one-hit wonder (38 page)

“So,” he said, going back to his pot, “what has my little pop star been up to, eh? Fill me in, fill me in . . .” Bee raised her eyebrows and flopped onto the chaise longue. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

“I most certainly do. I have no life of my own now that I’m retired. I have to live vicariously through my daughter. Tell me all your adventures.”

Bee felt her bottom lip start to quiver. Her father was the only person in the world she could do lip-quivering stuff with, the only person she could be herself with. The meeting with Dave Donkin had been on Tuesday and so far she hadn’t told anyone. Not Flint, not Lol, nobody, because she’d wanted to wait and tell her father first.

“They’re dropping me, Dad,” she sobbed. “The bastards are dropping me.”

“What?” He spun around.

“Electrogram. They’re pulling the plug on the album.

They’re not renewing my contract. They’re dropping me.”

“But . . . but what about your contract, darling? You signed a contract. They can’t—”

“They can.”

“But surely they’re obliged to record and release your album—at the very least.”

“No.” Bee shook her head and blew her nose snottily into the piece of paper towel her father had just handed her. “No.

I’ve been through all this with my lawyer, their lawyer, everyone. They don’t have to do anything. It’s all legitimate.” Gregor perched himself gently on the edge of the chaise Gregor perched himself gently on the edge of the chaise longue and put his arm around Bee. “But . . . why?”

“Creative differences.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“It means that I want to be a songwriter but my songs aren’t

‘commercial’ enough for them apparently, and as long as I refuse to be a little dolly-bird all dressed up by them and made up by them and singing some rubbish songs by them, they don’t want to know—”

“Cunts,” said Gregor, squeezing her shoulder and running his hand over her hair. “What utter cunts . . .” Bee sniffed and sniveled and sopped up her father’s sympathy like blotting paper. She knew that it wasn’t all Electrogram’s fault, and she knew that her father knew it wasn’t all Electrogram’s fault. She knew that both of them knew that she’d been a manipulative, short-sighted control freak and that she’d pushed Electrogram to the very limits of their patience. But they both also knew that now was not the moment for recriminations, that now was the moment for a father to hold his daughter and agree with her that the whole world was a big, fat bastard.

Bee let her head fall into her father’s soft, warm shoulder and felt herself relax as his mouth connected with the top of her head in a big plunger-like kiss, almost as if he were trying to suck the hurt out of her and swallow it. She snuggled deeper into his big, comforting frame and felt at least some of the disappointment and deep, burning humiliation of the last few days start to melt away. Life was simple here, under her father’s heavy arm, life was bearable, life was sweet.

“You’ll get another deal in seconds”—her father clicked his fingers—“you know that, don’t you?”

She sniffed and murmured.

“Once word gets out about this, you’ll have every record label in London, in the country, lining up around the block to sign you up. You know everything’s going to be OK, don’t you? You know that you’re a star, don’t you?” She sniffed again and murmured again. She didn’t want to talk, she just wanted to sit there and listen to her father telling her that everything was going to be OK and that she was a star. He unpeeled himself from her slowly and got to his feet creakily. “My cassoulet is calling,” he said, padding to the stove and sprinkling something green on top of the stew before giving it a good stir. “Hmmmm,” he said, tasting it from the lip of a large wooden spoon. He picked up a bottle of local Bordeaux and splashed it generously into the pot.

Bee held her crumpled tissue between her hands, which hung pathetically between her knees. “I love you, Dad,” she sniffed.

“I should think so, too.” He winked at her and dropped another handful of green stuff into his stew.

They ate in the kitchen, by candlelight, listening to Ennio Morricone. It had started to rain outside, and heavy bullets of rain battered against the windows. A fire lit in a huge brickwork fireplace spluttered and hissed as raindrops fell down the chimney and the flames were ruffled by ghostly gusts of wind.

“So,” said Bee, now that the subject of herself had been

“So,” said Bee, now that the subject of herself had been fully covered and she felt she’d had enough paternal attention, “what’s the story with Joe?”

Her father got to his feet and collected their empty bowls, brushing bread crumbs from the vinyl tablecloth with the side of his hand. “I told you, darling. Something came up.”

“What is this, Dad? A soap opera? You can’t get away with saying things like ‘Something came up’ in real life, you know.”

He scraped chicken bones into the trash and sighed.

“What, Dad? What is it?”

He dropped the empty bowls into the sink and turned to look at Bee. He tried to smile, but the result was so unconvincing that it made Bee want to cry.

“Oh God. Dad. What is it?” She got to her feet and put her hand on his arm.

He smiled at her again, a strained, apologetic smile. “He’s gone,” he said, patting her hand comfortingly. “Joe’s gone.”

“What do you mean, Joe’s gone?”

“I mean—we’re finished. It’s over.”

Bee almost smiled. The idea of Joe leaving her father was so unlikely, it was almost funny. Joe didn’t exist without her father. “But that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.” Gregor sighed and picked up his wineglass. “Isn’t it just?”

“So, what exactly is going on? I mean—how could this have happened?”

“Oh, darling,” he said, his gaze falling to the floor.

“What! Will you please just tell me what’s been going on?”

“I think you should sit down.”

Bee let her hand drop from his arm and lowered herself numbly into a chair. “So?”

“So—he’s been—er—Joe’s been having, um, affairs, I suppose you’d call them.”

“Affairs?”

“Yes. Sleeping with other people. Behind my back.”

“But. That’s not possible.” Bee found it hard enough to imagine Joe having sex, let alone having sex with nameless strangers behind her father’s back. He just wasn’t a sex kind of person.

Gregor smiled wryly. “Oh, darling, I’m afraid it’s more than possible.”

“But, who with?” Bee realized she was asking stupid questions, but she was just responding to what seemed to her to be stupid statements.

“Men, darling. He’s been sleeping with men.”

“But—men that you know? Or strange men?”

“Strange men.”

“What kind of strange men?”

Gregor sighed and cast his eyes downward into his wineglass. “Strange men he meets in public toilets.”

“You mean—he’s been
cottaging
?”

Her father nodded.

Bee shuddered. “That’s disgusting,” she said. “That is
so
disgusting. How long has he been at it?”

“Years, apparently. Years. It’s not entirely his fault though, darling. The sex side of things faded out quite a long time ago between Joe and me, particularly with my back troubles and—”

“That’s not the point, Dad. That is
not
the point. If he was feeling unhappy about things, he should have said something, talked to you. . . .”

“But that’s the thing. He
was
happy. As far as he was concerned, it was a perfect compromise. He loves me. He’s always loved me. He would never have done anything to hurt me. Which is why he chose to sate his, er, appetite in such an anonymous fashion. He never, ever thought it would impinge on our relationship. . . .”

“But you found out. How? How did you find out?”

“Well, that’s the thing, darling. That’s the very, er, difficult thing.”

“Difficult?”

“Yes. You see, despite taking every precaution, despite being one of the most intelligent, most aware people I know, Joe somehow managed to become—infected.” Bee’s vision clouded for a second and she covered her eyes with her fingers.

“Yes—he got the test results last week. He’s HIV positive, darling.”

Bee gulped painfully and dragged her fingers from her eyes to her lips.

“And you see, even though we haven’t been all that sexually active as a couple over the years, that doesn’t mean to say that we haven’t had our moments, our occasional moments. And . . .”

“No,” said Bee through her fingers, “no . . .”

“Well, yes, darling. It does seem that way. And . . .”

“No . . . no.”

“Yes. But, darling, you know as well as I do, they’re already making huge advances in medicine and—”

“Palliative medicine, Dad. Drugs that make it easier for you to die, not drugs to help you live.”

“No. That’s not true. There are developments every day.

And I’m in the very earliest stages. I’ve been infected for only a short while. By the time the virus starts to develop—”

“Stop it! Stop it now. I can’t listen to this.” She put her hands over her ears.

Gregor pulled them away. “Everything’s going to be all right, my sweet. I promise you. Everything is going to be just dandy.”

“No. It’s not. It’s not going to be all right. One minute you’re a healthy middle-aged man enjoying his retirement and the next you’ve got AIDS and it’s all that bastard’s fault. That dirty bastard. He’s disgusting. I mean—
cottaging.
In stinky, pissy, shitty toilets. After everything you’ve done for him. Fed him, clothed him, let him into a world he’d never have been welcome in if it weren’t for you. Given him a life—you gave him life, Dad. I hate him. I hate him.” Bee’s face was scarlet and her face was wet with tears. “I’ve never, ever hated anyone so much in my life.” Her fists were tight and hard.

“Please. Bee. Don’t take this out on Joe. Don’t be angry with him. It’s not his fault. Blame God. Blame bad luck.

Blame poorly constructed condoms. But please don’t blame Joe.”

“Oh, but I do. I really, really do. Where is he?”

“Joe?”

“Yes, Joe. Where is he?”

“He’s er . . . he’s at the hospital. In Angoulême.”

“What for?”

“You see, he’s very, very ill. That’s why he had the test. He’s not been well for a while. He’s had pneumonia.”

“How long has he been there?”

“A couple of weeks. I haven’t been able to bring myself to see him yet.”

“But why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You didn’t ask, did you, my little pop star?” He smiled and rubbed the top of her head.

“But—I thought you said that it was in the early stages?”

“I said I was in the early stages. Not Joe. He’s been infected for a couple of years, apparently.”

“Is he going to die?”

Gregor shrugged.

“I hope he does. I hope he dies.”

“Please, darling. Please don’t say things like that. Please.”

“I couldn’t bear it. If anything happened to you, Dad, I think I’d die. I really, really do.”

Her father reached into his enormous fridge and brought out a large ceramic dish. In it was a creamy-looking confection covered in curly chocolate shavings. He held it toward Bee and smiled.

“Cheesecake, darling?”

Bee woke up at four in the morning, sweating and barely able to breathe. She’d been having a nightmare. Dave Donkin had been straddling her father with a huge syringe in his hand. His face was painted red and he was wearing leather knickers.

Her father had been crying and Bee herself had been trapped somehow and unable to do anything to help.

She looked around her as she awoke and couldn’t remember where she was for a second. Then she remembered. Her heart started racing. Her neck was damp.

She tried to swallow but there was no spit in her mouth. She grabbed a glass. Her hands were shaking. She spilled water all over the top of her duvet. Her heart started beating faster.

An image of her father, jaundiced and emaciated, stretched out and wired up across a hospital bed, flashed through her mind. Her heart raced again. She clutched her chest. Another image flashed through her mind, of midnight toilets. She could smell the urine, hear the
drip drip drip
of a leaking pipe, and she could see Joe skulking around. Squeaky-clean Joe. Quiet-life Joe. Joe, who she’d known since she was twelve years old. He’d infected the man who’d given him everything. Her father. The kindest, most generous, big-hearted, and gentle man Bee had ever known.

She clutched her chest again as her heart started beating so hard she could feel it banging against her rib cage. She was going to be all alone. Her father was going to die. A long, painful, protracted death, and then she was going to be all alone. And her career—her career was over. She’d have nothing and nobody. She was going to end up all alone, all alone in a horrible flat somewhere. She’d probably die, too.

Die young. And nobody would care. And why should they, Die young. And nobody would care. And why should they, she thought, pulling the duvet tightly around her with shaking hands, why should anyone care about her?

Her head filled more and more quickly with thoughts and images. All negative. All black. All telling her that the good times were over. Forever. Life now was going to be about illness and death and failure and poverty. She leapt from her bed and began to pace around the room. She paced and she paced, her head thick with panic. She put her hand over her chest and felt the insistent pounding. She was dying. She knew it. She could barely breathe. She was having a heart attack. Should she wake her father? Wake him? Tell him she was dying? No, she thought, no, don’t disturb Dad, just take deep breaths. Deep . . . deep . . . breaths. In—and out. In—and out. Her vision started to blur. Her breath was short and tight. She had no lung capacity whatsoever. She sat on the edge of her bed. Her heart was beating so fast now that she couldn’t distinguish individual pulses. Her chest felt like it was going to burst. The sides of the room turned into a blue-black fuzz, her body began fizzing like electricity was running through it. Everything was closing in, everything was just . . .

“Morning, darling.” Gregor strode into the room, holding a tray. On it was an individual cafetière, a large blue mug, three slices of thick-cut toast, a pot of quince jam, and a single fat white rose with pink-marbled petals.