Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  ‘For no reason.’

  ‘For no reason. My guess is he just thought she’d buy it. The predatory single woman hitting on her wealthy fiancé. And it looks like she did.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. It’s like school. Worse.’

  ‘Don’t do anything hasty. Sleep on it. You don’t want to make things worse, when it might just blow over.’

  I knew it wouldn’t, though. I knew that Stella and Al were poison.

  I sit watching more guests arrive. Cinderella in her kitchen. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That I’ll be out of here in six months, hopefully. Less now. That these people will never matter to me again. But the injustice is eating me up. I’m not the kind of person who would make a play for someone else’s husband. I never have, and I never would. I can’t bear the idea that anyone would think that of me, let alone anyone I liked. I think about all my neighbours over there now, probably discussing me and how awful I am. I think about Betsy being shunned when she runs after Cocoa or tries to befriend Stella’s daughters in the street. It’s so unjust. Before I know it, I have tears rolling down my face, sitting there with all the lights off, spying on my neighbours. It’s not fair. I know I can’t ignore it. I have to do something. I just have to work out what.

  7

  I barely sleep at all. The party goes on till after two in the morning. Obviously, none of these people is in the kind of job where they’ll get fired if they turn up late or hungover. Every peal of laughter leaves me feeling more vulnerable, more convinced that it’s aimed at me. Gradually, the chauffeur-driven cars leave, more than a few taxis turn up and the residents of The Close totter home, calling out to one another loudly as they go. Because who is there to disturb here, apart from me?

  In the morning there’s a posh-car graveyard out in the street and a steady stream of cabs dispensing weary-looking people who had the sense to realize they shouldn’t drive themselves home last night. I see Katya leaving number 2 in her running gear and heading for the woods. She looks fresh-faced. Clearly, she’s young enough not to be wiped out by a hangover. I decide to contrive to bump into her. Maybe she’ll be pleased to see me. Maybe I’ve been over-reacting and everything is fine. I haven’t seen her since that night at Gail and Ben’s, when she was so sweet and friendly, asking me about Betsy and telling me how she couldn’t wait to have a daughter of her own. I force myself into the bedroom and dress quickly before I can change my mind. Then I pull on my trainers and head downstairs. Just going for a run. Nothing to see here.

  I jog to the end of the street, the unpractised movement making my tight muscles complain immediately. Once I’ve gone through the gate at the end of The Close I stop short. Enough of that. I have no idea which route Katya has taken, or how long she will be, but she’ll have to pass this way to get home – unless she’s gone out on to the main road somewhere, it suddenly occurs to me, although that seems unlikely when you have miles of uninterrupted beautiful woods and heath to run through – so my plan is to wait here, doing elaborate stretches, until she sees me, at which point I’ll pretend I’ve just arrived and that I’m surprised to bump into her.

  Ten minutes later I’m still waiting. Of course, Katya is probably super-fit and a short jog for her comprises ten miles cross-country. I could be here all day. I’m starting to get cold, so I do in fact start running on the spot and jumping up and down, flapping my arms back and forth across my chest like a chicken. I must look demented.

  I’m just beginning to think I should give up when I hear pounding footsteps coming towards me. I stick one leg up on a tree stump and lean forward into a stretch. Thankfully, it’s Katya. A delicate sweat on her flawless olive skin. Her outsized lips pursed in concentration. Not even remotely out of breath. I give her a big smile, stand up straight.

  ‘Hey! How are you?’

  She starts when she sees me. ‘Oh, hi, Laura,’ she says, with her slight hint of an accent. Latvian, she told me. I wait for her to come to a stop, but she doesn’t. She just breezes on past me without looking back. I watch her disappear from view, feeling slighted. I’m just being paranoid, I tell myself. People are busy. They have things on their minds. Not everything is about me.

  Later in the day, though, my worst fears are confirmed. I’ve collected Betsy from school, we’ve done homework and, because it’s a beautiful sunny afternoon, she’s playing on the steps to my front door. I can hear her running up and down them while I knock up macaroni and cheese, her favourite. I have Kisstory on the radio and I sing along to a Soul II Soul song from the eighties. I’m feeling, if not happy, then at least not unhappy either. It’s amazing the difference having my daughter around makes to my mood. I’m rinsing a dirty saucepan in the sink when I see a huge 4x4 deposit Stella’s two girls at the end of her drive. They wave to the person inside. I’m looking at them, wondering how they can be so close in age to Betsy but so different – both are dressed as if for dinner at Nobu followed by partying at whatever the hip West End nightclub du jour is, in cold shoulder tops, skinny jeans and heels – when I hear her voice, Betsy’s, calling out hello. Big Mini Me – I now know her name is Taylor – looks over with a sneer. My hearts flips. Next thing I know, I see Betsy running across the street towards the two girls, waving happily. The danger of her hurling herself into the road without looking is eclipsed by the thought of her coming up against those two overgroomed sharks. I drop the pan I’m washing and run out of the door.

  By the time I get to our gate I hear Stella’s front door slam and then see Betsy plodding back down their drive with tears pouring down her face. I swoop her up. ‘What happened?’

  She sniffles. ‘They won’t play with me.’

  I brush one of her curls away from her eyes. Straighten her glasses. ‘I told you, sweetie, they’re a bit snobby. Forget about them. Do you want to go for a walk in the woods?’

  She shakes her head. ‘They said their mum said you’re a slut and that I wasn’t welcome in their house. What’s a slut?’

  ‘They …?’ I resist the urge to go and batter their front door down and punch any or all of them square in the face. For now, I hold Betsy at arm’s length.

  ‘Have you heard that word before?’

  Another shake of the head. That’s something, at least. Morgan must be slipping. ‘Well, it’s a very nasty thing grown-ups sometimes say about other people. It’s a bad name. And I’m not, by the way. They’re just trying to be mean. They don’t even know me.’

  ‘OK,’ she says trustingly. I love her so much. I take her hand and, just as I turn to lead her back to the flat, I see Stella looking out of her front window. I look away. There’s nothing I want to say to her now. Not while my daughter can hear.

  Later, once I’ve taken Betsy back to her dad’s – she cheered up after the mac and cheese and a few games of Mario Kart on the Wii I installed for her a couple of days ago, although she got a bit clingy when I turned to leave; she couldn’t understand why I couldn’t go upstairs and put her to bed – I lie in wait for Eva to take Cocoa for a walk. I’ve seen either her or Rafa take the dog for a late-night wee most nights since I’ve been here. I’m lucky that tonight it’s Eva’s turn, and I’m down the steps and running up the street after her before she even gets to the end of her drive.

  ‘Eva!’ I call when I’m a few feet behind her. Cocoa’s head whips round and he starts wagging his tail. Eva turns more reluctantly. ‘Good grief! You gave me a shock. What are you doing out here at this time of night?’

  ‘Sorry. I wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, Laura, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say decisively. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  She walks on, and I have to trot to keep up. Security lights for each house spring on as we pass. Eva doesn’t say anything, so I just launch into it. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but there’s nothing going on with me and Al. I didn’t give him that book …’

  This clearly isn’t what she’s expecting me to s
ay. She slows her pace a little, looks at me. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth, Eva. I went along with what Al was saying at first because he blindsided me and I couldn’t think straight. I had no idea what he was on about. I didn’t want to contradict him in front of Stella. And then … well, he owns one of the companies I work for … I one hundred per cent did not give him that book.’

  ‘I assume you’ve told Stella this?’

  I stop walking and, thankfully, Eva does too. She unclips Cocoa’s lead and the dog shambles off happily and pees up the first tree he finds. ‘How could I? She’d go straight to him and demand to know who did. And he’d probably tell the person who hired me to fire me.’

  ‘Are you asking me to tell her it wasn’t you who gave him the book?’

  ‘No! Not unless you think she wouldn’t say anything to Al. God, this is such a mess. I just wanted you to know I’m not like that. That I haven’t done anything wrong.’ I’m furious with myself. If I’d never let on to Al that I recognized him, none of this would have happened. Or, if it had, I could have just denied it straight out without worrying about the consequences.

  ‘Stella and I have been friends for years, and she’s very upset,’ Eva says, and I know I’ve lost. ‘If you’re not prepared to be honest with her, then I don’t see what I can do.’

  ‘Just don’t judge me, please. Give me the benefit of the doubt.’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to get involved. We’ll all still be here when you move on …’

  ‘I know. But meanwhile, Betsy’s being made to feel like some kind of outsider. She’s going through enough with the divorce, and then Stella’s girls were really mean to her …’ I can feel myself blinking back tears.

  I think I see Eva’s expression soften a little, but then she inhales sharply. ‘I’m sorry about Betsy. Those girls are little madams. But at the end of the day, Stella is my friend and you and I barely know each other. Don’t ask me to take sides.’

  There’s no point to this. ‘I’m not. I just wanted to say my piece, that’s all. Thanks for hearing me out.’

  ‘I really do have to get back inside.’ She calls out to Cocoa, who reappears from the woods immediately, like he knows the drill.

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You go on.’

  I watch as she turns and strides off. Cocoa follows. I stand there in the dark as the last security light snaps off again. There’s only one more thing I can try.

  8

  It’s the next morning and I’m standing on Stella’s doorstep. I’ve rung the bell and I’m trying to stop my hands from shaking. I feel sick, but I know I have to do this. I’ve thought carefully about what I can say that will, hopefully, get me off the hook without sending her running off to Al and dropping me in it. God knows if I’m capable of getting the words out, though.

  A very small woman, probably in her sixties and wearing some kind of maid’s uniform, answers. I assume this is the housekeeper and not a hooker fulfilling a very specialized fetish. Besides, I’m counting on Al being at work and Stella home alone. Apart from the staff.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hi,’ I stutter. ‘Is Stella home? Mrs … I mean, Ms … um …’ I realize I have no idea what Stella’s surname is. ‘… Stella.’

  ‘Please come.’

  I follow her into the cavernous hallway that I caught a glimpse of the other week, past the portrait of Stella in her knickers and into a vast living room. Stella and Al’s is the grandest house in The Close. The widest. The highest. The mansion di tutti mansions. The busy brown marble floor runs through here too. I always think marble floors look as if someone made a mess and can’t be arsed to clear it up. I remember describing one to David after I’d cleaned a very posh house once. ‘You know, one of those ones that look like the cat’s been sick all over it.’ There are ornate pillars flecked with gold, and more paintings of Stella and the two girls on the wall. All of them horribly lifelike and lacking any artistry whatsoever. Two hard-looking, black, leggy sofas face each other on either side of an ornate mirror-topped fireplace in a completely different marble, a dark smoky-glass coffee table between them, a few large art books lined up neatly on top. One of them still has the plastic covering on, and I’m pretty sure the others have never been opened either. The overlong midnight-blue velvet drapes spill on to the floor in a carefully contrived puddle and I have to resist the temptation to go and pick them up to see if anyone has vacuumed underneath. The smell of lilies from two huge vases on side tables is overpowering. The room doesn’t feel lived in at all. I assume they must have a cosy snug somewhere where they all hang out and watch TV and do normal family things. Upside down, like bats, probably.

  ‘I get,’ the woman says, and goes off. I hope she doesn’t get sacked for letting me in without finding out who I am and whether Stella wants to see me. It’s a bonus for me that she hasn’t asked my name. Otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d be back out in the cold already.

  ‘Meeees Stella,’ I hear her calling, and then some muttering that I can’t make out. I daren’t sit down because I’m worried it looks too presumptuous, but I’m feeling a bit faint, so I steady myself on a corner of the fireplace. Moments later I hear the staccato tap of heels on marble. I can tell, even before she appears, that she’s irritated because she doesn’t know who is waiting for her. Something about the quick little steps scream annoyance. I close my eyes for a second, try to calm myself down.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My eyes spring open to see Stella standing there, glaring at me.

  ‘Stella,’ I say. ‘I need to talk to you for a moment. ‘You have to believe there’s nothing going on with me and Al …’

  The slug lips pout. ‘Who said there was? Not for want of trying on your part, though, I hear.’

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. ‘That’s not true. I wouldn’t … I would never do something like that.’

  ‘What? So giving my husband-to-be a book with some stupid French inscription in it isn’t overstepping the mark?’

  French? Who said anything about French? I don’t speak French. I stick to my script. ‘It was a joke. A silly reference to something that came up when I mentioned the book to him.’

  I don’t know what the inscription says. I’m starting to feel like this was an even worse idea than I thought. What if she asks me for a translation to see if it matches his? I’m bizarrely thankful that she seems to have bigger fish to fry.

  ‘What are you doing seeking him out at his work, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning?’

  I resist the urge to remind her I own the company. ‘I didn’t. I just ran into him on the stairs, and I was carrying a copy of the book …’

  ‘When you were meant to be working?’

  ‘I’d just popped in to check on my staff.’ OK, so I don’t resist the urge to remind her I own the company. ‘I hardly ever go there,’ I add, thinking she might like to hear that. I have no idea if what I’m saying fits in with anything he’s told her or, indeed, where and when I’m meant to have actually given him his gift.

  ‘You’re lucky I haven’t insisted he find a new cleaning company. Not that he would usually involve himself in such menial things.’

  ‘I …’ I start to say, but she cuts me off.

  ‘Do you often give random people copies of books?’ she says, tossing her horse’s mane. I half expect her to stamp her Christian Louboutin-clad hoof.

  ‘Yes,’ I say confidently. This, I have already decided, is to be my trump card. I’m the eccentric lady who loves to gift books she enjoys to vague acquaintances. You know Laura? The one who is always giving random people books? That’s her. (I don’t actually think I have ever given anybody a book outside of birthdays and Christmas, but what’s that small detail between friends?) ‘All the time. I love books. It’s a thing I do. And I’d never even thought about it being inappropriate, so I’m really sorry if you think it was. I certainly didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘And do you always write provocative mes
sages in French in them?’

  ‘No. I mean, I do always write something. Just a little joke or whatever …’ She’s not buying a word of this, I can tell. I shift from foot to foot. I wish I could sit down. Not that I want to stay here a moment longer than is necessary.

  ‘How adorable,’ she says in a voice that lets me know she thinks it’s anything but. ‘For the record, though, Laura, neither Al nor I are comfortable with such overfamiliarity.’

  ‘I understand,’ I say. ‘And I apologize again if my gesture was crass.’ She starts walking towards the front door, so I follow her. I take it this is my cue to leave.

  ‘Just out of interest,’ she says as I follow in her wake. ‘What on earth were the two of you talking about that made you write that particular message?’

  Shit, so she knows what it says. Which is more than I do. She turns round and locks her weirdly slanted eyes on mine. I can feel myself blush. ‘Oh, I can’t really remember. Like I said, it was just a stupid joke.’

  ‘And like I said, Laura, it was overstepping the mark.’ She opens the front door. ‘Please don’t call round again unannounced. Pilar’s English isn’t up to explaining that I don’t want to see you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, all pretence of civility gone. If she’s cold enough not to accept my – clearly genuine – pleading, then fuck her. ‘And I’d appreciate if you’d ask your daughters not to be such little bitches to Betsy. Maybe try to show them by example. Although, on second thoughts, I imagine that’d be too much of a stretch.’

  I step through the door and she slams it after me. That went well.

  I’m desperate to talk to someone about what’s happening. But Ben’s car is on the drive when I get back, and I don’t want to get in the way of him and Gail having a quiet night in together for once. Besides, I’m not sure she would want to hear that I’d just picked a fight with her friend, and she is my landlady, after all. Half an hour later I hear voices coming from the back. Laughter. I look out of my bedroom window and see Stella sitting with Eva, Jan, Anya and Katya in Eva’s garden next door. Bottle of Prosecco on the go. Even before I hear my name I know they’re talking about me from the forced whispers, the little glances Katya and Anya steal up at my window. I can’t make out what they’re saying, and I know I shouldn’t try. It’s not going to be anything good. I don’t know what else to do so, once I’ve checked everyone is at work and – barring accidents – nothing is likely to go wrong, I take a Sleepeaze and huddle under the duvet. I feel defeated. Deflated. Maybe I just have to accept my fate. Live out my time here shunned by the neighbours and looked down on as some kind of desperate scarlet woman. It’s going to be miserable, but I’m strong, I can do it. But Betsy being treated like a pariah is something else. Something I don’t think I can stand. I eventually drift into an unnatural, dreamless sleep.