I watch her tensely through the wooden lattice of a chair back, trying to work out which way she’s going to move next. But to my surprise, she looks furtively around the room, as though checking she’s alone. Then, to my horror, she peels up her tight body-con dress. She grabs hold of the waistband of her Spanx and breathes out with a groan.
Please. Not Krista’s Spanx again. What did I do to deserve this? I don’t dare look away, in case she makes a sudden move toward me, so I’m compelled to watch the ghastly spectacle. Her face is intent, as though she’s coming to some momentous decision—then she starts hauling off her Spanx completely. Argh. No! This isn’t happening. This is—
I breathe out as I realize she’s wearing a nude thong underneath. Could be worse. Could be a lot worse.
As she releases her streaky fake-tanned stomach from its elastic confines, she groans again, in what sounds like massive relief. From the effort it took her to get them off, it’s clear that her Spanx are about two sizes too small. No wonder they hurt. She’s holding them, panting from her efforts, still with her dress hoiked right up, when footsteps sound and the DJ’s voice says, “Krista?”
At once, Krista stiffens in panic. Laughter swells up inside me and I desperately cram a fist into my mouth. I’m biting my knuckles, trying to keep silent, as Krista tugs her dress back down, looks around feverishly, then chucks her Spanx into a big blue pot on the sideboard, just as the DJ comes into view.
“Oh, hi!” she greets him, her voice only slightly more shrill than usual. I can’t help admiring her cool. （Also—quick moment of female solidarity—she looks fine. That dress is solidly constructed. She didn’t need Spanx in the first place.）
“Quick question about the playlist?” he says. “I’ve scribbled down some thoughts in the kitchen if you didn’t mind having a look…”
Krista’s eyes swivel briefly to the blue pot on the sideboard and away again.
“Of course.” She smiles brightly at the DJ and follows him out.
The moment she’s gone, I scamper along, still on all fours, till I reach the console table. Once I’m safely hidden behind the tapestry cloth again, I exhale, my heart thudding. This is stressful. But at least I have food now. I sink my teeth into one of the bread rolls and start chewing vigorously.
“…obviously he’s busy, but even so—”
“I know. Does anyone talk to Dad anymore?”
I lift my head, alert. That sounds like Gus and Bean. I move toward the edge of the tapestry cloth, wondering if I dare peep out.
“It’s impossible.” Bean is sighing. “I can’t seem to get to him for a proper conversation.”
“Same,” agrees Gus. “Every time I try his mobile, it gets picked up by Krista. She’s like his henchman. She says he’ll ring back, but of course he never does.”
“Me too!” exclaims Bean. “Exactly!”
“What about Effie?”
“She says she can’t remember when she last spoke to him. Says she’s been busy.” Bean sighs again. “But I don’t think that’s the whole story. I think things are still tense between them.”
Their footsteps pause and I imagine Gus perching on the arm of a sofa, like he always does.
“That situation’s so fucked up,” he says gloomily. “It really is a shame Effie isn’t here. Everyone was asking after her.”
“Er…yes,” says Bean, sounding strangled. “It’s…a shame she didn’t come. I haven’t seen her at all. Not for ages.”
Is that the best she can do? She’s a terrible liar. If Gus wasn’t so absentminded, he’d pick up on it at once.
“Have you seen Effie’s Russian dolls, by the way?” Bean adds. “She was looking for them.”
“No,” says Gus. “Sorry.”
“I reckon they might be in the window seat,” says Bean thoughtfully. “I’ll wait till the DJ’s gone, then have a look.”
Now they’re coming toward me. I angle my head so that I can peek round the side of the cloth, and I see their approaching feet.
“Wow,” says Gus, coming to a halt in front of the dining table.
“I know,” says Bean. “Krista’s new hobby is tablescaping. Apparently the theme is Versailles.”
“Why Versailles?” says Gus, sounding baffled.
“No idea. Help me light the candles, will you? Krista asked me to.” I hear the sound of two matches being struck, and gradually, infinitesimally, the lighting of the room becomes more mellow.