The Hive (15 page)

“And where’s the marquee? Have they done a bunk too?”

“No, no.” There was a pause for some sniffing and nose-blowing. “You just can’t see it from here. It’s away from the house. Down by the lake.”

“Why?” Rachel felt a mounting panic. She spoke slowly and clearly, like a negotiator in a delicate hostage situation. “Why. Is. The. Marquee. Away. From. The. House. And. Down. By. The. Lake?”

“Because it’s going to be a lakeside ball.” A bit more sobbing. “Isn’t it? Wasn’t that the point?”

“Well, yes it was. When you were going to have it in the middle of summer, remember? But it is now December, Bubba. It’s pissing down with rain. We won’t be able to see the lake. We won’t even know there is a lake unless someone happens to fall in and bloody drown in it. And we’ll probably lose a few revelers to exposure even before we get to the sodding lake…”

“Oh my God,” put in Clover with satisfaction. “This is a complete nightmare.”

“Well, look, Mark is on his way. I called him at the office and he said he’d come straight back.” Bubba dabbed at her face. “He’ll know what to do. He always does.”

Rachel felt a twinge of envy. She could see him now, the Clooneyesque Mark Green, putting the phone down on his distraught but still beautiful wife, grabbing his Armani jacket, leaving the City as fast as he could—leaping into a helicopter? Piloting his own seaplane off the Thames?—and coming home to assert his masterful control. OK, so she, Rachel, was free. So she was a sovereign in control of her own empire. But she also thought that it might, occasionally, do to have a co-sovereign from time to time. A bum on the seat of the throne next to her. A consort who—

“Wowser, that is wet.” The back door opened. “I was ringing the bell but I wasn’t sure you could…” There was a gust of cool, clean, washed air.

“Hi!” Rachel flung herself upon the new arrival and kissed her on each cheek. “Thanks so much for coming. Bit of a situation brewing here.”

She turned to the rest of the room.

“Everybody, I thought we could do with some help so I called for some top-level reinforcements. For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure: this is Melissa.”

“Oh, Bubba, you look fabulous.”

“So do
you.
Yummy! Is this new?”

“’Tis actually.” Jasmine gave a little twirl. “Splashed out rather. We all have. We had a girls’ outing last week, up to London. Specially. Spent a fortune.” She looked around for her husband, who was over at the bar with Tony Stuart. “Don’t go on about it in front of Richard, though, will you? Put it on the plastic. Haven’t quite broken the news yet.”

Bubba had been feeling more relaxed since Melissa had sorted the crisis, but something in what Jasmine just said had created another little bead of worry, which she could feel was rolling off to find all her other little beads of worry, and sooner or later they would connect and make a chain, a big long chain of worry that could throttle her. But she wasn’t sure what it was. She couldn’t quite focus. And anyway, what she should be doing right now was enjoying herself.

“Hi. Thank
you
for coming.
Amazing
shoes.”

The marquee was looking great, with the sand on the floor and the starfish and the netting, the cobalt-blue-and-white-striped ceiling and the parasols above every table. It looked better even than she had imagined. Kazia—bless her—had been slaving for days. It wasn’t even that cold in here. And you could, if you wanted to, pretend that the rain thumping down on the roof was a waterfall…

Everyone was here, that was the best thing. They were all here and
determined
to have a great time. The tent was filling and the conversational bubble was inflating and you could just feel the excitement in the air. It wasn’t only the parents from school; there were friends of parents from school, and quite a few grandparents from school. The staff were here—even the grumpy secretary had put on her glad rags. And what glad rags they were. Poor thing. Tom Orchard was over there, chatting to Bea, looking rather adorable in his DJ. Lucky old Colette. And all the governors had turned out, she was glad to see. It was exactly as her instincts had told her: these were lovely people and they were just really grateful for the chance to get out and enjoy themselves. The plan was: drinks drinks drinks and chat chat chat for the next hour, so that Colette had a good chance to flog away at the Silent Auction, and then the wonderful Melissa had promised that dinner would appear at about nine. Yum yum. She for one could not wait.

Oh look, there were the Farrs. Another triumph! She really had pulled out all the stops tonight.
So
sweet of them to turn up at what was after all a pretty humble little gathering. She pressed her way through the crowd—

“Do you like it? Well, we wanted to do something a
little
bit different…”

—and hurried over to Andy’s side. She needed to circulate him around before dinner, she thought. Sprinkle the stardust. Everyone would want to meet him. Mustn’t disappoint.

“Andy! Jen!
Brilliant
of you to come all this way.”

Rachel had only been there for ten minutes but already had an overwhelming need for peace, quiet and a solitary cigarette. They were only two weeks into the new Mason family system of every other weekend and Wednesday nights with Chris, and Rachel still felt very wobbly on her feet—like a new foal learning to stand. The last thing she needed was this extravaganza. Her program for the evening was to turn up, melt into the background and get home as early as possible, job done. She was just slinking, subtly, towards the exit when her path was blocked by some short fat bloke with a damp upper lip. “You must be Rachel,” he puffed as he thrust a glass into her hands. “Bubba said her new best friend was the hot redhead, and I spotted you soon as you walked in.” With a bit of panting and considerable effort, he lifted his short fat arm to pour her some champagne. “I’m Mark Green. Cheers.” They chinked glasses. “Well, what do you think? Early yet, but we seem to be getting away with it so far, eh?”

“Mmmm.” She gulped the booze back while she studied the man before her. Not quite the Mark Green she had envisaged. Even if this one did manage to squeeze himself behind the controls of a seaplane, the basic laws of physics would mean it could never take flight. Why must people persist in having such unlikely spouses? It was most disconcerting. “It all looks fantastic. Very nice of you to do all this, you know. Everyone really appreciates it. I was just on my way to…” She gestured towards the flap that led to the Portaloos.

“You carry on. Catch up with you later.” He waddled off and Rachel ducked outside. It was raining hard now so she stood beneath the awnings, lit up and cursed Georgie for getting her smoking again. Still, she thought to herself, she was under a lot of stress here. Last time she’d gone on a night out as a single woman, it was back in another century…She puffed out and up to the moonless night as a large hand came from behind and gripped her left thigh. She heard herself shriek.

“You’re looking particularly gorgeous tonight, Mrs. Mason.” Tony Stuart peered over her shoulder, his alcoholic breath in her face. He put the other arm round her waist as he moved his hand towards her groin and she stepped smartly away.

“Bugger off, Tony. Are you turning into an old perv?”

He gave a good-natured chuckle. It was, Rachel remembered, one of his saving graces that you could say absolutely anything to Tony Stuart and he didn’t care a damn, whereas his wife went through life with her umbrage on permanent red alert.

“Aw, come on. Only being friendly. Why don’t we see you anymore anyway? I miss you, Rachel.”

“Yes, well, I think that’s how Bea wants it at the moment.”

“But we’re old mates, you and me. She can’t keep me away from my old matesh.” He really was plastered. It was not yet nine o’clock. “We should get together. Just the two of us.”

“Oh yeah?” She was holding out her arm like a policeman directing traffic.

“Yeah. I’m always here for you, Rachel. If you just want a drink. Cup of tea. Hey, even if you only want a quick shag. I’m here for you. I’m your man. OK?”

“That’s, er, good to know, Tone.” Rachel backed away, dodging the guy ropes.

He stumbled slightly. “Do not,” he wagged his finger at her, put on his serious, professional businessman voice, “outsource the shagging.”

“I’ll bear it in mind…” She backed slowly towards the Portaloos.

“Just don’t forget your old mate, is what I’m saying.”

Rachel turned and dashed up the flimsy steps of the Ladies and closed the main door. Sanctuary. The face that looked back at her in the mirror was a bit damp and highly colored. Time for some essential repair work before she returned to the fray. The lavatory behind her flushed and out came Bea.

“Well, hello.” She took up position at the other sink, and they both stared into the mirror, side by side.

“Hi. You look fab tonight.”

“Well thank you, Bea.” Rachel had forgotten that feeling. When Bea with her lovely voice said a lovely thing it made you feel all warm and fuzzy and…

“You seem to have stopped making any effort at all lately. It’s really good to see you still can.”

“Well. Thank you. Bea.”

Bea put down her makeup bag and turned to face Rachel in person. “Sorry. That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant,
you
have been looking pretty down and
I
have noticed.”

“Yes. Well. My marriage broke up. That is generally recognized to be a bit of a downer.”

“And I’m sorry we haven’t seen you lately, but it’s so difficult for us, Rachel.”

“Yeah. God. It must be awful for you. I haven’t thought enough about that. How awful this is for you.”

“Rach, you and Chris were our best friends. We can’t take sides.”

“Sides? Sides? What sides? On the one side, he is screwing an intern. On the other side…what? What is the second side, Beatrice?”

“There are always two sides to everything in marriage. And, love, you really mustn’t let your anger get in the way.” Bea put her hand on Rachel’s. “Try and get through this with your dignity intact.” She smiled, gave Rachel’s hand a final squeeze and returned to the mirror, her bag, her lipstick. Through puckered lips she added, “Tony misses you too, you know.”

“Mmm.” Rachel made for the exit. “He mentioned that, actually.” The top step made a clanking sound and shook as she stood on it. “Just now. Out there. When the disgusting old perv was hitting on me.”

And she fell back outside into the wet night.

It was a real moment of theater when the fish-and-chip van drove over the lawn and parked outside the tent. The gales of laughter and gasps of delight would stay with Bubba for a long time. It was the most perfect solution to the terrible crisis of this morning: cheap, cheerful and—most importantly to Bubba—it fitted in with the theme. She did so wish Melissa was here to witness her own success. Not fully integrated yet into the St. Ambrose social whirl, the Spencers: staying in the shadows slightly…We must bring them in more. Because it was actually amazing what Melissa had pulled off today: not only had she had the brilliant idea in the first place, she even
knew
a fish-and-chip man—imagine! So Bubba was only two degrees of separation away from him too!
Hilarious!
—and finally somehow summoned him out of nowhere, just like that. Bubba would simply have to be her
slave;
her
slave,
practically for
life.

She stood by the entrance, making sure that everyone got their lovely warm newspaper parcel.

“Well done, Blubber,” said Georgie cheerfully. She seemed to be a little unsteady on her feet. “Pulled it off in the end. And how much we gonna make, eh?” She wobbled. “Twenty quid? Twenty-five?”

Another little bead of worry formed and rolled off in the general direction of its mates. “We stand to make a healthy profit, actually.” No numbers, please. Don’t ask for any numbers. Not now, not yet. “You look great tonight, by the way. Where’s this from?” Bubba picked up an edge of Georgie’s full round skirt and rubbed the hot-pink fabric between her fingers.

“Place used to be in the High Street. Closhed down, owph, fifteen years ago now. Shame. Nishe place. Never bought a dress since. No need, really. This,” she gave her skirt a little flutter, “is my dresh.”

“Gosh.” Bubba did, personally, like to shop and indeed this Stella McCartney was new on this evening. Since children, she found that she did require a bit more tailoring, more designer
effort
than once she had.

When she looked around the party, Bubba was impressed by how good the women looked tonight, considering how many babies they’d had between them and how many years on the collective clock. Apart from Ashley’s mum, of course. Bless her. But with her expert eye Bubba could look at every figure and see straight through to the exercise or dietary regime behind it. It was almost a
gift,
really. She didn’t like to bang on about it, it wasn’t a party trick or anything, but she could even spot a just-irrigated colon from at least twenty paces. Of course, all secrets safe etc. Anyway, suffice to say, of all the waists around, very few were here by virtue of their own natural elasticity. Rachel probably looked the most sensationally skinny, but in a way that wasn’t fair: she was going through a nasty divorce, and that was always just the
best
for weight loss, a nasty divorce. It was technically cheating, really.

But here was Georgie, happy as a clam and who had—well, she had no idea how many children, she was not sure if Georgie herself knew how many children, they were practically the
von Trapps,
they had so many children—wearing some cheapo rubbish from a whole different era and looking sensational. And she’d brushed her hair.

“Don’t panic, though.” Georgie took her fish and chips from Will. “Thanks, babe. Scrummy. Everyone else has bought something just for tonight.” She gestured around the party. “As far as I am aware, every single dress and pair of shoes has been purchased specially.”

Out comes another little worry bead, thought Bubba nervously.