What do I do, though? Give in and tell everyone I’m here? The very thought makes me cringe in horror. I’d have to ask Krista if she could possibly lay an extra place for dinner. I’d have to make some groveling apology.
No. No way. I won’t.
But, then, what?
I sit up straight, still watching the colorful figures of the party guests laughing and talking, with no idea they’re being observed. And now I’m getting the beginnings of a plan. An audacious idea is crystallizing in my head. I mean, it’s mad. I admit it’s mad. But, then, this whole evening is a bit mad—so what’s new?
All plans need a goal, and I know exactly what mine is. There’s a console table in the dining room, a massive great thing, which always has a tapestry cloth on it, reaching down to the floor. You can sit under that cloth, absolutely concealed, while still getting a view round the edge of it. If you’re careful. And that’s what I’m going to do.
I want to hear Krista’s announcement. I want to keep an eye on Bean. I want to try to find out what’s up with Gus. And I want to be at the party. To see everyone, even if they can’t see me. Then, as soon as the sitting room becomes empty, I’ll look in the window seat for my Russian dolls.
So I have a plan, and my only issue is the tiny matter of getting into the dining room. I’ve made it down to the hall without being seen, and I’m silently tiptoeing into the sitting room, looking just like a burglar, when I hear Krista’s voice saying, “This way,” and the sound of her heels approaching.
Shit! She’s coming. I’ll never make it to the console table in time. In panic, I turn instinctively toward the nearest, safest hiding place: behind the old blue sofa. This trusty piece of furniture has concealed me many times over the years; I’ll just wait there till the coast is clear. Good plan. A split second before Krista walks in, I dive behind it and breathe out heavily in relief—then nearly scream in shock.
I’m not alone. There’s a boy crouching behind the sofa alongside me. He looks about six years old, is dressed in a smart collared shirt, and seems unfazed at my arrival.
“Hello,” he whispers politely. “Are you playing too?”
For a moment I can’t find a reply. Who is he? He must belong to a guest.
No…no, I’m not, I mouth, then put a finger over my lips, and the boy nods sagely. He beckons to me to lean down and whispers into my ear, “The fountain’s ‘homey,’ if you want to play.”
I give him an agonized smile, hoping this indicates, No thank you, and could you please be quiet? But it doesn’t work, because he adds in the same breathy whisper, “Chloe’s seeking. She’s my sister. She’s got a scab on her knee. Who are you?”
I don’t reply but cautiously peep through a gap in the back cushions of the sofa. Krista has been followed by a potbellied guy who looks like he’s the DJ and quite clearly can’t keep his eyes off her.
I don’t blame him. She’s spectacular. I didn’t get a good look at her earlier, only her Spanx, but now I have the leisure to eye her party outfit up and down. Her cleavage is showcased in a low-cut purple body-con dress, adorned with her sparkler, and her feet are in diamanté sandals with heels so high, I can’t believe they’re even feasible. In fact, her whole look is gravity-defying, including her lashes and amazing blond ringlets. （Hair extensions. Surely?）
“Nice place you’ve got here,” says the DJ. “Historic-like. Done much to it?”
“Oh, this and that,” says Krista carelessly. “You’ve got to put your stamp on a place.”
“Lucky you.” The DJ is still looking around. “Shame you’re selling.”
“Well, life goes on.” She shrugs. “Can’t live in a musty old house forever.”
Musty old house? I feel a stab of hurt on behalf of Greenoaks. It is not musty. Well, OK, it is musty in places. But that’s not its fault.
“Where are you off to, then?” says the DJ.
“Portugal’s the plan,” she informs him. “Get a bit of sun…new life…Forget all this.”
“Life of leisure, eh?” He laughs.
“Leisure?” retorts Krista. “Not likely! I want to open a restaurant. Mexican-themed. If I can persuade my other half,” she adds meaningfully.
A Mexican restaurant? I haven’t heard this plan. My head suddenly fills with a surreal image of Dad serving fajitas, wearing a poncho.
No. Just no.