Pah. Trust Romilly to have spectacular breasts. This might explain why Gus hasn’t ditched her yet. But he needs to look beyond breasts. Beyond breasts. I might try to convey this to him somehow.
“Hi, Romilly!” I hear Bean’s voice, then glimpse her approaching. She’s still in her jeans and Uggs. Of course she is.
“Bean!” Romilly looks her up and down. “Aren’t you coming to the party?”
“Yes!” says Bean breathlessly. “I just got chatting to some old friends in the garden. So in a way, I have been at the party, just not in the right clothes.”
“Of course.” Romilly smiles sweetly at Bean. “Well, I’m going to find a nonalcoholic drink. See you later.”
As she strides off, her heels like gunfire on the wooden floor, Gus breathes out as if someone’s removed a vise from his head.
“Hi,” he says to Bean. “How’s it going?”
“Oh.” She shrugs. “It is what it is.” She sinks down beside him on the bottom stair, slumping slightly.
“The cocktails are good, at any rate,” he says, lifting his glass to her. “My game plan is basically to get slaughtered.”
“Good one.” Bean nods.
“Shame Effie’s not here,” adds Gus, his face falling. “I know she doesn’t get on with Krista, but…” He spreads his arms around the hall. “This is the last hurrah. It should be all of us.”
I can’t help feeling a little swell of love for Gus. I wish I could just very quickly give him a hug.
“I know,” says Bean sadly. “I tried to persuade her to come, but she’s gone on a date. He’s an Olympic athlete, apparently,” she adds, more positively. “Slash philanthropist. He sounds really impressive! Isn’t that great?”
“Oh, really?” Gus looks up with interest. “Who?”
“She didn’t say.”
“A rower, I bet. Or a cyclist.” Gus is googling on his phone. “Him?” He turns the phone round to show her a photo.
“Oh, I hope so!” says Bean with enthusiasm. “He looks lovely!”
I feel a twinge of guilt, which I quell. It’s only a white lie. And all’s fair in love and war-with-Krista.
“I need to get changed.” Bean’s voice breaks my thoughts. “I’m just going to see if there are any bits and bobs from the kitchen that Effie might want. She always liked the jelly molds, didn’t she?”
“Jelly molds?” Gus looks vague. “Dunno.”
Oh my God, the jelly molds! I’d forgotten all about them—but now, in a rush, I passionately want them to be saved. Especially the pineapple one. We used to make yellow jelly in it. I loved it so much. It reminds me of happy Sunday afternoons in the kitchen, and it’s exactly the kind of battered old item that Krista would chuck out.
I gaze at Bean anxiously through the eyehole. Should I quickly text her? But I can’t. I’m supposed to be on my date. Although maybe I could drop that in?
Having fab date with Olympic athlete in luxury London restaurant!! He’s everything I hoped for!! We’re toasting each other in champagne!! Also, I just had a random thought: Let’s keep the jelly molds.
No. Too suspicious.
“I think Effie liked the pineapple one,” says Bean, getting up, and I subside with relief. “OK, I’m going to get changed. See you in there.”
“I’ll go along in a moment.”
As Bean walks off, Gus leans against the banister again, texting. Then he suddenly says, “Shit,” in a low voice, and I stiffen. That didn’t sound good.
For a few moments we’re both utterly silent. I can’t quite believe Gus is oblivious of me. Can’t he feel my presence? I’m here! I’m right here! But I could be a ghost, for all he’s aware of me.
Gus seems transfixed by the screen of his phone, and I’m transfixed by him—or, at least, the slice of him which is visible. At last he dials a number, then in low tense tones says, “Hi. I just saw your text. Are you serious?”
There’s silence for a few moments, during which I hardly dare breathe. I feel half consumed by curiosity and half guilty for eavesdropping on a private phone call. But he is my brother, after all. And I won’t tell anyone.
（Except Bean. I’ll tell Bean.）
“Don’t think so,” says Gus in an even lower voice. “No, of course I haven’t told anyone. If it gets into the press, it’s definitely not…Well, what…” He exhales suddenly, and I glimpse him rubbing his face. “I mean, if charges are pressed…”