by Jane Fallon
I think about saying no to Betsy, but then I decide to use this as a way to gauge Stella’s mood without looking like I’m the one backing down. At half past ten, having checked that Al’s car isn’t on the driveway, we’re standing on her doorstep, waiting for someone to answer, me clutching Stella’s plate, which I still haven’t returned. As usual, it’s Pilar. I find myself wondering what will happen to her once this whole thing plays out. Al’s hardly going to have space for her in his new flat, Stella won’t be able to afford her. She’ll lose both her home and her job in one fell swoop. Now that she’s seen me and Stella together quite amicably, she gives me a smile and lets us in. I hand her the plate as if it’s a VIP pass.
‘Gracias,’ I say as she lets us into the hall.
‘Is that Stella with no clothes on?’ Betsy says loudly, gawping at the painting.
‘It’s art,’ I say, hoping that will satisfy her.
We wait in the stiff living room for Stella to appear. When she does she looks gaunt – not that she doesn’t always look like she could do with a good meal, but this is different. She looks like she’s spent the best part of the last two days crying. She looks, dare I say it, almost human. She gives me what looks like a nervous smile.
‘Betsy wondered if Taylor and Amber wanted to play,’ I say to explain my presence. I can’t really imagine Taylor or Amber actually playing. They’re more of the ‘chill’ variety.
‘Oh,’ she says, slurring, and I realize that what she actually looks is drunk. ‘Pilar!’
Pilar, who is clearly hovering in the hall in case she’s required to throw me out, appears immediately.
‘Amber,’ Stella says, pointing at Betsy. Pilar takes Betsy by the hand and leads her off. This isn’t what I expected. I wanted to know what they intended to do and make sure Bets was happy with it. She seems thrilled, though, so I decide to let it go, just this once. What’s the worst that can happen?
‘I’ll pick her up in a couple of hours, if that’s OK?’ I start to make my way to the door but then I turn back. ‘Is the nanny here today or something?’
She steadies a hand on the wall. ‘No. Why?’
‘I … just … have you been drinking?’
‘Don’t give me a hard time, Laura,’ she says huffily.
‘I’m not. I … who’s looking after the girls?’
She makes an attempt at pulling a face. ‘The girls are fine. They’re very mature for their age. Anyway, I only had a couple of sips …’
She staggers on her heels as she says this, which doesn’t really back up her argument. I know the girls aren’t in any danger. She’s not steaming, just tipsy, and Pilar is here if there’s an emergency. But I’m not keen to leave my own daughter here while she’s in this state. If the house caught fire, she’d probably forget all about her while she tried to save a Mulberry handbag. Betsy, I know, would rather take that risk than have her playdate with her new friends cut short.
‘Laura, please. Will you stay for a coffee?’ Stella says out of nowhere. ‘I …’ She almost stumbles over the words, so alien are they to her. ‘I owe you an apology for Friday.’
Wow. Stella apologizing. Wonders will never cease. I decide to accept it gracefully. Be the bigger person. Plus, getting some caffeine into her will help. ‘That’s OK.’
‘Pilar!’ Stella screeches again, and I jump.
‘I’ll stay if you make it. The coffee.’ I say, smiling to show I’m (half) joking. ‘No getting Pilar to do it. And then I’ll take Taylor and Amber back to mine with Betsy for a bit, OK?’ God help me.
She looks shocked, but then she says, ‘Of course. Follow me.’
We walk back through the hall and behind the stairs into a vast kitchen. In here, everything is marble. The same brown floor. White-and-grey countertops. Grey-and-bronze splashbacks, every one with a different level of swirly patterning. It makes me go cross-eyed.
‘Wow. You really like marble,’ I say, putting out a hand to steady myself on a table.
‘This one’s Statuario,’ she says, stroking the countertop. ‘Italian. It’s the best quality. It cost a small fortune.’
I assume in her world that means she likes it. Expensive is the new tasteful. ‘Right.’
There’s an oven that looks like the control deck for the Starship Enterprise. A massive stove with seven burners. Something that looks like it’s exclusively for baking pizzas. Built in the wall is a gadget I assume to be a state-of-the-art coffee machine, from the way Stella is jabbing at the buttons on a remote. I watch for a moment, amused. Clearly, she has never used this particular piece of equipment before.
‘Is that new?’
She presses another button. Nothing. ‘No.’
‘Shall we just have instant?’
‘I don’t know if we …’ She starts opening and shutting random cupboards. It’s apparent she doesn’t even know her way round this kitchen. She’s saved by Pilar wandering in, a pile of washing in her hands.
‘How does this thing work?’ Stella says, flapping her hands at the wall. Pilar thankfully gets her drift, presses one button on the machine and it starts gurgling.
‘You do mine, at least,’ I say, when the endless rumbling stops and hot coffee starts streaming out of the spout. ‘Did you watch what she did?’
Stella shakes her head. Pilar puts the now full mug on the counter and stands another in its place. She raises a hand to press the button.
‘No!’ I bark, and they both jump. ‘Stella.’
Stella points a long finger, and I’m reminded of ET. It hovers vaguely over the control panel. She moves it in one direction and Pilar gives her a surreptitious shake of the head. The finger moves slowly sideways. Pilar’s eyebrows suddenly shoot upwards and Stella stabs at the nearest button triumphantly. The low growling noise starts again. I can’t help but laugh.
‘Well done. Gracias, Pilar.’
Pilar gives me a smile and goes off towards, I assume, some kind of utility room with her pile of washing. Stella manages to find the milk but, when she asks if I want sugar, the look on her face is so despairing that I say no, even though I do.
‘So,’ she says, once we’re seated either side of the long kitchen table. ‘I’m sorry I overreacted on Friday.’ I wait to see if there’s more, but that’s it. Still, it’s an apology, which is a big deal for Stella.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘Please don’t give up on me, Laura. I need your help.’ It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever heard her sound. Of course, it’s the alcohol talking, but it still resonates. ‘I have no idea how to fend for myself.’
‘You can learn,’ I say, more gently. ‘If you want to.’
She dabs at the corners of her eyes with her fingers. Takes a gulpy breath. ‘I just … I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.’
‘You’ll manage,’ I say. ‘It’ll be OK.’
‘I don’t just mean practically. I love him, Laura. We’re supposed to be getting married. I mean, I know he’s a shit …’
‘… but he’s your shit,’ I say, and she rewards me with a watery smile. ‘Exactly. I still can’t quite believe this is happening.’
‘I know. I understand, I do. But right now, you need to focus on you and the girls.’
She nods. ‘Will you still help me?’
I exhale slowly. I’ve been thinking about this. Even though I feel awful for her, I need to stand up for myself. ‘I will. But we have to establish some ground rules.’ I jab at the table with my finger to emphasize each point. ‘No more attitude. No more “what use is fifty quid to anyone?” You’re not better than everyone else; you’re one of them. The girls too. No special privileges.’
‘OK,’ she says.
I’m not finished. ‘No more drinking in the day. And you really are going to have to speak to Eva, Jan, Anya and Katya and whoever else you’ve bad-mouthed me to. I’m not doing anything till they stop treating me like I’ve done something wrong. You don’t need to tell them everything,
just that you were wrong about it being me who gave Al the book.’
She combs her fingers through her abundant hair. Sweeps it to one side. ‘I’ll talk to them today.’
‘Then we have a deal,’ I say. I have no idea what I’m letting myself in for.
I just hope I don’t come to regret it.
‘And then we played being Kylie and Kendall Jenner. I was the nanny. I was taking Stormi to play with Psalm and Saint, and Taylor and Amber were closing the Victoria’s Secret show in Milan. It was rad.’
Have I collected the wrong child? I run through a checklist: wayward curly hair. Wonky glasses. Lopsided grin. No, this is her. But some kind of dystopian future version where her personality has been replaced with inane facts about D-list celebrities. If this is what happens in a couple of hours, I dread to think what she’d be like after a whole day. Giving Morgan a run for her money, I imagine.
‘You’ve had a nice time, then?’ I tell myself just to be grateful that they haven’t been being mean to her.
‘Rad,’ she says again.
We wait while Taylor and Amber remonstrate with their mother in the kitchen. I’ve explained to them that she’s not feeling too well and she needs a lie-down, but I imagine they can see straight through the white lie. They’re not happy about being dragged across the road to mine for a couple of hours, especially as it’s now raining so they won’t even be able to play on the steps. It’ll be the four of us holed up in one room. Trust me, I feel like protesting too. But I don’t see what else I can do. Pilar shouldn’t have to handle them as well as keeping an eye on Stella.
‘Right,’ I say as soon as we get in. ‘Who wants to bake cupcakes?’
Silence. Betsy, who would ordinarily be in her element, takes her cue from her new, sophisticated friends and scowls at me. Tough crowd.
‘Well, good, because that’s what we’re going to do.’
‘That’s stupid,’ Taylor says. ‘We could just go and buy some.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ I say, slightly desperately. I gather up the ingredients. Spread them out on the kitchen counter. Measure out the sugar and margarine.
‘Mix those together,’ I say, handing the bowl to Taylor. If I can get her to engage, the other two will follow. She looks at Betsy as if to say, You’ll pay for this. I don’t want to undermine the strides my daughter has made trying to get these two to accept her, but I refuse to indulge them in any more games where they are the superstars and she is the hired help. Or any more make-up sessions, for that matter. ‘It’s easy, look,’ I say, as if her reluctance is caused by fear, not loathing. She jabs the wooden spoon into the bowl. A single grain of sugar flicks out on to her black (Armani) T-shirt and she squeaks as if she’s been hit square in the face with a cricket ball. She slams the spoon down.
‘We’re going to get dirty.’
‘Oh no!’ I say. ‘Shall I call the police, or will you?’
Betsy lets out an involuntary snigger and then looks mortified. Taylor glares at her then me in turn, nostrils flared, just like her mother. I’m worried I’ve gone a step too far, but then Amber sticks a finger into the sugar-and-marg mixture and flicks it at her sister.
‘Whoops,’ she says, looking at Betsy and laughing. Betsy practically wets herself with relief that she’s allowed to find it funny. She snorts.
‘Girls …’ I say.
‘I’m telling Mum,’ Taylor says, picking up a handful and slinging it at her sister. Amber scrapes it off her top and slings it back. It plaps on to Taylor’s cheek. There’s a collective intake of breath. Everything stops for a split second. And then Taylor starts laughing. She dips her hand into the bowl again, and then it’s chaos. Every woman for themselves. I know I should step in and tell them off about food wastage and making a mess, but it’s such a relief to see them behaving like actual children, even naughty ones, and not worrying about whether they look cool or their make-up stays in place, that I haven’t got the heart to interrupt the moment. I can make them clear it all up once they run out of steam. For now, I’ll let them play.
29
Stella is looking pleased with herself. I can tell because her overly smooth face is cracking round the edges and her mouth is stretched sideways like the Joker’s. This, I have come to realize, is her attempt at a smile.
We haven’t seen each other since our chat last week, except for casually in the street, because Al had a few days off work leading up to the Easter weekend, so I’ve been keeping well out of the way. But we devised a very sophisticated communication code before we parted and this morning there was a red bra hanging in her dressing-room window, which means ‘the coast is clear and I need to talk to you urgently’. (A blue one would just mean ‘the coast is clear if you need to talk to me’.) Not owning any bras that aren’t either black or flesh-coloured, I have agreed to signal with tea towels. Today is the first time either of us has attempted contact and I’m over there like a rat up a drainpipe as soon as I see the flash of red.
Betsy has gone back to her father’s because school started again today. On Saturday Eva appeared at my door with a huge Easter egg for her and an apology for me. Of course, I accepted both (I had no choice about the first, because Betsy had practically snatched it from her hand and started unwrapping it before Eva even had her foot through the door). She had even brought some dog-friendly chocolate for Betsy to feed to Cocoa while she reiterated to me how sorry she was. I decided not to give her a hard time about being so ready to believe unsubstantiated gossip, but to let her off the hook. She hardly knows me, and Stella was her friend; we’ve probably all been guilty of that one. We weren’t going to be best mates. I was wary of her now, loathe to trust anyone who would drop me so readily. But we could be civil. As she left, she told Betsy she was welcome to visit the dog any time. The smile on my daughter’s face made forgiveness much easier.
Now I’m standing in Stella’s kitchen, waiting to hear what’s so urgent. Whatever I thought she was going to say, it wasn’t this.
‘I have fifteen thousand pounds in my new bank account. Well, fifteen thousand plus, because I’ve been paying in the money I used to give the nanny.’
‘What? No, Stella, remember we said little, regular amounts. Nothing that Al would really notice. Not yet.’
She puts a mug under the spout of the coffee machine. Stares at the buttons for a moment. I have to stop myself from intervening. Eventually, she presses the correct one and the beans start to grind noisily. If it wasn’t for what she’d just told me, I’d give her a round of applause for this breakthrough.
‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘He knows all about it.’
‘What?’ I’m confused. I wait for her to explain herself.
‘He must have been checking the statements, because he suddenly asked me if I’d got PayPal. Really casually. Because of our trial payment, you know. And guess what I said?’
‘No idea,’ I say. ‘Tell me before I have a heart attack.’
‘I came up with it on the spot, and I was so proud of myself. I said, yes, because I’d finally found the perfect designer to make my wedding dress, and that’s how she wanted to be paid. I told him he wasn’t allowed to deal with this one because everything about my dress had to be a secret from him till the big day. And then I said I was going to use it all the time now, because it was so easy to get your money back if anything went wrong. He liked that.’
‘He’s OK that your wedding dress is going to cost fifteen thousand pounds?’ I say, aghast. I pretty much missed everything she said after that.
‘That’s just the deposit. I told him it’s forty-five thousand and the designer wants a third upfront.’
I stand there with my mouth open, like Jacob Marley when he undoes the bandages holding his face together. I can’t seem to close it. ‘I could live on that for a year. Two. Easily.’
Stella shrugs. ‘I’d originally told him it was going to be about forty, but she’s charging extra because it’s so late in the day. Which, to be fair, would pr
obably have been the truth. And he knows I’ve been meeting designers for months and I couldn’t make up my mind, so …’
‘So, what? As far as he’s concerned, he might lose fifteen grand?’
‘Exactly. I suppose he’s assuming he’ll never pay the balance. But he knows if I’m going to keep thinking the wedding is on, I’m going to have to organize a dress, and that’s one thing he can’t cancel behind my back because I’d have to go for fittings and stuff, so I’d find out.’
I sit down on one of the kitchen chairs. Maybe she can pull this off after all. ‘That might be genius.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘And, do you know what? It gave me a thrill. I felt powerful.’
‘I’m proud of you,’ I say.
‘I know, right? I am too. I thought I could do the same with the bridesmaids’ dresses next.’
‘Don’t get carried away.’ I can’t help myself. I can’t believe she’s smart enough not to blow this somehow.
‘I won’t.’
‘Stella …’ I’m starting to feel as if we’re getting on. I want to try to understand what’s happening. ‘Have you got any idea why he’s being so vindictive? I mean, why he’s still pretending the wedding’s going to go ahead. Why he’s hiding all the money …?’
‘Of course not. He’s just a bastard, I suppose. You know,’ she says, peering at me and changing the subject, ‘You could look fabulous if you had fillers. And maybe a bit of Botox for these …’ She indicates the side of her eyes, meaning, I assume, the fan of fine lines I have radiating outwards from mine.
‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘You need to make the best of yourself. Show your ex-husband what he’s missing.’
‘If David decided he wanted me back purely on the basis of the fact that I had a few less wrinkles on my face, then, in all honesty, he can fuck right off. And besides, it was my personality he decided he didn’t like …’