“Yes,” says Bean, her cheeks becoming pinker. “Quite hard. But…you know, good too. Good in lots of ways.”
There’s a short pause, and I can tell no one knows quite what to say. The Martins are very tactful people, the type who would never take sides or bitch or say, “What has your dad’s girlfriend done to that beautiful kitchen?” like Irene in the pub did.
“Well, see you in there!” says Jane. “Goodness, a doorman!” she adds, twinkling at the bouncer. “How very grand!”
The Martins give their names to the bouncer and are admitted to the house, and I continue watching Bean. I’m expecting her to hurry in to the party, but she doesn’t seem in any rush. Her face creases up as though with an anxious thought—then she pushes her hair back off her brow and starts typing again. A moment later, my phone buzzes.
Are you all right?? You’re not sitting on your own in the flat, brooding, are you? Mimi told me you wanted to have supper with her but she couldn’t make it. I know she was hoping you would change your mind about tonight. Hope you’re OK xxxxx
As I read her words, I’m simultaneously touched and offended. So is this what everyone thinks? That I’m some tragic, brooding loner? I am not sitting alone in my flat. I am sitting alone behind a rosebush. I almost want to inform Bean of that fact. But then I have a better idea. Briskly, I type a new message:
Actually I’ve got a date. So don’t worry.
I send it, then add a casual follow-up:
You could tell people at the party. Like Krista. Or Joe, if you see him. You could tell him I’m on a date.
From behind the bush, I can see Bean’s face. She looks so genuinely delighted by my news, I feel a fresh pang of affection for her. She types something hurriedly and a moment later it arrives:
A date! That’s fantastic! You never said. Details?
Details. Right, come on, Effie, details. As I start typing, I mentally forgive myself for fibbing, because all I’m trying to do is set my sister’s mind at rest. She will enjoy the evening far better if she thinks I’m on some shit-hot date.
Yes, it’s amazing! I only met him today, at an event I was waitressing at. He asked me about the lemon sorbet and we took it from there. He’s an Olympic athlete.
Even as I’m pressing send, I’m wondering if “Olympic athlete” is going a bit too far, and sure enough, Bean’s reaction proves it.
WHAT?? Which kind?
Yikes. I don’t know anything about the Olympics. Jumping? Throwing? Better dodge that one.
He doesn’t do it anymore. He’s a businessman. And philanthropist.
I’m about to add something about his yacht, when Bean exclaims, “Joe!” and I drop my phone, then scrabble to pick it up.
Oh God. He’s here.
I mean, I knew he might be. Obviously. But I never expected—
OK, Effie, breathe. Breathe. It’s fine. He can’t see me. He’ll never look in this direction. And in a way, it’s interesting to view him like this, neutrally, from a distance, now that he’s become a celebrity.
As he comes into view, I can’t help scanning him greedily through the rose branches. Hair a bit longer than the last time I saw him. Eyes a bit more tired-looking? Smile just as intriguing.
There’s always been something about Joe’s smile. It’s not just an expression of happiness. It hints at wryness and wisdom, a rueful amusement with life. Although he’s looking more wry and less amused tonight. His dark hair is swept back and his face is thinner than it was last time I saw him, which makes his cheekbones stand out. He’s in a very elegant dinner jacket, I’ll give him that.
Now he’s kissing Bean on the cheek and my own cheek tingles in a weird kind of sympathy.
“Hi, Bean,” he says in his deep, familiar voice, and without wanting to, I have a sudden memory of lying with him on the grass, aged about seventeen, dappled sunshine on our faces, feeling as though we had forever.
More memories start cascading in—and I don’t know what’s worse, remembering what went wrong or what went right. That night we edged together for the first time at the sixth-form disco. The blissful intoxication of that first, dreamy summer. The way it all seemed meant to be.
It’s only now I’ve tried making it work with other guys that I realize how natural Joe and I were together. Sex came easily. I never winced or said, “Ow! Sorry…” or invented sexy noises to fill a vacuum. I never fibbed or faked. Why would I fib to Joe?
We learned everything together. How to be students. How to survive a hangover. The names of bones. That was for Joe’s exams, but it mattered to me, too, so I was his revision buddy. One time, I decorated his room with all the Latin words on Post-its, and for months, “Tibia” was stuck on the wall above his bed.