one-hit wonder (22 page)

He ignored her last question.

“So. Let me get this straight. You haven’t worked for nearly a year. You live at home with your mum. You’ve got no friends and you never go out.”

“Yup.”

“Christ. That’s tragic. That’s one of the most tragic things I’ve ever heard. How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five. Jesus—what would I give to be twenty-five again. You wait—one day you’ll be my age—thirty-six—and you’ll be wondering what the fuck happened to your youth, where’d it go. Can I tell you the worst thing about getting old, Ana? They try and make out that aging is all about gain—

gaining experience, wisdom, happiness, all that. They’re lying. All getting older is about is loss. Losing things. Losing your hair, your figure, your looks. Losing your sight. Losing your hearing. Losing your mother, losing your father. Losing time to experience things. Losing touch with people, losing your mind. And the worst thing of all—losing memories. The more time you’ve got to look back on, the less you remember. Whole days, weeks, months that you have no recollection of. People you’ve spent entire days with, worked with for months, slept with, partied with . . . Fuck, Ana. You should be living life. Not wasting your youth.

You’ll regret it one day, you really will. . . .” Ana smiled tightly, and to Flint’s horror her eyes suddenly filled up with tears. She cleared her throat and looked away abruptly.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time, really I didn’t. It’s just—people not making the most of what they’ve got—it annoys me. It winds me up. I don’t believe in God, Ana, in the Bible, but if there was to be one commandment from on high, it should be that—Thou Shalt Make the Most of What Thou Hast.”

“Oh yeah. And what exactly have I got to make the most of?”

“Do you want me to make you a list?”

“Yes.”

“OK, then. OK. Youth.”

“Not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Beauty.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“What—you don’t think you’re beautiful?”

“Er, no? Not even slightly.”

“Why not?”

“It’s my nose . . .”

“You don’t like your nose?”

“No—I hate it. Look.” She turned sideways to show Flint her profile. “I look like a . . . a buzzard or something. It’s like a beak. It’s disgusting.”

Flint shook his head and laughed. “Women! Jesus. What are you like? Well—for what it’s worth, I think it’s a very beautiful nose. It’s elegant. Regal. Dignified. It’s like you.” She blushed. Vividly. “And, of course there’s the fact that I look like a giant coat-stand.”

“You mean you don’t like being tall?”

“Well, it’s not so much the tallness as the tallness combined with the thinness.”

“Jesus,” said Flint, “did you know that London is literally bursting at the seams with women who would sell their
lungs
to have your figure?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“No. Really. For a hell of a lot of women, your shape is an absolute ideal.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Why?”

Flint shrugged. “Because that’s what models look like, I suppose, and some actresses.”

Ana looked unconvinced. “So. Carry on. Other things to make the most of—”

“Your freedom.”

“I haven’t got freedom.”

“Of course you have.”

“I haven’t. My mother has my freedom.”

“Oh yeah. And what does she do with it?”

“She keeps it in a little box under the stairs.” She smiled wryly.

“Your mother sounds like a bit of a nightmare, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“She is.”

“So why d’you stay?”

She shrugged. “Because she needs me.”

Flint took a deep breath. “Are you sure it’s not because you need her?”

“I’m sorry?” Ana’s eyes boggled.

“To hide behind.”

“I don’t get your point.”

“I mean—are you sure that you don’t just use your mother’s agoraphobia as an excuse to keep away from the real world?

Because you can’t deal with it?”

“Jesus,” said Ana, “what is this? The Frasier Crane show?”

“No. It’s what your sister used to say about you, actually.”

“What—Bee?”

“Uh-huh. She was very concerned about you.”

“You are joking, right?”

Flint shook his head.

“Jesus,” said Ana, “ever since I got here, all I’ve heard is how great Bee thought I was.”

“Well—she did.”

“But she didn’t even know me.”

“She knew enough. And she lived with your mother, too, remember. “

“Yeah, but—she had no idea about anything else—she didn’t know about Hugh and my job and my life.”

“No,” said Flint plainly, “she didn’t. But she knew what it was like to lose a father and she knew what it was like to live with your mother and she knew what
you
were like.

You know those meetings you all used to have, in Bristol and places like that?”

“Yeah?”

“She used to come back in tears sometimes. Usually because of your mother. But other times because she was sad about you. She said you were like this pale, beautiful little ghost, that she just wanted to pick you up and stick you under her arm and take you back to London with her. And she said she felt really bad because she never knew what to say to you, how to talk to you. She wasn’t the most maternal of people, but she always had this huge soft spot for you.”

“Huh—well—you could have fooled me. She didn’t even use to
look
at me unless it was to take the piss.” She was looking at her watch again. “Oh look,” she said, “it’s seven o’clock. That pizza place will be open now. We should get back. Lol’ll be starving.” She already had her knapsack on her lap, the conversation was over. For now.

They finished their drinks, picked up their crash helmets, and headed for the pizzeria.

nineteen

September 1999

Bee descended the stairs of her Belsize Park flat in her satin dressing gown, a mug of Earl Grey in one hand, John in the other. Summer should have been over by then, but it wasn’t.

After a dismal August, the sun was out every morning, the temperature not dropping below 73°F. It was like a little freebie from the weather gods and London was fully appreciating it. The sun was glowing through the stained-glass panel above the front door, casting pools of colored light all over the pale wooden floor of the spacious hallway.

Wendy the Reflexologist, who lived in the ground-floor flat, was listening to some kind of bongo-y “world” music—very loudly. Bee was sure that Wendy the Reflexologist didn’t actually like world music but had obviously decided that it fit her image.

A pool of letters lay on the doormat. Bee leaned down to gather them up and quickly let John drop to the floor when she saw an envelope addressed to her—in her mother’s handwriting. Bee hadn’t heard from her mother since Gay had written to tell her that she was contesting Gregor’s will. That was nearly ten years ago now. This had to be something pretty serious. She ripped at the tissue-lined envelope and pulled out the neatly folded little letter, handwritten on heavy blue paper.

“
Dear Belinda
,” it began:

I
shouldn’t suppose that the following news is of very much
interest to you but I thought it only polite to inform you that my
beloved Bill passed away on Sunday. It was fast and relatively
painless and he had a good, healthy, long, and happy life. I
should count my blessings, but can’t help feeling robbed and very,
very bitter. First Gregor, then you (you may as well be dead) and
now my wonderful, wonderful Bill. My life really is one long
tragedy. . . . The funeral is to be held on Thursday at St. Giles
(Bill always loved that church and he got along so well with
Father Boniface) but I don’t suppose you’ll have any interest in
attending. Still
—
I thought you should know.

Your mother,

Gay

Bee collapsed onto the bottom stair and clutched the two sides of her dressing gown together over her chest.
Ana,
she thought immediately. Poor Ana. Her mind filled with images of pale little Ana, with her knobbly knees and gawky features, sitting there during those dreadful family meetings in the eighties, so quiet and perfectly behaved. And so much like her father.

She stared into the distance for a while, stroking John absentmindedly, trying to decide what to do. It was Wednesday. The funeral was tomorrow. She had nothing planned for tomorrow. She could go. She could get on her bike and go. To Devon. She could. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to imagine the scenario. Tried to imagine standing there in the graveyard at St. Giles, her mother dressed in head-to-toe Escada, sobbing dramatically at her side, sad, lanky Ana on the other. She imagined going back to Gay’s perfect town house on Main Street afterward, the big, squishy sofas covered in huge jacquard cushions with glossy tassels that Bee happened to know had cost eighty-five pounds each. Wandering around disconsolately on expensive cream carpet in the glow of fat-bottomed table lamps.

Making polite, muted conversation around a coffee table covered in expensive little objects, tiny lumps of carved marble and beautiful engraved silver boxes that seemed to perform no function whatsoever other than to give her mother something extra to dust and polish and arrange.

Standing drinking sherry beside the huge open fire carved out of the wall, flanked by big baskets full of dried roses and shiny brass things for stoking the fire. And remembering all the time her mother’s rage if any one of these pointless, spotless objects were moved by so much as a millimeter.

She tried to imagine her mother, moving from person to person around her lovely home, dabbing daintily at her nose and soaking up the sympathy and the attention like a delicate sponge. Gay had her own personal fan club in Torrington, people who could see no bad in her. People who thought she was an angel. People who truly believed her claim that her charmed life had been “one long tragedy.” And then she tried to imagine what it would be like after all the villagers had left, when the canapés had been cleared away and the caterers had packed their van up and it was just her and her mother and Ana. And she would have to speak her mind. She knew it. “You didn’t deserve that man,” is what she’d have to say, “he was too good for you and you treated him like shit, like you were ashamed of him. You never appreciated him while he was alive and now that he’s dead, all you’re interested in is milking the situation for your own benefit, for the attention. Exactly like you did with Gregor.

You fucked me up and now you’re fucking up poor Ana. You make me sick.” That’s what she’d say. And every word would be true. Which was why she couldn’t go. She couldn’t do that to her mother. Not at her husband’s funeral. It wasn’t the right time.

Bee picked up John and went back up to her flat. Ed was just emerging from the bedroom, scratching at his cropped silver hair and yawning.

“Thought you’d been abducted by aliens,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.

“No,” she said, “no. I got some bad news. In the mail.”

“What sort of bad news?” Ed’s disembodied voice came from the kitchen, where Bee could hear the click of the fridge door being opened.

“It’s my stepfather. He died.”

“I didn’t know you had a stepfather.” Ed emerged clutching a carton of orange juice and a cold sausage.

“Uh-huh. My mother’s second husband. Ana’s dad. He was very old.”

“So—are you going to the funeral?”

She shrugged. “I should,” she began, “for Ana’s sake. But I really, really don’t think I can face it.”

“What. Your mother?” He put the sausage in his mouth and left it there.

“Yeah. My Mother. But Ana, too. I feel so bad about Ana.

For
Ana. She’s going to be so alone and I really want to see her so badly. But I’m scared, because I’ve got no idea what to say to her. I mean—where do you start after ten years?”

“Why don’t you just write her a letter or something?” He scratched his bottom with his spare hand and wandered back into the bedroom, leaving an aroma of bedsheeted man in his wake.

A letter, thought Bee. That wasn’t a bad idea. She showered and breakfasted and saw Ed off at the door at eight o’clock.

“You off to Broadstairs this weekend?” he asked while he adjusted his tie and switched on his mobile phone.

“Uh-huh. I’ll be back early Sunday, though. D’you fancy coming over? We can get a late dinner.”

“Er—I’m not sure. I’ll have to check.”

“With who? Tina’s not around.”

“Well—she might be. Her flight’s due in on Monday morning, but you know what she’s like. If she can get an earlier flight, she will. I’ll check. OK?”

“OK,” said Bee, a pout forming on her plump lips. “But try, won’t you? Please.”

He kissed her forcefully on the lips and smiled at her. “I always try, Bee. You know that. Have a good weekend, OK, and send my love to Zander.”

Bee sighed as the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps taking the stairs, two at a time, running away from her and toward his other life—his real life.

And then she made herself another mug of Earl Grey and walked to the desk in the window. She lit a cigarette and searched around in the drawers and filing trays. Paper.

Writing paper. She must have some writing paper somewhere. She finally found some loose sheets. She placed one in front of her and picked up a blue pen. The sun shone through the window and across the paper, making it look very white and very empty. She hadn’t written a letter for ages. How the hell did you write a letter anyway? Jesus. She went to the kitchen and made herself some toast.

Then she fed the cat.

Then she filed her nails.

Then she opened the rest of her mail and made a couple of phone calls. Then she took the rubbish out and had a little chat in the sunshine with Wendy the Reflexologist.

And then it was nearly lunchtime. So she made herself some more toast.

And then she went back to the desk, where the sheet of paper stared blankly at her. She sat down and eyed the paper.

She didn’t like this paper. She wanted to use nice paper. She pulled on some sandals and a pair of sunglasses, slicked some deodorant under her arms, and headed for the stationer on Haverstock Hill, where she spent nearly half an hour looking at their small selection of writing paper. She finally settled on a pad of silky mauve paper with contrasting burnt orange envelopes. And she bought a sympathy card with a picture of a single white lily on the front.