one-hit wonder (17 page)

And to prove to him that she could be strong, that she could be a woman, she’d done as he said. And denied her own grief.

And then Gay had started going downhill, and she’d moved home, and there was no room for anyone’s emotions other than her mother’s in that house. Ana wasn’t allowed to
feel
—

all she could do was keep her head down and try not to antagonize her mother. This was the first time, Ana realized, since her father had died, that she’d been in a position just to . . . just to . . . “Oh God, Dad,” she sobbed, “what am I supposed to do without you—I don’t understand—how am I supposed to be able to live without you?” Ana stayed like that, her shoulders heaving, her stomach aching, her head bowed, and her knees bent, for another ten minutes, as she emptied her soul of all its pain, until she heard footsteps on the gravel behind her and pulled herself together. She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks and pulled her hair away from her face.

And as her tears began to subside and her vision cleared, she glanced down once more at the slab at her feet and felt suddenly gripped by the greatest, most overwhelming sense of loss—not of someone she’d known and loved, but of someone she
should
have known and loved, and she found herself whispering to Bee one single and entirely unexpected word: “Sorry.”

thirteen

Flint screwed the empty crisp packet into a tiny ball and squeezed it into the ashtray next to a scrunched-up Twix wrapper and a few pellets of graying, hardened chewing gum. He searched his pocket for a toothpick and found one, using it to investigate the crisp-retaining crevasses between his teeth. Lol was in the back of the car, and Ana was walking back toward them. Fuck, she was tall. Very tall.

Taller than Lol, because she was wearing flat lace-ups and Lol always wore those bloody great skyscraper heels. And she was nothing like Bee. In fact, if someone had given you a picture of Bee and asked you to come up with a woman who was the complete opposite of Bee in every way, Ana would have been the result. Not his type. Not his type at all. But quite interesting. Interesting the way her nose protruded from her face almost like a spout, like a beautiful but functional spout. And her eyes were a fascinating shape—

like soft little triangles resting on their sides. And such an amazing shade of hazel. Almost yellow. Long, thick eyelashes. And not a scrap of makeup. Flint admired that in a woman. She was quiet, too, had a sort of dignity about her.

Not like Loudmouth Lol and Gibbering Gill. Flint liked quiet women—you never knew what was going on in their minds.

That was the trouble with most women—they just wanted to tell you what they were thinking all the fucking time.

As Ana got nearer, Flint noticed that her eyes were red and raw and felt a flash of empathy as tears started to stab at his own eyes. He cleared his throat abruptly. He’d cried more in the last three weeks than he’d ever cried in his life before.

Enough crying. More than enough. He slid open the partition and glanced backward. “Are we ready?” They nodded and he put the car into gear and pulled away. He was feeling strangely intrigued by Ana, this awkward-looking sister whom Bee claimed to have spent every weekend with for the last ten years but who hadn’t actually seen Bee since she was thirteen, but he wasn’t much of a one for making small talk, so he switched on the intercom, unwrapped himself a stick of Wrigley’s, folded it into his mouth, and listened, instead.

“You all right?”

Sniffing from Ana. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m fine.” Sound of nose being blown.

“What was it like, Lol? Bee’s funeral?”

Short silence.

“The weather was nice.”

“How many people came?”

“Me. Flint. Gill.”

“Is that all?”

“Uh-huh. We were pretty shocked. We thought you and your mum were going to come. We thought there’d be more people from home. You know, from Devon. Relatives.

Family friends. I’d have invited other people but I didn’t know who else there was. I thought your mum was going to handle it all. . . .”

“I wanted to come. Mum couldn’t—but I wanted to. . . .”

“So—why didn’t you?”

“So—why didn’t you?”

Brief silence.

“Too scared, I guess.”

“Scared? Of
what
?”

“Scared of being alone, scared of London, scared of death, scared of Bee’s friends, scared of the train journey. You know—just
scared
.”

“You silly arse.”

Wry laughter. “I wish I’d come now. Now that I know it’s not scary. I really, really wish I’d come. Only three people.

That’s so . . .
awful
.”

Another brief silence.

“And what about London? Bee’s London friends? What about all those people in her address book?” Sound of Lol sighing.

“Look Ana. Your sister. She was my best friend, right.

Truly, the best friend I had in the world. I’d have done anything for her and she’d have done anything for me. But—

and please don’t take this the wrong way—she could be a bit of a cow.”

Flint nodded and smiled to himself in the front seat.

“Particularly in the early days, when she was much younger. She’d walk over people, use people. She were so bloody ambitious. And she pissed a lot of people off. I didn’t want to start going through her address book and hearing people telling me they didn’t want to come to Bee’s funeral because they didn’t like her, because she’d hurt them. D’you understand?”

Flint nodded his agreement and swept the pavement with his eyes. Summer—he loved it. Girls. Flesh. Everywhere.

“So, how come she never fell out with you?”

“I knew how to handle her. That was the thing with Bee.

She was this really special person and most people just handled her all wrong. Made excuses for her. Made a fuss.

Treated her like a fucking princess. When all she wanted was an equal. A pal. Someone to have a laugh with. And, most importantly, someone she could trust. It was an education seeing what happened to Bee when her single came out and she was famous overnight, it really was. The way all these wasps came out of nowhere. Bzzbzzbzz. Bluebottles. Stinking great flies. It’s fucking nauseating the way these people come climbing out of the woodwork when they get a sniff of money. They crawl out and they treat you like the center of the fucking universe, like their life’s purpose is your happiness, your comfort, your every whim and desire. And then when she stopped making money they wouldn’t even give her fifty p for her bus fare. D’you know what I mean?”

“But she can’t have fallen out with everyone, surely?” Lol sighed. “I don’t know, Ana, all right? All I know is that since her father died I only ever saw her on my own or with Flint. She never talked about anyone else. She didn’t trust anyone else. And now—well—it looks like she didn’t trust me, either.”

“So—are you telling me that the reason no one came to Bee’s funeral was because no one liked her?”

“That’s the long and short of it.”

Short pause.

Whisper from Ana. “That’s so terrible . . . imagine being alive for thirty-six years and having only three friends. . . .” A particularly ripe blonde caught Flint’s eye then. Tall, athletic-looking, tanned, tight cotton sundress, tennis shoes—

posh. Ponies. Public school. Lovely. Flint had a particular thing about posh girls. And they seemed to have a particular thing about him. She saw Flint staring at her and flushed slightly. Flint laughed under his breath as he pulled away from the traffic lights.

“Flint.” Lol opened the partition and leaned toward him with one of her “how can you resist me I’m so adorable and I’m about to ask you a really annoying favor” faces on.

“Ye-es.”

“Can we have some music in the back?”

“Yes.” He sighed and switched on the radio. Groovejet.

Had to be. Everywhere he bloody went this summer.
Big
Brother
and Groovejet.

Ten minutes later, he pulled up outside the photo shop on Latimer Road and watched as Lol and Ana both unfurled themselves and scuttled into the shop together like a pair of exotic stick insects, music blaring from the back of the car and everyone stopping to stare at them as they passed, wondering who they were. Flint sighed and wiped a slick of sweat off his upper lip with the back of his hand. A minute later they emerged from the shop, flapping photographs around and acting in a generally overexcited manner.

Lol threw herself into the back of the car. “We got pictures!” she squealed so loudly that Flint had to put his hands over his ears.

“Jesus, Tate,” he said, “calm down, will you?” He picked the photos out of Lol’s hand and looked at them. Ana slid into the passenger seat and looked over his shoulder. She smelled of Gill’s house—of fabric conditioner, of fresh bedclothes.

“God,” Ana said in a whisper as Flint flipped through the pictures, “Bee looks so . . . so grown-up. Her hair’s really different. I always thought she’d still have that black bob she used to have.”

“Nah,” said Lol, taking the pictures as they circulated her way, “she got rid of that when she turned thirty.” Flint swallowed and felt it catch at the back of his throat as he looked at Bee in the photos. She looked beautiful and was, of course, immaculately dressed in every picture. Her hair was decorated with fresh tropical flowers, fat white camellias and sprigs of mauve bougainvillea and, most surprisingly, she looked rapturously happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her looking that happy. He flicked faster and faster.

Bee on a beach.

Bee in a restaurant.

Bee haggling with a market trader.

Bee on a bridge.

Bee wearing a bindi.

Bee eating a coconut.

And then, finally, a couple of photos from the end of the pile, there was a picture of a man. They all stopped breathing. Lol shrieked, “Ohmygod, it’s a fella. It’s a fucking fella,” and grabbed the picture from his hands.

fella,” and grabbed the picture from his hands.

He was in his early forties, his hair nearly completely white and shorn close to his head. He was wearing long shorts with trendy sandals and a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, with a pair of those cool, pop-star-type sunglasses on his head. He was sitting outside a restaurant with one leg crossed high upon the other one, in a classic groin-display position, and he was looking slightly cross. He wasn’t particularly good-looking and he wasn’t ugly. He looked like a tosser.

“Who is he?” Ana asked urgently.

Flint leaned in toward Lol and took another look at the picture before Lol snatched it away again. He rubbed his stubbled chin. “I’ve got no fucking idea,” he sighed. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life. Maybe it was just some bloke she met on holiday. Maybe she got chatting to him at that restaurant and she took his picture. He’s not in any of the others.”

“Yes,” said Lol impatiently, “but who took the others? Bee must have been with someone. . . .”

“Not necessarily. Bee wasn’t shy of strangers. She might just have gotten other people to take those pictures for her.” Ana shook her head. “No,” she said, “no. She looks too . . .

relaxed, too aware of the person taking her picture. Look—

you can see it in her eyes. . . .”

“What?”

“Excitement. Or something. Understanding.
Love
.” Flint grunted cynically. “That was just Bee,” he said, “a born flirt. And boy, did she love the camera.”

“Look!” said Ana suddenly, tapping at a photo of Bee patting a mangy old street dog.

“What?”

“The ring.
This
ring.” She pointed at the diamond band she was wearing on her own finger. “She’s wearing it in these pictures. On her engagement finger.”

“And where did you find it?”

“In her linen closet. In the inside pocket of an evening jacket. She’s wearing an engagement ring.” Flint shook his head again. “She was in India—on her own.

She probably just put it on as a precaution, so people would think she was married.”

“Maybe it’s Zander!” said Ana.

“Who the hell is Zander?” said Flint.

“We don’t know,” said Lol, “but she wrote a song for him, apparently. A love song. Ana found it in her flat.” All three of them fell silent for a moment, until Lol spoke.

“Chop-chop,” she said, slapping her thighs. “Enough talking, let’s get going. I can’t stand this suspense for another fucking second.”

Ana climbed into the back of the car and they pulled away and started the drive out toward the coast.

fourteen

October 1997

Bee pulled the helmet from her head and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Mrs. Wills.” A small man who looked somewhat like an overgrown baby bounced out of his Ford Puma and headed toward her with his hand outstretched. “Tony Pritchard. Did you find it all right?”

Bee rested the helmet on the seat of her bike and shook his hand. “No problem at all. I’ve had a lovely ride down actually.”

“Good, good.” He began looking around him, over her shoulder. “Are we expecting your husband, Mrs. Wills?”

“No,” smiled Bee, unzipping the top portion of her leathers, “no—he wasn’t feeling too well. We decided it would be better if he stayed at home.”

“Of course, of course. I perfectly understand. Well, if you’re ready?”

She followed him toward the house.

“Wheelchair ramp,” he said, pointing out the wheelchair ramp. “Handrails, as you can see, from the gate all the way through the house. Does your husband have any, er, mobility, in his legs?”

Bee shook her head.

“I see. I see. Well—I think you’ll find everything he needs has been installed. This cottage was adapted for the needs of a paraplegic lady.”

“Yes,” said Bee, “I know.”

“But the particularly nice thing about this paraplegic lady is that she was also an interior designer.” He swung open the front door and for the first time since Bee had reached her decision, she felt completely convinced she was doing the right thing. It was even nicer inside than the photographs from the real estate agent had suggested. Far from the institutional linoleumed and stainproofed atmosphere she’d half expected, the cottage was stylish and snug, with higgledy-piggledy ceilings and cream carpets.