by Jane Fallon
I arrive at the flat with more coffees and a big bag of goodies from Greggs that Tomas and Paul devour between them with all the decorum of a pair of feral cats who have stumbled across the bins out the back of KFC. We unload my worldly goods. Half of the marital spoils. I got the bed, the bedside tables, a two-seater sofa and a small coffee table, along with a few pictures and fifty per cent of the contents of the kitchen. To be honest, I don’t have room for any more. Most of Betsy’s stuff is at her dad’s. I’ve chosen a white duvet cover with sunflowers and cushions with bees, two things she loves, to match the yellow on the walls.
Later, once the boys have gone (I bought them some more food to take home. I couldn’t help it, they always look so hungry), and I’ve been on a trip to the cattery, I FaceTime her.
‘Guess where I am,’ I say, once she’s told me about her day’s adventures. She’s been having a great time, for which I’m thankful.
‘Timbuktu,’ she says, giggling.
‘How did you know?’ I say with a straight face. ‘You’ve spoiled the surprise.’ I pan the camera round her new bedroom. ‘What do you think of this?’
‘I love it,’ she says, wide-eyed. ‘Where are you?’
I ignore her question. ‘How about this?’ I whip round and there’s Felix asleep on a little wicker chair.
‘Felix!’ she squeals.
‘I’ve moved into our new flat. Felix is living here too now.’
‘Where is it?’ she says, jumping up and down. This is the tricky part. I walk through to the living room, camera held aloft.
‘Remember that place you came to see with me?’
Her face falls. ‘The creepy place?’
‘Turns out it wasn’t creepy at all. It just needed painting.’
‘It smelled,’ she says, channelling Stella, only in this case she’s right.
‘It did. But now it doesn’t. At least, it doesn’t smell bad. And look how nice it looks.’ I turn round three hundred and sixty degrees to show her.
‘Does Felix like it?’
‘He loves it. He’s already found his favourite snoozing spot.’
‘In my room?’
‘In your room.’ This is good. She’s not throwing a tantrum. I’d been afraid she might. ‘Dad’s going to bring you to see it when you get back.’ I don’t want to push the idea of her moving in before she’s seen it for herself. I don’t want her to feel railroaded.
‘What if I don’t like it?’ she says.
‘Then we’ll sort something out,’ I say. Of course, she’s going to be moving in whatever, there’s no question of that. But I’m confident enough that she’ll forget all about the creepy flat when she sees its new identity that I’ve decided I can risk letting her think she has a choice.
‘I miss you, Mummy,’ she says, and I feel a tear well up. I blink it away. ‘I miss you too, baby.’
I spend the evening getting the kitchen straight. I’m falling asleep by nine, my hangover still not quite shifted. Usually, I find it hard to sleep in a new place, all the unfamiliar sounds creeping into my subconscious and making me feel unsettled and anxious. Tonight, I get into bed next to my purring cat – who seems to be completely unfazed by his new surroundings – and next thing I know, it’s the morning.
David brings Betsy over as soon as they get back. I pick her up and twirl her round. She looks tanned and happy, although one arm of her glasses appears to be held on by Sellotape. I’ve swept the small patch of ground out the front in an attempt to make it look more welcoming, but I know I need to show her the inside as soon as possible.
‘Everything OK?’ I say to David as I lead them through the communal hall.
‘Great,’ he says. I think he’s nervous around me since I confronted him about Michaela. Good. Let him sweat. I open the door and let Betsy edge in ahead nervously, my hand on her shoulder. She stops dead in front of me.
‘Wow. Is this the same place?’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ I say, knowing she’s sold.
‘It’s brilliant.’ She beams at me and my heart soars.
‘Not rad?’
Betsy gives me a look that I’m sure I’ll become only too used to in a few years. ‘No one says “rad” any more.’
David snorts. I catch his eye over her head and we give each other a ‘isn’t our daughter cute?’ look. One we used to give each other all the time. I remind myself that this is important to me. Civilized co-parenting with the only other person in the world who can possibly love our girl as unconditionally as I do. I suddenly realize I don’t feel angry with him any more. I don’t feel upset. I don’t feel anything. I’ve let go, moved on. I give him a smile and he smiles back, relieved.
‘Shut the door so Felix doesn’t get out,’ I say. ‘He needs to stay in for at least three weeks till he gets it into his head that this is where he lives now.’
‘Where is he?’ Betsy says excitedly. ‘Where’s my room?’
I lead her down the hall. David veers off into the kitchen as we pass it and I hear him turn the kettle on. I’m glad he feels relaxed enough to do so. Betsy gasps as we go through the door. It’s the time of day when the sun streams through the back windows. It’s like being inside a sunbeam. The hefty ginger cat sprawled out on her duvet only complements the colour scheme. She picks him up, squeezing the life half out of him.
‘This is the best room ever,’ she declares, and I swallow down the lump in my throat.
At her insistence, she and David go back to his to collect Bruno and all her favourite bits and pieces so she can move in with me tonight. They return an hour later with all her books, most of her toys and half her clothes. She’s home.
50
One year later
The house is magnificent.
It’s in a private close. Not The Close, but nearby. This one has only six mansions set among a riot of green, each one different, sold and rebuilt many times by people who don’t want to live in a house that’s been lived in before. They want one built to their own exact specifications. Either that, or they’re money launderers and construction is a great way to legitimize money.
The one I’m going to sits on the curve at the end. Prime position. It’s a modern glass box. Vast. The light reflects off it at all angles so it blends into its woody surroundings. The drive sweeps round behind an architectural cluster of silver birch trees and out the other side. I’ve been here before, but it never fails to take my breath away.
Today, as a mark of respect, I have left the Sunshine Cleaning mobile at home and taken a taxi. Betsy – who’s first time it is – stands at my side, mouth open. She’s half a head taller, full set of teeth, but she’s still my unique little tomboy. She’s more sure of herself, less in awe of more sophisticated girls. For the moment, she’s decided she thinks make-up is stupid, worn only by lame-os. ‘Lame-os’ is her new favourite word. On the other side of her is my date. An actual human date, not a virtual Tinder hook-up, although that is how we met. It’s Danny of the facial hair, kind eyes and messy divorce. We started talking again when I contacted him and apologized for ignoring his earlier messages, told him I’d been straightening my priorities out. We’ve been seeing each other in the flesh for a couple of months. We’re taking it slowly, but the fact that he has accompanied me today has earned him many gold stars, especially as I’ve warned him that all the males here will be alpha, waving their Rolexes and their huge bank balances in his face like a bunch of erect Bonobos. The fact that he’s a paramedic will earn him zero kudos unless he tells them he stems people’s bleeding wounds with old fifty-pound notes he finds down the back of his sofa. He doesn’t seem fazed. Betsy likes him, loves to ask gory details about his work, although she’d still always rather it were just her and me or her and her dad. He and Michaela have moved in together, and I think she’s finding it hard adjusting to there always being three other kids vying for his attention. Betsy and Zara have fallen out, but when she’s there they’re required to share a bedroom. My ex-sister-in-law, Jules, told me
David was finding it exhausting having three more kids more or less full time. He looks like he’s run ragged, apparently, in their new, practical flat, without so much as a porter, let alone a concierge. Although I will confess to having enjoyed a moment of schadenfreude, what I actually felt was sad for Betsy that her relationship with her father has become so complicated. I avoid Michaela if I can. She’s kind to Bets and for that I’m grateful, but I don’t want to be her friend.
The street is already clogged with Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, Mercedes, Porsches. Smartly dressed drivers, in for the long haul, stand around in groups, chatting. Despite the amount of vehicles, the air smells clean, fresh. I can hear voices coming from the back garden – I say back garden, it’s more like a football pitch with very expensive landscaping – and music from a string quartet. I give our names to an official-looking woman at the gate and she points us to the side entrance. Luckily, it’s a perfect day. Sunny. Warm, but not too hot. Still. So all the festivities can take place outside, as planned. I lead Betsy and Danny round to the back. I already know what to expect when I get there. I’ve been involved with every step of the planning, every decision that was slightly larger and fancier than the last. It’s about as over the top as you can get without falling down the other side.
Because this – finally – is Stella’s wedding.
We only started talking again about six months ago. Brokered by Gail, of course. Stella was still on The Close, living in Jan and Roman’s house rent free, because they felt they couldn’t leave her and the girls with nowhere to go. We met up for tea, the three of us, in Gail’s back garden. It was strange to be back. Although I’ve seen Gail regularly, I’ve avoided The Close. We started to meet up on neutral ground. Mainly just me and her, but sometimes one or all of the others too.
I’ve met Bill and Anya’s little boy, now a chubby eighteen-month-old. After they all found out the truth about Ferne, Anya decided on a nanny who was both stocky and maternal when he came home with them six months ago. I know that Jan and Roman are about to return from their year in Nice. (Roman came good on his word, by the way, and I managed to get the contract for cleaning his firm’s offices in Paddington. It’s some kind of recruitment, don’t ask me what. But whatever it is, it’s clearly very lucrative. They own the four-storey building they occupy. And clearly, Roman is dripping in cash. I even put my prices up, knowing they were already predisposed to hire me and assuming they would knock me down, but they didn’t. Not only that, but I approached the company who moved into AJT’s old space and they agreed to use us for continuity’s sake. I’ve expanded, taken on six more people. Business is booming. I’ve employed Angie as a full-time coordinator/supervisor. She’s desperate for the gossip from today. Gobsmacked that it’s happening at all.) I know that Eva and Rafa are about to become grandparents, which has prompted her to have another face lift, so her eyes are now practically vertical on her face. That Katya and Katherine are both pregnant. Alexei is running around and making the occasional monosyllabic pronouncement. He is still, gratifyingly, always thrilled to see me. Hormones aplenty have been flying round The Close. Maybe what happened to Stella and Al prompted people to try to solidify their own marriages. The gold-Bentley couple – Dima and Monika – are fitting in nicely, apparently. I’ll meet them for the first time today.
Stella cried when she saw me, but a bit of distance had made me immune to her emotional manipulations. She apologized profusely and I agreed to accept it without any more discussion. There was no point going over the same ground. Otherwise, she was exactly the same – self-obsessed, entitled, occasionally funny and disarming. It was actually quite refreshing. So much has changed in my life, but there was Stella, still being her old ridiculous, charismatic self. I knew I was never going to allow myself to be sucked back into her orbit again. I knew too much about her. About the way she uses people to get what she wants. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends again. And we are. Real friends. Equals, finally.
There are two giant circus tents in the garden. Pristine, as if it’s their first ever outing. One is set for a meal with gleaming silverware and glistening glasses on the flower-strewn tablecloths. The other has a parquet dance floor and bar. An ice sculpture – life-size and horribly photo real – of the bride and groom sits on a plinth in the middle. A fake stream has been created linking the two, complete with trees and actual real live ducks quacking away on the water. I’m looking forward to the ice sculpture melting later and the ducks running riot, all the guests cowering in the corners so they don’t get their Jimmy Choos wet. There are jugglers on stilts and fire eaters mingling with the crowd. In front of the tents, on the lawn, there are rows of white chairs facing an arch that appears to be built entirely from candyfloss. I can’t remember what it really is, but I know it cost a fortune. This is where the ceremony will take place. Stella got the hump when I asked her what ducks had to do with her circus theme, by the way. ‘You have animals in circuses,’ she said haughtily. I decided to leave it in case she thought she should go for more authenticity and booked a pair of tigers.
I see Gail and Ben in a huddle with Eva and Rafa and lead Danny and Betsy over to them, eager to find the security of friendly faces. It’s the first time any of them will have met Danny, and I am both nervous on his behalf and terrified he’ll somehow show me up. You see a new partner in a completely different light when you see them through the prism of your friends’ gaze. Gail will have warned them all, I have no doubt – ‘Laura has a new boyfriend’ – so they’ll all be looking to see who’s standing next to me as soon as they spot me in the crowd. He already looks slightly strange to me today, in his suit, with his hair neatly slicked back. I’m sure he thinks the same about me. Posh dress-up dates have not been on our agenda thus far.
For all of her new maturity, Betsy has not lost her marsupial instincts. She clamps on to Gail, who makes a big fuss of her and then turns to Eva and insists on knowing where Cocoa is.
‘He might come to the party later,’ Eva says with a smile.
‘What happened to your eyes …’ Betsy demands, so I take that as my cue to introduce Danny. I’ve talked about them all so much that he already knows who’s who. When I introduce Gail, he envelops her in a hug. He knows how fond I am of her. She gives me a wink over his shoulder, which – I assume – means she likes him.
Gradually, the others drift over. A reunion of sorts, although I saw most of them at Gail’s a couple of weeks ago. They’ve all been on the bachelorette together since. A week in a fully staffed trullo in Puglia. All except Gail, who claimed work (‘I can never retire,’ she told me. ‘What excuse would I have to get me out of things?’). I see Pilar and wave, and she beams at me. She’s happily settled in the rooms above the double garage now that Stella has moved in full time. She’s been living at Jan and Roman’s with Stella for the past year – paid for by Stella’s secret savings, now that she didn’t have to spend money on rent. A lot of the guests, I don’t recognize – friends and family of the groom, I assume. The other inhabitants of this particular close are here. I can guess who they are. They have that same look, that same confidence as my former neighbours. Stella is once again living in the grandest, most impressive house in a clutch of grand, impressive houses. It’ll take her a while to become the crowned queen, but I have no doubt she’ll get there.
Danny is telling someone that he’s a paramedic and, no, he doesn’t work in the private sector, he works for the NHS, for the fifth time, when the jazz band falls silent and we’re all instructed to take our seats. This takes an age. People finish their conversations and their drinks, stubbornly ignoring the hovering waiters with trays for the empties. I can picture Stella sitting inside getting furious because everything isn’t running to her very precise timetable. Shouting at someone to get it sorted.
There’s an ear-splitting note from a giant organ on a plinth outside the patio doors. Everyone falls silent as ‘Here Comes the Bride’ strikes up. The groom steps out from where he’s been hoverin
g nearby and takes his place. We all crane our necks to look for Stella.
She comes out on the arm of her father, a tall, distinguished-looking man in his seventies. Round here, you would easily be forgiven for thinking they’re the happy couple. She had another boob job about a month ago, so her humungous cleavage actually enters the garden a considerable while before the rest of her does. She’s rail thin. Almost six foot in her heels. The train of her closely fitted dress could clothe a whole family. In layers. The dress itself cost thirty thousand pounds. She told me this proudly, as if I’d be impressed by how cheap it was, compared to the one she was planning on wearing for her wedding to Al. The Mini Mes follow in matching silver frocks. Poised. Rehearsed. Finally on the catwalk.
Stella reaches her groom, takes his hand. The ceremony begins.
51
She’s not marrying for love. It’s a decision she’s made with her head and not her heart. But she likes him. He’s a nice man. Kind. And that counts for a lot.
He’s twenty-five years older than her – sixty-four. He’s been married twice before. Grown-up kids. He’s average-looking. Groomed to perfection, of course, but you wouldn’t pick him out in a crowd. He likes golf and art and current affairs. Stella would never even have noticed him, had she not been set up on a date with him by Bill and Anya.
And known in advance that he was very rich. Very, very, very rich.
It sounds awful. It is. It definitely wouldn’t work for me. But I don’t think she’s deceiving him. I don’t think he’s under any illusions. She gets the status she so craves with someone who is only ever going to treat her with kindness. He gets his third trophy wife. She doesn’t have to look for a house to rent now that Jan and Roman are back, or a job. Her girls are secure in their private school. Timing is everything. She spends her time pampering herself, shopping, going to the gym. It’s just like the old days.