The Party Crasher(8)

      “I know it’s all happening really fast,” Bean is saying apologetically, as though this is her fault. “I don’t know what’s happening about the furniture; I guess it’s going into storage till they find a place. I’m claiming my stuff, anyway. Dad and Krista are going to rent somewhere meanwhile. Anyway, Krista says she’s emailing invitations out later today, so…I wanted to warn you.”

  Everything’s been happening fast, I think, my chest tight. Divorce. Girlfriend. Sell the house. And now throw a party. I mean, a party? I try to imagine going to a party at Greenoaks that isn’t hosted by Mimi, but it just feels wrong.

  “I don’t think I’ll go,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “You’re not going to go?” Bean sounds dismayed.

  “I’m not in a party mood.” I try to sound casual. “And I think I’m busy that night. So. Have a good time. Send everyone my love.”

  “Effie!” says Bean.

  “What?” I say, determinedly playing ignorant.

  “I really think you should go. It’s the last ever party at Greenoaks. We’ll all be there. It’s our chance to say goodbye to our house…to be a family….”

  “It’s not our house anymore,” I say flatly. “Krista’s ruined it with her ‘tasteful’ beige paint. And we aren’t a family anymore.”

  “Yes we are!” protests Bean, sounding shocked. “Of course we’re a family! You mustn’t say that!”

  “OK, fine, whatever.” I stare morosely at the ground. Bean can say what she likes, but it’s true. Our family is shattered. Splintered into shards of glass. And no one will ever be able to put us back together.

      “When did you last talk to Dad?”

  “Can’t remember,” I lie. “He’s busy, I’m busy….”

  “But you have spoken to him properly?” Bean sounds anxious. “You have patched things up since…?”

  Since the night I yelled at Krista and stormed out of the house, is what she means. Only she’s too tactful to say so.

  “Of course,” I lie again, because I’m not having Bean get all stressed about me and Dad.

  “Well, I can’t get through to him,” she says. “Krista always answers.”

  “Huh.” I put as little interest into my voice as possible, because the only way for me to cope with the whole Dad situation is not to engage with it. Especially with Bean, who has a way of stirring up my heart just when I thought I’d quietened it.

  “Effie, come to the party,” Bean tries again, in a cajoling voice. “Don’t think about Krista. Think about us.”

  My sister is so reasonable. She sees other people’s points of view. She says things like, On the other hand, and You do have a valid argument, and I hear where you’re coming from. I should try to be reasonable, like her, I think, in a gust of self-reproach. Or at least I should try to sound reasonable.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say, “I hear where you’re coming from, Bean. You do have a valid argument. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good.” Bean sounds relieved. “Because otherwise Greenoaks will be gone forever and it’ll be too late.”

  Greenoaks will be gone forever.

      OK, I can’t deal with that thought right now. I need to finish this phone call.

  “Bean, I have to go,” I say. “Because I’m working. In my very important job as a temporary waitress. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”



* * *



  —

  As I sidle back into the huge marble kitchen, it’s buzzing with catering staff. A florist is unloading flowers, there are big buckets of ice everywhere, and I can see the guy they call the “house manager” discussing the table settings intently with Damian, who owns Salsa Verde.

  Putting on a big fancy lunch like this is like putting on a performance, and I feel more upbeat as I watch the chefs at work. I just need to work and keep busy. Yes. That’s the answer.

  It was a big shock when I lost my job in events. (It wasn’t because I was crap. At least, even if it was, I wasn’t the only one, because they culled a whole department.) But I’m doing my best to stay positive. I apply for at least one new position every day, and the waitressing is keeping me going financially. And you never know when opportunity might strike. Maybe Salsa Verde will be my salvation, I think, glancing around. Maybe this will be my route back into events. Who knows what might happen?

  My thoughts come to a halt as I notice that the florist, a pleasant-looking gray-haired woman, seems beleaguered. She catches me watching her and immediately says, “Would you do me a favor? Pop this stand up to the hall?” She jerks her head at a huge arrangement of white roses on a metal stand. “I need to save my peonies, but this one’s cluttering up the place.”

      “Sure,” I say, and grab hold of the stand.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” says Elliot, one of the chefs, as I lug it past him, and I grin back. He’s tall and tanned, with blue eyes and an athletic frame. We chatted a little bit earlier, while I surreptitiously checked out his biceps.