The Party Crasher(42)

  The same way as what? As what? I’m so consumed by trying to read his face that, as he walks away, I lean farther forward than I mean to, and suddenly, to my horror, I lose my balance. As I topple inelegantly from under the tapestry cloth, I cry out, then clap my hand over my mouth and gaze desperately up at Joe, who looks flabbergasted.

  “What the—”

  “Shh!” I whisper. “Shhhh! Forget you saw me. I’m not here.”

  Cursing myself, I crawl hastily back under the tapestry cloth and readjust it. When I’m safely concealed again, I peek out—and Joe’s still standing right there, staring at the console table, his mouth open. Honestly. He’ll give me away.

  Go away! I mouth, and motion for him to leave. He swivels away and takes a few steps, but a moment later my phone buzzes with a WhatsApp:

            WTF???



  Without missing a beat, I send a reply:

       Pay no attention to that girl behind the curtain.



  I know he’ll get the Wizard of Oz reference, because once, when we were kids, we played a game with forfeits. His was to watch The Wizard of Oz twice through with me. Which he duly did, and we took to quoting it at each other for a while. Sure enough, he sends a new WhatsApp:

       Why is the great and powerful Effie hiding under a table?



  At once, I type my response:

       I told you, I’m on a mission.



  Then, biting my lip, I add a follow-up, trying to make it sound heartfelt.

       Seriously, please don’t tell anyone. Please.



  I send it, then risk a tiny peek around the side of the tapestry. Joe is facing away, but as though he can sense me, he swivels back. As he sees me peeping out, his mouth twitches, but his face stays grave. He puts a finger to his lips and slowly nods. For a few moments, neither of us moves. His dark, steady gaze is impossible to read. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Except that he was thinking about me.

      And that he still has feelings about me.

  Of some sort.

  Essentially the same way. My stomach churns as I consider all the different ways he could feel about me. He must know I overheard him just now. Will I ever find out what he meant?

  Footsteps sound from the hall, breaking the spell, and I blink, coming to my senses. I’ve let him get under my skin. Which is a mistake. Why am I even interested in Joe Murran’s opinion? So what if he was talking about me on the phone? Who cares what he feels about me?

  I need to get this message across to him. And luckily my face is pretty expressive. We’re still gazing at each other, and slowly I transform my demeanor into one of steely antagonism. I can see him frown with slight puzzlement at my change of expression, and I mentally high-five myself. That’ll show him.

  I’m feeling cross for wondering about Joe’s view of me. He’s not worthy of my curiosity. And that is what I will say to him, if I get the chance—

  “Joe!” We both start as Krista greets him, and I duck hastily back behind the tapestry, talking sternly to myself. Come on, Effie, get a grip. I need to stop fixating on Joe, focus on my mission, and find a comfortable sitting position. The night is still young, and I’ve got a whole bloody dinner party to get through.





  OK, my biggest problem is the dog. Which I did not foresee.

  It was Lacey, Krista’s sister, who brought Bambi into the dining room, holding him under her arm like a clutch bag. In fact, he looks even more like a clutch bag than usual tonight, because of his sparkly party collar, which I must admit is quite cute.

  “Bambi’s going to sit with me, aren’t you, Bambi, my love?” she said as she sashayed in—but of course the minute she took her place, Bambi scrabbled off her lap onto the floor. He did several circuits of the dining room, then came to sniff around the console table in an incriminating way, while I furiously muttered, “Bugger off, Bambi!” I’ve been so busy trying to get rid of him, I haven’t been able to concentrate on proceedings at all. But, thankfully, someone must have dropped a piece of lobster ravioli or something, because he’s scooted off to the other side of the room.

      Right. Finally. I can observe my family at close quarters. Or at least, see enough to get the gist of what’s going on. If I tilt my head this way and that, and keep peeking through a useful moth hole I’ve discovered in the tapestry, I can see everyone’s face to some degree, at least in the mirror. (Except Romilly’s. But I don’t want to see Romilly’s face, so that’s fine.)

  In between cursing Bambi, I’ve been trying to monitor the conversation at the table like an MI5 operative, but so far I’ve learned nothing. Everyone’s just been talking aimlessly about how great the cocktails were. Apart from Romilly, who’s been banging on about her daughters’ violin lessons with this über-teacher. As if anyone’s interested.

  My eyes slide along to Krista’s sister. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her, and she’s quite something, all flicky auburn hair and tight turquoise dress and bare tanned shoulders. I swear she put on an extra wiggle when Joe politely held out her chair for her, and now she seems entranced by him. As I watch, he refills her water glass and she murmurs, “Thanks, Dr. Joe,” in a husky, sultry voice, then brings it to her lips without taking her eyes off his.