The Honey Queen. Cathy Kelly

within the company, a mother of two who was second in command in the legal department. She clicked on it.

      You in yet? Have gossip – not nice gossip.

      Where are you? typed Frankie.

      About to go to canteen. Need coffee. War when I left the house. Julie knows it’s my early day but she still hadn’t turned up when I was leaving, Clarice was on the kitchen floor screaming, Peaches was throwing baby porridge around and Ivan was glaring at me, as if it was my fault. I only got out by the skin of my teeth.

      You should fire her if she’s late again. I told you about giving her written warnings.

      It would be simpler to fire Ivan. Husbands are easier to come by than good nannies. See you in five?

      Frankie grinned and set off for the canteen, walking at speed through the vast open-plan beige kingdom that was Dutton Insurance. She certainly didn’t believe that a husband was easier to come by than a nanny. Besides, Ivan was actually a sweetie. Francesca knew it was useless to point out yet again that Julie was invariably late, barely listened to half of what Anita said and was paid as much as the head of the UN Peacekeeping Force. Last time she had said this, Anita’s voice had veered into near hysteria as she protested that Julie was the one person in the world capable of managing her two children: ‘She’s been with us since Clarice was a baby and she’s the only person Peaches will settle with. Even Ivan’s mother can’t make Peaches go to sleep – and she had eight kids.’

      ‘Blimey, eight kids,’ said Frankie. She’d have loved more children herself, but not that many.

      Anita was in the empty canteen pushing a tiny dark-red pellet into the trendy Nespresso machine that the Chief Financial Officer had installed on all the floors of the company two years before, when they’d achieved record profits, despite the state of the economy.

      In ten minutes, the canteen – which served the executive floor – would be buzzing with people in early for the monthly status meeting, attended by representatives from all the divisions. It was a largely for-show meeting because all the real business was done behind locked doors, but the CEO was keen on making everybody feel a part of the team.

      ‘Have you heard anything?’ Anita said, as she waited for Frankie to get her coffee.

      ‘Heard what?’ Frankie said slowly, again feeling that low drag in the pit of her stomach.

      It was obvious from Anita’s face that, whatever she’d heard, it wasn’t good news.

      ‘Heard that we’re in trouble, that there’s a takeover on the cards.’

      ‘Oh.’ Frankie reached for the nearest chair and sat into it. ‘Where did you hear it?’

      ‘Oh, the usual labyrinthine methods whereby gossip gets around. Someone in the executive dining room was overheard by one of the chefs who told his girlfriend on the third floor. I heard about it last night, haven’t been able to sleep. I mean, if we’re taken over by another company, loads of us are going to lose our jobs. What’ll I do? The mortgage is huge and we can only just manage it with both our salaries.’

      She looked so distraught that Frankie, who had spent her working life mentoring colleagues, ignored her own shock and pain to comfort Anita.

      ‘Now listen here,’ she said, ‘it’s just a rumour. Companies thrive on that sort of stuff. Besides, whatever happens you can get through it. We can get through it. We’re made of stronger stuff. We’ve gone through childbirth! You had a ten-pound baby, Anita. There’s nothing you cannot cope with.’

      The comment had the desired effect. Anita gave a snort of laughter.

      ‘Yeah, I guess,’ she said, shaking her head ruefully.

      Baby Peaches had been a positive Goliath, taking after her tall, broad father rather than her petite five-foot-two mother.

      ‘I know there’s no medal for childbirth, but there should be,’ Frankie went on. ‘A ten-pound baby – you should get gold for that. No, platinum.’

      They talked a while longer and then Frankie looked at her watch.

      ‘Time to move,’ she said, finishing her coffee. ‘Once more unto the breach and all that.’

      She hurried back to her office, rumours of a takeover now adding to the turmoil in her mind. Stay focused, she told herself. Panicking never got anyone anywhere.

      With the office still empty she decided to grab the chance for a speedy morning email to Emer and Alexei.

      Beautiful Emer, currently in Sydney but thinking of moving to the US for a few months, was waitressing by day and putting years of piano lessons to good use by playing in the restaurant of a boutique hotel by night.

      It’s incredible here, Mum, you’ve got to come out before I leave, she’d emailed only last week. I love it. The sun, the people. You’d love it too.

      If Frankie, who had read many CVs in her time, had to come up with one word to sum up her daughter, that word would be light: the shining light that flowed out of her like the sun. Emer was vivid and sparkling and prone to mischief. Frankie had been the same as a child.

      ‘How come you always know, Mum?’ Emer would demand crossly when Frankie would take one look at her child’s eyes shining naughtily in her tiny little face. ‘You always know what I’m doing – have you got X-ray vision?’

      ‘Yes,’ Frankie would say gravely, suppressing the urge to laugh. ‘All mothers have it. As soon as the baby is born, kapow! – we are given the gift. I can see through ceilings. So I know you have been upstairs doing something verrry naughty.’ She’d drag out the syllables in pretend menace.

      Emer was a kind person too, but in Sydney she was far removed from the pain in Sorrento Villa and it was out of the question to let on that there was a problem. That would only have her rushing home to help Frankie cope.

      So when Emer telephoned and asked: ‘Dad sounds down on the phone, is he all right?’ Frankie made herself smile into the receiver and slipped into her cheery, buoyant tone.

      ‘No, love, he’s just relaxing, taking time off from being a wage slave.’

      ‘Has he started work on the house yet?’ Emer said.

      In the background, Frankie could hear happy voices and could almost sense the sunniness of Emer’s new world. Wishing some of that sunniness would beam out of the phone and light up the gloom in her world, she upped the cheeriness a notch:

      ‘Not yet. We’re still discussing things. You know your dad, he wants it to be perfect. Now, tell me all about you, darling. What’s the weather like? It’s chilly here, I can tell you …’

      It was a struggle to come up with snippets of cheerful news from home, so her emails followed the same tactic of swiftly shifting the focus from life in Redstone to the latest goings on in Sydney and Japan. It was a little trickier in Alexei’s case, because he was hugely intuitive and much more liable to pick up on things. While Emer took after Frankie, drawing on a tough nugget of strength buried deep inside of her, managing to stay positive no matter what, Alexei was a worrier.

      She pictured him now, with his wide Slavic cheekbones, grey eyes and shock of blond hair, so different from everyone in the family. He might not have been born from her body, but he was very much the child of her heart. It had been a wrench, letting him go off on a gap year before college. The thought of her daughter travelling alone actually troubled her far less than the thought of her son venturing out into the world with three other boys for company. Emer had street smarts in abundance while Alexei was softer, much more vulnerable than his feisty sister, who’d signed up for a self-defence course months before she left.

      ‘Got to be able to look after myself, Mum,’ she’d said, showing off some of her techniques.

      Alexei took after Seth: he was gentle, thoughtful and prone to staring into the distance when working out a problem, his mind drifting off to