by Jane Fallon
‘Nothing,’ she says, just as I pull mine out and spot a cubby hole with a drawer underneath at the back.
‘Look! He’s put it facing the wrong way so you can’t see the drawer.’ I spin the whole thing round and scrabble the key into the lock. It fits. ‘Jesus Christ. Keep an eye out.’ Angie moves to stand in the doorway, flicking quick little looks between me and the main office. I open the drawer. There’s an envelope. A large white one with ‘Strictly Private and Confidential. To be opened by recipient only’ written on it. And underneath it, a thin cardboard file.
‘Look,’ I say, holding it up for Angie to see.
‘That’s the one I saw on his desk.’ I put the file aside for now, open the envelope, pull out a sheaf of paper, look at the top sheet, look up at Angie.
‘What the fuck?’
36
It’s a letter from a private medical facility. I have to read it three times to take in what it says. It’s dry. Factual. Confirming that Miss Taylor Thornbury and Miss Amber Thornbury cannot be the children of Mr Alec Thornbury, although they do share the same mother and father. It doesn’t say what was provided for them to reach this conclusion but on the sheets below are incomprehensible figures and medical speak.
‘I don’t …’ I say, handing the letter over to Angie.
She scans the letter. ‘Jesus Christ. I take it you didn’t know about this?’
‘Of course not. What does it even mean?’
‘Well, that Al isn’t the girls’ father –’
‘I know that,’ I interrupt. ‘But … I mean … who is?’
‘Fuck knows. The same person, according to this.’
I flop down on the sofa. I can’t take it in. ‘Why didn’t she tell me? What’s in the file?’
She reaches in and pulls it out. Looks inside. ‘Same. Different lab. He must have had it done twice, just to be sure.’
‘What’s the date on that one?’
‘January twenty-first, 2019.’
Only a few weeks before I moved to The Close. ‘So that must be when he decided to move out. Why he’s being so cruel.’
‘You kind of can’t blame him,’ Angie hands me back the letter and I snap a photo of it before putting it back in the file. ‘I mean, it looks as if this was all news to him. Although he must have suspected something to have got the tests done in the first place.’
‘She’s been lying to me …’
Angie puts the letter back in the envelope and replaces it in the drawer with the file.
‘So … what?’ I say. ‘She had an affair? For more than two years, apparently, since they have the same father.’
‘I guess so. How did she think he would never find out? I mean, why take that risk? You’d better put this back.’ She hands me the key and I get up and crawl back under the desk, replacing it exactly where I found it.
I’m starting to get angry. ‘All that stuff about him stealing his daughters’ inheritance. All her fucking self-righteous “how could he do this to me?” bullshit.’
‘They kind of are his daughters, though,’ Angie says, playing devil’s advocate. ‘He’s been their dad their whole lives …’
‘But under false pretences. I know it’s not fair on them, because none of this is their fault, but it does kind of explain everything.’
Angie thinks for a second. ‘So Ferne isn’t so much the love of his life as the bit on the side he happened to have when he found all this out. Timing is everything.’
‘I wonder if she knows,’ I say, straightening the small table. ‘She mentioned he had kids and she didn’t imply there was any complication, but then she hardly knows me.’
Angie leans over and tweaks it by a millimetre. ‘I imagine he wants her to believe she’s the love of his life, not that she was just in the right place at the right time. Or the wrong time. You know what I mean.’
‘He’s still a bastard, let’s not forget …’
‘They’re all as bad as each other, if you ask me,’ she says. ‘I told you you should never have got mixed up in this.’
I have to stop myself storming straight over to Stella’s when I get back, despite the fact there’s no blue bra giving me the all-clear. Angie’s advice was to just back off, leave her to sort out her own mess, but I’ve worked myself up into a state of righteous indignation on the way home. She had me feeling so sorry for her. Thinking she was misunderstood and that we were friends. Helping her basically steal stuff from Al because she had me convinced that he was one hundred per cent in the wrong. Around Swiss Cottage, I had a heart-stopping panic that I may have done something criminal, aiding and abetting by helping her sell his belongings on eBay. Does setting up a PayPal account to knowingly siphon money from someone’s bank count as a crime? Definitely, I would say.
Gail saves me from myself by popping her head out of the front door as I walk past and asking if I have five minutes. I’m tired and grumpy, but I don’t want to appear rude so I follow her into the kitchen and she’s opening a bottle of wine before I can protest. Not that I would. I’d drink the whole thing at the moment if she’d let me.
‘I wanted to ask you a favour,’ she says, handing me a large glass of white. ‘I’m trying to pick my dress for the wedding of the century and I’m having trouble choosing. I ordered four from Net-a-Porter and now my head’s spinning and I don’t know which one I should keep, if any. Can I give you a fashion show?’
Oh god. I keep forgetting that no one else knows any of what’s going on with Stella and Al. It suddenly strikes me how incredibly selfish it is that they’re letting everyone spend fortunes on outfits they don’t even want and they’ll end up never wearing. It doesn’t matter that they can afford it. Well, it does a bit, but it’s the principle.
‘Of course.’
She goes off and I hear rustling coming from another room. There’s no sign of Ben, so I assume he’s away for work again. I sip my wine and wait, my eyelids drooping. Finally, I hear heels clip-clopping across the floor.
‘Blimey.’
Gail is in a kind of frilly, floaty get-up with a ruffle at the neck. I can’t even describe it properly. ‘You have great legs,’ I say, because she does and I can’t think of anything positive to say about the outfit.
‘This is my least favourite,’ she says eventually. ‘I don’t know why I’m even showing it to you, really.’
‘OK. Good. Yes, it’s awful. Is it expensive?’
She names a price that’s more than my company would charge for six people spending two twelve-hour days cleaning your house. My eyes start to water. ‘And the shoes are practically the same again.’ I hadn’t even noticed the shoes, but they’re lovely. Nude. Open-toed. Achingly high with a small platform. Red soles, of course.
‘The shoes are gorgeous,’ I say, figuring she could wear them anywhere and with anything. That needs to be my tack, I decide. Helping her pick something that’s flattering but that she can wear to something other than the wedding that never will be.
‘I’m getting them whatever,’ she says, already unzipping the dress.
We go through the process three more times. Number two looks fabulous on her, but I struggle to imagine it anywhere other than at a multimillion-pound outdoor wedding, and it will almost certainly be out of style by next summer. Three is my favourite. The most understated. It shows off her stunning figure and it wouldn’t look over the top at a garden party. Four is nice, but it doesn’t really suit her, and it’s a bit OTT on the design front. I’m sure it’s the height of fashion, but it looks as if the designer threw in every idea they’d ever had and then added a few more. I don’t even ask the prices after number one. I don’t want to know.
‘Definitely number three,’ I say, once she’s back in her normal clothes. ‘Do you have to get it now, though? There’s still more than two months to go.’
‘One less thing to think about,’ she says, and I decide not to push the point.
‘Well, it looks amazing, so you’ll get a lot of wear out of it.’ I�
�m pretty sure that, unlike Stella, Gail won’t have a ‘wear it once and bin it’ policy. And she’d at least have the good grace to donate it to a charity shop if she did.
‘Exactly,’ she says, proving me right. ‘Good, that’s settled, then.’
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ I’m giving away how angry I am, even though I told myself I wouldn’t. First thing this morning, after a restless, sleepless night, I hung the red tea towel in the window and paced around as I waited. Stella arrived, all smiles, brandishing a Pyrex dish containing a large portion of moussaka.
‘I made it with Pilar yesterday,’ she said, holding it out proudly. ‘I thought you and Betsy could have it tonight.’ It was such a sweet gesture that I almost forgot why I’d summoned her over with such urgency. ‘You have to heat it on one hundred and eighty degrees centigrade for twenty minutes,’ she parroted. I was surprised it didn’t come out in Pilar’s thick accent. ‘Al and the girls loved it,’ she added, probably confused about why she wasn’t getting the reaction she’d expected. Any other day, I’d be dying to ask her what Pilar made of her sudden desire to cook, but now is not the time.
Now she stands there, open-mouthed. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Anything?’ I say. ‘Maybe something that slipped your mind, that might have made me think twice about helping you?’
She puts the dish down warily. ‘You’re worrying me, Laura. What have I done?’
‘Just be fucking honest with me,’ I snap.
‘I’m going to leave now. I was just trying to play along with your silly attempts to force me to cook, but obviously you’ve got out of bed the wrong side …’
‘I know, Stella. I know about Taylor and Amber …’
‘What about them?’ she says haughtily, but there’s the trace of a nervous twitch around her mouth.
‘And so does Al.’
She gasps in a breath. A hand flutters to her neck. Now I’ve got her. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You tell me.’ I don’t know why I don’t just come out and say it, but I want to hear it from her.
‘Laura, please. Whatever you think you know, just tell me. I can’t …’
I pick up my mobile, scroll through my photos. Find the one with the most recent letter on. I hand it to her. Watch as she expands the text. She sinks down on to the sofa, all the colour drained from her face.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what? You know everything now.’
‘Hardly,’ I snap. ‘Ordinarily, I’d think this was none of my business, but you’ve made it my business, so I figure I deserve an explanation.’
She looks at the picture again. ‘I don’t understand. If he’s only just found out …’
I grab the phone out of her hand, scroll forward, wave the screen at her. ‘Here. That letter was the second test. He had one done in January too.’
She stops my hand and looks closely. ‘No …’
‘Yes. So is this why you wouldn’t see a solicitor? Because you thought if you fought him he might bring out the big guns and find out about this?’
She nods. ‘If he’s found out already, it explains everything. Why he’s leaving. Why he’s being so mean …’
‘I’ll be honest, I don’t blame him.’ I’m being too harsh, I know I am. But I can’t help myself. I feel stupid. Taken in. Played.
‘He’s their father,’ she says. ‘He always has been.’
‘And what does the man you had an affair with think of that? Can’t he provide for them? Or is he not rich enough for you?’
‘You know nothing about it,’ she says, the steely look returning.
‘I know I don’t, because you haven’t told me! Instead you laid it on thick about how Al was trying to ruin his daughters’ lives and how devastated you were!’
We sit there in angry silence for a moment. A stand-off. I can hear the birds singing outside, and the sound of Eva’s voice calling Cocoa to heel. Finally, Stella speaks. ‘No one knows,’ she hisses. ‘No one.’
‘Except for Al now.’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s never even taken the girls to the doctors’. Why would he even suspect?’
I think of Taylor and her sister, how like Stella they look. The Mini Mes. Stella’s genes must be strong. Now I come to think of it, neither of them do look much like Al, apart from the fact they’re both tall for their age, and dark. But so is Stella. Well, not tall for her age, but you know what I mean. I can’t help thinking of the Oscar Wilde quote: ‘To have one kid by someone other than your husband may be regarded as a misfortune, to have two looks like carelessness.’ Or something along those lines. ‘So, who’s …’ I break off as Stella gives me a look that could freeze vodka. ‘Sorry, none of my business.’
No wonder Stella is so suspicious of any woman who comes within a mile of him: she’s projecting her own past behaviour. Don’t they say that the people who are most insecure about their partner’s fidelity are the ones who have strayed themselves? Because they understand the impulse. I have a million questions I want to ask. Mainly about the paternity of the Mini Mes. Does their real father know about them? Was she still seeing him right through her first pregnancy and Taylor’s birth, and then he hung around and got her pregnant again? It’s mind-boggling.
It’s as if Stella can read my mind. She glares at me. ‘I didn’t have an affair, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Now I’m really confused. ‘Of course not. Virgin birth. You’re right, it’s none of my business …’ I say self-righteously, even though I’m dying to know.
‘It was an anonymous arrangement. Al and I were desperate to have children, but we were having difficulties. I was fine, but his count was … low. I went to an agency. Found a donor who looked like him … we didn’t have sex.’
I stand there, mouth open. ‘And they did it without ever talking to your partner?’
She gives me a tight smile. ‘Money comes in handy sometimes.’
‘He didn’t wonder what you’d spent it on?’ I have no idea how much she might be talking, but I imagine it was significant, and Al definitely seems to be in charge of the finances in their house.
‘I told him I was going to a clinic where they did things that maximized a woman’s chances of getting pregnant. Luckily, he’s so squeamish about that kind of thing he didn’t ask for details. And, in a way, it was true.’
Shit. ‘Wow … and you’ve never worried he might find out. Like, if one of them was ill or something …?’
‘Of course I have,’ she snaps. ‘But it was worth it to get my girls, and I figured he’d get over it eventually. I did it for both of us. It’s not as if I cheated on him. It’s not as if every time he looked at them he’d be seeing the face of my lover. I don’t even know who the man is.’
There’s a twisted kind of logic in what she’s saying. Not that I think I could ever take the risk of living with that unexploded bomb in my house myself. ‘So they do have the same father?’
‘Same donor, yes.’
I stretch my back. It’s aching from standing up for so long. ‘Jesus Christ.
‘He’ll use it against me. Especially if he’s looking for ways to screw me over so he can run off into the sunset with that bitch.’
I’d almost forgotten about Ferne, I was so engrossed in Stella’s bombshell. She’s right. Where once Al might have reasoned that Stella did what she did for both of them, that they have their girls, who were desperately wanted, now he probably just sees it as an excuse to cut off support. And he’ll get away with it too. I’m sure a court would argue that he mustn’t leave the girls to the wolves, but I doubt they’d listen to Stella insisting that he needs to keep them in the extravagant style to which they’ve become accustomed either.
‘You’re screwed,’ I say helpfully.
‘Please don’t give up on me.’ A tear plops out of the corner of her eye and lands on her smooth, plumped-up cheek. I feel awful, but I know I have to stand my ground. There is no black and wh
ite any more. No clear-cut right and wrong.
‘I’m not judging you. I know you thought you were doing the right thing. But I can’t help you any more, I’m sorry.’
Stella stands up. She flares her nostrils. Pouts her lips. Tosses her mane. In a flash, the frosty expression that she always used to use with me is back.
‘Fine. If that’s how you want to be …’
‘Stella …’ I say, although I’m not sure what I want to say next. She’s not listening anyway. She swoops up the Pyrex dish and storms out without looking back.
37
I try to bury myself in work. Spring-clean season is more or less over, but I go into overdrive pursuing new contracts, chasing any I have already pitched for. Nothing. It’s a competitive market. Any old idiot can buy a can of Pledge and call themselves a cleaning firm these days, it seems. I chip away at my potential profits, going lower and lower until I would practically be paying for the privilege if anyone took me up on my offer, but still no results.
Half-term is here and, with it, the promise of a week with Betsy. I’ve managed to come up with strategies to avoid her calling on Amber thus far since my falling-out with Stella, but a whole week seems insurmountable until I remember that Stella once told me they always go to France in the May break. The prospect of a whole seven days without worrying about bumping into either her or Al feels like a holiday in itself. Who needs the beach? In the end, they leave on the Friday morning, clearly deciding taking the girls out of school is worth it to beat the rush. I breathe out as they drive off, the car weighed down by their Louis Vuitton luggage, and it feels as if it’s the first time I’ve truly let go in days.
Michaela is waiting for Zara when I get to the school. I’ve avoided her since Betsy let slip about her and David. It’s such a surprise when I see her that I don’t know how to arrange my face. She greets me warmly, exactly like she always has. I bristle. There’s so much I want to ask her, but this is not the place. And I don’t want to be like Stella, assuming guilt before I’ve actually seen proof. She must pick up on a change in the atmosphere. My pheromones aren’t as obliging as my face. ‘Everything OK?’