one-hit wonder Read online

  Flint had lived in London for most of his life. Born and bred in Enfield, he now lived on Turnpike Lane. All his life he’d known only London girls, or girls who’d chosen London for what it could offer them. But Ana hadn’t chosen London. She was there because of circumstance, not because of ambition or greed or thrill-seeking.

  “Have you ever thought about living in London, Ana? Leaving Devon?”

  She shook her head. “No. Never.”

  “God, you know‌—call me small-minded, but I really can’t understand that.”

  “What?”

  “Living in a small town and not being fucking desperate to get away. I mean‌—what exactly is the attraction?”

  Ana shrugged. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “What do you do?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “In Devon? Who do you live with? What do you do for a living? Who are your friends? Boyfriend? You know‌—tell me about your life.”

  Ana smiled wryly and took another slurp of beer. “You don’t want to know,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I do.”

  “Well,” she began, smiling with embarrassment, “I used to have a life. Quite a nice life, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. I had this really nice flat in Exeter. And a job.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I worked in a music shop. I was the assistant manager.”

  “What sort of music shop?”

  “You know‌—guitars, organs, drum kits. That kind of thing. It wasn’t exactly a career or anything, but I liked it. I had a little car. I had friends. I had a boyfriend.”

  “Called?”

  “Called Hugh.”

  “And what was he like?”

  “Hugh? Well‌—he was‌—is‌—great. He’s a research scientist. Unbelievably intelligent. And funny. And a good cook. Yeah‌—Hugh was great.”

  Flint watched her as she talked about Hugh, watched the way her cheeks flushed crimson and she suddenly found a dozen things to do with her hands.

  “So what happened?”

  “Oh. You know. We grew apart.”

  “How come?”

  “Well‌—everything sort of changed after my dad died.”

  “Shit yeah‌—I forgot that your dad died, too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sheesh. How?”

  “Heart attack. Nothing very exciting. Not like Gregor. But he was eighty-two years old, so it was‌—you know?”

  “Still though‌—what a shame.”

  “It was,” she said, “it is. He was the nicest man in the world. The nicest man ever. He was like my best friend. I know that sounds weird. But he wasn’t like other men of his generation, you know, the war generation. He was different. He even used to come out to the pub with me and my friends sometimes and they all loved him. He was one of those old men who wasn’t scared of the new world‌—he was excited by new technology and new music and new ways of doing things and looking at things. It was like he found the patterns of change exhilarating and life-affirming rather than threatening. I think I did that for him, I think having a child so late in life did that for him. And even though I’d always known he’d go soon, while I was still quite young, it still came as a shock. So, after he went, everything kind of fell apart a bit.” She blushed and cleared her throat and took another large slurp of her lager.

  “So?” said Flint.

  “So what?”

  “So what happened with Hugh?”

  “Oh, well, you know‌—I got compassionate leave from work and it just sort of went on and on and on, and the longer it went on, the less I could cope with the idea of going back to work, dealing with the public. So I resigned. And then my mother developed agoraphobia and I had to go home. To look after her. So I went home ten months ago. And me and Hugh tried to make it work for a while. But I think he got fed up in the end.”

  “Fed up with what?”

  “Well‌—with me being such a misery-guts, I suppose. With me not being fun anymore and not making any effort. He just gave up, and I haven’t spoken to him for weeks now.”

  “That’s a bit rough, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “Hugh. Giving up on you when you really needed him?”

  Ana shrugged and rubbed her elbows again. “I’ve never really thought about it like that. I was always a bit of a burden on him, really, and I suppose it was just‌—”

  “What do you mean‌—a burden?”

  “I mean‌—he’s really, really intelligent and all his friends were really intelligent, too‌—they were all scientists and engineers and that sort of thing‌—all a few years older than me, and I was always a bit‌—out of my depth, I guess. I wasn’t much good. I couldn’t cook and I didn’t know anything about politics or world affairs or wine or . . . or . . . conspiracy theories and all that stuff they liked talking about. I always thought he deserved someone a bit more sophisticated than me, a bit more mature. I think I dragged him down a bit . . .”

  Flint exhaled through puffed-out cheeks. “Well, well, well‌—poor old Hugh, eh?” he said, having already decided that the bloke was obviously a complete cunt.

  “Yeah. I guess so. Poor old Hugh.”

  “But what do you do, Ana?” Flint asked. “I mean‌—what do you actually do all day?”

  Ana shrugged and looked embarrassed. “Look after my mum. Go shopping for her.”

  “Yes‌—but the rest of the time‌—what do you do? Have you got a job?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been meaning to start sending out applications. But I haven’t got around to it.”

  “And what about your old friends, in Exeter‌—do you still see them?”

  “No,” she said in a very small voice, “not really. They tried. But I think they kind of gave up on me too, eventually. I haven’t really been very good company since my dad died. You know? But anyway,” she said forcefully, “enough about me. More than enough about me. What about you?” She looked directly at Flint. “What about your life?”

  Interesting, Flint thought, the way she’d opened up like that, just for a moment and then snapped shut again, like a flytrap. She was quite obviously depressed, although she hadn’t admitted it to herself yet. That’s even if she knew it. 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 f
rom 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.