The Party Crasher(44)

  “Unfortunately, the ‘establishment’ doesn’t yet understand Dr. Spinken’s theories. Joe and I have already had to agree to disagree on that one. But if you are interested, Lacey, I have a regular clinic nearby. Do come along for a half-price starter session.” He’s already produced a business card, which he hands to Lacey.

      “Humphrey Pelham-Taylor, Associate Practitioner, The Spinken Institute,” Lacey reads off the card. “Sounds very grand!”

  “How long was your course, Humph?” says Joe evenly. “A month?”

  Humph doesn’t even flicker.

  “More attack from mainstream medicine,” he says sadly. “The length of the course is irrelevant. It’s not about ‘learning facts,’ it’s about awakening our minds to what we already know instinctively.”

  “Oh, really?” says Joe. “So, are you ‘instinctively’ qualified in pharmacology, Humph?”

  Humph gives Joe a baleful look, then turns to address Lacey.

  “When we were babies, we understood instinctively how to align our spines, our inner organs, and our rhu.”

  “What’s our rhu?” says Lacey, looking fascinated.

  “Rhu is a Spinken concept,” says Humph, and Joe snorts on his wine. “It’s the energy of our internal organs. It produces a transcending, healing power. Healthcare begins and ends with the rhu.” He taps his chest and Krista chimes in, “Humph’s a marvel, Lace. That herbal drink I swig? Got it from Humph. Perks me right up, that does!” She twinkles at Humph, who beams back, pleased.

      “Well, I’ll definitely look into it.” Lacey puts the card in her bag. “Lucky me, meeting a Spinken expert and the Doctor of Hearts!”

  “Yes, you’re quite the A-lister now, aren’t you?” says Humph snidely to Joe. “I’m amazed you’ve got time for any patients, in between all those interviews and red carpets.”

  I see a ripple of annoyance pass over Joe’s face, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

  “We’ve been trying to keep up with your girlfriends in the media, Dr. Joe,” Krista joins in teasingly. “But there are just too many. You’re such a Casanova!”

  “Not really,” says Joe. “Most of my apparent paramours are simply women I happened to be adjacent to in the street for thirty seconds. On my way to work.”

  “You can’t fool us!” says Krista with a knowing smile. “Yes, please clear the plates,” she adds to a hovering waiter.

  Conversation lulls as the waiters remove the starter plates, then come in with plates of beef. There’s some kind of fragrant sauce served with it, and I don’t know what spice is in it—cloves? nutmeg?—but the smell instantly takes me back to Christmas. Christmas in this house. As the guests start eating, murmuring to one another and exclaiming over the food, it could almost be us again, the Talbots, sitting round the table, wearing paper hats and laughing. Mimi still in her apron, because she always forgot to take it off when she sat down. It became a family joke. We called aprons “Christmas dresses.” And there was the year we gave Mimi one as a surprise, all decorated with red tinsel. She loved it so much, she wore it for years.

      I suppose that joke’s gone now, I think, with a kind of crunching sadness. Or, at least, I don’t know where it lives anymore. Not with Mimi—she never talks about the past. Not here either. All the jokes, the family fables, the silly slang and traditions that only we understood. Have they been divided up like the furniture? Or are they all in a box somewhere?

  Then, into my mind creeps another childhood memory. I hid here, under this very console table, one Christmas Day! I’d completely forgotten—but now it all comes flooding back. I was about seven and I’d had a fight with Bean over her cracker gift. (Should I now admit the truth? I did break her yo-yo.) I slithered down from my chair in tears and hid here, half ashamed, half sulking. And after about ten minutes Dad came to join me.

  It was a magical little moment we had, father and daughter, hiding under the table from the rest of the family. He made me laugh with his opening gambit: “Isn’t Christmas awful? You’re very clever to escape, Effie.” Then he sang a series of carols, getting all the words deliberately wrong. And then, when I was in fits of giggles, he asked if I wanted to bring in the Christmas pudding after he set it alight.

  Which, thinking back, was surely a fire risk? Should seven-year-olds carry flaming plates? Well, whatever—I did it. I still remember that careful procession in from the kitchen, mesmerized by the blue flames, by my huge importance. It made me feel on top of the world. Effie Talbot, fire goddess.

  Dad’s laugh breaks my thoughts, and I breathe out shakily, coming back to the present day. My heart is well and truly scrambled. How have things come to this? Back on that Christmas Day, I hid in here with my dad. Now I’m hiding from him. From everyone.

      “Of course, Effie was one of Joe’s girlfriends, once upon a time.” Krista’s voice distracts me from my thoughts and I look up, blinking. “She’ll be in the Daily Mail next!”

  “I don’t think so,” says Joe tonelessly, and I feel myself prickle, although I’m not sure why. Does he mean I’m not attractive enough to be in the Daily Mail? I see him glance down toward my hiding place and immediately stiffen. He’d better not give me away.