Here is the Beehive

by Sarah Crossan

without once feeling spiteful or stupid or used,

  and at the last moment you managed it –

  made me a mistress.

  ‘I’m joking,’ you said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  ‘You wear Jo Malone, nettle and tofu scented.

  It’s the best thing about you.’

  ‘It’s Peony & Blush Suede, you dickhead.’

  You pressed your nose into my neck and inhaled.

  ‘I could breathe you in forever, Ana.

  I could live on this alone.’

  I am surprised every time it hails –

  the violence of frozen rain

  clattering

  against umbrella, roof, bonnet, door, glass –

  that I occasionally mistake it for thunder.

  How can little pellets sound so angry?

  I extend a palm,

  accept the sky’s offering.

  But they hurt,

  the hailstones on my hand.

  In the hallway,

  a pile of trainers, football boots,

  some battered books and an open, empty violin case.

  ‘Excuse the chaos,’ Rebecca says,

  guiding me inside by the elbow, air kissing one cheek.

  Her hair tickles my face.

  My stomach is sore.

  ‘The cleaner comes tomorrow and I hate for her to feel useless.’

  She is barefoot. Her feet are narrow and pretty.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asks.

  ‘Just some tap water.’

  I took the last of my diazepam on the bus.

  Still my right hand wants to shake.

  I sit on a kitchen stool, on my jittery hand.

  The counter is cluttered:

  papers, magazines,

  salt and pepper grinders,

  a pestle and mortar containing paper clips and coins,

  a breadboard covered in crumbs, marmalade,

  a block of sweating cheddar.

  ‘I have sparkling somewhere.’

  She opens a cupboard, pulls out Perrier.

  ‘Really kind of you to come, Ana.

  Is it OK to call you Ana? Please call me Rebecca.

  When anyone says Ms Taylor I think of my mother.

  She died last year.

  We had to airship her home from Spain. She was on holiday.

  Gosh, I don’t know why I’m telling you that.’

  I already know all about her mother.

  The body was bruised when they opened the casket,

  knocked around in cargo,

  a trickle of dried dead-woman fluid crusted beneath her nose.

  She had no travel insurance.

  Cost you a fortune to fly her home.

  ‘Yes, call me Ana,’ I say.

  I am as prim as a primary school teacher,

  flat shoes, navy trousers.

  I have tissues tucked up my sleeve.

  Rebecca scatters digestive biscuits on to a plate,

  passes me a glass of water.

  She is forty-six, rich, with incredible posture.

  But she is nervous, I think, busily fussing.

  Her hair is greasy. The house smells of neglect.

  ‘I can get started straight away,’ I say.

  She ushers me down the hall.

  On the wall is a wedding photo –

  the two of you arm in arm,

  lit up with glee.

  I hesitate, touch the frame.

  ‘I was skinny then,’ Rebecca says. ‘Only ever ate Ryvita.’

  ‘You’re still slim,’ I say.

  Your hair is longer,

  side-swept.

  ‘Not like that. I used to think Kate Moss was a goddess.

  Heroin chic, and all that.’

  By your office,

  she balances on the threshold

  and says, ‘Feel free to ransack the place.

  And if you come across any villainy,

  I’d rather not know.

  I’ll get out of your way.’

  She stays where she is, watching me remove my jacket,

  pull my hair into a ponytail.

  I am hardly able to see anything around me.

  ‘It shouldn’t take too long,’ I tell her.

  ‘I’ll get out of your way,’ she repeats.

  My briefcase conceals all the documents I need.

  You were sensible enough to leave them with me.

  But I needed to find a way into your home,

  to study your phone bills, calendar, search for a remembrance.

  I immediately find several items to stash:

  a pen, a photograph,

  a small tube of lip salve.

  But after rooting around I realise Rebecca was right –

  nothing incriminating in the drawers

  or the envelopes within them.

  Just receipts and invoices,

  birthday cards from your kids.

  I am nowhere here.

  You would not take the risk of a keepsake.

  At your desk, I lay my hands on the keyboard,

  run my trembling fingertips along the letters.

  It is as much as I can do not to put my mouth against them,

  find the lingering taste of you.

  Water rattles through the pipes;

  upstairs a shower fizzes to life.

  I wait a moment

  then go to the door, call out quietly.

  ‘Rebecca? Rebecca?’

  Nothing.

  Just the hum of your house.

  In the kitchen,

  I run my hand across the counter, hob,

  the top of the metal pedal bin,

  the things you orbited every day,

  owned for so long

  and abandoned in death.

  I click the kettle. It hisses into action.

  Above, a shelf is lined with jars and pots.

  I help myself to a peppermint tea,

  stand at the back doors looking out,

  the mug between two hands.

  The patio is greenish,

  weeds grow through the cracks in the slabs.

  I can’t imagine it was this way

  when you lived here.

  The kitchen smells of mould.

  ‘I should have offered you tea. Sorry.’

  I turn.

  Rebecca leans against the doorframe in a dressing gown,

  her wet hair in a twisted towel.

  I approach her.

  Without make-up, Rebecca has no eyebrows.

  Her pointed chin is slightly spotty.

  ‘No. Not at all. I better get back to it.’

  ‘I’m glad you made yourself at home,’ she says

  and smiles as an afterthought.

  She knocks before entering the office,

  like I own it now.

  ‘I have to do the school run.

  Will you be OK for twenty minutes?

  Perhaps a tad longer if the boys want to stop at the bakery.’

  I do not mean to lick my lips but somehow that is how I reply.

  By licking my lips and nodding assent.

  Your bed is unmade, the duvet pushed to the end,

  oversized cushions cluttering the carpet.

  On one bedside table, half-empty glasses of water,

  an apple core.

  On your side,

  a neat stack

  of novels.

  I find nothing you owned in the wardrobes,

  just dresses, skirts, women’s shoes.

  Each drawer in the dresser is filled too

  with Rebecca’s possessions:

  bras and knickers,

  tights rolled into unknottable fists,

  scarves for all seasons.

  In the oval mirror above the dresser is a face.

  It is terrified.

  And it is mine.

  Down the hall I discover you

  in a box room along with

  ski gear, wetsuits and board games.

  Has this alwa
ys been the way or did she move

  your things when you died to make more room for herself?

  I flick through each shirt and suit,

  press my nose against them, hold you.

  ‘Just me again. Forgot some post!’ Rebecca calls out.

  I am still. Do not speak. Listen as she fumbles in the hall,

  jangles her keys. ‘Definitely going now!’

  The door slams shut and I slump on to the floor,

  fold myself into a ball.

  Cry.

  I find your tartan shirt, the one composed mainly of pinks,

  and put it on.

  Then I set a timer on my phone for five minutes,

  go back to the bedroom

  and lie in the space

  you once filled,

  with my eyes closed.

  After four hours my fingerprints are everywhere.

  Stolen trinkets are buried at the bottom of my briefcase.

  ‘I got everything I need,’ I tell Rebecca.

  She is at the dining table, rearranging a

  selection of fabric swatches.

  ‘Oh good. I’m glad.’

  In the sitting room your boys are

  on phones or

  watching TV.

  They do not see me.

  ‘I’ll just pop to the loo before I go,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. It’s the door next to the office.’

  The bathroom is dirty –

  spat-out toothpaste stuck to the basin,

  hair on the floor.

  I open the cupboard.

  Inside the usual paracetamol, an aerosol air freshener, Sudocrem.

  And also

  a barely used bottle of Jo Malone, Peony & Blush Suede.

  A gift, of course, from you to her.

  So you would not be caught.

  I sit. Stare at my hands.

  There is no toilet roll, just a cardboard tube.

  The picture on the wall is of a little boy on a swing.

  In the dining room Rebecca says,

  ‘It’s odd that Connor chose to use the firm as executor.’

  She holds a floral swatch to the light.

  ‘Is it a normal thing to do?

  He’d always said Mark would do it.

  His best friend.’

  On the table is a cup of coffee.

  I’d expected her to be on wine by noon.

  You told me Rebecca liked to drink.

  You said she polished off a bottle a night,

  sometimes gin too, fruit-flavoured beers.

  I thought I knew her.

  I assumed she was poison.

  I thought she would be perfect.

  And awful.

  ‘His friend was surprised too.

  You’ve not met Mark, have you?’

  My hand begins its twitches again.

  I reach for my briefcase.

  ‘It’s something a lot of clients do

  to saved loved ones from stress.

  I’m sure Connor was trying to be kind.’

  ‘Not that he cared about stressing me out when he was alive.

  He was a pain in the arse.

  Aren’t they all?’

  She laughs.

  I laugh.

  But the room is filled with grief.

  A timer beeps.

  Rebecca jumps up.

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ I say. ‘And I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘You are wonderful. Thank you.’

  She turns and almost skips away.

  On the hall table are a pair of blue gloves.

  I slip them into my briefcase.

  Can add them to my collection.

  I’d seen a photo on your phone so already knew

  Rebecca owned a pair of

  royal blue

  leather gloves.

  I hated her for it –

  discovering she had

  the nerve for such a statement,

  an extravagance.

  It was hard to know

  whether or not a brown pair, unlined,

  could compare,

  but I bought them in the January sale

  from Selfridges

  and hid them in a drawer,

  to wear with you

  when it was cold.

  I never found the courage.

  And I never found out whether or not

  the way to win you was

  to be different to Rebecca,

  to be better than her

  or simply

  to be her completely.

  Dad didn’t like holding hands unless I was wearing gloves.

  On the rare days he walked Nora and me to school

  we wore a glove each, even in the summer,

  so he wouldn’t have to touch us.

  Mum said he’d been that way with her too.

  ‘He didn’t like holding your hand?’ I asked.

  ‘He wasn’t a big man for human contact.’

  I knew this. I had seen it.

  The way Dad slid by her in the kitchen, turning himself into a slice.

  How he held keys from the ring and dropped them into her hand.

  ‘I don’t know why you put up with his shit,’ Nora said.

  We were in the park with the kids and her two Labradors

  while her husband, Phil, was at the rugby.

  Mum took Nora’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘But just look what he gave me,’ she said.

  I walked on ahead.

  I didn’t want Mum’s spit on my skin.

  No matter how I reprimand her,

  Tanya continues to turn up with Haribo.

  Paul gives me an impatient eye and says,

  ‘Before you head out, I’ll nip to Tesco

  for a few cans.

  Single dad’s night in.

  Just me and the football.’

  Tanya and Jon build a Lego Star Wars spaceship

  on the rug.

  Ruth watches Netflix on Tanya’s phone.

  I find a fresh shirt.

  Change my socks.

  Tanya uses the toilet,

  accepts a mug of tea,

  then a second.

  The sun sets.

  Tanya never checks her watch.

  She offers to build a jigsaw.

  I replace the light bulb in the downstairs loo

  and order groceries to be delivered tomorrow.

  ‘Where’s Daddy been?’ Ruth wants to know

  as he pulls up on to the kerb outside.

  He has Chinese takeaway in one hand,

  two Tesco carriers in the other.

  ‘You should go.’

  He smiles.

  ‘We’ve missed the beginning,’ I murmur.

  In the kitchen

  Paul upends the shopping:

  salami,

  oranges,

  muffins.

  ‘There’ll be adverts.

  Hurry and you’ll catch it.’

  ‘We’ve missed the film,’ I tell no one.

  Ruth is practising gymnastics in the hallway –

  cartwheels, bridges.

  ‘Stop that!’ I scream.

  ‘You’ll smash your head against a radiator

  and we’ll be in A&E all night.’

  Paul holds an inky avocado in his left hand

  and

  without looking at me

  squeezes.

  Squeezes

  until there is creamed avocado

  between his fingers.

  Tanya is sporting a tiara.

  ‘Pub?’ she asks brightly.

  Paul murmurs behind clenched teeth then turns,

  washes his hands in the sink.

  I am sick in my mouth, swallow it back down.

  ‘Let’s go round the corner for a Guinness,’ Tanya continues.

  She leads me out by the hem of my jacket.

  I say nothing until

  we are pushing open the doors of The Starting Gate.

  And what I
say is,

  ‘I loved someone and now he’s dead.

  I don’t know what to do, Tanya.’

  She pats my hand.

  ‘He’s in there somewhere.

  Marriage just messes everything up.

  I could have told you that twenty years ago.’

  After uni Tanya and I lived together

  in Kentish Town,

  in another flat that belonged to her mother.

  It was a one bed with William Morris wallpaper in every room.

  I was to pretend I didn’t live there,

  my rent paying half of Tanya’s,

  her mother feeling wise and responsible

  for insisting her daughter fend for herself.

  I slept on the sofa,

  kept my clothes in the sideboard

  next to the gin and coasters.

  I stayed hidden.

  It was good practice.

  I helped you choose a pair of shoes for a wedding.

  An emoji thumbs up

  or down

  to pictures sent

  of smart lace-ups, shiny loafers.

  Yet you went to the wedding with Rebecca –

  posed for a photo I saw

  when I stalked you on Facebook

  then couldn’t shut out,

  your arm draped around her,

  fingers firmly pressed into her upper arm.

  Rebecca wore a sleeveless dress,

  her make-up obviously applied

  by a professional – feline eyes.

  She was unbearably elegant,

  gazing into the camera

  with the confidence of someone

  long established.

  I am the wife.

  In your free hand, a green beer bottle,

  part of the label

  peeling away,

  curling around your thumb.

  Her shoes were silver, high,

  too many straps.

  Impractical for dancing.

  I have nothing which proves we ever were.

  I would have danced.

  I imagined you writing a list –

  pros and cons

  me and her

  for and against

  good and bad

  stay or go

  wondering how I measured up

  and

  knowing I was always the loser.

  I swivel in the chair, show the hairdresser a picture.

  ‘I’d love to go with something like this.’

  Katie, her own hair tied into an untidy topknot,

  dressed in all black – regulation senior stylist –

  assesses me in the mirror.

  ‘Sure you wanna go that short?

  People usually cut it in stages.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ I say.

  I have had long hair my whole life,

  never risking the shock of a drastic change.

  I have dyed it auburn since Bristol.

  I have been the same person on the outside