by Jane Fallon
She tells me that she and Ben have been together for twenty-three years (‘late starters, we were both so focussed on work’), married for twenty-one, one child – Daisy – who is now at Cambridge, hence the desire for another presence around the place.
‘It’s so quiet without her. I mean, there was only one of her, but the house felt full when she was here, you know …’
‘I do.’ I know exactly what she means. Just knowing your child is sleeping in the next room makes a home feel alive. Makes it feel like a home.
‘There are a few children on The Close, so Betsy will have someone to play with when she comes to stay. Jan and Roman at number 5 have a daughter, but actually, she’s quite a bit older. Nearly Daisy’s age. The couple at number 1 have a baby, although it’s still tiny, I think. They don’t mix much. Stella and Al across the street have two girls. Eight and ten going on eighteen and twenty. Oh, that reminds me …’ She looks at me with an amused expression on her face. ‘Stella told me I was crazy to invite a newly divorced woman to move in. She thinks you’ll be after all our husbands …’
‘What?’ I explode. Though I’ve noticed that since David and I split up invitations from our couple friends have dwindled. I put it down to them feeling uneasy about which one of us their loyalties ought to lie with, but maybe I’m suddenly viewed as some kind of potential predatory man-stealer, just by virtue of finding myself on my own.
Gail laughs. ‘Don’t worry. No one’s taking her seriously.’
I manage a smile. ‘She sounds nice.’
‘She actually is. But she’s Al’s trophy wife – what can I say? Eleven years younger than him. Well, except that they’re not married yet. Wedding of the century coming up. They’ve been together years, though. He was married to someone else when they met, blah blah blah. You get the picture.’
‘Ah, so he’s got form.’
‘Exactly. So I imagine now she’s paranoid about the same thing happening to her.’
‘Is she the one right opposite? Peter Stringfellow’s dream woman, if she was fifteen years younger?’
Gail laughs. ‘That’s her. She’s harmless. In fact, I really like her. She has a good heart. Al, not so much, but anyway. I’ll introduce you to them when I get the chance.’ She looks at her wrist, on which there’s an actual watch, not a fitness device. It looks weirdly quaint. ‘Oh, I should eat something. Do you fancy staying?’
I glance at the clock. It’s twenty past eight. Somehow, we’ve chatted for over an hour and a half. ‘Gosh, no. I should go. I promised Betsy we’d FaceTime before she went to bed. Thanks, though.’
Gail stands up and gives me a hug. ‘Well, welcome to The Close.’
I feel a bit bad leaving her to rattle around in her 10,000-square-foot mansion on her own (who am I kidding? I’m sure I’d get used to it. I could get a skateboard and practise in the hallway). My studio at least feels cosy. Probably because half of it is still taken up by boxes. I forgot to ask Gail when to put the recycling out. I haven’t even caught sight of a bin yet. I imagine The Close is not the sort of place where they’re left outside all week. I don’t want to be marked down as an anarchist by leaving the recyclables on the kerb on a Monday.
Betsy answers on the second ring, looking scrubbed and shiny in her favourite yellow spotty pyjamas. My heart lurches at the thought that this is my new reality. Even when I find a new home for the two of us, even when she has a bedroom of her own next to mine, there are still going to be nights like these, when the only access I’ll have to my daughter is through a screen.
‘Hi, Mummy.’ I’m ‘Mum’ at least fifty per cent of the time these days, so I’m pathetically grateful for those two extra letters. I settle down on the sofa, ready to hear about her day.
I hardly sleep at all. It’s too quiet. I’m used to the sounds of cars and the occasional shouty drunk. At about half past three I give in and get up to make myself a cup of tea. The kitchen end of my living space looks out over The Close and I feel exposed standing there when everything outside is so black, as if anyone could be out there watching me, so I turn the light off and boil the kettle in the dark. There are no streetlamps. At one point the house opposite lights up like a fairground ride and I gasp, half expecting to see balaclava’d burglars scaling the walls, but then a lanky fox saunters casually down the front path, stopping and looking right at me before racing off along the middle of the street and into the woods. The light snaps off again. I can see why Gail gets nervous here when she’s alone.
I take my tea back to bed and lie there wondering what happens now. I’ve already decided I need to throw myself into my work, not just as a distraction but because I do need to drum up some more business. It’s been ticking over for years, but it’s hardly been a money-making machine. And the competition is fierce, especially now that cleaning is the new baking. There are TV shows dedicated to how to do it to perfection and achieve Zen-like levels of mindfulness at the same time. Although I guarantee Mrs Hinch has never had to mop up vomit from round the urinals after an office Christmas party. That’ll kill anyone’s buzz. Now I’m a single mum and, despite the fact that I know David will always be fair, our expenses have doubled. Two households. Two mortgages, once I find my house. The spring is always my busiest time – we can make enough extra on top of our regular office contracts to carry us through the leaner times in the winter. I have to get out there every day, capitalize on that. Part of the reason I agreed to Betsy’s current living arrangements was so that I would have no excuse – precious little else to do; I hardly have a bulging social calendar. David and I shared our life outside of work, but there’s no doubt that our friends were made up more of his pals and their other halves than mine. And even after eleven years that seems to matter. His oldest mates – mostly from uni – were all still in London, still a tight bunch, whereas mine were scattered across the country. None of us even considered staying in Derby once our college days were over. They’re out there somewhere, they’re just not a cohesive group. And it’s always been hard to add someone random I’ve met along the way – a work colleague, a neighbour, another mum – to such a closed shop. That’s something else I need to address. I curse myself for letting old friendships dwindle away. Tell myself that tomorrow I’ll start making an effort. It’s time to move on with my life.
2
My Corsa is still the only car parked out on the street. I assume none of the annexe-dwelling nannies and housekeepers have transport of their own, or else they’re being paid enough to drive one of the many Bentleys and BMWs on the cobbled forecourts. To make matters worse, mine has ‘Sunshine Cleaning’ emblazoned on the side in cheerful orange letters, along with the website address and phone number. It’s classy – what can I say?
I look around self-consciously as I beep the doors unlocked. Lean into the passenger side to deposit my bag on the seat. I always carry a bag of epic proportions. I have no idea what’s in it beyond my phone and keys. Certainly nothing I need on a daily basis. I hear the clop-clop of high-heeled shoes and look up to see Stella, the woman from the house opposite, heading to her shiny vehicle. Today she’s in eye-wateringly tight skinny jeans, huge heels and a smart checked fitted jacket. The abundant hair is in a loose, effortless (for which read it took hours or she got someone else to do it) half up, half down style. Up close, I see she has the blank, smooth, high-cheeked look of someone who knows her way around the inside of a surgeon’s office. Her oversized lips pout puffily. Despite the fact that I know she’s wary of me, I smile and wave and start to say, ‘Hello’, but stop short when she blanks me. Maybe she just didn’t see me. I lower my hand and pretend to look occupied. She revs up the engine like she’s a teenage drag-racer and glides out of the drive while looking down at her phone. Still, at least I tried.
Angie, my longest-serving employee, has emailed me a stock update for each building, so I fill in the gaps at the warehouse (nine bottles of bleach for the price of six! What a time to be alive!) and drive to the first of our regulars –
a four-storey seventies block near Lord’s Cricket Ground housing a different company on each floor, which have miraculously all got together and agreed to use the services of Sunshine Cleaning. They have a small car park out the front and I open the entrance door with the code, prop it open and unload some of my booty, checking Angie’s list, before taking it down to our tiny storeroom in the basement. I repeat the process further down the street (three-storey Victorian, housing one media company, no parking but a swanky reception, and a kind doorman who helps me with my boxes then keeps an eye out for traffic wardens while I head down to the basement again). Then again, round the corner on St John’s Wood High Street (modern block, five storeys, two companies, but we only have the contract for the financiers on the lower three floors. I’m working on the insurance brokers upstairs. No basement this time; I’m allocated space in a hallway cupboard. I have to be flexible in my line of work. Every company has different needs and facilities, and there’s no point throwing a fit because there’s not enough room to store my Vileda Super Mop. There are a hundred other cleaning companies waiting to snatch my contracts from my hands if I’m not adaptable enough.
The afternoon stretches out ahead of me. I think of all the times I’ve longed for more hours to myself, but, without the prospect of my daughter barrelling in through the door at half past three, I don’t know what to fill them with. I should go home and start ringing round, making appointments to pitch for new contracts, but I have no impetus to do anything. David’s flat is not far from here, near Maida Vale, in a grand mansion block, complete with concierge. We used to laugh at the kind of people who thought they needed a concierge on call, as if every day they had a theatre-ticket emergency that needed dealing with urgently. (‘Julian! They’ve put us in row K! Whatever shall we do?’ ‘Don’t fret, Harriet, the concierge will make everything better.’) Betsy’s school is close by, off Shirland Road. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m driving in that direction, almost on autopilot. How many times have I done this journey from my work to our old maisonette, just along the street from David’s new place?
I park outside the school, look up at the huge Victorian building. Somewhere inside, Betsy will be reciting French verbs or painting one of her many pictures of our ginger cat Felix. David currently has custody of Felix, but once our roles are reversed and Betsy is back with me during the week he’ll be back living with me too. Betsy and Felix are inseparable. I stare hopefully at the mullioned windows, trying to catch a glimpse of my daughter’s wayward curls. Wondering if she has her hair in a ponytail or plaits today. There’s a long debate about the merits of each every morning, and it feels strange not to know today’s outcome. Not to know how to picture her.
Eventually, I make myself start the car again. No point sitting out here like a weirdo. I need to take control of my life. I drive on towards Queen’s Park and the estate agents who are looking out for a rarely available two-storey terrace house that is within my price range.
As luck would have it, Rahina, my main point of contact, is at her desk. She smiles when she sees me. I think she still feels guilty that I was gazumped on my dream home – tiny but perfectly formed, two bedrooms, end terrace, small south-facing garden, walking distance to Betsy’s school – and I know I’d be first on her list to alert if anything similar came in. I know there will be nothing new. But what if something perfect came in half an hour ago and I could snap it up without it even going on their website, without anyone else seeing it?
‘Laura! Hi.’ She stands up to greet me, hand extended.
‘I was just passing,’ I say, pretty sure she’ll know it’s a lie. ‘Anything …?’
She shakes her head. ‘Sorry. There’s a flat …’
When my little house fell through, I looked at flats, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head of having a place that was entirely my own, however minuscule, with its own garden. Somewhere for Betsy to play. I’m not ready to give up yet. ‘No, thanks.’
She touches my arm. Rahina has a four-year-old son, and I know she understands my desperation. ‘I’ll call you as soon as there’s anything. Something’ll come up. It’s spring. It’s a good time …’
I fake a smile. ‘Thanks.’
On the drive home I keep my head down as I turn off Maida Vale and pass the block where David now lives. Except that, of course, I look up at the last minute, locate his fourth-floor windows and the Juliet balcony. I know he’ll be at work, but I somehow can’t look away.
Gail has a surprise for me. She’s invited some of the other residents of The Close round for drinks, and she’d like me to come along. It’ll be my chance to get to know them she tells me when I bump into her on the drive.
‘Are you not at work today?’ I ask, trying to change the subject. I can’t imagine anything I want to do less. Even though I know I need to find myself a social life, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to find it here. I’d had hopes of maybe befriending some of the staff – the nannies and housekeepers and cooks. Maybe meeting a rugged gardener or two. But I never see any of them. No one seems to have told the employers of The Close about the laws entitling their employees to time off.
‘Working at home.’ She does that fingers-in-the-air thing when she says ‘working’. ‘So pop round at six. No excuses.’
I’m saved from having to answer by the appearance of a woman and a large brown Labrador from the house next door. She’s somehow making skinny jeans and green wellingtons look like something on the catwalk. Like my opposite neighbour, she has way too much hair for one human being. I’m thankful that at least I’ve tamed my curls into a ponytail this morning. She waves a hello. Gail beckons her over and I make a fuss of the dog. ‘Eva, this is Laura, who’s just moved into our annexe.’
Eva gives me a hesitant smile. I wonder if Stella has shared her wariness of me with her too. ‘How are you settling in?’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘It’s lovely here.’
‘Well, welcome.’ She turns to Gail. ‘Six o’clock, right?’
‘Perfect.’
‘We’ll be there. Nice to meet you, Laura. See you later.’ She moves off in the direction of the woods, Labrador in tow.
‘She seems nice,’ I say to Gail.
‘She is. Eva and Rafa. They have two grown-up kids, both married and living abroad.’
I watch Eva sashaying away. ‘How old is she, then?’
Gail shrugs. ‘Late forties.’
‘She looks about twenty-five.’
Gail laughs. ‘Bits of her probably are. Her boobs are only about four, I think.’
‘What does she do?’
She looks at me, confused. ‘Do? Oh, for work? God, no. I’m the only working female in The Close, unless you count the staff. And now you, thank god. It’s like the land that time forgot. If I have to have one more conversation about the best fillers and laser eyelid lifts versus surgery, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Not that I haven’t dabbled myself. I mean, who hasn’t?’
I don’t bother to say, ‘Not me,’ because I think it’s probably evident from the multitude of lines that spring up on my face when I grimace. ‘What do they do all day?’
‘Who knows? Have lunch? Except none of them really eats anything. You watch their faces tonight when I offer them snacks.’
‘I can’t wait,’ I say, beginning to think this could be more fun than I imagined. If nothing else, I might get some funny stories out of it to share with Angie. And at least Eva was friendly. I shouldn’t be judgemental.
Betsy FaceTimes me at four from Zara’s to show me her new masterpiece.
‘Is it an orangutan?’ I say, and she giggles.
‘Of course not. It’s Felix.’
I know it’s Felix. It’s always Felix. He must be the most documented cat in history. ‘It’s what? Sorry, sweetie, you cut out halfway through. A sea lion?’
Betsy guffaws. ‘Felix. Feeeelix!’
‘Oh, Miss Friedricks! Yes, I can see it now.’ Whatever comedy gods ensured that my daughter�
��s teacher’s name semi-rhymed with her favourite muse, I thank them for the thousandth time. Betsy is inconsolable with laughter. She one hundred per cent knows that I’m winding her up.
‘Miss Friedricks doesn’t have a tail, silly.’
‘I bet she does. Have you had a proper look?’
I tell her I’m going to drinks at the big house and, once she’s established that there won’t be any actual princesses there, she instructs me to make a mental note of what everyone is wearing so I can share the details with her. Zara’s mum Michaela appears over her shoulder and waves at me. I wave back. She ruffles Betsy’s hair. ‘Teatime when you’re ready. No rush.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow!’ Betsy shouts happily to me. I’ve agreed with David that I’ll pick her up from school on Wednesdays and take her to mine for tea before dropping her back at his in time for bed. I’m as excited as she is.
‘I love you,’ I say, blowing her a kiss, and she rewards me by doing the same.
I spend the rest of the afternoon agonizing about what to wear. Sweatpants are not going to cut it. In the end, I settle for a dress I only usually have the chance to show off at weddings. Reiss. Fitted and sleek, in a dramatic flowery fabric. Or, at least, it used to be fitted. Now it’s a bit too snug. I’ve discovered comfort eating in the wake of the separation. Still, needs must. It doesn’t look too bad. I dig around in the cases under the bed to find my one pair of heels, scowl at my pale legs, slap on some haphazard make-up and smooth argan oil through my hair. I look like a weird, more girly version of me. It’ll do.
I’m early, but I decide to head over to see if Gail needs any last-minute help. She opens the door and for a second I think I’ve got the time wrong. She’s wearing skinny jeans and an old T-shirt with ‘Lynyrd Skynyrd’ written on it. She looks effortlessly rock-chick gorgeous.