one-hit wonder

by Lisa Jewell

  She fiddled with the bed a bit, pressing levers, until it suddenly boinged upright and scared her half to death. “Jesus,” she muttered, clutching her heart. The evidence was mounting up very rapidly. The wheelchair ramp, the weird bath, the lift, and the hydraulic bed‌—who lives in a house like this, indeed?

  She sat down on the bed and went through the bedside drawer. An empty spectacle case. A dead fly. A calculator. A CD-Rom. There were books piled on top of the unit, books like Conspiracy Theories‌—Secrecy and Power in America, The Case for Mars: The Plan to Settle the Red Planet and Why We Must, and Apollo 12: The NASA Mission Reports.

  In the cabinet underneath were textbooks with titles like Elementary Linear Algebra with Applications, Schaum’s Mathematical Handbook of Formulas and Tables, and Applied Linear Statistical Models. A few notebooks underneath were full of scribbled algebra that looked too technical and complicated even to bother flicking through. And there at the bottom sat a school exercise book with a typed label attached that nearly made Ana gasp out loud: Zander Roper, Form 5L.

  Zander.

  The same Zander Bee had written a song for.

  He wasn’t a man at all. He was a child. She grasped the exercise book to her chest and ran downstairs.

  All three of them sat blankly in the living room, surrounded by an assortment of disparate and eclectic objects. It felt like they were playing some very surreal, very somber parlor game. Even Lol was quiet for once.

  Lol had found some bird-spotting handbooks that had been well thumbed, a pair of binoculars, a whole heap of prescription drugs, a pile of plastic sheets, and another set of notebooks covered in algebra. And Flint had collected some watercolors, painted directly into a pad of cartridge paper, watercolors of the garden, the view, the cottage, and Bee. Bee sunbathing on a deckchair, Bee at the kitchen table, Bee asleep in front of the fire.

  “Jesus,” said Lol, picking one up, “these are just beautiful. Just absolutely beautiful.”

  She let it drop to the floor and held her head in her hands, sighing loudly. “Well,” she said, “it’s all crystal-fucking-clear now, isn’t it? Bee spent every weekend for the last three years with an incontinent, bird-watching mathematician called Zander who had a crush on Gillian Anderson and could paint like Michelangelo. Oh‌—and she wrote a love song for him, too. Of course. It all makes perfect fucking sense. It’s as clear as the fucking North Circular in rush hour . . . Jesus . . .”

  “D’you think . . . ?” began Ana, about to form the most obvious of all possible questions.

  “Don’t even go there, Ana,” said Lol, using her hands to demonstrate her confusion. “I don’t even want to think about it. If this Zander kid was her son, then it throws the last fifteen years of my life into complete mayhem. If she had a kid and didn’t tell me, then nothing in the world makes sense anymore. . . .”

  Flint got to his feet and stretched. Bits of his huge body audibly cracked, and Lol winced. “And where are you off to?” Flint was reaching for his car keys.

  “The pub.”

  Lol rolled her eyes. “Oh‌—that’s typical, that is. We’ve come all the way down to Broadstairs, we’ve found out that our best friend was living a secret bloody life, we’ve got all this stuff to do, and you’re going to the fucking pub!”

  Flint rolled his eyes back at Lol. “How about you just stop talking, just for a second, and think. Just for once, Tate.”

  “All right, Lennard. I’ve stopped. I’m thinking. And‌—er‌—sorry, but nowt’s come to me. Just the fact that you’re like a fucking dehydrated homing pigeon when it comes to the boozer.”

  Flint sighed. “It’s a Sunday lunchtime. This is a small village. And what do people who live in small villages do on Sunday lunchtimes?”

  Ana nodded and smiled. “They go to the pub.”

  “Exactly, Ana‌—they go to the pub. And what else do people who live in small villages do?”

  “Have sex with their sisters,” sneered Lol.

  “Apart from that.”

  “Their dogs?”

  “They gossip, Tate. They gossip. Someone’s bound to have seen something, to know something. So‌—are you coming?”

  Lol sighed and got to her feet. “Yeah yeah. All right. Let’s do it. But remember‌—we are going to get seriously stared at. The whole pub will fall silent the minute we walk in, every person will turn around and fix us with an impassive gaze designed to scare us out of town, and the only sound we hear will be the ticking of the clock over the bar. We are not only strangers, but we are three very, very tall strangers who are going to turn up in a stretch limo with tinted windows. And one of us is black. They’re going to assume we’re gangsters and call out the sheriff. OK?”

  Flint and Ana nodded.

  “OK, then. Let’s go.”

  There were three pubs in the village, which threw them a bit. Two of them were restaurant pubs, with full car parks and children running around in beer gardens, so they headed for the Bleak House, a small cream pub with curtained windows. Flint pulled the Mercedes up on the sidewalk and a few passing villagers stopped and watched with interest. “See,” hissed Lol, “and we haven’t even gotten out the pigging car yet. Oh bugger, I wish I was wearing something else.” She fiddled with her thin cotton top, pulling it down over her midriff, and slid her sunglasses from her head to her nose. Ana looked at her with surprise. She was nervous. Fearless, loudmouthed, extrovert Lol was nervous.

  She caught Ana looking at her. “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Ana, “nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen you look so‌—uncomfortable before. I didn’t think you were bothered what people thought of you.”

  “Yeah, well. I’m not. Not in London, anyhow. It’s small towns. I hate ‘em.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. I suppose it’s because I come from a small town.”

  “But I thought you were from Leeds?”

  “Yeah‌—from a small town just outside Leeds. It were bad enough being black there. But being black and skinny and nearly six feet tall. It were hell.”

  “Really?” asked Ana in wonder. She found it hard to imagine that Lol could ever have felt anything but confident and beautiful.

  “Oh aye. I got loads of shit.”

  “What sort of shit?”

  “Oh, you know. Kids. Comments. Being shouted at on the street. That sort of thing.”

  Ana nodded. “I get it, too,” she whispered. “Comments. Stares.”

  “Yeah,” said Lol, “I could see that in you when I first met you. I could see me in you when I first met you.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Well‌—I wasn’t always so blinkin’ gorgeous, you know. I mean‌—those contact lenses aren’t just for show‌—I’m half blind wi’out them, and when I first left home I used to wear these glasses like paperweights, and I had this flippin’ great Afro that I used to scrape back in a ponytail. And makeup! You should have seen the state of me. I used to go to Woolie’s and buy all that white-girl makeup, all blue eyeliner and that, trying to make myself look like Lady Di‌—and pink blusher! Bright fucking pink, it was. I didn’t really know who the hell I was then. And then I came down to London and I fitted in. I could be whatever and whoever the hell I wanted to be. That’s why I love London so much. In London I can be. D’you see what I mean? I can look as freaky as I like and there’s always going to be someone looking freakier. I can be as loud as I like and there’ll always be someone louder. I can be tall as I like and there’ll always be someone taller. On the other hand, there’ll always be someone richer, prettier, happier, and nicer, too. But nobody gives a shit anyway. The only true currency in London, Ana, is celebrity. The only thing that makes one Londoner look at another Londoner with any interest is celebrity. And even then they try to pretend to be unimpressed. Try to pretend they haven’t noticed them. But out here”‌—she turned and looked through the window‌—“anyone who’s different in any way is a sort of celebrity. Get
s talked about, stared at, bothered. And I hate it. I really hate it.”

  “Any chance of you two getting out of this car anytime today?” said Flint, his enormous head appearing at the window.

  Lol took a deep breath and turned to Ana and smiled. “Pretend you’re Madonna‌—that’s what I always try to do‌—pretend to be Madonna, then it dun’t matter about the staring.”

  Sure enough, everyone in the pub did stop talking when they walked in. But then, there were only four people in there and it didn’t look like they’d been talking to each other anyway. The barmaid, a young girl of about eighteen, looked up at them with interest as they approached. Her expression told them that she didn’t see the three “strangers” as a threat but as an opportunity for something unusual to happen. And her face perked up even more when Flint opened his mouth and flashed her one of his electric smiles.

  “Hiya!” she beamed, her steamed-pudding breasts swelling visibly under a tight Lycra vest inscribed with the golden word “Angel.” “What can I get you?”

  “Watch this,” whispered Lol, nudging Ana in the ribs, “Flint’s about to switch it on. Pass me a bucket. . . .”

  “I’ll have a pint of Export please and my two friends here will have . . .” He turned to Lol and Ana and raised his eyebrows at them, Roger Moore-style.

  “Same please,” said Ana.

  “Vodka and cranberry, please,” said Lol, adopting a strange, Joanna Lumley-esque accent.

  “Oh. Sorry. We haven’t got cranberry”‌—the girl’s face blanched with the disappointment of not having cranberry and then brightened slightly‌—“we’ve got blackcurrant, though.”

  “What‌—blackcurrant juice?”

  “Yes. No. I’m not sure. I’ll just ask.”

  She scuttled away then and Flint gave Lol a stern glance. “Oi‌—Scary Spice‌—leave the poor girl alone.”

  “Sorry Mr. Flint, sir,” said Lol, stifling a giggle and nudging Ana in the ribs again.

  “Angel‌—is that your name?” Flint pointed at her top.

  Lol raised her eyebrows at Ana.

  The barmaid giggled and started pouring a pint. “Nah,” she beamed, “my name’s Louise. But my friends call me Lou.”

  “So‌—Lou‌—are you a local?”

  “ ’Fraid so,” she sighed, “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Bit dull, is it?”

  “You could say that, yeah.” She placed a full pint on the bar and started pouring another one. “It’s like Night of the Living Dead round here sometimes.”

  “And what do you do? Around here? Anything going on?”

  “Nah. Nothing. The only action is up on the seafront, but even that’s pretty nonexistent.”

  “So if anything unusual was to happen in the area, you’d notice?”

  “Oh yeah. Definitely.”

  Flint beamed at the barmaid again, and Ana saw her cheeks flame scarlet.

  “You could be just the girl I’m looking for, then.”

  “Oh yeah?” She laughed and her blush increased.

  “Yeah. We’re looking for some information. About the cottage down on Broad Lane.”

  “Hark at Inspector Morse,” whispered Lol into Ana’s ear, stifling another giggle.

  “Which cottage is that, then?”

  “The pink one. The pink one with the motorbike outside.”

  “Oh yeah. Yeah‌—I know the one. That’s 5.85 for the drinks, please.”

  Flint passed her a tenner. Ana noticed that he deliberately brushed the side of her hand with his fingertips as he handed it over and she noticed that Lou almost visibly jumped, like she’d just had an electric shock.

  “D’you know anything about it? The cottage.”

  She shrugged and slammed the cash register shut. “Like what?”

  “Like who lived there?”

  Lou rested her elbows on the top of the bar and put her face in her hands, looking up at Flint with wide eyes, her sun-burned breasts quivering urgently. She grinned up at him. “Are you coppers?” she asked.

  “Nah,” grinned Flint, taking a big macho slurp of his lager and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glued to Louise the whole time. “Look. Lou.” He leaned down toward her so that their noses were almost touching. Ana noticed that Louise stopped breathing. “Are you any good at keeping secrets?”

  She nodded, her eyes widening by the second.

  “Look. Our friend. Well‌—she died last month.”

  “Oh God‌—I’m really sorry.” Lou clutched her heart with her hand.

  “Yeah. Thanks. And the thing is that since she died, we found out some really weird things about her.”

  “Oh yeah?” If Lou’s eyes had opened any wider, her eyelids would have slipped irretrievably behind her eyeballs.

  “And one of them was that she owned that cottage. The pink one.”

  “Oh right. You mean the woman with the black hair and the motorbike?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one. Did you know her?”

  “No. She wasn’t around all that often. Only at the weekends, I think. Mrs. Wills‌—that was her name.”

  “That’s my mum’s name,” Ana whispered in Lol’s ear.

  “And who did she used to stay with?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean‌—when she was there, in the cottage. Do you know who stayed with her?”

  Lou shrugged. “I never saw anyone. There was an ambulance there sometimes, though.”

  “An ambulance?”

  “Yeah. You know. One of those like they take old people about in. Not like an emergency ambulance or anything.”

  “Like they might take disabled people about in, you mean?”

  “Yeah. That’s right.”

  “But you never saw anyone getting in or out of it?”

  “No‌—I mean, I saw it arriving and that, and the ambulance people helping someone out, but it was all on the wrong side, facing away from me, so I never saw anyone getting in or out. I just kind of thought it was an elderly relative or something.”

  Flint nodded and looked very serious. “And did you ever speak to Mrs. Wills? Did she ever come in here?”

  “Nah. Not in here. But I used to see her sometimes, on her motorbike‌—just passing through. Or at the Spar a couple of times. Not to talk to or anything, though. She was very pretty. How did she‌—if you don’t mind me asking‌—how did she die, exactly?”

  “Well‌—we don’t know‌—exactly. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  “She didn’t‌—well, she didn’t die in the cottage, did she?”

  “No‌—she died in London. In her flat.”

  “God. I’m really sorry. She was so young and so pretty and everything. You must be gutted.”

  “Yeah. We are.” Flint turned to look at Ana and Lol, and Louise looked at all three sadly.

  “Look,” she began, “I get off in half an hour. If you want, I can take you round to see some people. People who might know more than me. You know‌—busybodies and that.” She giggled and Flint smiled, and she giggled even more.

  “Really?” he gushed. “Would you? That would be fantastic, wouldn’t it, girls?” He spun around and they nodded eagerly. “OK. Great. We’ll be here, in the corner, when you’re ready.”

  “OK,” she beamed, “brilliant.”

  He was about to turn away and then he stopped, turned back, looking straight at Louise’s tits, and grinned. “Have you ever thought about changing your name?”

  Louise flushed and giggled and hid her face, and Lol stuck her fingers down her throat and gagged and headed toward the back of the bar. “Christ, Lennard, you really are vile, d’you know that?” she said as they sat down.

  “Just doing what was necessary. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Bollocks. Couldn’t you have just said, ‘Hi‌—d’you know anything about the woman who used to live in the pink cottage on Broad Lane?’ Did you have to get yer knob out and start waving it around in
front of the poor girl? And you’re thirty-six years old, in case you’d forgotten. You could have fathered her and another half a dozen like her by now, you sick fuck.”

  Ana looked at them both in amazement. “Don’t you two ever stop arguing?” she asked.

  Flint and Lol looked at each other and laughed. “No,” they said in unison. “Not while we still get this much pleasure out of it, at any rate,” said Lol, and they both laughed again.

  And then Ana looked at them, at big, flash Flint with his scarred cheek and mad Lol with her platinum glued-in hair and her big raspy laugh and she thought, these are Bee’s people‌—I’m sitting here in a pub in Kent with Bee’s people. And Bee’s dead. How weird is that? And just think, she thought, if I’d stayed in touch with Bee, if I hadn’t let my mother’s neuroses influence me, if I hadn’t believed her lies, if I hadn’t been so lazy, if I’d had more strength of character, maybe I could have been sitting in a pub with Bee’s people and Bee. I could have known Flint since I was a teenager. I could have known Lol when she was my age. I could have been someone for Bee to talk to, someone for her to tell her secrets to. I could have ridden behind her on her bike down to Kent and we could have done whatever it was she was doing here together. I could have been at her flat on Baker Street that night, on July 28, and I could have saved her. I could have saved her. . . .

  sixteen

  January 1998

  Bee ran around the cottage one last time, making some final adjustments. Puffing up cushions, straightening curtains, switching on a table lamp, switching off a table lamp. It was a glistening winter’s morning, and a fine layer of snow lay all over everything. It was January 8 but Bee had bought a Christmas tree anyway, just a small one, and put it in the corner decorated with gold sequined stars, tiny white lights, and these really cute little fluffy baubles she’d found in Paperchase. A huge fire was crackling away in the fireplace, and there was a chicken roasting in the oven.