He shouldn’t be so attractive and be a doctor and be so oblivious of his looks, I think, watching him morosely. That shouldn’t be allowed.
“Yup,” he’s saying. “No, you’d laugh.”
Who would laugh? I wonder jealously before I can stop myself. That beautiful girl he was pictured with in the Daily Mail? The one who was “flaunting” her legs in a perfectly normal skirt?
Joe’s been checking out the name cards on the table, but now he pauses.
“Yes, well, she is.” He hesitates. “I saw her. Hiding in a rosebush, would you believe?…No. No idea.”
I stare at him, unable to move. My head is prickling all over. Hiding in a rosebush. That’s me. He’s discussing me.
“Well, how do you think I reacted?” He sounds tense, and instinctively I crane forward, because I want to know the answer myself. “How do I feel about her? I…I think I feel—” He breaks off for an unbearable pause and rubs his brow. “Essentially the same way.”
Breathlessly, I wait for him to elaborate. But he just listens a few moments more, then says, “I’d better go. Yup, see you. Thanks. Appreciate it.” He puts his phone away and I peer at him for further clues, my heart hammering despite myself.
The same way as what? As what? I’m so consumed by trying to read his face that, as he walks away, I lean farther forward than I mean to, and suddenly, to my horror, I lose my balance. As I topple inelegantly from under the tapestry cloth, I cry out, then clap my hand over my mouth and gaze desperately up at Joe, who looks flabbergasted.
“What the—”
“Shh!” I whisper. “Shhhh! Forget you saw me. I’m not here.”
Cursing myself, I crawl hastily back under the tapestry cloth and readjust it. When I’m safely concealed again, I peek out—and Joe’s still standing right there, staring at the console table, his mouth open. Honestly. He’ll give me away.
Go away! I mouth, and motion for him to leave. He swivels away and takes a few steps, but a moment later my phone buzzes with a WhatsApp:
WTF???
Without missing a beat, I send a reply:
Pay no attention to that girl behind the curtain.
I know he’ll get the Wizard of Oz reference, because once, when we were kids, we played a game with forfeits. His was to watch The Wizard of Oz twice through with me. Which he duly did, and we took to quoting it at each other for a while. Sure enough, he sends a new WhatsApp:
Why is the great and powerful Effie hiding under a table?
At once, I type my response:
I told you, I’m on a mission.
Then, biting my lip, I add a follow-up, trying to make it sound heartfelt.
Seriously, please don’t tell anyone. Please.
I send it, then risk a tiny peek around the side of the tapestry. Joe is facing away, but as though he can sense me, he swivels back. As he sees me peeping out, his mouth twitches, but his face stays grave. He puts a finger to his lips and slowly nods. For a few moments, neither of us moves. His dark, steady gaze is impossible to read. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Except that he was thinking about me.
And that he still has feelings about me.
Of some sort.
Essentially the same way. My stomach churns as I consider all the different ways he could feel about me. He must know I overheard him just now. Will I ever find out what he meant?
Footsteps sound from the hall, breaking the spell, and I blink, coming to my senses. I’ve let him get under my skin. Which is a mistake. Why am I even interested in Joe Murran’s opinion? So what if he was talking about me on the phone? Who cares what he feels about me?
I need to get this message across to him. And luckily my face is pretty expressive. We’re still gazing at each other, and slowly I transform my demeanor into one of steely antagonism. I can see him frown with slight puzzlement at my change of expression, and I mentally high-five myself. That’ll show him.
I’m feeling cross for wondering about Joe’s view of me. He’s not worthy of my curiosity. And that is what I will say to him, if I get the chance—
“Joe!” We both start as Krista greets him, and I duck hastily back behind the tapestry, talking sternly to myself. Come on, Effie, get a grip. I need to stop fixating on Joe, focus on my mission, and find a comfortable sitting position. The night is still young, and I’ve got a whole bloody dinner party to get through.
OK, my biggest problem is the dog. Which I did not foresee.
It was Lacey, Krista’s sister, who brought Bambi into the dining room, holding him under her arm like a clutch bag. In fact, he looks even more like a clutch bag than usual tonight, because of his sparkly party collar, which I must admit is quite cute.