by Jane Fallon
‘Sure,’ I say unconvincingly. ‘I’m just in a bit of a rush. I need to dash off as soon as she comes out.’
We stand there in silence for a second and then I can’t help myself. ‘Going anywhere for half-term?’
Michaela smiles like the cat that got the cream. My cream. ‘The kids are going on holiday with their cousins so, no. I’m having a blissful week of doing nothing.’
Except my ex-husband, I think but, thankfully, don’t say.
Betsy comes flying out of the door with Zara in tow. She throws herself into my arms then hugs Michaela with the same intensity. Koala Baby strikes again. I look away.
On Monday morning I’m getting a picnic lunch ready for us to take to the park because it’s a beautiful day and Betsy wants to spend it watching the outdoor trapeze school. She lives in hope that someone will fall off and break something so she’ll get to see paramedics in action. Something catches my eye and I glance over at Stella’s house as a car pulls into the drive. I watch as a man in a suit gets out. He lets himself in, silences the alarm and then I see the electronic shutters go up on all the ground-floor windows. Of course, an estate agent. He must be doing the viewings today. Pilar followed the family to France on Saturday, after giving the house a thorough clean, no doubt. Stella is safely out of the way. Even though this is nothing to do with me any more, I snap a photo on my phone, wishing I could spend the day watching. Ten minutes later, while Betsy is fussing around, trying to decide what to take in her little backpack, I see the first potential buyers pull up in a Rolls-Royce. Three people get out – a couple (him: forties, dark suit, large watch, her: twenties, big hair, fishy pout) and a normal-looking woman in her thirties, probably some kind of property finder – and look around, sizing up the street. I’m hit with the urge to run outside and start making a show of myself somehow to put them off. I wonder what Al is intending to tell the neighbours if any of them spots the stream of strangers and asks what was going on. Maybe he’s hoping they’ll have forgotten by the time they get back.
The estate agent comes out to greet them and ushers them into the house. I’m sure he’s under strict instructions to be discreet. I watch as they go inside, shutting the front door. They’re still there by the time we finally get our act together and set off.
Later, once we’re back home, sleepy from the sun and fresh air – two students fell from their trapezes and into the netting, which, to Betsy’s disgust, held up, so no injuries – I peer out of the front window while Betsy crashes out on the bed. The estate agent’s car is still there, and there’s another next to it. A gold-coloured Bentley or Mercedes. I take more photos. I think about Stella and Al on their holiday, presenting a glamorous united front to everyone they meet, the resentments and deceptions simmering just under the surface. I’d be terrified I’d have one glass of wine too many and blurt it all out. Or maybe they’ve had a civilized conversation after the girls have gone to bed one night, discussed their issues like adults. Fat chance.
After another ten minutes or so the prospective buyers exit the front door. They’re the spitting image of the earlier couple: he’s a good fifteen years older than her; plastic surgeons have run amok with both their faces. I take pictures. The Close is deserted. There’s no one but me to see them leave.
The agent hangs around, so he’s obviously expecting another viewer. I’m struck with a ridiculous thought. I run into the bedroom – Betsy is still passed out on the bed, Bruno snuggled under one arm. I pull out my one good dress and heels, untie my hair and shake it down. I prod Betsy awake. She peers at me, sleepy-eyed. ‘Why are you all dressed up?’
‘I just have to pop over the road for a sec.’
‘Will Amber be there?’ she says, sitting up.
‘They’re in France, remember. They have someone looking after their house and I have to talk to him quickly.’ She looks confused, as well she might. ‘I’ll be two minutes, tops. You can watch me out of the front window.’ I don’t really like leaving her alone, but she’ll be able to see me the whole time. I have no intention of going inside.
‘Do you like him? The man who’s looking after their house. Is that why you’re wearing that …?’
‘No. I don’t even know him. It’s a long story. Do you want to come with me?’
She shakes her head. Yawns.
‘Two minutes, OK? Shout if you need me. I’ll hear you.’ Parent of the year, right there.
She nods and follows me out to the steps. Sits on the top one, Bruno still under her arm.
I don’t want the agent to see which house I came from, so I wait until he wanders inside, leaving the door open, and I’m over there, ringing the bell, looking back over my shoulder to see Betsy watching on. He looks a bit confused when he sees me standing there, checks his watch.
‘Ms …?’
I tell myself to project confidence. You are rich enough to afford a house like this.
‘Hello.’ I extend my hand, which he shakes limply. His palm is sweaty. A blob of white shaving cream clings to the underside of his pimply pink chin. On close look, he’s only about twenty-five. He looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. ‘I don’t have an appointment. I already live on The Close …’ I wave my hand in the direction of the woods. ‘And Alec – Mr Thornbury – mentioned they were selling up just before they left for France. I’ve always loved their house. I … we … my husband and I … have often said we’d snap it up if it ever came on the market … it’s on at … what?’ I wrack my brain for what the letter said. ‘Ten?’
I leave it hanging. He probably thinks I’m a nosy neighbour, but he won’t want to lose any opportunity.
‘Tim Sergeant. I have appointments all day, but I could slot you on to the end …’ he says hopefully.
‘Oh, it’s OK. I know the house inside out. I particularly love the yoga and meditation rooms. And the art! They have such wonderful art, although, of course, that won’t be staying. I just wondered if you could confirm the price.’
‘Ten point five,’ he says casually, as if he doesn’t actually think he could work his whole lifetime and never be able to afford it himself. Him and me both. Three lifetimes.
‘Million?’ I say, then curse myself. As opposed to what? Billion? Ten pounds fifty? It’s a higher price than they’d originally agreed. ‘That’s actually very reasonable. It’s what? Seven thousand square feet?’
‘Six two.’ Tim Sergeant says. ‘Could I take your details?’
‘Oh. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. ‘Jan …’ I realize I’ve forgotten her and Roman’s surname. ‘Abramovich. I live at number 4 …’
He asks for my number, so I make something up, and then I ask him for his card.
‘Let me speak to my husband,’ I say. ‘But we’re very interested …’
‘I’ve been asked by Mr Thornbury to keep the sale discreet …’ he says nervously as I make to leave.
‘Of course. Don’t worry. Not a word, not even to Mrs Thornbury.’
I’m saved by another car pulling into the drive. Another couple who would look right at home here climb out languidly. She’s about seven feet tall and one inch wide, he’s older (quelle surprise), short, squat and hirsute. They both drip gold like Mr T. on a night out. I smile a hello then turn right out of the gate, as if I’m heading to number 4, raising an eyebrow at Betsy as I go. She watches, confused, but thankfully silent. I wait for them all to go inside before I sneak home. I write ‘10.5’ on the back of Tim Sergeant’s card and pat myself on the back for a good bit of detective work. Then I put the card in a drawer; no idea what to do with the information.
38
Gail and Ben are having a last-minute garden party. ‘Now that everyone’s friends again, and the weather’s so beautiful,’ Gail says when she pops up to invite me and Betsy. She’s slightly behind the curve, as ever, but I don’t disabuse her. Stella and Al are expected back on Friday, she tells me, so she’s hoping they’ll come along, and everyone from The Close is invited, as well as a few families
from neighbouring – equally posh – streets.
‘Lovely,’ I say, because what else is there to say?
I offer mine and Betsy’s services on the day, and she accepts gracefully. We’ve had a quiet half-term, just the two of us and the occasional walk with Cocoa. Without Stella and Al around, everyone seems more relaxed, less aware of how their everyday actions will be judged. No one else seems to have noticed Monday’s stream of house hunters or, if they did, they don’t mention it. On Wednesday I watched as the gold-Bentley couple returned for a second viewing. I had to duck down behind the sink so Tim the estate agent didn’t see me while I tried to take more snaps. They all looked very matey now. Yesterday I called him, blocking my number. Jan Abramovich here. I asked if there had been any offers, because my husband and I were still thinking it over, and he very smugly said yes, there had. I asked if they’d offered the asking price and he got a bit shifty so I could only assume the answer was no.
‘The offer hasn’t yet been accepted,’ he said. ‘But the buyers are in an excellent position, so it may move very quickly once Mr Thornbury returns. It would definitely be worth your putting in a bid asap.’ He said ‘asap’ like it was a word, not a series of letters. I thanked him. Told him we’d have a firm decision after the weekend and that, by the way, we’d be cash buyers. I could practically hear him salivating, drool hitting his starched collar. ‘Well, of course, that’s very interesting, Mrs Abramovich. I’m sure I can delay any decision till Monday, but I can’t guarantee after that.’
‘Of course,’ I said. I didn’t know how much time I could string him along for. Or for what purpose, really, either. It could only delay things so long. I just didn’t want Stella to come home to a fait accompli, even if I was pissed off with her. ‘It would be useful to know what the other party has bid,’ I said, trying again.
‘I shouldn’t really tell you,’ Tim said, but he loved me now he’d seen the colour of my cash. ‘But let’s just say, if you went to nine seven five, you would be in a favourable position.’
So the Gold Bentleys had knocked a cool million or so off the asking price and no one seems to have batted an eyelid. I remembered Rahina once saying to me that, with the really high-end stuff, agents just pluck a figure out of the sky; it’s not really based on anything concrete like square footage. After all, what price can you put on a passenger lift to all floors or a temperature-controlled under-the-floor wine cellar?
Betsy is almost hysterical at the prospect of a party in one of the big houses, until she remembers that all her party outfits are at her dad’s (by ‘all’, I mean two, and by ‘party outfits’, I mean her favourite skirt, which is a pink-and-blue striped skater that she usually teams with stripey tights in a different colour combination, or her one good dress that she has worn to every christening, wedding and birthday for the past two years. Luckily, she’s not a fast grower, but it’s still getting so short she looks as if she’s auditioning for Geordie Shore when she wears it and so has lately taken to wearing trousers underneath). I convince her that casual is best. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the hang of the dress code and almost everyone will be in the skinny jeans/T-shirt combo, with the odd summer dress. Satisfied, she picks her cut-offs and a pink top with a cartoon dancing crocodile on the front and ‘Croc ’n’ Roll’ emblazoned across it. Earlier in the day, I’d helped Gail string up more lights in the garden and arrange a cluster of chairs and tables on the lawn. Ben fussed around with a large wood burner and made Betsy’s day by letting her help him build a test fire, meticulously stacking it up with kindling he’d brought home from the woods. He declared her the best fire starter ever, and then, when she wasn’t looking, he rebuilt the whole thing. When we went back upstairs for a nap I noticed Al’s car in their driveway. I wondered if Stella could sense a change in the air. The faint trace of a stranger’s perfume. I didn’t go anywhere near gold-Bentley man but I’d put money on him reeking of Eau Sauvage.
Betsy and I have a fight over make-up while we get ready. My little tomboy has spent a couple of afternoons with the Mini Mes and now she thinks contouring is de rigueur for seven-year-olds.
‘They’ll think I look like a baby,’ she wails.
‘You are not wearing blusher, and that’s it. Even I’m not wearing blusher, and I’m forty-two.’
‘Amber said her mum said you’d look better if you wore more make-up,’ she says, and I have to stop myself from saying, Well, Amber and her mum can both fuck off. Instead I compromise with lip gloss.
For all I know, Taylor and Amber will be back to ignoring Betsy anyway, sneering at her from afar. Who knows what Stella’s been filling their heads with since our fight? I realize that this applies to me too. Maybe she’s this minute letting Eva, Katya, Anya and Jan know that I’m officially back on the blacklist.
I’ve promised Gail and Ben that we’ll arrive early, so at five past six we’re standing on their doorstep, frazzled and tetchy. We’re the first, but then everyone turns up in quick succession and no one seems to be ignoring me so I finally start to relax. Being Gail and Ben, they have invited all the housekeepers and nannies and live-in gardeners, but the other householders have clearly interpreted this as meaning staff can come along if they’re providing childcare, and there’s a kind of apartheid with nannies and children on one side of the garden and employers/parents on the other. None of the housekeepers or gardeners seems to have been given the night off. There’s a group of three nannies, one of them Ferne, bouncing baby Alexei on her hip. My heart starts pounding. I hadn’t for a second thought that Sergei and Katherine would come along. They’ve always kept themselves to themselves. They’re not part of the inner circle but, of course, Gail would never leave them out. I should have known. I smile over at her and she waves back. I have no idea if Stella and Al are going to show up at any minute – hopefully, they’re too tired after their journey and have decided to give it a miss – but, if they do, this is not going to be good.
A couple of glasses of champagne later and I’m starting to feel better. There’s still no sign of them. Betsy is happily playing with some children of around her age who I’ve never seen before and I’m guessing are the offspring of one or both of the only two couples I don’t recognize. Everyone is being friendly, although I’m mainly hovering on the periphery of conversations, as usual, an observer rather than a participant, but that suits me fine. It’s a beautiful evening and I’m content to just take it all in. I get talking to one of the two waiters, Louis, and he tells me he’s the son of one of Gail’s work colleagues and he’s grateful for the chance to earn some extra cash before he goes to uni in the autumn. He’s off to study finance and business.
‘You’ll be living somewhere like this in a few years in that case,’ I say, and he screws his face up. I laugh.
‘Sorry, no disrespect …’ he says.
‘None taken. I’m an outsider here too. I’m the lodger.’
‘Do they all have the same plastic surgeon,’ he says, and I realize he’s flirting with me, even though I’m a good twenty years older than him. It’s ridiculous, but I decide to just go with it. What’s the harm?
‘They’ve definitely all had the same hair extensions.’ I say, and he snorts. ‘That’s what I’m going to do in my next life. Get trained in how to put fake hair on rich people.’
‘Damn,’ he says. ‘I should change my course.’
‘That, or teeth. Learn how to do those big white veneers that look like your granny’s falsies. Well, great-granny, in your case.’
It’s a fun way to pass the time. Flattering, even. But then I feel it. An almost imperceptible ripple as all heads turn towards the patio doors. Al is first, suntanned from his holiday, wearing a beautifully tailored pale blue jacket over a faded T-shirt and jeans. Loafers and no socks. Behind him, Stella, in a tiny denim skirt and a coral vest top, all long, tanned limbs, and then the Mini Mes in almost identical outfits. Three high, dark, gleaming ponytails. If you could ignore the fish lips and padded cheeks for a moment, they�
��d look like they were in contention for World’s Most Beautiful Family. I look over to Betsy and she’s standing with her mouth open, gazing in wonderment.
‘Who are they?’ my companion says. Even he has picked up on the change in atmosphere.
‘They live across the street,’ I say, without looking round. I watch as all the men gravitate towards Al and all the women towards Stella. Each of them is a head taller than all the others in their respective groups. It’s almost like watching two maypoles with the dancers flocking round. Taylor and Amber glide over to the small band of kids who were happily running around a minute ago but are now standing warily, waiting to be told what to do.
Louis picks up on the fact that he’s lost me for the moment. He probably thinks I’m as in awe of the Thornburys as everyone else obviously is. ‘Well, I’d better do my duty …’
I give him a smile. ‘Yes. Lovely chatting to you.’
I’m left standing there with no one to talk to. I think about going over to where the kids are, but I don’t want Stella to see me talking to Ferne. I could join the group of satellites orbiting her, but I have no idea what kind of reception I’d get. So I just stand there, looking like a spare part. I wonder if I should go and find Gail – she’s disappeared into the house, probably checking on the caterers. I’m watching the women lapping up the details of Stella’s Insta-worthy vacation when I see her give a slight double take on spotting Ferne. Her nostrils flare like an angry pony’s.
‘Are there staff here?’ I hear her ask incredulously. ‘I thought Gail was joking.’ Clearly, the invitation was not handed on to Pilar.
‘Only a couple of the nannies,’ one of the others – Anya, I think – says. ‘Which is a good thing, really, because they can look after all the kids.’