one-hit wonder Page 34

  “You drove Bee away from home. You cut her off from Ana. And then you made sure that Bee would never contemplate coming anywhere near you again. You treated Gregor appallingly. You treated Bill appallingly. You manipulate people, and if you can’t manipulate them you destroy them. I understand that you’re not entirely healthy. I know about your agoraphobia and I’m sure life isn’t particularly easy for you. But you can’t expect everyone else to make all the effort. You can’t expect your twenty-five-year-old daughter to give up her life for you. You missed Bee’s funeral, Gay. Your own daughter. Because you weren’t prepared to work through your problems. Now‌—the reason that Ana and I are here today is that we’ve learned a lot about Bee’s life over the past few days, and actually it was a very bleak, very lonely life, and we’ve decided to give Bee a proper farewell. We’re organizing a party for her and we want you to come. Even if that means you going through hell to get there. Literally. You don’t even need to go on public transportation. I’ve got a limousine outside. You can go straight from your front door and into my car. I can take you now. Or I can come back and get you. But you are coming. No matter how much it hurts . . . You owe it to Bee.”

  Flint stopped and bumped his eye contact with Gay up a notch. Her eyes bored into his. For a second the silence in the room was overpowering. And then Flint yelled out as he felt a searing, burning pain in the palm of his hand. He snatched his hand away from Gay’s, and she immediately leapt to her feet and strode into the kitchen. Flint looked down at the palm of his hand. “Fuck! Fucking bitch!” Blood was seeping from four half-moon cuts in his skin. Gay appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a sheet of kitchen towel. “Get out of my house,” she said in a dead voice.

  “Mum!” Ana leapt to her feet.

  “And you,” she said, turning to look at Ana. “Both of you. Get out of my house now.” She screwed the tissue into a ball and brushed a loose wisp of hair out of her eyes. Her hands were shaking. Ana walked toward her. “Mum, listen to him. Please. He’s right. You’re damaging yourself. If you don’t come and say goodbye to Bee, you’re just going to get sicker and sicker. I’ll help you. I will. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll‌—”

  “Please. I beg of you. Get out of my house now.” Gay’s voice quavered, but she wasn’t about to cry.

  “No,” said Ana, “I’m not going anywhere. Not until you’ve agreed to at least think about coming to London . . .”

  “Get out!” Gay screamed, and her face fell apart into a mass of ugly, angry lines. “Get out now!”

  Flint nodded at Ana and got to his feet. Ana stopped and stared at her mother, whose chest was rising and falling. Then Ana picked up her knapsack and she and Flint left the house, letting the door slam loudly behind them.

  forty-two

  Saturday, September 2, 2000

  It was a stunningly beautiful day. No cloud around and just the right temperature. Ana adjusted the straps on her new dress and smoothed a crease out of the hem. She’d been shopping last week. In a moment of guilt she’d phoned Zander last week and told him about the seven thousand pounds that she’d found under Bee’s bed‌—that was legally his. And try as she might to persuade him to let her give it to him, he’d refused. He’d insisted that she keep it to set herself up in London. So, last week she’d deposited the cash into her bank account and then spent nearly five hundred of it on clothes. She’d never spent more than fifty quid at a time on clothes before in her life. But Lol had insisted. And she’d had little choice. She had no clothes and now that it was becoming increasingly obvious that she was never going home again, she needed them. Lol had taken her out shopping in Kensington and Notting Hill, whisking her in and out of quirky boutiques down side roads, where the staff all knew her by name and welcomed her like an old friend. She’d bought new jeans, three pairs of shoes‌—one with heels‌—a few funky T-shirts, and this dress. One hundred twenty-five pounds for a dress. Lol had almost had to hit her to get her to part with the cash. But it was so pretty and so her. Black silk, straight up and down, a split at the back, and sprinkled with black sequins.

  That evening she’d gone out with Lol and the famous Keith, who was finally home from his Cornish exile. He was fifty years old. And almost completely bald. With rather a large paunch. And three grown-up daughters. All of which Ana had found quite surprising. When Lol had said he was a Romany, a clichéd image of oily olive skin and thick black hair had immediately come to mind. But he was cool and funny and completely besotted with Lol, and Ana had liked him enormously. Flint had arrived at the bar at eleven o’clock to pick her up after a job and Lol’s face had been an absolute picture.

  “No,” she’d exclaimed when Flint had gone to the bar to get some drinks, “please. Tell me it’s not so.”

  “What?” Ana said obtusely.

  “You. And Flint. You haven’t . . .”

  “Haven’t what?”

  “Oh. Jesus. You have, haven’t you? You’ve let him have his wicked way with you?”

  Ana flushed and Lol screeched.

  “After everything I told you. After all those warnings. And you still fell for it.”

  “I did not fall for anything,” Ana defended herself, “I just wanted . . . I just needed . . . I just . . . it just happened. And it’s good. It’s really good. He’s lovely.”

  Lol rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she hissed, “that’s exactly what I told you you’d think.”

  “Look. Flint and me. I really think it’s . . . different. . . .”

  Lol covered her eyes with her hands and wailed. “Oh God. Help me. Help me someone. I can’t bear it.”

  And then Flint had come back with the drinks and sat next to Ana, and he’d run his hand over her hair and smiled at her and kissed the end of her nose and squeezed her knee, and Lol had made all sorts of extraordinary facial expressions until Ana went to the ladies’ room a few minutes later. When she got back, Flint was checking his car and Lol had grabbed Ana’s hand and said, I’ve never seen anything like it. That man is in lurve. And Ana had blushed and said, Don’t be so ridiculous, and Lol had shaken her head and said, Never, I have never seen that man so excited to be with someone. And he could not stop smiling while you were in the loo. Kept looking over his shoulder. And grinning. What the hell have you done to him?

  Lol’s words had worked their way into her stomach and swished around and made her feel almost faint with joy. Because Lol was just confirming what she already knew. There was something special going on here with Flint. Something natural and real and inevitable. She felt totally and utterly secure with Flint, never doubted his intentions, never analyzed his words for hidden meanings, just accepted him exactly as he seemed. And he did everything right. He didn’t come on too strong. And he didn’t play it too cool. He did just enough to make her feel loved, protected, respected, and admired, without ever making her feel trapped or tricked or vulnerable or cruel.

  Ana thought about Lol’s words now as Flint’s car pulled up to the entrance of Kensal Rise Cemetery, and a smile played on her lips. She turned to Flint and beamed and he beamed back at her. In the back of the car were Lol and Keith, Gill, Di, and Amy, who’d brought Freddie in a specially bought black velvet coat.

  Flint brought the car to a halt in the car park and everyone piled out. Father Anthony, the smiley and pink-cheeked vicar who was going to carry out the memorial ceremony, greeted Ana near the entrance to the crematorium with a bone-crushingly firm handshake.

  “Well,” he said, “you’ve certainly chosen a lovely day for it.” He looked upward at the sky as if he were expecting to see God himself giving him the thumbs-up from a cloud. Ana introduced Anthony to everyone, and then they began the walk toward Bee’s grave.

  “A lot of the attendees are already here,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “but we won’t start until everyone’s arrived. We’ve still got a few minutes.”

  Ana caught her breath. She suddenly felt very responsible. She’d never really organized anything before, not even
a house party. Her mother had been the queen of organization when Ana was growing up and then, when she’d left home, Hugh had always looked after all their social arrangements. He’d made all the phone calls, planned the menus, sent out the invitations. All she’d had to worry about was trying to think of something to say to Hugh’s intellectual friends that wouldn’t make her sound retarded and then doing the dishes afterward. But in the space of the last week she’d exchanged e-mails with Stuart Crosby, who’d put a notice up on his Web site with details. She’d arranged for Zander to come to London with Dr. Chan. And she’d invited Ed. She’d phoned him at his office, and he’d said no at first. He’d cut off all links with Bee for the sake of his family and he didn’t want to take any risks. But then he’d phoned back the next day and said he’d been thinking about it and decided that he owed Bee a last good-bye and that his wife and babies were spending the day with her mother anyway, so he’d be able to come.

  Having sorted out the guest list, she’d then had to decide on the blessing with Father Anthony and plan for the party afterward, which, after many hours of heated discussion between her, Flint, and Lol, was to be held at Bee’s favorite pub in Belsize Park, just next to where her old flat had been. Ana had spent that morning at the pub with Flint and Lol, decorating the function room upstairs with posters of Bee and lots of black and yellow balloons. She’d been in touch with caterers, and Lol had put a band together for her so she’d had to hire sound equipment, too, as well as write a speech.

  The outlines of a small group of people emerged as they neared the grave‌—men and women of varying ages and appearances. Ana caught her breath when she saw the outline of a small woman with black hair‌—she’d sent Gay an invitation last week and even though she knew it was highly unlikely, a small part of her was still hoping that she might be here. The woman turned around and Ana felt slightly deflated when it wasn’t her mother.

  She didn’t recognize any of the other people by the grave, so she presumed they were fans. Bee’s fans.

  “Hi,” she said as she approached them, “I’m Ana. Thank you all so much for coming.” They all turned to smile at her and Ana saw something in their eyes as they looked at her that made her stomach lurch. Awe. They were in awe of her. They thought she was something special because she was Bee’s sister and because she was the organizer. They thought she was a proper person. And looking around her now, at Flint and Lol, Ana suddenly remembered that she was a real person, a person whose psychological stature finally matched her physical stature. They looked at her expectantly. “We’re just waiting for a couple more people and then we can get started. Did you all get here all right?”

  Zander and Dr. Chan arrived a minute later, Zander looking very smart in chinos and a black button-down shirt. And then finally Ed arrived, looking flustered and with a small shred of tissue clinging to a shaving nick on his chin. He smiled grimly at Ana and Flint and looked hideously uncomfortable.

  Father Anthony cleared his throat and began the blessing.

  “Well,” he started, “I have to say that I have never before performed a memorial service so shortly after a funeral, but I understand that there were those among you who were unaware of Bee’s passing, or unable to attend for other reasons. I think that the old cliché of ‘better late than never’ is quite apt in this situation, because it really never is too late to celebrate the life of someone who has touched us, in whatever way. I see among you friends and family. Also here are neighbors, business associates, and admirers. You are a wide and disparate cross section of people, but you all have one thing in common. The departed touched you in some way during her short life, and in a way that has changed you profoundly and forever. I understand from Ana that Bee’s life was sometimes tragic and often very lonely. That she still managed to exert such positivity on those around her is a testament to her vibrant personality and her love of people. Let us say a prayer now for Bee and ask for God’s help in providing her with an afterlife that makes up for the shortcomings of her earthly life. My God bless her soul . . .”

  Father Anthony made the sign of the cross. “Now,” he said, “Ana has asked to say a few words about her sister, not about her life which, as I have already said, was not always a happy passage through time, but about her. But first, I am sure that there are others who would like the opportunity to say something. Please feel free to say whatever you wish. Anyone?” He looked around the guests encouragingly. “Ah, good,” he said as someone moved toward him. It was Stuart, shuffling nervously to the head of the grave, clutching a piece of paper. He cleared his throat.

  “I wasn’t sure whether I was going to read this or not, after I wrote it. It’s very sentimental and it’ll make me look like a wimp. But anyway, here goes.” He grinned and cleared his throat again. “I was fifteen years old the first time I saw Bee. She was performing ‘Groovin’ for London’ on Top of the Pops. I have to admit that it was love at first sight.” He smiled apologetically at his wife, and everyone sniggered a bit. “She had so much energy and so much bare-faced confidence in front of the camera. I was a shy kid back then. I didn’t have many friends and Bee just seemed to me to be everything that I wasn’t. And she was also stunningly beautiful and wearing a very short skirt, which didn’t hurt.” He grinned again.

  “I became a huge fan. Used to follow her wherever she went. And then one day she came over to me at a record-shop signing and she said, ‘You again?’ and I nearly fell over. I started stuttering and shaking and I must have been the color of a beet. ‘I’m a really big fan,’ I said. And I thought she’d just shrug it off because she was used to that sort of thing, but I remember she looked really pleased. And then she turned around to her bodyguard”‌—he smiled and turned toward Flint‌—“this guy here, in fact. And asked him to take my address so that she could send me some signed photos. So I gave it to him and never thought I’d hear another thing. Then three days later this huge parcel turns up at my house. I opened it, and it was just full of stuff. A T-shirt, picture disc, about twenty signed photos, pens, erasers, stickers. Just‌—everything. And a handwritten note from Bee saying that she’d watch for me in the future and that if I ever wanted anything I should just write to her via her management company and she’d see what she could do. I mean‌—can you imagine? There’s me, a pimply, unconfident fifteen-year-old, and this beautiful, famous pop star has taken the time and trouble to get in touch.” He shook his head, his face displaying his disbelief, fifteen years later.

  “I met Bee quite a few times over the course of that year or so and she was never anything but gracious, charming, warm, and generous. And then, of course, her father became ill and she dropped out of the music business. I grew up, too, and my pimples went away and I developed other interests. But she was a really important part of my youth. Knowing that I knew her, that I was accepted by her, changed me radically as a person. So when I bought my first PC a few years ago, I pulled all my old Bee Bearhorn memorabilia from the loft, and for a few weeks I was obsessed again, as I went through all this stuff. And out of all that old paper, all those old memories, came the Bee Bearhorn Web site. It was really just for me. I didn’t think anyone else would have much interest. But here you all are. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only sad old loser out there.” He smiled and turned the paper over.

  “I hadn’t really thought much about Bee over the past few years. But when Ana got in touch last week and told me about Bee‌—I cried. I can’t believe I’m telling you all this. But I did. And it was completely unexpected. And I think it’s because when Bee died, a little part of me went with her. Because she was the only person who made me feel like anything when I was an awkward adolescent. And for that, for me, she will forever be unforgettable. May her soul rest in peace.” He bowed his head and refolded his paper and shuffled back to his wife, who squeezed his hand reassuringly.

  Father Anthony looked around for another volunteer, and smiled when he saw Zander wheeling himself toward him.

  He eyed the g
roup confidently and began reading. “Hi. My name is Zander. And I’m Bee’s secret . . .”

  Ana put her hand to her face in horror and went to step toward Zander, but Flint held her back. “It’s fine,” he whispered, “it’s fine.”

  “I’m Bee’s secret friend. My family was killed in a car crash in 1986. The same car crash that injured me and put me in this chair. Bee read about my plight in the papers, and for years she followed my progress. Secretly. When I was ten she started sending me money orders for large sums of money at Christmas. And I never knew who they were from. And then, one day, in 1997, this woman turned up at the home where I’ve lived for the last sixteen years. She was very small and very pretty and she told me she was my aunt. I knew she wasn’t my aunt, but they’re quite strict at my home about people from the outside having access to us. So she made up this stupid story. Apparently, she even managed to come up with some kind of paperwork to prove it. I don’t know to this day how she managed it. But I did know that I liked her instantly. That she was different. That she was refreshing. That she was on my wavelength. And that was a novelty for me because I’d never met anyone on my wavelength before. So eventually I got the truth out of her . . .”

  Ana tensed.

  “. . . and it emerged that her life had been very empty since she lost her precious father to AIDS in 1988. She’d never quite found the enthusiasm to resume her career. She’d taken a lot of knocks and her confidence had been eroded. She had all this money so she never really needed to test herself, to see what else life could offer her. So I became Bee’s project. She came to visit every weekend and we’d go out for walks if it was nice or just sit in my room watching telly together if it was raining. I loved watching telly with Bee. She was such a bitch. We’d just sit there and pick everyone to pieces, talk about their hair or their accents or how stupid they were. I know that’s not very Christian”‌—he looked at Father Anthony‌—“but it was fun. And I’d never really had fun before. Not that sort of fun, anyway. And then, after a few months of these visits, Bee did something incredible for me. She bought us a house. A little house by the sea. And every weekend she would leave London behind her, her friends and her social life, and she’d drive down to the coast and hang out with me. Me. An annoying little kid in a wheelchair. And it was great. We’d cook together. And listen to music. I wasn’t really that into music before I met Bee, but she really turned me around on that one. She’d bring three videos with her every week‌—always a comedy, a thriller, and an action film. And we’d chat and laugh. Make up names for all the numbskulls in the village. Spy on the neighbors with our binoculars and make fun of them. I got her into bird-watching and board games. She got me into trainers and Teenage Fanclub. And she treated me like the most normal person in the universe. That was what was so special about my times with Bee. I felt normal. And special. Abnormally special. But especially normal. She gave me the self-confidence I’d been pretending I already had for the thirteen years before I met her. She broke down all my façades and replaced them with something substantial. And I know that I’ll never meet anyone like Bee again as long as I live, and that makes me feel very, very sad. I’m just really glad I knew her at all. There was a song on the radio this morning, a Janet Jackson song called ‘Together Again.’ It was all about someone being dead and how that person lived on through other people’s smiles and in the stars and such. I just have to say at this point and in order to maintain any semblance of cool, that I really don’t like Janet Jackson. But to Ms. Jackson’s credit, it was a truly joyous song and it was really comforting to me, to think of Bee being everywhere, to think of Bee being a star shining down on me. Bee was always more of a force than a person anyway. Thank you.” He smirked and tucked his paper in his pocket and bowed his head before wheeling himself back to Dr. Chan, who smiled at him affectionately.