by Jane Fallon
‘’Night. Oh, and Stella …’ I say as she goes. She turns round. ‘You have to take all the packaging off first … the pizza. You take off the plastic and the cardboard and then put it in.’
‘I see,’ she says, looking at me in confusion, as if I’ve just explained quantum physics. ‘Thank you.’
I pour the last of the wine into my glass, take it to bed and fall asleep before I drink it.
24
Sunday is more of the same, except that I take a break at lunchtime to FaceTime with Betsy, who tells me she is having ‘the best time ever’ with her dad and her cousins. I try to be pleased – like most parents, I just want my kid to be happy – but it’s impossible to ignore the stab of anxiety that her comment brings. I need to get on and find a house for us both. I need her to start thinking of me as home again.
Even though I’m barely able to stand, I leave my car on the main road again and try to enter The Close unnoticed. The chances of Al being out and Stella wanting to have another look at the photos are slim, I’m sure, but I can’t risk it. I nipped out earlier and bought another pizza and a bottle of wine, and I’m determined to enjoy them in peace. I don’t put any lights on, even though it’s dark. This time, I wait until I’ve put the pizza in the oven before I get in the shower.
I managed to fill Angie in on my visit from Stella while we did a tour of the three storeys with my cache of pre-photos, making sure everything was as it should be before we left. ‘I wish I knew where she stands legally,’ I said when I’d told her it all, and Angie had replied, ‘In a loony bin, by the sounds of it,’ which made me laugh but didn’t help.
There’s a knock on my door again. At first it penetrates my dream as the repetitive bang of a Hoover against a skirting board. Then I jolt awake as my subconscious suddenly cottons on that this is real. My heart is pounding. I feel as if I’ve only just fallen asleep. It’s light, though. I groan and fumble for my phone. Nine forty-three. I’ve slept for nearly twelve hours. I close my eyes and lie back, not ready to get up. The pounding starts again.
I drag myself out of bed. ‘What? Fuck!’ I shout as I stagger to the door. This had better be an emergency. I fling it open and find Stella on my doorstep again. She looks immaculate. Full make-up. Sleek hair falling round her shoulders. Wide, floppy trousers. Vertiginous heels. I’m in the glittery-cat pyjamas again. I probably smell of last night’s pizza and wine. I’m sure the flat does, because the dregs are still by my bed. Actually, I’m pretty sure some of them are in my bed.
‘Stella. I was asleep,’ I say, stating the obvious.
She visibly flinches at the waft of stale air that must accompany me. ‘So I see.’
I wait for her to offer to come back later, but she just stands there, so in the end I invite her in. I open all the windows (by which I mean I open the two windows, front and back), and leave the door ajar.
‘I spoke to the string-quartet person,’ she says without waiting for me to ask why she’s here. ‘Not only has Al not paid the deposit, but he told them we’d changed our minds.’
‘Oh,’ I say. I’m desperate to go and clean my teeth.
‘And then, last night, I asked him if he’d booked them yet and he said yes, it was all sorted.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry.’
She crumples on to the sofa. I’m horrified to see a fat droplet plop out of her right eye and roll down her cheek. I stand there awkwardly. It’s a bit like watching a bad actor cry. Her frozen face shows no emotion. It’s as if someone has planted the tear there. A droplet of glycerine.
‘What am I going to do?’
I fill the kettle. I need caffeine. I probably should be comforting Stella, but I’m scared she might snap and bite my fingers off, like a wounded pit bull. ‘I think you need to find out what your rights are. Maybe talk to a solicitor? Gail might know someone who specializes in this stuff.’
Stella shudders. ‘I don’t want everyone knowing my business.’
I make two coffees without even asking her what she wants. ‘They’re all going to find out when you cancel the wedding.’ It comes out a bit more direct than I’d intended. I’m nervous. She puts her head in her hands. Her thick, silky hair falls either side like the curtain coming down on a play. ‘Sorry, Stella. I’m just being realistic.’
She looks up at me. ‘It’s OK. You must think this is funny, right? After everything that’s happened between us. What do they call it? Karma.’
‘I definitely don’t think it’s funny. I know how hard even a civilized divorce is on kids …’
She closes her eyes. ‘My poor girls.’
‘The thing is, he’ll still have to provide for them, that much I do know. I mean, they probably won’t be living in the luxury they’re used to, but that won’t be so bad. The rest of us cope,’ I add, trying to make a joke out of it. ‘You just need to get some proper advice.’
She sits there in stony silence for a long moment and I think I’ve offended her. I put her coffee down in front of her and go back to leaning on the counter. I’m scared to say anything else. Suddenly she takes a deep breath in.
‘I will literally kill you if you breathe a word of this to anyone else.’
I look around as if there might be someone else in the room deserving of this comment. ‘I’m not going to.’
‘I mean it, Laura. I won’t have my private business being tattled about like another piece of gossip.’
‘I said I won’t, OK. But you could find a solicitor in another part of London. There’s no reason anyone would find out till … well, you know.’ It occurs to me that she’s hoping this will all go away somehow. That Al will change his mind. It should make me feel sad for her but, in fact, it just makes me irritated. She needs to grow up. Start seeing life as it really is.
She lets out a sob. ‘What sort of man steals his children’s future inheritance from them?’
‘I don’t know. Look … you can trust me. If you want someone to talk to about it … whatever …’ A part of me wants to add, If you tell your daughters to apologize to mine for the way they’ve been mean to her, but of course I don’t. Not now.
‘Thank you,’ she says, which, I suppose, is better than nothing.
‘You at least need to start taking steps to protect yourself and the girls. Maybe play him at his own game.’
‘What do you mean?’ she says, looking up at me.
‘I don’t know. But if he’s hiding money from you, then you can do the same, at the very least.’
That gets her attention. ‘He’ll notice.’
I think about it for a second. It probably is the sensible thing to do – the only thing she can do if she won’t see a solicitor. ‘Then we’ll just have to find a way to make sure he doesn’t.’
25
Of course it’s very easy to make pronouncements like this, but it’s another level altogether to actually have suggestions to back them up. It’s obvious that Stella is clueless where their finances are concerned, happily playing the kept woman for their whole relationship.
‘The first thing you need to do is set up an account in your own name, if you don’t have one already – do you have one already?’
She shakes her head.
‘– and ask for access to your joint statements. We’ll figure it out from there.’
‘How do I do that?’
Really? She’s that helpless? ‘Talk to the bank. You might need to show them ID.’
She looks at me and I think I see gratitude on her face. It’s hard to tell.
‘Thank you, for helping me.’ I don’t say anything for a moment. Is she actually going to acknowledge that she was wrong in the way she treated me? I hold my breath …
‘I have an appointment at the salon,’ she says eventually, combing her fingers through her thick hair. ‘I should probably get ready.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Got to get your priorities straight.’ I don’t think she gets the sarcasm.
‘Exactly,’ she says, standing up and smoothing the c
reases from her palazzo pants.
‘Stella,’ I say as she moves towards the door. ‘Maybe start watching what you spend a bit. Just … don’t make any big purchases.’
She looks a bit confused. ‘You’re going to need all the money you can save. Setting yourself and the girls up with a new, secure life needs to be your priority now.’
‘Right …’ she says, but I’m not entirely sure she’s taken in what I’ve said.
I try to busy myself with work once she’s left but my mind keeps drifting off to Stella and the fact that there are two little girls – two mean little girls, I grant you – who have no idea that everything is about to come tumbling down around their ears. And their mother doesn’t even know how to warm up a pizza. I can’t just leave them to drown.
Concentration shot, I drag myself out to shove more leaflets through doors. I drive down to Avenue Road and hit the biggest houses in Primrose Hill. I turn the Stella problem over and over in my mind as I walk. Al is clearly intending to leave her with next to nothing. She has no independent source of income – she’s never worked, so far as I can make out. I make a mental note to ask her if she has any secret skills but, beyond swanning about, bitching and spending money, I can’t imagine what they might be – and no stash of savings outside the (probably vast) amount in their joint account, which may not be there for much longer. The immediate problem is for her to find somewhere for her and the girls to live. Somewhere safe and clean and warm – that’s all that matters. They don’t need a pool and a sauna and a cinema room. Life as they know it is going to have to change.
So, she has two options, as far as I can see. Siphon off money from their joint account in the same way that Al has, but then he’ll be on to her. Or she can find a way to build a nest egg gradually enough that he doesn’t notice. Squirrel as much as she can away before he ensures it’s all gone and there’s nothing left to fight for. Maybe I’m doing Al a disservice, I think, as I trudge along Elsworthy Road, maybe now he’s bought his flat and hidden away some cash, he’ll leave the rest for her. But somehow, I doubt it. The way he’s setting everything up in secret, the fact that he’s still going along with the wedding planning, makes me think he’s setting her up for a huge fall. This isn’t just a man planning a new life with his mistress, this is making a statement. He wants to humiliate her. How has he ended up hating her this much? Actually, now I come to think about it, maybe it’s not such a stretch to imagine.
What would I do in her situation? I ask myself, then I realize that’s a ridiculous question. There are so many ways in which I could never be in her situation. Let’s start with the millions. The complete lack of knowledge of finances. The inability to fend for myself in any kind of practical sense. She’s like a throwback to a bygone age. The kept woman, trapped in her gilded cage. Sorry as I’m starting to feel for her, she makes me angry. How can a grown adult happily be so out of control of her own life, even if that life is a golden one?
I push a flyer through a brass letterbox and a snarly dog almost takes my fingers off from the other side. I jump back, massaging my hand. Stella obviously can’t just transfer a huge sum out of their joint account in the same way Al has, because I assume he’d confront her straightaway and ask her what she was doing. He’s clearly confident that she never bothers with bank statements but, like all guilty people, he is probably obsessive about checking all is as it should be. She needs a way to do it subtly. She still has several months, if my hunch is right, that he’s going to string the wedding planning out right up to the date, the greater to hurt her. But, I assume, since she has no bank account of her own, she must make her many extravagant purchases out of this one, and he doesn’t question that. A light bulb sparks on in my head. I stop dead in the street. It’s not going to be enough, but it’s a start.
I daren’t go round to Stella’s when I get back because, even though I can’t see Al’s car in the drive, he may be in there somewhere. And the Mini Mes almost certainly are, and I don’t trust them enough not to say something to him if I suddenly show up. As I park my car, I see Eva up ahead, Cocoa trotting behind. I wonder if word has filtered through that I’m not the enemy yet. I assume Stella will have let the others know that I’m not the giver of the book. I take my time getting my stuff together so she has to pass me, plaster on my best smile. I imagine Eva is the kind of person who would want to apologize for a misjudged slight, but I want to show that all is forgiven too.
There’s a moment when she realizes she’s going to come level with my car while I’m still there, fannying around. I see it in the sharp tug of Cocoa’s lead as she crosses the road to the other side.
‘Hi,’ I say, putting on the most cheerful voice I can.
‘Good afternoon.’ She tugs at Cocoa’s lead again, trying to get him to speed up, and she’s off.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ I say out loud, to no one.
I’m busying myself cleaning the flat ready for Betsy’s stay. I have a giant Tesco order coming later, containing all her favourite things, and I need somewhere to put it all. Last night I willed Stella to make an unannounced appearance. I need a way to communicate with her. Something Luddite and cryptic that Al can’t accidentally intercept. Maybe we should devise a code of things for me to hang in my kitchen window. A spatula means ‘come over when you can’. A washing-up brush means ‘the end of the world is nigh, get here now!!!’ She’d probably get it all mixed up. Start battering my door down because I’d left a wine glass on the windowsill to wash up.
I’m changing the sheets on the bed when, finally, there’s a knock on my door. I don’t even stop to flatten my hair, I just fling it open, red-faced from the effort of wrangling the duvet cover. Finally.
Ferne is on my doorstep, with baby Alexei.
‘Oh hi,’ she says with a smile. ‘Sorry, is this a bad time? Only you did say …’
I wipe my sweaty brow with an equally sweaty hand. ‘No! Come on in. I’m just getting the place ready for my daughter to come and stay for Easter.’
She lays Alexei down on the sofa and he carries on sleeping. He’s a very cute baby. I mean, they all are, I know. But I’m particularly partial to the chubby, smiley variety. ‘It’s nice in here,’ she says, looking round.
‘Tea?’ She nods and I fill the kettle. ‘Yeah, I lucked out, I think. I couldn’t afford much. How have you been?’
We make anodyne conversation about our week, although obviously I leave out big chunks of mine, with the result that I make myself sound like an automaton who does nothing but work and, occasionally, sleep. A week or so ago, I’d have been thrilled to think I’d made a friend in The Close, but too much has happened. My brain keeps reminding me that this is the woman Al is setting up a new life with and telling me that I should be using that opportunity to get more information, but I can’t think how without being rude.
‘How’s the flat purchase coming along?’ I ask out of nowhere.
She lifts up her long hair, away from her neck, and lets it go again. It’s a warm morning, and it’s hot in here, even with both windows open. ‘Good, I think.’
‘Does he have a completion date?’
She shrugs. ‘August the something.’
‘Right. But they’ve exchanged?’ If she wonders why I’m so obsessed by her boyfriend’s affairs, she doesn’t say. She just shakes her head.
‘I don’t think so. But the vendors don’t want to move out till August, so …’
The timing makes sense. The wedding is supposed to be on the third. I’d put money on the fact that he’s going to let Stella down right at the last minute for maximum humiliation. I wrack my brain for anything else I could usefully ask without giving myself away, but come up with nothing. Maybe I should just treat this as the social occasion it’s meant to be. Relax, for once.
‘Betsy’s staying with her dad’s family,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘That’s nice. I mean, isn’t it?’
We talk about this and that while we drink our tea, Alexei making
snuffly snoring noises every now and then like a little cat. It’s a relief, I realize, just to be chatting about not very much. Ferne tells me that her family are in Cornwall so she doesn’t get to see them as much as she’d like.
‘You’re close to them?’
She nods. ‘Very.’
‘And do you want kids? Or is that a bit like someone asking me if I enjoy keeping my own house clean?’
She laughs. She really is very pretty, and it makes me a bit sad for a moment, thinking about how lovely Stella must have been before she started messing with her face. ‘No, I do. I always have. But it’s a bit of a sticking point. He – my boyfriend – isn’t so keen. He already has two.’
I’ve noticed she always refers to him as ‘my boyfriend’ and not by name. Force of habit, I suppose. I remind myself I’m just having a friendly chat.
‘Oh. I didn’t realize. Do they live with their mum?
‘Yes,’ she says. I can tell this is territory she doesn’t want to stray into, because then she’d have to tell me that Al still lived with their mum too.
‘Maybe … what’s his name again?’
‘Um … Alec,’ she says, hesitantly. And, if I needed conclusive proof, there it is right there. I force myself not to react.
‘Maybe Alec’ll change his mind. You’re young, you’ve got time …’
I stop short as I hear footsteps on the stairs. No. Not now.
There’s a knock at the door. I give Ferne a forced smile and go to answer it. Of course it’s Stella. Of course she would pick now to come round.
‘I did what you …’ she starts to say, and I practically roll my eyes right into the back of my head, trying to indicate that I have a guest. ‘Stella! Hi! Come in!’ I say over her with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘I’m just having tea with …’ I stop dead at Ferne’s name. I daren’t even utter the F in case Stella puts two and two together. ‘… do you two know each other?’
Stella looks at Ferne as if she was shit on her shoe. Not because she has any idea who she really is, but because she’s a nanny. The help. She’s no doubt seen her coming and going from number 1 with the baby in tow. Ferne, on the other hand, looks as if she’s seen a ghost. All the colour has drained from her face.