“Great.”
“And you? Still aiming toward heart surgery?”
I speak with deliberate vagueness, as though I’m not quite sure what stage of his medical career he’s at. As though I didn’t once sit with him, helping him study, till two in the morning.
“That’s the plan.” He nods. “Getting there.”
“Great.”
We lapse into silence, Joe’s brow knitted in one of his customary intent frowns.
“What about…” he begins at last. “Are you…with anyone?”
His words are like salt on sore skin. What’s it to him? Why should he be interested? You don’t get to ask about my love life, Joe Murran, I want to retort hotly. But that would be giving myself away. Also, I have something to boast about.
“Yes, I am with someone, actually,” I say, putting on my most dreamy expression. “He’s really great. So great. Good-looking, successful, kind, reliable…” I add pointedly.
“Not Humph?” says Joe warily, and I feel a flicker of annoyance. Why does he have to bring up Humph? I went out with Humphrey Pelham-Taylor for three weeks as an act of revenge on Joe, and yes, it was petty, and yes, I regret it. But does he really think that Humph and I would ever have been a thing?
“No, not Humph,” I say with elaborate patience. “His name’s Dominic. He’s an engineer. We met online and it’s going brilliantly. We’re so well matched. You know when it just works?”
“Great,” says Joe, after a long pause. “That’s…I’m glad.”
He doesn’t look glad. In fact, he looks kind of tormented. But that’s not my problem, I tell myself firmly. And he probably isn’t tormented at all. I thought I knew Joe Murran once, but I clearly didn’t.
“Are you with anyone?” I ask politely.
“No,” says Joe at once. “I’m…No.”
We lapse into another silence, during which Joe hunches his shoulders, his hands thrust into his coat pockets.
This conversation really isn’t working. I take a few deep breaths of the crisp winter air and feel sadness overcome me. On that awful night, two and a half years ago now, I didn’t just lose the love of my life. I lost the friend I’d had since we were both five years old. Joe grew up here; his mum is still headmistress of the village school. We were playmates. Then teenage boyfriend and girlfriend. Together through university. Young adults, planning to make a life together.
But now we’re…what? Barely able to look each other in the eye.
“Well,” says Joe at last. “Happy Christmas.”
“Same. Happy Christmas.”
I watch as he walks away, then turn and trudge back across the drive to the house, to find Bean hovering outside the front door.
“Are you OK, Effie?” she asks anxiously. “Whenever you see Joe, you get all…prickly.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Let’s go in.”
I’ve never told Bean about that night. Some things are just too raw to share. In fact, I try not to think about it, full stop.
I need to focus on the here and now, I tell myself. All the good things. Decorating the tree. Christmas around the corner. All the family gathered together at Greenoaks. Feeling lighter already, I follow Bean inside, shutting the door firmly against the weather. I look forward to this day every single year, and I’m not letting anything spoil it. Least of all Joe Murran.
* * *
—
An hour later, my spirits are even higher, which might have something to do with the two glasses of mulled wine I’ve downed. We’ve finished the Christmas tree and are assembled in the kitchen around a propped-up iPad, watching the video that Bean and Gus made for Dad. I’m curled up in the ancient wicker chair in the corner in a contented haze, watching myself, aged four, in a smocked flowery dress made by Mimi. It’s a summer’s day on the screen and I’m sitting on a rug on the lawn, unstacking my Russian dolls and showing each one carefully to Dad.
I turn to see if Dad’s enjoying it and he smiles back from his chair, toasting me with his glass of mulled wine. That’s a typical charming Dad gesture. My best friend, Temi, thinks Dad should have been an actor, and I know what she means. He has looks and poise and people are naturally drawn to him.
“Ephelant, you were adorable when you were little,” says Bean fondly. My whole family calls me “Ephelant” when they’re not calling me Effie—it was my baby-word for elephant. No one ever calls me by my proper name, Euphemia （thank God） but then, no one calls Bean Beatrice, either, or Gus Augustus.