Here Is The Beehive

by Sarah Crossan

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A brilliantly original debut about a love affair cut short, and how lonely it is to live inside a secret -- for fans of Sally Rooney, Sheila Heti, and Ottessa Moshfegh.

Ana Kelly can deal with death. As an estate lawyer, an unfortunate part of her day-to-day is phone calls from the next of kin informing her that one of her clients has died. But nothing could have prepared Ana for the call from Rebecca Taylor, explaining in a strangely calm tone that her husband Connor was killed in an accident.

Ana had been having an affair with Connor for three years, keeping their love secret in hotel rooms, weekends away, and swiftly deleted text messages. Though consuming, they hide their love well, and nobody knows of their relationship except Mark, Connor's best friend.

Alone and undone, Ana seeks friendship with the person who she once thought of as her adversary and opposite, but who is now the only one who shares her pain -- Rebecca. As Ana becomes closer to her lover's widow, she is forced to reconcile painful truths about the affair, and the fickleness of love and desire.

Funny, frank, and strange, Sarah Crossan's moving novel is wholly original and deeply resonant.

Release date: November 17, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 288

Sample

The only way

out

now

is to stay busy,

so I have borrowed

Anna Karenina

from my mother and will not

allow myself to cry

until I have read it.

Twice.

It was ten o’clock in the morning.

My tea had cooled in the mug.

I wanted another biscuit.

I wanted to message you.

I was sorry for the argument.

Very.

Helen buzzed through.

‘I have a Mrs Taylor on the line.

She says we wrote up her husband’s will

and he’s passed. She seems fine.’

I scrolled through emails:

clients, questions,

an L. K. Bennett sale.

‘Put her through,’ I said.

I reclined in my chair,

ready to be soft, supportive.

‘Mrs Taylor, Ana Kelly speaking.

Firstly, let me say how terribly sorry I am for your loss.’

‘That’s very kind,’ she said.

On my second screen

I searched Taylor in the database.

Twenty-two clients.

‘May I ask your husband’s first name?’

‘Yes, of course, sorry. Umm…’

She was unsure,

like a name might be out of reach,

already stashed away on some high shelf.

And then.

‘Connor Mooney.

I’m his wife, Rebecca Taylor.

We have different names.’

The wife.

His wife.

Your wife.

The wife.

She had discovered us.

This was her way of getting in touch,

of punishing me,

because you were not dead,

we had spoken only days before.

I was planning to message you after lunch.

To apologise. Make things good again.

Rebecca was calling because she knew

and I needed a story to explain it.

Quick. Quick.

Think. Think.

‘He passed away on Tuesday,’ she said.

‘My brother-in-law suggested I phone.’

You’re lying, you fucking cunt bitch,

I didn’t say.

You’re fucking lying, you bitch cunt,

I didn’t say.

I said, ‘Goodness, I’m so sorry.

That’s awful news.

I have his details here in front of me.

We drew up the will a few years ago.’

My hands hadn’t moved.

I was scanning the list of Taylors.

Keith, Leonard, Meaghan-Leah.

In my throat was an ache, hot and heavy.

My right hand twitched even as I clutched

the desk to steady it.

I didn’t believe her.

‘The funeral is a fortnight this Friday.’

‘Thank you for calling.

You must have a great deal on your plate.

And please don’t worry about the legal end of things

unless there’s a problem paying for the funeral.’

‘That won’t be an issue,’ she said defensively.

‘Well then, I’ll call you afterwards.

You could

come into the office, perhaps.’

‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’

She spoke like we were arranging a dental appointment,

with a calm I could not understand,

yet similar to every bereaved spouse I’d known,

setting aside grief for the brief moments of legal dealings.

I took shallow breaths.

‘Do you know how to register the death?’

‘My brother-in-law is dealing with that.’

She coughed hard into the phone.

I wondered whether she was wearing black.

‘As executors to his will

we can assist with administration, so do ask.’

Rebecca coughed again.

I considered asking if she was sure.

 

Wholly.

No doubt.

Maybe it was someone else.

‘Is there any more I can do for you, Ms Taylor?’

She paused.

Was she going to confess to the joke?

None of it was true. Was it?

You were going to call minutes later,

frantic and found-out.

‘No. Thank you though,’ she said.

‘One last question. How did he die?’ I asked.

Rebecca told me, briefly, all about it.

And I told her, quietly, how upsetting it sounded

and how impossible it was to be without him.

‘Yes,’ she said.

I ended the call

and bought a pair of shoes in the online sale.

Purple suede. Pointy toes.

Impractical.

Unaffordable.

Then I did something

very bad

and got back to work.

Tell me.

What would you have done?

It is contrarily cold.

I am wearing a cashmere cardigan

over a long grey dress,

a vest beneath.

It is a Marks and Spencer look:

high-street ordinary,

plain to the point of being a blur.

I caught myself in the mirror

on the way out today,

hated the woman

you would see if

you sat up and took a look around.

Wouldn’t that be just like you?

To spy

and later

perform a post-mortem of the service –

fidgeting children,

the state of your mother’s face,

thoughts on how I behaved,

the analysis exhaustive:

I liked your hair up.

You should always wear lipstick.

Could you see from the back?

I haven’t eaten in fifteen days.

I haven’t seen you in twenty.

I don’t know when I’ll next have an appetite.

I won’t ever see you again.

I am as thin as I was at the beginning,

when every duplicity

pitched my guts.

You would say I look fine.

But I do not.

It has been noticed.

The partners seem worried,

like I might not outlive my clients’ muddles.

Nora bought me a bottle of Floradix.

Tanya asked if I was pregnant.

The sun is straining through the clouds

and it should defeat them

because it is July after all.

I am holding on tight to a bunch of white carnations.

You never mentioned a fondness for flowers

but soon you shall be carpeted in

brightly petalled

dying colour

as a mark of love.

How do you smell now?

Are your nails long?

St Mary’s car park is crowded.

I cannot see your coffin.

But I see Rebecca,

your boys,

all staring into nowhere.

We plan for death,

make sensible decisions while gorging on life.

But no one intends to die.

When you wandered into my office

three years ago,

you never thought

I would have to confront your family’s grief,

or my own.

You thought you had forever to make mistakes

and make amends.

Your sons are dressed in suits,

standing in a row like a little black staircase.

I turn my back on them.

I am not responsible for their sadness

though that’s what I’ve wanted.

Wouldn’t it have been better than this?

Wouldn’t it have been better my way?

‘Will Mrs Mooney be writing up a will with us?’ I asked.

You were in trainers for that first meeting,

an overcoat better donated to charity than worn.

‘My wife didn’t take my name and

I’m pretty sure she’s made meticulous plans

for her own death.

My death too, probably.’

Your laughter filled up all the space,

right into the dusty nooks.

We went through it:

personal data,

property,

pension.

I knew your entire life fifty minutes after we’d met,

while you knew nothing of me

apart from where I’d been to university:

I spotted you studying my walls –

certificates of accomplishment,

praise for a girl I scarcely remembered.

She was ambitious,

liked Manic Street Preachers,

sucked off her jurisprudence professor for a first.

Silly girl.

At the end, you loitered,

traced circles

on the desk

with your thumb

and, grinning somewhat, said,

‘I guess I’ll be back for the divorce.’

I lidded my pen,

left a space for you to speak.

It was January after all,

a busy month for break-ups and

scrounging around for grounds

after the hellish togetherness of Christmas.

‘We’re here for anything you need,’ I said.

I wasn’t being suggestive.

I was a professional

with certificates on the wall to prove it.

A Bristol graduate.

‘My colleague Tanya Kushner

is an experienced family lawyer.

I can ask the receptionist to make an appointment.’

‘Oh, Rebecca would never let me go.

Who’d put petrol in her car?’

You rose.

‘Once the will is ready you can

pop back in and sign it,’ I said.

‘We’ll provide witnesses.’

‘How lavish! I look forward to it.’

You put on the tatty coat.

A bottle of Ribena poked out of a pocket.

‘Are you Irish? With the surname Kelly you must be.

Unless you married particularly well.’

‘I was going to ask you the same.’

‘Both parents from Meath. Yours?’

‘Mum is from Cork.

Dad is from Cavan.

No one can pinpoint which town.

We all agree he was running from something.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ You winked then shuffled,

ashamed to have done it,

reaching for the door handle.

‘Have a good afternoon.’

I ate lunch alone at the Subway a few doors down.

A slice of cucumber fell on to my lap and

I noticed a ladder in my tights,

was glad I’d been sitting for most of our meeting,

was worried you’d spot me in Subway.

So you see,

even that first day you were

slinking around

inside,

stirring things up.

But.

Actually.

I didn’t think much more about you until we met by chance

two weeks later.

You were with Rebecca.

And, oh,

she was everything.

How can we know which days

will be the turning points?

So long as we live,

we gamble.

Red.

Black.

Put it all on Number 11.

A man is by my side. ‘Ana?’

He is handsome. Bearded. ‘Mark?’

‘Jesus. Is it a good idea for you to be here?’

Mourners in cars search for spaces,

ways to reach the crematorium

without having to cross the road and

traipse the length of the cemetery.

A woman strides towards us and relinquishes a child

like it’s nothing more than a bag of groceries.

‘He needs changing.

I’m getting a lift with Sheena,’ she tells Mark.

I hold out my hand to her but she is gone already.

We watch her go.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It must be…

I don’t have a clue. . .