The Party Crasher(97)

  “Good for you.” Joe’s voice is suddenly in my ear, his hand in mine. “Good for you, Effie.”

  Now he’s clasping hands with Temi, who’s already singing lustily, and Gus is coming forward, bellowing as though he’s at a rugby match. And within a few moments, we’re linked together. We’re hand in hand, all of us, arms rising and falling in clumsy rhythm. Our faces are lit up in the flickering firelight, and we’re singing, tunelessly and raggedly, laughing awkwardly as we forget the words, shoving and jostling one another’s hands, but still just about in time. Still just about together.





  By midnight, all the wine is finished. And all the backup wine. And the cider and sausages and the chocolate cake. Dad has left, claiming to be too old to spend the night out on the mound. The fire is out by now and I’m huddled with Bean, Gus, Joe, and Temi, in sleeping bags, with cushions and all the blankets we could find.

  “This is really uncomfortable,” Bean keeps complaining. “How on earth did we sleep out here all the time?”

  “We were drunk,” suggests Joe.

  “We were young,” says Temi. “I used to sleep all over the place at parties. On floors, rugs, in the bath once…” She wriggles and punches out a pillow. “Effie, don’t you have an air mattress we could use?”

  “Or a real mattress,” says Gus. “We could bring one out.”

  “Or a four-poster bed?” I retort. “Honestly! You’re all so feeble. This is our last night at Greenoaks. We have to sleep on the mound.”

      I’m not going to admit that I’m totally uncomfortable too. That’s not the point. The point is, we’re all here, just like we used to be. Even if stones are sticking into our backs and there isn’t any mirror for Temi to apply her five zillion vitally essential serums.

  I drift off into fitful sleep at last, waking a few times to pull a blanket over me or huddle closer to Joe. At one point during the night, I find myself gazing up at the stars, seeing magical clusters in the darkness, listening to Bean murmur in her sleep. Then I drop off again. And so I go on, throughout the night, waking and sleeping and dozing—until suddenly it’s seven o’clock in the morning and the sky is bright and everyone is still fast asleep except me, who feels wide awake. Typical.

  I’m freezing, which might be because I’ve somehow worked my way out of my sleeping bag. And my limbs are aching. I feel like a ninety-three-year-old right now. But on the plus side, the day is brand-new, and the air is clean and fresh, and there’s nothing between my face and the sky. No walls, no windows, nothing. I take in a deep breath, feeling a massive satisfaction which overcomes the slightly bruised feeling in my shoulders. Here we all are. We did it.

  I sit up on my elbows, contemplating the peaceful drive, wondering if I can summon the energy to go and make tea for everyone or whether I should wake Gus up accidentally on purpose and get him to do it. And then, as I’m watching, a car comes driving in. A Volvo I don’t recognize. It draws to a halt and the engine is switched off, and for a moment nothing happens. Then the driver’s door opens and a woman gets out. She appears to be late thirties and is dressed in jeans and loafers and a crisp striped shirt. Her blond hair is swingy and fresh and kind of adorable-looking.

      I watch, gripped, as she takes a few steps toward the house, then just stares up at it. She peers around the drive, takes another step forward, then gives a sudden childlike skip of glee. Then she glances up, spots me watching her, and claps a hand over her mouth.

  She has such an open, friendly face, I find myself getting to my feet and skittering down the mound toward her.

  “Hello,” she says charmingly as I approach. “I’m so sorry to intrude this early. I’m Libby Van Beuren.”

  “Van Beuren?” I stare at her, taken aback.

  She doesn’t look sinister. She doesn’t look anything like I pictured the Van Beurens to be. (Which I now realize was a family of frowning FBI agents in black suits.)

  “The guy at the property agency said he thought you wouldn’t mind if I popped round.” Libby Van Beuren’s eyes sparkle. “I know the house isn’t ours till Wednesday, but I was passing and I couldn’t resist. Are you…one of the Talbots?”

  “I’m Effie,” I say, and extend my hand. “We were just…” I gesture up at the others, who are gradually surfacing, rubbing their eyes and peering down at us. “We were having a kind of house-cooling bonfire party. We slept outside.”

  “You slept outside!” echoes Libby Van Beuren, her whole face lighting up. “A bonfire party! How wonderful! This whole place is magical. Magical. The tree house. The turret. I have such plans—” She breaks off as a van wends its way slowly into the drive, with garsett removals printed on the side. “Oh! This is your removers. Good luck!” She makes a comical face. “Moving’s the worst, isn’t it? My husband is, like, in denial. Anyway, I just had to come and have a look. I’m just so excited. Were you happy here?”

      “Yes.” I nod simply. “We were happy here.”

  “I fell for the house as soon as I saw it. It’s so quirky. The stained glass. And the brickwork.”