by Lisa Jewell
Ana pulled on a pair of grape-colored crushed-velvet gloves that covered her elbows, and admired them in the muted light. Very elegant. She knocked back the rest of her champagne and poured herself another glass, holding the stem genteelly between velvet fingertips. She threw a boa around her neck, a particularly fat one in deepest red, and twirled it around herself a couple of times. She headed for the full-length mirror at the other side of the room and strutted around a bit with her champagne and her hair, when Bee’s dressing table suddenly caught her eye.
Here was a dressing table designed for the delight of six-year-old girls everywhere. It was piled high with cosmetics—not just smeared tubes of liquid foundation and crusty old mascaras, but proper old 1930s-style cosmetics. Powder puffs and compacts, wooden hairbrushes, resin sets with trays and pots, jars of glitter, false eyelashes, eyelash curlers, brightly colored powders, rows of silvercased lipsticks. Expensive-looking bottles of perfume—Vivienne Westwood, Thierry Mugler, Jean-Paul Gaultier. Even Bee’s tissues were kept in an engraved box and her cotton balls popped out of a shiny metal dispenser, piece by piece.
Ana sat down and switched on the—almost predictable—lightbulbs that framed the mirror and examined her reflection in the harsh light: terrible—she looked appalling, and her skin was particularly pallid next to the rich redness of the feather boa. She began examining the pots and jars, picking them up, reading the labels, sniffing them, sticking her fingers in them, putting them down again. And then her eye was caught again by a box on a shelf next to the dressing table—a huge wooden box. She lifted the heavy lid and gasped at the contents: piles and piles of jewelry. Costume jewelry. Heavy, glittery, antique, most of it. Bits of deco mother-of-pearl. Garnets. Amethysts. Aquamarine. Diamanté. Huge earrings. She picked out a pair of delicate Victorian crystal drops and looped them through the holes in her ears. And then her eye moved to a semicircle of glittering diamonds—a tiara, a bloody tiara. Only Bee, she thought, only Bee could own a bloody tiara . . . She really was the ultimate princess, and the tiara just proved it. But it was gorgeous, Ana thought, picking it up and examining it—filigree and spilling over with hundreds of tiny little diamonds. She couldn’t help herself. She tucked it into her hair and felt something happening to her the moment she looked in the mirror. Something like vanity, like pleasure, like excitement. Sod it, she thought, downing her second glass of champagne and pouring herself a third, I’m going to be a princess, too.
She walked to the CD player, turned it up full blast so that “Atomic” filled the room to the exclusion of any other noises, and headed for Bee’s wardrobe.
Half an hour later, Ana was transformed. Her lips were red, her eyes were lashed, her hair was big, and she was wearing a floor-length fuchsia dress in duchesse satin with a fake fur stole. And she was literally dripping with diamonds, from the top of her head to her lobes to her wrists.
She eyed herself in the full-length mirror and burst into fits of hysterical laughter. She looked ridiculous. She’d been trying for the Madonna-in-the-“Material-Girl”-video look but had ended up looking like a drag queen on Oscar night. And the dress had quite obviously been designed for someone with breasts, as it gaped open sadly at the top, revealing Ana’s razor-sharp collarbones and little else. But Ana didn’t care now, she was having fun. She was pissed. For the first time in ages she was actually enjoying herself. For the first time in nearly a year, since the morning her father had collapsed while gardening for his precious Gay. For the first time since she’d watched his coffin, custom made for his gangling frame, being lowered into the ground. For the first time since she’d moved back into her mother’s house ten months ago and left Hugh, her job, her flat, and her life in Exeter behind her.
Ana toasted herself in the mirror with her fourth—or was it her fifth?—glass of champagne and leapt in the air with a whoop of excitement when “Union City Blues,” her favorite Blondie song, came on. She slid across the room in her socked feet (she hadn’t even attempted to squeeze her feet into any of Bee’s ludicrously small shoes) and sang into the empty champagne bottle, in a tribute to Tom Cruise in Risky Business. She twirled her stole around and flicked her hair. She strutted and sang her heart out. She hadn’t realized until that moment how long it had been since she’d last sung out loud and how much she’d missed it. And then, as the closing bars faded away and she took her final bow, breathless and euphoric and full of adrenaline, the room fell silent and the doorbell rang.
five
Ana panicked. A million thoughts landed in her head at once. Mr. Arif? Police? Drug-crazed rapist with chain saw? Can’t open door. Tiara. Lipstick. Silly hair. Pink dress. Pissed. Very pissed. Shit. Fuck. What to do? What to do?
She ripped off the tiara and threw down the stole and tucked her bouffant hair behind her ears in an attempt to tame it, then tiptoed across the hall and toward the front door in her socked feet, barely allowing herself to breathe. She put her eye to the peephole and peered out into the corridor, thinking immediately of that weird Oasis video as the fish-eyed view came into focus. And there was a surreal image if Ana had ever seen one: a tiny, over-rouged old lady with strangely curled white hair under a hairnet, wearing a pink, fluffy dressing gown with matching slippers and clutching a small sausage dog wearing a pink knitted vest to her bosom. She was looking extremely concerned, in that way only vulnerable and lonely old people can. Ana picked up her cardigan from where it lay on the sofa, threw it on over her dress, and made her way back to the front door.
“Just coming,” she called, flattening her hair down again and wiping off her lipstick with the back of her hand, “just coming.”
“Oh,” said the old lady, recoiling slightly as the door opened and putting one tiny, crepey hand to her chest.
“Hello,” said Ana, attempting to smile normally but failing quite miserably judging by the worried look on the old lady’s face.
“I was just, er, locking up, about to go to bed, and I heard all sorts of noise coming from in here. Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes. Fine. I’m sorry if I disturbed you, I was just—er—listening to some music, you know.”
“I’m Amy Tilly-Loubelle. I live next door. And you are?”
“I’m Ana.” She extended a hand and offered it to the neighbor, who flinched slightly.
“Moving in, are we?” she asked, her pale blue eyes fluttering nervously around the hallway behind her.
“No. Moving out. My sister used to live here and I’ve come up to—”
Suddenly Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle’s face lit up, and her demeanor changed entirely. “Oh, so you’re the famous Ana,” she said, clapping her hands together with delight and making her little dog start. “Bee used to talk about you all the time.” Her face dropped again and she rested a hand on Ana’s arm. “I’m so terribly, terribly, un-speakably sorry about the dreadful thing that happened to your sister. I feel so completely responsible—you see, I live next door and I didn’t notice and . . .”
But Ana wasn’t listening. She was still reeling from the “Bee used to talk about you all the time” comment.
“Um, I was just about to open another bottle of champagne,” Ana found herself saying, much to her own surprise. “Would you like to have a glass with me?”
Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle’s face lit up, and she grinned naughtily. “How delightful. I’d love to, dear.”
Ana was incredibly grateful to the old lady for not mentioning her bizarre appearance, but then, she wasn’t really in a position to say anything, Ana supposed, given the matching pink dressing gown, slippers, and dog-vest ensemble.
She let Amy in and locked the door behind her.
“Oh, she was a lovely girl,” said Amy, sipping enthusiastically at her second glass of champagne. “From the minute I set eyes on her I thought—there’s a girl after my own heart. She reminded me so much of myself at the same age, so stylish and well turned out. Always had her nails done, her hair was always just so. And so un
conventional.”
“Did you see her often?”
“No”—she shook her head—“not as often as I’d have liked. We shared a pot of tea from time to time. She always took a very kind interest in my well-being. But young people, they have their own lives to live, don’t they? We’ve had our turn.” She chuckled and then became sad again. “It’s just so, so tragic that her turn was cut short. It never occurs to you, when you get to my age. I’d left her all sorts of things in my will, you know, bits and pieces she’d admired in my apartment—and I was going to ask her to look after dear Freddie, here.” She pointed at the long dog slumbering beside her on the sofa. “Just presumed I’d pop off first. You don’t think of young people going first.”
“Have you—do you have any idea what happened here on that last night?” Ana asked. “Did she have anyone . . . here? With her?”
Amy shook her head. “I heard her going out at about nine o’clock, just as I was getting ready for bed. I recognize the click of her door, you see. And then I went to bed, put in my earplugs, and that was the last I knew until the next morning. I’m a very heavy sleeper, you see. Once I’ve conked out, nothing can wake me.”
“And what happened the next day? Did anything seem strange?”
“Goodness,” Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle chuckled, “have you ever thought of joining the police force?”
“Sorry. It’s just that we—me and my mother—we don’t really know very much. Only what they told us on the phone, and—”
“Where is your mother, by the way? Is she not here with you?”
Ana shook her head. “No,” she said, “my mother’s agoraphobic. She can’t leave the house, so she sent me.”
Amy clutched her heart with her hand. “Oh, how simply awful,” she gasped. “Imagine—not being able to leave your own home. It would be like being a prisoner. I’m so sorry, Ana—that’s simply dreadful. But to answer your question, no. Nothing seemed strange the next day. Bee wasn’t around, but then, she was away most weekends. There didn’t seem to be anything unusual about that.”
“Where did she go? On the weekends?”
Amy looked surprised and smiled quizzically at her. “Why—to see you, of course!”
“Me?”
“Yes. To stay with you. In Devon.”
“In Devon?”
“That’s right, dear.”
“And Bee told you that? Bee told you she spent weekends with me in Devon?”
“Absolutely. She told me about your lovely little flat overlooking the sea and the two of you playing your guitars and going for walks together. She needed to escape, that’s what she used to say, get away from all the hustle and bustle. She said that the air in Devon was like medicine for her soul.”
Ana tried to smile through her confusion. “And how often did she, er, come and see me?”
“Well, nearly every weekend, wouldn’t you say? That’s why nothing seemed out of the ordinary when I didn’t see her or hear her on that terrible, terrible weekend.” Her pale blue eyes filled with tears then, and she quickly fished a handkerchief out of her sleeve, burying her pretty, rouged old face into the cotton, her tiny shoulders trembling. “Oh, Ana—I feel so terrible. To think. All weekend I was there, next door. All weekend, just pottering around, getting on with things. In and out to the shops. Making phone calls. Watching the television. And all that time your beautiful sister, that angelic, unique woman who had everything ahead of her, was lying there”—she indicated the bedroom with her now-pink eyes—“dead. All alone. All alone. I think it’s the most tragic thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ve lost a lot of people in my time. But I will never, ever get over losing your sister. Do you understand? Some people die—but others are taken. And that girl was taken.”
“You don’t think it was suicide?”
Amy shook her head vehemently. “No. Absolutely not. There is no way that girl would take her own life.”
“So what d’you think happened?”
“An accident. A terrible, tragic accident. That’s what I think. She would never have killed herself. She had too much to live for.”
“Like what?” Ana was still reeling from Bee’s inexplicable lies about how she spent her weekends. She was half expecting the old lady to tell her that Bee had had six children or something.
“Well,” Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle began, looking affronted by the question, “you, for a start. She adored you. I hope you realize that.”
Ana opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again. The words to express her confusion didn’t seem to exist.
“And John,” Amy continued.
“John. Who was John?”
“Her cat. A beautiful cat.”
A cat. Called John? “And where is he now, this—er—John?”
Amy shrugged. “Someone must have taken him away, I suppose. The RSPCA. A friend. I have no idea. I was hoping he’d gone to you. Gone to Devon.”
Ana shook her head. “No. He’s not in Devon.”
It fell silent for a while as Ana and Amy sipped champagne and stared at the carpet. “Did Bee have any special friends, any boyfriends, or anything that you knew about?”
Amy screwed up her face and then nodded. “She had a couple of friends who used to visit occasionally. I haven’t seen them in a while, though. In fact, I’d say she had no visitors at all in the last couple of months.”
“What did they look like?”
“A black girl—very pretty. And a large man. A handsome man.”
“Bee’s boyfriend?”
“No. More’s the pity. No, he was just a friend, that’s what Bee told me. A very old friend. And she never mentioned any other men. I often wondered if she was perhaps a lesbian.”
Ana choked as her champagne went down the wrong pipe. “I beg your pardon?” she spluttered.
“Your sister. I often wondered if she was gay. She had that Radclyffe Hall look about her, like one of those old-fashioned lesbians. Very glamorous but with quite a hard edge, if you see what I mean.”
“And did you—did you think she was?”
She shrugged. “Never saw men coming up here, never saw women either. Maybe she was asexual. Anyway—what other people get up to is their business. I try not to pay too much attention. What about you?”
Ana started, thinking surely she couldn’t be asking her if she was a lesbian.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Ana thought of Hugh—was a boyfriend still a boyfriend when you hadn’t seen him for six months?—and shook her head.
“And you’re back to Devon tomorrow, are you?”
She nodded.
“Well—you should get yourself out tonight, see what you can find. There are some very beautiful young men in this city, you know.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. I see them all the time. Every day. Everywhere I look. Beautiful young men and so well dressed these days. Men seem to be paying much more attention to their grooming and their appearance, more like they used to in my day. Still—I must stop talking like this. I’ll get myself all excited, and there’s nothing much an old woman like me can do about it when they get themselves into that state.” She winked at Ana, and Ana nearly fainted.
“Anyway,” Amy said, picking up her snoring dog and rearranging her fluffy gown, “it’s been very nice to meet you, Ana, but it’s way past my bedtime, and if I don’t get myself off now, I shall fall asleep here on the sofa and you’ll be stuck with me! But thank you so much for inviting me in. People don’t tend to do that in London these days, you know. They don’t invite you in. I think they’re all too sacred you’ll never leave.” She laughed sadly. “And I’m sorry we had to meet under such dreadful circumstances. Your sister was a true original, Ana. A one-of-a-kind. I miss her very much.”
Ana led Amy toward the door, wishing she wouldn’t leave but knowing that she had to. “Can I ask you one more question?” she began with one hand on the door
. “About Bee?”
“Certainly.”
“You know—you know on the Tuesday? You know when you had to go to the hospital and—you know—identify her. Well, what, er . . . what did she look like? I mean—did she look peaceful, or . . . ?”
Amy put a hand on Ana’s arm and smiled at her. “Ana,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling, “she was smiling. I swear on Freddie’s life. Bee was smiling. She looked tired, but she looked beautiful and she was smiling. She didn’t look like a woman ravaged by life and disappointment, a woman so unimpressed by all the world had to offer that she decided to take her own life. She looked like a small girl who’d just been told a wondrous bedtime story and drifted into a sweet, untainted slumber.”
“Thank you”—Ana smiled with a strange sense of relief—“thank you very much.”
And then Amy Tilly-Loubelle gave Ana’s arm one more squeeze before letting herself into her flat next door, and fastening about twelve different locks and chains against the world.
Ana flopped onto the sofa, poured herself yet another glass of champagne, and forced her pissed mind to try to make sense of everything she’d discovered:
A. Bee was away most weekends and lied about where she was going.
B. She generally had no visitors to her flat.
C. She had a cat called John whose whereabouts were unknown.
D. She’d gone out at nine o’clock on the night she died.
E. There was a vague possibility that she might have been a lesbian.
Ana got to her feet and marched back into Bee’s bedroom. It was now nine-thirty. She wasn’t going to bed until she’d discovered something significant. She threw things desperately into cardboard boxes, reading them for clues, but they told Ana very little other than that her sister was a woman who looked after her clothes, her skin, and her hair much better than she looked after her health or her home, that she dressed in a bold and theatrical style, and appeared to have shunned entirely the casual/sporty look so fashionable for the past few years. She didn’t even own a pair of trainers.