The Party Crasher(36)

  “That’s her sister, Lacey,” says Bean slowly. “Oh God, Effie. You don’t think Krista and Dad…They’re not planning to…?”

  My eyes widen as I take in Bean’s meaning. I have an appalling image of Krista sashaying down the aisle in a white body-con dress, smirking through a veil, while Bean and I follow dismally behind, sprinkling rose petals.

  “It can’t be that,” I say in horror. “Can it?”

  “Guess I’ll find out later,” says Bean, sounding resigned. “I’ll text you. Oh, and Krista’s asked Joe to the family dinner too. Because he’s famous—sorry, I mean a very dear, close friend.” She gives a snort. “At least that’s true in Joe’s case….” Then she swivels round, as though suddenly worried she’s hurt me. “At least…he was a friend.”

      “He still is,” I say staunchly. “Joe is a close friend. Nothing that happened between us changes that.”

  “Hmm.” Bean looks as though she wants to say more—then thinks better of it. “Well, you’re missing out,” she adds, swiveling back to put away her mascara. “It’s obviously going to be the dinner party of the century. What are you going to do now? You can sit here, if you like. I’ll bring you a drink.”

  “No, I need to get on.” I leap to my feet, inwardly berating myself for sitting here, chatting away with Bean. “Will you help me before you go? Can you shift those tea chests? I don’t dare to myself.”

  “Sure,” says Bean, putting her phone in her evening bag and slinging the chain over her shoulder. “But then I’d better go down. Are you going to leave as soon as you’ve got the dolls?”

  “Straightaway,” I say firmly.

  “Well, then, I’ll say goodbye now.” Bean comes over and gives me a hug. “I’ll miss you tonight, Ephelant.”

  “Me too.” I wrap my arms around her and hold her tightly. “Have fun. Or whatever.”

  “Definitely ‘whatever,’?” she says wryly. “Shall I tell Gus you were here?”

  “Better not,” I say after a moment’s thought. “He might let it slip. As far as everyone is concerned, I’m still on my hot date.”

  “Fine. By the way, don’t use my bathroom,” she adds. “In case you were planning to. The loo’s broken.”

  “I’m not going to stay long enough to need the loo,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m out of here.”

      As we draw apart, we smile at each other—then Bean strides out. A few moments later there’s a loud scuffling and bumping from the landing—then Bean’s head reappears round the doorframe. “It’s clear. You can get in now. Good luck. And let’s meet up next week, OK?”

  “Definitely. Oh!” I add, suddenly remembering. “I do want the pineapple jelly mold.”

  “What?” Bean goggles at me.

  “I heard you. I was in the coat cupboard.”

  Bean stares at me incredulously, then shakes her head, blows me a kiss, and vanishes. As soon as she’s gone, I remember that I never told her about Gus’s phone call. Damn.

  Well, I’ll have to do that later. It’s time to make my move. At the door I pause to look both ways—then, like a mouse, make my way along the corridor, tiptoeing on the floorboards. I creep between the tea chests, hardly breathing…and I’m in!

  The box room has the same sparse furniture that it’s always had: a single bed, a yellow Formica bedside table dating from about the 1950s, a broken exercise bicycle, and a few old pictures stacked against the wall. The fireplace is never used but still operational, and that’s where I head without pausing. I crouch down and reach up the rough, bricky shaft of the chimney, feeling for the familiar ledge and the smooth surface of my dolls. My beloved, cracked, felt-tip-stained dolls. My dear, cherished friends. After this, I’m never letting them out of my sight, I promise myself as my hand moves upward. This has been way too stressful.

  When my fingers don’t touch anything that feels like a set of Russian dolls, I sweep my hand around the chimney a few times, groping, shutting my eyes so I can concentrate. They must be here. They have to be here. I mean, they were here.

      They were here.

  Feeling slightly light-headed, I retrieve my hand—now black with soot—and take a few breaths. I’m not even allowing my brain to process the possibility that—

  Stop. Come on. I know they’re there. I’ll reach in again, properly, and this time I’ll find them. I just went in at the wrong angle or something. This time, I lie flat and shove my arm up so far, I scrape it against the brick. I extend my fingers as much as I can, probing, swiveling, pushing, scratching the brickwork, desperate to find something, some hint…

  Nothing.

  Panic is ballooning inside me. I pull my hand out of the chimney and rub my face, realizing too late that I must be covering my face with soot. Where are they?

  Feverishly, I start to look around the room. I flip on the dim overhead pendant light and peer under the bed, even as I’m thinking, How would they have got under the bed? I glance between the stacked-up pictures. I open the old built-in cupboard, but the white-painted shelves are empty, just as they always were. I reach one more time up the chimney, feeling like an absolute fool, because I know they’re not there….