Beneath the Blonde

by Stella Duffy

“To let me know what you don’t know?”

  “Yeah. Well …”

  Greg shrugged, “I guess knowing what we don’t know is something more than we’ve had so far.”

  Saz agreed and added, “I really do think we all need to be a whole lot more careful from now on. If she is a New Zealander, she’s going to be a lot less obvious than we are. And we ought to let Dan know what’s been going on. I don’t think it’s fair to keep all this from him any longer.”

  Having reached agreement from Greg on that front, with a promise that he would tell Dan all in the morning, she then tackled him on the next issue, “And maybe you could do something to persuade Siobhan to talk to the police here?”

  Saz noticed that Greg physically inched away from her, his face clouding over, “Well, I don’t know …”

  “But this woman could be here. Now.”

  “Yes, but as you said, we don’t know anything for certain.”

  “Fine. Then tell them that. At least we’d have more people looking out for Siobhan. I mean, it’s ludicrous after everything that’s happened, with Alex and Steve, that she still won’t let the police know about the threats.”

  Greg frowned and bit his thumbnail, “Look, Saz, you and I need to talk a bit about this. I think …”

  Siobhan then appeared at her bedroom door wearing only a pair of Greg’s boxer shorts. She put an arm around Greg’s shoulders and pulled him away, slurring her speech in Saz’s direction. “Whatever it is, sweetheart, he can tell you all about it in the morning. I want him all to myself right now. G’night!”

  She blew Saz a giggling giddy kiss and Saz went to bed alone and frustrated. In more ways than one.

  THIRTY

  To Saz, brought up in the rolling suburbs of urban Kent and transplanted for the past fifteen years to London where Hampstead High Street was thought steep enough to be a luge run, Queenstown was dauntingly beautiful. Siobhan looked at the view of the lake, the sun splashing itself across the water and whispered in awe to Greg, “You’re right. This place is amazing. It’s a bloody good thing Alex is dead—he’d have hated it.”

  Peta had booked them into a B&B for the night—the luxuriousness of “Queenstown House” rather negated the title “B&B” in Siobhan’s eyes. Though they were now almost inured to posh hotels, the term B&B still recalled the unchanging imprint of five years stopping at orange and brown carpeted versions of cigarette-stale rooms the length and breadth of band-touring Britain. They weren’t exactly used to a landlady who offered them cocktail hour glasses of sauvignon blanc. Nor were they used to sleeping in rooms lit by lake view windows with fat feather pillows. Had they not been reeling from the messy deaths of Steve and the more cynical Alex, who would indeed have loathed spending two days in anywhere quite so perfectly the personification of Antipodean tourism, the three remaining members of Beneath The Blonde would have had a blissful time. Dan, however, was still in shock from the information Greg had given him on their flight south that morning. He was, quite naturally, worried for himself, feeling as he said “like some ignorant guest at an Agatha Christie hotel, just waiting to be bumped off”. But while worry was one of the emotions he was feeling, his overriding response was fury at Greg and Siobhan for having kept him in the dark about what had been going on. As he said to Saz, “I’d never have agreed to come all the bloody way out here if I thought any of this was going on. This was supposed to be a holiday, a rest before we get into the really big stuff. Prancing about at the bottom of the world while some maniac makes up their mind about when’s the best time to do me in isn’t exactly my idea of a rest-cure. I feel safer at home than I do in this tourist trap.”

  While Saz tried to reassure Dan that she didn’t think it was quite that bad, she could hear the uncertainty in her own voice and knew she hadn’t done much to calm his fears when he announced he intended to spend the rest of the afternoon locked in his hotel room and that he thought he’d just like to fly home the next day if possible.

  Saz found herself wishing she too could just throw a tantrum and retire to daytime TV and the view, but Siobhan was having none of it. She had convinced herself that even if the stalker were a New Zealand woman—and she forcefully pointed out that neither Greg nor Saz knew this for certain—they’d only been in the country for forty-eight hours and without prior knowledge of their schedule no one could catch up with them quite so quickly. Saz’s comment that, as Peta had confirmed all their flights and arrangements on the Internet, their plans were open to anyone who knew how to look, was brushed aside as Siobhan flounced upstairs to demand that Dan accompany them on a quick sightseeing trip before dinner. The four of them then went out for a wander around the small town, an incongruous group to be tour bus partying. Dan was strained and silent, Greg alert and holding tightly on to Siobhan and Saz still angry with Siobhan for yet again refusing point blank either to speak to the police or even discuss the matter. Only Siobhan was having a good time, her incessant chatter and bright manner belying any worries at all. Saz thought she was behaving like a small child on Christmas Eve, rushing headlong through one day to get to the big event the next. What she wasn’t clear on was what on earth Siobhan had found to be so happy about.

  After early evening drinks at the hotel, Siobhan insisted they spend the evening at the Tex-Mex restaurant they’d passed in their afternoon walk. Though Greg had been hanging out for Chinese food, they were all pleasantly surprised by the vast portions and the speed and sexy charm of their waiter who took it into his head to flirt outrageously with first Saz, then Siobhan. And then, much to Greg’s chagrin at being missed out, he spent the rest of the night proffering larger and larger portions to Dan—which at least cheered Dan up a little and brought a semblance of a smile to his face. Saz stayed sober throughout the meal. Unable to relax at all, she’d positioned her chair flat against the wall from where she could easily view both the main entrance and the kitchen door and she spent the whole meal scanning the room for tall women with very dark or dyed black hair. Half way through the first course she remembered Steve’s woman in LA and her own experiences with peroxide and extended her gaze to include any woman in the room over five-foot six. There were only three, sitting at a large and raucous table together with a selection of lads. All of them were American, all drunk and all very loud. Saz kept an eye on them anyway.

  Dinner finished and three jugs of margaritas down, Siobhan lurched from her seat to join the regular Wednesday night band. After a quiet, slurred word with the lead singer she took the mic. Despite three moderately successful singles in New Zealand, Beneath The Blonde weren’t exactly megastars in his home country, Greg having refused point blank all the record company’s attempts to make any publicity mileage out of his being born there, but Siobhan’s voice was known. Known and noted. And while nobody really cared or noticed as the tall, lean woman slightly stumbled her way up to the raised corner where the musicians were standing, they immediately sat up and took notice when, after three introductory bars, Siobhan’s voice rang out loud and untamed, clear over the now silent heads of the stunned diners.

  Even without the wig and the clothes and the makeup and despite the hollow dark rings under her eyes from combined nerves and jet lag, Siobhan could make the whole room shut up and pay attention with just a single held note, breath catching and voice cracking as she let each moment fall from her mouth. Which is what she did for four more Beneath The Blonde songs. Then, after a heart rending version of “Diamonds and Rust”, she left the band to return to their set and came clattering back to their table to fall into Greg’s arms, hiding her face in his neck as the applause of sixty knives and forks on plates rang out into the street.

  Dan finished his drink and whispered pointedly to Saz, “Please note, our little songbird’s physicality isn’t quite the classic pose of the reluctant star.” And he indicated the clenched fist Siobhan was punching into Greg’s upper chest as being just the start of a pay back, since Greg had earlier bet Siobhan she wouldn’t have the nerve to sing
tonight, the bet taking place just at the moment the plane took off from Auckland airport.

  When Siobhan looked up and mouthed a sweaty and grinning “Yes!” across the table to Dan, Saz noted with disgust the stirring in her own stomach. She hoped it might have something to do with the char-grilled tuna steak and extra hot chilli sauce, but was rather more certain that the cause was now sitting opposite her, face flushed and beaming, chest panting and voice hoarse from doing what she did best. And who was now doing what she did second best. Kissing the man she loved.

  Saz managed to ignore her own inopportune lusts and listened to Dan while she waded her way through the small mountain of chocolate and coffee cream that was pudding. Relaxed from the alcohol and food, he shifted his attention from his immediate worries to those waiting for him back home. He told her about his break-up with Jeremy—and proved just how very much still in love he was with a bloke Saz could have told him to write off in about ten seconds. Jeremy was not out, not planning ever to come out and wanting Dan to pretend to be flatmates to his parents. All that and an inability to cope with Dan’s success in the band and complaining whenever they went away on tour—though not when Jeremy could come too. Funnily enough, Jeremy didn’t have a job of his own either. Or a flat, or a car. Though he was making good use of Dan’s while Dan was away.

  Half hearing the story, Siobhan, two more margaritas down and even less tactful than usual, turned from her whispered conversation with Greg to butt in with, “Dan, you’re being so damn stupid. You’re too bloody nice for your own good. What are you doing letting that little creep stay at your place? He’s obviously a user and a liar and a coward.”

  Dan had to agree, but when Siobhan had turned her attention back to biting the loose skin around Greg’s little fingernail, Dan leaned his head to Saz and whispered, “She can talk. We all know what’s best doesn’t mean we’re going to do it. I know Jeremy’s a bastard. A beautiful, charming, blue-eyed bastard. But I still love him. What does she expect me to do?” Saz shrugged, listening to him, but her eyes still travelled around the rest of the room.

  Dan continued, “It’s like all the crap with this stalker. Everyone knows Siobhan’s wrong, we all want to tell the police, but, as usual, she’s the one with the power and she’s the one who’s vetoed the sensible solution. It’s all very well to say do the right thing, when you have no intention of doing it yourself.”

  Saz had no answer for him, nor did she much want to answer his questions about her own relationship with Molly. Dividing her attention between observing the room and watching Siobhan laugh with Greg, she would far rather torment herself with a perversely enjoyable guilty tension for Siobhan than answer questions about how she and Molly met. But she played with her dessert and gave Dan all the right answers. She professed her passion and love for Molly, all the while trying to ignore the little voice in the back of her head asking, three years on and routine setting in, if any of all that wonderfulness would prove to be enough to get her past this teenage infatuation with Siobhan. At the end of the evening, Dan managed a prolonged and probing goodbye with the waiter, then the four of them stumbled into a cab and up the steep hill to their beds. Saz was adamant that Siobhan should not walk the short and badlylit distance. She was teetering on the verge of picking up the phone and calling Molly to tell her everything and was therefore surprisingly grateful to see that while they were at dinner a huge bunch of yellow roses had been delivered for Siobhan. At least it sobered her up enough to realize there was no point in disturbing Molly just to tell her everything about nothing.

  When Siobhan walked into her room five minutes later Saz was just wondering what to do with the flowers. In too much of a hurry to get the roses into her room and away from Siobhan, she hadn’t yet got around to barring her door. Siobhan stood, staring at her, mouth a little open, in surprise or inebriation, Saz wasn’t sure which.

  “How lovely. For me?”

  “Ah—yeah. They were outside your room when I came upstairs. I grabbed them while you and Greg were making coffee. I was going to throw them out.”

  “Without telling me?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure, I hadn’t really thought about it yet, I just didn’t think you’d want to see them tonight, after having such a good time at the restaurant and everything.”

  Siobhan’s head dropped and her hands started shaking, “Fuck it. Fuck it. We’re not even ok here.”

  Saz shrugged, “Yeah, look, it seems churlish to say I told you so …”

  “But?”

  “Well … I did.”

  Saz put the flowers down and put her arm around Siobhan, sitting her down on the bed. Knowing that the last thing they needed at one in the morning was another tantrum, she decided that lying was likely to do the least harm and chose to reassure Siobhan, all the while desperate to run out and shake their landlady awake, demanding she reveal the identity of today’s floral deliverer and how she could get her hands on her. She smiled, hoping that what felt like a tight-drawn grimace and sharp baring of the teeth would inspire comfort and ease, “Look Siobhan, we’re all right tonight. You stay here for a few minutes. You can lock the door after me and I’ll go and get Greg for you, ok? Then I’ll have a word with the landlady, ask about the delivery. I’ll get her to check that all the doors and windows downstairs are locked and we can all get to bed. In the morning I’ll find out who left these.” And here she added a relieved chuckle to her theatrical repertoire, “I mean, really, there really can’t be that many bloody florists in this little town.”

  Siobhan looked properly at the flowers for the first time. “There’s a card.”

  She took the small envelope from the cellophane encasing the roses and ripped it open. Saz saw her hand start to shake as she read it. Siobhan held the card out to Saz who read: “Welcome to New Zealand! Now it’s just all us girls together. How nice! PS—tell Greg that Gaelene misses him.”

  Saz turned the card and envelope over; neither had a florist’s address on them. “I don’t get it. Who’s Gaelene?”

  Siobhan shook her head, “Nothing. I don’t know.”

  “Well what about the ‘all girls together’ bit? What’s that?”

  Siobhan’s whole body was shaking and she started to cry, “I don’t know, ok? I don’t know what any of this is about. I just want it all to go away. Make it go away.”

  Saz’s right arm was around Siobhan’s shoulders, her left hand holding both of Siobhan’s shaking hands in hers. She really wasn’t thinking of anything other than making Siobhan feel better, feel safe, of looking after Siobhan—simply thinking about the best way to do her job.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, their height difference was marginal, their eyes level, Siobhan’s extra long legs reaching out across the thick carpeted floor. Saz poured all the reassurance and calm she could cram into one fabricated stare. Their eyes held and then Siobhan’s lips were on hers and Siobhan’s left leg had swung up and around, was smooth and low across her hips and they lay long on the bed together, Siobhan leaning over her, breathing hot, tired margarita breath into Saz’s eyes, ears, mouth, breasts. Siobhan and Saz pulling each other’s clothes off, light clothes, thin clothes, the easily removed clothes of an almost summer evening. Siobhan locking the door. Saz and Siobhan kissing and touching, Siobhan’s fingers prying, trying the new scars, unseen by anyone other than Molly, anyone other than the many, many doctors. New skin untouched, unloved by any other than Molly. Saz’s hands running fast over Siobhan’s long limbs, straight waist, full breasts. Saz’s mind choosing not to look at the difference, not to register a difference. Not to register that there was anyone to be different from. Saz’s cowardly mind retreating, shutting off and letting her subversive physical self take over. Only Saz’s hands noting the difference between this new body and Molly’s, noting and revelling in each fresh sensation, fingertips and lips with minds of their own craving virgin sensations and untouched body to satisfy impatient, easily bored lusts.

  When Saz and Siobhan fucked
it was not as if Siobhan had not done it before. She did not wait, a lesbian virgin to be taken and saved by Saz’s knowledge. She held Saz tight as she fucked her, Saz’s body deliriously surrendering to wide-awake dreams of fantasy finally made flesh, her mouth open to kiss Siobhan, her body wide open to take her in.

  Saz woke the next morning to a bed littered with broken roses, petal yellow smeared against the sheets, ripped green leaves staining white linen pillow cases and her back rose-thorn scratched. She ached the bruised ache of the hour’s incessant unexpected passion until Siobhan had left her, half sleeping and returned to her own bed where Greg dreamt quietly, so many pints down that even his dreams poured slow as Dublin Guiness.

  Saz had fucked Siobhan with all her body, most of her heart and some of her soul. Unfortunately, with sharp daylight, her tardy conscience had finally decided to join the party.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I haven’t been here before. Not as a grownup anyway. Once we came here, very early in the morning, a long way from home, driving south, even further south than this. I was a small child. I sent you a postcard and Mummy had to write the big words, put the stamp on, lift me up to put it in the box. I did the licking part myself. I never liked it here though. Never even liked the idea of it. The mountains are too big, they ring the sky and don’t let you see behind. There is not enough sky here, too much earth, too much rock. I like the edge of the sea, the depth of sky. I want to see far out into the distance. The straight and curving line that defines the horizon parameters of our future.

  I’ve been so far to find you, been to all those places you’ve visited. And now we’re here. So very far. Little crisscross lines scarring the world map, gouging lines out of the globe. Noughts and crosses all over Europe. Backwards and forwards from town to city. Some you went to more often. Some places you really laid claim to. I followed the scent, sniffed you out though you tried to cover your tracks. And now I’ve followed you all the way back.