The Party Crasher(2)

  “No, not yet.”

  “Only I brought some extra wrapping paper, just in case you needed it, and ribbon. I’ve ordered the hamper for Aunt Ginny, by the way,” she adds. “I’ll tell you what you owe me.”

  “Bean, you’re brilliant,” I say fondly. Which she is. She’s always thinking ahead. She’s always getting stuff done.

  “Oh, and something else.” Bean delves into her bag as we reach the landing. “They had a three-for-two offer.”

  She hands me a vitamin D spray, and I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. Bean is turning into this crazed health-and-safety officer. Last year she kept getting me cod-liver-oil capsules, and before that it was green tea powder.

      “Bean, you don’t need to buy me vitamins! I mean, thanks,” I add belatedly.

  We head into her room and I look around it affectionately. It’s been the same since I can remember, with the hand-painted furniture she’s had since she was five—twin white wooden beds, a chest, wardrobe, and dressing table—all decorated with Peter Rabbit. Throughout our childhood she kept intending to upgrade to something cooler, but she could never quite bear to say goodbye to it, so it’s still here. I associate it so strongly with her, I can’t even see Peter Rabbit without thinking Bean.

  “Did you think of inviting Dominic along today?” asks Bean as she’s opening up her iPad, and I feel a glow at the sound of his name.

  “No, it’s a bit early for ‘meet the family.’ We’ve only had a few dates.”

  “But good dates?”

  “Yes, good dates.” I smile happily.

  “Excellent. OK, here we go…” She sets up her iPad on the dressing table and we both watch a whizzy title sequence reading The one and only…Tony Talbot! A still photo appears next, of Dad in his local Layton-on-Sea paper when he was eleven and won a maths prize. Next comes a graduation photo, followed by a wedding photo with our birth mother, Alison.

  I gaze at her pretty, wide-eyed face, feeling the weird sense of disconnect I always do when I see pictures of her, wishing I could feel more of a bond. I was only eight months old when she died and three when Dad married Mimi. It’s Mimi I remember singing to me when I was ill, baking cakes in the kitchen, being there, always. Mimi’s my mum. It’s different for Bean and Gus—they have dim memories of Alison. Whereas I have nothing except family resemblance, which, to be fair, I have big-time. We all take after her, with our wide faces, strong cheekbones, and eyes set well apart. I look permanently startled, and Bean’s big blue eyes always seem questioning. Meanwhile, Gus generally looks absent, as though he’s not paying attention. (Which is because he never is.)

      A series of old home videos begins on the screen, and I lean forward to watch. There’s Dad holding a baby Bean…a family picnic…Dad building a sandcastle for a toddler Gus…then a video I’ve seen before: Dad walking up to the door of Greenoaks and theatrically opening it, the day it became ours. He’s often said it was one of the biggest moments of his life to buy a house like this—“a boy from Layton-on-Sea made good,” as he puts it.

  Because Greenoaks isn’t just any old house. It’s amazing. It has character. It has a turret! It has a stained-glass window. Visitors often call it “eccentric” or “quirky” or just exclaim, “Wow!”

  And OK, yes, there might be those very few mean, misguided people who call it “ugly.” But they are blind and wrong. The first time I ever overheard Greenoaks described as a “monstrosity,” by a strange woman in the village shop, I was shocked to my core. My eleven-year-old heart burned with indignation. I’d never come across an architectural snob before; I didn’t know they existed. And I passionately loved everything about my home, everything that this unknown mean grown-up was mocking. From the so-called “ugly brickwork”—it is not ugly—to the mound. The mound is a slightly random steep hill that we have in the garden, to one side of the house. The woman laughed at that, too, and I wanted to yell, Well, it’s brilliant for bonfires, so there!

      Instead, I stalked out of the shop, throwing a resentful glance at Mrs. McAdam, who ran it. To her credit, she looked a bit shocked to see me and called out, “Effie, love, did you want to buy anything?” But I didn’t turn back, and I still don’t know who that mocking stranger was.

  Ever since then, I’ve watched people’s reactions to Greenoaks with a close eye. I’ve seen them step back and gulp as they survey it and scrabble for positive things to say. I’m not saying it’s a test of their character—but it’s a test of their character. Anyone who can’t find a single nice comment to make about Greenoaks is a mean snob and dead to me.

  “Effie, look, it’s you!” exclaims Bean, as a new video appears on the screen, and I peer at the toddler me, staggering around the lawn, holding an eight-year-old Bean’s hand. “Never mind, Effie,” she says cheerfully, as I tumble down. “Try again!” Mimi always says Bean taught me to walk. And ride a bike. And plait my hair.

  We’ve scooted straight past the dark year of Alison’s death, I register silently. This video is just of the happy times. Well, why not? Dad doesn’t need to be reminded of that. He found happiness with Mimi and he’s been content ever since.