one-hit wonder Page 29

  “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.”

  “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.

  “Who the hell is Taka Yukomo?” said Flint.

  Ana shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “Sushi,” said Flint, clicking his fingers,
“the coroner’s report said she ate sushi during her last hours. She must have taken the will down to the restaurant with her that night. Got a waitress to witness it for her. Posted it that night.”

  “Yes,” said Ana, “and Amy said she went out that night, at about nine o’clock. She must have decided to go out for one last meal. On her own . . .” She petered off as she felt tears threatening. What an absolutely tragic thought.

  “Your mother’s not going to like this, Ana.”

  “What?” Ana looked over Flint’s shoulder.

  According to Bee’s will, everything was going to Zander.

  The cottage. The money in her bank accounts. Her royalty payments. Her books and CDs. The seven thousand pounds hidden under her bed in a cigar box.

  “But I visited her solicitor,” said Ana, scanning the page, “he said she hadn’t made a will. That he’d advised her to and she refused. I mean‌—does this actually have any legal standing without a copy being with her lawyer?”

  Flint and Zander shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that right now, anyway,” said Zander. “Read that letter first. Read that letter and then try making sense of things. It’s quite rambling‌—incoherent. A bit of a stream of consciousness, you might say. . . .”

  Ana perched herself on the edge of Zander’s bed and began reading.

  July 28, 2000

  My dearest Zander,

  I went shopping on Tuesday, looking for a birthday present for you. I went into Hampstead. It was a beautiful day. I had lunch at a French cafe and sat outside on the sidewalk. I had a bowl of vichyssoise. It was freshly made. It was delicious. With it I had an iced coffee, served in a glass mug with whipped cream on top. After lunch I went to the Gap and bought you the enclosed clothes. I hope you like them. And then I just wandered around for a while, soaking up the sun, people-watching, window-shopping. I bought myself a pair of shoes from Pied à Terre and a dress from Ronit Zikha.

  You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. Well‌—there is a reason. It’s because now, from the perspective of today, I can see that Tuesday was a turning point in my life. And that wandering around Hampstead High Street that afternoon was the end of an era for me. And if I’d known it at the time, maybe I’d have appreciated it more.

  Because‌—and I don’t really expect you to understand this‌—you may have the intellect and bearing of a man of thirty but you still have the emotional capacity of any sixteen-year-old boy‌—because about ten minutes after I bought my shoes, I saw Ed. I saw Ed and Tina, and they had their three babies with them. Three tiny new babies in a huge buggy. Tina was adjusting the parasol on their pram and Ed was holding all the baby stuff. And then Ed leaned down into the pram and I saw him smile, a smile of complete and utter adoration. And then they carried on walking, and everywhere they went, people smiled at them, complete strangers smiled at them because they had three perfect, identical babies and the two of them looked so proud and complete.

  I was wearing pink silk capri pants that cost me 140 pounds and a black mesh vest that was 85 pounds. My shoes were pink stilettos from LK Bennet, 115 pounds. I spent half an hour doing my makeup that morning‌—the usual slap, you know‌—black liner, red lips, an inch of foundation. I’d just had my hair done at John Frieda, the day before. That cost me 90 pounds. It was pinned up with a big silk rose from Johnny Loves Rosie, 18 pounds.

  Tina was wearing a pair of baggy leggings and a big vest with a pair of old sandals. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was wearing no makeup. She looked knackered and her gut was enormous.

  You can guess who looked the most beautiful.

  Something inside me died then, Zander. Not because I felt like it should have been me or because I wanted three babies or anything. I got over Ed a long time ago, as you know, and I’m not the world’s most maternal person. But my desire to keep taking the path I’ve been on for the last fifteen years just evaporated at that moment. The past fifteen years have been all about covering my tracks, patching things up, telling one lie to cover another to cover another to cover another . . . the past fifteen years should have been about building a life, growing, developing, taking whatever fate threw at me. But I haven’t been able to do that because every move I’ve made, every decision I’ve made, has been about one moment in my life that can never be erased and can, I now realize, never be put right.

  I got home that afternoon, and all I wanted to do was curl up into a ball and cry. But Mr. Arif was here. In my flat. Just sitting there on my sofa. John got out last week. The porter found him wandering around on the third floor. I went looking for him and I found him at the porter’s desk being hand-fed tuna chunks from a can. The porter must have told Mr. Arif about him.

  Mr. Arif went mad. His face went all purple and his eyes were bulging and he was shouting, calling me a cheat and a liar, telling me he should kick me out. He scared me, and I’m a hard person to scare. He made me take John, there and then, in his box, and get rid of him. I took him to the cottage that afternoon. I spent the night there with him, but at about six in the morning I woke up having a panic attack. For the first time in years. My heart was racing, I was sweating and I thought I was having a heart attack. I could hear noises out in the garden. I was paranoid. I thought I was dying, Zander. I was terrified. So I just threw on some clothes, put John in his box, and left. I took the train, left my bike‌—I was in too much of a state even to get the key in the ignition‌—and went straight to Lol’s. Asked her to have John for a while‌—which wasn’t ideal‌—she hates cats, but what choice did I have?

  I’ve just spoken to Lol on the phone. John’s gone. She left a window open in her flat and he’s gone. I’m devastated. It just feels like the end of everything. I know what you’ll say‌—he’s just a cat. Just a big old silly old cat. But he was more than that. Much more. I mean‌—what responsibilities do I actually have, Zander? None‌—that’s right. No children, no mortgage, no job, no family. I’m not even really responsible for you. High Cedars is responsible for you. And come September, you won’t need me at all. The only creature on this earth who I had any responsibility for, who needed me, and he’s gone. Probably squashed flat somewhere in some dark, lonely road. Or stolen. Stolen and sold to some fat woman who’ll feed him cream buns and give him a heart attack.

  I’m feeling heartbroken, Zander and so, so guilty.

  Now that you’re moving on with your life, now that you don’t need me anymore, and now that I don’t even have John to concern myself with, I can’t see the point of lying anymore. I’ve realized something this week‌—I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of patching over things, of compromising, of living half a life. And in order to stop feeling like this, I’m going to have to do something I never ever thought I’d do. Something that will mean the end of you and I. Forever. I’m going to have to tell you about 1986. . . .

  thirty-five

  December 1986

  Bee hated this driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road business. Especially in the dark. Especially when she was tired. Especially in a hire car that she’d been driving for only an hour. And especially when there were tears blurring her vision.

  She’d landed at Bordeaux airport at nine o’clock and was now heading up eerily quiet Friday-night roads toward her father’s house near Angoulême. The small granite towns that stood flush to the road were all deserted, even the occasional strip-lit café or bar was empty.

  Gregor had bought his old town house about four years ago, had it renovated at great expense and now spent most of his time there. Bee couldn’t see the attraction herself. She really wasn’t that keen on France: French food, French architecture, the French countryside, French music‌—or the French themselves, come to that. She preferred Italy. Or Spain. Or Holland. Or anywhere, really, on the European mainland apart from France. Her father had, on the other hand, become a complete Francophile. He could speak fluent French and was a popular figure in his adopted second hometown, where he went everywhere on his bike in
a beret and neckerchief, stopping just short of the stripy Breton top and the string of garlic around his neck.

  She steered the Fiat left into the dirt track that ran down the side of Gregor’s house and pulled up behind his 1961 Jaguar. All the lights were on in the cottage, and it looked warm and inviting on this cold, black night.

  “Hi-ee,” she called, pulling her weekend case from the backseat and heading for the back door. Her father was standing in the kitchen, wearing a striped butcher’s apron and stirring something in a huge blue le Creuset casserole pot. He looked at her through the steamed-up windows and his face split open into an enormous grin. He put down his wooden spoon, wiped his hands on his apron, and came to the door.

  “Hello, darling,” he said, smothering her in a big, fragrant bear hug. He smelled of cologne and garlic. Bee squeezed him back, her arms barely meeting around his fifty-inch chest.

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “You smell like a cigarette,” he said, grabbing her head and sniffing her crown, “like a little red Marlboro. When are you going to quit?”

  Bee ignored him and dropped her bag and her coat on a red chaise longue. He passed her a huge glass of red wine. “What’s cooking?” she said, kicking off her high heels and padding across terracotta tiles toward the stove.

  “Oh,” said Gregor, smiling at her over his wineglass, “just a little something I’ve been slaving over for an entire day, that’s involved driving to three separate markets and bribing the farmer down the road with a liter of red.”