The Party Crasher(33)

  And then I freeze as I hear a deep, familiar voice booming through the cupboard door.

  Oh God.

  All at once, I’m petrified. Striding along the hall toward the cupboard, with his unmistakable tread, laughing in that distinctive way he has, is Dad.

  As he comes into view, I feel as though someone’s gripped me tightly by the throat. I hadn’t expected to see him tonight. I thought he’d be far away, surrounded by guests. But there he is, a few feet away, unaware of my watching eyes.

  “This is the painting I was telling you about,” he says to some elderly man I don’t recognize. “Bought it three months ago. If you ask me, this painting sold the house for us!” He laughs uproariously and takes a slug of his drink.

  I’m barely listening to what Dad’s saying; I’m too fixated by studying him. He’s wearing a double-breasted dinner jacket; his gray hair is glossy under the lights and he’s laughing. He looks like the epitome of a successful man in his later years.

      “Oh yes,” he’s saying now, in response to some question. “Yes, it’s the right move for us. I’ve never been happier. Never been happier!” he repeats, as though for emphasis. “Now, Clive, you need a drink!” he adds, and the two of them move away, while I watch them go, my eyes glassy.

  Never been happier.

  I slump back on the cupboard floor, my trembling thigh muscles finally giving way. To my horror, tears are edging over my lashes, and I blink them away.

  Our family has disintegrated, we’re losing our childhood home, Dad hasn’t talked properly to his younger daughter for weeks…but he’s never been happier.

  Fine. Well, I guess we’ll have to disagree on our definition of happy. Because I couldn’t be happy if I was estranged from a family member, but I guess you can, Dad, because you have the consolation of Krista and her pert bum. Which is down to Spanx, did you even realize that, Dad? Not muscle tone, Spanx.

  I’m talking to my dad in my head, I realize. I’m actually losing it. I need to get out of here, pronto. Any idea of joining the party has vanished. I’m going to get my precious dolls and go. Forever.

  Cautiously, I push the door open. The hall is empty. The staircase is empty. I can’t hear any movement overhead.

  OK, and…

  Go.

  With lightning-quick movements, I dart out of the cupboard, across the floorboards, and up the stairs, two at a time, levering myself up with the banister. I’m in my comfort zone now. I know how to dodge the worst creaks. No one’s heard me; no one’s spotted me. I knew it would be easy.

      As I near my bedroom, I feel an urge to go into it, even though I don’t have any stuff in there anymore. I want to see the wallpaper, touch the curtains, look at the view…just be in my room for a few last moments. But as I reach the open door, I blink in shock. The wallpaper’s gone. The curtains have gone. I’m staring into a plain white-painted box, with varnished floorboards that never used to be there.

  My heart falls, just for a second, then I tighten my chin and resolutely close the door. Who cares? My life in this house is over. No point brooding. Crack on.

  I tiptoe along the upstairs corridor, swiftly but cautiously. Nearly there. I’ll be out again in less than three minutes. I turn the corner to the box room, already mentally grabbing my Russian dolls—then stop dead.

  What?

  In disbelief, I stare at the blockage in my way. It’s a pile of tea chests. Who put them there? Why there? Experimentally I reach for one—then pause. It’s going to make a noise if I shift it.

  Do I dare? The party’s pretty noisy—I can hear thumping music coming through the floorboards. Anyway, what choice do I have? I need to get rid of this barricade. I wrap my arms round one of the top chests, lift it up, and realize it’s empty. OK. I can do this. I just need to move, say, four chests, just enough to clear a path to the door—

  Then I hear an unmistakable creak, and my heart sinks. I don’t believe this. Someone’s coming upstairs with swift steps. This house is impossible. Feeling a spasm of fright, I replace the tea chest crookedly, hurry back along the corridor, and, purely on instinct, dive into the welcoming sanctuary of Bean’s room.

      A split second later, I realize my error. It’s Bean herself coming up the stairs—I can tell from her steps—and she’ll be coming in here to get ready. I’m a moron.

  Feeling a bit demented, I look about for somewhere to hide. The curtains are too short. The wardrobe is too full, and she’ll be opening it to get dressed, anyway. Come on, Effie, think….In a flurry of panic, I leap into one of Bean’s twin wooden Peter Rabbit beds, hurriedly heap up as many cushions as I can, then carefully pull the duvet over me. I once won a game of hide-and-seek in exactly this spot, disguised with a pile of teddies. That trick can work again. I just need to keep still.

  As Bean enters the room, I close my eyes tight. My own shallow breathing in my cocoon sounds like the roaring of a furnace. Through the mound of cushions, I can hear the muffled sounds of Bean moving around her bedroom. A faint chinking as she puts something down on her glass-topped dressing table. The click of a cupboard door being opened. Now she’s humming. It’s worked! She hasn’t noticed me!