A Bee in her Bonnet Chapter 29: Mating flight, an emma fanfic

I can't believe it, but that's it. I started writing this story ages back, but couldn't get past chapter 5 or 6 for literally years. I liked Dylan and Gem, and Hari, but it took me a while to come up with MAU Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax, and to make the plot and their plottings work. In fact some of that only sorted itself out fully as I wrote.

A highlight of that second phase was definitely writing the Paris chapter in the deep dark middle of lockdown two (or was it three by then?), travelling back vicariously to some of the places I enjoyed walking as a student. Another high was writing this last chapter - which was weird, given I hadn't seen it coming or really planned on writing it in the first place. But setting Floris to rest really gave me a sense of peace and closure.

Anyway, it's bye for now. Many thanks to those of you who commented as you read. If you haven't already, do read On the Market too, it's a hoot. In fact I might now finally have time to finish a bonus chapter I've started for it.

I haven't got anything else ready to publish just now, but I do have a couple of ideas - some more ambitious than others. And I'd better carry on badgering agents about taking me on (no luck so far). So watch this space (subscribe, follow, whatever it is). If you liked the story, do tell all your friends to read it. And a couple of random strangers too, why not? Who knows, they might become your friends too.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

Mel

London, September 2021

For the second day in a row, a miracle has happened. Gemma has opened her eyes after a night of spectacularly uninterrupted sleep, to find Dylan's arm wrapped around her. She's spent some time feeling for his fingers under the duvet, then lifted it to peek at their dear, perfect, pink oval nailbeds, then she's kissed them and he's rubbed his face into the back of her hair while twining his fingers between hers. Then she's turned around to face him and kiss his nose, and he's fought her off to kiss her mouth instead, and now they're holding onto each other's heads at the temples and staring at each other with a comfortable intensity.

"Good morning, Dylan."

"Good morning to you, Gem."

"Is it really today we have to check out?"

"I'm afraid so, my love."

"I don't want to. I want to stay here forever."

"I'm afraid not even we can afford to."

"That's really not fair."

"Maybe if you'd not gone and squandered your ill-gotten trust fund on those warrants…"

"Hey, I've invested in a growth business with outstanding ESG credentials and steadily improving margins."

"Seriously, Gem, what have we got left to bicker about?"

He's cupped one of his hands over the crown of her head, which he explained yesterday is how they pacify babies in his family. It's true it's very calming to have his hand there. Makes it almost impossible to think of anything upsetting. So she pulls it off her head and kisses it:

"And we've covered facial hair: you're sure you don't want to grow your beard back?" she asks, running a finger on the side of his mouth. It's definitely getting scratchy, but even that is still novel enough that she doesn't mind, quite the opposite. If anything it makes his big soft wide lips even more tantalising.

"You're sure you don't want me to?"

"Your face, your rules, Dyl."

"Kids?"

"We said 50/50 on working from home, sick days and homework shifts?"

"50/50 on the good stuff and the bad seems fair, but I still think I should do more of the cooking."

"I second that, though I'd like to learn to bake a couple of things."

"I'd love you teach you, if you'll teach me how not to eat all the After Eights in the box in one sitting."

"Easy, I can teach you how not to buy them in the first place. And… you still don't think that picture my Dad sent of his last golf trip to Florida looked in any way silly?"

"Nope. A man's allowed to have a little fun in his old age, and he's keeping safe in the sun, nothing funny about that."

"Gosh, we are literally never going to bicker about stupid stuff ever again?"

"Nope, we've got better things to do," Dylan says, pulling her into his beloved bare chest, which is like the perfect mattress: big and firm, but with just the right amount of squishiness on top for you to sink into.

"What better things would you suggest?"

He's delighted to demonstrate.

A few hours later they are standing in front of the door to Heath View Lodge. There's a few things Gemma needs to pick up and pack for next week because, as Dylan's fessed up, he only actually needs to be in the office to sign off on his move back to London on Monday, organise a few things with the removal company, then they can spend the rest of the week wherever and however they please. It just so happens that he's got a booking somewhere very nice in Wengen, which is completely refundable in case Gemma needs to work, but which she will be only too glad to help him honour.

Dylan's insisted on shaving afresh before they left their room, and he's wearing a shirt he's paid well over the odds to have the hotel laundry wash and press. Anyone would think he was trying to create a good impression, and they'd be right. But his good intentions fly out of the window, or rather out of the front door of Heath View Lodge, almost as soon as Gemma opens it. She drops his hand to muffle a scream with hers.

Mr Woodhouse is not quite so successful at muffling some cursing which, on the plus side, covers whatever Mrs Weston is saying as she frantically pulls her blouse back over her chest. In their passion they've upended their golf caddies, leaving the entrance hall floor looking like a discarded game of heavy-metal pick-up-sticks.

Gemma feels a tugging at her arm. Dylan pulls them both back out, shuts the door, cups his hand on top of her head and says:

"OK breathe, Gem, close your eyes and think of Floris. Shit, no, sorry! Don't think of your Mum. Fuck! No, sorry, don't think of that either. Shit, think of your bees, Gem, breathe. It's alright, they're consenting adults."

He's right, Gemma remembers. Yet she grabs Dylan's free hand and clenches onto it with something akin to desperation.

"That was my Dad with my nanny in there!"

"You're a bit old to have a nanny now, Gem, aren't you?"

That too is true, of course, but then, Mrs Weston has always been so much more than a nanny.

There are confused noises on the other side of the door, which presently Mrs Weston reopens. Both she and Mr Woodhouse stand fully dressed, with her hand hooked onto his elbow. Thank goodness Dylan's hand is still in Gemma's. He's probably losing blood flow to his fingertips by now, mind, she's hanging on so tight. The golf caddies have been righted up and the sticks tidied away.

"Good afternoon, Mrs Weston," Gemma hears herself say in her shrill, just back from boarding school, twelve-year-old voice, followed by: "Hello, Daddy!"

"Hello, darling."

"Mrs Weston, Mr Woodhouse," Dylan says, holding his hand out with the only unstrained smile in this hallway.

Mrs Weston shakes his hand, then Mr Woodhouse finds himself in a quandary. In order to do the same he has to disengage from Mrs Weston's hand, which he only does for as brief a time as he politely can.

Then they all stare awkwardly at each other and at the floor for a while, then at the exact same time Mrs Weston says:

"Would you like to stay for some luncheon?"

while Gemma blurts:

"Dylan never broke the conservatory."

This unfortunate timing does nothing to lighten the ambience, and silence and floor-tile-staring resume. Gemma feels Dylan extricate his hand from hers, stretch his ischaemic fingers, then grab a gentler hold of hers.

"Sorry, Dyl," she whispers up at him.

"'s OK. Never thought I'd say that but you don't actually know your own strength."

Fair cop. Gemma looks back at her father and repeats:

"Dylan didn't break the conservatory at the twins' christening."

"Gem, it's fine…" Dylan is saying, and now he's the one squeezing her hand a little too hard.

"I know," says Mr Woodhouse, "Quentin told me a while back."

"So?"

Mr Woodhouse wonders why his daughter and Mrs Weston are both staring at him with the same cross look that toddler Gemma used to serve him if he tried to give her one rusk, instead of placing one each in both her hands. Nor can he fathom why Quentin and Gemma should both be so worked up of late, about some blasted conservatory window that's been fixed for years.

"OK," Gemma says, "Dylan and I are going to head upstairs to pack up a few things before we fly out to Switzerland tonight. We'll be back on Friday, then we'll look for a place to live together. While we're upstairs I'd like you to think about that conservatory window, Daddy, and we'll talk again when we get back down."

"Our kids aren't going to mess with their mum," Dylan says as she drags him up the stairs.

"Our kids had better have better manners than my Dad, Dylan. I'm sorry."

"'s OK, Gem. It's still his house."

"True."

"Wow," Dylan says, stopping as they enter her bedroom.

"Sit down, make yourself comfortable, I'll be as quick as I can."

But Dylan just stands there. Gemma thinks of the easy way he sprawled onto the bed of that terrible little flat she visited aeons ago, last Friday night. She looks at him now: it's as if the drapes of her four-poster bed were sprayed with Novichok.

Actually, perhaps they are. Whatever thoughts she or Dylan might have harboured of having any fun on this bed before or after packing, they have been zapped by a potent new nerve agent called "catching your dad having it off with your old nanny in the hall".

Instead Gemma shows Dylan around the en-suite and the sitting room, and then drags him into her dressing room. Dylan's hand has gone limp around hers and he's still not said anything since that Wow, which is beginning to feel like a long time ago. She grabs his head with both hands, and while kissing him backs him into the armchair in front of her dressing table. It makes the chair look small and Dylan look big, and still uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, I guess all this was plundered from…"

"No no, it's not that."

What is it then? What's wrong?

"It's just: you've WhatsApped me from this room so many times, but I never thought I'd get to see it from the inside."

"Really? You've never been here?"

Gemma pecks his lips then grab a suitcase and her winter boots, then walks back into the bedroom to search the drawer of her bureau for her passport.

"In my head I have, many times," Dylan says behind her. She closes the drawer but does not walk back into the dressing room. She thinks of the many times Dylan cooked for her at his flat over the years. She thinks of her father, downstairs, probably still scratching his head as to why both his daughter and grandson should be so exercised about some age-old glazing incident.

"I'm sorry, Dylan," she says, walking back in with her passport, "I should have invited you up here a long time ago."

She gives him another kiss and searches the wardrobe for her down coat with the fluffy hood trim, and her good swimsuit. Apparently it's going to be beautiful but really cold up the Jungfrau, and the hotel has a very nice spa.

That's all that she came here for. The rest is at her new place. She clips the suitcase shut and drags Dylan out of his chair and back into the bedroom.

"So this is where you grew up?"

"Aha. Look at this bed: isn't it a veritable princess's dream?"

Dylan's smile makes a brief appearance before vanishing again.

"Remind me what was the point of giving you that bed, then sending you off to boarding school? Is that what you posh people think of as character building?"

"Don't worry, Dyl, we talked about it, I'm not going to send ours away boarding. Isa never sent the boys to Eton either."

He smiles another fleeting smile:

"Yeah, and I positively look forward to paying up so ours go somewhere they won't have their heads bashed in for being the only brown kid in school."

"Good plan. Probably rare in London to be the only brown kid in school these days anyway."

"Yeah, thank God for that."

They're back out of the room now, but something still doesn't feel right, as if Gemma's forgotten something in there.

Then it comes to her.

She abandons her suitcase on the landing and drags Dylan back in, through to the dressing room, sits him back into the too-small chair, climbs onto his lap and opens the bottle of Bee Kind Eye Makeup Removing Lotion she left behind when she moved out.

"This product," she says to him, "attracts a 15% margin after allocation of fixed costs at their current levels. We're planning a limited-edition bundle, which will include five of these non-bleached organic cotton washable flannel pads," she says, grabbing a clean one, "except they'll have our logo embroidered on the back and, given they cost tuppence, they'll boost the margin on the bundle to a full 20%. If they're popular, we will look at commercialising the flannel pads on their own - at a suitably ridiculous margin until we can get Montage off our backs, and off that of the aptly named Patience, in Obuasi."

"Aha."

"But what people don't know, is that if you put a little bit of the lotion on the pad, like this, and say, you're busy arguing with your best friend on the phone. Say you're wishing really really hard that you could turn back time, and go back to that morning you first woke up in his arms, or better still, that you could go back to the night before that, and take him back to yours, over there, and into that nice big princess bed," she says, thumbing through the doorway. "Say you wish you'd still had the amazing sex with him, but not the fight afterwards. Say that you wish things that were said could be unsaid, and that you're feeling really sad about it, but you're too proud and stupid and stubborn to admit to yourself let alone to him that you really want to cry your heart out about it. Then what you do is, instead of wiping at your eyelid from the centre out, like this," she demonstrates, "you dab just a little to the inside, so you get a tiny bit into your eye too. Not a lot, just a tiny bit, and it stings, and then you can pretend that that's why your eye is watering, and not because you're breaking your heart over losing your best friend."

Dylan has been holding on to her waist and listening with puzzled patience to this unconventional product demonstration. He reaches a hand to examine Gemma's bottle and pad.

"Huh," he says, with the beginning of a proper smile ebbing back onto his face, "and all this while I thought you were just supposed to scoff samosas and After Eights in front of Three Idiots. Silly me."

"That probably works too."

"Not that we're going to need to do either in the future, I don't think. Should I trash this, or are you going to use it to remove make up?"

"Trash it, it's out of date now and the bottle's recyclable."

"Perfect," Dylan says, finally looking like himself again. He drops the bottle into the bin, smoothes Gemma's hair, tugs at the golden bee dangling from her neck, then kisses her.

"Are you sure you won't stay for a little late luncheon?" Mrs Weston offers when they reach the bottom of the stairs again, "Henry and I haven't had ours yet."

Henry? Well yes, that is the name Gemma's grandmother gave to Gemma's father, as indeed was her prerogative.

"That's very kind, Mrs Weston, but we had brunch on the way over and I've still got more packing to do at mine."

"Please, Gemma, isn't it time you called me Anna?"

"Yes Mrs… that is, of course, Anna."

Mr Woodhouse clears a non-existent frog in his throat and says, a little too loud:

"But you two will have time for a glass of Vermouth in my study, won't you, Dylan?"

"Sure, that sounds great, Sir."

Dylan is almost certainly lying, but he's doing it with a kind heart, and therefore with Oscar worthy conviction. They all follow Mr Woodhouse to his study, where soon they are equipped with deliciously fragrant drinks.

None of them could be described as sitting comfortably. They perch in their pairs on the edge of their respective double Chesterfields, glass in hand. Never has the tinkling of ice on crystal rung louder, until Mrs Weston says:

"Henry?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Henry…"

Gemma knows that look on Mrs Weston's face. It's the get-here-it's-time-to-wash-your-hair look. God help her father: he's got nowhere to run and he knows it. He clears his throat again:

"Dylan, I'm sorry if I ever gave you or Quentin the impression that you had to cover up for breaking that window. God knows I broke a few in my days! Put it that way: Quentin doesn't get the drop-kick gene from his father's side."

Mrs Weston nods him along as she used to when Gemma was sounding her phonics out to her:

"And I'm sorry if I gave you the impression that I bore you any grudge over it, Dylan. It was only a bit of glass, and you've been a great friend to Gemma over the years."

"Thank you, Sir, that's very kind," Dylan replies. "I've been lucky to have her," he adds, and squeezes Gemma's hand.

He and Mr Woodhouse nod at each other, and Mrs Weston's face relaxes a fraction.

"This Vermouth really is delicious," Dylan says, smiling as the sound of ice-tinkling threatens to deafen the room again.

"Henry gets it shipped by this small wine maker he knows in Puglia," Mrs Weston, that is, Anna, says.

"Mr Woodhouse clearly is a man of taste," Dylan says and dials his smile right up, almost to means-trouble level. His really is a smile that can light up a room but still, in front of Gemma's father, it's a gutsy move.

It works: Mrs Weston, that is, Anna, gets the compliment and begins to blush. Mr Woodhouse, that is, Henry, smiles at her and pats a proud hand between her shoulders:

"You're not wrong here, son," he says, and raises his glass.

They all take a sip and get over themselves a little.

"Will you be free to take lunch with us next Sunday then, maybe?" Anna Weston asks with that placid smile, which has often been mistaken for being dull. Good job true kindness also forgives those who mistake it for a lack of wits.

Dylan looks at Gemma and starts nodding at Anna, but Gemma stares hard at her and says:

"On one condition."

Panic washes over Dylan's face. Last time Gemma said this, and looked like this, she proceeded to put on the sort of PDA that Dylan himself would relish, but the opposite Chesterfield is not ready for.

Probably never will be.

But Mrs Weston, as Dylan now finds out, is one of the few persons besides himself and Isa, who has never feared standing up to Gemma. Dylan watches Anna do with her pretty grey eyes, still wide if now loose-skinned with contented middle-age, what he himself attempted to do with his hand a while ago by the front door.

"Yes, my dear?" Mrs Weston says.

"I'd like you to make pasta cake again, please," Gemma struggles to say.

Dylan and Mr Woodhouse look at each other.

"Sure, Gemma, if that's what you'd like to eat."

"And those rusks you used to make."

"OK, provided you also have some vegetables, you know the deal."

"And will you show me, us, Dylan and I, will you show us how to make them?"

As Mrs Weston nods Gemma turns to Dylan:

"For a while those were literally the only two things I ate. Rusks and that pasta thing in the oven. I don't know how she makes them, they're just… you've got to try them. And we've got to learn to make them."

"Sure, well that's a date then," Anna Weston says, "come on Sunday around eleven, it doesn't take long to make."

With her work done and the atmosphere now noticeably more relaxed, Mrs Weston asks:

"So where is it you two are eloping to, then?"

"Geneva tonight, and with a bit of luck Wengen by Tuesday," Dylan says.

"Ah, Wengen!" Henry Woodhouse says, "The Jungfrau-bahn, the Eiger, the glaciers!" then to Anna: "I took Floris there, you know, the year before we were married."

"Oh dear, but Floris was so scared of heights! Was she OK?"

Gemma looks from one to the other. She can't remember the last time her mother's name was spoken in front of her. All this time she too has thought that it was best avoided but here Floris is, in the room with them, whilst in Mr Woodhouse's head she's also on the top of Jungfrau, a young woman, not yet a mother. Meanwhile inside Anna Weston's head Floris is the pretty, kind, fun-loving, generous and sometimes brutally overwhelmed first-time mum she once worked for, back when she herself was only recently widowed.

"You're right, dear," Mr Woodhouse is saying, "But she enjoyed the train ride up from Kleine Schneidegg. Floris had this eye, didn't she? She saw more beauty in the world than the rest of us ever can. Then she got this terrible headache at the top, from the altitude. You must watch out for the altitude, Gemma. And you, Dylan. It's a funny thing, altitude sickness."

And time, time is a funny thing too, and space. How the four of them are simultaneously all in this room, now, but inside their heads three of them are also on top of the same mountain both in the past, and in the future. Funny how the one person not in this room is so very much in it, hugging Anna on one of those hard days in the beginning, when grief would still randomly floor her, and leave her heaving with tears halfway through peeling a carrot or changing one of Isabella's nappies. Floris is also lying in the sun next to a dark-haired, short-sleeved Henry, in a green meadow overlooking Lauterbrunnen. Floris Woodhouse is on both Anna and Henri's faces even as they look at each other but she's gone, at long last, from the bottom of that blasted swimming pool.

Hours later the seatbelt signs turn off and Dylan wiggles to make his head comfortable on Gemma's shoulder. They really are flying now. Dylan seems intent on sleeping through it, but Gemma feels wide awake as she stares through the window below them, and onto the vanishing lights of the Dover coast. Everything else is deep in darkness.