Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  I get to AJT Music early, but not too early. My crew starts at six and, from experience, I know the offices are rarely empty of staff before seven. I don’t want to risk bumping into Al, but I also want to give myself as much time as possible. So I sit in my car along the street waiting for Angie to text me. At ten to seven she does: Everyone on this floor gone. Still I’m cautious when I let myself in.

  I say a quick hello to Sharon and Tomas. As promised, Angie is tackling the second floor. She beckons me over away from the stairs when she sees me.

  ‘I’ve managed to do the second shelf since you were here last. Nothing.’ She’s wearing a flowery scarf round her head to keep her hair off her face while she works, and she looks weirdly like a glamorous wooden carving. I have no idea where she gets her tan in March, because she never takes a holiday. She’s the visual opposite of the women from The Close. Her face is lived in, full of character. You can see she’s had a life. I love it.

  ‘Thank you. You shouldn’t have, but thanks.’

  She shrugs. ‘If I shout your name, it means I’ve heard one of them coming up the stairs and you need to get out of there. If I shout, “Aagh! There’s a spider,” that means it’s too late and you need to hide under his desk or somewhere.’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘You’ve really thought about this.’

  ‘Bobby came up with the spider thing. I didn’t tell him what was going on,’ she adds, in case I think she’s been blabbing.

  ‘What if you really see a spider?’ I ask, teasing her. ‘What then?’

  She raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Get on with it.’

  I work my way through the last two rows of books on Al’s shelves pretty quickly, flicking a look up every now and then, just in case Angie has got absorbed in her work and failed to hear impending intruders. The last time I look she’s not there, so I assume she’s cleaning the toilets or the kitchen. She told me she had done the vacuuming first, to get the noisy stuff out of the way before I arrived. Much to the annoyance of the last few remaining office workers. That was probably part of the reason they all went home so early. I look round the room. There aren’t many obvious hiding places. There’s a vast grey metal desk – retro or actual vintage, I can’t tell – with a small amount of clutter on top, and two drawers either side underneath. I poke through the surface paperwork half-heartedly. Stella and the Mini Mes stare judgementally out at me from a framed photo. It’s disconcerting, to say the least. I’ve never really understood why people display pictures of their loved ones in their work spaces anyway. As if they might forget what they look like during the course of an eight-hour day. Or it’s a way of saying, ‘I am not a sociopath. Look! I know a human woman and two small children well enough to have taken their photograph!’

  There’s nothing to pique my interest. Al is either extremely efficient, or his job mainly consists of swanning around not doing any actual work, because there’s precious little to sift through. I notice a movement in the main office and jump away from the desk. It’s only Angie, spray can of Pledge in hand. I relax, look in the right-hand drawers. The top one is full of personal stuff, but a quick glance tells me it’s all of the tissues, toothbrush, cold remedy, emergency snack variety. In the underneath, larger drawer there is a pile of paperwork about an upcoming tour by a famed boy band. Costings and schedules, some annotated. I check for anything incriminating between them. Nothing. I get momentarily distracted looking at their rider: four (extra-large) bags of Monster Munch, twelve one-litre bottles of cider, eight rounds of cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and four boxes of take-out KFC (to be kept warm). Clearly, fame has not rubbed their edges off yet. I snap a photo of the list, thinking it’ll make David laugh, and then remember that’s not really who we are any more.

  I put it back in the drawer and move over to the left-hand side …

  ‘Spider!!!!!!’

  My heart (and my blood pressure, I imagine) shoots through the roof. I’m a rabbit caught in the headlights and then I remember the drill and fall to the floor underneath Al’s desk.

  I hear a kerfuffle. Sharon’s voice. Angie reassuring her that what she thought was a killer arachnid has turned out to be a piece of cotton.

  ‘Has Laura left?’ I hear Sharon say.

  ‘She’s just in the loo.’ Angie’s voice sounds wobbly, nervous. I wonder if Sharon will notice.

  Of all the things I should be worrying about, I find myself hoping Sharon doesn’t say anything bitchy about me. I’m a firm believer in not listening at closed doors. I know that most people relish any chance to bash the boss, and Sharon strikes me as the most likely of all my employees to enjoy a good moan. I don’t want to hear it, though. I’d rather not know.

  ‘Is she OK, do you think?’ is what Sharon actually says. ‘I mean, you know, the divorce and everything.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Angie says, clearly not wanting to engage with this – albeit rather sweet – enquiry with me more or less in the room.

  Sharon won’t be derailed. ‘She’s looking a bit down, if you ask me. Poor love.’

  I chide myself for assuming the worst. Feel a warm fuzzy glow of fondness for my team. ‘Did you need something?’ Angie says, changing the subject just as I was starting to enjoy it. Clearly, she’s staying focused on the issue at hand.

  ‘Oh. I’ve finished downstairs. I was just coming to see if you needed any help.’

  Shit.

  ‘That was quick,’ Angie says. I assume she’s buying herself time to think.

  ‘I think half of them weren’t in today,’ Sharon says, unaware. ‘Even the kitchen was clean already.’

  ‘Tell you what, I promised Laura I’d give the supplies cupboard a clean-out when I got a chance. Do you want to do that? And make a list of whatever we’re low on.’ Genius. The supplies cupboard is down in the basement, far, far away from here.

  ‘Sure,’ Sharon says. ‘It’s a bit creepy down there, though.’

  ‘Swap with Tomas, then. He won’t mind. You can finish off the ground floor.’

  I wait what seems like an age after Sharon agrees with this plan. I’m about to emerge when I hear a hoarse whisper from Angie. ‘All clear.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say, dragging myself up. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Anything?’ she says, hopefully. I shake my head.

  ‘OK, well, you’ve got about half an hour till we’re done.’

  ‘There’s not much else I can look at,’ I say. I nudge the mouse on Al’s desk, just in case, but the computer is off. I pull open the top-left-hand drawer. Angie peers in with me. Pens, stationery, highlighters, Post-its. Nothing of any substance. I shut it again. Angie turns to go and get on with her work. I tug the handle of the final drawer, the deep one, bottom left. It doesn’t move.

  ‘Ange. This one’s locked.’ I say to her retreating back. She stops in her tracks.

  11

  We both stand there staring at the locked drawer like it’s the holy grail. I tug on it again. It’s only held closed by the flimsiest of locks, but it might as well be a Hatton Garden vault. ‘Maybe we could open it with a hairgrip,’ I say hopefully. I have a head full of them, as usual, trying to flatten the curls that spring out the side when I tie my hair back. Mind you, I also have absolutely no idea how I would use one to open a lock.

  ‘You’ve been watching too many films,’ Angie says. ‘Maybe the key’s in one of the other drawers. She starts rifling through the personal stuff top right, and I take the stationery, top left.

  ‘A-ha!’ I hear, and I look over to see Angie brandishing a small key.

  ‘Amazing. Give it here.’ I feed the key into the lock. Or, at least, I try to. But it’s obvious the shape is all wrong.

  ‘Damn. I wonder what this is for.’ We both gaze around the room hopefully, but there’s nothing that jumps out. I even move the framed discs, just in case there’s a secret safe behind one of them.

  ‘Let’s keep looking,’ Angie says. She puts the key back where she found it and carries on poking through the
drawer. I do the same. A few seconds later I lift up a pile of unused envelopes and feel something in the bottom one.

  ‘Wait …’ I open the envelope and slide out another – flatter, slightly bigger – key. It fits smoothly into the lock. Turns easily. I look up at Angie.

  Am I really going to do this?

  She gives me an almost imperceptible nod. I pull open the drawer. At first glance, it’s crammed full of what look like official documents. Contracts and letters.

  ‘It’s just more paperwork,’ I say. ‘Probably stuff about the business that’s confidential.’

  ‘Anything else?’ she asks, disappointed.

  I scrabble to the bottom of the pile. There’s something underneath. A metal box, like one of those ones people use to put petty cash in. Red. About thirty centimetres wide. ‘Where’s that other key?’ I say, and even to my own ears my voice sounds wobbly. ‘You really won’t tell anyone about this, will you, Ange? Anyone?’

  ‘Of course I won’t,’ she says, going for the top-right-hand drawer again. ‘It’d make me look as bad as you.’

  It takes her a moment to locate the tiny key. I know just from looking at the lock that it’s going to fit, and it does. I open the box before I can change my mind.

  There’s not much in there. Disappointingly little, in fact. I glance out at the main office then I tip the contents on to the floor. There are a couple of envelopes, a receipt from Cartier, a small box containing a tacky gold sovereign ring, large enough to fit a man’s finger. I open the first envelope. A card. A print of a garish painting of Paris. Inside, in curly, cursive handwriting, a note.

  Thank you for the best 2 days ever. Love u. F xx.

  There are crudely drawn hearts covering the bottom half of the card.

  ‘Whoever she is, she’s young,’ I say.

  ‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’ Angie says, reaching for the second envelope. ‘F. Have you come across any Fs? Any Fionas or Fays hanging round your way?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think she’s French either.’ I snap a quick photo of the message on my phone. Angie has pulled another card from the second envelope. A photo of a kitten sitting in a large coffee cup.

  She goes to open it.

  There’s a shout. A man’s voice. ‘Ange! Angie!’

  The pair of us freeze.

  It’s Tomas.

  ‘Put it all back,’ she says, hauling herself to her feet. I stuff the second card and its envelope into my pocket. Scrabble the rest of the contents back into the box.

  ‘What?’ Angie shouts, as loudly as she can.

  ‘We’re finished down here.’

  I lock the box and shove it back underneath the pile of paperwork.

  ‘I’m coming,’ Angie calls. ‘Two secs.’

  I lock the drawer and put the key back under the detritus top right and the other one in the envelope top left. I can hear Angie clattering around, gathering up her cleaning things. Hopefully, no one will notice that she’s done a much less thorough job than usual. I check Al’s desk, making sure nothing is out of place. Panic that I’ve put the keys in the wrong drawers, swap them. Swap them back. Panic again. Swap them again. Angie comes in, looking flustered. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Coming,’ I say. We both stand there, looking round the room for a minute. I straighten a picture. ‘OK.’

  ‘What did it say?’ she mutters as we head for the stairs.

  ‘I don’t even know. I’ll text you later.’ It seems only natural to keep Angie updated now I’ve involved her this much. ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Retie your scarf. You look like you’ve been in a fight.’ She pulls her headscarf off, stuffs it in her coat pocket and runs her fingers through her short hair.

  Sharon and Tomas are lurking on the stairs up from the foyer. He’s stuffing in a huge sandwich. He’s about seven feet tall and eight stone (OK, six foot three and whatever skinny men that height weigh) and he eats almost constantly. No wonder he likes to work all hours. He has to spend more money on food than most humans. He waves matily.

  ‘Oh, you still here?’ Sharon says when she sees me. ‘I didn’t realize.’ Tomas hands me a list of supplies. Unsurprisingly, we’re not really low on anything, because it’s only been a few days since I stocked up.

  We all leave together. Angie sets the alarm and locks up. Just a normal day.

  12

  I barely even wait for the three of them to walk off before I pull the second card out of my pocket. It’s the same handwriting, there’s no doubt about that. This time, there’s a longer message.

  Happy Birthday, gorgeous boy …

  I’m momentarily distracted by the thought of anyone referring to Al as a boy. Big, predatory, overconfident Al.

  … I know you can’t wear this yet, but you can put it on when your alone and think of me …

  Your. She actually put ‘your’ instead of ‘you’re’. And she can’t even blame autocorrect. She means the ring, I realize. The garish ring in the blue box.

  … or just look at the photo haha! …

  I scrabble around in the envelope. Find a Polaroid. Eww.

  I stuff it back in the envelope quickly.

  … I can’t wait for our tomorrow. I love u 2 the moon and back!!! F xxxx

  More cartoony hearts.

  C–ringe. The thought just pops into my head, and I smile, thinking of Betsy. God knows what she’d make of what I’ve just done. She has a very firm sense of what’s right and what’s wrong. I snap a picture of the message, decide to wait until Angie will have finished work to text it to her. Just in case she’s with one of the others when it arrives. To kill time (and, I remind myself, to do my job, which should be my main priority at the moment, let’s face it), I stop by the four-storey, four-company offices. The team there – Paul, Amita and Jean tonight – are just about finishing up. On the way home I send Angie a message: Text me when you leave.

  The Close is deserted when I arrive home. I’m glad. I have no desire to run into any of them. Even Gail, because I’m scared I’ll blurt out what I’ve just done.

  Angie and I text back and forth, offering up names. Faith, Faye, Fran, Francesca, Florence. They get more and more ridiculous: Frenchie, Frou Frou, Fluffy. Frankenstein, she sends, and I send back Fridge Freezer. There’s no doubt, whoever she is, Al’s relationship with her is not one of which Stella would approve. But I still don’t know her name. And I can hardly go to Stella and say, ‘So, I was ransacking Al’s office the other night …’

  I tell her about the Polaroid.

  So you’d recognize her if you saw her, she sends back, with a laughing face.

  Not her face, obviously. If she came at me fanny first …

  Angie sends back a series of emojis ranging from smiling to horror.

  What was the Cartier receipt for?

  Damn, I type back. I forgot to look.

  We don’t even know how old these notes are. For all I know, F could have been and gone to the great ex-lover graveyard in the sky. He might be on to G by now. Or even H.

  Have you noticed any Fs anywhere else in the company? His assistant? I know it’s a cliché, but sometimes clichés are made for a reason. And F is definitely young. Everything about her notes screams wide-eyed infatuation. The hearts and kisses. Love u 2 the moon and back. I doubt she’s one of the other executives.

  Never noticed. I’ll look.

  But we both know the truth is she could be anyone. His hairdresser. Someone who serves him coffee at Starbucks. A backing singer on a tour his company is promoting. Someone he met in a bar who has no other connection to him whatsoever. There’s no clue.

  ‘Have you heard the latest wedding news?’ Gail says. We’re drinking tea in her kitchen while she’s meant to be working from home. She has an office elsewhere on the sprawling ground floor, she tells me, as does Ben. She checks her phone for emails every few minutes just in case. I wonder for a second if she’s going to tell me it’s all off. That Stella has finally had enough. ‘No one’s talking to me, remembe
r.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. I forgot. Well, they’ve got Lewis Capaldi singing at the reception. Al knows him through work, apparently.’

  ‘Wow.’ I can’t deny that’s impressive. ‘When is it again?’ I’m hoping I’ll be long gone. Secure and happy in my cosy new home, having forgotten about The Close and all its inhabitants. Except maybe for Gail.

  ‘Early August. I can’t remember which date. Third, maybe. We all had to sign up in blood that we’d be there at least a year ago.’

  I make a mental note to up the intensity of my property search. It’s almost April now. The chances of me finding my ideal home and securing it before August are getting slimmer by the day. ‘Where are they having it?’

  ‘Here.’ She waves a hand around in the direction of Stella and Al’s. ‘They’re building a small town in their back garden. Actual proper structures. No flimsy old marquee.’

  David and I got married in a little church near my mum in Hastings. I’m an only child; he has just one brother. His parents were already gone. Even with all our friends, there were a maximum of thirty-five people there. We took over the room upstairs at the pub next door and the bar staff served us fish and chips and mushy peas. Everyone got very merrily drunk until we all got kicked out at midnight. It was perfect.