The hive, p.10
The Hive, page 10
“Maisie, love, I’m so sorry. I can’t think what happened. There must have been a mix-up.” Heather could hardly bear it when Maisie was subject to emotional pain. They were like those identical twins separated at birth: when Maisie was hurt, Heather was in screaming agony. The pain was building within her now. Her breath was shortening. Her brain giddy with adrenaline…
“Mummy, I couldn’t care less. Honest,” said Maisie, in a voice that she somehow controlled to make it sound completely normal. “Is Mrs. Green around?” Maisie spotted Bubba, and skipped over. “Excuse me, but, well, I thought you ought to know: Milo’s crying in the boys’ changing room and he won’t come out.”
The Day of the Planning Meeting for the Ball
9 A.M. ASSEMBLY
Bubba looked around the table and felt a flush of pleasure. Meetings were her favorite thing, always had been—they just were the perfect showcase for her own, specific skill set. Yet she hadn’t been to one for absolute yonks. That was the thing about domesticity: no meetings. Unless you counted telling Kazia what to pick up in Waitrose. Anyway, now here she was, and it was just like old times: Bubba in the chair, surrounded by eager slaves just waiting to carry out her every wish—only kidding! OK, so the Copper Kettle was not exactly the sort of state-of-the-art committee room to which she was used. The waitresses were actually wearing pinnies and mobcaps, which was a total hoot. And there were no piles of fresh fruit and bottles of water provided for them on the table. Instead, Jo was tucking into an iced bun the size of her head. No waitress had approached the table since she’d arrived. She was in serious danger of death by thirst. But otherwise, yeah: business as usual.
It wasn’t quite the top team. Heather was on the far side with Rachel, Georgie and Jo. Colette and Clover were opposite. Bea had promised to try and come, but she did have a “mare of a morning,” apparently. Bubba still hoped she would make it, though—just for that bit of input she could properly trust.
“So…”
She was planning to start with a small rallying speech. She had this gift, well known in the world of HR, for team-building.
“Shall I take the minutes?” interrupted Heather.
“Oh God, you’re gorgeous,” said Bubba. “But I think that so restricts the spirit? We want to be loose? Let it flow? Find those ideas. Kick them about and straight out of the…whatever.” Informality had always been one of her trademarks as a boss: it drew people together, in her experience.
“Oh. ’K then.” But for some reason Heather looked crushed. Utterly crushed.
“Right. Anyway. The thing is, this ball is quite some undertaking, and while I can manage a lot of it myself, what is so great and fabulous about St. Ambrose is the sense of community and everyone helping everyone else which you just don’t get in the private sector, or at least not the bit of the private sector we’ve just escaped from, which felt like the breakout from Alcatraz quite literally because everyone there was so stuck up—”
Rachel and Georgie suddenly got the giggles but Bubba pressed on. She might have to separate those two.
“—especially if your child is that tiniest little bit different which you would think they would want to celebrate but no.”
An ancient mobcap—possibly older than God—came to the table. Finally. “Long skinny latte for me, please.”
The mobcap looked uncertain. “Black or white?”
“Tell you what, Roz,” cut in Jo. “Bring us a pot of coffee and a jug of milk and we’ll do the rest.”
Bubba was gobsmacked. It was extraordinary: Jo actually seemed to know this person. Which meant that there were just two degrees of separation between Bubba and a mobcap! Actually, it was rather wonderful the turns her life was taking at the moment. She really relished its new depth and its breadth and its texture—
“Shall we crack on?” asked Rachel.
“Where was I? Yes: the caterers. Now—”
“Hiya. Made it at last,” said Jasmine. “Budge up.”
“Sorry we’re late,” added Sharon. “Bea says she’s going to try and pop in but you know, now, with her job, it’s”
“just juggle, juggle, juggle,” finished Jasmine, sighing.
“When I am Prime Minister,” pronounced Georgie, “the use of the verb ‘to juggle’ will be restricted to those with proven employment in the circus profession—”
“Shall we crack on?” Rachel said, a bit louder this time.
“Yes. The caterers. Bea has given me a steer on this, which is really, really kind of her. They’re called ‘A Moveable Feast.’ I don’t know if anyone here knows them?”
“Well, I’ve passed their snack van in the lay-by on the way up to the motorway,” offered Georgie.
“I think that must be a different one, though I really value your input. Bea seemed to think there was a school connection? Someone actually in the St. Ambrose community?”
“I’ll bet it’s to do with that Pam, the dinner lady, you remember, who was sacked by the old head over something or other. All very hush-hush it was,” chipped in Clover. “At your peril, if you want my opinion. At your peril.”
“I don’t think so,” said Bubba. She was starting to feel quite cross. “Bea is hardly going to recommend someone unreliable, is she? No one, no one, cares about this school and its kids like Bea.” Was it her imagination or was there negative energy building up here? She was hypersensitive to negative energy. If only Bea would arrive. “Does anyone use any other caterers, then, for their own general entertaining? That they would like to recommend?”
“Enterwhatting?” said Jo.
“Lolz,” yelped Sharon.
“Rofl,” squeaked Jasmine.
“There we are then.” Time to get firm. “A Moveable Feast it is. Now. Pressing forward. The music. Any suggestions?”
They all sat in silence for a bit, and then Jo of all people sprang to life. “Do you know what?” She sprayed bun crumbs everywhere. “I’d forget my own bum if it wasn’t so enormous. Course I do. Wayne. Wayne’s my mate,” she said to Georgie. “Good bloke. Look after his mum over in the care home. Terrible old trout. He owes me one.” And then back to the table: “Yeah, Wayne’s all right. Sorted. He’ll do it.”
“Fabulous contribution. Thanks, Jo.” Bubba would have loved a bit more information, but she did find Jo a bit intimidating. She was one of those people who could suddenly turn on one. “So could I possibly task you with reaching out to, um, Wayne? See if he’s free? Would you mind?”
“Listen here.” There we are. Bubba knew it: Jo had turned. “Read my lips. I said Wayne’ll do it. And Wayne’ll do it. This is starting to get on my nerves.”
“Sorry. Great. Lovely. Wayne it is. Now then. The theme.” This was the part where Bubba felt on the firmest ground, actually. She was brilliant at themes. Loved them. Any opportunity. Last time they had a curry, she wore a sari and turned the kitchen into Kerala. It had worked really, really well.
So it was odd that this was the point at which Bubba seemed to lose the meeting. Totally. Sort of mislaid the whole process somehow. She started her pitch about how she wanted a paradise beach theme, because that was what she had planned when it was a summer ball and she had a vision and a dream. And when she had a vision she had to stick with it, when she had a dream she could not give it up. And then Bea arrived. And then everything became a blur. There was a lot of argument about Christmas. And England. And the climate. And the snow upon the ground and the robin on the twig. As if any of those things had anything to do with people dressing up and having a glam night out and just tuning up that party vibe. And suddenly, before Bubba had any idea what was going on, Bea was saying, “Right then. We’re all agreed. Compromise time. The theme is the English Seaside in Winter.”
“Hang on a minute!” Bubba was yelping as if in pain. “Hold that thought. If we can just walk this one back up the agenda a bit—”
But Rachel and Georgie were giggling, so loudly this time, so disruptively that Bea couldn’t even hear her yelping and just pressed on to the next thing as if she was in charge, and not Bubba at all. “Now,” she said to the table. The table which had been Bubba’s table. Once. “Another thing I want to suggest—I mean, just a suggestion, it’s not my gala, so it’s not my decision—is an Auction of Promises, which can raise such a lot of money. Of course, I couldn’t possibly get one together, already got enough balls in the air as it is, but it will only take a nanosecond of somebody else’s time—”
“I’ll do that, Bea,” said Colette, sounding keener than she had sounded all morning.
“Thanks ever so, Col,” said Bea. “You’re awesome. You know the sort of stuff we usually go for. But I thought, this time, as we’re lucky enough to have Bubba on board these days, she could get one of her smart London friends to offer something? Dinner with a celebrity, perhaps?”
“Huh? I don’t know any ce—”
But everyone was suddenly oohing and aahing and looking at Bubba with a bit of respect for once and Bea said, “There we are! You can’t refuse now! Listen to the excitement. Time for you to share. Dinner with a Celebrity Friend of Bubba’s.” Sharon did a drumroll on the table. “It’s the Big Draw.”
And then Bea was off, and most of the others left after her. Colette had to sort out some cellulite. Sharon and Jasmine had their garden business to tend to. Georgie had to get Hamish from playgroup. Jo had to go and sleep off her night shift. And Heather was telling her to turn that frown upside down. And Clover said she should keep it exactly where it was because this, in her view, had all the makings. And Bubba had a funny feeling. A feeling she wasn’t used to, and couldn’t quite identify. But one that, she decided, felt a bit like the feeling one might have after one had been run over by a very, very large vehicle.
10 A.M. MORNING BREAK
Rachel sat alone waiting for a coffee she didn’t really want. She had wanted to scarper the minute that ludicrous meeting finished, but everyone else had had the same thought. And poor Bubba looked so pathetic and dejected that it seemed a bit mean to just dump her. Heather had taken her up to the counter to pick a large confection of trans fats and carbohydrate in which she might seek some sort of solace.
She looked about her. The café was hot and steamy. A real English-seaside-in-winter sort of rain was bucketing down on the people outside, and evaporating off them once they were in. It was packed in here—there was not a free seat at the tables around the counter or in the two rooms behind—and yet it wasn’t noisy. And it wasn’t noisy, Rachel realized, because it was packed with quiet, well-behaved women. Well, that wasn’t quite true. At the table next to her there was one man with his wife, sunk in marital silence. His large hands held a delicate pastry fork with which he gave his cream puff the occasional doleful prod. Otherwise, it was as if she had stepped into the pages of a nineteenth-century novel; one in which the menfolk were all away at war, at work, or just had something better to do.
A few were younger than her, with babies in buggies and bottles that needed warming. But the rest, they were all late middle age. Elderly, some of them. The next stage on in life from the motley members of the English Seaside in Winter Ball Committee. The seniors to their juniors; Lower Sixth to their Upper Third.
She listened to the women behind her. She couldn’t see them, didn’t know them, could only hear the age in their voices, but their topic of conversation—that was instantly familiar.
“And in the end it was just the coursework that let her down…”
Of course. The children. Or possibly—they were definitely that little bit older—the children’s children? Or the children’s godchildren or the children’s children’s in-laws or the children’s children’s next-door neighbors. The A-level results of children they would never know were being shared with people to whom they could have no meaning. And yet everyone was riveted. Nobody was standing up and saying, “Enough. I do not know this girl. I am not interested in her offer from Leeds. Cease forthwith your tiresome prattle. Now, have you read the new McEwan?” Nope. They were rapt. They were genuinely worried about her retakes. Delighted with her A star. Crossing fingers that she chucked the dodgy boyfriend. They were actually prolonging the tiresome prattle with informed and interested questioning. It was just like Rachel’s mum and her friend Mary and the wretched Queen of the Canadian Ice Rink, being played out again and again all over this coffee shop and—Rachel had a horrible feeling—all over the Home Counties.
She was desperate to get out of there and back to her desk. Subsumed with a desire to do something creative, substantial, that would pull her up and out of this…well, it was a dependence culture, wasn’t it? Were they any better than the people government ministers were always banging on about on the Today program who were dependent on benefits? It seemed not, just then, just there, to Rachel. They were parasites—living on the lives, the news, the emotions, the progress of others. If they were so bloody interested in A levels, why didn’t they go off and bloody take some?
Was this how her own future was going to play out? Years dominated by her children’s schools to segue into years talking about somebody else’s schools? The rest of her life yawned before her like one long double period of French on a Friday afternoon. She reached behind her chair for her coat. She had to get out of there, get going, get on. She had just got her arm in her sleeve when Heather, Bubba, three coffees and a slab of chocolate brownie came back to the table. She took her arm out again, defeated.
“Oh great. Lovely. Thanks.” She picked up the teaspoon and stirred. “Just a quick one.”
“You do realize,” began Heather, “that this time next year we’ll be getting ready for our SATs.”
A noise—a sort of death rattle—came out of Rachel’s throat.
“You OK, Rach? Mmmm?” Heather’s eyes were soft with concern.
Be nice, said Rachel to herself. Just be nice.
“Oh fine. Yeah. Just, you know…SATs. All that…”
“Well, you’ve got nothing to worry about.” Heather turned to Bubba. “Her Poppy’s on Top Table!”
“Anyway,” Rachel burst in. “When’s our next rung on the lunch ladder? It’s been a couple of weeks. It’s the only time I actually eat these days, you know. I might just starve to death, not that you’d care.” Rachel was doing her best cheerful smile, but Heather was not even meeting her eye.
“Um. Well. Bea’s doing one the Friday after half-term.”
“Great…”
“She. Um. Was wanting to restrict numbers I think. So it’s just invitation-only this one. You know, what with her job…”
So she really has dropped me, Rachel realized with a thump. I was just like all the others, all along. There had always been this kaleidoscopic pattern to Bea’s social life: people hitherto unnoticed emerging from the shadows, brought into the light, spinning in the golden glow of being Bea’s new friend. Until something or other happened and they spun off again, back to the shadows, slightly stunned, wondering where it had all gone wrong. Rachel had witnessed it for years, in an unconcerned, disconnected sort of way—a mortal who somehow believed in her own immortality, even though the evidence of death was all around. OK, so she’d lasted the longest, had a good innings, as they said. But now look at her—come a cropper and cast out like the rest of them. Well, well, well.
“Of course,” she said to Heather, with sympathy. “Fine. The job. Understand. Totally.” She shrugged, spread her hands—a familiar Bea-like gesture. “The Job. Of course…”
“She’s having a lunch?” Bubba, Rachel was beginning to realize, did not do dissembling. She worked out her emotions like a well-trained Year 6 its maths: the workings-out all on display so that everyone knew exactly how she got the sum.
“Bea? Is having a lunch?
“Bea is having a lunch…
“…and she hasn’t invited me?”
There were the workings-out: right there, all over her face.
“What a fucking bitch.”
Tick, thought Rachel. Correct. Got there quicker than I did. She jumped to her feet before anyone could stop her. “And while we’re on the subject, it doesn’t have to be the English Seaside in Winter Ball, you know. If you want a Paradise Beach Ball, you have it, girl. You just do whatever you like.” She flung on her jacket—“Great coffee, great fun, see you at school”—and broke through the door. Out in the gray High Street, she gulped down the damp air and turned her face up to the rain.
3:15 P.M. PICKUP
Georgie was propping herself up against the fence, her back to the school, her eyes on the car. The sight of Hamish snoozing in his car seat brought a lump to her throat. His long lashes flickered on his cheeks as he dreamed. Was there anything more beautiful on this earth than the rolling, folding, undulating, multitudinous chins of a well-fed, happy baby? A watery autumn light was making its way through the clouds and she willed it on. The garden could really do with a bit of sun. She sighed happily and pushed her hands deeper into her pockets. It was a while before she realized that Rachel was slumped beside her.
“Afternoon. What are you doing out here on the wrong side of the tracks?”
“Did you know Bea’s having a lunch after half-term?”
“Good afternoon. I’m fine. Thank you for asking. Yes, a very nice day…”
“Sorry. Hello. How are you? Etc., etc. And did you know? About Bea’s lunch? Her invitation-only sodding lunch?”
“Um, yeah.” She produced a packet of Marlboro Lights. With her thumb, she pushed one towards Rachel. “Not going though. Want a cigarette?”
“No. Ta. So you were invited? Bloody hell. You know what? Maybe I will.” She took one and bent towards Georgie for a light. “What did she invite you for?” She inhaled. “No offense.”
“None taken. Been asking myself the same question. Committee this, lunch that—wretched woman won’t leave me alone. Harassment, that’s what it is. Pure and simple. As a matter of fact, I’m considering a restraining order.”
