by Lisa Jewell
“Bye, Mum.”
“No. Anabella. Don’t go.”
“I’ll phone you in a couple of days.”
“No! Don’t. Stay on the line—I insist . . . I . . .”
Ana pulled the phone away from her ear but she didn’t put it down immediately. She listened first to the muted sounds of Gay softly sobbing as she replaced the receiver. And she knew what Gay was sobbing for. Not for Bee and not for Ana, but for herself. Because as long as Gay had had Ana upstairs in her bedroom being useless, then there was always going to be someone worse off than she was. And without Ana upstairs in her bedroom being useless, it was just Gay, a sad and lonely old woman, too chock-full of neuroses to go out of her front door, who’d failed at everything she’d ever attempted, whose daughters couldn’t bear her and who was now, for the very first time in her life, all alone.
Ana imagined her mother there, alone, in her finely decorated home. She imagined the thud of the Telegraph landing on the doormat like it did every day, at nine on the dot. She imagined the smell of Gay’s peppermint tea, and the lopped-off tops of people’s heads passing by their front window on the way to the paper shop next door and the sound of church bells on Sundays being carried on the breeze from St. Giles in the Wood.
It already felt alien, only two days into her absence. And then, as she lay there on Gill’s cream deck chair, drinking up the sun, she thought of last night, of her shiny hair and her snakeskin stilettos, her chiffon top and her gold clutch bag. She thought of her strong feelings for Lol and the way everyone had stared at them and the guy who came up and asked them if they were models. She thought of holding on to Lol’s arm in the midnight breeze, of giggling together and singing Groovejet, “If This Ain’t Lo-ove,” together at the tops of their voices, until a blond woman in a satin camisole top opened the window and shouted at them to shut the fuck up. She thought of the cab that picked them up at one in the morning, driven by a guy from Serbia with enormous brown eyes, who showed them pictures of his little daughters and his beautiful wife and explained how he was staying in a hostel with sixty other men, sharing a room with five, some of whom cried themselves to sleep every night, and how he was the lucky one because he could speak English and had a car. She thought of winding down the window and feeling the warm night air billowing through her smoky hair and watching young Londoners reeling around the streets in denim jackets and midriff tops and dyed hair. She thought of going back to Lol’s little flat and watching her make a big fat spliff with oily, pungent grass the likes of which she’d never seen in Devon and smoking it with her while they listened to Lol’s demo tapes, the sash window in the living room heaved wide open, letting in drifts of warm city air, and the occasional sounds of partygoers on their way home. She thought of how she’d started getting the spins and had sat with her head over the toilet for a few minutes before feeling normal again, and how Lol had laughed and called her a lightweight, and told her how ashamed Bee would have been and how she was going to have to toughen her up.
And then she thought of last Friday night. She thought of her mother calling her down for dinner and the two of them eating together in silence. She thought of getting into bed at midnight, still wide awake and listening to the sounds of Torrington on a Friday night—silent but for the occasional passing car. And she thought of that hollow feeling, that sense of uselessness and emptiness, that sense that nothing good was ever going to happen to her again that kept her blankly sleepless until one o’clock, and never thinking for a second that just a week later she’d be here. In London. Sitting in a deck chair in a garden in Ladbroke Grove. Living with a woman from Perthshire and about to have an adventure with a six-foot black singer and a mysterious man called Flint.
And at this thought she felt her heart fill up with joy, and an incredible feeling of well-being suddenly overcame her. She closed her eyes and let the rays from the sun kiss her all over her face while the noises of urban life—the high-pitched squeal of black cabs, the rhythmic thud of a distant bass, the sonorous rumble of double-decker buses, and the shouts and hollers of a nearby game of basketball—seeped into her consciousness like the sound track to some classic film that people had been recommending to her for years but she’d only just got around to watching. And now she was wondering why she’d waited so long.
“Bee,” she whispered to herself as she hugged all these feelings to her chest and realized that there was only one thing missing, “I wish you were here.”
Lol took Ana out again that night. They went for cocktails at a snazzy bar by a smelly canal next to a noisy bus station, full of loads more trendy types. Why did trendy types insist on hanging out in such grotty areas? They talked about Bee and they talked about Keith—who was currently holed up in a cottage in Cornwall trying to make the deadline on an astrology book he was writing—and they talked about their plans for the following day. Then Lol called a cab at ten, insisting that she and Ana both go home, get some sleep. They had an early start the next day.
When Ana got back to Gill’s that night, the little house in Ladbroke Grove was in darkness. She took off her snakeskin stilettos and tiptoed slowly up the stairs toward her tiny bedroom. As she neared the landing she saw that Gill’s light was still on, and as she approached her door she could hear music. And squeaking. And groaning. And sucking. And slapping. And banging.
Ana felt slightly shocked. Obviously there was nothing that shocking about a thirty-year-old woman having sex on a Saturday night, but Gill just hadn’t seemed the type, for some reason. There are some people in life who you can easily imagine having sex and some that you just can’t, and Gill definitely fell into the second category. She seemed too clean, too fresh, too sporty, too neat, the sort of person you couldn’t imagine pooping, or farting, or having smelly trainers, either.
When Gill came back from her lunch that afternoon, they’d chatted for a while, and Ana had discovered that Gill used to be a gymnast. She’d represented Great Britain at the Barcelona Olympics and had been working as a personal trainer at the local gym before the redundancy. The counseling course she was about to start was actually sports counseling (Ana had wondered what that was. “My swimming coach never hugged me”?), and Gill spent ninety percent of her free time at the gym and at the local swimming pool. Her fridge was full of energy drinks and yogurt and fresh fruit, and she had about ten pairs of dinky little size-five trainers lined up in her bedroom, none of which looked like they’d ever been worn. She was wholesome and fit and the sort of person who made you feel like a big, smelly, unhealthy monster.
Which was why it seemed weird that she’d be doing something as base, animal, and generally messy as having sex.
Ana pushed down slowly on her door handle, trying desperately not to put Gill and her lover off their stroke. She eased open the door, gently hit the light switch, and was about to close the door behind her, when the sound of male laughter made her suddenly stop in her tracks. Because it wasn’t just the sound of one man laughing. It was the sound of men laughing. Together.
As she stood in her doorway, statue still, not knowing where to look, not knowing what to do, Gill’s bedroom door suddenly flew open, and there in the doorway, silhouetted from behind and absolutely stark naked, stood a man. A big black man. With huge muscles. And a shiny chest. And thighs so large that his legs didn’t close properly. His head was shaved and he had a little strip of goatee on his chin.
“Hi,” he beamed at Ana, cupping his rude bits with his hands. His voice was mellifluous and his smile captivating.
“Hi,” said Ana.
“Sorry. I—er—didn’t know there was anyone else in the house. I’m just—er—” He indicated the bathroom with embarrassed eyes and then skipped off down the hallway, the moonlight gleaming off his two perfect buttocks as he ran.
“Oh fuck. Ana. Sorry.” Gill appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a duvet, her hair all over the place, a fag in one hand and about as pissed as Ana had ever seen anyone in her life. “
God. Shit. Fuck. I forgot about you.” She giggled and shuffled toward the door. “That was Tony,” she slurred, “and this”—she stepped aside and gestured toward her rumpled bed and the second naked black man lying on it—“is . . . is—wash your name again?”
“Marcus.”
“Marcus,” she said, smiling and swaying. “Look. I hope we didn’t disturb you, Ana. I mean—things must be tough for you right now. Her sister died,” she said, turning toward her bed to address Marcus. “She took an overdose and she died.”
“No shit,” said Marcus.
“Uh-huh.” Gill’s duvet was beginning to slip a little and Ana didn’t know where to look when a tiny little pink nipple suddenly popped out. “Look,” she continued, taking a big drag on her cigarette, “you should get ta bed. We’re finished in here now. We willn’t dishturb y’anymore. You sleep tight now, y’hear.” She gathered up her duvet and got onto her tiptoes and kissed Ana warmly but wetly on the cheek. “Night-night. Say night, Marcus,” she said, turning toward the bed again.
“Night, Marcus,” said Marcus.
At which Gill dissolved into hysterical laughter and closed the door behind her.
twelve
Ana’s alarm woke her up at eight-thirty the following morning. She tried to turn over but her back screamed out in agony. She’d never slept on a futon before but had always been under the impression that they were supposed to be much more comfortable than normal beds. What a load of old crap that was.
She could hear some kind of activity downstairs, and then she suddenly remembered—last night—Tony—Marcus—Gill’s nipple. Jesus. Had that really happened? Really and truly? She slipped out of her bed and padded softly to the bathroom, looking around her gingerly for any errant naked men, but everything seemed back to what she supposed was normal. Early morning August sunshine streamed through the spotless windows, the air smelled of Glade and Mr. Clean, and Gill’s bedroom door was wide open and displaying a gleaming white, freshly made bed.
After an invigorating shower she made her way warily downstairs, just in time to see Gill, her hair in a perky ponytail, her body encased in an immaculate little Ellesse gym ensemble, glugging down a glass of something golden in color and glowing like the healthiest woman in the world.
“Morning!” she chimed as she spied Ana coming toward her. “Juice?” she said, proffering the jug.
“What’s in it?”
“Mango, kiwi, papaya, egg yolks, and honey.” Gill counted off the ingredients on her fingers jauntily. “The best hangover cure known to man. Have some—it’s yummy.”
Ana nodded mutely and accepted a glass.
“There’s bagels, too. Fresh. I picked them up earlier on.”
Earlier on? Earlier on? How much earlier could it be than it already was? Ana was feeling strangely out of kilter. It was nine o’clock in the morning. A mere ten hours ago this woman had been off her tits and having sex with two men. And now here she was, up and about, buying bagels, making juice, and looking like the neatest, sweetest little P.E. teacher you could ever hope to meet.
Ana stood for a moment or two, feeling utterly shell-shocked. She hadn’t, had she, imagined last night? There had been two men in Gill’s bed? She had been smoking a cigarette? She had been pissed senseless? Ana had seen her nipple, hadn’t she? Maybe Gill had no recollection of it, maybe she had memory loss? But no—surely not. It was one thing to forget how you got home, but to forget a ménage à trois? It simply wasn’t possible.
“Anyway. I’m off to the gym. I’ll see you later?”
Ana was about to nod, and then suddenly remembered that she wasn’t going to see her later. She told her about Broadstairs.
“Oh—Flint’s driving you, is he?” she said. “You’d better keep an eye out for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Flint’s a very naughty boy. Don’t let that gentle-hearted-giant act fool you. OK?”
Ana nodded uncertainly.
“OK, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Have fun!” she tinkled before bounding out of the door with her gym bag.
Ana finished her juice and poured herself another glass. Gill was right. It was delicious. Then she helped herself to a gorgeous warm bagel. It was all gooey with cream cheese and salty with smoked salmon, the crust a perfect chewy shell, the inside soft and glutinous. She wolfed it down and then had another one. Ana could hardly remember the last time food had tasted so good. She pushed open the kitchen door and felt the early sun rays already burning her skin. It was going to be another scorcher.
She took her juice upstairs to her bedroom and started to pack for this peculiar day trip, panicking as she suddenly realized that she’d run out of knickers and cursing herself as she pulled the little silver camera she’d found in Bee’s suitcase from the bottom of her tartan suitcase.
“Fuck,” she muttered to herself. She’d forgotten all about it.
She went to the hallway and phoned Lol.
“Look,” said Lol, “don’t worry about it. There’s one of those one-hour places at the bottom of your street. Toss it in there now and we can collect it later. There was something I wanted to do before we set off, anyway.”
“What’s that, then?”
“Never you mind,” said Lol, “we’ll be round in about twenty minutes. Flint’s just gotten here.”
“So, what’s this Flint like, then?”
“He’s very tall, he’s very quiet, and he’s got a very big car. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? See you soon.”
Ana found the photo shop and also, much to her joy, a pound shop, where she picked up ten pairs of cotton knickers for five pounds. She was halfway through a third bagel and another glass of Gill’s juice, when a horn sounded on the street outside. She grabbed her bag and rushed to the door, and stopped in her tracks when she clapped eyes on the most massive Mercedes she’d ever seen in her life. It was dark blue with tinted windows and a sort of stretched bit in the middle. It was very shiny and disgustingly ostentatious.
Lol unfurled herself from the back, lifting a huge pair of black sunglasses from her nose and grinning at Ana. She had a big sunflower in her hair. “Darling,” she drawled in a mock-posh accent, “how are you? You look simply divine. Mwah. Mwah. Do get in.”
Ana threw her bag in first and climbed in after Lol. “Oh. Wow. Fuck,” she exclaimed, looking around her at the mahogany-trimmed interior, the discreet lighting, the buttons and the knobs. “Are we really going there in this?”
“Uh-huh. Better get used to it.”
“Wow.” She ran a hand over the soft leather upholstery. “Wow.”
“That’s three wows, Lennard. Did you get that?” Lol knocked on the glass partition with a chunky diamond ring. “Three wows. You might be losing it, but your car can still do it for you.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
Ana watched as the tinted glass partition slid down and the back of a man’s head was revealed. It was a large square head set on a wide neck and supported by vast shoulders. It was covered in short, thick, dirty-blond hair peppered with a smattering of gray.
“Flint,” said Lol, moving closer to the partition, “this here is the world-famous Ana. Ana—this here is the—er—well—this is Flint.”
“Nice to meet you at last,” said Flint, turning around stiffly to flash a quick smile at Ana. His voice was deep and coarse. And he was beautiful. Ana gulped.
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“I’m really, really sorry about Bee,” he said.
Ana shrugged and smiled tightly. “Me, too.”
“Flint was Bee’s driver back in the eighties, when she was famous,” said Lol.
“Aaah,” said Ana. She stared at Flint’s ears. They were surprisingly delicate for such a burly man.
“Anyway,” said Flint, leaning forward to find a button on his dashboard, “it’s too early for conversation for me, so I’ll leave you two girls to it. Keep your heels off the upholstery. Keep your hands off
the champagne. Ashtrays are in the armrests. And give us a shout if you need a pit stop.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Flint,” said Lol, and then the partition slid back across the car and it was almost as if Flint had never existed.
Lol turned to Ana. “Oh, bloody Nora,” she said, a smile creeping across her face, “hark at the color of you. You look like a fucking beetroot. But just forget about it, all right. That bloke might look like butter wouldn’t melt, but he’s a sly old bugger. Don’t fall for the act. OK?”
“Jesus,” said Ana, “that’s exactly what Gill just said, too. What is he? A serial killer?”
“No,” said Lol, “not a serial killer. He’s a serial shit.”
“Well, anyway. He’s not my type, I can assure you.”
“Good,” said Lol as she folded her long legs up under her and started fiddling with a pop-out tray in the inside door. “OK, then. What have we here?” She ran a fingertip across the surface of the mahogany-topped table and held it toward Ana. “A-ha! Colombia’s finest.” A film of white powder clung to her skin. “Without fail,” she said, wiping it off on<?# added “on”#> her jeans, “every time I get in this car. God, I hate this stuff, I really do. I mean—is there such a thing as a celebrity who doesn’t do coke?”
“Celebrities?”
“Yup. That’s what Mr. Flint there does for a living. Drives celebrities around.”
“Really!”
“Don’t sound so excited. He doesn’t even get to see them half the time. Just has to clear up all their coke and spunk and puke after they’ve gone.”
“Ooh,” grimaced Ana.
“Exactly,” said Lol, turning to face the window. “Oh. Look. We’re here already.”
Ana looked out of her window. They’d pulled up on the side of a grimy main road lined with electrical repair shops, taxi offices and West Indian bakeries, and were parked next to a large flower stand.
“Where are we?” asked Ana.