“She’ll serve lobster,” I say, gazing at the grand swirly writing. “No, roasted swan.”
“A roasted swan, inside a deep-fried ostrich.”
“With a sparkler round its neck.”
By now both of us are giggling, and as my phone lights up with a call from Bean, I’m still smiling.
“Hi.”
“So, did you see it?” she says, in her typical eager-yet-anxious manner. “Are you going to go?”
“Dunno,” I say. “Maybe. It sounds pretty big. The drinks bit, anyway.”
“Oh yes, Krista’s gone super-grand. She’s inviting stacks of people. People from the village, friends of hers, friends of Dad’s…” Bean pauses, then adds cautiously, “She’s asked the Murrans. But I don’t know if they’re all coming.”
She means, I don’t know if Joe’s coming. I close my eyes briefly. Great. Joe Murran. Just to add to everything.
“Well, I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, come!” Bean’s enthusiasm pours down the phone line. “It won’t be the same without you, Effie. Anyway, you want to see the house, don’t you? And pick out whatever things you want to have? The packers are coming on Monday, and they’re going to deliver all my stuff to me, so you could do the same. I’m going to have all my old books. And my old bedroom furniture.”
“Your Peter Rabbit furniture?” I laugh in surprise. “Where will you put it?” Bean’s cottage bedroom is already furnished, with a proper, grown-up, super-king bed.
“I’ve cleared out the spare room,” says Bean triumphantly. “My guests can have Peter Rabbit, and anyone who laughs at it needn’t come to stay.”
“No one will laugh at it!” I say fondly. “And I’m definitely coming to stay in your Peter Rabbit room.” There’s a pause, then I add reluctantly, “So…what are you wearing?” and Bean whoops.
“You are coming!”
“Maybe,” I allow.
Perhaps I’m not as stubborn as I think. Perhaps I do want to raise a glass to Greenoaks. Perhaps I’ll make it up with Dad.
Put another way, if I don’t go, will I ever make it up with Dad?
I click on my emails to see if there’s anything from Krista yet—but nothing.
“You know, I haven’t actually got an invitation to this thing,” I point out, and Bean laughs again.
“You know what Krista’s like. She’s so techno-illiterate, she’s probably sending each one out individually. Oh, Ephelant, I’m so glad you’re coming.”
“Maybe.”
“OK, maybe. Even so. Let me know when you get your invitation.”
As she rings off, I refresh my emails again. Still nothing from Krista. You’d think she would have sent out all the family invitations together. But perhaps she’s delayed mine. In fact, what am I saying? Of course she’s delayed mine. She’s trying to make a point. Well, whatever. Let her make her point. I don’t care.
* * *
—
Except I do care, it turns out, because an hour later I’ve refreshed my emails about a hundred times. Where’s this sodding invitation? She really knows how to wind me up. Does she not think that Bean and I talk? Does she not realize I see her little game?
“Just be patient,” advises Temi, who’s sitting on the sofa, her hair in a shower cap, emitting a strong smell of coconut hair mask. “And do a hair mask while you’re waiting.” She gestures at her head. “I’ve got another sachet of this stuff. It’s great.”
But I’m too wound up to apply a hair mask; I can’t wait a moment longer. I pull my laptop toward me and open a new email.
“What are you doing?” demands Temi, her eyes narrowing.
“Calling Krista’s bluff,” I reply shortly. “She can’t play games with me forever.”
I type out a message, my fingers quick and determined.
Hi, Krista.
Your latest Instagram post is so much fun!!! How’s your sparkler? Hope it’s well. Just wondering if you were around Saturday evening? I was thinking I might pick up some stuff, but if you’re not going to be in, I’ll come another time.
Effie
I press send and wait for her reply. Krista’s always got her phone on her, in a jeweled belt thing, so I know she’ll get the email soon. Sure enough, within minutes, a reply arrives.
Hi, Effie!
Long time! We had started to think you didn’t exist—in fact, your dad and I talk about “the two kids” now. Joke!!!!