Queen Bee

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Welcome, all,’ he says pompously. ‘Thanks for coming to celebrate with us. To the best friends a man can have. And a woman,’ he adds. ‘Hahaha. Mustn’t forget my beautiful bride-to-be. Actually, let’s toast Stella.’

  He raises his glass. They all mirror his action with a few mutters of ‘To Stella’. They seem to have momentarily forgotten they’re meant to be acting as if nothing is wrong. I shift position, careful not to knock into my glass. Everything has gone quiet, everyone waiting to see what Al is going to say next, but he’s just smiling away, waving to the caterers to start bringing out the starters. Stella saves the moment by making an announcement of her own.

  ‘To Al,’ she says. ‘My wonderful husband-to-be.’

  This time the response is more robust. They’re back on script.

  ‘OK, everybody, let’s eat,’ Al says, ever the magnanimous host. Earlier, Stella will have put out name cards. She at one head of the table, Al at the other. Five people each side. ‘Boy, girl, boy, girl’ in that tiresome way posh dinner parties do things. Or so I’ve heard.

  The caterers – two young women in muddy-brown artisanal aprons – bring out plates of jewel-coloured salad, works of art in miniature, with slices of slightly melting grilled goat’s cheese on top. I’m salivating. I snake backwards into the bedroom, chomp a few more bites of sandwich. I’m pretty sure that nothing will happen now until they’ve eaten, so I shuffle over to lean on the side of the bed. It’s tempting to get on and lie down, but I’d be asleep within minutes. That’s if I could even fit on there with all the soft furnishings. I pour myself a large glass of sparkling water and flick idly through my phone.

  I haven’t looked at Tinder for weeks, so I amuse myself swiping through. Left, left, left. Only left. I see that I have a message from Danny – How are you doing? – but, when I look at it, it’s over three weeks old and it feels weird to reply now. As if I’d have to think of a blisteringly witty reply that it might have taken me a fortnight to come up with. I play solitaire and try to read a book, but it’s hard to concentrate. The main course has arrived – turbot, apparently – and I can hear Bill relating an anecdote about a meal he and Anya had at Scott’s a few nights ago above the clank of cutlery. I check my phone. Almost nine o’clock. The turbot is cleared. Everyone oohs and aahs over the dessert as it appears – tarte tatin and salted vanilla ice cream. I hear Al’s voice above all the others and my heart stops.

  ‘Everyone …’

  I crawl back on to the balcony. It’s a still, quiet evening. Now it’s dark, the candles and fairy lights are magical against the trees. There’s a smell of cut grass and earth mixed with night-scented flowers. I’m going to miss this place, I realize with a sharp pang.

  ‘The caterers are about to leave us to it, so I’m sure we’d all like to show our appreciation.’ There’s a round of applause. False alarm.

  Even though it was in the high twenties earlier, I’m a little bit chilly now. There are two gas burners either side of the dining table to keep the guests cosy, but I’m regretting not bringing a cardigan. There’s a knitted throw on the bed under the cushion mountain, so I tug at it gently, trying to free it. There’s a crash as a lamp falls from one of the bedside tables on to the floor, followed by a pillow avalanche. I freeze. Everyone outside has gone silent.

  ‘One of the caterers must have dropped something on the way out,’ Stella says eventually. ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll have a look on my way to the little girls’ room,’ Jan says, and I hear the scrape of her chair on the tiles. I breathe a sigh of relief. A few seconds later I hear her footsteps on the stairs and she appears at the door.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she hisses.

  ‘Yes. I knocked something over. Sorry.’

  ‘Not long now, hopefully,’ she says, and I give her a thumbs-up.

  ‘How’s Roman doing?’ I say as she turns to leave.

  ‘You can imagine,’ she says.

  Once I’ve heard her go back outside, announcing to the group that it was indeed the caterers, dropping a tray, but thankfully nothing was broken, I creep back to my vantage point. Unless this whole evening is a MacGuffin, then Al must be going to make his move soon. Time is running out.

  The clatter of cutlery has come to a slow standstill. I smell the cedar-tinged smoke from a cigar. ‘Everyone for brandy?’ Stella says. There’s a murmur of assent and then the sound of spoon on glass.

  Al clears his throat. Stands up. ‘I have an announcement to make.’

  My heart starts to thump in my chest. Here goes.

  45

  I lean further over my parapet. All eyes are on Al.

  ‘Thanks so much for coming, all of you. My dearest friends. I can’t think of who I would rather share this evening with. Or the next few days in Monte Carlo, eh, boys?’ He laughs heartily and everyone else gives it a good go of laughing along with him. He’s loving this. He looks as if he can hardly contain himself long enough to spin the story slowly enough for maximum impact.

  ‘Seriously, though, I want to share something with you all that I’ve never shared with anyone else …’ He pauses for dramatic effect. He’s commanding the stage. Transfixing the audience. Stella flicks a surreptitious look up at me. ‘Stella and I have been together for what? Twelve years.’ He smiles at her indulgently. ‘We’ve been through everything together, side by side. Well, except for a wedding ceremony, of course. Not yet, anyway. Only two more weeks until the big day. Can you believe it? Finally. We had our two beautiful children. Some of you – Roman, Jan, Eva, Rafa – probably remember how desperate we were to be parents. How hard we tried. Practice makes perfect, ha ha. And it was all worthwhile. Stella always used to say she wanted a fairy-tale wedding one day, but I could never see the point. Then, a year ago, I looked at my perfect little family and I knew I wanted it too. I wanted to make us official. So I got down on one knee and proposed. And luckily, she said yes …’

  He raises his brandy glass at Stella and everyone else follows suit. Then he takes what – from my bird’s eye view anyway – looks like a massive swig.

  ‘But then something happened. I wanted to surprise her. Do something for her that I thought she might like. You all know how she only has her mother and father. No one else. No brothers or sisters. She always thought there might be cousins somewhere, but she’d never met any of them. I thought I could trace her family and – if I found anyone – invite some of them to the wedding. I thought that would be the best wedding present I could ever give her. More family …’

  He takes a breath and looks around each of his audience in turn. I have to say, I’m fascinated to hear how Al’s suspicions came about. We’ve never been able to work it out.

  ‘So I did a bit of research, but I was getting nowhere. Then a colleague at work suggested one of those genealogy websites. Ancestry DNA, that kind of thing. If you have any family who’ve also been on there, they tell you. First cousins, second, sixteenth. Whatever. Obviously, I couldn’t get Stella to spit into the tube. It would spoil the surprise. So then I had a brainwave. I could ask Taylor to do it. All the same connections would be there, just one step removed …’

  Ah.

  ‘So that’s what I did. Of course, you know what Tayls is like. I had to bribe her to keep her quiet.’ More hearty laughing, but now it’s starting to sound hollow, like he can no longer keep up the pretence of it being real. ‘And then we waited. And, to be honest, I forgot about it for a while. We started planning the wedding …’ He keeps giving Stella little looks now, as if he’s trying to read her reaction. She’s playing her role to perfection, mouth slightly open in shock.

  ‘The perfect wedding. And then, one day, the results came and there were people there on Stella’s side. Cousins. I couldn’t quite work out from their relation to Taylor exactly who they were to Stella – all that first cousin once removed and second cousin’s mother’s aunt stuff. But I knew I could find out. I was elated. But then, after a while of staring at the resul
ts, I suddenly noticed something. There were no Thornburys on there. No names I recognized from my own family – and you know there are lots of us. Maybe no one from my side had ever done one of those tests. Or they’d all set their privacy settings high – what did I know? But Tayls had relatives on there that I’d never heard of. Scores of them. Close ones too. Can you see where this is going yet?’

  They all stare at him. To him it must look as if no one quite knows how to react. Stella wrings her napkin in her hand, dabs at her eyes. Al smirks. His big moment has come.

  ‘I realized that the only reason that could be is because Taylor is not related to me …’

  He fixes his gaze on Stella. Take that. If he’s confused by the fact there aren’t any gasps of shock, he doesn’t show it. He’s revelling in his revelation.

  ‘And so, my friends, I ordered a paternity test. Not just on Taylor, but on Amber too. And do you know what the results were? Not only is Taylor not my daughter, but neither is Amber. And what’s more, they have the same father. It’s just not me. Which means I’ve been bringing up some other fucker’s children for the past ten years. And not just any other fucker. A fucker who was shagging my wife.’

  He’s dropped his bomb. He looks around to survey the damage. Where I’m sure he expected gasps of outrage and shock, there’s nothing but silence. I can see Roman sitting poker straight, tense, waiting for his own big moment.

  ‘So …’ he says, a little more hesitantly. He must suspect all is not quite as it should be by now. ‘What I’ve gathered you all here to tell you is that there isn’t going to be a wedding. There isn’t going to be a happy ending. Stella, tonight is our last supper. I’m leaving you. Or, to be more precise, you’re leaving. Because this house is mine, let’s not forget that. And I’ve just sold it. You’re on your own. I’m not giving you a penny.’

  He looks at her triumphantly. He’s played his best hand.

  ‘Well,’ Stella says, brushing imaginary crumbs off her lap. ‘I’m glad you got that off your chest. Now, would anyone like another brandy?’

  Al opens his mouth to say something. Shuts it again. Looks around at the others, confused. I wish I was down there, so I could see his expression properly. Roman gets to his feet. Here goes. ‘That’s what you would call old news, my friend. We all know that Stella used a donor …’

  ‘Ah!’ Al interrupts. ‘Now I get it. Now I understand. That’s what she’s told you. Why you’re all acting like this, how she’s got you on side. But I’m pretty sure she didn’t tell you this … Just give me a moment, Roman, and then you can say your piece …’

  Roman sits back down. There’s the tiniest ripple of confusion. Stella looks up at me, frowns. I shrug. I’ve got no idea what he’s going to say, but we might as well hear him out before we play our trump card.

  Al stares straight at Stella. ‘I forgot a chunk of the story. The best bit. You’re going to like this. Once I found out that the girls weren’t mine, I went back to that damn genealogy site. I studied Taylor’s relations, the ones on her father’s side. And finally, something clicked.

  ‘I know who their father is, Stella. Shall I carry on, or have you told them that part?’

  46

  Gail is the first to speak. ‘She had an anonymous donor, Al …’

  Eva is next. ‘Yes, I’m sure you could have worked out a family name, but that doesn’t mean anything.’

  Rafa reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. ‘Let him say what he has to say.’

  I agree. I have no idea where Al is going with this. What justification for his behaviour he’s managed to cobble together now he knows he’s been rumbled, but I’d like to hear it. Like to hear how low he can go. I edge forward to the front of the balcony. I no longer really care if he sees me, I just want to make sure I hear every word. Stella is sitting perfectly still, her eyes never leaving Al’s face. The others look a bit lost now that the script has been thrown out. They flick glances between Stella and Al. Gail looks up at me and I shake my head: I don’t know what’s going on either.

  Al puffs up his chest. Pours himself another brandy. ‘There was a name that reoccurred. It became obvious pretty quickly that it was significant. Cartwright. Does that mean anything to any of you?’

  I can’t take my eyes off Stella. She gulps. She’s rattled. I have no clue why.

  ‘No? Stella?’

  Stella mutters something. I can’t hear what.

  ‘Sorry, Stella, what was that? Do say it again …’

  ‘Al …’ Ben says, a warning note in his voice.

  Al ignores him. Keeps his eyes on Stella. ‘Shall I tell them?’

  Stella looks at him. ‘Andrew,’ she says more clearly. ‘My first husband, Andrew. Is that what you want me to say? That was his surname. But it’s hardly uncommon …’

  The others are exchanging looks. ‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Stella. That’s gone on long enough. You think I didn’t look further than that? That I didn’t find out that Andrew has a sister, Deborah, and she’s listed on that site as Taylor’s aunt? How do you explain that?’

  All eyes flick back to Stella. ‘Stella?’ Jan says. ‘Is there any truth in this?’

  You could hear a pin drop. Stella briefly closes her eyes and then opens them again. ‘I did it for us. I didn’t have an affair with him, you’re wrong about that. I used Andrew as a donor because I wanted the girls to look alike. But I wasn’t sleeping with him. They’re your daughters, Al. They’re just not your DNA.’

  ‘Well, that’s the fundamental problem, isn’t it? They’re actually not my daughters.’

  I don’t know what to think. Stella used Andrew as the donor? Why would she bring that complication into their lives? And why didn’t she tell me?

  ‘Does it really make a difference, Al?’ Gail says. ‘Once you knew the girls weren’t yours, does it matter who the donor was? They’re just a donor …’

  ‘Maybe it shouldn’t,’ Al says. ‘Maybe I could have got past bringing up some fucking loser ex-husband’s children as my own …’

  Stella interrupts. A tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. ‘I just asked him because he looks a bit like you, that’s all. And I didn’t want to risk using someone who might have god knows what in their family history …’

  ‘How noble,’ Al says, unmoved. ‘And to ensure that, did you have to sleep with him? I mean, surely there are more sophisticated methods these days? Even ten years ago.’

  ‘I didn’t …’ Stella says. She looks around at the others for support, but most of them are looking at the table.

  ‘You didn’t …? What? Know how? Think it mattered?’

  ‘Sleep with him,’ Stella says.

  ‘Really?’ Al says, polishing off the brandy in one long swig. ‘Because that’s not what he told me.’

  I stand up out of my hiding place. Al glances up and sees me. Looks away. For the first time, he looks as if he has emotions other than just anger. He looks devastated. ‘What he actually told me,’ he says, ‘is that Taylor was an accident. That you’d been sleeping together ever since you left him for me. That you told him you never would have left at all if his career had taken off. If he could have kept you in the style you thought you deserved. And, when you realized you were pregnant, you were so desperate for a child that you decided to keep her and pretend she was mine. And then, two years later – when you and he were still in the middle of your affair, just for the record – you decided that she needed a brother or sister. And he agreed to go along with it if you made it worth his while. That’s what actually happened, isn’t it?’

  ‘Stella?’ Jan says.

  ‘I imagine the romance died pretty quickly once you paid him off. Or did you just discover contraception?’

  Anya looks back and forth between them. ‘Is this true? Stella?’

  ‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ Stella says loudly, the meek, hard-done-by front completely gone. ‘What difference does it make any more?’

  47

  When Angie told me she wou
ld come and help me clean and fumigate my flat once I took possession, I hadn’t expected her to turn up with my whole workforce in tow, but here they are on my doorstep, minus Sharon, who is at home looking after all the kids. So far, I’ve managed to go inside and open all the windows and then stand in the tiny garden trying to appreciate that it is now mine. I would have killed for this a few months ago, I told myself, but I didn’t feel it. Yes, Betsy and I could finally be reunited, but did I really want her living in this dingy, smelly, cramped space on a slightly rough-around-the-edges street? As if she can sense my lack of enthusiasm, Ange takes charge, allocating jobs to each of my rubber-gloved colleagues. She provides them all with paper face masks – a genius idea I wish I’d thought of for myself – and we all go to work scrubbing and sweeping. At lunchtime I go and get pizzas from Dominos and a few bottles of wine for us to share at the end of the day because it’s the least I can do. Then I remember I don’t have any glasses, so I nip into Poundland and get twelve and a bumper pack of cheese-and-onion crisps. I find them all crammed into the garden when I get back, sitting on the flagstones chatting and laughing in the sun. The place already smells better.