The Hive (5 page)

Bubba took up a fresh position against the dishwasher and, to no one in particular, smiled a hopeful, friendly smile.

“Is that Melissa coming?” Heather turned her attention to glasses, drummed her fingers against her lips. Where to start? “Bea thought she might turn up.” She headed towards the dishwasher—Bubba moved off towards the dresser—and opened it. “She looks lovely.” She shut the door sharply, pulled a face. “Know the one I mean? Tall, dark, bob…Wears ballet pumps.”

Jo reversed out of the cupboard, headed for the dresser and grabbed a bone-china dish. She bashed the side of Bubba's head as she did so. “Sorry,” said Bubba, as it seemed that someone ought to.

Colette and Clover were already seated tightly together around one end of the grubby table; they seemed to be at a separate social occasion all of their own. “The tricky one,” Colette was saying, “is Saturday…”

“Oh God,” Clover moaned. “Nightmare.” Her head shook, her eyes closed. “I don't know how anyone could expect you…”

“…what with the football in the morning and pickup from the sleepover and the dance recital in the afternoon…”

A curious sound started to come out of Clover from deep within. Words now beyond her, she had moved on to some sort of funereal ululation: “Tut, owwwww,” it went, “tut, owwwww.”

“…then I said to him, ‘Touch rugby? Sunday morning? You have to be kidding me…'”

Clover's moans and Colette's detailed itinerary rose up to the blackened gables of the kitchen ceiling. And there they met the manic chatter of Bubba making friends with Heather—

“…all we ever wanted was a quiet life, and average bright, and we end up with this
extraordinary
boy. Little Martha's perfectly straightforward, thank
goodness,
but Milo…Oh, I don't know. It just feels like such a responsibility to, you know, do the right thing…So. Anyway. How about you?”

“Oh, um, yes, well. Just the one. Sadly. I would say she is, yes, sort of average bright, perhaps. On,” Heather tried a cheerful laugh, “ha, a good day…”

—and the sizzling and chopping of a large lunch being hurriedly cooked. And all these noises came together to make a huge umbrella of sound, beneath which Georgie and Jo were free to talk.

“How's it going? Things any better with Steve?” It wasn't yet common knowledge that Jo was having trouble at home. Only Georgie was aware of it. And knowing Jo, she would like it to stay that way: if anyone else dared ask, they would probably get their heads stoved in. Georgie stole a sideways look as she reached for the wooden spoon. Jo never went in for makeup and all that at the best of times—it was one of the many admirable things about her—but today she was looking particularly ragged: pale face, shadowed eye, a furrow cut through her brow that wasn't there last year. Something deep in Georgie gave a sudden lurch of sympathy.

She was so fond of Jo. Anyone who knew her well had to be fond of Jo; to the mere acquaintance, though, she could be proper scary. She was just like a girl Georgie had really liked at school: only ever referred to by her parents as her “bad friend” and in that tone of voice reserved for a dose of measles.

“Bloody awful.” Jo took over stirring the shallots in the butter, so giving her back to the rest of the room. “He didn't get the job he went for the other week, and there's nothing else in the offing. You know”—she was talking directly to the wall tiles now.
Geo
rgie had to come next to her to hear—“I got back from night shift at half-six this morning and the tea things were still on the kitchen table from half-six the night before. Spaghetti hoops sort of fossilized onto the plates. And he's stretched out on the sofa asleep in front of the telly. Hadn't even got himself up to bloody bed.”

Georgie slid the chopped herbs into the foaming butter. Of course, this was what people round here didn't quite get: not only was Jo perfectly harmless, she was also as vulnerable, deep down, as all the rest of them. She just didn't bang on about it to anyone and everyone, and very refreshing it was too. “He needs a doctor, Jo. He needs proper help.”

“Yeah. Well. He doesn't want it. I couldn't help myself this morning. I was so knackered. I just flew at him.”

“And?”

“Huge scene. Nice for the boys to wake up to…”

“Oh, love. But they're all right.”

“Oh, they're all right. I'm all right, really.” Jo shook herself. “But I'm starting to think we'd all be a bit more all right without him around…”

She gave a dry laugh and turned back to the kitchen. “What's all this about, then?” Jo cocked her head in the direction of the table while popping a cherry tomato in her mouth. “Colette and Clover? That's new, isn't it? An unholy alliance if ever I saw one…”

“Poor Colette.” Georgie glanced over there. She was now painting olive oil onto bread slices. “All she needs. The minute she got the
decree nisi
, she somehow got Clover as her new BFF.” She tossed over some rock salt. “It's like those bugs the kids pick up at school. If you're on good form, they can't touch you.” Then crunched over some black pepper. “But if you're already a bit on the low side, that's it. They're in. Worming their way round, sickening your system…”

“She gives me the right creeps.” Jo gave an involuntary shudder. “And I bet she's pleased with herself. She's never managed to get in with the Sporties before, has she? What with that wart on her face and legs like a Shetland pony…”

“Shhhh.” Georgie nudged her friend in the ribs. They were both sniggering when they looked up, saw two women standing there proffering their fifteen quid, and stopped immediately.

“Hi,” said the braver of the new arrivals. “Bea suggested that we…”

Georgie wiped her fringe away with the back of her arm. “Oh, of course. I'm quite sure she did.” Jo looked them up and down, and took up position on Georgie's side of the chopping board. “Come in, come in. Oh yes. Just make yourself at home. Everybody else has.” She gestured at a roomful of women, none of whom had been offered so much as a glass of water.

The women looked baffled. One was halfway to putting her money back in her purse when Rachel put her head round the door.

“Well done.” Georgie stepped forward and kissed her warmly. “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to flake on me.”

Rachel stepped gingerly over the threshold. “Sorry. Tons of work to do and had to wait for the new washing machine. Whose is the Range Rover? Parked like a total nutter. Give us a nice big glass of something, will you? I could do with a little fortification.”

Preparation time:
15 minutes

Cooking time:
10 minutes

“Mmmm, shish ish shcrummy,” said Rachel through a full mouth. “Schtarving…”

“So are we!” said Heather, glancing at Colette. “We did an hour's run this morning.” Clover scowled at her, but Heather was just too cheerful to notice. “And then a good old session on the Car Boot Sale.”

Clover put a hand on Colette. “You must be shattered…”

Jo shot them a bitter look. “Chrissake…”

“Oh,” said one of the late arrivals, saving Heather from the scrutiny of her friends. “The Car Boot Sale.” She was desperate to join in somehow. “Sunday after next, is that right?”

Rachel put down her ciabatta. Her appetite was suddenly gone again. “Chris has finally announced that that will be his first weekend with the kids.”

“Then that's great for you!” said Heather, delighted. “Just what you need, a car boot sale. That'll take your mind off it all!”

“I doubt that's possible. It is, after all, my first Sunday on my own in—what?—fourteen years…”

“But it's so important, a bit of
me
-time,” chipped in Clover.

“Heather, dear,” called Georgie from the stove in her Mary Poppins voice. “You are developing, if I may say so, a rather car-boot-centric view of the universe…”

“Well, I just hope you're all coming,” said Heather with a frown. “This is a major fund-raiser for the school.”

Jo snorted.

“And they're always such fun.”

Jo snorted again, and louder.

“And”—time for the big rallying cry, a quote from Bea, as it so happened—“it's a great chance to just get rid of all your old bits.”

The table fell momentarily silent.

“Oh,” said Bubba. “I'm not sure I've actually
got
any ‘old bits.'”

“I have,” said Jo in a mournful tone. She wasn't snorting now. “I've only got old bits.” She was looking quite wretched.

“Ooh, actually,” brought in Bubba. “Lightbulb! Now I think of it, there's a
cupboard
full of old Alexander McQueens and stuff…”

“Oh, Bubba, really? That would be amazing.” Heather spoke to the table, aglow. “You know, it really could be quite something, this car boot sale. With a bit of positive energy and goodwill, we could really do something remarkable here.”

“On the subject of fund-raising,” cut in Bubba, picking her moment. “I've had an idea. What say you all to…a summer ball!”

“A what?” said Jo.

“A summer ball! By our lake!”

“Hangon hangon hangon. Whoa there. Your
lake?
”

“Friend of mine once, she had a lake,” Clover chipped in. “It was absolute hell…”

“Well. Pond. Ish.” She flicked her hand airily. “We're very lucky. Anyway. Dinner. Dancing. About a hundred quid a head.”

“One hundred quid???”

“All right then,” obliged Bubba happily. “A hundred and fifty!”

“But that's more than a night shift!” spluttered Jo. “Do you have any idea how many incontinence pads I have to change for a hundred and fifty quid?”

Bubba did not have any idea and nor did she look like she would care to.

“Oh dear,” said Clover. “It does sound a huge amount of bother. Is it going to be one of those things that is so much more work than it's worth?”

“Bubba.” Heather was practically swooning. “I think it's the most brilliant idea I've ever heard.”

“Does Bea know about this? Have you told her you're thinking of this?” demanded Colette. Her voice was edgy. “I mean, I really think Bea should be told…”

“Well, this does sound interesting.” They turned, as one, to the open door. They sat up, reflexively, straight. All faces, save those of Georgie and Jo, were instantly lit from within. Suddenly, lunch was looking up.

“Do tell. What exactly should I be told?”

Preparation time
: 10 minutes

Cooking time
: 25 minutes

Rachel shuffled up to make room next to herself on the long pine bench, but Bea went and half perched—like she didn't really want to catch something—beside Colette instead.

“A ball. Wow. Awesome. And heroic of you, Bubba, I must say. Heroic.”

Bubba was modest. “Oh, you know: From each according to their abilities…”

Bea cocked her head. “Really? No. I don't think I do know. Anyway. One thing to get straight: it can't be a
summer
ball, I'm afraid.”

“Oh?”

“No. I always do The Quiz in the summer.” She checked her phone quickly. “The Quiz is the summer…”

“But…”

“…The summer is The Quiz.” She picked a cherry tomato from Colette's bruschetta.

“Let me get you a plate,” said Heather.

“No thank you.” Bea took some goat's cheese from Clover's. “I'm not staying.”

Bubba was defiant. “But what about the weather? It doesn't matter what the weather is like for a quiz, but for a ball it's crucial. The whole point is to be in the garden, drinks around the lake…”

Rachel and Jo cleared away the plates from the starter. Bea lifted an entire bruschetta from one as it passed, and continued as if Bubba had not spoken.

“I think the best thing would be a Christmas Ball. Sounds marvelous. The English summer so loves to disappoint, anyway. Let's not even give it the option. A Christmas Ball. It's decided. Bubba, you're completely brilliant.” And she checked her phone again.

Georgie thumped her oversized, heavy-bottomed pan in the middle of the table with a brisk “Help yourselves.”

“My favorite,” said Colette.

“Poor you,” chipped in Clover. “Risotto's a nightmare.”

“Yeah.” Georgie stuck a ladle in the rice. She passed the Parmesan and grater. “Poor, poor me.”

“Isn't this fabulous?” Bubba swept her arms to take it all in: the humble meal served straight from the pan at the rough-hewn country table. “Straight out of—I don't know—
Wuthering Heights
or
Jude the Obscure
or something.”

“Christ,” muttered Jo, striking her familiar pose of bored crossness—she was in a one-woman war against the pretentious.

Heather was racking her brains. “Have I read those, Georgie? What happens?”

“Oh. You know. Usual. Everyone's miserable-slash-bonkers and then they snuff it,” said Georgie briskly. Jo snorted. “Cheers,
Blubber.
Hey, it's not my idea of a good time either, but one is trying one's best…”

“Sorry. And it's actually, um,
Bubba?
” She laughed nervously. “That came out wrong. I meant, you know, the sort of rustic
charm
of it all.”

Bea was using Colette's dessert spoon to scoop risotto off Clover's plate and periodically checking her phone, which remained disobligingly mute.