I pull out my phone to text her but then hear a familiar voice exclaiming, “For God’s sake!”
“Are you OK?” I hurry to the gap in the floorboards and peer down the loft ladder, to see Bean standing in the spare room, grappling with a bottle and three glasses.
“How am I supposed to get drinks up there?” she says, looking ruffled. “How did we manage it?”
“Dunno. We just did. Here, hand them to me. Be quick, someone’ll see you!”
In a couple of minutes, Bean and the drinks are safely up in the attic, and she’s looking around in wonderment.
“I haven’t been here for years,” she says, poking at a moth-eaten cushion. “It’s pretty grotty, isn’t it?”
“It’s not grotty!” I say, feeling hurt on the Bar’s behalf. “It’s characterful.”
“Well, I won’t miss it.”
“Well, I will.”
“Effie, you miss everything,” says Bean with fond exasperation. “Every brick, every cobweb, every tiny moment we ever had here.”
“They were good moments,” I say mutinously. “Of course I miss them.”
As Bean’s pouring out three glasses of white wine, Gus appears up the ladder and looks around in apparent stupefaction.
“This place!”
“I know, right?” says Bean. “I haven’t been here for, what, a decade? Come and have a drink. We need to talk.” Gus hoists himself up, shuts the trapdoor, takes a glass of wine, and finds a seat on the sofa.
“Cheers.” He raises his glass, takes a sip, then turns to me. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming. Aren’t you on a date with an Olympic athlete?”
“That was all made up,” I admit. “I’ve been here all along. But I’m unofficial. Don’t tell anyone. Only you and Bean know. And Joe.”
“Joe knows?”
“She was under the console table, listening to everything during dinner,” says Bean, and Gus splutters on his wine.
“What?”
“It was pretty entertaining,” I say.
“But why?” says Gus incredulously. “Why not just come to the party?”
“I didn’t want to come to the party,” I say patiently. “I only came to get my Russian dolls. I was just going to pop in and out. But I ended up staying.”
“That’s why you were talking about the Russian dolls.” He looks at Bean. “You could have warned me. Effs nearly gave me a heart attack when she popped out in the bathroom!”
“It was the only way to get to you!” I say defensively. “You weren’t checking your phone!”
“Well, lucky for you I wasn’t in the bath. Or far, far worse.” He makes a terrible, comical face. “So, have you found your dolls yet?”
“No. Have you seen them, Gus?” I can’t help querying, even though I know Bean’s already asked him. “You remember what they look like?”
“Of course I do,” says Gus. “Who doesn’t know Effie’s Russian dolls? But I haven’t seen them. Not for years. They’re not in the window seat, by the way. I had a look, before I went up. Got the DJ to move his stuff. It was empty.”
“Really?” I gaze at him in dismay. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Sorry, Effs. But they’ll be somewhere, I bet.”
“That’s what I said,” chimes in Bean. “I know I’ve seen them around the house.”
But where? I think in despair. Where?
“Thanks anyway, Gus,” I say, and he nods back. There’s not a hint of suspicion in his face: I don’t think he has any idea I saw him with that pregnancy test. It’s etched on my mind, though, and I can see the strain beneath his relaxed veneer.
“Well, let’s have a proper toast. To what?” Gus raises his drink aloft.
“To new beginnings,” suggests Bean, and I have a sudden, awful fear that she’s going to add something about Gus and Romilly splitting up and how marvelous that will be, so I quickly interject, “To being honest with your siblings.”
“Right,” says Gus, looking confused. “Who’s not being honest?”
“Well, that depends on how you answer the following question.” I fix him with a narrowed gaze. “What’s going on, Gus? I heard you talking about ‘charges’ downstairs, so if you’re going to prison, you’d better let us know.”