The Party Crasher(90)

  “You’re more of a Russian doll than any of us,” I say before I can stop myself—and Krista instantly bristles.

  “A Russian doll?” she retorts indignantly. “You’re calling me a Russian doll? I’m not bloody Russian, and I’m not some plastic dolly bird. This is all me!” She gestures over her impressive body. “Apart from my boobs. But it’s only polite to have your boobs done. It’s only manners.” With an offended huff, she stubs out her cigarette on a nearby ornamental plate. “C’mon, Bambs. We’re off.”

  “Will you be…OK?” I hear myself saying.

      “Will I be OK?” Krista gives a derisive laugh and swivels to face me. “I’ve built up a business and I’ve turned off my mum’s life-support machine and I’ve punched a shark in the face. I think I can cope with this.”

  She flicks her hair back and strides up the stairs, and I watch her go, feeling slightly winded. Then I hear Dad’s voice calling, “Effie? Effie, darling, are you still there?” and I hurry forward.

  “Yes,” I call. “I’m still here. Still here.”



* * *



  —

  As I enter the office, Dad’s sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace, the chessboard in front of him, and just for a moment it’s as though we’ve gone back in time.

  “I’ve poured us both a drink,” he says, nodding at two glasses of whisky next to the chessboard.

  “Thanks,” I say, sitting down opposite him. Dad lifts his glass to me and I smile back hesitantly, and we both sip.

  “Oh, Effie.” He breathes out as he puts his glass down. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry too. It’s been…” I search for words. “I guess we’ve had some miscommunication.”

  “That’s diplomatic,” says Dad wryly. “I still can’t quite believe Krista—” He breaks off and closes his eyes.

  “Dad,” I say. “Let’s not.”

  I really don’t think it’ll help Dad and me to start discussing Krista. (Plus, I’ll do it with Bean, later.)

  Dad opens his eyes and surveys me incredulously.

  “Were you really at the party all the time?”

  “All the time.” I nod. “Hiding here and there.”

      “But why? Not just to avoid Krista?”

  “No!” I can’t help laughing. “I was searching for my Russian dolls. You haven’t seen them, have you?”

  “Your Russian dolls?” Dad frowns thoughtfully. “Now, I have seen them. But I’m blessed if I know where.”

  “That’s what Bean said.” I sigh. “I guess the packers will turn them up.”

  “They won’t be lost,” says Dad reassuringly. Then he gives a sudden laugh. “I can’t believe you were hiding under the console table. Remember the Christmas you hid there, when you were a little girl?”

  “I was remembering that too.” I nod. “You came and hid with me. And then you let me carry in the Christmas pudding.”

  “We’ve had some happy times here,” says Dad, and a shadow passes over his face as he reaches for his glass. Now that I’m properly close to him, I can see that he looks more lined than the last time I saw him. Older. More worried. Not at all like someone who’s “never been happier.”

  He’s such a performer, Dad. He can fool his guests and even his own family. But life’s difficult, I realize. More difficult than he’s been letting on.

  And I feel a wash of shame. Have I ever asked Dad how he’s doing? Have I ever looked at him as a person? Or only as my dad, who was supposed to be superhuman and not get divorced and not sell the house and basically never falter in any way, shape, or form?

  “Dad, I wish we’d known you were so stressed about money,” I venture tentatively.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Immediately his easy veneer snaps over his face. “Don’t worry about that.” He flashes me a confident “Tony Talbot” smile, and I clutch my forehead.

      “Dad. Stop. I’m not a child anymore. Tell me. If you’d just told me the truth that time I found Krista photographing the bureau, instead of biting my head off…”

  As I replay that scene, I see it so differently now. Dad was defensive. Embarrassed. He couldn’t bear to admit the truth—that he had money problems—so he went on the attack.

  Dad gazes back for a few silent seconds, then his expression changes and he rubs his cheek. “You’re right, Effie. I behaved badly that day. I apologize. And it’s true, I forget that you’re adults. Well, all right.” He takes a gulp of whisky, then says frankly, “Things became pretty scary. All my own fault. When Mimi and I broke up, it was obvious that our assets would be split and that we would have to sell Greenoaks.”

  “I never even thought about…” I pause, embarrassed. “Financial arrangements.”

  “Well, why would you?” Dad gives me a sudden penetrating look. “Darling, please know that there wasn’t any acrimony. Mimi received a fair settlement. We were both satisfied. But…it changed things. Of course it did. My financial planning hadn’t included a divorce.”