Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Please don’t meet anyone else yet,’ she’d said. ‘Not before he’s got whatever he needs to get out of his system.’

  Fat chance.

  But, of course, family eventually won out. Not consciously, don’t get me wrong. There’s no way David would have made them feel awkward for still wanting to be friends with me. But, once it became clear that he was gone for good, that he was truly happy without me, our communications petered out. What was there to talk about now? And, like a lot of people, I think they started to find it uncomfortable mentioning David in front of me. In case I had a meltdown, I suppose. Or because what he got up to was now none of my business. Anyway, whenever we did speak, the elephant in the room kept doubling in size until it threatened to trample us all. We still talk occasionally. I’ll call Jules before Saturday and just make sure she’s up to date with Betsy World. And they send Christmas and birthday cards. Presents for Bets. But the thing about intimacy is that, once it’s compromised, it’s over, like a tyre with a slow puncture. You can patch it back together but there’ll always be a point that will give under pressure. I understand. I just miss them.

  I give Betsy a big smile. ‘It’s my busiest time at work.’

  Luckily, she accepts that as the one and only reason. I tell myself I need to get a grip. Keep my head down and do nothing but work for the next few days so that I can give her my full attention when she comes back on Wednesday to spend the rest of the holiday with me. I need to plan days out, time spent away from The Close. Kentish Town City Farm, maybe? And the Tower? Betsy loves a bit of gore. Hopefully, the worst will have happened before then – I can’t imagine Stella is going to hold back from asking Al what the fuck I was alluding to, or that he will take his time coming to hammer my door down to tell me to take my cleaning company elsewhere. I wonder if I should warn Gail. Get my side in first. She’s definitely not vindictive, but she might feel she has to give me the requisite month’s notice in the interests of neighbourly harmony. I wouldn’t blame her.

  ‘Mummy!’ Betsy says loudly, and I start. By the tone of her voice, she’s been trying to get my attention for a while. The couple at the next table look over at me. Bad mum.

  ‘What, sweetie?’

  She clunks her fork down into her empty bowl. Gives me a gummy smile. ‘I’ve finished.’

  Before I drop her back I take her to AJT Music to kill some time, where Tomas tries to teach her how to juggle with apples while I hole up with Angie on the top floor and tell her the latest.

  ‘What were you thinking?’ she says when I’ve finished.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I say. ‘It just seems so wrong that he’s going to surprise her with all of this. That she has no clue her life is about to fall apart.’

  ‘Is this about you and David?’ Angie says, and I scoff.

  ‘Of course not. That was totally different.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. I ignore her. ‘I have a couple of prospective new clients,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Stop changing the subject.’

  Thankfully, Tomas and Betsy reappear then, my daughter eager to show off her prowess (if the employees of AJT Music wonder why their shiny, healthy Granny Smiths bruised so violently overnight, hopefully they’ll keep it to themselves) and it’s time to leave.

  Having dropped Bets off, I head home, where I park my car out on the main road, cursing its stupid kitsch uniqueness, and practically tiptoe along The Close to home. If they don’t see me, maybe they’ll assume I’ve gone away for the night. Of course, for that to work I’ll have to leave the lights off in my curtainless kitchen-cum-living room once it gets dark. It’s worth it. I can make camp in my bedroom and only come out for snacks.

  Once on the bottom stair, I allow myself to breathe out. I sneak a look over at number 3, half expecting to see Al glaring back at me, but the windows are blank. No clue as to whether they’re in or out. The automated lighting system is set for the evening as usual, regardless. I fumble my key into the lock and bang through the door, slamming it behind me.

  The first thing I see is a folded piece of paper on the floor. A note.

  I pick it up, hands trembling. My name is written on the front in black biro. Capital letters. I edge over to the front window and cautiously look out. There’s still no movement in Stella and Al’s house. Heart pounding, I open up the piece of paper. No name, but I have no doubt who it’s from.

  I’ll come over to talk more tomorrow 11 a.m. Please don’t reply to this. If you’re out, I’ll try again at 2.

  She’s going to give me a chance.

  22

  Somehow, knowing that I have to face Stella again in the morning focuses my brain, and I stay up half the night finalizing the quote for Ferne, then, at six in the morning, after about three hours’ fitful sleep, I sneak out and deliver it. I can hear baby Alexei crying when I walk up the drive to number 1, so I assume Ferne is up somewhere in the house. A tiny stab of guilt hits me in the ribs at the thought of what I’m about to do to her, but I squash it back down. She’s hardly an innocent party here either.

  I tidy the flat when I get back, throwing open the windows to let some air in. At some point in the middle of the night I was struck by panic that maybe the note was from Al. That he’s made an appointment to come over and have it out with me, or worse. So I keep throwing glances over to their house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him leaving for work and, finally, at about twenty to nine, there he is, at the wheel of his sports Bentley. I’m so relieved I set the alarm for quarter past ten and go back to bed, fully clothed.

  Up again, I shower and change into a flattering – but not too flattering – floral midi dress. My calves glow blue white but my feet – which have had a few days out in sandals – are pale brown, except for a T-shaped ghost shoe. It’s a look. Stella is always an even hue of honey bronze. I can’t imagine there’s a tan line on her. I bet she doesn’t even wear the paper thong they give you to protect your modesty while they hose you down in the salon. I had it done once – we were going on a seaside holiday, Devon, I think – and I felt like a hippo having a mud bath. Stella, I imagine, is the kind of woman who has no self-consciousness about hopping up on to a massage table, naked, on all fours, while some poor girl on minimum wage rips out the hairs from round her backside. So long as she looks immaculate when she leaves.

  It’s a beautiful, warm day, although the papers are predicting a return to freezing storms for Easter. I keep meaning to google ‘things to do with kids on rainy days in London’ because most of the plans I have for Betsy so far rely on sunshine. Or, at least, on the weather being dry. I leave the windows open, get out two of my prettiest mugs (I only have four here, so it’s hardly a taxing decision) then start to panic about whether or not I should offer her a coffee, or if that makes it seem as if I think this is a social call. That she’s a friend coming over to chat. I push them over to the side, by the kettle, out of the way. Line them up neatly. I’ll play it by ear.

  I hear footsteps on the stairs. My heart starts to pound. I thought I would see her coming across the road and that would give me a minute to compose myself, but my fannying about with the mugs means I took my eyes off the prize. I lift my hair off the back of my neck and flap it up and down. I’m sweating. Even though I know she’s out there, I jump when she raps on the door.

  Stella is dressed for the gym, long, skinny legs clad in Lycra, toned, tanned shoulders visible in a skin-tight coral vest, hair pulled up in a severe ponytail, which makes her eyes appear even more unnaturally slanted. She’s not smiling.

  ‘Hi,’ I say nervously. ‘Come on in.’

  She refuses my offer of refreshments. ‘Just show me what you wanted to show me, Laura.’ The way she says my name lets me know she means business. This is not a social call. As if I ever might have thought it was.

  ‘Of course. Right. Sit down,’ I babble. She perches on the sofa. I grab my phone and squeeze in next to her. I’ve rehearsed over and over exactly what I need to say, what o
rder to present the information in, but that’s all gone out of my head now. All I can remember is that I should start at the beginning, so I scroll through my photos and bring up the letter from the bank about the loan.

  ‘So, this … well, it’s kind of self-explanatory, but it’s a letter accompanying a contract for Al to take out a loan against your house. Three and a half million.’

  There’s the smallest intake of breath from Stella. An inadvertent gasp. I look at her, but her face is still impassive. Maybe, underneath all the Botox, it’s struggling to express confusion. It’s hard to tell. She takes the phone from my hand, zooms in on the letter, scrolling left and right to read the details.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  This part I do remember. I need to engage her in the facts and not get sidetracked by the reason that I know them. ‘I’ll explain everything later, I promise. Can I just show you what else there is first?’

  ‘No. Answer my question.’

  I exhale noisily. ‘From his office …’

  ‘Ah. Do you make a habit of rifling through your clients’ personal belongings? I’m sure they’d love to hear about that.’

  I don’t want to show her how rattled I am. I reach my hand out as if to take back the phone. ‘Of course not. I … if you don’t approve and you’d rather not know, I completely understand …’

  Neither of us says anything for a second. A stand-off. Then she gives the tiniest of nods.

  ‘Show me.’

  I take the mobile back, move on to the next picture. ‘This is the contract for that loan. It goes on for pages. Basically, it says Al now owes around ten million on the house – does that sound right?’ She doesn’t react. Stares at the picture. ‘… But this extra bit is only short term. And he’s signed it on the last page …’

  I show her the signature page. Expand his signature for her to see. ‘Um … is it … the house … is it in his name only?’

  She makes eye contact then and I don’t know how to react. It feels so intimate, given we both know how we feel about each other. We stay locked in a look for a few seconds while, I think, she decides how honest she wants to be with me. How much she wants to tell me. In the end, her need for the truth wins out. That’s why she’s here.

  ‘Yes.’ It’s all she says, but it’s a start. I want to ask her why. How can that be so, after all those years together? After two children? But I can wait.

  ‘Right.’ I move on to the next photo. It’s the particulars for the Battersea flat. ‘I’ll show you these in a minute, but … here … this is the correspondence for the new flat. It’s all going through … look …’

  I take her through the half-dozen pages, expanding relevant bits – dates, signatures, any mention of his name. I’ve got her now; she can’t take her eyes off the phone.

  ‘Let me see the details,’ she says, and I flick back to the estate agent’s printout and hand her the mobile. She zooms in on every picture: the wide open-plan living room/kitchen with glittering views over the river through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the long, glass-walled terrace, the Morocco-inspired bedroom. It’s nowhere near as spacious as their house, obviously. Not even half the size. Probably not even a quarter. But it screams of a different lifestyle. Sexier. Freer. Hipper. I don’t rush her. I know the images so well, but I need to appreciate what it’s like to see them for the first time. And to know that this is the place my husband has set up for himself and his mistress. His new life.

  Eventually, she hands the phone back to me. There’s the tiniest trace of a tear in the corner of her eye. Turns out she might be human after all. ‘What else?’

  ‘This,’ I say, showing her the letter about the new bank account. The transfer from their joint savings. ‘Did you know about this?’ She says, ‘No,’ so quietly I can hardly hear her.

  ‘And then this …’ I scroll on to the card. The note inside … I can’t wait for our tomorrow. I love u 2 the moon and back!!!

  I point to the screen ‘F. Her name begins with an F, see.’

  She flicks forward. I say a quick thank-you that I didn’t take a picture of the Polaroid. She lands on a photo of Betsy showing me one of her ballet moves, biting her bottom lip with concentration, one leg raised shakily out in front of her. She swipes back angrily. Her eyes flash at me. ‘How do I know you haven’t just set all this up? To make me think it wasn’t you who gave him that book …’

  I force myself to make eye contact again. ‘Why? Why would I? Yes, it’s been horrible having everyone turn against me, but … really? You think I would write whole contracts and fake letters from the bank? Just so you’d stop hating me? I didn’t even know Al was short for Alec, let alone who you bank with. Look at the dates. I wasn’t even living here when this started …’

  She looks through the photos again, too quickly, taking nothing in.

  ‘Who is she?’

  I knew this would be her main focus. Find out who the enemy is. Channel all her hatred and anger towards them rather than her husband. I’ve already decided I can’t risk telling her yet. She would go straight round there, making Ferne’s life in The Close impossible. Threaten her with god knows what. And what if I’m wrong?

  ‘I don’t know. Does it even matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters. You said you knew. Fucking bitch. I can make sure she never gets near him again …’

  ‘Stella,’ I say as gently as I can, ‘Al’s setting up a new life. He’s leaving you.’

  She whips her head round at that, as if it hadn’t even occurred to her. ‘Because some silly tart threw herself at him …’

  ‘Yes, she’s probably not very nice. But he’s the one you’re supposed to be getting married to. He’s the one you have two kids with. He’s the one who owes you loyalty. And, by the looks of it, he’s stripping your life out from underneath you …’

  ‘She must have put him up to it …’

  So this is how they’re still together. Every time he strays, she pins all the blame on the other woman. It’s classic. ‘You need to protect yourself. And the girls. That’s the only reason I’m telling you all this …’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I need to do.’ she snaps.

  ‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ I need to calm her down.

  She looks at me like I’ve offered her crack. I suppose it is only eleven o’clock in the morning. ‘I just thought … well, you’ve had a shock …’

  ‘Do you know how many calories there are in wine? I’ll have a vodka. And slimline tonic. Ice and lemon.’

  ‘There is no vodka. Or tonic, or ice, or lemon for that matter. I only have a cheap bottle of wine, but you’re welcome to a glass. I’ll join you.’

  She shrugs, as if to say what choice does she have, so I get up and hunt out two glasses, get the bottle out of the fridge and pour us both a large one. Now I think about it, I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Maybe she’s even meaner when she’s drunk.

  ‘How come you don’t co-own the house?’ I say as I hand her hers. I expect her to bite my head off, but instead she takes a long swig.

  ‘Because he already owned it. He bought his ex-wife out of her share when they split. I’ve never even thought about it, to be honest, and then when we had children – well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Not legally, I don’t think. I don’t know.’

  She flushes pale, even with the tan. ‘When we’re married …’

  ‘Stella,’ I say softly, ‘I don’t think there’s going to be a wedding –’

  She cuts me off. ‘But everything’s booked. The deposits have all been paid. Why would he do that?’

  I’ve been thinking about this. It is strange. Why would he be happy to throw all that money away? ‘Who’s been paying the deposits? You or him?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve chosen everything. He said he wanted me to have the most fabulous day ever, to pick anything I wanted.’

  ‘I know. But I mean, practically. Who has actually written a cheque or done a transfer
or handed over cash for a deposit?’

  She looks at me as if the answer is obvious, and I suppose in her world it is. ‘He did.’

  ‘And … um … have you got receipts? Have you looked at your bank statements and seen that the money has actually gone out?’ I’m assuming the answer is no because, if she had, she might have noticed the tiny matter of one million going missing.

  She attempts a frown. There’s the tiniest puckering movement around the outside edges of her brow, like an overcooked lasagne. ‘Al looks after all that stuff.’

  Part of me wants to shake her. To say, Are you so stupid that you don’t even get involved with what’s going on with your own finances? Of course I don’t.

  ‘Right. Well, maybe that’s where to start. Have a look through your joint statements.’

  ‘I don’t think we get statements. I’ve never seen one.’

  Never? And she’s never queried why? Jesus. The phrase ‘taking candy from a baby’ springs to mind. ‘Maybe it’s all online. Do you know?’

  She looks at me, clueless. ‘What about Ottolenghi? And Lewis Capaldi? Are you telling me Al’s just going to cancel them at the last minute?’

  ‘I’m guessing Al booked them, am I right? Have you met either of them? Have you spoken to them about it?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Al knows them through work. He’s arranged everything.’

  I risk putting a hand on hers briefly. She shakes it off like it’s a muddy dog paw. ‘I doubt he has. I doubt either of them know anything about it.’

  She knocks back the last of her wine. I’ve barely taken a sip. Then she holds her glass out like a child. I lean over and pick up the bottle, fill her up again, with a bit less this time. I wanted to mellow her out a bit, but her getting slaughtered wouldn’t benefit either of us.