by Jane Fallon
‘I know I’ve said this before, Stella, but you really do need to get some professional advice. You need to know where you stand –’
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she says, cutting me off. That told me.
‘Make a salad to go with it,’ I say, once we’ve scattered breadcrumbs and Parmesan on top. ‘And put it in the oven for about twenty minutes. Not too high.’
Silence.
‘Do you know how to turn the oven on?’
She gives me a ‘whatever’ look. I approach the ‘command module of a space ship’ cooker and poke a few buttons. ‘OK, this’ll do. Come and have a look.’
She comes over obediently and watches what I’m doing. ‘Will you remember that?’
‘Of course,’ she says, as if I’m the idiot.
‘OK. I need to go and collect Bets.’
‘What do I put on the salad?’ she says as I go to pick up my own mac and cheese. ‘We didn’t buy any dressing.’
‘We didn’t need to buy dressing. You can make dressing. Do you know how to make dressing?’ I realize I’m talking to her like she’s four years old, but I’m in a rush now and I really can’t be doing this. She shakes her head and I see her eyes tear up. ‘Oh, for god’s sake.’
Of course, she doesn’t know where anything is, so it takes me five minutes to locate the oil and vinegar before I can show her how to put it together, adding a bit of soy sauce, honey and lime juice that I find along the way.
‘Put everything in the fridge for now,’ I say as a parting shot. ‘You know where that is, right? You put it in the oven when the time comes, and then you can let Pilar serve it like usual so Al doesn’t know you made it. OK? Let me know how it goes.’
‘He’s expecting steak au poivre,’ she says sulkily.
‘Well, lucky him, he’s getting something much nicer.’ I leave her standing in the bombsite of a kitchen. I don’t hold out much hope.
Betsy declares my mac and cheese ‘the best thing ever’.
‘Is it rad?’ I say. I’ve decided gently teasing her might be the way to help dissipate her obsession with the Mini Mes. I’ve already had to talk her down from thinking she was going to call on Amber after tea.
Betsy just grins, oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘Totally.’
I wonder if all her little friends are saying it now. If all the other mums are having to cope with rad this and rad that, no idea where it’s come from. I hate missing out on the daily sea change of what’s in and what’s not in her social circle. The ebb and flow of what they’re all playing and who they’re all in love with. You don’t get that through FaceTime; you don’t get the subtleties.
I reach out a hand to ruffle her curls. ‘Good.’
‘So?’
I’m back in Stella’s kitchen. The blue bra was flying this morning and I won’t lie: I’m desperate to hear how her first ever adventure in haute cuisine fared. Not to mention how she pulled off her sabotage of Al’s prospective buyer’s viewing day. From my perch by my front window I watched as he stormed out of the house at about quarter past nine, phone glued to his ear and a thunderous look on his face.
‘Well …’ She’s dressed in skinny jeans so tight they’re making my eyes water, with three-inch-high wedges. Perfect for relaxing at home. She’s making me a cup of tea at my request, and every fibre in my body is straining to take the teaspoon out of her hand before the whole thing turns to syrup. ‘First of all, he said, “What on earth is this?” when Pilar brought it out. So I said, “I asked Pilar to do it for a change. It’s a treat,” because, you see, he likes to stay in shape, so he’s very conscious about what he eats …’
I can’t help wishing she’d told me this yesterday, but anyway.
‘… But then he tasted it and he said it was delicious! And the girls loved it too, after I told them the calories weren’t too bad …’
I don’t know where to start. That her eight- and ten-year-old are concerned about calories? That she’s lying to them, because, trust me, that thing had a shitload? I don’t say any of this. I just resolve that the next thing I show her how to cook will have a nod to healthy, at least on the surface. There’s no point teaching her if the family are then going to refuse her offerings.
‘Excellent. And this morning?’
She finally takes out the tea bag. Pours in some milk, which turns it a deep mahogany colour with a thick tannin slick on top. The edges of her face crinkle. ‘That doesn’t look right.’
‘You left it in too long. Start again.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’m telling you now. Start again.’
She does as she’s told. ‘Rinse the cup, or all that scum’ll still be there,’ I say, once she’s poured the liquid away. My new strategy is just to assume she literally knows nothing about anything, which doesn’t seem to be far from the truth.
‘He had Pilar go in and make the bed as soon as we were up, and he was walking round fluffing up cushions and straightening things. It was so obvious, really. He thought I was leaving for the spa about twenty past nine, so he made some excuse about going into work late – which he never does, he’s there by nine every morning. He likes to say one of the reasons he’s so successful is that he puts in the hours. Anyway, I’d arranged for one of the girls’ friends’ mums to collect them because, obviously, he would have noticed that Georgia wasn’t here if I suddenly said I had to do it, so they went off at the usual time and then I started saying I felt unwell, and doubling over with stomach cramps. I told him it was period pains – he won’t know the difference – and then I said there was no way I wanted to go to a spa on the first day of my period, especially when the pains were so bad. I knew he wouldn’t want details – he’s squeamish about stuff like that. He got really huffy about how it was all booked, and he’d done it as a treat, and I said I’d phone them and explain and I was sure they’d let me rearrange under the circumstances, but meanwhile, I was going back to bed. You should have seen his face …’
It’s the most animated I’ve ever seen her. She’s almost enjoying it, and it makes me happy to see. She deserves a bit of luck. ‘I saw him leave. He was on his phone, looking furious.’
‘Ha!’ she says. ‘He hasn’t seen anything yet.’
32
I’ve been invited to another drinks party. This time, it’s Katya and Guy at number 2. I am truly back in the fold. Praise the lord. Katya actually came to my door and invited me herself and, while I was tempted to tell her to go fuck her party and all who sail in it, I found myself saying yes. Curiosity won out. To see inside their house. To watch them all interact. To see Stella and Al together for once, playing the happy couple.
Katya was sweet in the same blank way she always is. She’s a Stepford Wife, I realize. Programmed to be pleasant, bland, harmless. An unchallenging adornment on Guy’s arm. I found myself mirroring her tone, saying thank you, I’d love to come, as if I, too, had been brainwashed. This time, I know the uniform. Jeans, strappy sandals and a T-shirt. Unfortunately, my efforts do not make me look like an off-duty supermodel, more like I couldn’t be bothered to find anything nice to wear.
Last night I sat glued to my laptop as the first of Stella’s eBay auctions raced to a close. A couple of things didn’t sell, a few went for disappointingly low amounts, but there was a last-minute flurry of activity on two bags – a vintage Chanel and a Hermès – and a pair of Cartier cufflinks that shot the prices through the roof. As the seconds ticked down to nine o’clock I looked over the road and saw Stella at her dressing-room window, waving frantically at me, giving me a manic thumbs-up. It was the most excitement I’ve had in months.
I wait until I see Gail and Ben leaving the house before I head down myself. I want to make sure I have someone to talk to. I’ve discussed with Stella how we need to be. Civil and polite, but not so friendly that Al wonders what’s been going on. He still thinks that she thinks I gave him the book. He wouldn’t understand a thawing on her part.
The chat seems to be about Jan and Roman’s impending departure. They’re moving their soon-to-be-empty nest to the south of France. For a year at first and then, maybe, permanently. ‘Obviously, you’re all welcome. Any time,’ Jan says, with a crack in her voice. I wonder if these are the kind of people who keep in touch. Maybe if there’s a villa in the Midi involved. I almost make myself laugh, imagining their faces if I piped up and said, Ooh, thanks, I’ll be over for Christmas, but I manage to keep it together. There’s a lot of talk about friends they all have in the area, one-upmanship for whoever knows the most impressive people. ‘Have you met the Parker-Rothmans?’ Bill offers up. ‘He’s something big in F1 and she’s the heiress of Rothman Hotels.’
‘Henry and Sophia?’ Jan jumps in. ‘Of course. They came to dinner with Philip and Alexandra when we were in Nice. Do you know them? The Marquess and Marchioness? Charming people.’
It’s a bit like Top Trumps. The ‘Minor Royalty and Rich People’ edition.
‘Just make sure whoever you rent the house to are our kind of people,’ Guy says, as if he’s making a joke, but I’m pretty sure he means it. They all laughingly toast to that, and then Katya finally sees me standing there.
‘Oh, Laura! I didn’t realize you were there. You must think we’re all ignoring you!’
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Katya gives me a kiss that lands somewhere in the air near my right ear. She pulls me towards the group, and Gail and Ben greet me warmly.
‘Laura is leaving us too, sadly,’ Gail says, although I’m not sure any of the others will care. ‘She’s found a flat to buy.’ I can almost see them glazing over. Probably thinking they don’t really need to bother with me any more if I’m moving soon anyway. They’re spared the necessity of feigning interest by the appearance of Stella and Al, all smiles, like the world’s happiest couple. Behind them are Eva and Rafa, making it a full house. Weirdly, apart from Gail, Stella is the person I’m happiest to see here. But I notice a couple of flicked looks – Katya and Eva – between me and Stella. Is the ceasefire holding? I go over in my head what we rehearsed. Civil but distant. I smile politely. Hold back from the cheek kissing. Al, oblivious, gives me a salacious once-over and says, ‘Hello, Laura,’ in a way that makes even my name sound like an attempt at seduction. I can hardly look at him, I’m so sickened by the things he’s doing. Stella is doing a great job of acting as if everything is as it should be, holding on to his hand and laughing at his lame jokes. Looking at him like he’s her everything.
Inevitably, the talk turns to the wedding.
‘What’s the latest?’ Eva asks. Al rolls his eyes indulgently. Starts a side conversation with Roman about Boris Johnson. The other men drift towards them and they form a revolving mass that edges slowly towards the garden, where they can light their cigars. It’s like a teenage school dance. With added Cubans.
‘I found my dress designer,’ Stella says, hitting the exact showy-offy tone she always uses. The other women gasp.
‘Finally!’ Jan says. ‘And they can do it in time?’
‘For the right price,’ Stella smirks, and they all guffaw.
‘Who is it?’ Anya says, breathless. ‘Is it Sarah Burton?’
‘Top secret,’ Stella says. ‘I want it to be a surprise for Al on the day. I had my first fitting too …’
She actually looks as if she’s enjoying this.
‘Tell us how much,’ Katya says.
‘No, forget that, tell us what it’s like,’ Gail interrupts, and I’m reminded how she’s the best of them, the most down to earth in a land of people who are all living in the stars. Not for the first time, I wish Stella would confide in her.
Stella describes in detail a dress that doesn’t exist while all the women ooh and aah in all the right places. She keeps looking over to check that Al isn’t listening in, as if she actually believes what she’s saying is true and secrecy is imperative. He, on the other hand, couldn’t be less interested. He knows the dress will never be worn. He just doesn’t realize that Stella knows that too. For a moment, I detach myself and watch the two of them, each the ruler of their separate group. Confident, charismatic, commanding. Imperious.
Even though the atmosphere is friendly enough, no one really speaks to me, beyond the initial pleasantries. I hover on the edge of conversations, smiling politely and interjecting here and there. No one asks about my new flat or expresses a sadness at me leaving. I know I’ve only been here a couple of months, but it’s as if, in their minds, I’ve gone already. I wonder if Katya and Guy would even have invited me if they’d known they were going to be able to forget all about me so soon. I’m not saying that in a self-pitying way. I couldn’t care less, so long as they’re polite to both me and my daughter. It’s just interesting. The lack of curiosity about anyone who’s not truly one of them. But you can bet your life that if I suddenly married a stonkingly wealthy man and we moved into Jan and Roman’s house, they’d be all over me like wasps at a barbecue.
At one point I’m coming back from the loo (marble, natch, and one wall of framed ‘artistic’ photos of Katya. The narcisism of these people knows no bounds) when I bump into Stella coming the other way. We smile like two people who are actually happy to see one another. She briefly touches my arm. I almost jump with surprise.
She speaks in a loud whisper. ‘How am I doing?’
‘Well. Great, actually.’
‘It’s exhausting,’ she says.
‘Just keep showing off and they’ll never realize anything is wrong.’ It’s a risk; she might take offence. But, actually, she just laughs her dry, rasping laugh. It sounds as if it’s rusty from under-use.
‘You’re so funny.’
I’ve never really thought about Stella having a sense of humour. I can’t imagine her kicking back watching a comedy, or her and Al chuckling over stupid in-jokes, laughing till they cry about some shared memory that no one else would understand. David used to make me laugh, and I him. Even the way he proposed became a funny story. I was reading in the living room of our shared flat one afternoon and I could hear him doing something behind me, but in that way where you know someone is trying to be quiet. I looked in the blank reflection of the TV and I could see he was taking a photo of the back of my head. I waited for him to show me, to see what the joke was, but he didn’t even mention it, so that piqued my interest. When he went to the loo later I looked at his phone. In the picture he’d propped up a piece of paper behind me with the word ‘Will’ written on it in marker pen. And I just knew. I’d discovered his big surprise. There would be three more photos taken in random places. Three more words held up behind my unsuspecting back. A triumphant glee when he finally showed them to me in sequence. Anyway, to cut a long story short, a week or so later when we were lying in bed and he told me – all pleased with himself, and buzzing with anticipation – that he wanted me to look at some pictures on his phone, I whipped mine ou
t and said, ‘Hold on, I just want to show you this first,’ and flashed him a photo of him sleeping with a sheet of paper bearing the word ‘Yes!!’ on the pillow next to him.
‘Yes, what?’ he’d said, roaring with laughter, not at all bothered that I’d ruined his big moment. ‘I was just going to show you some holiday snaps.’
With everything that’s gone on, I’d forgotten that. That was one of the things that was good about us, the way we used to crack each other up. And then we didn’t. It just stopped. And I didn’t even notice.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I try.’
I’m the first to leave. I can feel the evening is winding up, and I don’t want to be the one who outstays her welcome. There’s always one at any party. When I announce I’m going Gail and Ben say they’ll call it a night too, so we walk back together. The air is sweet with the smell of honeysuckle.
‘It’s so nice that everyone’s getting on now,’ Gail says as we say goodnight on the drive, and I just say, ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ And leave it at that.
Having my little team rock up to The Close is bizarre, to say the least. The collision of two planets. The usual plan with any house clean is that we all meet on the corner of the street ten minutes before we’re due so that we don’t arrive in dribs and drabs. This time, it makes sense that they all come to mine rather than irritate the inhabitants by lurking messily. Angie is the first to arrive, at a quarter to eight. I’m still dressed in my pyjamas, shovelling in the last of my granola.
‘I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to find it,’ she says as I let her in. ‘And then I didn’t want to wait outside in case one of them called the police or set the guard dogs on me.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I just need to throw some clothes on.’
I nip into the bedroom to get dressed, leaving the door open a little so we can chat.
‘This is cute,’ she says, by which I assume she means my flat. ‘I could live here.’