by Jane Fallon
I sniff the armpits of yesterday’s T-shirt. Pull it over my head. ‘It might get a bit crowded with the boys.’
She laughs. ‘I meant on my own. They can stay in Lisson Grove. Think how peaceful it would be. Ooh, who’s that?’
I peer round the door, and she’s looking out of the front window. ‘Woman, tall, skinny, big hair, anywhere between twenty-five and sixty, definitely had work …’
‘That could be any of them.’ I look over her shoulder. ‘That’s Eva. If you’d said she had a big brown dog with her, I would have known …’
Angie shrugs. ‘Which one’s Stella’s?’
I point over at the house, show her the window we use to communicate. There’s just time to fill her in on the latest before I hear heavy footsteps clump up the stairs outside and Tomas and Paul appear at the door. My studio suddenly feels tiny. Lilliputian. They shuffle in, filling all the available space, arms held stiffly in front of them to avoid knocking anything over. There’s no time to offer them a coffee, so we all just stand there, waiting for the final two arrivals, Catriona and Amita.
‘Nice place, Mrs Anthony,’ Tomas says.
I don’t even bother to correct him. ‘You know it’s just this bit, right?’
He nods. ‘Nice.’
Paul, who almost never says anything, smiles approvingly. I know the two of them share a house with six others in Kilburn, all students. I imagine my studio looks luxurious in comparison. I’m already dreading them graduating and getting proper jobs. I’ll need to replace them each with about eight people.
Catriona and Amita traipse up the drive together and I herd the others downstairs so we can head straight over to number 1. As we unload all our supplies from my car, Stella’s front door opens and Al emerges. I poke Ange in the side and give a surreptitious head flick in his direction. He waves a hand as he gets into his car, looking a little confused at the sight of my merry band of cleaners.
‘Exactly as I imagined him,’ she says. ‘Exactly.’
Ferne opens the door to us, Alexei in her arms. She steers us away from the kitchen, where Katherine and Sergei are still finishing their breakfast, and up the stairs. I’ve already explained to her that we always start at the top and work down. The others look round in awe at the opulence. Personally, I feel as if I’ve seen enough marble to last me a lifetime. Even if I won the lottery, I would have a ban on it in my home. Ditto faux Greek columns, gold leaf and arty semi-naked black-and-white photos of myself. And no cinema room. What sane person gets up from their perfectly comfortable armchair in front of the telly to go and sit on a different armchair in front of a different telly two minutes down the hall? Why? Just get better speakers.
The third and highest storey has three bedrooms, each with attic space off it, a small bathroom and a room that has been converted into a living space for Ferne, with a microwave, fridge, TV and seating area. She’s slightly apologetic that we’re going to be cleaning up after her, but I tell her it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to us. And, besides, I can’t say I’m not curious to find out more about her. Two of the bedrooms are unoccupied, with just a spare bed and little else. We’ve agreed to vacuum all the attic space we can easily access, but they still won’t take long. Tomas and Paul have offered to handle any potentially spidery areas and, even though Angie has no fear of arachnids, she’s claustrophobic, so that suits her. I set them on the unused rooms, with instructions to move on to the other storage areas when they’re done. I give Catriona the bathroom, Angie and Amita Ferne’s living room, and I take her bedroom. It’s her room that’s going to take the longest, but I’ll get to have a poke around before any of the others finishes what they’re doing and comes to help me.
It’s nice up here. Light and simply decorated, with walls painted in pale chalky greys and greens. The floors are a rich reddish wood. Obviously, the obligatory interior designer didn’t stray this far up; it’s all way too tasteful and understated. Ferne’s bedroom is definitely the room of a young romantic. There’s a string of pink, feathery fairy lights woven into the iron bedstead, a battered teddy bear on the bed, and the mirror is ringed with cards covered in hearts or flowers. I have a quick scan of them. All signed ‘A’. Soppy messages that range from ‘To my beautiful baby girl’ to ‘You and me, always and 4 ever.’ It’s all very teenage.
There’s nothing much else to see in here, short of rifling through the drawers and wardrobes. Everything is cleared away neatly for our convenience. I tell myself I don’t need to dig deeper. I already know what’s going on. I need to stay professional. I’m relieved when we’re ready to move down to the floor below.
Betsy is dangling Felix in front of the phone, making him wave his paw at me. He’s clearly not impressed. We’re FaceTiming at bedtime. Thanks to Sergei and Katherine’s aversion to having us around while they’re at home, we were instructed to finish at six, so it’s been a relatively short day. Even so, I’m knackered. Already in my PJs, M&S lasagne down, glass of Sauvignon Blanc on the go, steadfastly not looking out of the front window in case the red bra makes an appearance. I’m planning to be asleep by nine.
‘And then Michaela plaited my hair …’ She turns round to show me.
‘Michaela’s there? I look at my watch. Five past eight. ‘Is Zara staying over?’
Betsy shakes her head. ‘She’s at her gran and grandad’s. She missed ballet …’
‘Oh. Is Michaela babysitting you?’ I suppose David must go out sometimes, although I always assumed he saved it for the nights Bets was with me. Maybe it’s a work thing and he had no choice about the day.
‘No,’ Betsy says casually. ‘She’s just here.’
It hits me like a freight train. I actually gasp from the force of the blow to my chest. ‘Does that often happen? Michaela comes over when Zara and her brothers are at their grans?’
Betsy shrugs. ‘I suppose.’
And I know. I try telling myself it’s probably a recent thing. Not that that still doesn’t hurt. But then I’m flooded with a rush of memories all at once: Michaela offering to take Betsy after school unasked, Michaela and David sharing a look when we were all watching a school play together, Michaela letting slip that she knew where his new flat was when I was sure I had never mentioned it. Things I never gave a second thought to, but my subconscious has clearly stored them up for just this moment all the same.
And I know that I was lying to myself when I said him leaving for no reason was the worst.
This is the worst.
33
I manage to get off the phone without letting Betsy see there’s anything wrong. I’m devastated, but I’m raging too. No wonder she was so fucking happy to help out. No wonder she didn’t want payment. I need to speak to someone. To offload. I try calling Angie, but her phone is turned off. She’s probably flaked out already. Gail is away for a couple of days. I flick through my contacts. There’s no one else. No one who would understand why this is such a big deal. Before I really know what I’m doing I hang the red tea towel in the window. I tell myself I’ll take it down when I go to bed. There’s almost no chance Stella will see it between now and then anyway. Or be able to act on it immediately, even if she does. I pour myself another glass of wine and wait. I feel numb.
Not even five minutes later I hear soft footsteps on the stairs and a tap at the door. Stella is standing there, a look of expectation on her face. Of course, she thinks I have some more breaking news about Al. She would never imagine this was about me. She takes one look at me and the edges of her face crinkle, a sure sign that she’s concerned. Or laughing, though that seems unlikely. ‘What’s wrong?’
I burst into tears.
Stella grabs me by the arm. ‘Laura, what is it? What’s happened?’
‘David’sseeingsomeoneandIthinkhehasbeenallalongandshe’smyfriend.’ It all comes out as one long wail.
‘Say that again. David’s what?’
I take a gulpy breath. ‘He’s seeing my friend. And, I don’t know, but I th
ink she might be the real reason he left.’
She leads me towards the sofa. Wrangles me into a sitting position. ‘Of course she was,’ she says. ‘No man ever leaves unless he’s got someone else on the go. It’s a law of the universe.’ She opens a cupboard and helps herself to a wine glass, pouring herself a large measure and topping mine up.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not David. He swore he’d be honest with me. He knows how I feel about stuff like that. Lying.’
‘Mmm,’ she says, unconvinced. She sits down next to me.
‘He made this big deal about how he knew he had to be truthful with me, and how he would never just up and leave, because of what happened with my dad …’ I’ve never talked to Stella about my dad, or anything personal, come to think of it. Her focus has always been firmly on herself. ‘He left overnight with some other woman. Out of the blue. I never really saw him again after that.’
Stella puts her arm round me stiffly. ‘I’m sorry. Maybe David thought he was being kind. Trying to spare you …’
‘But he promised!’ I howl. I know I sound ridiculous. Naïve.
‘Why do you think it’s not a recent thing? Maybe he was telling the truth and this happened later?’
‘No. I know. I just do.’ I wipe my eyes with the hem of my top. Stella gets up, goes into my bathroom and comes back with a wodge of toilet paper. I take it gratefully. Blow my nose. ‘Thanks for coming over, by the way. Where does Al think you’ve gone?’
‘I told him I was going up to the meditation room for an hour before bed.’
I let out a strangled half-laugh. ‘You have a meditation room? A whole room just for meditating in?’
Stella shrugs. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’
And then I really start to laugh, and so does she, rasping like a rusty old saw.
‘We also have a yoga room,’ she says.
‘A different room? You couldn’t do yoga in the meditation room?’
‘God, no,’ Stella says. ‘What would the neighbours think?’
I don’t know if it’s because I’m feeling so on edge anyway, but I can’t stop laughing. And neither, it seems, can she. It’s hysteria, I know it is, but it feels good. Cathartic.
‘Does it matter?’ she says, once we’ve finally calmed down. ‘If he left you for someone else or just left? The end result is the same.’
‘I feel stupid.’
‘You’re not the stupid one.’ She divides the last of the wine between our two glasses, swigs hers back in one. ‘I should go.’
We hug goodbye. It just happens, and I don’t even hesitate. Stella’s natural stiffness feels softer. Her shield has dropped.
‘Get some sleep,’ she says as she leaves.
Next day, cleaning the house where Ferne lives, while she looks after baby Alexei as we tackle the vast ground floor (cinema room: tick, gym: tick, walk-in humidor: tick), all I can think about is that I’m lying to Stella. I know who Al is leaving her for. I try to imagine finding out that David left me for someone else but not knowing her name. What she looks like. Stella knowing won’t change anything, but it might make her feel more in control, less of a patsy. I know I’d be throwing Ferne to the lioness, but, nice as she seems, she’s stolen someone else’s husband out from under their nose. I owe it to Stella to be honest with her. I just have to get up the courage first.
34
‘Don’t do it,’ Angie says. She’s come back to mine with me for a glass of wine and pizza, and then Sunshine Cleaning is going to treat her to a cab home because she’s just worked two ten-hour days on the trot, and she’s worth it. ‘What’s the best that can happen? She’ll make Ferne’s life hell and you’ll feel guilty.’
‘I’m going to persuade her not to say anything. I’ll reason with her that, if she does, Ferne’ll tell Al and everything will blow up. He’d know she knew the wedding was off. She wouldn’t get the revenge she wants. Or the money.’
Angie slides another slice of pizza on to her plate. ‘You think she’d be that rational? It’ll come back and bite you. Because if she goes off at Al, he’s going to want to know how she found out.’
I know she’s right, but I can’t shake the feeling that Stella deserves to know the truth.
‘Don’t play God,’ she says.
‘I’m not. I’m just making sure she has all the pieces of the puzzle. I’m just thinking how I wish someone had told me.’
‘What difference would it have made?’
I push the hair out of my eyes. ‘Funnily enough, that’s what Stella said.’
‘See!’ Angie says triumphantly.
I stack our plates up, carry them over to the sink. She starts to rinse them and I slap her hand away. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Force of habit. If I didn’t do it all at home, we’d be on one of those documentaries about hoarders in a week. Trapped in our flat by dirty dishes.’
‘Those boys are never going to leave home,’ I say indulgently. ‘The point is, I shouldn’t be keeping a secret from her.’ I look over towards Stella’s house. ‘Oh, your cab’s here.’
‘I’m leaving,’ she says, standing up and stretching her arms in the air. ‘I’m going to fall asleep before I get home, I know it.’
‘You’re welcome to stay on the sofa.’
She looks at it. It’s nowhere near big enough for an adult to stretch out on. ‘I’ll take my chances in the taxi. Thanks, though.’
We hug it out. ‘Think about it,’ she says, her face in my hair.
‘I will,’ I say. But I’ve already made up my mind.
I try not to grill Betsy when I pick her up on Wednesday afternoon, but I can’t help myself. We’re taking Cocoa for a walk, at her insistence. I was reluctant to call round at Eva and Rafa’s, but Betsy happily flung herself at their front door, while I hung back, smiling apologetically. Eva was all smiles, her earlier attitude erased now that I’d been declared innocent. I wasn’t buying it, though. If she could switch it off that easily, she could switch it back on again if an edict was issued. We can be friendly, but we’re not friends. Not when her friendship is conditional on someone else’s opinion.
‘We’ll keep him on the lead,’ I called as Cocoa shuffled out of the front door, tail wagging.
She handed Betsy a well-loved tennis ball. ‘No need, he won’t go anywhere.’
Betsy puffs up to about three times her normal size with pride as she walks him along the street towards the woods. I snap a picture on my phone. Think about sending it to David, but then remember how angry I am with him. He doesn’t deserve to see it.
‘How’s Zara?’ I say to her, as casually as I can.
‘OK,’ she says. She unclips Cocoa’s lead and watches him shamble off.
‘Does Michaela ever bring them all with her when she comes in the evenings?’ Who knows, maybe she’s doing David a favour by babysitting them all at his place?
Betsy screws up her face. ‘No. Just her.’
‘Right. And Dad’s always there?’
‘Of course,’ she says, throwing the ball in Cocoa’s direction. It lands right by his feet. ‘Good boy.’
‘I think you’re meant to throw it so he can run for it. And … um … is that a recent thing?’
‘What?’ she says, not making it easy for me.
‘Michaela coming over.’
She throws the ball again, this time in the opposite direction from where Cocoa is sitting. He wanders off towards it. ‘No.’
There’s nothing else I can ask. Betsy would have no idea if Michaela used to visit the flat David briefly rented when he first left and was waiting for his purchase to go through – she was living with me during the week – or indeed whether he was already seeing her before we separated. She’ll just get anxious if I keep asking questions.
I don’t want to have to see him when I drop her off later, but I can hardly just leave her in the foyer. As I pull up outside, my anger starts to bubble up to the surface; my mouth fixes into a thin, tense line. I manage to smile at the concierge, who
Betsy greets like he’s her husband back from the long war. She fills the silence after he’s phoned David to come down, chattering on about walking Cocoa while I focus on my breathing. In. Out. I don’t want to cause a scene in front of my daughter and this portly stranger. The lift door opens. I can’t look at him. I hug Betsy, remind her I’ll see her on Friday.
‘Everything OK?’ he mouths over her head.
‘Yep,’ I manage, and then I turn and walk out before I can say any more.
By Thursday morning I’ve made up my mind. I tried to calm myself down last night by flicking through Tinder (fuck him, there are men who want me; even if we end up just meeting up for meaningless sex, that’d show David. Not that there’s been any meaningless sex since he left. Or any sex at all, for that matter). Thankfully, I didn’t strike up any conversations. Start any more relationships that I would regret immediately. Then I browsed Stella’s latest eBay auctions: three men’s watches, vintage cufflinks and a gold cigarette case – all Al’s, I assume. Stella must have quite a healthy bank balance by now – certainly a lot more robust than mine has ever been – but still not enough if he isn’t going to provide them with a home. I started wondering if Ferne had any idea that her knight in shining armour was planning to leave his family with nothing, maybe not even a roof over their head. Would she be as starry-eyed if she did? Or maybe she was encouraging him. All the more for her.
I see Stella heading off with Taylor and Amber on the school run, stacking the boot with brown-paper-wrapped parcels bound, I assume, for the post office, only just stopping myself from calling down to ask her if she knows where it is, and what to do when she gets there, although I’ve talked her through it at length (‘Take a ticket from the machine and then wait till your number’s up.’ ‘What number?’ ‘The number on the ticket.’ Sometimes I swear she’s doing it to wind me up. I said to her, ‘What do you do when you need to send someone a birthday present or something?’ and she gave me that blank, confused look and said, ‘Pilar,’ as if that would explain everything, which, I suppose, it did). I hang the red tea towel. She’ll see it whenever she gets home. I need to do this before I talk myself out of it. She trusts me enough to listen to my advice now, I’m sure of it. If I tell her not to go straight round to Ferne and accuse her, she’ll understand why that makes sense.