Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  ‘We’re not getting a dog.’

  ‘But if we did, we could walk him over here every day.’

  ‘We don’t live here.’

  ‘Technicality,’ she says, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly. This is her new favourite expression. I have no idea where she learned it. My guess is from Morgan, the most precocious girl in her class. Whatever Morgan says, the rest of them are all parroting it a few days later. She’s the one who’s going to lead them all storming into early adolescence in a couple of years’ time. I’m thankful that, although Betsy admires her and they get on fine, she’s not in her inner circle. Yet.

  I’m saved by the appearance of Eva and her chocolate lab. Betsy goes flying over to greet the dog, throwing herself to the ground in front of it so it couldn’t really avoid her if it wanted to. Luckily, it wags its big heavy tail and Eva seems pleased to see us, too, although she shows it more subtly.

  ‘Ah, you must be Betsy,’ she says, and I’m touched that she remembers her name. Betsy rewards her with a big toothless smile, arms around the dog.

  ‘What’s she called?’

  ‘Cocoa. She’s a he.’

  ‘Betsy, this is Eva. She lives next door.’ Betsy is too busy telling Cocoa she loves him to take much notice. I give Eva an apologetic smile.

  ‘My two were the same with animals,’ she says sympathetically. ‘They practically camped out here and accosted any creature that went past.’

  ‘You’ve lived here that long?’ I ask, slightly in awe.

  Eva nods, smiling. ‘Twenty-eight years. It’s a hard place to leave. How did you enjoy last night?’

  ‘Great. Everyone seems lovely.’ I’m dying to ask her what she thinks of Stella, whether she’s as awful as she seems, but for all I know she might be her best friend.

  ‘We do these get-togethers quite regularly,’ she tells me. Betsy is throwing Cocoa’s soggy tennis ball and watching him amble off to retrieve it. ‘Well, a few of us do. It’s nice to have a sense of community, don’t you think? Don’t forget our thirtieth, by the way. I’ll let you know as soon as we have a definite date for the party, but it’ll be in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I say. If nothing else, it’ll be fascinating to get more insight into how the other half live.

  She hooks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘How are you liking the woods?’

  ‘Gorgeous. Although I’m a bit scared we’ll get lost. I feel like I need to tie a bit of string to a tree.’

  ‘You’re welcome to walk with us,’ she says. ‘We don’t go far. Cocoa’s hips aren’t what they were.’

  I look over at Betsy, playing with the dog’s ears. If Cocoa minds, he’s not showing it. ‘Oh. That’d be lovely. Thanks.’

  She fills me in on more gossip about The Close as we walk, Betsy and Cocoa following behind. I’m not a gossip fan. I always assume that if someone is badmouthing someone else to you, they’ll do the same about you the minute you leave the room. But Eva’s chatter is all positive. Bill and Anya are adopting a baby, Stella and Al’s wedding is going to be a do to die for (I’m not expecting an invitation any time soon), Gail and Ben are just about the nicest people she’s ever met. I find myself telling her what brought me here, about the way my marriage ended. How devastated I was. Still am. Every now and then I turn back to check that Betsy is a) still there and b) not listening, but she’s blissfully absorbed in playing with the dog. We walk in a big circle, out of the woods, which turn out to be smaller than I’d imagined, and around a huge field. Eventually, we end up back where we started and we say goodbye at her gate.

  ‘I walk him twice a day, so feel free to join me any time. It’s nice to have company.’

  ‘I definitely will,’ I say, feeling more positive than I have in days. I drag Betsy reluctantly away from Cocoa and we turn towards home. Her school uniform is covered in mud. I should have told David to pack something for her to change into after school, because now I just have to hope he has a clean, ironed set at his for tomorrow. We’re still working out the details of who does what in our new world, but I hate that I’ve already lost my sixth sense for what Betsy needs and when.

  ‘They’re nice,’ she says, slipping her hand into mine.

  ‘Eva or Cocoa?’ I say with a smile. I know exactly who she really means.

  She laughs. ‘Cocoa. But the lady seems nice too. Is she posh?’

  ‘Very,’ I say. ‘Well, she’s rich. They’re not necessarily the same.’

  As we approach our own gate Stella’s car rolls into the drive opposite us and two small Mini Mes exit the back seats. High, gleaming dark brown ponytails – in their case, I assume, natural – and faces full of make-up, I realize with horror as we get closer. Betsy stops dead on the spot. ‘Who are they?’ she says in awe, mouth open. I don’t have time to answer because Stella has seen us. I plaster a smile on my face. Walk towards her, Betsy in tow. I’m going to make an effort, be the bigger person, set a good example to my daughter.

  ‘Hey. How are you? This is Betsy, I told you about her …’

  I wait for Stella to introduce her two, but she just says hello and goes back to unloading designer bags from the boot of her car.

  ‘I think you and Betsy are about the same age,’ I say to the slightly smaller of the two girls. ‘She’s going to be staying here sometimes. At number 6.’ I realize I’m prattling, trying at least to get them to acknowledge my child, who is staring at them both as if they’re two previously undiscovered Wonders of the World.

  The smaller girl looks her up and down. ‘I don’t think so. I’m eight.’

  ‘I’m seven!’ Betsy says. I look at her eager face, mud-streaked now, her hair springing from her ponytail in all directions, her glasses wonky on her nose, and I feel a rush of protective love.

  Big Mini Me looks unimpressed. ‘Why are you wearing your school uniform?’ she says. I notice her top has a logo on. Chanel, maybe?

  Betsy looks confused. ‘Because I’ve been at school.’

  ‘Girls, can you help me carry these inside?’ Stella pipes up. She hands them each a large paper carrier. ‘So nice to see you, Laura,’ she says unconvincingly as she slams the boot shut with an elbow.

  They parade towards the front door like a row of unpacked Russian dolls. Betsy waves a hand. ‘Bye.’

  The smaller one at least has the good manners to wave back.

  I wait in the lobby while the sullen concierge phones up to tell David his daughter is home. A few minutes later the lift opens and there he is. My soon-to-be ex-husband. He gives me a big smile, as if we’re just two good friends bumping into each other in the street. My heart, as usual, flip-flops all over the place.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘Hi, Bets.’

  She throws herself into his hug. David looks at me over her shoulder. ‘All OK?’

  ‘Yep. Sorry her uniform is a mess.’

  ‘I met a dog,’ Betsy announces. I know David will hear the whole story later.

  ‘Did you indeed?’ he says. He looks back at me with those amber-flecked dark brown eyes that I used to think I could read so well. ‘No problem. We’ve got a clean set.’

  ‘Don’t forget you need to take everything you want for the weekend to school with you on Friday,’ I say to Betsy. Then I turn back to David. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday night.’

  ‘OK.’

  Betsy looks at me, face about to crumble. ‘Do you have to go back tonight? Can’t you stay with us?’

  I swoop her into me. ‘I do, sweetie. I’ll see you on Friday. Have fun with Dad.’ He takes her hand and they walk off to the lift. ‘OK, so this dog. Do you know its name …’

  I turn and walk out. Remind myself he’s a good father. Turns out he was a shit husband, but he’s definitely a good father.

  Because I’m in the area, I stop off to check in with – who am I kidding? – to check up on my cleaners. I often do unannounced visits. Not because I don’t trust them. I absolutely do. But it still feels sensible to keep them on t
heir toes. I can’t afford to lose any of my hard-won clients. I pull up outside the three-storey media company – Al’s company, I remember now. They use us every weekday night. Three cleaners working for two hours. The receptionist and doorman have long since gone home, but I have a set of keys, so I let myself in. I find Angie hoovering the stairs between the ground and first floors.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you made me jump!’ she says when I shout hello over the noise. I snort with laughter at her flustered face.

  ‘Sorry. Unintentional.’

  She turns off the machine. ‘You’ll be one member of staff down if you do that too often.’

  ‘It’s good for you. Gets your heart going. Everything OK?’

  She brushes her short chestnut hair off her face. ‘All fine. The others are upstairs.’

  ‘How are the kids?’

  She gives me a big smile. Angie has one of those faces that has only two modes: resting bitch and full-on happy. Any mention of her two sons always brings on face number two. Her body is wiry. Muscly and tanned, like she’s been plastinated. She’s older than me – her fiftieth was a couple of years ago – and she has a fourteen- and a sixteen-year-old at home and the sinewy body of someone who does a hundred press-ups every morning for fun. ‘Nightmare, the pair of them. Bobby just won his judo tournament, though.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  She asks me about Betsy and I have to blink back tears. ‘It’ll be over before you know it,’ she says. I nod, unable to talk about it.

  ‘I’ll go and frighten the others,’ I say.

  I hear the vacuum start up again as I head up towards the first floor. The offices here are open-plan. Sixteen desks. Bright primary colours. At one end is a glass-walled room containing a large circular wooden table. There’s a printed sign stuck to the door: ‘Meeting Room. Please Book’. And underneath it another, handwritten: ‘We all share this room. It’s not here for you to use as your office!!!’ I wonder who the culprit is. Which of the sixteen desks belongs to the person who can’t stand being in the communal space so much they set up camp in there on a regular basis. That’d be me. I find Tomas scrubbing the kitchen on the landing.

  ‘Oh, hi, Mrs Anthony,’ he says when he spots me. I remind him again that I’m not Mrs Anthony any more. That I’m back to Ms Martin, but actually, he should call me Laura anyway.

  ‘Sure, Mrs Anthony,’ he says. I give up. Tomas is a hard worker. The kitchen is as gleaming as one used by twenty-odd people can be. I can see he’s doing a good job.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  He nods. ‘All good.’

  I leave him to it. Go up one more flight to the top floor. Here, there are individual offices for, I assume, the executives. I’m guessing one of these must be Al’s. I peer in through the glass walls. There’s an open area here, too, for the assistants. Sharon, my newest and youngest employee – she can’t be more than twenty, and she’s on her own with twins – is dusting one of the desks gingerly. The rule is, don’t disturb anyone’s stuff. I’ve had enough complaints that someone can’t find some valuable piece of paper, because an over-zealous cleaner must have moved it, so my staff are instructed to clean only the gaps where the desks are concerned.

  She starts telling me a seemingly interminable story about her kids and something her mother said about the way they were dressed (‘Like something off of Love Island! Just because Jayden was wearing a crop top!’) and I remember – too late, as always – that it’s a mistake to engage Sharon in conversation when she’s supposed to be working. I keep my eyes on the duster in her flapping hand in the hope she gets the message that it’s time for it to make contact with the desk again.

  ‘Anyway, I’d better go,’ I say when she takes a rare breath. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’

  Downstairs, I have a quick check round the ground-floor reception and the admin offices at the back. Then I shout my goodbyes to Angie and leave. I repeat the same process at the four-storey, four-company building round the corner, making sure I check in with all three workers there, and then I head for home to my empty flat and an early night. I try to calculate the hours till I see Bets again. It’s less than forty-eight, but it feels like a lifetime.

  4

  I have no idea what to say.

  I stand there, mouth opening and shutting. I know I should say, No. It wasn’t me. I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. But I don’t know how I can. I’d be calling Al a liar and probably making myself look as if I actually do have something to hide. So I just say nothing.

  Stella looks at me with what can only be described as undisguised loathing.

  What happened was this. I was getting out of my car at the same time Stella and Al were heading out to get into theirs. Dressed up to the nines. Them, not me. I was tired and miserable, missing Betsy already, longing for my PJs and a cup of tea. The last thing I wanted was another awkward encounter with Stella. So I just waved. Smiled and said hello.

  Next thing I knew, Al was calling out to me across the street.

  ‘Laura, thank you for the book, by the way.’

  I was about to ask him what he meant, say that he must be mistaken, that I hadn’t given him any book, but he kept right on talking before I had the chance. Loudly, so that Stella would hear. ‘I told Stella that we’d been talking about it when I bumped into you the other day, and that you’d very kindly given me your spare copy …’

  I tuned out. I hadn’t bumped into him. I hadn’t exchanged a word with him since Gail’s drinks. I glanced at Stella as if she might give me a clue as to what was going on, but she just looked between me and Al, like an owl deciding which vole to pounce on and tear apart first. I felt my forehead creasing up. A frown. Confusion. Al must have seen it too, because he turned on his heels and strode back towards the car.

  ‘Anyway, we’d better get a move on or we’re going to be late. Bye, Laura. Thanks again.’

  Now I stand there frozen to the spot, watching them leave. Knowing I should have said something. Knowing this is going to come back and haunt me. Feeling like an idiot.

  I seethe about it all night. Clearly, Al does not really think I gave him a book. Clearly, he knows he didn’t bump into me the other day. Clearly, he has something he wants to hide from Stella. I want to confront him with it, to ask him never to put me on the spot like that again, but I know I can’t go round with Stella there. It’d only make things worse.

  I know he works long hours, but from half past five on the dot the next day I hover, looking out of my kitchen window in the hope of catching him home alone. The gods must be on my side because about an hour and a half later, just as I’m thinking of taking a break because my legs have gone to sleep, I finally see him arrive home in his sports Bentley and then, five minutes later, Stella exits the front door in her designer yoga gear and heads towards her own car.

  Before I really know what I’m doing, I’m down the stairs and stomping across the road. I assume the kids are home – I haven’t seen any signs of them leaving – but I also assume that they have a nanny who does the after-school care. I can’t imagine Al being Dad of the Year and entertaining them while he cooks dinner. I ring the bell and, after a few moments, Mini Me the Elder answers. She looks at me blankly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi,’ I say, feeling stupidly intimidated by her overconfidence. Her poise.

  ‘Is your dad around? I just want a quick word.’

  She looks back over her shoulder without saying anything. ‘Dad!’

  I’m hoping she won’t hang around listening to what I have to say, but actually, I don’t think she could muster up any interest in me if I keeled over, frothing at the mouth, on her doorstep. She struts off towards the back of the house and I wait in the open doorway, looking around every now and again in case Stella decides to cut her yoga class short. I’ve come out without a cardigan and it’s a chilly evening, so I’m tempted to step into their swirly, marble-floored hallway but, like a vampire, I feel I should be invited first. I can just m
ake out a large painting of Stella – dressed in what looks like her underwear – on the landing wall. I’m gawping at it when a shiny pair of men’s shoes rounds the corner in the stairs, followed by the rest of Al himself.

  ‘Laura,’ he says. I can’t make out his tone. I don’t know what I was expecting – apologetic? Repentant? Flirtatious? – but it just sounds flat. Matter of fact.

  ‘Could I have a quick word?’ I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I remind myself that I have to tread carefully. AJT Music are one of my best clients. I have far more competitors than I used to since cleaning became a spectator sport. It’s only a matter of time before there’s a reality show – Celebrity Clean Off – with four show-offy judges going round peering down people’s toilets and sneering. And AJT with their three floors and five days a week are not a contract I can afford to lose.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Do you want to come in?’

  ‘No. I … This is OK. I just want to ask you what was all that about the book yesterday. I mean, did you get me mixed up with someone else?’

  He steps out into the porch. Pulls the door behind him. ‘Sorry about that. Stella put me on the spot, you know …’ He looks at me as if I’m meant to know what the hell he’s going on about.

  ‘About a book?’

  ‘Someone gave me the book, and she found it and asked me who it was from …’

  Ah. I’m starting to see where this is going. ‘Why didn’t you tell her?’

  He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Why do you think? Gives me what I imagine he believes is a charming smile. I force myself to look him directly in the eye. ‘Or just tell her you bought it? Surely that would have been the best idea?’

  ‘There’s an inscription …’

  I cut him off. ‘Oh no, Al … You’ve let Stella think … what?’ What exactly has he let her think? I try to keep my voice light. ‘That we have some kind of little secret going on?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says. ‘I just told her we talked about the book and I said it sounded interesting, and then next thing I knew, you’d given me a copy.’