one-hit wonder (36 page)

Ana smiled and rested her chin on her knees. “Sorry,” she said.

“What for?”

“For giving you the third degree. It’s just that Gill made you sound so awful. . . .”

“Yeah, well—Gill’s not—” He paused. “—Nothing.”

“Gill’s not what?”

“Nothing,” said Flint. “Forget I said anything.”

“No way! Gill’s not what?”

He sighed. “Gill’s not . . . the type to take rejection very well.”

“What—you mean, she’s tried and you said no?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Oh. On a pretty regular basis. When she’s pissed usually.

When Gill’s pissed she turns into a complete raving nympho.”

“Yeah,” smiled Ana, “I’ve noticed. But from what I’ve seen, you’re not exactly her usual type, are you?”

“You mean the black guys?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah. Gill loves her black guys. And they seem to love her, too, actually. I mean—don’t get me wrong—I do like Gill. You know, I’ve known her half my life. But when it comes to sex, she’s a bit fucked up. I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything she says—she’s got a skewed vision of sex. She seems to think it’s an Olympic event.” Flint took a sip of tea and looked at Ana. “Here’s a question for you,” he said, “how come you’re asking me about all this right now—why didn’t you ask me last night—

before . . . you know?”

Ana grinned at him. “Because,” she said, “last night I wasn’t really in the mood for talking.”

Flint smiled and took another sip of tea.

“You must think I’m dreadful,” said Ana.

“What?” laughed Flint.

“Last night. I don’t really know what happened. I was just . . . overcome. Not that I didn’t want to, before, or anything. I’ve been wanting to since I first saw you . . . oh.” She put her hand over her mouth and looked embarrassed.

Flint laughed. “You dirty old mare,” he grinned. “And I thought you were such a nice girl.”

“I am,” she insisted, “I’m a very nice girl. In fact you’re only the second man I’ve slept with.”

“I know.”

“What! How?”

“The delightful Hugh told me. He told me that he taught you everything you know. And I have to say that as much as it makes me want to hurl to admit it, or even to think about it, for that matter—he did a fine, fine job.”

“Last night,” said Ana, “was nothing to do with Hugh, I can assure you.”

“Oh no?” said Flint, putting his tea down and grabbing Ana by the waist.

“No,” said Ana, passing her hands over his buttocks, “what happened last night was the inevitable result of being driven around London in a stretch limo at midnight by a large, handsome man in a suit, while drinking champagne and listening to good music. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”

“Is that what I’ve got to do every time I want to do this with you, then? Take you for a drive?”

“No,” she said, looking confidently and directly into his eyes, “only the first time. After that all you have to do is ask.” Flint stared into her eyes. Who was this person? This person with sparkling eyes and ready lips? This person whose body he could feel underneath his, long and taut and accommodating? This person who was like Ana, only different? Whoever she was, he liked her, liked her even more than the other Ana.

“Please may I have sex with you, Ana?” he said.

“You most certainly may,” she said, guiding him on top of her and, as she pulled his face toward hers and put her lips against his, Flint just wanted to punch the air and shout,

“You’ve come a long way, baby. . . .”

thirty-four

They set off for Ashford at about eleven o’clock. As they headed across the M25, the sun blazing through the windshield and turning the leather seats to the consistency of warm flesh, Flint kept his hand on Ana’s knee and thanked God for automatic. He glanced at her briefly. The airconditioning was ruffling the fine wisps of baby hair that grew from her hairline, and she was smiling serenely. She looked across at him and squeezed his thigh and grinned, pulling a strand of hair off her cheek.

Now, thought Flint, this feels right. This feels really, really right.

Usually when he woke up in a bed with a girl, a little something inside him sort of died. Almost like that feeling you get when you go back to your car and see a ticket on the windshield. You knew you were parking illegally, you knew there was a good chance this was going to happen, but that space—well—it was just there and you wanted it and you took it anyway. Waking up with Ana had been more akin to leaving his car in a no parking zone and coming back to find someone giving it a full washing and Turtlewax—for free.

Ashford was about twenty miles from the M25. High Cedars was just outside Ashford, on the outskirts of a smart commuter village.

“Wow,” said Ana as they approached a Jacobean mansion up a gravel driveway. They drove through ornate stonework gates and grounds planted with cedars and fir trees. “This looks more like a five-star country-house hotel than a children’s home.”

A shiny-faced receptionist wearing a cardigan smiled welcomingly at them as they entered. “Good afternoon.” Flint looked at Ana, who looked nervous for a moment before stepping forward confidently to the desk. “Good morning,” she said, “my name is Ana Wills. My sister—well, my half sister actually—she was related to one of your . . . er, children. To Zander Roper.”

“Oh yes,” she said, “Mrs. Wills—she phoned yesterday, actually.”

“Well, actually, that was me. The thing is you see—Mrs.

Wills died.”

The receptionist threw her hand over her mouth. “Oh no,” she said. Her eyes were open in horror, and she looked genuinely shocked. “How?”

“I’m afraid it was suicide.”

“Oh no. But that’s terrible. She was such a beautiful woman—such a caring aunt. I can’t believe it. Does Zander know?”

Ana shook her head. “That’s why we’re here. We thought it would be best for him to hear it from someone who was close to Bee.”

The receptionist asked them to wait while she called a doctor, and then a few minutes later led them to a large office on the ground floor, where a small Chinese woman with a hairy mole on her cheek greeted them warmly. She was called Dr. Chan and she knew all about Belinda Wills, had first met her back in 1997 when she’d come to High Cedars to visit Zander. She was deeply, deeply upset to hear about Bee and even more shocked to hear that it was suicide.

“But—why?” she asked plaintively. Zander and Belinda had, apparently, had some kind of argument about a month ago and he’d refused to see her and speak to her since. They’d tried to get Zander to talk about it in his therapy sessions but he refused to say a word. Which was, according to Dr. Chan, entirely in keeping with his personality. He was a “very difficult child.”

“So—you’re Belinda’s sister, you say?”

“Half sister, actually.”

“And Belinda was a half sister to Jo Roper—Zander’s mother. Families really are very complicated these days, aren’t they?” Dr. Chan smiled and picked up a phone. “Zander needs to know about this as soon as possible. I’ll just find out what he’s up to this morning.”

She put down the phone and smiled. “You’re in luck,” she said, “Zander’s on the grounds right now—painting. I’ll take you to him.”

They followed Dr. Chan through sunlit, wood-paneled corridors, past a gravy-scented dining room where lunch was being prepared, and out across landscaped gardens.

“He’s by the pond,” she said, leading them down a concrete pathway into the shade of a small clump of trees. “I’ll leave you to tell Zander the news, but if the situation feels like it’s getting in any way out of control, just call out ‘Nurse’ and someone will assist you.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘out of control’?” said Ana.

Dr. Chan stopped and turned toward them. “Zander is an orphan. Not just an orphan, but the only member of his family still alive. No brothers, sisters, grandparents. Just Zander. He had a terrible, terrible start to his life, and until Belinda tracked him down, he was truly alone. He was very resistant to Belinda at first, to the idea of having family. But, in his own unconventional way, he grew very fond of her.

She bought a house for him. Did you know that?” They nodded.

“Yes, they spent most weekends together. And he seemed to be improving month by month. I have no idea what they argued about last month, but I’m sure that Zander imagined it was a temporary situation. He occasionally likes to punish those who try to help him. Keep people on their toes—that’s the way he tends to work. But when he learns that she’s dead, I really don’t think anyone can predict how he’ll react. He may take it in his stride. He may be very angry. Just be prepared for anything—OK?”

“OK.” Flint and Ana both nodded.

At the bottom of the path was a lichen-covered pond dotted with lily pads and punctured by weeping-willow tendrils. It was cool and shady. A young man in a wheelchair sat facing away from them, stirring a paintbrush into a glass jar of minty-green water.

“Zander,” called Dr. Chan.

The boy didn’t turn around, just carried on stirring his brush in the water and contemplating the view.

“Zander.”

“Zander.”

“Yup,” he said wearily, still without turning around.

“Zander—you’ve got some visitors.”

“Yippee.” He applied his brush to a watercolor tin on his lap.

“Sorry about this,” Dr. Chan said under her breath, “it’s nothing personal, I can assure you.”

They followed her toward Zander and then stood in front of him. He was a nice-looking boy, maybe a bit small for his age, but with precise features and thick brown hair worn long around his ears and neck and tucked behind his ears. He was wearing a Teenage Fanclub T-shirt, jeans, and Reeboks.

His eyes, when he looked up at them, were a very pale blue.

He fixed them both with the most intense gaze Flint had ever seen.

“What is this?” said Zander, outlining a lily pad on his cartridge paper with a stroke of green paint, “a giant’s convention?”

Ana suddenly snorted. Flint looked at her. She was laughing.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry.”

“Ah,” said Zander, suddenly looking up and straight at Ana,

“at last—a woman who appreciates my puerile sense of humor. Maybe we should get married?”

Ana smiled and blushed.

“Ana,” said Dr. Chan, “is Belinda’s half sister. And Flint here is Ana’s friend. He was, is, also a very good friend of Belinda’s. There’s something they’d like to talk to you about.

Would you like to talk to them here or back in your room?”

“I have no interest in talking with anyone, anywhere, about my former ‘aunt.’ Thank you very much.”

“Zander,” said Dr. Chan, “I think you’ll want to hear what Ana and Flint have to say.”

“Oh, will I? Really. OK, then. Since you seem to know exactly what I want to hear and what I don’t want to hear, I presume there’s no point in arguing.”

He began wheeling himself toward a bench. “Sit down,” he said to Flint and Ana with all the authority of a middle-aged bank manager. He looked at Dr. Chan. “You can leave us now,” he said. Dr. Chan tutted and raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t forget,” she said, tapping her watch, “lunch in forty-five minutes,” before putting her hands in the pockets of her white coat, turning on her heel, and heading back to the house.

Zander waited until she was out of sight before turning to regard Flint and Ana. “Right,” he began, “three things. First of all—who the hell are you two? And don’t give me that half-sister bollocks. I’ve had it up to here with half-baked sisters and half-assed aunts and secondhand uncles, OK? I know that Bee isn’t my aunt, so you can cut that crap right now.

Secondly—before you say anything about Bee, you should know that there is nothing she could say or that you could say on her behalf that I would want to hear—now, or ever.

And thirdly—have either of you two got a fag on you?” They shrugged and shook their heads.

“Oh well. It was worth asking. So,” he continued, “is there anything you’d like to say, given what I’ve just said?” He looked at them glibly.

“Yeah,” said Flint, unable to contain his annoyance with this smug, arrogant young man, wheelchair or no wheelchair.

“Yeah, there is, actually. She’s dead.” Ana threw him a look.

He hardened his jaw.

Zander smiled momentarily, and Flint wanted to hit him.

“Sorry?” he said, still with that infuriating smirk on his face.

“Bee,” said Flint, “she’s dead.”

The smirk started to fade a bit, and Zander’s face contorted itself into a look of disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” Flint shook his head.

“But—when? How?” Cracks were appearing in his supercilious demeanor.

“A month ago, July twenty-eighth. To be precise.”

“My birthday . . .” He trailed off momentarily, rubbing his chin absentmindedly with the palm of his hand. He looked up at Flint with those ice-blue eyes. “What happened?”

“She killed herself.”

Zander flinched and his gaze dropped to the floor. “How?”

“Pills and alcohol.”

“Shit.”

Silence fell. A cricket chirruped in the background and a breeze ruffled through the weeping-willow fronds.

“Did she leave a note?”

“Nope.”

“So do you—do you know why?” said Zander eventually.

“No,” said Ana. “No—it doesn’t really make any sense.”

“I do,” he said, his head dropping slightly into his chest.

Flint and Ana glanced at each other.

“What?”

“I know.”

“You know?” said Ana.

“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head heavily. “I know exactly why she did it.”

“Why?” demanded Flint.

“Why what? Why do I know or why did she do it?”

“Both, for God’s sake,” hissed Flint. “Both.” Zander sighed and let his head fall onto his fist. “Come upstairs with me,” he said, “come up to my room. I’ll explain everything up there.”

“Here,” said Zander, wheeling himself away from his desk and clutching a thick wedge of purple paper, “this was from Bee. She posted it to me with my birthday gift. Quite inappropriate I think you’ll agree after you’ve read it.” He passed the purple paper to Ana. “She sent me this, too.” He handed a sheet of white paper to Flint. It was a will, signed by Bee and witnessed by a Miss Taka Yukomo.