The Party Crasher(88)

  “Well, he couldn’t keep me out. And I heard you at dinner saying how great Dad’s year had been. How he’d made a stack. Didn’t she, Dad?” I appeal to him.

  “Krista tries to boost my ego,” says Dad, wincing. “She means well, but…”

  “Whose business is it?” says Krista defiantly. “Put your best face on, that’s what I say. Spread a little party dust. Why not let everyone think your dad’s on great form. Better than telling the truth, ruining everyone’s evening.”

  “So…what’s the truth?” I say, looking from Dad to Krista.

  “Things have been tricky, ever since the divorce,” says Dad slowly. “And Krista…Krista has tried to help.”

  “Much thanks I get.” Krista folds her arms. “Much bloody thanks I get.”

  My head is spinning in confusion. I keep looking from Krista—vibrant, colorful, prickling with indignation—to Dad, who’s a bit gray and worn out in comparison.

  Have I misjudged Krista? Have we all misjudged Krista? But no. No. My mind rebels. She didn’t invite me to the party, remember? She threw her drink over me, remember?

  “Effie,” Dad says, his voice grave. “Did you really refuse to come to the party simply because you didn’t approve of my choice of partner?”

      “No!” I say, stung. “No, of course not! OK, so Krista and I don’t get on. But I wouldn’t not come to a party because of that. It was the invitation. The anti-invitation.”

  Dad sighs. “Darling, Krista explained she made a mistake. Everyone can make a mistake—”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I say, feeling fresh hurt. “It was deliberate. And…I assumed it was from you too,” I add in a smaller voice. “I assumed you didn’t want me to come.”

  “What?” Dad sounds scandalized. “How could you think that?”

  I stare back, almost exploding with frustration.

  “Come on, Dad. You’ve been blanking me for weeks. The day after the kitchen row, I left you that voicemail, but you didn’t even reply. Then you send me some awful email about post redirection. I was like…OK. I get it. Dad doesn’t want to talk. Fine. We won’t talk.”

  “But I asked you out to lunch!” Dad retorts, his brow creased in consternation. “I asked you to lunch, Effie. You didn’t reply.”

  “What?” I gape at him.

  “I suggested lunch. When I sent you the hamper. And I never got a voicemail from you.”

  I stare at him, aghast. Does he think I’m lying?

  “I left that voicemail the very next day,” I say, breathing fast. “The very next day. And what do you mean, ‘hamper’? I never got any hamper.”

  “It was from Fortnum’s.” Dad looks confused. “A little peace offering. Effie, you must have got it.”

      “Dad, I think I would know if I’d had a hamper from Fortnum’s,” I say shakily. “I think I might have noticed.”

  “But we sent it! At least, Krista sent it,” he amends. “I was very preoccupied, and Krista insisted on ordering it, to save me time….” He turns to Krista, and when he sees her brazen, defensive expression, his look changes from disbelief to horror. “Krista?” he says with an ominous quietness.

  “I forgot, OK?” says Krista. “I had a lot on! Anyway, a hamper from Fortnum’s, Tone? What nonsense! You couldn’t afford a hamper from Fortnum’s!”

  She forgot? Or she just didn’t bother?

  “What about my voicemail?” I say in sudden sharp suspicion and Krista shrugs.

  “Your dad gets a lot of voicemails.”

  “Do you deal with them?” I meet her gaze directly and she juts out her chin.

  “I protect him from them. I’m like his PA. My job is to filter out the crap.”

  I’m almost speechless. Crap?

  “You don’t pass anything on, do you?” I say in sudden realization. “What, do you delete messages? Are you deliberately cutting Dad off? It’s Bean and Gus too,” I add, turning to Dad. “No one can get through to you, Dad. Everyone tries, everyone wants to talk to you, but it’s impossible!”

  “Krista?” Dad turns to face her, a vein pulsing in his forehead. “Krista, what have you been doing?”

  “You told me to use my judgment,” says Krista, who seems completely unabashed. “Well, my judgment is, you do too much for those kids. Jeez! They’re not kids, they’re adults. Ask me, they need to grow up, the lot of them.”

      I glance over at Dad and feel a twinge of nerves, because he’s pale and trembling.

  “Maybe they do,” he says, as though finding it hard to control his voice. “But that’s for me to decide. My relationship with my children is for me to decide.” He gazes at Krista for a few silent moments, then adds, almost to himself, “I knew we had different priorities, but…” Again he breaks off, then draws breath. “Effie, could you give me a moment alone with Krista, please?”