I carried on creeping slowly, silently, stealthily round, until I emerged in the front drive. And then my nerves really did start twanging, because there were guests. Actual guests. People I knew, crunching over the gravel, holding small gifts or bunches of flowers. I could see a distant guy in a high-viz jacket directing cars to turn in to a field to park. It was all more formal than I’d imagined. More organized.
No one noticed me slinking breathlessly from the hornbeam hedge to the ornamental bench to a crouching position in the rose border, about five meters from the house. And this is where I still am. Hiding behind a rosebush, trying to formulate a plan.
I can hear the distant hum of conversation and the bass thrumming of music playing over a sound system. The odd trill of laughter too. Everyone’s clearly having a wonderful time at Krista’s wonderful party.
Meanwhile, my legs have started to ache, and I cautiously change position, wincing as I catch my arm on a thorn. Two women in sparkly dresses are walking up the circular drive to the door. I don’t recognize them; maybe they’re friends of Krista’s. They give their names to the bouncer and he squints at his list. Then he mutters something into his headset—his headset—and finally lets them in.
I mean. Who does Krista think she is, Victoria Beckham?
I stare resentfully at the bouncer with his clipboard and broad shoulders and steady gaze. If it weren’t for him, I could easily dart in, between guests.
Could I distract him?
In an action movie I would have a hand grenade about my person that I would roll, unnoticed, along the ground. It would explode and the bouncer would rush forward, drawing his weapon, and by the time he looked round again, I’d be safely inside. That’s what I need: a hand grenade. Only without explosions. Maybe I should appeal to a higher being.
Dear God, please send me some form of hand grenade…
And just then, into my field of vision appears pretty much the opposite of a hand grenade. The softest, gentlest, least explosive person in the world: Bean.
She’s not in party gear—she’s wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and Ugg boots and is lugging along something that is made of stone and clearly heavy, as she’s panting with the effort. As she dumps it down and mops her brow, I recognize it as the birdbath from the walled garden. She takes her phone out of her pocket, taps at it, and a moment later my own phone buzzes with a WhatsApp notification. Shit! She’s WhatsApping me!
I jump in alarm and peer through the tangle of rose branches at Bean, to see if she heard the telltale buzz. But the hubbub from the party is obviously loud enough to mask it. Now I just have to decide whether to reply.
What’s she bothering me for, anyway? Doesn’t she have a posh party to go to?
But she might have some gossip or important news. I can’t ignore her. Feeling slightly surreal, I click on her message and read it.
Hi, Effie, I’m at Greenoaks. Just to let you know, I’m going to take the birdbath. I really wish you were here. Do you want me to take anything from the garden for you? Any pots or anything? Like, the terracotta one with herbs in? You might want it one day? Xxx
Part of me thinks I should stay silent right now. But on the other hand, I don’t want Bean getting worried that I haven’t claimed some manky old terracotta pot and will regret it forever. So I type briskly back:
No thanks, I’m good on the pot front. Have fun. Xxx
“Good evening!” comes a jolly, booming voice, and through the rosebush I see the Martins from the Old Rectory coming up the drive, toward the house. As they greet Bean, she jumps and blushes furiously, and I smirk, safe in my hiding place. We haven’t been able to look the Martins in the eye since the yoga statue incident.
We went for drinks at the Old Rectory last year, and Bean and I were surreptitiously looking everywhere for it, but no sign. Not even in Jane’s bedroom, where we brushed our hair. So we agreed it must be in their secret sex room and got a bit hysterical, and then Jane came up, in her nice floral dress, and said pleasantly, “What’s the joke?” and we nearly died.
“Hi!” says Bean now, in a slight fluster, and she gestures at her jeans and Uggs. “Don’t look at me, I’m not party-ready yet.”
“You always look lovely,” says Jane kindly, giving her a kiss. “Is Effie coming?”
“Don’t…think so,” says Bean, after a pause. “She couldn’t make it. But the rest of us will be here.”
“Big night for you all,” says Andrew, looking around the grounds. “You’ve been here a long time. Hard to say goodbye to a house like this.”