“She doesn’t pinch your cheek!” I laugh.
“She pinched my cheek once,” concedes Joe. “As a ‘joke,’ she said. I never let her forget it. My point is, you get cast in a role and it can be hard to escape. Baby of the family. Patriarch. Whatever.”
“Nation’s heartthrob,” I can’t resist retorting, and he nods, his eyebrows raised ironically.
“Nation’s heartthrob.”
I eye him silently, mapping his familiar, real-life face onto the face that sometimes pops up in the media. I still can’t relate Joe—my Joe—with “Dr. Joe, national treasure.”
“Some people are born into roles,” says Joe, as though reading my mind. “Others have roles thrust upon them. You know, I wasn’t even supposed to do that interview? I was a last-minute substitute.”
“It must be…fun, though?” I venture. “The fame? All those people in love with you?”
“It was shocking at first,” says Joe. “It felt ridiculous. Mad. Then it was interesting for about twenty minutes.” He shrugs. “But then it became a barrier to what I really want.”
It’s my cue to ask what he really wants, but something’s stopping me. Maybe pride. I used to know what Joe really wanted. Or at least I thought I did. But that’s all over, I remind myself furiously. Over.
“You split up with your girlfriend,” I say, almost brusquely, wanting suddenly to establish where we stand. “I read about it in the papers. Sorry. That must have been hard.”
“Thanks.” He nods.
“Can I ask why? Or is that too personal?”
“I guess I just annoyed her,” says Joe, after some thought.
“You annoyed her?”
“I guess.” His voice is toneless, and I stare at him, baffled.
“What annoyed her? Leaving the cap off the toothpaste? The way you slurp your tea? Because you don’t seem like a very annoying person. I mean, you annoy me,” I add, “but that’s different. That’s specific.”
Joe shoots me the kind of wry grin that used to make my heart twist around itself. That still does, truth be told.
“What annoyed her?” he says musingly, as though beginning a philosophical treatise. “Well, I guess most of all, although she would never admit it, were my levels of anxiety. My ‘inability to function like a proper human being,’ as she once charmingly put it. Maybe the toothpaste thing too,” he adds after a beat. “Who knows?”
I gaze at him in confusion. Joe? Anxiety? What’s he on about?
“You don’t know,” he adds, catching my expression. “I wasn’t well for a time. I guess it’s ongoing,” he amends. “But I manage it.”
I’m so stunned, I can’t speak. If you’d asked me to describe Joe Murran, I would have reeled off the words easily: Selfish. Handsome. Talented. Cruel. Unfathomable.
But anxious? That would never have figured.
“I’m sorry,” I say at last. “I had no idea, Joe. No idea.”
“It’s fine. One of those things.”
I’m trying to match up the mental image of Joe I’ve been holding on to all this time with the new version in front of me. Anxiety. I thought he was made of tungsten. What happened?
The party music is still thudding through the ceiling of our musty space. All the years that Joe and I have known each other seem to be passing through my head like a video. All those hours spent together, playing, talking, laughing, lovemaking…I should know him by now, surely. I should know the secret, vulnerable corners of his brain. Shouldn’t I? But, then, he did always keep part of himself hidden away, I remind myself. As though he couldn’t trust it with anyone, not even me.
“Are you with someone?” asks Joe, as though wanting to push the conversation away from himself. “You were with a guy called Dominic.”
“Oh, Dominic.” I wince as I remember myself telling Joe how utterly perfect Dominic was. “No. He was…Anyway. No. There’s no one.”
We both sip our drinks again, the music still thudding. Then Joe breaks the silence.
“You said you’re here at Greenoaks on a mission, Effie.” His eyes crinkle. “Can I be of assistance?”
“No,” I say, more shortly than I mean to. “Thanks.”
Joe may have helped me out. And he may be a lot more vulnerable than I realized. But that doesn’t mean we’re reconciled or that I’m ready to confide in him.