“You can’t fool us!” says Krista with a knowing smile. “Yes, please clear the plates,” she adds to a hovering waiter.
Conversation lulls as the waiters remove the starter plates, then come in with plates of beef. There’s some kind of fragrant sauce served with it, and I don’t know what spice is in it—cloves? nutmeg?—but the smell instantly takes me back to Christmas. Christmas in this house. As the guests start eating, murmuring to one another and exclaiming over the food, it could almost be us again, the Talbots, sitting round the table, wearing paper hats and laughing. Mimi still in her apron, because she always forgot to take it off when she sat down. It became a family joke. We called aprons “Christmas dresses.” And there was the year we gave Mimi one as a surprise, all decorated with red tinsel. She loved it so much, she wore it for years.
I suppose that joke’s gone now, I think, with a kind of crunching sadness. Or, at least, I don’t know where it lives anymore. Not with Mimi—she never talks about the past. Not here either. All the jokes, the family fables, the silly slang and traditions that only we understood. Have they been divided up like the furniture? Or are they all in a box somewhere?
Then, into my mind creeps another childhood memory. I hid here, under this very console table, one Christmas Day! I’d completely forgotten—but now it all comes flooding back. I was about seven and I’d had a fight with Bean over her cracker gift. （Should I now admit the truth? I did break her yo-yo.） I slithered down from my chair in tears and hid here, half ashamed, half sulking. And after about ten minutes Dad came to join me.
It was a magical little moment we had, father and daughter, hiding under the table from the rest of the family. He made me laugh with his opening gambit: “Isn’t Christmas awful? You’re very clever to escape, Effie.” Then he sang a series of carols, getting all the words deliberately wrong. And then, when I was in fits of giggles, he asked if I wanted to bring in the Christmas pudding after he set it alight.
Which, thinking back, was surely a fire risk? Should seven-year-olds carry flaming plates? Well, whatever—I did it. I still remember that careful procession in from the kitchen, mesmerized by the blue flames, by my huge importance. It made me feel on top of the world. Effie Talbot, fire goddess.
Dad’s laugh breaks my thoughts, and I breathe out shakily, coming back to the present day. My heart is well and truly scrambled. How have things come to this? Back on that Christmas Day, I hid in here with my dad. Now I’m hiding from him. From everyone.
“Of course, Effie was one of Joe’s girlfriends, once upon a time.” Krista’s voice distracts me from my thoughts and I look up, blinking. “She’ll be in the Daily Mail next!”
“I don’t think so,” says Joe tonelessly, and I feel myself prickle, although I’m not sure why. Does he mean I’m not attractive enough to be in the Daily Mail? I see him glance down toward my hiding place and immediately stiffen. He’d better not give me away.
“And, Humph, I understand you used to date Effie too?” Lacey chimes in provocatively. “Popular girl! Such a shame she’s not here. You two could fight a duel over her!”
“With all due respect, Lacey,” says Humph in reproving tones, “I’m not sure that’s a very feminist thing to suggest?”
“Are you a feminist now, Humph?” says Joe, in a strange voice. “That’s…new.”
“All Spinken practitioners are feminists,” says Humph, sounding offended.
“Well, I still think you’d fight a duel if Effie was here,” says Lacey, unabashed. “Is it too late to get her here? Call her up, Krista!”
Oh my God. She’s not going to call me right now, is she? I glance down in panic, just to make sure my phone’s on silent. But in my next breath, I realize I don’t have to worry. Krista would never do that in a million years.
“Wouldn’t work,” says Krista briskly. “I begged her to come tonight, didn’t I, Tony? I emailed her, ‘You know what, Effie, my love? This is the last party at Greenoaks. You’ll regret staying away. You’re only cutting off your nose to spite your face.’？”
I’m almost breathless with shock. She did not email any such thing!
“But you know Effie,” concludes Krista. “Goes her own sweet way. It’s a shame, but there it is.”
“Is she the problem child of the family, then?” asks Lacey, with interest.
“I wouldn’t say she’s the problem child exactly, but…” begins Dad with an easy laugh, and my heart constricts.