The Party Crasher(39)

  “Leisure?” retorts Krista. “Not likely! I want to open a restaurant. Mexican-themed. If I can persuade my other half,” she adds meaningfully.

  A Mexican restaurant? I haven’t heard this plan. My head suddenly fills with a surreal image of Dad serving fajitas, wearing a poncho.

  No. Just no.

  “Who are you?” the boy repeats breathily in my ear, making me jump. This is all I need. If I don’t reply, he’ll keep pestering. But what do I say? I can’t say, I’m Effie. Nor do I want him telling his family about the stranger dressed in black, hiding behind the sofa.

      “I’m a ghost,” I whisper back, before I’ve fully thought this through.

  “Oh!” The boy’s eyes open wide, and immediately he reaches out a hand to prod me. “But I can touch you.”

  “I’m the kind of ghost you can touch,” I whisper, trying to sound convincing. “Only people with extra-special brains can see that kind of ghost. I bet you have an extra-special brain.”

  “Yes,” says the boy, after a moment’s thought. “I do.”

  “Well, then.” I nod.

  “Doesn’t he want to open a restaurant, then, your other half?” the DJ is inquiring.

  “You know men.” Krista twinkles at him. “But I’ll get my way.”

  “I bet!” The DJ laughs, then adds, “Couldn’t grab a glass of water off you, could I?”

  “Of course!” responds Krista with another charming smile. “Come this way…”

  Thank God! They’re leaving!

  “You should go,” I whisper to the boy. “Chloe’s bound to find you here. There’s a much better hiding place in the garden. Behind the statue of the lady in the walled garden, there’s a little dip in the hedge. Hide there and you’ll easily get to the fountain.”

  One good turn deserves another, I always think. And after all, he didn’t give me away. He’s earned a little hiding tip.

  “OK!” The boy’s face lights up and he scrambles to his feet. “I knew you were a ghost,” he adds carelessly. “I just didn’t say.” Then he scampers out of the room.

  At once I rise up onto my tiptoes. As I creep back out into the room, I glance longingly over at the window seat, which is covered with the DJ’s heavy-looking boxes and cables. Could I quickly heave off the boxes and have a look?

      No. Too risky. Instead, I scurry silently into the adjoining dining room, stopping only for a moment to survey the table setting, which is jaw-dropping. There’s a purple damask cloth covered in glittery table confetti, on which are five silver candelabras holding purple candles. There are three huge vases stuffed with white flowers. Each place setting has its own tea light in a silvered glass, plus individual salt and pepper pots and a little sculpture of…I peer more closely.

  Is that Marie Antoinette? And is that bit of cotton wool supposed to be a sheep?

  OK, that’s bizarre. But I don’t have time to linger. I crouch down, crawl under the tapestry cloth, and collapse slightly in relief. Made it!

  But only a few seconds later my triumph ebbs away as I have a terrible new realization: I’m starving. I didn’t plan on being here all evening, there’s no prospect of my getting any food, and I’m about to watch my family guzzling a whole roasted swan with quail garnish, or whatever. Why didn’t I eat something in Bean’s room? I’m an idiot.

  I poke my head out, in case there’s a spare Mars bar lying on the floor or something, and my eyes scan the room a bit hopelessly—then halt. There’s a basket of bread rolls on the sideboard. Delicious-looking, white and fluffy, half covered with a napkin.

  Now I’ve seen them, I’m fixated. All my stomach juices have come to life. I’ve never craved anything as much as I crave one of those bread rolls right now. And if I don’t have one, I point out to myself logically, I might faint from hunger. My unconscious body will flop out from under the console table like a corpse and my plan will be ruined.

      This last thought decides me. I emerge from under the console table, tiptoe to the sideboard, deftly grab two bread rolls—then stiffen as I hear high heels swiftly approaching. And a distinctive laugh. It’s Krista coming back again. Shit.

  I don’t have time to get back to the console table. As Krista appears, I descend to the floor behind a dining chair in one seamless curtsy. I clutch the back of it for balance, hold my breath, and pray.

  She strides up to the table, holding a stack of printed menu cards. She’s only a few feet away. She’s right there. I’m utterly exposed. As I’m crouching, my knees start to tremble. What if one of my bones cracks? What if my phone buzzes?

  There’s a huge old mirror on the opposite wall, and with a lurch, I realize I must be visible in that too. But thankfully, Krista’s not checking her reflection, for once. She’s too engrossed in her task. As she moves along the table, distributing menu cards and humming to herself, I surreptitiously crawl along the other side, back toward the console table. She finishes arranging her menu cards, then pauses, and I freeze.

  I watch her tensely through the wooden lattice of a chair back, trying to work out which way she’s going to move next. But to my surprise, she looks furtively around the room, as though checking she’s alone. Then, to my horror, she peels up her tight body-con dress. She grabs hold of the waistband of her Spanx and breathes out with a groan.