The Honey Queen (4 page)

‘It’s perfect,’ said Frankie wistfully, admiring the sycamores growing at the roadside.

‘Very nineteen thirties,’ mused Seth as they walked along hand-in-hand, deciding which place to go into. ‘Look at those façades.’ He pointed to one block decorated with period signage.

They admired the clothes boutique, the delicatessen with windows full of cheeses and all manner of exotic meats, they walked past a pretty pink-and-brown beauty salon, and finally settled in a coffee shop where they ate the best raspberry-and-almond muffins they’d ever tasted.

‘We can do it,’ Seth said, enthusiastically outlining his plans.

He was sure, from experience, that planning permission wouldn’t be a problem. He would design the new parts of the house, a builder he’d worked with would agree a reasonable price for the work, and Seth could manage the build himself. With two decent salaries coming in, they should be able to find the money.

‘Can you cope with living in the basement while we do up the rest?’ Seth asked her the day before the sale closed. They were walking through the property again, imagining grand neo-classical fireplaces from the salvage yard instead of the bricked-up fireplaces and the hazardous two-bar electric fires that the previous owner had installed everywhere.

‘I can cope with anything,’ Frankie had said excitedly, eyeing up the kitchen and imagining how marvellous it would look when the extension was built and the whole room had been turned into an open-plan kitchen/breakfast room. She’d got an idea for a conservatory, too. She could just see a couple of huge planters filled with exotic ferns beside the imaginary doors. And the garden. Gardening had never really been her thing, but here there was so much possibility. Or there would be, once the jungle of weeds and wild brambles had been torn away.

I can cope with anything
. Famous last words for sure.

A month after they’d moved into the basement flat of the newly named Sorrento Villa, Seth was made redundant by the big architectural practice where he’d worked for fifteen years. The company was in dire financial straits, the senior partner explained: they had no option but to downsize.

Shocked, Frankie recalled that same senior partner – Seth’s friend since college – at the previous year’s Christmas dinner, where much had been made of the company’s resilience in the shaky economic climate. A glass of red wine in his hand, the man had toasted each member of staff. Frankie had clapped loudest of all when he’d said ‘Seth Green, the man we all aspire to be,’ then raising his glass, ‘quietly professional, dedicated and loyal.’

Loyalty hadn’t gone both ways it seemed. Seth wasn’t a full partner, but on a high wage, so his name was at the top of the redundancy list.

If she was shocked, then Seth had been devastated.

‘I’ve failed you,’ was all he could say. Despite his years of hard work for the company he’d only been given the statutory legal pay-off. There was no vat of cash to help fund the work on Sorrento Villa. They had savings but it would be madness to plough them into such a project. ‘How will we manage financially?’ Seth asked in despair. ‘With the new house …’

‘We’ll manage,’ said Frankie, magically switching on the same positive tone that had worked so well during the children’s teenage years. ‘We’ll manage somehow.’

But inside, her stomach was churning with fear. How could they survive on only one salary? If only they’d stayed in their modest old house instead of thinking they were the sort of people who should own a detached Victorian red-brick villa on a half-acre site in Redstone. Christmas had been just over a month off, both children were staying away – Emer in Australia, Alexei in Japan – and she and Seth had to face a dark and depressing festive season on their own. Three months later, they were still far from managing.

Coping with
anything
had turned out to mean a husband who sloped around in sweatpants and could barely summon up the energy to walk to the crossroads for a daily newspaper. He’d lost his zest for life when he’d lost his job. All the great plans for the house now lay untouched under a mound of bills at one end of the kitchen table.

Redundancy had settled over their house like a heavy grey storm cloud.

Frankie, who had been responsible for setting up counselling sessions for Dutton employees following a series of redundancies at the company, now saw the problem from the other side of the table. Her husband was in despair.

Work doesn’t define women in the way it defines men
, she remembered telling her team in the HR department at the time.
Men find it hard to cope with being out of work.

Platitudes delivered straight from the most basic HR psychology books.

Those words were certainly mocking her now as she lay beside this shadow of the man who had been her husband, waiting for sleep to claim her. Sleep didn’t come.

It was the Sleep Theorem, she told herself. The number of hours you lost sleepless in bed was always in reverse proportion to the amount of work you had to do the following day. Eventually, she drifted into an uneasy doze filled with nightmares involving Emer and Alexei in danger, when she couldn’t run fast enough to save them. And darling Seth, once her mainstay in life, was watching all and seemed paralysed into indecision.

At six the alarm went off. She woke exhausted and decided that, at that precise moment, the word for the day was
shattered.
While Seth carried on sleeping, she showered, dressed and had some muesli for breakfast before heading into work.

As she pulled into the underground car park of Dutton Insurance at seven twenty-five on that clear but cold February morning, Frankie felt a low drag of anxiety in the depths of her belly. Steeling herself for the day ahead, she grabbed her briefcase, got out of the car and strode towards the lifts.

The doors closed behind her with a satisfying swish. The inevitable muzak drifted into her head. She hated that music. The lifts from the car park were workmanlike and industrial. Important visitors to Dutton Insurance parked in a designated section of the car park and made their entrance through much more glamorous lifts. She pushed the button for the lobby, the lift shuddered and brought her up. She used to make it her business to run up the stairs at least once every day but these days she was too tired.

‘Morning, Mrs Green,’ said the fresh-faced security guard as she slid her recognition card into the slot on the barrier.

‘Morning, Lucas,’ said Frankie cheerily, suppressing the thought that he looked even younger than Alexei, standing there in his uniform as if ready to defend Dutton Insurance from invaders. The policemen were looking younger too. Was she finally at that age at which all the old clichés start becoming true? She headed across the Italian marble floor to the gleaming brass-fronted lifts that were the public face of the business.

These lifts were mirrored on the inside and Frankie could see herself from every angle.

As a girl, she had grown up confident in herself, confident in her tall, athletic body and never embarrassed about budding breasts or menstruation. In fact her only worry had been that her mother might run around brandishing a packet of tampons and screaming
You’re a
woman now!
at the top of her voice when Frankie had finally had her first period.

Frankie had never dieted like the girls in her class at school, hadn’t denied herself food, had loved her body for the things it could do, the sports it could play. She was captain of the netball team and a fabulous long distance runner with those long, lean legs. In her teenage bedroom, she’d had a small haul of medals and trophies from track and field events.

For most of her life, her body had done whatever she asked of it and it never occurred to her to worry about curves here and there, or fine lines around her eyes.

Until now.

As she stood on her own in the lift, harsh lights accentuating every flaw, it struck her that the woman in the charcoal skirt-suit, the subtle pearl earrings, and the long, dark hair tied up neatly into a knot, looked old.

Frankie closed her eyes and waited for the lift to arrive at her floor, then marched out without another glance at herself. In her office, she switched on her computer and keyed in her password.

The instant messaging icon flashed that a message was waiting. It was from Anita, Frankie’s closest friend within the company, a mother of two who was second in command in the legal department. She clicked on it.

You in yet?
Have gossip – not nice gossip.

Where are you?
typed Frankie.

About to go to canteen. Need coffee. War when I left the house. Julie knows it’s my early day but she still hadn’t turned up when I was leaving, Clarice was on the kitchen floor screaming, Peaches was throwing baby porridge around and Ivan was glaring at me, as if it was my fault. I only got out by the skin of my teeth.

You should fire her if she’s late again
.
I told you about giving her written warnings.

It would be simpler to fire Ivan. Husbands are easier to come by than good nannies. See you in five?

Frankie grinned and set off for the canteen, walking at speed through the vast open-plan beige kingdom that was Dutton Insurance. She certainly didn’t believe that a husband was easier to come by than a nanny. Besides, Ivan was actually a sweetie. Francesca knew it was useless to point out yet again that Julie was invariably late, barely listened to half of what Anita said and was paid as much as the head of the UN Peacekeeping Force. Last time she had said this, Anita’s voice had veered into near hysteria as she protested that Julie was the one person in the world capable of managing her two children: ‘She’s been with us since Clarice was a baby and she’s the only person Peaches will settle with. Even Ivan’s mother can’t make Peaches go to sleep – and she had eight kids.’

‘Blimey, eight kids,’ said Frankie. She’d have loved more children herself, but not
that
many.

Anita was in the empty canteen pushing a tiny dark-red pellet into the trendy Nespresso machine that the Chief Financial Officer had installed on all the floors of the company two years before, when they’d achieved record profits, despite the state of the economy.

In ten minutes, the canteen – which served the executive floor – would be buzzing with people in early for the monthly status meeting, attended by representatives from all the divisions. It was a largely for-show meeting because all the real business was done behind locked doors, but the CEO was keen on making everybody feel a part of the team.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Anita said, as she waited for Frankie to get her coffee.

‘Heard what?’ Frankie said slowly, again feeling that low drag in the pit of her stomach.

It was obvious from Anita’s face that, whatever she’d heard, it wasn’t good news.

‘Heard that we’re in trouble, that there’s a takeover on the cards.’

‘Oh.’ Frankie reached for the nearest chair and sat into it. ‘Where did you hear it?’

‘Oh, the usual labyrinthine methods whereby gossip gets around. Someone in the executive dining room was overheard by one of the chefs who told his girlfriend on the third floor. I heard about it last night, haven’t been able to sleep. I mean, if we’re taken over by another company, loads of us are going to lose our jobs. What’ll I do? The mortgage is huge and we can only just manage it with both our salaries.’

She looked so distraught that Frankie, who had spent her working life mentoring colleagues, ignored her own shock and pain to comfort Anita.

‘Now listen here,’ she said, ‘it’s just a rumour. Companies thrive on that sort of stuff. Besides, whatever happens you can get through it.
We
can get through it. We’re made of stronger stuff. We’ve gone through childbirth! You had a ten-pound baby, Anita. There’s nothing you cannot cope with.’

The comment had the desired effect. Anita gave a snort of laughter.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ she said, shaking her head ruefully.

Baby Peaches had been a positive Goliath, taking after her tall, broad father rather than her petite five-foot-two mother.

‘I know there’s no medal for childbirth, but there should be,’ Frankie went on. ‘A ten-pound baby – you should get gold for that. No, platinum.’

They talked a while longer and then Frankie looked at her watch.

‘Time to move,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘
Once more unto the breach
and all that.’

She hurried back to her office, rumours of a takeover now adding to the turmoil in her mind. Stay focused, she told herself. Panicking never got anyone anywhere.

With the office still empty she decided to grab the chance for a speedy morning email to Emer and Alexei.

Beautiful Emer, currently in Sydney but thinking of moving to the US for a few months, was waitressing by day and putting years of piano lessons to good use by playing in the restaurant of a boutique hotel by night.

It’s incredible here, Mum, you’ve got to come out before I leave
, she’d emailed only last week.
I love it. The sun, the people, you’d love it
.
too.

If Frankie, who had read many CVs in her time, had to come up with one word to sum up her daughter, that word would be
light
: the shining light that flowed out of her like the sun. Emer was vivid and sparkling and prone to mischief. Frankie had been the same as a child.

‘How come you always know, Mum?’ Emer would demand crossly when Frankie would take one look at her child’s eyes shining naughtily in her tiny little face. ‘You
always
know what I’m doing – have you got X-ray vision?’

‘Yes,’ Frankie would say gravely, suppressing the urge to laugh. ‘All mothers have it. As soon as the baby is born,
kapow!
– we are given the gift. I can see through ceilings. So I know you have been upstairs doing something
verrry naughty
.’ She’d drag out the syllables in pretend menace.

Emer was a kind person too, but in Sydney she was far removed from the pain in Sorrento Villa and it was out of the question to let on that there was a problem. That would only have her rushing home to help Frankie cope.