one-hit wonder (14 page)

“No, love,” said Lol wearily, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, “we’re not models. We’re something much better than models. We’re undercover detectives. But don’t tell a soul. All right?”

Ana and Lol waited until the confused-looking man wandered back to his friend before looking at each other and dissolving into cackles.

ten

Flint pulled his car up alongside the flower seller and climbed out.

“Morning there,” said the bearded man who ran the stall.

“How are you today?”

Flint shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Not bad,” he said, “you know.”

“The usual?”

Flint scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said,

“cheers.”

The man looked at Flint curiously but said nothing. He pulled ten tall stems of candy-pink roses from a green bucket, selecting the fattest buds, and tied them loosely together with cream ribbon. Flint handed him a 20-pound note and took the flowers and his change.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” said the man after a long pause, “the flowers. Nearly every day for the past three weeks. Who are they for? Wife? Mum? Girlfriend?”

“No,” said Flint, “they’re just for a friend.”

“A good friend, by the look of it.”

“Yeah,” said Flint, “one of the best. Too good for me.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh. You know. It’s easy, isn’t it? So easy just to be—you know—selfish. . . .”

“Oh well. There aren’t many of us around who aren’t selfish, mate. It’s the human condition. Self-preservation.

You gotta put yourself first—nobody else is going to.”

“Yes, but—it’s
wrong.
Just because it’s the human condition, it doesn’t make it right, you know. We should be able to rise above it. Look out for other people.”

“So,” said the florist, “what happened then? What was it?”

“Overdose.”

“Suicide?”

Flint shrugged. “We’re not sure yet.”

The florist sucked in his breath. “That’s bad,” he said, “that’s very bad. But you can’t tie yourself up in knots over it. For a person to do something like that—well, they’ve reached rock bottom, haven’t they? There’s nothing anyone can do when someone’s reached the end of the line.”

“Yeah, there is. There’s always something someone can do.

You never heard that story about the man on the bridge? And that other guy who talked him down?”

“Yes—but what happened after? That’s the real question.

He stopped him that time, but who the hell knows what happened next? Eh? Next time the guy was feeling down?

And there was no one there to talk him out of it? You know—this friend of yours—how d’you know you hadn’t already saved her a few times already? How d’you know you haven’t said a kind word at the right time, taken her out for a drink on a bad night, given her something to look forward to when there was nothing? Eh?”

Flint shrugged. The man’s words were of no comfort to him. “I was supposed to be looking after her,” he said. “It was my . . .
job
.”

“What—literally?”

“Yeah. At one time. I was her minder, you know. Not for a while, not for years, but I never really lost that feeling that she was my responsibility. She didn’t have anyone else, you see. . . .”

“Listen, mate. You can’t be everywhere at once. You can’t protect people from everything. Believe me. I’ve got three kids. I know. And it doesn’t matter how much you want to control things, people will make their own decisions, ultimately. It’s all about choice. People make choices and other people
cannot
take responsibility for that.”

“Yeah,” said Flint, running out of steam now, patting the flowers up and down against his forearm, enjoying the feel of the silky petals and prickly leaves tickling his skin, “yeah.

Maybe you’re right. But it doesn’t make it any easier to sleep at night. You know . . .”

The florist nodded and smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “I know.”

“But—thanks. For the chat. Thanks.”

“No problem. See you tomorrow, then, mate?”

“Yeah,” he said, tapping the flowers harder and harder against his arm, “yeah. See you tomorrow.” He climbed back into his car and drove slowly to the car park, his tires crunching against loose chippings on the road.

He parked the car and began the walk across the cemetery to Bee’s grave.

eleven

Lol was as good as her word about finding Ana somewhere to stay.

The room she found wasn’t particularly nice, but it was (according to Lol) in a good part of town, near Ladbroke Grove. “West is best, that’s what I always say,” she’d said.

Lol couldn’t go to the house with her because she was working, but drew her a detailed map. It was a small modern terraced house just opposite the Latimer Road tube station.

“It used to be city housing, but you’d never know it. And Gill keeps it spotless.”

Gill was an ex-flatmate of Lol’s from “fucking eons ago.” She was small and skinny and pretty in a washed-out sort of a way. Her hair was fine and brown with bright ash highlights.

She was wearing those neat little jeans that small, skinny, unglamorous women always wear, with blue flip-flops and an orange jersey top with gold and black braiding around the neckline. She wore plain gold studs in her ears and a tricolor Russian wedding band on her little finger and had on no makeup. She looked about thirty.

“I didn’t really want to have to let the room out at all, but I was made redundant a couple of months ago and now I’ve decided to go back to college to do a counseling course. So I need every penny I can get at the moment. D’you smoke?” She was Scottish with a sweet, childlike voice and walked around with her hands shoved into her pockets like a little schoolboy.

“No,” Ana said, and then corrected herself, “well—only sometimes, and definitely not in the house if you don’t want me to . . .”

“No—God, no. I want you to smoke. I’ve just given up and I need to at least be able to smell it. I miss the smell of it so much. This is the kitchen. . . .”

Small, neat, modern, and with a large window overlooking a small, neat garden.

“I’m really, really sorry about your sister, by the way. She was an amazing person. I can’t believe it. I really can’t. And this is the living room. . . .”

Mint-green walls, pale ash floors, lots of bookshelves, photographs of family, sporting trophies of some kind, a small yellow futon.

“And not leaving a note, or anything. That must be terrible for you to deal with. This is the downstairs toilet. . . .” Pine seat, quilted toilet paper, chrome toilet brush, pink festoon blind.

“And how’s your poor mother taking it? Lol tells me they hadn’t spoken for an age. She must be devastated. Here’s my bedroom. . . .”

Lavender walls, wrought-iron bed, broderie anglaise cushions, soft toys, exercise bike, rowing machine.

“It’s always so much worse when someone goes when there are still unresolved issues. Bathroom . . .” Victorian-style claw-footed bath, sponge-printed porcelain chamber pot, stripped-pine dresser, pink bath towels, contact lens containers.

“And this is yours . . .”

“And this is yours . . .”

It was the smallest room Ana had ever seen, but it was neat and clean and prettily decorated with yellow walls, a single lime-green futon, and a very narrow wardrobe.

“I know it’s a bit small, but my sister lived here for a while a couple of years ago and she was very happy. And it’s nice to have the futon, in case you have people round. . . .” An image of Gill’s sister throwing a party in this closet of a room, inviting lots of people over to hang out and drink punch on her weeny futon, flashed through Ana’s mind and she had to stop herself laughing.

“It’s really sweet,” she said. “I like it.”

“Och—and it’s ever so convenient for everything round here. There’s a big Sainsbury’s just around the corner, and the tube just across the street. It takes only a few minutes to get into town. And there’s a great wee gym a few roads up. And if you’re still around next weekend, it’s the carnival, or

‘carnival’
as the trendy types around here like to call it.

We’re right in the thick of it here—the atmosphere is amazing. How long are you planning on being here?” Ana shrugged. “God. I don’t know. At least a week, I suppose.”

“That’s perfect for me. I’ve a long-term tenant moving in in September, so that couldn’t be better. So . . . what do you think? Do you want it?”

“Well—do you want me to want it?”

“Oh aye. Definitely. Any friend of Lol’s is a friend of mine.

And I’d rather live with a friend than a stranger. How does a flat hundred pounds for the week grab you . . . ?” Ana thought that it grabbed her tightly around the throat and made her want to shout “one hundred pounds—for a cupboard—are you fucking
joking
!” But instead she nodded and smiled and said, “Fine. Fine. And I’ve got the cash.”

“Great,” replied Gill, “we’ll sort that out later, I’m off to the gym now. And then I’m meeting a girlfriend for lunch. I probably won’t be back till early evening—so make yourself at home! Oh—and if you’re gonna do any sunbathing in the garden, don’t wear anything too skimpy. There’s a guy across the way who likes to get his cock out and slap it about a bit at the merest glimpse of female flesh. You have been warned.” She beamed and giggled and scooped up her gym bag, leaving the house with a tinkly “cheerio.” Ana found herself alone in her temporary new home. She unpacked her few possessions in her tiny room and then wandered around a bit, looking at Gill’s trophies and medals—it looked like she was an athlete of some kind. And then she picked up a magazine, the portable phone, and a glass of tap water and ventured out into the garden.

The magazine was called
ES.
She flicked through it.

“Hoxton vs. Notting Hill” said a headline. Underneath were pictures of very thin girls with flicked hair and plucked eyebrows wearing very odd clothes and standing in very uncomfortable-looking poses. The text ran: Ever since the global success of Richard Curtis’s Notting Hill, the spotlight of cool has shone a little less brightly on the streets of W11 . . . pink stucco and scented candles, pashminas and Patty Shelabargers, the Cross and Kate Moss, have lost the style race to the mean streets of London EC1. The Hoxton girl has taken control of the Monopoly board of London fashion . . . think scuffed stilettos and ankle socks . . .

think uncompromising wedged hair—think Tracie singing “The House that Jack Built” in ’83 . . .

Think “What a pile of old bollocks,” thought Ana. And then she smiled as she mentally applied the same frothing-at-the-mouth-style commentary to her home county.

. . . the Barnstaple woman has taken control of the Monopoly board of North Devon fashion . . . think comfy shoes and support tights . . . think uncompromising shampoo and set . . . think Ethel from
East-Enders
doing karaoke at the Queen Vic in

’83 . . .

She smiled to herself and put the magazine down on the grass. And then she felt her stomach clench with anxiety. She couldn’t put it off for another second. She had to phone her mother. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and punched in her mother’s phone number. “Please,” she whispered to herself, “don’t pick up,
please, don’t pick up . . .
”

“Mum,” she began, addressing the answering machine, breathing a sigh of relief, “it’s me. I’m sorry I didn’t phone yesterday, it’s just that I’ve been—”

“Anabella!”

“Anabella!”

Ana jumped as her mother’s harsh voice came booming out of the receiver.

“What the
hell
do you think you’re playing at?!”

“I . . .”

“You are the most useless, selfish girl I have ever known. I ask you to do one thing. ONE THING. And you make a mess out of it. This really is quite unacceptable, Anabella, quite unacceptable. I’ve been worried
sick.
I want you home today, Anabella. Do you hear me?”

“I . . .”

“Not another word. Not one more word. There’s a train from Paddington in an hour and a half. I want you on it.”

“I . . . .”

“Not one more word. You’re coming home.”

“NO!”

“YES!”

“NO!”

“YES!”

“NO! I am not coming home, Mum. I’m staying here. For a few days at least. I am not coming home. So you’re just going to have to look after yourself for a while. Do you understand?” A tiny, shell-shocked moment of silence indicated to Ana that her words had made an impression.

“What do you mean, you’re staying?”

“I mean, I’ve rented a room in a flat and I’m staying.”

“What flat?”

“Gill’s flat. She’s a friend of Lol’s. And Lol was Bee’s best friend.”

“And where is this flat?”

“And where is this flat?”

“It’s in Ladbroke Grove.”

“Never heard of it. What’s this Gill like?”

“She’s very nice. She’s Scottish. She’s an athlete.”

“Hmmmm. And this
Lol
”—she expelled the word like phlegm—“what about her?”

“Lol is . . . she’s”—Ana found herself smiling—“she’s
amazing.
She’s really funny and really beautiful and really confident and she can sing and—”

“Yes, yes, yes. I’m almost out of polenta, I’ve only a couple of brushes’ worth of toothpaste left, and if I don’t get some seed down by tomorrow, we can wave good-bye to our lawn next year. And as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I’m nearly out of toilet paper and couscous, too. I can last a few days, but after that, well . . . But I shouldn’t imagine that any of that is of even the slightest interest to you. What the
hell
are you doing down there anyway?”

Ana bit her lip, unsure whether or not she should tell her mother what was going on. “Look, Mum. There’s all this weird stuff. About Bee. So we’re going down to the coast to see if we can find out what’s been happening—”

“We?”

“Yes. Me and Lol and Flint.”

“And
who
is Flint?”

“He’s another friend of Lol’s. I haven’t met him yet. . . .”

“Ridiculous name. He sounds like a caveman. Anyway—

everything’s arrived. All of Belinda’s things. They got here yesterday afternoon. But I’m a bit concerned that some of it might have gone astray. All Gregor’s furniture for example.