Beneath the Blonde

by Stella Duffy

  Steve nodded and laughed, “Yeah, he’d have been really good at ripping the shit out of this place. All this sunshine—he’d have fucking hated it. Fucking loved hating it!”

  They both laughed and Saz, sitting a few feet away on the sand, turned to see the broad, bald, tough Steve lean his head onto Dan’s shoulder where a clean white T-shirt awaited his tears.

  By the time they arrived back at the record company offices they were very relieved to find an extremely bouncy Siobhan waiting for them. She insisted that she do the driving back to the hotel and all three were able to push away the silence that had grown between them in the sound of Siobhan’s giggling excitement at everything around her—particularly the dozens of pet washes they passed—that, combined with their own terror that she was about to kill them as she kept forgetting to turn into the right lane when she took corners.

  That night Cal took them to a tiny restaurant overlooking the ocean where Siobhan rejoiced in the vegetarian, fat-free delights of the Californian menu and Saz secretly rejoiced in Siobhan’s laughter. Saz then shocked Cal by stating that she thought the best use for Santa Monica Boulevard was probably as a running track and that she’d use it as such at six the next morning to jog up to the hills—or as close as her lungs would take her. The dire warnings elicited by her suggestion almost put Saz off the peanut butter cheesecake she’d been planning for dessert, but she knew she needed something to cheer herself up and as the thought of the creamy goo had kept her going through the interminable music talk all night (that and the slight turn at the pit of her stomach every time Siobhan smiled at her) then she’d have to put the run on the breakfast menu as well. The dinner itself was something of a celebration anyway, in that the contracts were finally signed and the boys were all extremely relieved that Cal had even managed to persuade Siobhan to agree to his suggested replacement for Alex. The other guys had taken Cal’s word that the substitute drummer was good enough until they had the time to look for someone perfect, but Siobhan, throwing another “I need privacy” trauma had raised every objection she could think of. Eventually Greg had taken her out into the office corridor where they exchanged a few very loud and several more very quiet words. And when Siobhan re-entered the room, she’d apologized to Cal and agreed to whatever he thought best. Cal had nodded his thanks to Greg and wisely accepted her apology immediately, knowing from past experience that dwelling on the subject would not only provoke a retraction of her regret, but would no doubt unleash an even greater fury. During dinner Cal didn’t mention the replacement drummer until Saz was eating the last mouthful of her cheesecake and then he merely noted they’d be meeting him at a late breakfast the next day, before the car arrived to take them to their last meeting, followed by lunch and the airport later that afternoon. Then he hurriedly paid the bill and gave kisses all round so speedily that even Siobhan didn’t have time to think of an objection.

  Back at the hotel by eleven, Siobhan, a little tired and a lot emotional, made Greg take her to bed. Saz quietly nursed her sexual tension in the bar with Dan. Steve had evidently befriended one of the other hotel residents because after a quick word with Dan he ordered a bottle of champagne in his room and said goodnight. Dan explained that his cheery handshake indicated yet another waiting shag and was not surprised to see the back of a tall, blonde woman rise from the other side of the bar and follow Steve at a not particularly discreet ten paces. Saz stayed another hour drinking lite beers and listening to Dan’s stories of Alex’s legendary bad temper. Dan went to bed at midnight, and Saz, before she went to sleep twenty minutes later, put in a sleepy, guilty answerphone message to Molly.

  Saz woke bolt upright two hours later and lay in the semidarkness, trying to work out what the motorized noise was that had woken her. She unlocked and opened the patio doors of her room and realized that the sound was coming from the outdoor jacuzzi just around the corner. Knowing that she would never get back to sleep with the irritation of the constant hum, she pulled on her costume and headed out for a moonlit swim herself. She dived in and swam a quick underwater length, coming up at the deep end, closest to the jacuzzi. From the small bubbling pool hidden by a variety of ferns and blossoming trees, she could hear voices, a man and a woman. Saz stood in the water quietly listening, slowly realizing that not only could she hear the sounds of a couple making love, but also that the man of the couple sounded distinctly like Steve. Embarrassed, she was about to turn and swim back to the other end of the pool when she clearly heard him call out “No” over the bubbling hum. She pulled herself out of the pool, started to head towards the jacuzzi and then stopped short. They were fucking. In the water. And Steve had just called out “No”, which had to be open to some interpretation given the circumstances, and she was about to run in on them. Remembering her job and throwing caution to the warm Californian wind, she charged around the corner of thick foliage to see Steve, partly lit by the orange sky night, his arms outstretched along the sides of the jacuzzi, his face contorted in a mask of pleasure, a blonde head bobbing just underwater, a blow job clearly in action. Steve looked at Saz, Saz looked at Steve, she muttered “Whoops. Sorry” and slunk off back to her room. As she dried herself and got back into bed, Saz hoped she hadn’t entirely ruined Steve’s evening. Or the blonde’s.

  Six o’clock the next morning found Saz greeting the hotel desk clerk and heading out hopefully to discover that maybe LA wasn’t only the Baywatch version she’d seen the day before. She wasn’t disappointed to find, as she did in London, that the best time in any big city is first thing in the morning, when the sun is almost up and the air is about as clear as it gets. The breeze was kind and cool, the light behind the hills showed that the sun was starting to think about rising and the sky was not only a soft and unsullied shade of aquamarine, but there were even a few twinkling stars to add to the picture. Saz ran the whole distance up to Sunset, the golden sheet of the Pacific narrowing to a thin silver sliver behind her and, with the sun now fully risen, she found herself breathlessly thinking that the Pacific was a truly fantastic thing and any city so close to such a fine ocean couldn’t be all bad. The thought lasted a good ten minutes, but then the no-bus ride back to the hotel changed her mood. She’d walked a good three miles before one finally appeared to carry her back to the Pacific horizon.

  She eventually got to the hotel at around eight-thirty, surprised to find Siobhan up and waiting for her in the foyer. Steve was missing, he hadn’t arrived for breakfast and one of the hotel staff thought she might have seen him heading for the beach at about four that morning.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Drowning, they say, begins with extreme pain. The lungs hold what remains of the air as long as they can, the heart smashes itself against the chest wall, hammering at the ribs as it tries to pump oxygen through to the choking brain, the blood vessels, too, constrict, squeezing out the last remaining drops of life force. And then the will gives in. There is an involuntary rush as the mouth opens, the diaphragm swings back into place and the lungs flood with water. For a tiny moment it is all torment, choking, fighting and then the pain is gone. There is not enough oxygen for the brain to continue its chemical electric work, the mind becomes spacey, stoned. There is a whole minute, maybe even longer, of intoxicated ease and then the body slips down under the blue and the green. It sinks away.

  At least, I believe that’s what happens when the drowning is accidental. I don’t know if Steve had any moments of peace. It didn’t look like it from where I was dog paddling. It’s true Steve is big, was big. Not so terribly tall, though very strong, well built. But the single most beneficial power of water, from my point of view, is that it removes the effect of gravitational pull. Water changes the dimensions of strength and weakness, repositions the impotent, making the clear arc of a single freestyle stroke a force to be reckoned with. If, like me, you are at home in water, if you can hold your breath for moments or minutes, if you couldn’t care less whether the sand bar is ten inches or ten feet below your toes, then you ar
e the master in the water. If you also savour crashing waves, feed on surf, if you are weary of passionless smooth shores, if for you the only real sea is the Pacific, well, then, you’re practically Poseidon and to be caught in the surf is to see that all around you Aphrodite is rising from the sea-strewn sperm of Zeus.

  A little florid I know, but this one felt so much more epic. And rather more elegant than a softball bat.

  Los Angeles is a tedious city at the best of times, but in terms of killing it is deadly dull. It sits there in a blocked basin of its own heat, stirring its tepid, stagnant self only to sip the scum as it rises. Shootings and muggings, detached urban crimes, there is no passion in the murders of that city, no joy. No commitment to the killing. And yet it has a coastline full of terrors, dark crevices of hills and mountains within touching range, so why do they always resort to their antiseptic guns? Their distant murders? Los Angelenos prefer their deaths to be a drive-in McDonalds, slaughter untouched by American hands. But I don’t.

  Steve wasn’t quite as easy as Alex. He doesn’t like to drink too much, though he does it anyway. I had to bide my time, wait until the grief got him. I knew it would eventually. The grief gets us all eventually.

  I’d watched him all day. An accomplished parader of man flesh himself, he fitted snugly between the over-built and the under-made on Venice Beach. Few people swim in that misnamed section of the ocean, but he did briefly. Very late at night, a sobering stroll from the hotel, with a near full moon yellow behind the smog and a quiet, almost empty beach. I knew he would. I waited for him. I knew that once alone he would be drawn to those waves. I’d seen him watching them in the daylight, watched his grief from a distance. I knew that later, no joy in the flesh, he would attempt to find comfort in the sea. I walked a safe distance behind him in the shadows, knowing that soon he would want to slip off his T-shirt, and that he’d find a better reason than mere vanity to ripple those muscles under the waves. He removed the outer layer and strode purposefully into the surf.

  Once actually in the water his bravado slipped away, quietly. It is dark in the ocean. Secluded and dark and private. A unique selling point. The hotel is rightly proud of its elemental access. He swam around a little, the cold of the water no doubt educating him as to just how drunk he was. An unaccustomed drinker of spirits, he probably didn’t realize what five Southern Comforts can do to a big, sad man. His fear crept up on him as the tide did. As I did. He didn’t notice how worried he was until he heard the tiny rippling splash. He’d been able to hold on to his myth of strength until I passed him with my slicing strokes and fast kick, my head as happy underwater as above. My breathing regulated and attuned to the swell of each new-built wave. The deep holds no fear for me. When I caught his legs and pulled him out and down he was disoriented immediately. By the time he came back up coughing and spluttering I was three feet away, turned in concern and went to him fast, held him in the life saver’s position, the one they taught us at school, my arm crooked around his neck. I told him not to worry, he’d be safe. I soothed him. Whispering soft in his ear and the mother water close against his skin, he relaxed in my grip, closed his eyes and I began choking him with my elbow. Then the surf was there to do it for me, water that I floated over and through while he turned and twisted in it. Like a single sock in a violent washing machine. His colours weren’t fast and his screams came quiet, muted from under water and blown away on a warm night wind. I looked and the moon gave me light but I didn’t see any moment of peace on his face. He sank.

  I waited for five, ten minutes. Long enough to be certain, then I swam a long way up the beach, far past the Santa Monica pier, where the signs warn of pollution and dirt. As if there were single locations in the city that could be pinpointed, circled and declared, just this piece here, this is the unsavoury part. You must beware of this particular area. As if everywhere else was clean.

  I didn’t need to wash myself this time. This was a much cleaner death. I retrieved my towel from where I had left my things, neatly bundled into a dark corner. I suppose I should have been scared—muggers, thieves. Murderers. The night was too gentle for fear though. I dried myself and slipped into cool, clean clothes. I walked out on to the road and in an easy distance I slipped into an all-night cafe, smiled at the waitress. She was about to finish her shift. I asked her if she wanted to join me in a drink, to celebrate the fact that the sun would be with us again in an hour or so. She had other plans though, a bath and bed. I sat alone, relaxed against the cane of a bar chair and toasted myself—Two down, two to go.”

  Pretty soon it would just be her and me.

  I finished my beer and walked back to my little room; I was humming “Hotel California”. I hadn’t thought of the Eagles in a very long time.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  And then it was police and coast guards and police interviews and more interviews and fielding requests from offices they didn’t even know the record company had, from the hotel, from the airline. Saz told the police what she could about the blonde. Nothing other than that she was blonde. And even that information was dismissed as the hotel receptionist remembered the tall woman leaving the hotel foyer just after three in the morning, her hair still wet. There was Cal raging and simultaneously hugely efficient and Dan crushed and crying and Greg placating and the record company solicitously teetering on the edge of throwing the whole thing in and then police again and the coast guard again and calls to and from England, to and from Peta, and the poor replacement drummer left waiting alone in the foyer for hours before anyone remembered him, remembered to politely tell him he wouldn’t be needed just now and, in the middle of the tempest, Siobhan sat still. She was quiet and sincere. She was makeup free and perfectly tearstained. She spoke in a small gentle voice, answering the hundreds of repeated questions politely and patiently in measured tones. She behaved impeccably and dealt with each moment as it came, pre-empting no one and keeping up with the pace of everything and everyone around her. Surrounded by a choking sea of chaos, she was one tiny piece of perfect calm. And her hands were so tightly clenched in her smooth linen lap that her French manicured nails dug a row of bloody stigmata into her palms.

  At seven o’clock that evening, their New Zealand flight having left hours earlier, Steve’s body was spotted ten miles down the coast, pulled from the weed and frothy sewage that lined the shallows. At midnight Cal made a formal identification. At ten the next morning the police examiner got through four gunshot deaths, two recreational drug overdoses and one barbiturate suicide, had a quick look at the fluid in Steve’s lungs and scribbled drowning as the cause of death. She’d had a long night. Two days later the body was released and the record company flew Steve’s parents and brother out for a tiny, very private funeral. He was cremated in West Hollywood and flown back to London, a puny ash pile, perfectly reduced to hand luggage proportions. Everything was quietly and efficiently and expensively taken care of, almost before the press had a chance to point out that someone was missing.

  Two hours after Steve’s ashes left LA International Airport, Cal issued a brief press statement stating that Steve had drowned in the Pacific Ocean. He took great care to emphasize that, while Steve had been very upset about Alex’s death two weeks earlier, as indeed were all members of the band, there was absolutely no suggestion of suicide. The drowning was a terribly unfortunate accident—an accident confirmed by both the LAPD and the Coast Guard. Confirmed only in that they didn’t bother to propose any other suggestion; there was no way for the officials to know for certain whether or not Steve had meant to drown. It was just another wet death for them. The authorities didn’t much care whether Steve had floated away accidentally or intentionally but it hurt no one for them to write “accidental” on the form and certainly made the paperwork a damn sight easier. Cal added to his press release that Steve had been in good spirits—all things considered—and very much looking forward to the band’s short holiday in New Zealand. His death was a tragic and devastating accident. There was a coda t
o the statement which asserted in no uncertain terms that any mention, covert or otherwise, of suicide in press coverage would result in immediate and very expensive legal action. If “accidental” was good enough for the weight of the American judiciary, then it was certainly good enough for Beneath The Blonde—and therefore for the tabloid-buying British public. By and large, the press accepted Cal’s statement, Steve had been found to have a high blood alcohol level and he had chosen to go swimming in the middle of the night. The right-wing press took it as yet another opportunity to lecture on the loose morals and life-wasting antics of a new generation of “foolish and arrogant youth” and the left-wing papers found another way to blame the long years of Tory government for the dissolute deaths of the young. There was no reporting of funeral and wake as with Alex’s murder, there was no big celebrity party to photograph. This time Cal presented the band with a funereal image of quiet composure and restrained suffering. What press coverage there was centred on Siobhan’s elegant grief and, after a day or so of dignified silence, Cal’s hopes for the future of the band.

  Only Loaded chose to point out that to lose one band member could be considered an accident, but to lose two looked like carelessness. Saz, feeling particularly negligent, couldn’t help but agree.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The girls had remained friends until they were just thirteen. Best friends, through Shona’s first period started early and painfully at eleven. Proud of her new status as woman, she explained all that needed explaining to Gaelene, who knew little enough about her own body to be terrified and disgusted by what was to happen to it and had her innate horror confirmed when Shona scratched a picture of a sanitary napkin and belt into the top of her desk with Gaelene’s compass. They stayed best friends even though John deserted their threesome somewhere around eight or nine, acting as if he hardly knew them when they went to Ruby’s in the holidays and could barely wait to get home when it was his turn to spend a week at Shona’s house. John’s desertion hurt Gaelene more than it hurt his blood cousin. In a way, though she resented the change, Shona was now glad of the chance to have her best friend all to herself, but for Gaelene the growing separation between boys and girls was a gulf she didn’t want to acknowledge and one which John made sure to rub in every morning when they were at the beach and he set off early to go fishing with his uncles, leaving the girls behind to peel and chop potatoes for the chips that would go with the fresh snapper Ruby would cook them all for breakfast.