by Jane Fallon
We watched him saunter along the road, hands in his pockets. ‘This is where I’m moving to.’
She actually gulped. ‘This house?’
‘Just the ground floor,’ I said, unlocking the front door.
‘Gosh,’ is all she could manage. I opened the door to the flat and beckoned her to go ahead of me. The smell was incrementally worse every time and I almost laughed when I saw the moment it smacked her in the face. But then I remembered that this was going to be my home and that made it suddenly seem not so funny. Stella put her hand over her mouth and nose. Looked round, eyes wide.
‘You can’t live here.’
‘Of course we can,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt. ‘We have to, because we can’t afford anything else.’ I nearly added, That’s how the world works, but I thought that would be overkill and tip over into being patronizing. ‘And, you know what, we’re lucky because I’m able to buy it. With a huge mortgage, it goes without saying.’
‘Can I even afford this?’ she said.
‘Not to buy, no. Because no one will give you a mortgage. But you could afford to rent somewhere much nicer, until you get on your feet. Come and see the garden.’
She shook her head. ‘No. You’ve made your point. I get it. Let’s go.’
‘I take it you won’t be coming round for tea, then?’ I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. She didn’t laugh. It must have struck a nerve, though, because we now have appointments to view two houses tomorrow. It’s a step in the right direction.
Jan is sitting on my sofa.
I’m so preoccupied with wondering how she can sit on her protuberance without rolling around like a Weeble that I haven’t even started to wonder what she’s doing here. We are not the kind of acquaintances who call on one another.
Of all the women in The Close, she’s the one I feel I know least well. The one I find most intimidating. Obviously, compared to a hostile Stella, she’s a pussy cat, but then so is a rabid Doberman. I don’t think we’ve ever been alone together, ever exchanged more than a few words since the ceasefire.
I offer her coffee and she refuses. The rumour has probably got round that I only have instant. Not even a Nespresso. I make myself one anyway, as a distraction. I wish she’d just get on with it and say whatever she’s got to say.
Finally, she speaks. ‘I’m grateful for the help you’ve been giving Stella. I’m glad she had someone to talk to.’
I stir the sugar into my coffee. I want to say, She could have talked to you if you’d had the good grace to ask her how she was, but what comes out is: ‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’ Why do I feel as if she’s softening me up for something?
‘I misjudged you. We all did, really.’
‘Yes,’ I say. I’m not letting her off completely.
‘I wish to tell you something,’ she says, with that weird formal tone they all use. ‘I think it might be helpful.’
‘OK.’ I lean against the counter. I feel as if I need to steady myself for something.
‘I’ve thought long and hard about this, Laura. It wasn’t an easy decision. Roman is Al’s closest friend …’
All of a sudden, I’m hanging on her every word. ‘Go on.’
Jan gives a little cough. ‘Could I have a glass of water?’
‘Of course.’ I just want her to get on with it and tell me whatever it is she has to tell me. I don’t even wait until the tap runs cold before I fill a glass and hand it to her. She takes a sip. ‘That afternoon at Stella’s … you mentioned that Roman had witnessed the loan Al took out to buy the flat. I’ll be honest, I was furious that he’d never mentioned it. I mean, they do things like that for each other all the time, but I couldn’t shake the idea that Roman knew Al was planning to go off with that woman. Or at least that he was doing something that he didn’t want Stella to know about. He must have asked Al why he needed the money. So I confronted him about it …’
For god’s sake. I thought I’d drummed it into all of their heads not to mention any of this to their husbands. Jan takes another sip of her water. I have to stop myself from shouting, Get on with it!
‘He was very cagey. Denied knowing anything. So I took a chance. Told him what I knew about Al having a mistress and the new flat. I thought he’d just confirm that that was what he knew too, but … well … he hadn’t the slightest, it seems. He told me that a couple of years ago Al came to him to ask to borrow money. Two and a half million. The business was going through a rough patch, he said. I suppose we’ve all been there. He begged Roman not to tell me so that Stella wouldn’t find out. And he didn’t. Because he trusted Al when he said he would pay it back …’
I say nothing. I don’t want to interrupt her flow. I can’t work out where this is going yet.
‘I’m going to deal with that one later. And then he told me that a few months ago Al came to him and said the business wasn’t recovering but he’d worked out a way to repay his debt. He asked Roman to witness his signature on a contract with the bank so he could take out a loan against the house. The plan was, he said, that he was going to buy a smaller place for Stella, him and the girls to live in, and then sell the house and pay Roman back. From the profits. Again, he asked Roman to promise to keep it to himself, to let Stella have the fairy-tale wedding she so desperately wanted before Al had to break the news to her. Again, Roman said yes. Why wouldn’t he? Al was his best friend and he felt bad for him. But he said he told him he was proud of him, that he’d found a way to work out his difficulties, to still provide a fantastic life for his family …’
She pauses, as if she’s trying to get things straight in her head.
‘But, you see, what I told him made him realize that that wasn’t the case. Al wasn’t buying the flat for them all to live in; he was buying it for him and … her. Roman had no idea. So I said, “Where’s Stella going to live?” And he said, “I suppose Al will sell the house and whatever’s left after he’s paid me back will go on a home for her and the girls.” He said it was sad, he felt awful for Stella, but these things happen and so long as they were all looked after it was just one of those things …’
She looks at me expectantly. I still can’t quite put the pieces together.
‘So I told him that there wasn’t going to be anything left. That Stella had found out the whole thing was mortgaged. He was never going to be able to pay Roman back. Anyway … at that point Roman snapped. I think he could get past the way Al was treating Stella, but once he knew he’d been trying to screw him over too, that was it …’
‘So Al’s been propping up AJT for years, by the sound of it.’
Jan nods. ‘I had to stop Roman going straight round there to confront Al, but I don’t know how long I can hold him off, to be honest.’
I go and sit on the sofa next to her. She shuffles along on her space-hopper behind. ‘I knew he must be living beyond his means, because why else would he have borrowed more from the bank, but I didn’t know it was this bad. You really do have to get Roman to keep it to himself until we can work out what this means …’
She gives me a pained look. Up close, her face is even weirder. A Frankenstein’s monster of a thing. ‘I know. That’s why I’ve come to you now.’
‘Do you have any suggestions?’ I ask hopefully.
‘None whatsoever. I thought you were the person with all the ideas.’
I ignore the slightly barbed comment. I get the feeling she still blames me somehow for upsetting the equilibrium. As if, if I hadn’t been here, they all would have carried on as normal and it would have somehow worked itself out.
‘I appreciate you telling me, Jan. And for what’s it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.’
She stands up. ‘I should go. Please keep me informed.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Thanks again.’
I never would have thought Jan would be the one to come through. That she might turn out to be the saviour. Now I just have to work out how this information changes things. What to
do next.
43
July
As it turns out, I don’t have to wait too long for a plan to come together.
Al has announced he wants to have a pre-wedding celebration. A party for their nearest and dearest. No kids, just the grown-ups. Obviously, I am not invited.
It also happens to be on the night before the men are supposed to be leaving for the bachelor weekend in Monte Carlo and a couple of days before building work is due to start on the ‘Wedding Village’. It’s the point of no return. Stella would wake up and wonder why her husband to be wasn’t packing his swimming trunks, and there was no sign of the builders.
Oh, and thanks to Angie’s snooping, I also know it’s the night before he’s due to both exchange and complete on his new flat. His new home. Contracts are signed and ready to go. From the photos Ange has been sending me of his secret correspondence, it’s clear that he was hoping this would have happened a few days earlier. That there was a last-minute hold-up on the part of the sellers. Nothing alarming. Just a routine delay that has thrown his perfectly planned schedule somewhat. He won’t be able to make his announcement and then swan straight off to his new love nest, Ferne in tow. But he can’t delay telling Stella the wedding is off any longer, either. This has to be it.
It’s the week before Betsy’s summer holidays start. A few days before my own flat is also mine. I’ve arranged with David that she’ll go to Dorset with him for two weeks while I get the place sorted, and then she and I will move in together for good. Our roles will be reversed. He’ll have her every other weekend and the occasional weekday evening. We’re going to try to be as flexible as we can, for her sake. Which will be interesting, because I’m still struggling to speak to him. Still struggling to not start hurling accusations and telling him he’s a duplicitous bastard every time I need to ask him if Betsy has enough clean socks. I decided I had to bring things to a head.
‘Is Michaela going too?’ I asked when he called to tell me it was booked. I wished we were having the conversation face to face. I wanted him to have to look me in the eye.
‘Is …? Um … no. Why would you say that?’ he stumbled. He always was a shit liar when he was put on the spot.
‘You don’t have to lie to me any more, David.’ In truth, I didn’t think she would be, because Betsy would never have been able to keep it to herself if she was there, but I wanted to force him to be upfront with me. ‘I don’t care, I just want to know.’
‘No. She’s not. I would have discussed it with you before taking Betsy on holiday with someone else.’
‘I’m just going to ask you this once,’ I said. ‘And I would really appreciate the truth. Had you started seeing her before you left?’
Silence.
I waited.
Eventually, he sighed. Which was all I really needed to hear. And then he spoke. ‘Yes. Not for long … that’s not why …’
I know I’d told him I didn’t care, but of course I’d been lying. I hung up while he was mid-sentence.
Al’s pre-wedding bash is to be a meal. In the garden, if the weather holds up. Catered, of course. All the usual suspects will be there: Jan and Roman, Eva and Rafa, Katya and Guy, Anya and Bill, Gail and Ben.
Obviously, we have no idea what Al is actually planning, but we have our own ducks in a row, regardless. I have spent an inordinate amount of time with the ladies of The Close since Jan’s revelation, discussing exactly how we should play our hand. I could teach a masterclass on why Louboutins are better than Choos and how to keep one’s staff in line. With the men too, because we need them to be onboard. Roman has been good to his word – at least so far as I know – and has not given the game away to Al. It’s turned out that he’s not the only one of them to have been burned. When Eva filled Rafa in on the whole story he confessed that he too, had lent Al money to bail out the business – one million pounds – and that Al had fed him the same line about paying it back by downsizing, as he had Roman. They want their money back and they want it back now. They do not want him to spend what should rightfully be theirs on a love nest for him and Ferne.
The plan I have come up with is this: I want Al to show his hand. I want him to show himself at his worst. His cruelty. His selfishness. The other husbands are all a bit disapproving of Stella. Maybe they’re just projecting how they think they would feel if the same thing happened to them, but they’re struggling to accept that her fate is anything other than her own fault. (Of course, I’m not including Ben in this. In fact, that should be a given. If I say that all the men or all the women have behaved unreasonably, I’m excluding Ben or Gail. They’re two of the sweetest, least judgemental people I’ve ever met.) It’s so unfair. Stella did what she did for both her and Al’s sake. Yes, she should have told him. Yes, she handled it badly. But her crime is a lamb to his sheep. I want them to see him in all his true, vindictive colours. So, I have persuaded them to hold fire until the night of Al’s dinner. Until he does whatever he’s going to do, says whatever he’s going to say. Until he puts into action the plan he’s been hatching.
And then, and only then, will they hit him with the big one. That they’re delivering letters to his solicitors from theirs first thing the following morning. Letters that say that the purchase of the flat cannot go ahead because the money Al has borrowed is owed to them. Al will have to pull out on the day he is due to exchange and complete. He’ll have to use the money he’s borrowing to pay off his debts. And he’ll still have to sell the house in The Close because he’ll have to pay the bank back somehow. They’ll want their three and a half million by the end of the year regardless, especially once they realize he hasn’t bought a property with it that they could seize if he defaulted.
It’s not going to help Stella secure her future – she still hasn’t found a place to live, by the way. We’ve looked at three houses so far. At the first, in Gospel Oak, she sniffed her way round like a truffle-hunting pig with a pained look on her face. ‘It smells. Doesn’t it smell?’ she said about five times. ‘Everything smells of something,’ I’d said, giving the estate agent a Pollyanna smile. ‘No, but this smells like … I don’t want to sound rude, but … let’s just say it’s not what I’m used to.’ I think what she meant was it smelled of normal family life. Laundry and comfort food. People living on top of one another instead of spread out, each with fifteen hundred-odd square feet to themselves if they wanted it. I’d found it comforting, but she refused to even consider it. The other two were worse. She was downright rude about the space, the decor, the area – but Al won’t be able to swan off into the sunset and a new fabulous life either. He might still have Ferne, but he’ll have precious little else. And do I believe she’s the love of his life who he would happily live in poverty with? Hardly.
I’ll be honest, I’ve come to like all my neighbours a bit more these past few weeks. Their loyalty to Stella, even now they know she is no longer going to be one of the chosen few, is quite touching. We’ll see if it lasts once the trappings have actually gone. Once she’s a working mum, living an ordinary life.
44
The stage is set. It’s a steaming-hot day, the third of a brief heatwave. I spent the afternoon in Stella’s back garden with her and Pilar, arranging things to Al’s specifications. He wants it to be perfect, he’d said to her. He wants it to be the most special night ever. I asked her what she said in return and she told me she’d answered: ‘Oh, it will be, I’ll make sure of that.’
Taylor and Amber, being at private school (at least, for now), have already broken up and been dispatched to stay with friends in Suffolk for a few days. They have no idea, of course, that life as they know it will be gone for ever when they get back.
We strung fairy lights above the table and put out brightly coloured jars for candles. Pilar swept the patio as we lined up white wooden chairs with deep magenta cushions and decorated the table with stupidly expensive flowers delivered by a stupidly expensive florist. I pointed out to Stella that she had beautiful blooms growin
g in her garden she could have used and so pocketed some more cash, but she told me Al had placed the order himself and she wasn’t about to get his suspicions up at this late stage of the game.
Now I’m back in the flat, waiting for the signal that all is clear. I have Stella’s spare key and clear instructions of which room I should head to to get the best view and be able to hear the conversation. It turns out I shall go to the ball. I’m not missing it for the world. I can’t stop pacing and I’m trying to resist the urge to pour myself a large glass of wine to calm my nerves. I need to have my wits about me. I force myself to have a shower and make myself presentable. I’m not going to stay hidden all evening.
Afterwards, I hover by the front window, watching for the arrivals. The instructions are seven thirty for eight and, at exactly seven thirty-two Gail and Ben exit the house and cross the road. Gail gives me a surreptitious wave as they pass. Next come Bill and Anya, smart in simple summer clothes that scream of expensive fabrics. Katya and Guy and Eva and Rafa follow, bumping into a tense-looking Jan and Roman, who are also on their way. I wait, taut as a horse in the starting stall. Eight minutes later (not that I was counting, but every one lasted about an hour, it seemed) I get a text from Stella. The first one we have ever exchanged because, after tonight, it won’t matter if Al knows we’re in contact. All it says is ‘Now’.
I’m over the road as fast as my heels will carry me. I know that everyone will be in the garden, but there’s an outside chance that Al has wandered back inside to use the loo or one of the caterers has strayed from the kitchen for a snoop around. I know I have to be quick. As I tiptoe through the hall, I can hear the rumble of conversation from outside. I creep up the stairs, turn to the left and along to the second room at the back. It’s a spare bedroom dominated by a large brass-headed bed with about four million throw cushions in various shades of lavender piled on top. There are patio doors on to a small balcony and they’ve been left open. Beside them is an ice bucket containing an open half-bottle of champagne and a bottle of sparkling water and, nearby, two glasses. On a covered plate there are sumptuous-looking sandwiches from Paul. It’s such a sweet gesture, and can only have been Stella. She knows I might end up being hidden here for hours. It makes me smile. I pour myself a small glass, take a bite of a sandwich, then lay down on my stomach and shimmy out through the open balcony door like Ant Middleton on a mission. The table is right below me. I can see the guests milling about with flutes of fizz. There’s a wash of chatter and I can only make out odd words: Brexit, Henley, Meghan. The atmosphere seems forced. Everyone is too bright, too happy. Only Al, unaware, is his usual relaxed self, topping up glasses, making a big show of being attentive to his wife. I’m just starting to get stiff, my elbows sore, when he taps the side of his glass with something and announces he wants to make a toast. Is this it? I practically feel a collective intake of breath. I peer over as far as I dare. All eyes are on him.
