"Then again lots of people are talking already," Frank is saying, "What else do people do at parties, apart from talking and drinking. Can I get you a drink?"
Gemma shakes her head and casts a panicked glance at Isabella and Hugo. From the former she gets a thumbs up and a wink. An even more panicky glance in Agnes's direction elicits the same response, and it all falls into place. This is stage two of the ambush Agnes planned for her tonight.
No doubt with Adrienne's input, with Isabella's active participation, and with the very best intentions in the world.
"There certainly has been talk, yes," Gemma says, stepping back away from Frank.
"Hmm," he says, looking at her, then around the room. He too gets a thumbs up from Agnes, and from Adrienne too, and a very dark look from Dylan and Kat.
"OK, I think I'm beginning to understand," he says.
"I don't think you possibly can," Gemma says bitterly. But for these fracking warrants, she would be tearing his pretty blue eyes out right now.
"You're right. You, Gemma Woodhouse, remain a mystery to me. But I think I'm beginning to understand why Agnes was so keen I show up tonight," Frank says with a nod towards Dylan and Kat.
"Trust me, you don't."
"He's bounced back quick, hasn't he? And in style. She's quite something – not a patch on you, of course," he hastens to add, "But eminently suitable, non?"
Gemma still has not had anything to eat or drink and yet she wants to vomit. It's not a pleasant experience.
"But why me? This is mystifying, Gemma, I'm afraid you will have to help me elucidate. Why did Agnes make it sound so much like I had to be here for your sake tonight?"
Gemma stares at Frank's magnificent, hateful smile. Agnes, and Isabella too by the look of it, meant well but this has to stop. It has to stop tonight. It will be awkward, but hey, she thinks bitterly, she has form in changing her mind about where she's at with a guy. In getting cold feet, bucking, freaking out. She'll call it that, one of her freak outs. Then she'll pretend that she's fine, and that will be the hard bit, because she's not fine, not at all. But then sooner or later she'll be completely undone, and in hindsight none of this will matter anyway.
"Agnes invited you because she has a heart of gold, and because she thinks that we are very much in love," Gemma says, in the tone of Siri reading out Google's updated Terms of Use.
"I see."
"I don't know about you but they're wrong about me. I'm not in love with you," Siri clarifies.
"Hmm, no, I didn't think you were either, therein lies the mystery. Quite apart from the manner of our last parting, I've not bumped into you at the gym for a month. Now looking at you so ravishingly slim tonight you're clearly still working out, so I conclude you've just been avoiding me, correct?"
Siri nods.
"And yet you didn't disabuse Agnes… or is it possible you two never discussed it? I rather think she saw us that night."
"Oh, she did, yes. Did you wave at her or something? So yes, we did discuss it."
"And… you told her you didn't love me. You were quite clear?"
"Clearly not clear enough."
"Hmm."
Hmm? Come on, Frank, what's not to get? You don't rock my boat. You don't do it for me. It's not you I want to wake up next to in the morning, it's him, over there, with the bombshell brainbox girlfriend whose parents very likely are from the Punjab, damn her! Get it now? It's really not that difficult. Well, not for you anyway. For me, it's hell.
And it's not just that I don't love you, it's that I really, but really hate, resent and despise you. Or as Dylan would put it: what part of frack off out of my life isn't clear to you?
"This love thing is a lot more complicated than they make it out to be," Frank says, "I don't think you and I are actually very good at it."
Ha! Gemma laughs a sad sorry little laugh, but this only makes him smile and try to look into her eyes again.
"Ironically that's the first thing I liked about you. Aside from you being beautiful and smart, the fact that you weren't romantically inclined. We're alike you and me, Gemma. Players, and winners. I liked that. I liked it a lot. You didn't need a Dylan to simper after you any more than I needed a Jane."
"Jane was insane, Dylan is a good guy."
"I'd say he's pretty mad at you right now."
Truth hurts. Siri switches back on:
"Yes but unlike Jane, Dylan wasn't mad to start with."
"Ah, but if I triumph I must make men mad…"
"I'm sorry?"
"Just another thing you've done to me: you've made me into a reader of poetry, Gemma Woodhouse. And not just any poetry: poetry in English."
"In that case I can only apologise on behalf of all English language poets," Siri says, wishing she were reading him Google's directions to hell eternal.
Strangely, for once Gemma's thinking not of Dylan, but of poor Martin. Of how much courage it would take for him to speak half so much pretty nonsense at Hari, as Frank's been spewing up at her. To speak any poetry, let alone that line, and not sound like Saruman calling forth the eye of Sauron. And yet in Martin's case it would be truthful, pure, sincere- beautiful. What a waste.
"You are a queen bee indeed, Gemma, ever ready to sting," Frank laughs his easy laugh. "… and to think that all I liked about you to start with was that you didn't care."
Siri shakes her indifferent head.
"That was back when I only liked you of course," Frank says almost seriously, "But this love thing: it's indeed very much a fall, isn't it? I find it makes you care, and that changes everything."
It's true, love does change everything. But Frank wouldn't know about that because:
"I don't think love's changed a thing about you, Frank. Assuming you are indeed trying to imply that you are in love with me. Are you?"
"I am."
"Really, you're trying to imply that?"
"I'm not trying to imply it, I'm saying that I am, Gemma! Give a man a chance, please! I am in love with you: there! I've said it! With a straight face. Where I come from there is no greater sin than loving in earnest, because that always ends in tears. But you can make me say it again if you like, Gemma, as many times as you like: I love you."
"Seriously?" she laughs, before her exhausted brain can stop her stupid mouth. But yes, seriously, how can Frank stand here pledging undying love to her on a Saturday night, and spend the rest of the week lying to her about someone's daughter being in a coma, so he doesn't have to fess up that he's trying to sack her from the company she founded? How can he? Is it venality, cruelty, sheer French playfulness in love and war? How can he do that and then be in any way confused about her not liking him, let alone be in love with him?
He does look hurt, bless him. Or rather don't bless him: damn the bastard to hell.
"What a waste," he says.
"My thoughts exactly," Siri responds, whilst Gemma steals another look at Dylan. Kat's whispering something in his ear and he's smiling. Not the smile that means trouble, Gemma can't help but notice, but he's smiling.
As if that mattered now: he's not smiling at her. Never will again.
"He may not be as mad as Jane," Frank says, "but he's at least twice as stupid."
"Excuse me?"
"Dylan's a fucking fool."
"Excuse me!"
"If he can't see you're so bloody hung up on him, then he's a greater fucking idiot than you give him credit for. You know I'm right, Gemma, forget him, he's a fool."
"Dylan is not a fool."
Siri has been disactivated and Gemma feels like she's back to shivering in front of Mrs Weston, knowing how much the shampoo will hurt but defying her mutely nonetheless. Digging her heels in, even as the bathroom's floor-tiles are already slipping up from under her feet, and she knows that she doesn't stand a chance.
Actually it's worse than that because in the present case, the fight was over three dates ago. Queen Bees do not go after other Queen Bees' men, so Gemma has lost. She has lost Dylan. The fight is over. It's the eye-stinging that's only just beginning.
She's aware that Frank has been staring at her but she's not looking back at him, so much as through him.
"Gemma?"
"Frank."
"If Dylan's not a fool then he's a dickhead, and I'm not going to be either," he says, and swoops in.
x
This time she was more ready for it than she thought, so his mouth doesn't make contact. Not with hers anyway. But in many ways it is worse than last time. Pushing him away takes a lot longer. There's a prolonged tussle, during which he attempts with some success to kiss her neck, her face, the very hands she's trying to bat him off with. He's pleading with her under his breath, mostly in French.
If only she weren't so damn short! He's all over her. His face is everywhere, as is the smell of him. She wiggles her head this way and that, like she did under shower for Mrs Weston, and with no greater success. She begins to fear she won't be able to escape, and fear makes her breathe harder. Frank responds by pleading more urgently. How long can she keep this up? For a second she's tempted to give in and kiss him, to make the fighting stop.
She looks at him instead of turning her face away, and somehow manages to free up one of her hands in time to slap it over his mouth. She breathes in and holds his gaze as she presses him away, as hard as she can, until he stops and she makes her escape.
x
She does not run, she walks. Cautiously, because now that she's out of his reach she can't make herself small enough. She can't let anyone see, or guess, what happened.
Dylan's too busy eating Katiya's face to notice her passing them on her way to the emergency exit. So at first she thinks she's done rather a good disappearing act. It's cold outside, but it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters. Someone's banging something inside. Probably the ladies' loo's door. There's muffled shouting and door rattling and then the emergency exit door bursts open, spewing forth Isabella's magic jumpsuit. Gosh, she really does look good in that. Like one of Charlie's original Angels. The blonde one, obviously.
"You OK? What the hell happened?"
"Nothing," Siri says. As in: When possible, please make a u-turn - and leave me alone.
"Gemma?"
"Yes."
"Gemma, what happened with Frank? That was Frank, right? Why are you crying?"
"Am I crying?"
It appears she is. Her whole face is wet, and there's wet spots on the skirt of Dylan's favourite dress, which is dry clean only and therefore ruined. But that doesn't matter either, because Dylan is too busy eating the face of a woman infinitely more suitable than Gemma ever was, to give a monkey's about her, or about this stupid dress.
"Dylan's right, Isa. I'm mean, and weak, and a fraud, and my entire life is a sham right now, and I… I don't know how much longer I can carry on. I've tried, but I just don't know how long I can… I just want it to go away, everything, I just want to disappear, to..."
"OK Gemma, stop, right now. I know you've had a rough evening, but you don't get yourself in this kind of state over a break-up and a bad snog."
"IT WASN'T A FUCKING SNOG!" Gemma screams, and feels a little better for it.
Isabella, unused to hearing her sister drop the f-bomb, let alone at that volume, takes a moment to let it sink in. Meanwhile inside Gemma it's as if a beast has been unleashed, and won't be reined back in:
"It wasn't a cocking snog, OK? I never willingly so much as kissed him, never, and I've had just about enough of everyone making that assumption, just because: Ooh, isn't he hot? Well he's a fracking wanker, is what he is, the frocking king of jolly Wankers and I hate him. I'm not sure I ever even liked him any more than I've liked anything pretty before, like… this handbag! There! There you have it: I've never liked Frank over and above this handbag. And at least this handbag is useful, it carries my stuff, see, like my phone? Whereas Frank's worse than useless and the very spawn of the devil, and I can't believe I've let him take my whole life away from me."
Gemma's ranted herself from f-bomb down to a mere jolly, and then down to planet earth again, where things are so grim she sincerely wishes she could carry on down, all the way to hell, which can't be worse than this here and now.
"Look, I know things feel awful right now," Isabella is saying, her arm on Gemma's back, "but Dylan's not your whole life, darling. You're going to be fine. There will be others, it doesn't need to be Frank, it'll be fine."
Gemma shrugs her sister's arm off.
"I wish everyone would stop saying that, Isa. I'm not going to be fine, not this time."
"You will though. Let Frank and Dylan go to hell, or to Geneva or wherever they like, you've got me, darling. And Agnes, and Dad. You've got your Queen Bees, for God's sake!"
"No I don't, Isa. Not for long anyway. I told you, my whole life right now is a sham."
x
A few minutes, and many sheets of the ladies' room's hand towel later, Isa has been appraised of the full scale of the disaster.
"So that's what a warrant does?"
Gemma nods.
"And why did you issue them in the first place?"
"I told you, they make borrowing cheaper."
"I see, why?"
Gemma is vaguely aware of her sister's hand on her wrist as she explains the financial value of optionality, but Isa's looking at her watch rather than at Gemma.
"Aha. And when did you last eat anything?"
"Can't remember."
"Drink anything?"
"Dunno."
Isabella lets go of Gemma's wrist and feels her forehead instead:
"OK, you stay sitting here, I'm gonna call Hugo."
"Sure."
An unquantifiable amount of time later Hugo appears through the emergency exit carrying three drinks and several packets of nuts and crisps on a tray, which he pops onto the bench next to Gemma. His wife then dismisses him like the scrub nurse that he is. And to think that he's paying good money to a babysitter to be his wife's scrub nurse tonight. Isabella dismisses him without so much as a how-do-you-do.
"Have the juice first," Isa says.
"I'm not thirsty."
"Of course you're not. You're completely dehydrated. Go on."
Gemma looks up at her, thinking of poor Hans.i on the bar a while ago. Big sisters, hey?
"OK I'll try."
She almost gags on the first gulp, takes a smaller second one, under Dr Woodhouse's sternest gaze.
"Nuts or crisps?"
Tough call: Gemma cannot remember when she last ate either.
"These are pure calories from fat, Isa, I'll have some banana when I get home."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No."
"You need fat, look at you. Come on, crisps or nuts, you pick, I don't care, but you have to finish the packet."
Gemma stares up at her. All her life they've bossed her around: first Isa and Mrs Weston, and then Matron at school. They mean well and it's usually faster in the end not to fight them. She casts a despondent look at the packets on the tray, and plonks for the peanuts: more calories, but less chewing and swallowing involved. Even so, getting them down feels like a very unpleasant forever.
"Can I go now?"
x
"No you can't. Have one of those," Isa says, pointing at the remaining glasses.
"Which one is the water?"
"Neither, there's a double gin and tonic and a double vodka tonic. Doesn't matter which is which, they're both full fat. I'll have whichever one you don't, so neither of us has to drink alone."
Gemma shakes her head.
"Why not?" Isa asks.
"You know why not."
"I think if you're only going to get drunk once in your life tonight's the night, Gemma."
"But I'm never getting drunk."
"You are, tonight. Don't worry I've got you, you're coming back to mine afterwards, Dad will never know. Hugo's sorting out transport and I've already texted Peter Rabbit that he won't be needed. Given your usual alcohol intake you'll wake up tomorrow with a raging headache and stay in bed all day feeling sorry about something other than Dylan or warrants, and the only thing that'll make it better will be the bacon I will be frying especially for you."
"Thanks, but I'm still not getting drunk."
"Why not? Everybody gets drunk sometimes."
"Not you and I."
"Not true. I very rarely get drunk, and never in front of you, Dad made me promise, but occasionally it's happened. Now your turn."
"No."
"Why ever not?"
Dr Woodhouse's stare leaves no space for doubt: this is an intervention. The world's first intervention aimed at making anyone drink more alcohol.
"I can't."
"Can too, you drink what's in the glass. You're not scared now, Gemma, are you?"
"Of course I am."
Why is Isabella doing this? It's like that time she made Gemma catch a spider in the pool shed with her bare hands, to prove that she wasn't scared.
Of course Gemma was scared. She did it, but she was so terrified and disgusted that she then spent the next hour vomiting her lunch. So then they had to lie to Mrs Weston about going for a swim too soon after their meal, which involved sneaking back to the pool first to dunk their hair in chlorine.
Now as then, Isa asks a cool, detached:
"What on earth are you scared of?"
Now as then Gemma loses it:
"You know what I'm scared of! I'm scared of ending up dead at the bottom of a pool, there! Happy now?"
"I am, yes. I am delighted that my baby sister, despite having had the shittiest day of the shittiest month of her life, is actually horrified by the idea of an early death. Believe me that's a great start, I can work with that and I will. Drink up."
"No."
"You need the headache, and you need the bacon tomorrow. And also, Gemma, you're not an alcoholic. Neither am I. We're both very very lucky. Why do you think Dad had us start champagne and vermouth with him on our sixteenth birthdays? He needed to know. He'd keep scales in the drinks cabinet to weigh the bottles after he'd had a drink with us. He knew we wouldn't have been able to leave them alone if we'd taken after Mum. But we were fine, both you and I. It's lucky that we are. Drink."
Gemma takes one sip because a) Isa isn't going to let this go, b) the idea of oblivion, however brief and substance-induced, is extremely appealing right now and c) she's not actually drinking alone, which after all is the only rule Dad ever openly put down about drinking.
"Besides," Isabella says, "It's not alcoholism that killed Mum."
"Well it wasn't the pool either, was it?"
"Now now, Little Miss Clever. The thing what killed her is the same thing that's going to kill you, unless I make you finish this glass and see some sense tonight: Mum wouldn't ask for help."
"That's not fair, I ask for help all the time! I have to, ask Dylan: from day one he was forever carrying my gear and helping with stuff that was too high for me to reach."
"I don't mean like that. I mean serious shit. I mean failure."
"What failure?"
Isabella laughs, and it takes Gemma a moment to realise why.
"They say it's never as good as the first time, right?" Isa says.
"I don't think they say it about failure."
"They might as well, 'cause for a first one yours is an epic fail, Sis. It's on a whole new scale. It's… Gemma, you're the Queen of Failing right now!"
"Why, thank you," Gemma says, less bitterly than she would have five sips of vodka and tonic ago. This stuff actually tastes nice too…
"Mum was just like you- not used to failing. Even with the alcohol, she was always in control – that is, she thought she was. She stopped cold turkey while she was pregnant with you, and she actually stayed clean for the best part of the year you were born. You were such a good baby, Gemma, I've been lucky with my boys but you were in another league. We'll never know what got her to start again, because, well, she wouldn't talk about it, would she? I'd hear Dad try to make her talk, on the mornings after she'd had one too many. She'd swear to him and she'd stop again for a week, two, sometimes more, and then…"
They fall silent and, one sip at a time, each finishes her drink.
"But that's not how Queen Bees handle themselves, is it?" Isa says, putting her empty glass back on the tray and coming to sit down next to Gemma. "Queen Bees put their heads together and they get shit sorted, don't they?"
"Agnes's going to panic."
"Have you given her a chance? Agnes only sweats the small stuff. Did she panic back in 2014 with whatever that outbreak was?"
"True. But this is my fault."
"It's partly her fault too, plus: this is no time to give a crap whose fault it is anyway. Look at what happens when you don't talk to Agnes: she gets the wrong end of the stick about Frank, then she hands me the wrong end of the stick and between us we end up begging the arsehole to come and assault you all over again tonight."
"True…"
"I'm sorry, darling. I'm so sorry about Dylan. It's such a shame but you know, after all these years? Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Now Queen Bees on the other hand: if you managed to stall for this long, maybe it's not too late to fix it? But you've got to come clean with Agnes first. Talk to her, talk to Hari, bounce some ideas around, the crazier the better. There's got to be a solution."
"They're going to be so mad at me."
Isabella raises her eyebrow:
"Not as mad as you are at yourself, darling. No one ever is. Come on. I think our Uber is here."
As they drive off and around the front of the building again Gemma glimpses an orange and navy raglan sleeved tee shirt disappearing into the back of a cab, and pulling a laughing Hari in after him.
A Bee in her Bonnet is Copyright Mel Liffragh 2021, all rights reserved.