Then we were out in the real world, with new challenges. Work. Colleagues. Finding a London flat in about Zone 1,000. Building a bed out of a box. For a while I cajoled Joe into rowing on the Thames every weekend. We were both pretty rubbish, but it was fun.
We didn’t have to explain ourselves. We knew we were on the same side. Yes, we got stressed out, and yes, we argued, but in the same way that we used to argue in English lessons at school. Respectfully. Never bitterly or meanly.
And somehow, however well we got to know each other, there was always a magic. A mystery. We could lie in bed looking silently at each other, not needing to speak. Joe’s eyes were never boring. He was never boring.
What I’ve learned since being out in the dating field is: A lot of men are really boring. Or else they’re not boring, they’re super-fun and exciting, but they have four other secret girlfriends they never mentioned…
I heave a familiar sigh and screw up my eyes, willing my brain to clear.
“So, end of an era,” Joe’s saying to Bean, in the grave, empathetic tones that the whole nation has come to love. “How do you feel about it?”
“Oh, fine!” says Bean brightly. “I mean, it’s all for the best. So.”
“Right.” Joe nods several times, looking wistful. “I always loved this place,” he adds. “I mean, how much time did I spend here as a kid? Remember those bonfire parties up on the mound?”
Both he and Bean automatically turn their eyes toward the grassy mound, looming up on the east side of the house.
“Yes, they were fun,” says Bean after a pause.
“And the tree house.” He shakes his head reminiscently. “I think one summer we spent every single day in the tree house. Slept out there, everything. It was like a second home.”
I’m breathing hard with indignation as I listen. The tree house? How can he refer to the tree house so casually? Does he not have any feelings?
Maybe that’s it. Yes. I made the mistake of falling in love with a man without any feelings. Now it all makes sense.
“We were very lucky, growing up here.” Bean’s smile is fixed, and even from this distance I can see her eyes are starting to shimmer. Joe seems to realize it, too, because he adds, “But all for the best.”
“Exactly. All for the best!” Bean says, even more brightly. “You have to move on.”
“Of course,” says Joe, a sudden kindness to his voice. Then he adds, almost casually, “Is Effie here?”
“No, she couldn’t come.” Bean pauses, then adds in a rush, “She’s got a date, actually. An Olympic athlete. She passed him lemon sorbet and they took it from there.”
“An Olympic athlete?” Joe looks surprised. “Wow.”
Yes, I think silently behind my rosebush. So. Take that, Joe.
“He’s a philanthropist now,” Bean adds breathlessly. “Businessman and philanthropist.”
I want to hug her.
“He sounds quite the catch,” says Joe, and there’s an edge to his voice. Or did I imagine that?
“Anyway, I should go in.” Bean shoots a worried glance at her watch. “I’m late. You’re coming to the family dinner, aren’t you?”
“Apparently so.” Joe raises his eyebrows. “Although I’m not sure how I qualify.”
“Oh well, you’re practically family,” says Bean vaguely, her cheeks a little pink. “So I expect Krista thought…” She trails off awkwardly.
What she’s not going to say is, Krista invited you because you’re famous now. But that’s the honest truth. Krista’s shameless. She’ll want to boast about how she’s best friends with him. And Joe’s wry smile tells me that he fully understands this.
“Very kind of Krista,” he says politely. “Thoughtful.”
“Yes. Well.” Bean passes a flustered hand through her hair. “I really must go. See you later! I’m on the list,” she adds to the bouncer as she hurries to the front door. “Bean Talbot.”
“What’s that?” The bouncer points a fleshy finger at the birdbath, still sitting on the drive. “Is it a present for the family?”
“No,” says Bean patiently. “I am the family. It’s a birdbath.”
The bouncer looks as though he’s never heard the term birdbath before and doesn’t believe in it for a moment. He scrutinizes it suspiciously, then looks up to scrutinize Joe, too—at which point his brow clears.