one-hit wonder Page 32

  “Well,” said Ana, feeling uncomfortable with the nature of this conversation, “I mean. Whatever you want to do. But really, I don’t . . .”

  Flint revved the car.

  “Sorry,” she said, smiling at Zander.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, “you need to get going. The traffic’ll be starting to build up now.”

  Ana nodded and smiled and wound up her window. She and Flint waved and smiled at a beaming Zander, who waved them off from his wheelchair long after they’d disappeared from view.

  thirty-eight

  Flint and Ana drove together in a kind of numb silence. Of all the places that the roller-coaster of the past few days could have taken them, this was the last one either of them could have possibly expected. Ana’s brain boggled at the immensity of Bee’s confession, at the size of the secret that she’d been hauling around with her for fifteen years. It was unthinkable.

  Flint put a hand on her knee and squeezed it. She looked across at him and smiled tightly. She felt like she was in another country, on another planet, in another universe. Poor Bee. Her life in stasis. Never being able to move on. Never being able to develop. Never being able to get close to anyone. What must it have been like? Waking up every morning and knowing that there was no way forward. Sixteen years of hopelessness. And not even being able to indulge her hopelessness. Not being able to get pissed and moan about her life with her friends, not being able to go to counseling or buy a self-help book or watch people on talk shows going on about having the same problem as you. No sympathy, no empathy, no outlet for her guilt. Not being able to share it with anyone.

  It was a wonder she’d lasted as long as she had.

  “D’you want to come driving with me? Tonight?”

  Ana looked at Flint and felt herself melt inside with gratitude. She nodded. “Yes, please. I really don’t think I could handle being on my own tonight with all this stuff in my head.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. You can stay at mine, too. If you want. Nothing untoward, you know. Just for the company.”

  She nodded again, thinking that it was what she wanted more than anything. The way she was feeling right now, she never wanted to leave Flint’s side again. And then another thought occurred to her. It was done. It was over. They’d found out why Bee killed herself. There was no reason for her to be in London anymore. And the ties that had bound her to Flint for the past few days had disappeared. What happens now? She felt her heart miss a beat with anxiety. She swallowed and put the thought in the back of her mind. She was with him now. She was with him tonight. That was enough for now.

  Flint put on some music and Ana retreated into her own thoughts. She fantasized about a world in which her mother had never gone to Gregor’s funeral and Bee had never kicked her out and her own relationship with Bee had developed and they’d eventually become friends. And in her fantasy, she and Bee would get very drunk one night and start talking about life and regrets and the past, and Bee would suddenly start crying and Ana would ask her what was the matter. Bee would refuse to tell her, but after a lot of patient coaxing would finally open up and tell her all about what had happened on that road in France. And the two of them would hold each other and cry together‌—for Zander, for his family, for Gregor and for Bee. And maybe then Bee could have started to move on. Maybe just knowing that someone knew her secret would have made it easier to bear, even if she never told another soul. Maybe then she’d have gone on with her life, resumed her music career, kept her friends, had relationships, found someone to spend her life with, had children, been happy . . .

  And then Ana felt herself deflate as she admitted to herself that her fantasy was a load of old nonsense and that nothing in the world could have helped Bee to deal with the guilt of having wiped out an entire family and crippled a baby. Absolutely nothing.

  thirty-nine

  The following day Ana got back to Gill’s house early in the morning. Gill was out, as usual, and Ana made herself a cup of tea and installed herself in front of Gill’s PC. She clicked a switch and the machine whirred into life, and then she peered underneath the desk to find this “modem” thingy. There was a sort of black-box thing attached. She felt around for a switch, and lots of little red lights started flashing when she pressed it. She presumed that meant that it was on. Ana had used PCs at college, but really only for typing and research and she hadn’t so much as touched one since she left. She had absolutely no idea how they functioned or what else they were capable of. It took her another quarter of an hour to work out how to dial up the modem and get on line.

  She pressed a bar at the top of the screen, looking for a search box, and a big list of Web site addresses scrolled down in front of her. She clicked on something, randomly, and the screen changed before her eyes. Loud lurid graphics: “FULL PENETRATION,” “GIRL ON GIRL,” “ASIAN GIRLS,” “SCHOOLGIRLS,” “WET,” “HARD,” “XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX-RATED.” Ana went back to the bar with the addresses on it and dropped it down again. “Trailertrash.com,” “Chazbaps.com,” “Asianbabe.com,” “Hotsex.com.”

  Ana smiled at the predictability of it. The woman was obsessed. Ana had never met a woman before with such a male attitude toward sex. And not even good male, but bad male. Sex without strings. Sex with strangers. Sex only with people who fitted some preordained idea of physical perfection. Sex only when you’re pissed. Sex you can’t remember the next morning. Sex onscreen. Virtual sex. It occurred to Ana that Gill really was a very disturbed individual indeed.

  Ana found the search box and typed in the name “Bee Bearhorn.” A list appeared immediately and she whizzed through it. Good God, she thought, there’s millions of them. She clicked on a few and found herself in obscure eighties-music sites that mentioned Bee only in passing. But then finally she found it. The site that Zander had told her about. It was still there. “The Unofficial Bee Bearhorn Web Site.”

  The site was divided into several pages: biography; discography; trivia; photo gallery; guest book. She clicked on the photo page and then looked in wonder at pages and pages and pages of pictures of Bee. Amazing, she thought. Bee had been famous for only about five minutes but seemed to have spent the entire time being photographed. She clicked on one thumbnail picture and watched it enlarge on the screen. And as it downloaded she looked into Bee’s eyes and tried to imagine what might have happened to her if she hadn’t been driving on the wrong side of the road that day in 1986, tried to imagine who she’d be and what she’d have done. But there was a hardness behind those eyes, a glint of steel that reminded Ana of exactly the sort of person Bee’d been all those years ago. A bitch. A hard-nosed bitch who got her own way by manipulating people. A heartless woman who wanted only to be the center of everybody else’s universe. A woman just like her mother. And it occurred to Ana that Bee had been on the path to annihilation, in one way or another, ever since she’d first slipped out of the womb and set eyes on her mother. She was never going to be fulfilled, never going to be happy, never going to be successful. Because she’d been born with a self-destruct button implanted in her soul. And Bee had known it, too, she thought, thinking back to her letter to Zander. Even before she’d driven that family off the road, she’d known that she’d end up alone. And dead. From the minute she came into the world, that flat on Baker Street had already been expecting her. And looking into Bee’s eyes now, Ana knew that she’d known it, too.

  Ana derived a strange sense of calm from the thought that when Bee went out for her last meal of sushi, when she swallowed those pills and alcohol on July 28, she’d probably been feeling an inexplicable sense of resignation, a sense of inevitability, and a sense of everything falling into its correct place.

  She thought of others who’d died young, who’d self-destructed. She thought of River Phoenix, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Kurt Cobain, Ian Curtis, Michael Hutchence. And she thought about how, as the shock of these people’s deaths receded, one was left with the sense that they’d always been destined to die young. It
seemed almost obvious, in retrospect. And then she realized that there was one huge difference between Bee’s death and the deaths of all those other shiny people: They’d been mourned. Venerated in their deaths. Iconicized. Swollen by their tragic departures to beings twice their original sizes. Whereas Bee had had nothing. An inch or two in the Times. A funeral with three people. Her departure from this world had actually shrunk her, diminished her status. Looking at the screen now, at this Web site set up in Bee’s honor by someone she’d never even met, it occurred to Ana that this Stuart Crosby, who’d sweated over his computer for hours painstakingly building this site, scanning in photographs, writing the text, probably had no idea whatsoever that his idol was dead. And he should know. Bee deserved some grief. She clicked on a line that said “contact” and an e-mail form popped up. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a while as she tried to find the right words to express what she wanted to say. And then she started typing.

  Dear Stuart,

  My name is Ana Wills and I am Bee’s sister. I’ve just been looking at your Web site and it’s really very impressive, particularly your photo gallery. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but my sister died recently. On July 28, to be precise. We’ve just found out that the official cause of death was suicide. We’re all very, very upset. Bee was such a vibrant, exciting person, and I don’t think any of us were as close to her as we could have, or should have been. But this was due to circumstance rather than a lack of affection or concern. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I suppose it’s just that I remember Bee primarily as a star, as a glamorous, famous pop star. And so do you. I didn’t really know her as an adult, just as a child. And it’s nice to think that there are still people out there who think fondly of Bee. And in fact, what I’ve discovered during my time here in London, is that an awful lot of people in the world thought fondly of Bee. Loyal people. People who managed to see the best in her no matter how hard she may sometimes have made it. She was an extraordinary person but she died a rather ordinary death. Her funeral’s already been and gone, so unfortunately there’s no way now to celebrate her life. Which is really quite tragic. Anyway‌—for some reason I just really thought that you should know since you’ve obviously taken such an interest in her over the years. Maybe you could post the news on your Web site so that other fans might find out. . . . Please feel free to write back if you’d like.

  Yours,

  Ana Wills

  She read through the e-mail and was about to press Send, when another thought occurred to her. She quickly highlighted the last few lines of text, deleted them, and then rewrote them:

  . . . Her funeral’s already been and gone and only three people attended. I wasn’t even there. No matter what mistakes a person makes in their life, I truly believe that they deserve a better send-off than that, particularly someone like Bee, who was always so happy to be in the limelight. So I’ve decided that I’m going to organize a proper wake for Bee. If you can have a wake after some-one’s been buried for nearly a month, that is. But anyway‌—I’m going to organize something worthy of Bee and I’m going to invite all the people who weren’t there three weeks ago. And I’d really like it if you came. And anyone else you know who loved Bee. Anyone who wants to celebrate her life. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, but watch this space and I’ll let you know.

  As Ana typed faster and faster her mind started buzzing with thoughts and ideas. She was going to throw a party Bee would have been proud of.

  forty

  Ana covered one ear to block out the deafening racket of a road drill and shouted into the crackly intercom. “Hi, Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle. This is Ana. Bee’s sister.”

  “Ana! How marvelous. You came back! Do come in.”

  Ana took the lift up to the third floor and felt a shiver of recognition. This is where it had all started on Thursday, just under a week ago. It felt to Ana like she’d been a completely different person then.

  It seemed to take about half an hour for Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle to undo all the locks and chains on her door. She finally greeted Ana in a fog of talcumy confusion, with the ever-present Freddie clutched tightly to her chest. She looked chic in a black turtleneck and blue trousers, and was wearing large gold earrings and a slick of coral lipstick. The radio played in the background.

  “Ana,” she beamed with porcelain teeth, “how wonderful to see you again so soon. Though I presume you’re not here to see me?” She smiled at her knowingly.

  “Of course I am,” Ana said, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

  She held the door open for Ana to enter.

  “Gosh,” said Ana, “what a beautiful flat.” It was exactly the same as Bee’s old flat next door but exquisitely furnished with unusual antiques, expensive curtains, engraved mirrors, and gilt-framed paintings.

  “Bit crammed, I always think. I moved here from a seven-bedroom house in Paris, you see. I sold a lot of things but couldn’t bear to part with most of it. But anyway‌—you’ve not come to look at my soft furnishings, have you? Now, where is he?”

  Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle bent down and began making kissy-kissy noises.

  “He’s over here,” said Ana, pointing at Freddie, who was now stretched out and snoring gently, where Amy had put him down on a green velvet footstool.

  “No, no. Not him. The other one. Here, boy.” She began moving cushions out of the way and peering behind things. “I don’t know,” she said, straightening up and smiling at Ana, “he’s hiding again. I think he’s a little bit traumatized. But then, who can blame him? Why don’t you have a little look for him, and I’ll make us some tea?”

  “Have a little look for who?” Ana was starting to worry slightly about Amy now. And she’d seemed so sane last week.

  “Why, John, of course.”

  “John?”

  “Yes.”

  “John the cat?”

  “Yes, dear.” Now Amy was looking at Ana with concern.

  “But, Amy‌—John doesn’t live here.”

  “No‌—not usually. But I didn’t know what else to do with him. It’s just the most wonderful luck that you found out about him. Who told you? Was it Mr. Whitman? He found him, you know. Wandering around out in back, picking tidbits out of trash cans, if you please. Barely recognized the poor mite at first. He was so thin. But . . .”

  “Sorry? Amy? Are you saying that John is here?”

  “Why, yes, of course. We found him a couple of days ago.”

  “John?”

  “Yes‌—John‌—aaah, there he is.” She beamed and walked toward a door on the far side of the room. “Hello, my lovely‌—and look who’s here to see you. It’s your auntie Ana.”

  Ana put down her knapsack and started walking to where Amy stood.

  “Careful,” she said, “go gentle. He’s very nervous.”

  Ana peered around the corner of a shiny round table laden with silver-framed photos. And there, in the corner of the room, crouched down with his front paws tucked tightly in toward his body and his eyes wide open in terror, sat the most beautiful cat Ana had ever seen in her life. He was huge and cobby with a big square face, thick silver-blue fur, and bright copper-orange eyes.

  “Hello, beautiful,” she said, moving toward him very slowly with one hand outstretched. His ears flattened against his large skull and he backed himself farther into the corner.

  “It’s all right, little one‌—I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Goodness only knows what the poor mite’s been through these last few weeks. He must have run away when Bee went, with the shock of it. I should imagine he’s been down there, in among the trash cans, ever since.”

  “No,” said Ana, “Mr. Arif made Bee get rid of him. He was staying with a friend of hers and he escaped through a window. About three weeks ago.”

  “And this friend was living where?”

  “Ladbroke Grove.”

  Amy looked startled and put a hand to her turtlenecked chest. “But
that’s nearly three miles away. You mean to tell me that this little man found his own way all the way from there to here? On his own?”

  Ana put her finger a few inches from John’s nose. He ignored it at first, but then tentatively stretched his head forward and took a little sniff. “It certainly looks that way.”

  “My goodness,” said Amy, “that really is quite incredible. What intrepidity. What luck. What spunk! He’s a real hero.”

  Ana gently moved her finger across the cat’s cheek and gave him a little tickle. He closed his eyes and started purring.

  “He was in a terrible state when Mr. Whitman found him. Filthy and half starved. I took him to the vet yesterday and they gave him a clean bill of health. He had a few scratches and scrapes, and he’s somewhat underweight, but apart from that he’s in the pink of feline health.”

  “I can’t believe he’s here,” said Ana in wonder, stroking his chin. “He’s so beautiful.” And he really was. It wasn’t just his physical appearance‌—there really was something special about him. Ana could immediately understand why her sister had been so devoted to him. And then she felt a tear start to work its way out of her left eye as she thought of Bee’s note and her guilt and sadness about losing John, and imagined Bee’s face now if she were to walk into the room and see John here, John, who squeezed through a four-inch gap in a window and walked three miles across London to find her.

  “I’d been trying to get in touch with you, you know. Frantically. I even phoned the obscene Mr. Arif, but he was supremely unhelpful. How did Mr. Whitman manage to track you down?”

  Ana looked at her in surprise. “He didn’t.”

  “So‌—how did you know?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”