The Party Crasher(53)

  “Oh, that,” she says, obviously doing her best to sound relaxed. “That was just…a thing at work. Minor problem. It suddenly got me down. No big deal.”

  “A ‘thing at work’?” I echo dubiously. “What thing?”

  “Nothing.” She brushes it off. “I’ll tell you another time. It’s boring.”

  She’s almost convincing—but I’m suspicious. Bean never has “things at work.” Unlike me, she’s not a total drama queen and never seems to fall out with anyone, nor complain, nor get fired for crying into the soup.

  But she’s clearly not going to tell me what it really is. I’ll have to bide my time.

  “OK, well, there’s something else,” I say, changing tack. “Have you spoken to Gus much today?”

  “Gus? Yes, a fair amount. We were together earlier.”

  “Did he mention any trouble he’s in?”

  “Trouble?” Bean stares at me. “What do you mean, trouble?”

  Automatically I glance up at the steps, although I’m fairly sure there’s no chance of Gus putting in an appearance here.

  “When I was hiding in the hall,” I say quietly, “I heard him on the phone, talking to someone called Josh. Do you know who that is?”

  “Never heard of him.”

      “Well, Gus sounded super-stressed, and he was talking about facing”—I lower my voice to a hiss—“charges.”

  “Charges?” Bean echoes, shocked. “What kind of charges? Like, criminal charges?”

  “I guess.” I shrug helplessly. “What other kind of charges are there?”

  “Charges?” Bean says again, in disbelieving tones.

  “That’s what he said. He talked about the ‘worst-case scenario.’ And he was speaking in a really low voice, as though he didn’t want anyone to hear.”

  “You’re quite the spy tonight, aren’t you?” Bean still seems a bit shell-shocked. “What else did you hear him say?”

  “That was it. No, wait—he said something about it getting into the press.”

  “The press?” Bean looks appalled. “What on earth’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but we need to talk to him. Urgently. Where is he now, dancing?”

  “No, he and Romilly have already gone to bed. She just dragged him off. She was blathering on about needing an early start in the morning.”

  “Don’t tell me.” I roll my eyes. “The famous violin teacher. I overheard her droning on about that too. She can’t talk about anything else. Apparently, if you go to this particular violin teacher, you end up at Oxford and Harvard and win a Nobel Prize. All at once.”

  Bean laughs, half-wincing. “Oh God, she is awful. You know, Gus is going to leave her? We did talk about that, earlier on in the garden. We had quite a heart-to-heart. He’s had enough.”

      “Finally!” I exclaim. “But why didn’t he leave her months ago? All the time he’s wasted with her! All the time we’ve spent trying to be polite to her!”

  “I think he’s been worrying about hurting her,” says Bean, sighing. “But the longer they’re together, the worse it’ll be.”

  “He shouldn’t worry. If Romilly loves him at all, it’s because of what he can do for her, not who he is,” I say adamantly. “She loves being able to boss him around.”

  “What does he love about her, do you think?” queries Bean, and for a moment we’re both stumped.

  “Her body,” I say at last. “Sorry. But it’s true. And she’s really into Pilates. She’s probably really good in bed. Good core muscles, all that.”

  “If he does love her, then maybe he’s forgotten what love is supposed to be like,” says Bean, a bit sorrowfully. “I think you can do that. You put up with this awful toxic version of it, and then one day your eyes are opened and you think, Oh right! I get it! That’s what love is supposed to be.”

  “On your deathbed when it’s too late,” I supply gloomily.

  “No!” protests Bean, and I reach out to hug her fondly, because she is just so softhearted.

  “So, what shall we do about Gus and this phone call?” I return to the issue. “We can’t just leave it.”

  “I think we should tackle him,” says Bean with resolve. “I’d better show my face again at the party—then we’ll make a plan. You can sleep in my room. No one’ll know you’re there.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and I do need the loo,” I add sheepishly.

  “Well, don’t use my one,” says Bean at once. “It’s—”

      “Broken. I know. But I wondered, if I sneak up and use the cloakroom, will you keep guard?”

  “Sure. But be quick!”

  As we head up the stairs and tiptoe along the back corridor, the music is thundering even more loudly than before. I hurry into the cloakroom, take the opportunity to check my reflection, and scowl morosely, because whereas everyone else is glammed up and looking their best, I am definitely not. My hair is dusty and my face is pale, with streaks of soot. I could have done with putting on some blusher, I realize, as I view my washed-out skin. And lipstick. If I’d known I was going to see Joe—