The Party Crasher(70)

  “I need a drink. Or two.” As he turns toward me, Gus looks a bit giddy. “Effs, don’t ever let me do that again, OK? Ever.”

  I don’t know if he means drift into a terrible relationship or drive off with two violins on the car roof, but I nod and say, “Of course. Never again.”

  “I feel like I’ve got out of prison,” he says fervently. “I feel…light. Life’s good again. The sun’s shining!” he adds, as though only just noticing. “Look! It’s a beautiful day!” A smile sweeps across his face, and it’s such an unfamiliar sight, I give him an impulsive hug.

      “Yes it is,” I say. “Beautiful.”

  “I’ve been in such ridiculous denial,” he says slowly. “I’ve spent the past six months focusing on everything but the emotional stuff. On the plus side, my work is going splendidly,” he adds, his eyes gleaming with his old sense of humor. “So. Silver linings.”

  As we get out of the car, I automatically look around to see if we’re being watched, and Gus shakes his head incredulously.

  “You’re not still hiding from everyone, are you? Come to the brunch.”

  “No thanks,” I say. “Anyway, I’m busy. I’m going to check the tree house for my Russian dolls.”

  “OK.” He nods. “But don’t disappear, will you, Ephelant? Touch base before you leave?”

  “Sure.” I nod and squeeze his arm. “Have fun at the brunch.”

  I look around again, to check that we’re not being observed, then cautiously make my way toward the boundary of the field. I’m dodging from car to car, trying to stay concealed, although there aren’t many cars left parked on the grass. Behind me, I can hear Gus singing the Mission: Impossible theme tune. Ha. Hilarious.

  As I emerge through the hedge into the big field, I feel free, just like Gus did. Finally I can stride. Stretch my arms, without fear of being seen.

  It’s a beautiful day, the sky a cloudless blue, and as I walk, my mind is full of memories of running over this grass, toward the tree house. As a small child, full of joyful anticipation, desperate to clamber on the rope ladder and swing on the trapeze. Then later with Temi, giggling, holding rugs and illicit bottles of wine.

      And then of course there’s that dark, painful shadow which stretches over everything.

  I vault up the ladder easily, my muscle memory coming back, then pause on the wooden platform, my gaze sweeping the horizon. I’m suddenly glad I came back to this familiar place one last time. Glad I’m here, looking at this view, breathing in the summer air. And I’m about to climb the steps to the upper level when I hear a creaking sound above me. I freeze uncertainly and look upward. Is someone else here? If so, it has to be Bean, surely. No one else would come here.

  “Hello?” I call tentatively. “Bean?”

  “Effie?” comes Joe’s voice, and I feel a lurch. Joe?

  He clambers down the ladder, wearing a smart linen shirt-and-trousers combo which screams, brunch outfit.

  For a moment, neither of us speaks.

  “Hi,” I say at last, trying to sound cool. “I was just—”

  “Of course.” Joe seems equally discombobulated. “Sorry. I’ll get out of your way.” He hesitates, then adds, “Actually, I was writing you a letter. Trying to. But I haven’t finished it. In fact, I’ve barely started.”

  “A letter?” I swallow. “What about?”

  “About…everything,” says Joe slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “I have a lot to say. Now that I’ve decided to say it. But it’s hard to know where to start.”

  He sounds genuinely perplexed, and I feel a flash of impatience. I want to say, Is it so hard? Start anywhere. Anywhere would do.

      But that might sound confrontational.

  “I’m here now,” I say. “So you don’t need to put it in a letter. Why not start with where you were that night. With another woman?”

  Joe’s face jolts with what looks like genuine shock.

  “Oh my God. Is that what you think?” He’s silent for a few moments, his face heavy—then he looks up. “OK, Effie, here’s the truth. I was in Nutworth that whole evening.”

  “What?” I stare at him.

  “I was parked in a side street. When Mum phoned to see where I was, I was only minutes away. Holding the steering wheel of my car. I was…” He closes his eyes briefly. “Frozen.”

  “Frozen?” I echo blankly.

  “I couldn’t move. I couldn’t tell Mum where I was. Let alone you.”

  “But…why?” I stare at him, utterly bewildered—then I catch my breath. “Wait. Is this related to what you told me last night? About being anxious?” As he nods, I feel a wave of distress, because I’m suddenly—too late—working this all out. “Joe, what went on while I was away? What haven’t you told me? What is it I don’t know—” I break off, breathing hard, desperate to put this story together. Every piece. Because it never made sense. It never made sense.