Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  By the time it gets to six o’clock I’m itching for someone to talk to other than myself, so I take a quick shower and, even though it’s against all my natural instincts to turn up somewhere unannounced, I force myself to head down to Gail’s. Ben is away in Luxembourg for two nights and I know she likes company when he’s gone. I take a bottle of wine, because I don’t want her thinking I just show up so I can drink her top-notch stuff. I ring the bell and smile up at the camera, pulling the ends of my ponytail to make it tighter.

  ‘Hi!’ she says, when she opens the door. She’s dressed in her usual evening garb of high-end workout gear. I have no idea if she actually works out every night, but they do have a gym somewhere on the premises, apparently, and she’s in very good shape, so something’s working. I brandish the wine.

  ‘Fancy a quick one?’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Um …’

  I’ve overstepped the mark. I should have waited for an invitation. I’ve probably broken some etiquette code and I’ll be taken away and shot as a revolutionary. I take a step back. ‘Don’t worry. It was just a thought …’

  ‘It’s …’ She pulls the front door closed a little. ‘Stella’s here, showing me ideas for her wedding dress …’ Her voice is breezy, but she raises her eyebrows as if to signal why that might be a problem. Shit. I hadn’t even thought of that as a possibility. She must have arrived while I was in the shower.

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t want to disturb you,’ I say awkwardly. ‘Another time.’

  She looks relieved. ‘Yes. Lovely.’

  And she shuts the door before I can even say goodbye. Back upstairs, I uncork the wine and climb up on to the kitchen counter to open the front window. It’s a beautiful evening. Still and almost warm. The promise of good weather in the air. There are nearly two hours till I FaceTime with Betsy. She’ll probably still be at Zara’s. David usually collects her about half past six, by which time, hopefully, she’s eaten and done her homework. I’m immensely grateful to Michaela for the way she’s putting herself out to help my little girl carry on in her routine. I’m not sure I’d be so generous if it were the other way round. I need to make more of an effort to show my thanks, I remind myself. Buy her some flowers, at the very least.

  The end of next week is the start of the Easter holiday, and – despite David and I always having agreed that we would reverse roles during the holidays, with Betsy staying with me during the week and him at weekends (with the agreement that I could drop her round at his if I had a work crisis, unless he’d already told me he wasn’t going to be there) – I know I have a battle on my hands. Betsy has made it very clear she doesn’t want to spend more time in The Close than she has to. She wants to be able to see her friends and play with her cat. She wants to stay in the place she now calls home. And, of course, she wants me to be there too. It goes without saying that what she wants can’t happen.

  I wonder if I could get a last-minute deal and take us away somewhere, but it’s my busiest time at work in terms of trying to drum up more business. It’s so ingrained in people that spring is when you clean the bits of your house that you ignore the rest of the year (although, for some reason, this never occurs to them in February, when the weather is dreary; it’s always a mad rush in April, and it’ll be even more so this year because I’m so late with my mail-outs and flyers). Maybe, much though it pains me, I could suggest that David take the time off work. Although it’ll probably be too late. Half his colleagues will already have booked their vacations to coincide with their kids’ break.

  I’m still mulling over all of this when I hear laughter. I peer out of the window, but there’s no one in The Close. I take my glass through to the bedroom and look out of the window at the back, the one that overlooks Gail and Ben’s back garden. Gail and Stella are ambling towards a little wrought-iron table with two chairs, where the last of the sun is hitting. They both have their coats on and Stella is carrying what looks like a couple of throws, while Gail has a wine bottle and two glasses. Stella’s spiky heels sink into the grass as she walks. She reaches out and steadies herself on Gail’s arm when she wobbles. They’re obviously really comfortable with each other. I feel stupidly left out. The unpopular girl at school eating her lunch alone while everyone else gossips about her.

  I make myself move away before they look up and see me.

  17

  OK. Something has happened. Maybe. I’m not sure.

  I’ve found a potential Fanny. Except that she’s not a Fanny, she’s a Ferne. Of course, she might just be a random woman whose name begins with an F. Except that she looks exactly like Stella, just a ten-plus-years-younger, more natural version. And she lives here. In The Close.

  Angie and I finished checking for possibles at AJT Music after I dropped Betsy off on Wednesday evening. She had already moved on from the top floor by the time I got there and had made some excuse to swap with Tomas so that she and I could forensically sweep the accounts and admin offices behind reception. We got briefly excited when we found a letter addressed to a Mr F. Freeman, in case the sender had unwittingly misgendered Fanny, but it soon turned out that F. Freeman was Frank and a man in his fifties, judging by a family photo on the wall. It was disheartening, to say the least.

  ‘Fuck it,’ I said to Angie. ‘I give up. Why am I even doing this anyway?’

  ‘Because if you weren’t, you would literally be doing nothing with your life other than working and sleeping.’

  ‘God,’ I said with feigned indignation. ‘Say what you think, won’t you? Don’t spare my feelings.’

  She flashed me a smile. ‘You did ask.’

  I decided to give it up as a bad job. My business needed attention and, after I collected the ‘Professional Spring Clean!’ flyers from the printers I spent a whole day traipsing around the mansions of north-west London shoving them through letterboxes. At one pile the size of Southfork I was turned away by a burly, shaven-headed security guard before I could even enter the gate. At another, I was shouted at by a man in a vintage Aston Martin for using the main entrance and not the one marked ‘Tradesmen’. One woman asked if I’d come to interview for the maid’s job. It was an ego boost of a day, what can I say? As someone who never reads any leaflet that comes through her door, ever, I’m surprised at how much business can be drummed up in this way, though. I only needed a few takers to make a significant difference to my turnover. I shuffled back towards home, wishing the flat had a bath I could soak my aching limbs in and not just a shower. My messenger bag was, thankfully, considerably lighter since I had left home in the morning, now emptied of most of the flyers I had taken with me, and the sandwich and water I had consumed on the run. I would go out again tomorrow and I’d already decided Betsy and I could do some more this weekend. The weather was supposed to be fine and it would give us something to do away from the neighbours.

  As I turned the corner into The Close, past the oh-so-welcoming ‘Private Road: No Unauthorized Entry’ sign (I secretly wanted to add ‘Poor people will be ostracized’ underneath, but I hadn’t yet got up the courage), I decided to slip a flyer through the letterbox of number 1. The occupants (I had no idea who they even were, let alone what they looked like) didn’t seem to mix with any of the others, so would – hopefully – not have heard the gossip about me. Yet. Feeling rebellious, I walked in through their ‘Out’ gate, on to the horseshoe-shaped drive. I dug in my bag for a leaflet and was just about to feed it through the letterbox when the front door opened and there was a woman, on her way out, by the looks of it, sleeping baby in a very expensive buggy behind her. I jumped guiltily.

  ‘Oh. Hi.’ She looked at me, confused. She was younger than most of the other residents – maybe twenty-five. But otherwise, the usual round these parts: slim, tall, big hair.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, blushing. No one likes junk mail. Everyone hates the people who shove handfuls of it through their letterboxes. ‘I was about to put this through your door.’

  She reached her hand out and took it.
Threw it on the doormat without looking at it. Not rudely, just on autopilot. ‘Thanks.’ I resisted the urge to ask for it back if she wasn’t interested.

  ‘If you do … need a spring clean or anything. I live here … on The Close … so I’d give you a neighbours’ discount …’ Shut up, Laura. ‘Anyway, thanks.’

  She pushed the buggy out and turned to lock the door. ‘Ah, is that funny little car yours? Sunlight Cleaning?’

  ‘Sunshine. Yes, that’s me. Sorry it’s such an eyesore.’

  ‘It makes me laugh,’ she said, smiling with dazzling white, straight teeth. ‘It must be giving some of them palpitations.’

  I’m not going to lie, I warmed to her then. ‘I’m Laura,’ I said. ‘Number 6. Well, above the garage. Gorgeous baby, by the way.’

  ‘Oh god, no. He’s not mine. I’m the nanny.’

  Ah. Now it made sense. ‘Well, whoever’s he is, he’s lovely. That’s a great age.’

  She looked down at him fondly. ‘It is. His name’s Alexei. He’s a sweetheart. When he’s asleep. I’m Ferne, by the way. Listen, I’ll mention the cleaning thing to them …’

  I barely heard the last part. The first letter of her name jumped out at me in flashing neon a metre high. I looked at her properly for the first time as we both made to walk out on to the street. Long dark locks falling round her shoulders, high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, full lips. She was stunning, but what was more striking was that she looked exactly like a more natural version of Stella. That was what made me think she might be the one. If Al had a type, then here was a perfect candidate right under his nose.

  And her name began with F.

  I suddenly remembered that if she really was Fanny, I was more intimately acquainted with bits of her than I should be, and then I couldn’t look at her any more. I had to try and dig some more, though, while I had the chance. I waited to see which direction she would turn in and then went the same way, away from Gail and Ben’s and my comfortable sofa and a cup of tea. My legs were aching so much I could hardly shuffle one foot in front of the other.

  ‘Don’t you live that way? Ferne asked, looking slightly confused.

  ‘I’m going to do a few more streets before I give up. Where are you taking him?’

  ‘Just round the block to get some air. I don’t like going on the heath on my own. It creeps me out.’

  I decided to change the subject before she pinned me down on my exact route. ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘Since he was born, pretty much. You?’

  I gave her a very brief version of what had brought me there. This wasn’t about me. ‘How do you like it?’

  She leaned down to check on the baby. Adjusted his hat a little. ‘It’s OK. Good. Better than some other places I’ve been, I suppose. I wish more people had babies; it’s nice when a few of you can all take them out together.’ She started telling me about Sergei and Katherine, the couple she works for, and I had to stop myself from interrupting her to tell her we didn’t have time for this. Luckily, she walked at a snail’s pace, so we were getting nowhere fast. I waited until I thought I could politely step in.

  ‘What about the other people on The Close? They’re not very friendly, are they?’

  Ferne shrugged. ‘Of course they’re not. We’re the hired help. Well, I am. Not you. But you’re not one of them. Some of the other staff are OK, though. Georgia, the nanny at number 3, is nice enough but she’s only part-time because the kids are older …’

  Number 3. That was Stella and Al. My ears pricked up.

  ‘Oh yes, they have those two girls, don’t they? Does she get on with them? Georgia?’

  If she wondered why I was being so nosy, she didn’t say. Ferne struck me as someone who loved a good gossip. ‘They’re brats, but that’s hardly a surprise, given what their mum’s like.’

  ‘Is that Stella?’ I said, as if I wasn’t sure. I was practically gagging with questions. ‘Yeah, she seems like a bit of a cow.’

  Ferne laughed. ‘You’ve got that right. The housekeeper at number 2 is quite nice too, but they never give her a second off …’

  Oh no you don’t. ‘He seems OK, though, Stella’s other half. Al, is it?’

  I’m not sure if I imagined it, but I felt as if she shot me a look then. I tried to act nonchalant. She stopped walking and bent down to fuss with the baby again. I noticed a sparkly, expensive-looking ring on the middle finger of her right hand. ‘Yeah. Better than her anyway.’

  ‘Aren’t they planning some huge wedding soon? Is that them?’

  I’d swear she blushed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t really know them. Listen, it’s been lovely meeting you, Laura, but I’m going to push my pace a bit. Get some exercise in while I can.’

  I realized I’d have to let her go, otherwise I’d make myself look suspicious. ‘Of course. Pop round any time for a cup of tea, if you’re bored. Bring the baby.’

  She waved a hand as she broke into a trot with the buggy, calling back over her shoulder. ‘I will. Thank you. And I’ll tell them about the cleaning. It could do with it. The regular cleaner’s rubbish …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I shouted after her. ‘That’d be great.’

  As soon as she turned a corner I doubled back to The Close, pulling out my phone to call Angie. It was hardly conclusive. Not enough to convict. But it was something.

  18

  April

  I have three requests for quotations from my leafleting – an all-time record – and one of them is from number 1, The Close. Ferne must have put in a word for me. I arrange to visit them all before the holidays start. It doesn’t look professional to turn up with a small girl in tow. At the first, on Monday, I am shown around by the housekeeper. Housekeepers are a bit like doctors’ receptionists. They know how much power they wield, and they like to use it. I am left in no doubt that the decision whether to use me or not is theirs and theirs alone. I smile and make accommodating but non-committal noises as she shows me the games room and the climate-controlled cheese cellar. I promise to deliver a detailed estimate the following day.

  Next morning, at the second, I can’t believe my luck when the door is opened by Ferne herself, baby Alexei clinging on to her like a limpet. No housekeeper here. Katherine doesn’t like the idea of someone being in the house all day, getting under her feet, Ferne tells me. Well, apart from Ferne herself, obviously, and she’s only temporary. Katherine and Sergei don’t want the baby to be brought up by nannies. Once Alexei is a year old, in August, she’ll be moving on and they won’t replace her.

  ‘That’s unusual round here,’ I say, in an attempt to bond about the privileged lives of our neighbours.

  ‘Totally,’ she says. She’s making me a cup of tea while I bounce Alexei on my knee. He’s a cute baby. Smiley. ‘They’re more down to earth than most, Katherine and Sergei. I’ve been lucky.’

  ‘So … do you have another job lined up?’ I try to look casual. Just making polite conversation. ‘It must be hard leaving them behind when you’ve bonded.’

  She looks at Alexei, who is making gurgly noises as I jiggle him up and down. ‘It is. But I knew it was only ever going to be till he was one. And anyway, I’m giving up. Nannying. At least, the live-in kind.’

  ‘Right. Yes, it must be unsettling. Never putting down roots.’

  She hands me a mug of tea. ‘Exactly. I’m getting too old.’

  I laugh. ‘What are you? Twenty-five?’

  ‘Twenty-six. And I don’t mean like that. I just mean I can’t keep moving round from job to job and someone else’s attic or basement or annexe for ever.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She lifts Alexei out of my lap and sits down at the table opposite me. I’m sorry to let him go. ‘What will you do, do you know?’

  She gives me a big smile. ‘Nothing for a while.’

  ‘How lovely. Have you saved up loads, then? Sorry, that sounds really nosy. It’s just … if you have the secret to being able to survive doing nothing, I’d love to hear it.’


  Luckily, she doesn’t seem to realize I’m interrogating her. ‘God, no. You barely get paid anything on top of accommodation. It’s like pocket money. I’m moving in with my boyfriend and I’m just going to take my time deciding what to do next, that’s all.’

  My ears prick up. I can almost feel them standing to attention, German shepherd-style. ‘He must be doing well, if he can support you both.’

  ‘He is,’ she says, with a cat-that-got-the-cream smirk. I can tell she’s dying to share more with me, but she stops herself.

  I need to push it. ‘What does he do?’

  She looks awkward for the first time. As if she might give too much away. ‘Oh … he works in the entertainment industry. I’m not exactly sure doing what …’

  I think of AJT Music. Al’s office with the gold discs. ‘Lucky you. So where are you moving to?’

  ‘Battersea,’ she says, making the word sound as exotic as Barbados. ‘Right on the river.’

  The flat. It’s her. It must be. She’s moving into the flat that Al’s buying. ‘And … um … he’s moving in too?’

  If this sounds odd, she doesn’t seem to notice, so caught up is she in her fairy tale. ‘Of course. It’s his flat.’

  I nod, as if this is the most normal thing in the world, but inside, my mind is whirring. Where does this leave Stella?

  And then it hits me. It’s so obvious I can’t believe I haven’t worked it out before. Stella and Al’s wedding is in August. Alexei will be one in August, and Ferne is moving into her new flat then. And – I assume – so is Al. Stella can make all the million-dollar plans she likes, but there isn’t going to be a wedding. After all these years, Al is finally going to leave. He’s getting all his ducks in a row – the flat, the new bank account, the million-pound transfer – and then he’s gone.