, which was uncomfortably pinned underneath me. I’m starting to relax, because this terrain is so familiar. How many times have I hidden in this cupboard? The very smell of it is whisking me back to my childhood: the pungent scent of rained-on Wellingtons, Barbours, old wood, and the faint chemical aroma of glue. The glue dates from that model-making craze Gus once had, and as I feel around in the dark, my hand touches the old pot he used to use. I can’t believe it’s still here—I guess Krista hasn’t got as far as clearing out this cupboard. It must be twenty years old, at least, dried up and desiccated. A piece of useless rubbish to anyone else—but to me an instant reminder of my brother aged twelve, sitting at the table, earnestly joining pieces of wood together to make a fighter jet, while Mimi told him he’d have to clear it all away in a minute for supper. He would protest, “But, Mimi, this is a crucial bit,” every single time, not even looking up. And she would laugh, “Oh, a crucial bit. I see.”

  Funny how memories come back—sometimes in dribs and drabs, sometimes in enormous sweeps.

      I glance at my watch and wince in disbelief. It’s already seven-thirty. I thought I would be long gone by now, not stuck in the coat cupboard with pins and needles in my foot. Cautiously, I stick my head out, then hastily withdraw it as I hear the telltale creak of floorboards at the other end of the hall. My one advantage, after years playing hide-and-seek, is that I know this house. I can tell when someone’s approaching. And they are, right now.

  I huddle back into the shadows of the cupboard, hoping that whoever it is will walk straight past—but the footsteps stop. From the sound, it’s a woman in heels. Now she’s swiveling. What’s she doing? Who is it? There’s an old eyehole in the door of the cupboard, where two planks don’t quite meet, and I can’t resist leaning forward stealthily to spy out and see who it is…

  Nooo! Gross!

  It’s Krista, adjusting her Spanx in the hall mirror. I can’t see her face, but I can see her charm bracelet around her wrist and her manicured nails tugging the stretchy waistband back into place. She’s obviously alone and has lifted up her dress to give her underwear a good tug—and from where I’m crouching, I’ve got a prime view. Great. Some people dive into coat cupboards and get Narnia; I get my stepmother’s crotch.

  And, yes, I know she’s not really my stepmother—but she behaves like it. As if she owns the place. Including all the furniture, all our friends, and Dad.

  I silently watch her, aghast but fascinated. Her fake tan is streaky on her stomach, but I guess she thought no one would see. Except Dad, in the hot tub—

      No. Noooo. Do not visualize #sexinyoursixties. Or #viagraworks! which Dad posted on Instagram last month, with a picture of him and Krista in matching white fluffy dressing gowns. (I nearly died.)

  Just then her phone buzzes, and I hold very still as she answers it in her nasal voice.

  “Hi, Lace. I’m in the hall.” She listens, then adds in lower tones, “Yeah, I’m announcing it at the dinner. Should cause their feathers to fly. OK, see you in a sec.”

  She puts her phone away and I blink through the hole. Announcing what? Whose feathers?

  Now she steps back from the mirror, her face coming into view, and I swallow at the sight. She looks stupendous, in a Krista way, all bronzer and sparkly eyeshadow. She always wears fake lashes, but tonight she’s really gone to town. They’re like two huge black fringed wings over her eyes.