The Party Crasher(80)

  At last he blinks into focus again, his face a little craggy.

  “Is anyone in touch with Effie?” he says. “Does anyone know where she is right now?”

  Without quite meaning to, I get half to my feet, then duck back down again in panic.

  “Right now?” Bean sounds wrong-footed. “You mean…actually this minute?”

  “Yes,” says Dad. “Does anyone know?”

  A weird frisson passes round the table. Bean looks wildly at Joe, then at Gus, who also glances at Joe, who clears his throat and nods toward the house under the guise of shifting his chair.

  Honestly. What a pantomime. Do they think they’re being subtle?

      “I’m not exactly sure,” says Bean in a stilted voice. “Gus? Do you know where Effie is?”

  “I…umm…” Gus rubs his face. “Difficult to say. She could be anywhere. In theory.”

  “Exactly.” Bean nods. “That’s what makes it hard. To…know. Where she is.” She reaches for her glass and takes a large gulp.

  “You know, I nearly sent her a text this morning, but…I have no idea why I didn’t, in the end.” Dad draws a deep breath, looking agonized. “When do we all stop making mistakes?”

  Everyone at the table seems a bit dumbstruck by this rhetorical question, apart from Lacey, who says brightly, “I’m sure you don’t make any mistakes, Tony! A top businessman like you!”

  Dad gives her a blank glance, then reaches for his phone. A moment later, there’s a buzzing in my pocket. Fumbling, I pull out my phone. And even though I know who it is, my throat still thickens as I see the word. Dad. There on my screen. Dad. At last.

  Already my thumb is automatically moving to accept the call—but then I stop, flustered. No. Don’t be stupid. I can’t answer him here, under the rosebush, where everyone will hear. But I can’t not answer either. What do I do?

  I crouch, frozen, watching my phone buzz away, my head in turmoil—until suddenly I know exactly what I’m going to do. Breathing hard, my leg muscles burning, I edge backward, away from the brunch, toward the house.

  “She’s not answering,” I can hear Dad saying, as I get to my feet and start tiptoeing swiftly toward the back door.

      I’m not answering yet. But I’ll be in touch very, very soon. And not by phone. In person.



* * *



  —

  As I rattle the hangers along Bean’s wardrobe rail, I feel apprehensive, almost jittery. I want to build bridges with Dad. I really want to. There are still things in our history that don’t make sense to me; there are still things that seem to put reconciliation out of reach. But, then, I thought Joe was out of reach. Maybe nothing’s impossible.

  As long as I’m in a good dress. This is key. Krista and Lacey are still downstairs with their fake lashes and immaculate outfits, and I’m not having them look at me pityingly.

  It only took me a few seconds to sneak in through the back door and up the stairs, and now I’m moving as quickly as possible. I want to turn around and get back down to the brunch as soon as I can. Sooner.

  At last I find the frock I was searching for—the flattering blue print one with the sash—and drag it on, then hastily apply a bit of makeup. My hair is a disaster, but it can go in one of Bean’s sparkly party hair clips.

  I give myself a final lashing of bronzer for Dutch courage, survey myself in the mirror, then turn and almost skip out of the room. As I fly down the stairs, at the half turn I can see the brunch table out of the French doors, which lead to a little mezzanine-level balcony. And even though I’m in a hurry, I can’t help pausing to survey the scene. It couldn’t look more idyllic: A family gathered in a sunny garden around a beautiful table. The bunting is fluttering in the breeze. The glasses and dishes are glinting in the sunshine. Everyone is well dressed and handsome, with Dad sitting at the head of the table like some noble patriarch.

      At the idea of surprising them all, my heart starts thumping with nerves. How will I do it? I’ll go straight up to Dad. And I’ll say…What?

  Dad, it’s me.

  No, that’s stupid. He knows it’s me.

  Dad, it’s been too long.

  But that sounds like I’m blaming him already. Oh God, maybe I should just wing it—

  A burst of clapping makes me jump, and I see that Humph has adopted some kind of yoga-type position on the grass. He’s wearing leather flip-flops with his linen suit, I notice, and he looks pretty uncomfortable, with his legs crunched above his face.

  Oh, I have to know what’s going on. And before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing open the doors to the mezzanine balcony, formulating a new plan. I’ll just stand here until someone notices me, then casually say, “Oh, hi, everyone!” and watch their jaws drop.

  Humph’s voice is floating upward on the summer air, from between his thighs.

  “My internal organs are aligning as you watch,” he’s calling out breathlessly. “I can feel the flow of my rhu, actually feel it. Coursing through my body, healing any imperfections it finds along the way.”