one-hit wonder (39 page)

He put it on the table by her bed and then pushed open the oatmeal curtains.

“Urgh. God. Dad. Do you have to?” Bee opened her eyes and then immediately forced a pillow over her face. “What time is it?”

“It’s half past ten.”

Bee sat bolt upright. “Really?” she said.

“Yes. And it’s really a rather beautiful day. Not much cloud around. . . .” He peered upward through the window.

Bee felt like she’d been hit over the head with a mallet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Shit. I hardly slept. And I think I”—her thoughts fogged over as she tried to remember exactly what had happened last night—“I think I fainted.”

Her father turned around in alarm. “Fainted?”

“Yes,” she plunged her cafetière, “in the middle of the night. I was . . . worrying about things and then I think I sort of blacked out. I feel terrible.”

“What were you worrying about?”

Bee raised her eyebrows. Typical Dad. Mustn’t make a fuss.

Let’s pretend everything’s all right. “You, you dickhead,” she teased. “I was worrying about you.” She stirred milk into her coffee and took a sip. She paused before making her next comment. “I wish I didn’t know so much, Dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“About AIDS. I wish I didn’t know so much. It makes it worse. All those times you took me to see Geoffrey and Bobby at Westminster. All those guys. Those guys who’d been spinning around to Donna Summer a year before in their satin shirts, without a care in the world. Lying there looking thirty years older than they were, like they were already thirty years older than they were, like they were already dead. I wish I hadn’t seen them. Maybe it wouldn’t seem so real, otherwise—”

“Oh, darling. It’s not really real, you know. Not yet. Not now.”

Bee clanked her cup down heavily on the bedside table.

“But it
is
real, Dad. It is so unbelievably real. It doesn’t get much more real than this.”

Gregor shrugged and picked the rose off the tray. He put it to his nose and sniffed it. His eyes closed and his face lit up with pleasure. “You know what, though, my sweet. It doesn’t feel real. It really doesn’t. And I much prefer it that way.” He put the rose on her lap, smiled at her, and quietly left the room.

thirty-six

Bee drove to the shops for her father that morning. He’d tried to dissuade her, especially after the fainting incident, but she wanted to get away. Sit somewhere and have coffee on her own. She had so much to think about.

She eschewed the exotic and enticing
boulangerie,
boucherie,
and
patisserie
for the
supermarché
, where she wouldn’t be required to use her excruciating schoolgirl French. She picked up a mold-covered cured sausage in a strangulating net and a great hunk of stinky cheese, a jar of murky fish stock, and floury loaves of criss-crossed bread. At the cash register she pointed at a carton of Marlboros and bought a copy of the English
Times.
She loaded her groceries into the back of her car, took the papers and the cigarettes, and found herself a seat in the front window of a small café.

“Un café . . .” she said, her face wrinkling when she realized she couldn’t even remember the word for please—
por favor? Pourquoi
? She smiled extra politely at the waiter, hoping that this would make up for not saying please and pulled the soft top from her cigarettes. She lit one up and stared through the window for a while. The town was bleakly pretty in the clear December sun. Streetlamps were festooned with white Christmas lights, and a layer of glittery encrusted frost lay over everything. A week before Christmas. Her favorite time of year. Usually. She sighed and pulled the supplement from inside her newspaper. She flipped through it absentmindedly, halfheartedly. The usual end-of-year lineup. Pages of moody black-and-white photojournalism. A picture of
Challenger
disintegrating over Cape Canaveral, heartbreaking portraits of Chernobyl victims, a joyful one of a jubilant Desmond Tutu. And then lists.

Who died.

What was hot.

What was not.

Trends. Stars. Films.

Music. The Hits. A-Ha. Madonna. The Communards. The Housemartins. The Misses. Starship. Nick Berry. The Worst of the Worst. The hits that made us scared to switch on the radio.

She smiled with a satisfying
schadenfreude
at pictures of Dr

& the Medics and Nu Shooz and various other one-hit wonders, before turning the page.

And there she was. Oh God. She felt color flood her face.

A huge quarter-page picture of her, looking sulky in a black-satin puff-sleeved jacket with backcombed hair and a red pussy-bow tied around her neck. It was one of her most hated publicity pictures. The makeup artist had given her all this Siouxsie-Sioux eyeliner and cupid-bow lips, and she just looked . . . she looked like a complete cow, a horrible, hard-nosed bitch cow. They’d obviously selected it on purpose.

What a difference a year makes. This time last year Bee Bearhorn was being hailed as the face of new pop, Britain’s answer to Madonna, a star in the ascendant. “Groovin’ for London” was a classic pop hit and Bee herself made a more than acceptable pop star. With her striking image and bolshie interview persona she was a pinup for the boys and a heroine for the girls. And then came “Space Girl.” It was bad.

It was very bad. And just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, along came “Honey Bee.” A lesson for upstart pop stars everywhere. Just because you’re pretty and look good in black PVC doesn’t mean you can write songs. Leave it to the professionals, eh? As for Bee—well, since she’s just been dropped by her label like the proverbial hot potato, we can confidently look forward to seeing her in the

“Whatever Happened To’s” by the decade’s end.

Bee dropped the magazine on the tabletop and felt her eyes fill up with tears. This was too much. This was much, much too much. Her waiter returned with her coffee. She pulled out her purse and grabbed a handful of random coins, letting them drop noisily onto the saucer.
The Times,
she thought in horror. The most popular newspaper in the country. Her friends read the
Times.
Her fans read the
Times.

Her
mother
read the
Times.
Everybody read the fucking
Times
and now everybody would know. As if it hadn’t been humiliating enough having two flop singles in the space of six months, being slagged off in the music press, Woolworth’s and Our Price sending back crates of 7-inches to Electrogram’s distribution center, being the butt of company jokes. As if just failing in the first place hadn’t been bad enough, now this. In a national newspaper.

She stumbled from the café and back to her car. She wanted to go back to her dad’s now. She wanted him to tell her that everything was all right. She didn’t want to be on her own. She reversed out of her chevron parking space and started the drive homeward. Tears kept spilling down her cheeks as she drove, and her heart began to race again. She kept thinking of everyone at home, all those people who’d been taking her so seriously a year ago, laughing at her now.

Laughing behind her back. Laughing at her spectacular lack of talent. And then she thought of Dave Donkin’s face. The way he tried to look like he cared. Like it broke his heart to let her go. Like if it had been up to him . . .

“Bollocks,” she shouted out loud to herself, wiping away tears with the back of her hand, “big hairy bollocks.” Mucus trickled from her nostrils and over her lips. She wiped it away. She took deep breaths. Her heart raced and raced and raced. Everything was falling apart. It really was.

Falling apart at the seams. And her heart, she thought. There was definitely something wrong with her heart. She put her hand on her chest. It was beating hard, irregularly. She couldn’t breathe. She was having a heart attack. She was. She knew it. A heart attack at the age of twenty-two. She was dying. She was going to die. Here. In France. In a Fiat Panda.

Jesus. Jesus Christ. She had to get back. She had to get home.

To her father. She put her foot on the accelerator and wound down her window. Fresh air. The road started to twist and turn as she drove through woodland. She heard her tires squeaking against the tarmac. She had to get home. She couldn’t die here. Not here. Not in a car. All on her own.

She turned a corner, her wheels just gripping the slushy road. She turned another. And then—Jesus—Christ. What . . .

a white van was hurtling toward her. A big white van. On the wrong side of the road. It was on the
wrong side of the road.

She hit her horn with the heel of her hand and turned the steering wheel violently ninety degrees. The white van turned, too, and as it veered off the road, she came to an abrupt stop about two inches from the trunk of a huge oak tree. Her head bounced off the windshield and her breath left her with a jolt as her breasts hit the steering wheel.

For a moment everything was eerily silent. She rubbed at her forehead and then at her ribs. But she was fine. And then, just as she was about to put the car back into gear and carry on, she heard a strange muted thud. And then another one.

She twisted her head to look behind her. Clouds of dirt hung in the air. The white van was nowhere to be seen. The sides of the road fell away in a steep incline. No, she thought.

No—it couldn’t have. She was sure. There would have been more noise. No, she decided, the van was fine, on its way into town. The van was fine.

She put the car into first, took a deep breath, and began the journey back to her father’s. And it was only as she pulled back into the road and found herself automatically taking the left-hand lane that she realized that the van
hadn’t
been driving on the wrong side of the road.

She
had.

BABY’S MIRACLE ESCAPE AS FAMILY PERISH

A six-month-old child was the only survivor of a tragic road accident that killed four other members of his family yesterday. Two members of the Roper family from Tenterden in Kent and two members of the Wright family from Tunbridge Wells were on their way to a rented farmhouse in the Dordogne region of France, where they were planning to spend the Christmas and New Year holiday together. Their rented minibus came off the road at a sharp turn on a road just outside the town of Ruffec and tumbled more than eighty meters down a rock-and-dirt covered ravine. Baby Alexander Roper was thrown free of the bus in a child’s car seat. His condition today was described as critical.

His parents, Joanne and Rupert Roper, and aunt and uncle Beverly and Tim Wright, were all killed immediately by the explosion, which destroyed the minibus.

French authorities will be launching an inquiry into the accident. No one else is being sought in connection with the incident.

thirty-seven

A chill ran down Ana’s spine and she let the newspaper fall onto the bed.

“Oh my God,” she murmured.

“Fuck,” said Flint, sitting heavily on Zander’s bed. He ran his finger through his hair and exhaled loudly. Outside, a child screamed with laughter.

Zander looked from Ana to Flint and to Ana again, his face alert with anticipation. But they remained silent, absorbing the full horror of what they’d just read.

“I kept expecting her to call,” said Zander
,
“I had it all planned, what I was going to say to her. How I was going to make her feel. I was going to destroy her. Because I knew exactly how to get to her, you know? We had this . . .

connection
—and I knew just how to hurt her. I was going to take what little hope she had left and annihilate it. I was going to tell her I hated her. That she was ugly. And old. That I wanted her to be dead . . .” He petered out pensively. “But she didn’t phone. And after a while I just—It doesn’t read like a suicide note, does it?” he said urgently. “I mean—there was no way of knowing from that that she was about to do something so terrible? And even if it had been more explicit, it would have been too late, because it didn’t get here until the following Monday, so she must have posted it
that day,
you know, the exact day, so . . .”

It fell silent again and Zander looked desperately from one to the other, waiting for some kind of response. But Flint and Ana were still too shocked to speak.

“I was going to forgive her, you know?” Zander said quietly.

“Really?” said Ana, finally lifting her gaze from the floor.

“Yes.”

“But how? I don’t understand how anyone could . . .” She indicated his wheelchair with her eyes.

He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “Obviously I’ve given this one hell of a lot of thought and as time’s gone by my view of the situation has become—characteristically, I suppose—rational.”

“But how can you rationalize something so appalling?”

“Look at it like this, Ana. Supposing what happened on that road in France hadn’t happened, supposing I’d been able-bodied and brought up among a loving family, who’s to say that it wouldn’t have been me driving a car recklessly somewhere? Who’s to say that
I
wouldn’t have turned out to be some wild child rebel, stealing cars, speeding around, killing people? There’s no way of knowing, and that’s what makes it impossible for me to judge Bee. And, to use a cliché, you don’t miss what you haven’t had. Ironically enough, Bee gave me the only experiences of my life to date that I will ever miss. I had nothing to feel nostalgic about before I met Bee, nothing to look back on, no real history.

D’you see? Bee took everything away from me, but because I had no experience of the things that she took, I can only judge her on what she
gave.
And she gave me a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Well—she inspired me, I suppose. She challenged me.

And she brought out the
best
in me. I don’t generally make it my business to make people happy, but there was something about Bee that just made me want to please her. I liked to see her smile. I liked to see her relax. I liked to make her laugh. I loved being with her. I loved
her. . . .
” He cleared his throat and Ana watched a blush spread over his face. “If it wasn’t for Bee—well . . . I’m leaving here in a couple of weeks, did you know?”