by Jane Fallon
I haven’t seen Stella or Al since Thursday evening. Gail tells me she’s been there, skulking at home while the men went to Monte Carlo, regardless. Al included. Their original plan had been to go without him, but – and even though, understandably, their generosity doesn’t extend to letting him off his debts, and quite rightly so – the revelation about Stella and Andrew has changed everything. Al is no longer the villain. At least, no more so than Stella herself. As Angie said to me all those weeks ago, they’re as bad as each other. She tells me Al has instructed the bank to repay Roman and Rafa what he owes them with the money he borrowed, without them having to resort to lawyers. So they’re all friends again, although I’m pretty sure neither of them will be offering to lend him money in the future. He’s pulled out of the flat purchase – no more love nest – and he’s pushing ahead with the sale of the house – under threat of death from the bank, I imagine – so he can pay off his debt to them. He’ll be OK – he must have a decent chunk of the million he transferred from his and Stella’s joint account left, but what’s going to happen with him and Ferne I have no idea.
By the end of the day my flat is clean, every corner swept, every cupboard scrubbed. Tomas offers to come back and paint the ceilings because he could practically do it sitting down. I can do the rest, but the ceilings mean going up a ladder, something I’m pretty much incapable of without coming over all light-headed. I insist on paying him this time and he agrees graciously. I hug each and every one of them when they leave.
I haven’t told Betsy that she’ll be moving in with me when she gets back from her holiday yet. She’d want to know all the details and then have nightmares about having to live in the creepy house of horrors. I’m collecting Felix from the cattery on the day before they get back, though, and he and I will be moving in. Then David is going to bring her over so she can see her new bedroom with the smart white bed, desk and chest of drawers that hopefully will have arrived by then, and we’ll take it from there. I know from countless conversations with her that she wants yellow walls, so that’s what I’m going for. Buttery, sunny, happy.
I go down there every day, throwing open the windows, burning citrus-scented candles, trying to infuse a new aroma into the fabric of the place. Either I’m becoming immune to it, or the stench has almost gone. I turn the radio up and sing along as I sand down window frames and skirting boards. Sadly, there was no beautifully neglected wooden floor under the rotting carpets, just hardboard on top of old lino. Now the lino has been scrubbed, it’s almost bearable in a 1940s-kitchen kind of way, so I order a huge rug that will just leave a small border round the edge. Tomas paints all the ceilings in a day and offers to do the walls, but I know I can’t really afford to pay someone else to do them. It’s a daunting task. I’m not sure how I’m going to achieve everything before Betsy gets back, but the thought of her motivates me and I get up at five every morning, crawling home late at night with an aching back. I’m neglecting my business, neglecting everything, but I’m on a mission.
I park my car on the street and half drag myself up the stairs to the annexe. It’s hard to believe I’ll only be living here for another week. It seemed like an eternity, but suddenly it’s over in the blink of an eye. It makes me feel panicky when I allow myself to think about it but, thankfully, at the moment, I’m too tired to dwell on anything beyond sleep. I’ll miss The Close, it turns out, but I’m also relieved to be leaving it behind. It’s bittersweet. I’m halfway up the steps when I hear Stella calling my name. As ever, she has the knack of pouncing when I’m too tired to defend myself. She’s the last person I want to see. I think about ignoring her. Going inside and slamming the door in her face. But it would only be prolonging the inevitable.
‘What do you want?’ I can’t even pretend to be civil. On Thursday evening, after it all happened, I left without going out into the garden. I had nothing I wanted to say to her. Nothing more I wanted to hear. She’d made an idiot out of me, as she had everyone else.
‘Do you hate me?’ she says. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she genuinely sounded as if she cared.
‘I don’t hate you, Stella. I can’t be bothered to hate you. It’s too much effort and I’m too tired. I’m moving away, so we won’t have to bump into each other any more. Let’s just leave it at that.’
‘I’ll miss you. I mean it. I enjoyed all those things we did together. The cooking and that silly trip to the supermarket.’
‘Good. Well, hopefully, it’ll come in useful. I really do need to go and get some sleep …’
‘I still don’t know where we’re going to live. Me and the girls …’
‘I can’t help you any more. I’m not judging you. I just … I really need to concentrate on me and Betsy now.’
‘Can we at least be friends?’
I can’t let it happen. Can’t let myself get dragged back into her world yet again. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
I turn and walk on up the stairs before she can say any more.
I’m slathering undercoat liberally on the living-room walls by quarter past six next morning. Trying to keep the noise down in case I upset the upstairs neighbours, although I’ve barely seen them so far. They seem like a nice couple. Retired but hardly retiring. They go walking, they told me. They do their ten thousand steps every day, regardless. And she volunteers at the local Oxfam Books a few days a week while he helps out walking the up-for-adoption dogs at The Mayhew. They have a son and a daughter and three grandchildren and a cat who doesn’t go outside. I haven’t yet asked them if the old lady who owned my flat was a devil worshipper or just a heavy-metal fan. We’ll get to that.
The sun is out and blazing through the east-facing bay window. It’s already starting to look like a different place. I keep the radio on quietly, listening for movement upstairs. By eight o’clock I need a break so I walk down the road to get a coffee, stretching my aching back as I go. When I round the corner on the way back I see four people standing on my doorstep. They’re all dressed in pink. My first thought is that the couple upstairs are doing Airbnb and a hen party has turned up. As I get closer, though, I recognize Katya, then Jan, Eva and Anya. They’re all wearing matching boiler suits with the legs rolled up to show their ankles and Converse on their feet. Their hair is tied up in elaborate scarves. They all look like Rizzo from Grease.
I can’t help the big smile breaking out on my face. ‘What on earth …?’
‘We’ve come to help you,’ Eva says. ‘Just tell us what to do.’
‘The outfits …’
‘Anya found them. Aren’t they great?’
Katya holds up a big wicker Fortnum’s basket with what looks like three bottles of champagne poking out of the top. ‘We brought a picnic. We figured you wouldn’t have supplies.’
‘Oh god. I actually love you all. This is so kind.’ I’m almost brought to tears by the gesture. ‘Come in … How did you …?’
‘Stella told us the address,’ Jan says. ‘But she didn’t think she should come too.’
‘No,’ I say. I’m a bit lost for words.
‘Gosh, isn’t it great, girls?’ Eva says as I let them in and they all ooh and aah unconvincingly. But they’re trying. We decide to paint for an hour before taking a break for fizz and some of the snacks they’ve brought (taramasalata, aged Parmesan, caviar and quail’s eggs. You couldn’t make it up. If my flat has started smelling too pleasant, this should soon sort it out). It’s a bit like teaching kindergarten. Not one of them has a clue. Anya squeals like a baby when a blob of paint lands in her hair. Jan, whose (fake) nails are about a foot long, has to hold the brush as if she’s holding her phone and flap it sideways at the wall. There’s paint all over the – thankfully – soon-to-be-rug-covered floor. But somehow, sections of wall get covered. It’s patchy, but I can make it work with the top coat.
The living room is done by the time we stop for refreshments. We’re all a bit giggly by the time we recommence, but I can see they’re flagging already. It�
�s a bit too much like hard work, and none of them has ever done any work, let alone the hard stuff. I don’t trust any of them with the kitchen or the bathroom. There are too many fittings that I don’t want to get covered in paint. So I do those myself while Jan and Anya give my bedroom a once-over, Katya does Betsy’s tiny room and Eva tackles the hall.
By early afternoon we’ve finished an undercoat on the whole place, we’re all half-cut and they’re flat out. They saved me a couple of days, there’s no doubt about it. I tell them all to leave me to it. I can’t thank them enough, but I don’t want them to overdo it. I can see that none of them has the strength to argue, but then Katya comes back in from the garden and tells us she’s just arranged for us all to go and get massages at the Mandarin Oriental. ‘My treat,’ she shouts when I try to protest. I want to say no, but the idea of someone’s warm oily hands digging into my protesting muscles is too much for me. I will probably only ever get one chance to experience somewhere like this, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. I decide just to accept graciously. So what if I can never reciprocate? I don’t think the thought would even cross Katya’s mind.
48
August
Gail is throwing me a leaving party. I have a self-drive van and Tomas and Paul booked for tomorrow to collect my few belongings from The Close and then the stuff that’s in storage. I’ll spend my first night at my – now fully decorated – flat tomorrow. Today I had a locksmith come in and put locks on the windows while I cleared the garden. Dragging the bags loaded with dirt and leaves, destined for the dump, through my bedroom and hallway, I realized I probably should have started with this. And that, as a cleaner, I should probably know that.
Because I’m the guest of honour I resist the urge to go down early and help Gail get everything ready. I watch her from the back window, pottering round the garden making everything look just so. Having missed the Pink Ladies visit because she was at work, she came down at the weekend with Ben and they helped me finish the job. I’m not going to lie, the flat-of-horrors looks lovely. Brand new.
I wait until I see Katya and Guy strut over from number 2 and then I run down and join them. Jan and Roman are next. I finally met their daughter, Sophia, this week. I’ve seen her gliding past in her smart VW Beetle many times. I assume she has feet, but she never seems to go anywhere on them. But Jan invited me round for a coffee and she was there when I arrived. On her way to get into her car, naturally. She was polite and poised. Perfectly nice. The coffee was a little strained. I hadn’t expected it to be the two of them. Jan and Roman. Roman makes me nervous. I felt a little as if I was in a job interview or being checked out by an overprotective father as a potential suitor for one of his offspring. They leave for Nice in a couple of weeks.
Bill and Anya arrive next, Sergei and Katherine a couple of minutes later. Sergei has baby Alexei in his arms. It must be Ferne’s night off. I haven’t seen her since everything blew up. I imagine she’s keeping a low profile. I have no idea where she and Al are intending to live. I thought about dropping in on her, but it felt too complicated. I don’t know what she knows about what, and I don’t want to make things any worse by saying something I shouldn’t. It feels strange without Stella or Al here. Unbalanced, as though no one knows what the pecking order is any more. More of a democracy and less of a sovereign nation.
‘AJT Music is going under,’ Gail tells me when we’re alone for a second. ‘It’s in so much debt and there’s no one left to prop it up.’
I know I should feel the tiniest smidgen of pity for Al. He built that business up from nothing. I know how that works, how much of your time and attention and love you have to put in, even in a tiny enterprise like mine. But actually, all I feel is panic that I’m about to lose one of my biggest clients. I try not to give my self-interest away.
‘What will he do?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m sure he’ll land on his feet.’
Later, when I’m fussing over Alexei and no one else is in earshot, I ask Katherine how Ferne is.
‘She’s left,’ she says.
‘Already? I thought she had another couple of weeks. He’s not had his first birthday yet, has he?’
‘She had a family emergency,’ she says, handing Alexei over for me to hold. I realize I’ve been holding my hands out for him like a toddler in a sweet shop. He gives me a huge, gummy smile and my heart melts. ‘So I told her it was fine. We must have owed her holiday anyway, because she never really took any time off.’
‘I’m sad I didn’t get to say goodbye. Is she still moving in with her boyfriend?’ I put on my best ingenuous face.
Katherine looks around and then leans in closer. ‘Do you not know? She was the one Al was seeing …’
I try to look surprised. ‘Gosh. No …’
‘She couldn’t stay here after … you know … I had no idea about any of it.’ She drops her voice to a whisper. ‘I only found out when she told me she was leaving. She didn’t really have a family emergency. She just wanted to get away.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ I say.
‘You know today was supposed to be the big wedding day?’ she says, and I realize I’d totally forgotten. I wonder what Stella is doing. Whether she’s at home across the road, listening to us all party. I feel an almost overwhelming urge to go over and check up on her. I know how lonely it is to feel as if you’re the only person who’s excluded.
Roman collars me while I’m en route to the loo, picking my way across the grass, slightly tipsy.
‘Laura. Do you have a moment?’ he says, and I jump half out of my skin.
‘Um … sure …’ My bladder is bursting, but I don’t like to say so.
‘My company needs new cleaners. I’ve suggested Sunshine Cleaning.’ He hands me a card. ‘This is who you need to contact, but I’ve told them I’d very much like them to use your services.’
‘In Nice?’ I say gormlessly.
He smiles indulgently. ‘The London office.’
I’m completely taken aback. ‘Oh. Of course. Thank you. You didn’t have to …’
So it’s no wonder the coffee felt like a job interview. In a way, it was. Roman must already have known about AJT. That I would lose a contract. I don’t even know where his headquarters are. How large. If I have the staff to cover it. But I know I can make it work somehow.
‘It’s fine,’ he says brusquely. ‘Just do a good job.’
‘I will. Definitely. Thank you.’
Later, once Katherine and Sergei have taken Alexei home, the rest of them toast me. I blush and stammer and tell them I’m going to miss them. Suddenly, I’m swaddled in some kind of group hug. Pointy fake boobs dig into my sides from all angles, I’m spiked with bony elbows, fishy lips plant kisses on my head. A false nail accidentally pokes me in the eye. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s strangely comforting. I’m accepted. Then Jan and Roman, Eva and Rafa, Bill and Anya, Guy and Katya, one by one say their goodbyes and Ben goes off to start clearing up the kitchen, leaving me and Gail to drink into the small hours.
I’m going to miss them.
49
There’s a hammer pounding at my brain and an insistent ringing in my ears. I force my eyes open and squint at the clock. My mouth feels furry. Eight oh five. Weren’t … shit … Tomas and Paul were meant to be arriving at eight.
‘OK, OK,’ I shout, staggering out of bed. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pass. Either I didn’t take last night’s mascara off or I’ve gone ten rounds with someone in my sleep. ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’ I yell through the door. ‘I overslept. Maybe go and get some coffees somewhere? I’ll pay you back.’
‘No problem!’ one of them yells, Tomas, I think. I hear them stomping back down the stairs, the whole place shaking. I throw myself in the shower. A memory comes back to me. Me saying I should go because it was already one in the morning and I needed to get up at seven, Gail insisting we have another glass because it was the end of an era. Despite how awful I feel, I smile
. I have no recollection of what time I went to bed.
Thankfully, I packed yesterday, except for a few essentials. By the time Tomas and Paul get back with three scalding coffees everything is ready to go.
‘No offence, Mrs Anthony, but you look terrible. Are you ill?’ Tomas says. Paul is sniffing the place like Hannibal Lecter. I can’t imagine what it smells like. I should have opened the windows.
‘Hangover,’ I say. There’s no point trying to cover it up. It must be so obvious. ‘They had a leaving party for me.’ Tomas and Paul laugh like this is the funniest thing ever. Their boss is human after all.
‘We’ll take care of you,’ Tomas says, handing me one of the coffees. ‘First, paracetamol.’
‘I’ve packed them. I have no idea where.’
Paul digs around in the pockets of his combat trousers. Produces a couple of fluff-covered pills. I check the writing on the side before I swallow them, just in case he’s got them mixed up with some kind of recreational horse tranquillizer. ‘Thanks.’
They run up and down the stairs with my boxes and cases. Usually, I would be fretting about not helping. I’m not very good at watching people work. It makes me feel antsy. Lazy. Disrespectful. I could never have a cleaner myself, even if I could afford one. I’d have to go out for the day every time they came, otherwise I’d end up washing the floor alongside them. But today I let myself off. Remind myself that Tomas and Paul are grateful for the work and more than capable of shifting my paltry belongings without me helping.
It takes them less than ten minutes. I give them directions to Big Yellow Storage. Tell them to call me when they’ve finished emptying out my space and I’ll meet them at the flat. Meanwhile, I need to scrub my studio clean. Finished, I post the key through Gail’s letterbox. There’s no sign of her so I assume she’s still asleep. I’ll see her next week, anyway. We’re having lunch. I take one last look around The Close, breathe in the clean, earthy air. And then I get in my little yellow car and drive away.