one-hit wonder

by Lisa Jewell

  Lol joined Ana on the edge of the bed and draped one extravagantly long arm around her shoulder. “Oh pet,” she soothed, looking anxiously into her eyes, “what’s the matter, eh?”

  Ana sniffed and wiped her nose against the sleeve of her cardigan. What wasn’t the matter would have been a more useful question. She opened her mouth to speak but there was too much to say, so she closed it again. The reasons lined up in her mind, though, like a shopping list, to remind her.

  I’m a gangling six-foot freak who gets stared at in the street and laughed at by little boys with piercing voices.

  My father, whose height I inherited, whose legs I have, died ten months ago and I still miss him every day of my life.

  The only boyfriend I’ve ever had dumped me just eight weeks after my father died.

  My mother is an agoraphobic lunatic who walks in her sleep and thinks the world revolves around her.

  I have no friends and no social life.

  My sister, the only person who made it look as if being alive was any fun, killed herself.

  I’m alone in a strange city and I know no one.

  I’m scared, I’m confused, I’m dirty, and I’m tired. And then you‌—you with the same arms and legs as me, the same bony torso and flat chest, you made me feel like a normal human being for a couple of minutes, like there wasn’t just Ana, but that there was Ana and Lol, and for the first time in ten months I laughed and for the first time in ten months I felt the same as somebody else. That’s why I’m crying, that’s what the matter is. And the saddest thing of all is that I already know that that was just a moment‌—it isn’t the way things are going to be from here on in, it’s just the way things were for a brief moment, and it’s those little tasters of normality that really, really kill me. . . .

  But she didn’t vocalize her thoughts, and Lol was left to look for the most obvious reason for her tears.

  “Oh pet,” she soothed, tears brimming in her own eyes now, “I know. I know. She was my best friend, Ana. My best friend. I loved her more than anyone in the world. We were soul mates, the only people who really understood each other. Me and Bee‌—we were like sisters . . . we were . . . oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, obviously you were her sister. But . . .”

  “It’s OK,” said Ana. “I know what you mean, it’s fine.”

  “She loved you, you know,” she said, sniffing loudly into an old tissue. “She really loved you. She kept this funny old rabbit thing, for years. . . .”

  “William.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. She took him everywhere. She had a party once and someone kidnapped him as a joke, and put him up for ransom, but she didn’t think it was even slightly amusing. Oh no. She just lost it entirely. You should’ve seen her‌—screaming and crying. It was like that rabbit . . . I don’t know, like he represented something to her that nobody else could ever have understood.”

  It fell silent for a moment and Ana took in deep breaths, trying to control the overwhelming emotion charging through her system, trying to rein in the pain and force it back into the Pandora’s box that Lol had inadvertently opened. It was the first time she’d cried since her father’s funeral.

  She glanced around the flat, at the fuchsia walls and leopard-skin curtains, the piles of clothes and shoes, perfume and jewelry. She looked at the photos pinned to the walls, smiling groups of people, small children, family. And then her eye was caught by a photo of Lol and Bee, arms around each other, champagne on a table in front of them, beaming at the camera, and Ana suddenly remembered why she was there.

  “John?” she said, sitting up straight. “Where’s the cat?”

  “Oh. Right. He’s‌—out.”

  “Out?”

  “Yeah. You know. Out. Doing . . . cat stuff.” She shrugged and got to her feet. “Listen‌—don’t go anywhere, right? I’m just going to check the stairwell and the street for that fucking stupid choker. I don’t really give a shit about it myself, but if someone found it and made off wi’ it, I’d be fucked. What are you doing tonight, by the way?”

  Ana shrugged and sniffed. “Going home. I’m catching a train in an hour.”

  Lol stopped still, her mouth opened wide and her eyes staring at her with exaggerated shock. She put her hands on her skinny hips and addressed Ana sternly. “No, you are not, young lady.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve been hearing about you for years. I’ve wanted to meet you for, like, ever. You can’t go home yet. You’re Bee’s fucking sister. D’you have any idea how exciting that is?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Yes but nothing. You’re staying here and I’m taking you out.”

  “Yes, but‌—what about my mother?”

  “What about your mother?”

  “She’s ill. She needs me. I can’t just leave her.”

  Lol smiled a warm smile and put her hand on Ana’s shoulder. “Look,” she said kindly, “I know all about your mother. Bee told me everything. And I think your mother might benefit from a night alone. Oh‌—come on. Please stay. Ple-ease,” she wheedled. “We’ll go and check out old Lundarn Tan, togevver, like.” She smiled as she tried on a daft cockney accent.

  Ana’s thoughts veered dizzyingly between her sense of responsibility toward her mother and the realization that she wanted to stay. That she really wanted to stay. She wanted to be with Lol. She wanted to talk to Lol. All night. About Bee. About cottages and motorbikes and guitars. She wanted to go out with Lol. And get drunk. And not go home. Not tonight. She wasn’t ready yet. A wall of resolve built in her chest. She was already nodding without being aware of it, her mouth set hard, her hands wringing together. “OK,” she said firmly, “OK. I’ll stay.”

  “Good girl,” grinned Lol, squeezing her shoulders, “top girl. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  “I need to phone my mum, though. Can I use your phone?”

  “ ’Course you can. It’s over there.” Lol pointed at the windowsill and smiled at Ana excitedly. “I can’t believe it,” she gushed, “Bee’s sister. In my flat. I’m so excited!” Lol squeezed her shoulder again and then went clattering down the stairs like a . . . like a skinny six-foot woman in wedge heels.

  Ana walked to the window and found herself peering down through the sun roof and into the leather interior of a big black Lexus. She fiddled with her hair as she dialed her mother’s number. The answering machine clicked on after two rings.

  “Hi, Mum, it’s me,” she began. “I’m just phoning to say that I won’t be home tonight. I’m staying another night. With a friend of Bee’s. Everything’s fine and I’ll, er, see you tomorrow.” And then she hung up and felt her insides go all fizzy with the excitement of rebellion and change. Below her, the front door opened and then there was Lol, out in the street, peering at the pavement. The bright sunshine glittered off the rhinestones on her leather trousers and gleamed off her flawless skin. She was the most extraordinary-looking woman Ana had ever seen. And she wore her stature so differently from Ana‌—her shoulders back, her head erect, her heels high‌—almost like she was proud of her height.

  She gripped the window frame and then noticed something nestled within the folds of curtain at her feet. An intricate band of turquoise feathers and translucent green beads threaded onto a delicate wire. A choker. She picked it up, feeling her spirits lift with the pleasure of being useful.

  “Lol!” she called into the stiflingly hot street. “Your cunting choker!” Lol looked up at her and cackled. She cupped her hands together and Ana let the choker fall into them.

  “Ana,” she grinned, “I think I love you!” She kissed the choker and fastened it around her long, thin neck. A group of boys who’d been skateboarding all came to a grinding halt as they saw her walk elegantly back up the steps and into the house. They scooped up their skateboards and stared at her. Ana waited for one of them to say something. But they didn’t. They just watched. And it wasn’t until the door had closed behind her and she was halfway u
p the stairs that one of the boys spoke. He opened his mouth big and wide and emitted a single, breathless, overawed word: “WO-OW!”

  nine

  Lol, Ana soon realized, was a complete lunatic. She was thirty-three but looked about twenty-three and had more energy than a hyperactive, attention-deficit-disordered six-year-old on Red Bull. She was also disarmingly honest.

  “You’re not going out like that, are you?” she said, pointing at Ana’s lank hair and grimy clothes in disbelief. “Get in’t shower, lass‌—I’ll meek us some drinks.”

  Lol’s bathroom was a tiny damp tomb of a room with mildew on the ceiling and the widest array of beauty products Ana had ever seen. She encased herself in the shower cubicle and felt an overwhelming wave of relief as warm water ran from the crown of her head, down her face, and over her tired body. She washed her hair with a coconutty Afro shampoo, scrubbed at her face with a grainy unguent that smelled of grapefruit, and soaped her entire body with a translucent bar of apple-scented soap.

  Lol forced a drink into her hand as she emerged from the bathroom; a pale, lemon-colored drink in a long-stemmed glass rimmed with glittering salt.

  “Oh,” she said, staring at the drink, “margarita. That’s what Bee used to drink, isn’t it?”

  Lol nodded and took a slurp, her tongue snaking around the rim, collecting grains of salt. “Sure was,” she said, “and you’re looking at the woman who taught her how to make them. Cheers,” she said, holding her glass aloft. “To Bee. The greatest bloody girl in the world, the best friend I ever had. May her poor, beautiful soul rest in peace and may there be rivers of margarita flowing through the valleys of heaven. . . .” They brushed their glasses against each other’s and exchanged a fragile look. Lol was smiling, but Ana could see tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “Right,” Lol exclaimed, putting down her drink and starting to unfurl Ana’s towel turban, “what are we going to do with you, then, eh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wanna do you up,” said Lol, picking up strands of her wet hair and scrutinizing them. “You’re a pop star’s sister‌—d’you know that? You should look like a pop star’s sister. I’ve got two wardrobes full of beautiful clothes, and this is the first time I’ve ever met anyone I could lend ’em to. And besides‌—you look fucking awful, if you don’t mind me saying. When was the last time you went to a hairdresser’s?”

  “Yes‌—but, I don’t want to . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Lol smiled, “I’m not going to do anything overdramatic. I’m not going to make you look like me or anything. Heaven forbid! I just wanna‌—polish you. D’you know what I mean? I wanna make you shine. . . .”

  She slathered a load of slimy stuff onto Ana’s split ends and blow-dried her hair for about a quarter of an hour with a huge round brush until it lay gleaming on her shoulders like a black satin cape.

  “Yasmin le Bon‌—eat your heart out.”

  Then she applied some subtle makeup and forced Ana into a brown, strappy chiffon top sprinkled with gold beads that showed her midriff, a pair of very distressed vintage jeans with the waistband ripped off, and pointy-toed alligator-skin stilettos. “Ooh, it’s so nice not to feel like the only woman in the world with size ten feet for a change,” she said as she slipped Ana’s long, thin feet easily into the shoes.

  Ana watched her transformation in the mirror with wonder. It had never occurred to her that she could be scruffy and glamorous at the same time, that she could look so chic in a pair of jeans. Back home, girls either dressed down in student attire or dressed up in spangly dresses and four-inch heels. You were either grungy or trendy. She liked this look, which was neither one nor the other. Her bony shoulders looked graceful under the barely-there chiffon, her pale stomach looked almost erogenous peeping between her top and trousers, and her legs looked shapely encased in pale denim on tiny, dainty heels. Lol had mascaraed her bottom lashes as well as her top lashes, making her eyes look enormous, and her hair looked shiny and wispy in a Patti Smith, rock goddess, kind of way.

  “And you cannot carry your stuff around in that.” Lol pointed disdainfully at her grubby tapestry knapsack. “Here.” She chucked Ana a little gold clutch bag. And then Lol stood and appraised her for a second or two, a smile spreading across her face. “One last thing,” she said, walking toward Ana. She gripped Ana’s shoulders and yanked them up, then she walked behind her and put a fist into the small of her back.

  “What are you doing?” said Ana.

  “I’m making you stand up straight. Your posture, Ana, is appalling. God has given you this fantastic, elegant, sophisticated body. Act like you’re proud of it.” She backed away and appraised her again. “That’s better,” she said, “now you like a propah Lundarn bird, like. Bee would be so proud of you.” Her eyes glazed over again and for a second she stared into space. “Right.” She snapped out of her reverie and picked up her door keys. “You and me, girl, we’re gonna go out and be tall and skinny and black and white and scare the pants off all these poncey southern men. What d’you say?”

  Lol took Ana to a members’ only club, a painfully, impossibly trendy series of distressed, shabby-chic rooms in an old factory in a decidedly insalubrious Ladbroke Grove back street. Walking in with Lol, Ana noticed that for the first time since she’d arrived in London, she was being looked at‌—she was no longer invisible. And not just being glanced at but being stared at‌—with genuine interest‌—by men and women alike. And by some seriously stylish men and women, too.

  “This,” said Lol, “is about as London as London gets. Look at ’em‌—stylists, designers, retailers, restaurateurs, journalists, models, broadcasters. These are‌—I’m afraid to say‌—the people who make London what it is. Without these people, London would just be, you know . . . Leeds.”

  Lol bought them a couple of margaritas, and they headed for a dark corner, spotlit through colored gels and furnished with big brown leather sofas. Groovejet played quietly in the background, while opposite them two posh girls in seventies clothes made self-conscious roll-ups from loose tobacco and Rizla papers.

  “So‌—how did you and Bee meet?”

  “Clubbing,” said Lol simply. “In the early eighties. I can’t remember a precise moment, though. We just sort of merged. She were wild back then, she really were. We were both part of the same scene for ages, all that New Romantic shite, Steve Strange, Philip Salon, Blitz, and all that. But we became proper friends a few years later, after she asked me to work with her on ‘Groovin’ for London.’ ”

  “So‌—what d’you do?”

  “I am the world’s least successful pop star.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean‌—I left stage school fifteen years ago, I’ve worked nonstop since. I’ve been around the world about ten times, I’ve worked with some of the biggest names in the business, I’ve been credited on some of the most successful albums ever released. And I’m still five hundred pounds overdrawn and living in a grotty flat, just like I were the day I left college.”

  “What’ve you been doing?”

  “I’m a session singer, love. You know‌—the jobbing actors of the music industry. The faceless, anonymous providers of soulful harmonies, the unsung performers of those background noises that drown out the fact that the lead singer can’t sing. Oh‌—and music for ads, too, of course.”

  “Ads?”

  “Oh aye. I’ve sung all sorts. Songs about deodorant. Songs about hair dye. Songs about tampons. You feel a right bloody fool singing those things, I can tell you, but it pays well.”

  “God,” said Ana dreamily, “imagine getting paid to sing.”

  “Do you like to sing, then, Ana?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded and took a sip of tangy margarita.

  “Any good?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. I think so. I’ve never sung in front of anyone.”

  “Hmm. Now, that’s a situation we might have to rectify at some point. A good voice should nev
er be wasted. It’s like pouring Bolly down the sink.”

  “What were you singing this morning, then?”

  “Oh, my love‌—this morning were a real low point. Backing vocals for Billie Piper. It doesn’t get much worse than that. She’s a nice lass, though, that Billie. Very mature. I told her about Bee. Didn’t know who the fuck I was talking about but she did her best to sound sad, bless her heart. Ironic, really, isn’t it? That could be her one day, it could be Billie Piper lying dead in her bed and nobody giving a shit and some little teenage superstar of the day saying, Billie who? D’you know what I mean? That’s the business. That’s the life. That’s just the way it goes. Chews you up, spits you out.”

  Tears started plopping out of Lol’s brown eyes, and Ana quickly handed her a tissue. The two posh girls opposite pretended not to notice but had stopped talking to each other and were sitting stock-still, like little rabbits.

  “D’you think that’s what happened to Bee, then? D’you think it was the music industry? I mean‌—do you think she killed herself?”

  Lol shrugged and blew her nose noisily into the tissue. “I don’t know, Ana. I really don’t know. It’s all I’ve thought about for the last three weeks. I mean, it certainly looks that way. I can’t see any other explanation. It’s just really painful to admit, though, in’t it? It’s like admitting that I wasn’t a good pal. That I didn’t really know her. That our friendship was a sham.” She sniffed and shot Ana a look. “What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About Bee, of course. Do you think it was suicide?”

  Ana shrugged. “It’s the only logical explanation.”

  Lol nodded sadly. “It is, isn’t it?”