The Party Crasher(51)

  It’s my cue to ask what he really wants, but something’s stopping me. Maybe pride. I used to know what Joe really wanted. Or at least I thought I did. But that’s all over, I remind myself furiously. Over.

  “You split up with your girlfriend,” I say, almost brusquely, wanting suddenly to establish where we stand. “I read about it in the papers. Sorry. That must have been hard.”

  “Thanks.” He nods.

  “Can I ask why? Or is that too personal?”

  “I guess I just annoyed her,” says Joe, after some thought.

  “You annoyed her?”

  “I guess.” His voice is toneless, and I stare at him, baffled.

      “What annoyed her? Leaving the cap off the toothpaste? The way you slurp your tea? Because you don’t seem like a very annoying person. I mean, you annoy me,” I add, “but that’s different. That’s specific.”

  Joe shoots me the kind of wry grin that used to make my heart twist around itself. That still does, truth be told.

  “What annoyed her?” he says musingly, as though beginning a philosophical treatise. “Well, I guess most of all, although she would never admit it, were my levels of anxiety. My ‘inability to function like a proper human being,’ as she once charmingly put it. Maybe the toothpaste thing too,” he adds after a beat. “Who knows?”

  I gaze at him in confusion. Joe? Anxiety? What’s he on about?

  “You don’t know,” he adds, catching my expression. “I wasn’t well for a time. I guess it’s ongoing,” he amends. “But I manage it.”

  I’m so stunned, I can’t speak. If you’d asked me to describe Joe Murran, I would have reeled off the words easily: Selfish. Handsome. Talented. Cruel. Unfathomable.

  But anxious? That would never have figured.

  “I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I had no idea, Joe. No idea.”

  “It’s fine. One of those things.”

  I’m trying to match up the mental image of Joe I’ve been holding on to all this time with the new version in front of me. Anxiety. I thought he was made of tungsten. What happened?

  The party music is still thudding through the ceiling of our musty space. All the years that Joe and I have known each other seem to be passing through my head like a video. All those hours spent together, playing, talking, laughing, lovemaking…I should know him by now, surely. I should know the secret, vulnerable corners of his brain. Shouldn’t I? But, then, he did always keep part of himself hidden away, I remind myself. As though he couldn’t trust it with anyone, not even me.

      “Are you with someone?” asks Joe, as though wanting to push the conversation away from himself. “You were with a guy called Dominic.”

  “Oh, Dominic.” I wince as I remember myself telling Joe how utterly perfect Dominic was. “No. He was…Anyway. No. There’s no one.”

  We both sip our drinks again, the music still thudding. Then Joe breaks the silence.

  “You said you’re here at Greenoaks on a mission, Effie.” His eyes crinkle. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “No,” I say, more shortly than I mean to. “Thanks.”

  Joe may have helped me out. And he may be a lot more vulnerable than I realized. But that doesn’t mean we’re reconciled or that I’m ready to confide in him.

  He looks slightly batted back by my rejection but then draws breath again.

  “Effie—”

  He pauses, for longer than seems natural—for so long, in fact, that I stare at him.

  “What?” I say at last. “What?”

  “There’s— I need to say something—” He breaks off again and exhales sharply, as though he’s finding something a struggle.

  “What?” I repeat warily.

      There’s another massive silence, and as Joe finally looks up, his whole face seems to have changed. He looks grim and determined, but daunted, too, like someone about to climb a mountain.

  “You were right,” he says swiftly, as though he’s speaking fast before he can have second thoughts. “What you said in your text earlier. I have been racking my brain on how I can make things up to you—all this time, ever since that night. I know I hurt you badly, I know I broke your heart, I think of it every day. And I’ve been…” He rubs his brow. “Desperate.”

  I feel a white-hot flash of nerves. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. On the few times we’ve seen each other since the breakup, we’ve been cautious and formal. We’ve never “gone there.”

  But now we are. We’re lifting up the scab on that part of our love affair that’s never quite healed. I’m already steeled for hurt but weirdly exhilarated, too, because I’ve imagined this moment about a zillion times.

  “I was joking,” I say. “In my text.”

  “I know you were. But I’m not. I’m not joking.” He draws breath again. “Effie, listen, I’m so—”

  “Don’t.” I cut him off almost savagely and see the shock ripple over his face. “Please,” I continue, my voice calmer but still trembling. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Joe. You’ve said it a million times. I know you’re sorry. I don’t want to hear that. I want to hear why. Why? Did you go off me? Was there someone else?” I gaze at his face—so familiar but such an enigma—feeling suddenly desperate. “Why?”