The Party Crasher(3)

  The buzzer rings, and Bean ignores it, but I look up, alert. I’m expecting a parcel with Mimi’s Christmas present in it. I arranged for it to arrive today especially, and I don’t want Mimi opening it by mistake.

      “Bean,” I say, pressing pause on the iPad screen, “will you come to the gate with me? I think that’s Mimi’s sewing cabinet arriving, and I want to bring it in secretly. But it’s quite big.”

  “Sure,” says Bean, closing the video down. “So, what do you think?”

  “Amazing,” I say emphatically. “Dad’s going to love it.”

  As we hurry down the stairs, Mimi is winding greenery around the banister. She looks up and smiles at us, but her face seems a bit strained. Perhaps she needs a holiday.

  “I’ll get the gate,” I say hurriedly. “It’s probably a package.”

  “Thanks, Effie, love,” says Mimi in her distinctive, soft, comforting Irish brogue. She’s wearing an Indian block-print dress, and her hair is caught back in a hand-painted wooden clasp. As I watch, she ties a deft knot with red velvet ribbon, and, needless to say, nothing collapses. Typical.

  As Bean and I crunch over the gravel drive to the big iron gates, the afternoon air is already taking on a wintery, dusky gloom. A white van is parked outside the gates, and a guy with a shaved head is holding a cardboard box.

  “That can’t be it,” I say. “Too small.”

  “Delivery for the Old Rectory,” says the guy as we open the pedestrian gate. “They’re not in. Mind taking it?”

  “Sure,” says Bean, reaching for it, and she’s about to scribble on his device when I grab her hand, stopping her.

  “Wait! Don’t just sign. I signed for a package for my neighbor and it was this glass vase which was broken, and they couldn’t get a refund because I’d signed, and they blamed me—” I stop breathlessly. “We need to check it first.”

      “It’s fine,” says the guy impatiently, and I feel my hackles rise.

  “You don’t know that.”

  I rip the lid open and draw out the invoice paper.

  “Yoga sculpture,” I read. “Assembly included.” I look up, feeling vindicated. “You see? It’s not fine! You’re supposed to assemble it.”

  “I’m not assembling nothing,” says the guy, giving a revolting sniff.

  “You have to,” I point out. “It says so on the paper. Assembly included.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Assemble it!” I insist. “We’re not signing for it till you do.”

  The guy glowers at me silently for a moment, rubbing his shaved head, then says, “You’re a stubborn pain in the arse. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Yes,” I reply, folding my arms. “Everyone.”

  “It’s true.” Bean nods, grinning. “You’d better assemble it. What’s a yoga statue, anyway?” she adds to me, and I shrug, nonplussed.

  “I’ll get my tools,” says the guy, now glowering at both of us. “But this is bollocks.”

  “It’s called being a good citizen,” I retort.

  After a minute he returns with his tools and we watch curiously as, with impatient huffs, he starts screwing together metal parts into…What is that, exactly? It’s some kind of representation of a person…no, two people, male and female, and they seem to slot together…What are they doing…?

      Hang on.

  Oh my God. My stomach rolls over and I glance at Bean, who seems transfixed. Does “yoga sculpture” actually mean “X-rated sex sculpture”?

  Okaaay. Yes, it does.

  And, quite frankly, I’m shocked! Andrew and Jane Martin wear matching padded waistcoats. They exhibit dahlias at the summer fete. How can they have ordered this?

  “Is his hand meant to go on her tit or her bum?” the guy queries, looking up. “There’s no instructions.”

  “I’m…not sure,” I manage.

  “Oh my God.” Bean comes to life as the guy pulls the final, most graphic male body part out of the box. “No! No way. Could you please stop a moment?” she adds shrilly to the guy. Then she turns to me and says in an agitated undertone, “We can’t take this round to the Martins. I’ll never be able to look them in the eye again!”

  “Me neither!”

  “We didn’t see this. OK, Effie? We did not see this.”

  “Agreed,” I say fervently. “Um, excuse me?” I turn back to the guy. “Slight change of plan. Do you think you could pack it all up again and put it back in the box?”

  “You are bleeding joking,” says the guy incredulously.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, in humble tones. “We didn’t know what it was.”

  “Thank you for your trouble,” adds Bean hastily. “And happy Christmas!” She reaches in her jeans pocket and finds a crumpled tenner, which mollifies the delivery guy slightly.