The Party Crasher(32)

  “Oh.” She shrugs. “It is what it is.” She sinks down beside him on the bottom stair, slumping slightly.

  “The cocktails are good, at any rate,” he says, lifting his glass to her. “My game plan is basically to get slaughtered.”

  “Good one.” Bean nods.

  “Shame Effie’s not here,” adds Gus, his face falling. “I know she doesn’t get on with Krista, but…” He spreads his arms around the hall. “This is the last hurrah. It should be all of us.”

  I can’t help feeling a little swell of love for Gus. I wish I could just very quickly give him a hug.

  “I know,” says Bean sadly. “I tried to persuade her to come, but she’s gone on a date. He’s an Olympic athlete, apparently,” she adds, more positively. “Slash philanthropist. He sounds really impressive! Isn’t that great?”

  “Oh, really?” Gus looks up with interest. “Who?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “A rower, I bet. Or a cyclist.” Gus is googling on his phone. “Him?” He turns the phone round to show her a photo.

  “Oh, I hope so!” says Bean with enthusiasm. “He looks lovely!”

  I feel a twinge of guilt, which I quell. It’s only a white lie. And all’s fair in love and war-with-Krista.

  “I need to get changed.” Bean’s voice breaks my thoughts. “I’m just going to see if there are any bits and bobs from the kitchen that Effie might want. She always liked the jelly molds, didn’t she?”

      “Jelly molds?” Gus looks vague. “Dunno.”

  Oh my God, the jelly molds! I’d forgotten all about them—but now, in a rush, I passionately want them to be saved. Especially the pineapple one. We used to make yellow jelly in it. I loved it so much. It reminds me of happy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, and it’s exactly the kind of battered old item that Krista would chuck out.

  I gaze at Bean anxiously through the eyehole. Should I quickly text her? But I can’t. I’m supposed to be on my date. Although maybe I could drop that in?

       Having fab date with Olympic athlete in luxury London restaurant!! He’s everything I hoped for!! We’re toasting each other in champagne!! Also, I just had a random thought: Let’s keep the jelly molds.



  No. Too suspicious.

  “I think Effie liked the pineapple one,” says Bean, getting up, and I subside with relief. “OK, I’m going to get changed. See you in there.”

  “I’ll go along in a moment.”

  As Bean walks off, Gus leans against the banister again, texting. Then he suddenly says, “Shit,” in a low voice, and I stiffen. That didn’t sound good.

  For a few moments we’re both utterly silent. I can’t quite believe Gus is oblivious of me. Can’t he feel my presence? I’m here! I’m right here! But I could be a ghost, for all he’s aware of me.

      Gus seems transfixed by the screen of his phone, and I’m transfixed by him—or, at least, the slice of him which is visible. At last he dials a number, then in low tense tones says, “Hi. I just saw your text. Are you serious?”

  There’s silence for a few moments, during which I hardly dare breathe. I feel half consumed by curiosity and half guilty for eavesdropping on a private phone call. But he is my brother, after all. And I won’t tell anyone.

  (Except Bean. I’ll tell Bean.)

  “Don’t think so,” says Gus in an even lower voice. “No, of course I haven’t told anyone. If it gets into the press, it’s definitely not…Well, what…” He exhales suddenly, and I glimpse him rubbing his face. “I mean, if charges are pressed…”

  I can’t help an intake of breath. Charges? What charges?

  For a long time Gus is quiet, listening to the other end.

  “OK, thanks,” he says at last. “Listen, Josh, I have to go. And anyway, I can’t speak for…Yes. We’ll talk tomorrow. Yup. Not great. But let’s hope it’s not the worst-case scenario.”

  He rings off and breathes out heavily, while I stare at him anxiously. What “worst-case scenario”? Who’s Josh? Is Gus in some kind of trouble?

  Abruptly, Gus gets to his feet, checks his phone one last time, then shoves it in his pocket and strides away down the hall. And as I watch him leave, I feel bereft. Crouching here in the dark, my plan seems like madness. What am I doing, hiding like a thief? This is a terrible way to attend a party. I’m shut out of crucial conversations, I’m worried about my brother, my thighs are aching, and I’m not even getting any of the good cocktails.

      Should I, even now, admit defeat, come out of this cupboard, find something to wear, and join in? Should I bury the hatchet with Krista?

  With Dad?

  The very thought makes my stomach flip over with painful nerves. I’m not prepared. I’m on the back foot. I don’t know what I would say, how I would begin…I rub my face, feeling a surge of frustration. Why am I even thinking this? This wasn’t how tonight was meant to go. I wasn’t supposed to see my family. I wasn’t supposed to overhear troubling conversations.