Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  She clears her throat, something I’ve realized she does when she’s about to make an announcement. ‘I’ve been thinking. You were right. I have to stop burying my head in the sand. It’s all going to come out one of these days anyway, like you keep telling me …’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve been listening,’ I say jokily.

  She pulls a face. A tiny line appears on her forehead. Tiny, but there. ‘You look good today,’ I say. ‘Did you stop the Botox?’

  ‘You told me I couldn’t afford it any more. I look like an old crone already.’

  I laugh. ‘It suits you. You almost look human. Give it a few weeks.’

  ‘You are hilarious,’ she says drily.

  ‘Pleasure. Anyway, you were saying …’

  She sucks in a breath. ‘I need help. Not … you’ve been amazing, I’m not saying that …’

  I put her out of her misery. ‘You totally do.’

  ‘So, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to start by telling the others. I can’t keep stringing them along about the wedding. Just the women. I don’t trust the other men not to tell Al. Well, maybe Ben wouldn’t. A few heads have got to be better than two, right?’

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  ‘Last night. I felt bad …’

  Last night was a ‘girls’ dinner’ at Anya’s. I was there. Invited as ‘part of the gang’, as she put it. I’m not going to lie, I was happy not to be left out, flattered that I was included. We ate in their fairy-light-festooned conservatory, waited on hand and foot by their exhausted-looking housekeeper, who had probably already done a full day’s work before we even arrived. I say we ate – I mean, I did. Even though the meal was basically salad followed by salad with a tiny bit of grilled fish on the side, followed by salad of the fruit variety, I was still the only one to actually move the food from the fork to my mouth and not just round and round on the plate. Anya and Bill’s house conforms to all the norms of The Close: marble, gold, dodgy art. So now I’ve seen Anya in all her naked black-and-white glory too. I’m getting to know these women far more intimately than I’d like. There was much talk of the wedding, of course. Stella played her part beautifully, but I could see she was uncomfortable when Katya started asking about the bachelorette, wanting more details about the house Stella had found for them all, and the rest of them started twittering away about how much they were looking forward to a week away without their husbands and what they were going to get up to.

  ‘I’m scared I’m going to get caught out,’ she says now. ‘And, you know what? I don’t want to give Al the satisfaction of being the one to drop the big bombshell. I want to get my side of the story in first, take the wind out of his sails. Plus, I can’t keep expecting you to drop everything and worry about me. You have enough on your plate. These women are my oldest friends, and friends are meant to support each other, right?’

  I’m struck with a tiny jolt of anxiety. I’m sure it’s one hundred per cent the right thing to do, but I realize that, ridiculously, I’ll miss being the only keeper of Stella’s secret. Well, apart from Angie, who Stella doesn’t even know about. I’ll miss being needed. ‘Do you think they’ll be able to keep it to themselves, though?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ she says.

  ‘And, if they don’t?’

  She looks at me evenly. She’s made up her mind. ‘Then I’ll know where I stand. It’s time to try to work out who my friends really are.’

  41

  If an alien came down and landed in the middle of the small gathering in Stella’s garden, they would go back and teach their offspring that human females were tall, with abundant glossy hair, huge plumped-up cheeks and protruding oversized lips that didn’t quite fit their mouths. I would be paraded as some kind of a runt: a short, curly-haired, laughter-lined, thin-lipped freak. These are the Lulu Lemons, it would say. They wear a uniform: yoga pants and strappy vest tops, which all have their tribal name stamped on the outside. Except for the runt who seems to be from an inferior caste known as the Gaps.

  We’re sitting round a large glass-topped faux-wicker table, under the massive umbrella, because the sun is fierce. Me, Stella, Eva, Katya, Anya, Jan and Gail. We debated long and hard about inviting Jan, because Roman is Al’s best friend in The Close and she might feel conflicted about not telling him, but Stella was adamant she should be included. They’re all looking at the two of us expectantly, mouths open like a pond full of hungry koi.

  We wait for Pilar to put down a tray with a cafetière and seven tiny cups and saucers. ‘Help yourselves,’ I say, doing just that. In any other circumstances, I would automatically pour one for everyone, but here that would just confirm my lowly status, so I sit on my hands and wait it out.

  ‘Stella has something she wants to tell you,’ I announce, once everyone has a drink. I squeeze her arm encouragingly.

  ‘I … I don’t know if I can …’ she says. ‘Will you tell them, Laura?’

  Shit. ‘OK, well, first she needs you all to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Not your husbands. Especially not your husbands. Not yet. They’ll all find out in a few weeks anyway. And don’t talk about it in front of anyone, including your staff. Stella’s relying on you all. Anyone uncomfortable with that?’

  Of course, no one would own up if they were now, not without finding out what the enticing bombshell is first, but it needed to be said. I don’t want anyone to be able to claim later that they didn’t realize the importance of secrecy. They all make agreeing noises.

  ‘Stella, dear, are you OK?’ Gail says softly. Stella nods.

  I breathe out slowly. ‘You’re sure you want me to be the one to tell them?’ I ask Stella, and she gives me a weak smile. ‘Please.’

  ‘Right. I’m just going to say it. Stella has found out that Al is planning to leave her and set up home with someone else. So the wedding won’t be happening …’

  There’s a collective gasp and then a cacophony of voices about taking him to the cleaners and names of divorce lawyers. Gail reaches out and puts a hand on Stella’s arm. Stella just sits there, looking at the floor.

  ‘There’s more …’ I say. This is the really tricky bit. I’m not sure how much detail to go into and it’s such a juicy bit of gossip that I really don’t know how any of them are going to keep it to themselves. But Stella is adamant she wants them to know everything. I lay it on a bit thick about how much Stella and Al wanted children and how she didn’t go off and have an affair, she found an anonymous donor through an agency who agreed to father two babies. By the end I’ve made her sound like Mother Teresa, selflessly doing battle with a turkey baster to save her marriage. Katya is in tears. I tell them that Al has found out, that it’s kicked off his scheme to destroy her. How he has no idea how it really went down, that she did it for them, just that he has been bringing up two girls who aren’t his. Now there’s not a dry eye in the house. It looks like the world’s greatest miracle. Five frozen faces with tears rolling from their eyes. Statues come to life. The Virgin Marys of N2.

  While I’ve got them on side I tell them about what we’ve been trying to do. How we’re afraid Al is planning to leave Stella and the girls with nothing. About the loan and the flat in Battersea and the sale of the house. How Stella has been squirrelling money away for the future, but she’s still going to have to lead a very different life from now on.

  To give them credit, none of them says anything critical. In fact, none of them says anything at all. It’s as if they’re rudderless, now their leader is down. They don’t know how they’re meant to feel without her giving them the nod of approval. The queen is mortally wounded and the whole hive is in danger of imploding.

  Gail, of course, has a mind of her own. ‘Oh, Stella,’ she says gently, ‘why didn’t you tell us sooner?’

  ‘I wanted to,’ Stella says at last. ‘I just … I didn’t know how.’

  ‘Does this mean …’ Katya flaps her long eyelashes, a robot rebooting. ‘… you’re goi
ng to be poor?’

  I suppose someone had to say it. ‘Yes!’ Stella says dramatically.

  ‘No,’ I say at the same time. ‘She already has more money in her bank account than I’ve ever seen. She’s just going to need to get a job …’

  I might as well have said, She’s going to need to find food in your bins from now on. Every one of them except Gail drops their mouth open again, like a frog catching flies. ‘But, of course, that’s not as easy as it sounds.’

  ‘Who is she?’ Eva says. ‘Do we know her?’

  Stella is about to speak, but I jump in. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s happening and we need to work out what Stella is going to do.’

  ‘You poor girl,’ Gail says. ‘Of course we’ll all help you.’

  The rest of them all sit there staring at us. I wonder if it’s even really gone in. Finally, Jan speaks. ‘Did you say Roman witnessed the loan document?’

  ‘Um … yes,’ I say. I’m relieved no one has yet asked how we found all this out. I’m not sure their loyalty to Stella would extend to keeping quiet about me poking around in people’s private things.

  ‘I see,’ she says with a sneer. There’s no telling what she’s thinking. Anya and Katya – both of them second wives of much older men themselves – just look dumbstruck. Could this happen to them? Aren’t they supposed to be the winners? The one he ends up sticking with because he can’t face the hassle (or the demands for alimony) another messy separation would bring. They’re meant to be the default long-game victors.

  ‘So …’ I say eventually. This is pointless. ‘Stella just wanted you all to know. As her closest friends. And, you know, if you have any ideas about what she might be able to do, because we’re all out …’

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ Eva says, ‘is how Laura got involved in this …’

  Ah. I’m about to open my mouth to explain myself when Stella gets there first. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll explain it all one day … I’m indebted to her.’

  ‘Well, personally, I’m just glad Stella had someone she could confide in,’ Gail says. ‘I completely understand why she felt she couldn’t tell any of us.’ I give her a grateful smile.

  Jan speaks up again. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid, my Pilates instructor will be here any minute.’

  ‘Don’t forget, don’t cancel your flight for the bachelorette yet. Not if Roman’ll notice,’ I say. I can’t help myself. It just needs one of them to accidentally let something slip and Stella will be rumbled.

  The others take their cue and can’t jump in with their own excuses quickly enough. Now they’ve heard the goss, they just want to get out of there, in case Stella’s problems are a virus they might be in danger of catching. I should have known they were all too self-obsessed to be of any use. Only Gail stays put, waiting until the others round the corner to the side gate before she says, ‘Shall we have a drink?’

  Stella volunteers to go and get something, which must be a first. She looks shell-shocked, as if the fight has gone out of her.

  ‘Do you think they’ll keep their mouths shut?’ I say, turning to Gail.

  She gives a sad little laugh. ‘Probably for now. They won’t want to give their own husbands ideas.’

  ‘I wonder who’ll be Queen Bee once Stella’s gone …’

  ‘If Jan wasn’t leaving, it’d be a fight to the death between her and Eva.’

  ‘You should stage a coup,’ I say jokingly. ‘Bring about an age of enlightenment.’

  She stretches her toned arms above her head. ‘Too much like hard work.’

  Stella appears at the back door with a tray carrying what looks like three giant mojitos. ‘Poor Stella,’ Gail says quietly.

  ‘I know. What’s she going to do?’

  Gail shakes her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I made them all by myself,’ Stella says as she arrives, handing us each a drink. I take a sip. It’s pretty much just pure rum.

  ‘OK, don’t apply for any mixologist jobs,’ I say, and I’m gratified to hear her rasping laugh.

  An hour later and two more of Stella’s mojitos down, we’re basically all slaughtered. I hug them both like true friends and stagger back home to sleep it off. I wake up at six, disorientated, not knowing if it’s morning or afternoon for a few minutes, until I realize I’m on the sofa, legs hanging off the edge, and with all my clothes on. I stagger up wearily and into the shower. I think about the afternoon and what we’ve achieved. Was it worth it? Now we have five more people who might give the game away to Al, and not one of them came up with a helpful suggestion. Or even an unhelpful one. And I am most definitely out of ideas.

  42

  Days pass. A week. Two. The day after what is now officially known by Gail and me as ‘the fiasco in Stella’s garden’, I waited in. I thought at least one of them might call round to ask if there was anything they could do. If Stella was coping. Or even just for more gossip. The name of Al’s bit on the side, for example. But, apart from Gail, who has been talking to Stella every day, offering a shoulder to cry on, it’s as if they’ve all gone into denial. As the days went by, I started to think I might have imagined the big revelation completely.

  I’ve exchanged on my new flat so the countdown has begun to when it will be all mine. Gail and Ben have offered to let me stay in the annexe for the last two weeks for free while I make it habitable, which is kind beyond any of my expectations. I thought about protesting, but I talked myself out of it. They were happy to do it; I should just accept gracefully. I haven’t told Betsy yet. Not until I can show her her new home without the black ceilings and the smell. Until it looks less like a place where someone might sacrifice chickens and more like somewhere her cat might want to live.

  Stella is no further forward with a home of her own. Or a job. Or a plan. I think the reaction – or lack of it – from her friends threw her. I won’t lie, it threw me too. I was expecting hysteria, shock, an outpouring of sympathy, or even disbelief or thinly disguised disapproval. Not blank incomprehension. Not shell-shocked self-interest. She’s heard from them all, of course. None of them is treating her any differently. In fact, that’s what’s so odd about it. They’re all still inviting her for drinks or meals, suggesting facials or trips to Bond Street, but not one of them has asked if she’s OK. I don’t think they’re being nasty; they just can’t compute what they’ve been told. I doubt they’re even discussing it among themselves, because that would make it real.

  I’m still trying to make her look at houses to rent – she could offer to pay a year in advance, I realized, which would hopefully have most landlords overlooking the fact that she has no income. Gail and I could be references. But I made the mistake of asking her how much it would cost to rent a house like hers, just as a starting point. I knew she could never afford it, but I thought we could ease down from there. When she told me, I thought I’d misheard her and I made her repeat it. It was the same amount the second time. Thirty thousand pounds. Maybe thirty-five. Per month.

  ‘Who …?’ I said, mouth open. ‘I mean …’

  She shrugged. ‘People like us.’

  I didn’t have the heart to point out that she was no longer a person like her. ‘OK,’ I said brusquely. ‘Well, then, we need to look for something that’s what? A fifth of the size of this. That should be doable.’ I clicked away manically at PrimeLocation.

  ‘Look, there’s a house – a whole house – in the Vale of Health.’

  Stella looked over my shoulder. ‘It’s in a terrace …’

  ‘So? It’s got three bedrooms …’

  I could see she wasn’t interested, even though, to my eyes, the house was gorgeous. I scrolled down, clicked on another. ‘How about this one? Semi-detached, not a terrace. Little garden, look …’

  She peers at the listing. ‘Finchley? Where would the girls go to school?’

  ‘I don’t know. They must have schools, right?’

  ‘Not good ones,’ she said, as if she were an expert.

  �
�O-K.’ I kept looking. ‘Swiss Cottage? No? Childs Hill?’ She shook her head. ‘Belsize Park?’

  ‘Too dull,’ she said petulantly.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Stella. You have to be realistic. Belsize Park is lovely.’

  ‘I don’t want to live in Belsize Park. I want to live here.’

  ‘Well, you can’t!’ I practically shouted. ‘You have to get your head out of the sand!’ An idea occurred to me. ‘Come with me.’ I rattled off a swift text as I chivvied her out of the house and into my car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she huffed.

  ‘You’ll see.’

  We drove without speaking. My patience was wearing thin. She seemed unable to acknowledge real life. I had no idea what was actually going through her brain about where she and her girls might be calling home in a few short weeks. I didn’t want to get into another argument with her so I turned the radio up poundingly high. Sang along to Beyoncé. Jack, the junior from Rahina’s office, was already waiting for us outside when we arrived. Stella looked around at the street anxiously, as if worried she might be jumped by a gang of feral youths as soon as she put a Louboutined foot outside.

  ‘What are we doing here?’ she asked nervously. I could tell she was feeling sheepish. Wanting to be back in my good books.

  I smiled at Jack. ‘Hi. Thanks for this.’

  ‘Can I leave you to it?’ He handed me the keys. I was slightly nervous to let myself in, but I didn’t want Stella to see that. Anyway, I was going to have to get used to it. ‘Of course. I’ll drop them back in a bit.’