He comes to a halt, right in front of the bush. From my position, I’m looking directly at his black-trousered knees. I tilt my head back and see his face peering down at me.
“What are you doing?” he inquires in a polite undertone. “Wonderful specimen,” he adds, more loudly, for the bouncer’s benefit.
“I need to get into the party,” I say in quick, quiet tones. “I need you to help me.”
“Through the door is traditional,” replies Joe, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes. Well. No one knows I’m here, not even Bean. I haven’t spoken to Dad for weeks. I wasn’t originally on the guest list. It’s a mess.”
There’s silence for a few moments, except for the distant thumping music and a sudden gale of laughter from the party. As I look up at last, Joe’s expression is grave.
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking hold of one of the branches to examine a rose bloom. “I knew the divorce was difficult. But I had no idea—”
“It’s fine. Whatever.” I cut him off brusquely. “But I need to get inside, just for ten minutes. I’m on a mission. But the bastard doorman’s in the way.”
“What’s your mission?”
“None of your business,” I snap back before I can help myself, and his face closes up a little.
“Fair enough.”
“So, will you help me?”
I know I sound short—but I’m trying to hide how unnerved I am by his closeness. My hands feel damp; my eyes are a little hot. Maybe I’m not quite as raw as I once was, but I’m not quite healed either.
Joe looks strained, too, although I have no idea why. He was the one at fault, not me. He glances warily at the bouncer—who is now staring vacantly up at the deep-blue summer sky—then turns back.
“Effie, it’s your family’s official farewell,” he murmurs gruffly. “You should be in there as a guest. How about you come in as my plus one?”
“No,” I say, too quickly, and he flinches.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know. I know you didn’t.” I rub my nose with an awkward gesture. “But, anyway, I’m not here for the party. I’m here for my own thing.”
Joe nods. “OK. What do you want me to do?”
“Create a distraction. Get that guy away from the door somehow. Set off a hand grenade.”
“A hand grenade.” His eyes flash with sudden humor.
“Please don’t tell me you haven’t got a hand grenade about your person,” I deadpan. “Or I’ll be very disappointed.”
Joe pats his pockets. “Of course I do. Should be here somewhere.”
“Good. Well, maybe you could deploy it. And…thanks, Joe.” I meet his gaze again, realizing that this may be the last time I ever see him. I’ll dash in and out of the house—then I’ll leave the neighborhood forever. He’ll lead his life, full of plaudits and achievement…and I’ll lead mine. Whatever that turns into. “Congratulations on all your success, by the way.”
“Oh, that.” Joe seems to dismiss it all—career, prestige, fame—with a single hand gesture, which is so him.
“Who would have thought?” I try to laugh lightly, although I’m not sure I pull it off.
“Indeed,” says Joe after a pause. “Who would have thought?”
There’s another long, strange silence. We’re gazing at each other through a barrier of thorny branches, not moving a muscle. It’s as though neither of us wants this moment to end.
“You all right, mate?” The bouncer’s voice makes me start. He suddenly seems to have noticed that Joe has been standing in front of the same rosebush for a solid five minutes.
“Absolutely fine!” Joe calls back to him, then adds to me in an undertone, “OK. I’m on.”
“Thanks so much,” I whisper in heartfelt tones—and I mean it. He didn’t have to help.
“Chocks away,” he replies, in his “World War II pilot” voice. “We’ll all be home for Christmas.” He winks at me, then swings away toward the bouncer.
“How would your girlfriend feel about a little video message? You’ll have to film it, though.”
“Mate!” The bouncer’s eyes widen. “You kidding?”
“Let’s do it here.” Joe beckons the bouncer away from the door, across the gravel. “Better light, you see. No, even farther. Yes, this is a good place. OK, face me with your phone, keep it steady…What’s your girlfriend’s name?”