The Hive (28 page)

“Oh, it was just luck, really, with the retail coming up
and
the coffee,” put in Bubba, while she fiddled with the meths.

Georgie carried on. “Looking at the scoreboard, that’s a strong position we’re in there. And we haven’t played our joker yet. So…”

“What is she banging on about?” said Jo. “Shut up, George. I’m starving.”

Time for the big moment: get this lovely cheese bubbling away. Bubba got out her matches, was just about to strike one when out of nowhere Bea’s
ghastly
mother bore down upon them—like a huge giant monobosom out of, like, a monobosom horror film—and snatched it from her hands.

“No, no, no, you don’t,” boomed Pamela. “Health and safety! Health and safety! What more do I have to say than HEALTH AND SAFETY? Are you COMPLETELY MAD? There will be NO MATCHES IN THIS BUILDING.”

The whole hall was now watching them. “But…We’re having a fondue? It’s our theme?” And it wasn’t even fair: Bea had lit her candles. Where was Mark? She looked around wildly. He’d know what to do. Why was he on his way out of the door? “Darling? Come back…”

“Sorry, babe,” he called across, waving his mobile. “Can’t stop. Work. Crisis. Gotta go.”

The monobosom thundered on. It did not care about Bubba’s theme. It did care about burning the house down. It was confiscating the matches. And then off it thrust, this confiscating, thundering monobosom, to ruin some more fun elsewhere.

Rachel was outside in the car park, taking in several much-needed drafts of fresh night air. She had been unable to settle once Tom had left the table, she didn’t know why. She was hot, yet her legs felt suddenly chill. And jumpy. Nervous. She needed to calm down.

“Hello.” Suddenly Chris was beside her. “How’s your team doing then?”

“Evening.” This felt weird. Although she had seen Chris twice a week for the past six months, they were never actually alone together anymore. “We’re holding our own so far. You?”

“Good, I think. It’s pretty easy, isn’t it?” Was that a scoff? It was. He was scoffing. “We’ve got a few geeks who seem to be taking it seriously, so I’m letting them do most of it. Just chip in when they’re stuck. Don’t want to steal anyone’s glory.”

Rachel did not trust herself to reply.

“I know it’s not one of ‘my days,’ but I thought I might pop round afterwards. As I’m in the ’hood. Kiss the kids. Perhaps we could have a nightcap.”

“Sure,” shrugged Rachel. Good idea. We’re co-parents, so, obviously, it would be good to…But even while her head was saying all that to itself, her heart just carried on sinking anyway, entirely under its own steam.

“Great.” He patted her on the bottom. She flinched. He didn’t notice. “And may the best team win, eh?”

The Outsiders stared down mournfully at the Tyrolean tablecloth. Georgie picked up a bread cube and sucked on it sadly. “That’s that, then,” said Jo, with her head in her hands.

“Oh dear. Poor you.” Melissa was suddenly among them. “Can I offer an emergency food package? We’re a garden of plenty over there.” As she pointed, Sharon and Jasmine rose to their feet, lifted a couple of plates and brought them over.

“That’s a goat’s cheese tart with thyme, garden mint and early-summer vegetables,” smiled Melissa as she found a space on the table. “All grown by our fair hands, and pretty delicious. And the first strawberries—best taste of the year, don’t you think? Full of the promise of a future.”

Jasmine handed over two salads—one garden, one potato. “And if you want any more,” said Melissa “just shout.”

Bubba watched them all fall, like extras in
Les Mis,
upon Melissa’s castoffs. Which were pretty ho-hum-looking in her view and anyway nothing whatsoever to do with the theme. “Nice bread cubes here,” she offered, “to have on the side?”

She kept her eyes down. She couldn’t see Bea’s table. But they were laughing at her over there, she just knew.

Colette walked past on her way to the bar, beaming and pushing a man ahead of her like a supermarket trolley. She gave them all a wink.

“Hey,” said Rachel. “That’s not the same one, is it? Isn’t that a different one? Psst, Colette! That’s not the same bloke who came on the fun run, is it?”

Colette giggled and leaned in to the table. “New one, as a matter of fact. They’re like number nineteen buses at the moment. Turning up all at once.” She gave a cheerful shrug and wiggled onwards.

Georgie turned to Heather. “I thought she was seeing the twins’ dad.”

“Moved on to internet dating now.” She looked fondly at Colette’s retreating derrière. “Bless. She’s so much happier. Every weeknight, she goes shopping for men on the web, and then when the kids are with their dad at the weekend she gets them delivered. It’s ever so sweet.”

“Ugh, for God’s sake,” spat Georgie in fury. “That’s disgusting. They’re not turning up like number nineteen buses at all. That is a totally misleading analogy. The thing about the number nineteen bus, Mr. Orchard Tom,” she leaned in to the headmaster, “is that it turns up of its own accord. See?”

Tom took another slice of tart and nodded.

“Now, internet dating, that’s a different thing altogether. That is like getting on to the bus depot and saying to the manager, ‘I would like to charter a series of nineteen buses and I want them to stop at my house and at my own convenience.’”

“And then giving them one when they get there,” added Jo with a leer.

“Typical Georgie,” Rachel explained to Tom, as she forked in some nasturtium salad. She felt better with some food inside her. And sitting back here. With him. “Couldn’t give a monkey’s what anyone gets up to in private, but wanton abuse of a metaphor? In public?” She gave a low whistle. “Terrible…”

“I must say,” said Tom, laughing, “it’s good fun on your team. Even if we’re not going to win.”

“Well we like having you, Mr. Orchard Tom.” Georgie bowed her head in welcome. “And we bloody are”—she thumped the table—“GOING TO BLOODY WIN.”

“Argh,” said Georgie, banging her head on the table. “If I could have my time again, I wouldn’t spend it doing a victory dance when we were only halfway through.”

“Regrettable,” agreed Jo.

“This,” explained Rachel to Tom, “is our Achilles’ heel. How are you on slebs?”

“Utterly useless,” he replied. “I’m proud to say.”

“Hey, I’m pretty good,” said Bubba impetuously. “Hand it over.” She took the answer sheet. “Leave it to me.”

If Bubba was to be totally honest, she was feeling a bit down. The fondue thing was a blow, a heavy blow. Because really, without the fondue, then why the edelweiss? Or the Tyrolean folk dress? In which she was starting to feel a bit of a chump. She could do with a personal triumph, to perk her up. She’d been rather jealous of Jo, with the sport. This should be good. After all, she has listened to
The Archers
religiously for, golly, months now. And
Downton Abbey,
of course. Absolutely
glued
…

“WHAT WAS THE NAME OF MINNIE CALDWELL’S CAT?”

Hmmm. Not the best of starts. Who or what was a Minnie Caldwell? She had simply no idea, but then who could? Just bung something down. Any old pet’s name. Might strike lucky…Tiddles? Or something a bit more exotic? It would help to know if it was pedigree…Oh dear. She seemed to have just missed another question.

“IN WHICH LONDON BOROUGH IS ALBERT SQUARE?”

Very strange. Isn’t that geography? Never a strength of Bubba’s, geography…The Memorial is definitely Kensington & Chelsea, so presumably the Square…Gosh. Did another question just fly by?

The next one
has
to be
The Archers.
Come on. Come on…

“WHICH SOAP WAS WITNESS TO THE FIRST LESBIAN KISS?”

Um. Well. There’s Shula? And Peggy? Surely they never…Anyway wouldn’t that be incest, too? Or was she getting muddled with Jill…?

“How’s it going, Bubba?” interrupted Georgie. Who was taking this
way
too seriously. “Are you getting them all?”

“Oh yes,” trilled Bubba. Why? Why did she trill that? Why was she even trilling? Damn, she just missed another question. He goes terribly fast, this chef chap. Steady on. You’re not in the kitchen now, you know. “All in hand. Over here.”

“OK. NOW ON TO CELEBRITIES.”

This would be better. Audrey Hepburn, Lady Di—she’d known a cousin of hers, in actual fact—Angelina Jolie, yadda, yadda. Bring it on…

“GIVE THE FIRST NAMES OF ANY TWO KARDASHIANS.”

Huh? Sorry? What the…Who’s a…WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK is a KARDASHIAN?

“Oh dear,” said Bubba, suddenly standing up. “Do excuse me. I believe I’ve been taken terribly
terribly
ill.”

And she flung down her crayon and flew out of the room.

“Oh no! Politics!” bellowed Georgie into the four corners of the hall. “We don’t stand a chance on politics. Not against Destiny’s mum.

“Might as well upset a few people,” she said quietly to the table. “We’re stuffed now anyway.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Christ. Why did we trust her? She’s a total nut job. No points! A whole round with not one point! That’s it. We are never going to recover. And Chris does actually know about politics. The evening, my friends, is lost.” She slumped down with her head on her arms, inconsolable.

“AT WHOM DID PEEPING TOM PEEP?”

“Stop it, Georgie,” said Tom firmly as he dashed off the answer without any consultation. “We are a strong team and this is a strong round for us. It is not over till it’s over and you will not give up now.”

“WHO ON THE FOURTEENTH OF JANUARY 1963 SAID ‘NON’?”

Georgie pulled herself up out of her hands as Tom knocked off another answer on his own. Rachel looked at the paper and smiled—shy, adoring.

“COMPLETE THE FOLLOWING: LINCOLN, GARFIELD, MCKINLEY…”

“Anyone?” asked Tom of the table. But before Georgie could reply, he’d written it down.

“NAME THE FIRST BRITISH PRIME MINISTER TO BE THE PRODUCT OF A STATE SCHOOL.”

“Interesting…” he said.

“Well,” said Rachel, whispering in his ear.

“Of course,” he agreed as he wrote.

“FIELD MARSHAL MONTGOMERY’S HABIT OF HAVING A GOOD BREAKFAST BEFORE A MILITARY CAMPAIGN GAVE RISE TO WHICH POPULAR EXPRESSION?”

Georgie knew this one, but there was something about Tom and Rachel and the atmosphere around them that made it seem improper to intrude.

“WHAT DOES THE S STAND FOR IN HARRY S. TRUMAN?”

Barging in now with the answer would be like barging through a bedroom door. Better off leaving them to it. If she just gave them space, they would get there in the end; they just needed to feel their way in, gently, explore a little, probe. And then…yes. Lovely. They’ve found it.

“WHICH TWENTIETH-CENTURY AMERICAN PRESIDENT NEVER WON AN ELECTION EITHER FOR PRESIDENT OR VICE PRESIDENT?”

This was, quite blatantly, quizplay as foreplay…

“WHICH RIVER DID JULIUS CAESAR CAUSE A WAR BY CROSSING?”

Georgie fanned herself with the spare paper. She couldn’t quite tell from here, but she really hoped that Chris was watching.

“There you are,” said Georgie. “Told you we were doomed.”

“WHERE IS BROWN WILLY THE HIGH POINT?”

“Hang on a minute,” said Heather proudly as Guy mouthed the answer across. “You’re forgetting one important person.”

“WHERE IS BITTER AND WHERE IS DISAPPOINTMENT?”

“This is Guy’s specialist area, you know,” Jo chortled, but Heather ignored her. It was her big moment, and it was not going to be ruined by Jo or anyone else.

“WHICH SEA AREA AND WEATHER REGION LIES TO THE WEST OF MALIN?”

“He’s brilliant at weather regions, aren’t you, love?”

“WHICH TOWN IS HOME TO THE MET OFFICE?”

“So we went on a tour of that once? For his birthday? Fascinating, all the instruments…”

“YOU HAVE BEFORE YOU FIVE ORDNANCE SURVEY SIGNS.” The table groaned. “PLEASE IDENTIFY THEM.”

“Oh, Guy,” swooned Heather. “It couldn’t be better! His absolute favorite.” He looked like a different man, sitting there, setting to work on his symbols. Broader, stronger, healthier. So manly. So confident. “Look at him go,” said Jo, as astonished as the rest of them. “He’s incredible. Half man, half machine. It’s like watching Messi on the pitch.”

“WHAT IS THE NAME GIVEN TO A LINE JOINING PLACES OF EQUAL RAINFALL?”

Guy was now in charge of the paper and the crayon. He tossed off the answer without speaking—casual, assertive, arrogant.

“FOSSILS FROM WHICH GEOLOGICAL PERIOD ARE LIKELY TO SHOW EVIDENCE OF THE LAND BEING COLONIZED BY PLANTS AND INSECTS?”

“He’s always had a thing for fossils,” smiled Heather wistfully. “Haven’t you, love?”

“WHAT NAME IS GIVEN TO THE TWELVE FINGERS OF THE SMALL INTESTINE?”

“As he knows to his cost,” she said around the table, her face screwed up with meaning. At which Guy looked up from his writing and declared: “From now on, I would prefer it if you refrained from telling the whole world the secrets of my digestive system.”

Georgie waved their joker in the air. “Right, you lot. This is it. All down to the last round. We’re level pegging with The Reigning Champs, and only two points ahead of The Constant Gardeners. We cannot afford any mistakes.”

“And we’re not going to make any,” Tom assured her. “Trust us. This is our night.”

“WHO, IN 1941, WAS BRITISH CIVILIAN PRISONER SEVEN-NINE-SIX IN TOST, UPPER SILESIA?”

“How are the Champs on lit then? Anyone know?”

“Well, Chris—” began Rachel.

“Chris is crap,” cut in Georgie. “He’s bluff, bluff, blow and show. Take it from me.”

“WHICH FIRST-CENTURY-BC ROMAN WAS WILFRED OWEN QUOTING WHEN HE WROTE THE WORDS ‘THAT OLD LIE,
DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI
’?”

Rachel whispered to Tom. Georgie kept her eyes on the enemy. “They don’t have a clue,” she threw back over her shoulder.

“WHERE DOES MR. SAUCEPAN LIVE?”

Rachel gave a jump, and then a giggle when she saw that Tom had got there even before her. He shrugged, and smiled a shy lopsided smile. “Bit easy? As it’s the greatest book ever written…” She smiled back. Tried hard not to cry. For that might just have been the most romantic, moving, beautiful thing she had ever heard. She pinched herself. It was important to ascertain what exactly was going on, right here, right now, in this hall, tonight. Was she actually sitting next to—were her bare thighs pressed against the soft worn jeans of—the world’s most perfect man then? Was that what was happening?