by Lisa Jewell
“Thought you’d been abducted by aliens,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.
“No,” she said, “no. I got some bad news. In the mail.”
“What sort of bad news?” Ed’s disembodied voice came from the kitchen, where Bee could hear the click of the fridge door being opened.
“It’s my stepfather. He died.”
“I didn’t know you had a stepfather.” Ed emerged clutching a carton of orange juice and a cold sausage.
“Uh-huh. My mother’s second husband. Ana’s dad. He was very old.”
“So—are you going to the funeral?”
She shrugged. “I should,” she began, “for Ana’s sake. But I really, really don’t think I can face it.”
“What. Your mother?” He put the sausage in his mouth and left it there.
“Yeah. My Mother. But Ana, too. I feel so bad about Ana. For Ana. She’s going to be so alone and I really want to see her so badly. But I’m scared, because I’ve got no idea what to say to her. I mean—where do you start after ten years?”
“Why don’t you just write her a letter or something?” He scratched his bottom with his spare hand and wandered back into the bedroom, leaving an aroma of bedsheeted man in his wake.
A letter, thought Bee. That wasn’t a bad idea. She showered and breakfasted and saw Ed off at the door at eight o’clock.
“You off to Broadstairs this weekend?” he asked while he adjusted his tie and switched on his mobile phone.
“Uh-huh. I’ll be back early Sunday, though. D’you fancy coming over? We can get a late dinner.”
“Er—I’m not sure. I’ll have to check.”
“With who? Tina’s not around.”
“Well—she might be. Her flight’s due in on Monday morning, but you know what she’s like. If she can get an earlier flight, she will. I’ll check. OK?”
“OK,” said Bee, a pout forming on her plump lips. “But try, won’t you? Please.”
He kissed her forcefully on the lips and smiled at her. “I always try, Bee. You know that. Have a good weekend, OK, and send my love to Zander.”
Bee sighed as the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps taking the stairs, two at a time, running away from her and toward his other life—his real life.
And then she made herself another mug of Earl Grey and walked to the desk in the window. She lit a cigarette and searched around in the drawers and filing trays. Paper. Writing paper. She must have some writing paper somewhere. She finally found some loose sheets. She placed one in front of her and picked up a blue pen. The sun shone through the window and across the paper, making it look very white and very empty. She hadn’t written a letter for ages. How the hell did you write a letter anyway? Jesus. She went to the kitchen and made herself some toast.
Then she fed the cat.
Then she filed her nails.
Then she opened the rest of her mail and made a couple of phone calls. Then she took the rubbish out and had a little chat in the sunshine with Wendy the Reflexologist.
And then it was nearly lunchtime. So she made herself some more toast.
And then she went back to the desk, where the sheet of paper stared blankly at her. She sat down and eyed the paper. She didn’t like this paper. She wanted to use nice paper. She pulled on some sandals and a pair of sunglasses, slicked some deodorant under her arms, and headed for the stationer on Haverstock Hill, where she spent nearly half an hour looking at their small selection of writing paper. She finally settled on a pad of silky mauve paper with contrasting burnt orange envelopes. And she bought a sympathy card with a picture of a single white lily on the front.
By the time she’d done a bit of shopping, bought herself some flowers, and picked up her dry cleaning, it was nearly three in the afternoon. She made herself another mug of Earl Grey, lit another fag, spread out her mauve paper, and stared at the blank sheet in front of her. And she stared at it and she stared at it and she stared at it.
“Jesus,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in frustration. “Why is this so fucking difficult?” But she knew exactly why it was so difficult. This was Ana she was writing to, little Ana. Little Ana, who was now big Ana, big Ana, who had a life and a job that she knew nothing about. Little Ana, who she’d effectively abandoned twelve years ago when she’d fallen out with her mother. Little Ana, who she’d never bonded with. Little Ana, who was her sister, for God’s sake. Her only sister. It wouldn’t be enough just to write a line of condolence. Ana deserved more. An explanation. A background. Some history. She picked up her pen and finally started writing.
After she’d finished, she read the page through about thirteen times before finally folding it into a square and slipping it inside the sympathy card.
It was heavy, she knew that. But it needed to be. There was no point being halfhearted about it. Anything else would have sounded trite, would have sounded like the Bee that Ana probably remembered from those awful meetings, the preening, shallow, ambitious Bee. The Bee who thought she didn’t need anyone who couldn’t further her career. The Bee who was more concerned with impressing the trendy people she used to surround herself with than the feelings of her gangling, awkward adolescent sister. The Towering Twiglet. That’s what she used to call her. And laugh. Out loud. Bee blushed at the mere thought. Poor Ana. And she was probably stunning now, she thought. Twenty-five years old and with legs up to here and those amazing yellowy-hazel eyes. She addressed the envelope and licked a stamp and took the letter down to the box on the corner. Post it now. Before she had a chance to change her mind.
And then she went back to her flat and made herself a margarita and waited for the evening to wear itself out so that it would be tomorrow. The day that Ana got the letter. The day that something might change and something good might happen. Maybe. For the first time in years she had something to look forward to. Maybe. A letter from Ana. Maybe. Or a phone call. A chance to put something right. She’d done it with Zander. Made things right with Zander. Maybe she could make things right with Ana, too. Maybe.
twenty
“Look what I found.” Flint was standing in the living room of Bee’s cottage, triumphantly holding aloft a small mobile phone.
Lol threw down her slice of pizza and grabbed it from his hands. “That’s Bee’s phone,” she cried, “where did you find it?”
“In the storage compartment under the seat of her bike.”
“God—I can’t believe she’d just have left it there—she was addicted to this sodding thing.” She started tapping numbers into the phone until it beeped and lit up. “It’s still got some juice,” she said, “let’s have a little look, shall we?” She sat back down and Ana slid across the sofa to peer over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m just checking through her directory to see if there are any names I don’t recognize. . . . Ah-ha!” she exclaimed. “Who’s ET? ET home? 0208 341 6565—isn’t that Highgate? It is, isn’t it? Did Bee know anyone in Highgate, Flint?”
Flint shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“OK, what about ET work? 0207 786 2218—that’s the West End, isn’t it? Soho? Well—there’s only one way to find out who they belong to.” She started tapping in some more numbers and then straightened her back and cleared her throat.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m phoning it, doofus-features, what you think I’m doing?”
“Yeah—but what are you going to say, exactly?”
“I dunno,” she said, “I’ll wing it, I guess.”
“OK,” said Ana, wedging herself between the two of them before they started bickering again, “we should really decide which number to dial first and what we’re going to say.”
“Right,” agreed Lol, switching off the phone. “It’s a Sunday and the Soho number’s probably an office number, so let’s call the Highgate number. OK?”
Flint and Ana nodded.
“And what are you going to s
ay?”
Lol shrugged. “I dunno. What d’you think I should say, Ana?”
“How about just being plain, you know? Just saying who you are and how you found the number and why you’re calling.”
“Brilliant!” she beamed before handing it over to Ana. “You do it,” she said, “people respond better to a posh accent.”
“I’m not posh,” exclaimed Ana.
“No—but you know what I mean.”
Ana shrugged and took the phone. “OK,” she said before dialing the number. “It’s ringing.”
She took a deep breath while she waited for the phone to be picked up. This could be it, she thought. Finally. After all this wild-goose chasing and all these dead ends, at last they were going to talk to someone who might have some idea what exactly Bee had been up to for the last three years of her life.
A man picked up. “Hello.”
Ana widened her eyes at Flint and Lol to indicate that she’d got through.
“Oh. Er. Hi,” she began.
“Hello.”
“Hi. Um. My name’s Ana Wills. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me.”
“No,” he said bluntly.
“Well, I’m the sister of—well, half sister to be accurate, of Bee? Bee Bearhorn?”
“Oh.”
“And, well, this is her mobile phone I’m calling from.”
“Right. Good.”
There was something very disconcerting about this man’s manner. “Yes—and your number comes up as the last number to phone her on this, er, number.” Ana took another deep breath before she ended up saying “number” again.
“OK.”
Jesus—this was possibly the most monosyllabic person Ana had ever encountered. “And that’s why we’re calling you. Just to . . . er . . . we wanted to . . . er . . . I mean, we wanted—who are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I just meant, well—who are you in relation to Bee? Exactly?”
“Well. Yes. I see. I could probably make it, yes.”
Ana scrunched up her face in confusion. What on earth was he talking about? “I know it sounds weird, but we really need to know who you are. I mean—obviously you might just be her plumber, or something. Are you?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Sorry. I just need to . . . who are you?” She asked again in desperation, thinking what an awkward tool of communication the phone could be sometimes.
“Yes,” said the deadpan man, “tomorrow would be fine. How about midday?”
“What?”
“At my office. Yes. Do you have my office address?”
“Er—no.”
“Fifty-two Poland Street. Uh-huh. The bell says Tewkesbury. Ed Tewkesbury Productions.”
“PEN!” Ana mouthed urgently at Lol, who threw her one. “Fifty-two Poland Street?” she repeated back to him.
“That’s right.”
“Ed Tewkesbury Productions?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Midday tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“So you want to meet me, tomorrow, at midday, at your office?”
“Yes, please. That would be great.”
“And your name is?”
“Ed Tewkesbury Productions. Yes. That’s right.”
“So you’re Ed?”
“That’s correct, yes.”
“And how exactly did you know my sister?”
“Great. That’s great, then. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.”
“No—hold on—wait a minute!” But he’d gone. Hung up.
“Jesus,” said Ana, switching off the phone and flopping backward onto the sofa. “That was officially the weirdest person I’ve ever had a conversation with.”
“What he say? What he say?” squealed Lol.
Ana shrugged. “Absolutely nothing. Just to meet him at his office tomorrow. At midday.”
“And he didn’t say who he was?”
“Ed Tewkesbury?”
Flint and Lol looked at each other and then turned back to Ana and shook their heads. “Never heard of him,” said Lol.
“Me, neither,” said Flint.
“Well,” sighed Ana, “we will have by this time tomorrow.”
twenty-one
At eleven o’clock the following morning, Flint and Ana dropped Lol off at her flat. Her flight to Nice was at three that afternoon and she wanted to shower and pack. They pulled up outside her house on Bevington Road.
“Now,” she said to Ana, “I’ll have my mobile with me so just phone me, right. I want all the developments. I want to know what’s going on. I cannot believe that I have to go away. Now. Just when you’re about to find out what’s happening. And you—Lennard”—she leaned in toward the partition—“you look after this girl, OK? don’t let anything bad happen to her and behave yourself.” She gave him a big smack on the cheek and then smiled at Ana. “I’ll be back on Thursday, right, and I’ll phone you the minute I get in. And promise me, Ana, promise me that whatever you do, you don’t go home. OK?” She gripped her hands and stared deep in her eyes.
“Promise,” Ana said.
“Good,” said Lol, grabbing Ana’s shoulders and giving her a huge bear hug. And then she picked up her handbag and got out of the car. Ana felt her gut suddenly clench up with anxiety. Lol was going. Lol, who’d looked after her and taken her out and made sure that she didn’t feel scared and alone in a big strange city—her new friend, Lol.
Ana sat in the back of Flint’s car, sadly watching Lol climb the steps up to her bright green house. She stuck her head through the window as Lol put her key in the door. “Have a good time,” she said sadly. “I’ll phone you.”
Lol pushed the front door open and blew her a kiss. And then she disappeared. And Ana was all alone in the world again. She suddenly felt like crying.
She breathed in when she saw Flint turning around in the front. “Can I interest you in a seat up front?” he said, eyeing the passenger seat and smiling kindly.
Ana nodded. “Thanks,” she said. She picked up her knapsack and slid into the front seat. Flint looked at her with concern. “You all right?” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’m fine. I’m just—I think I might miss Lol.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Ana,” he said, grinning at her, “I’ll look after you, I promise.”
Ed Tewkesbury’s office was housed in a wide five-story deco office building squeezed, like War and Peace between two novellas, between a sandwich shop and an Italian restaurant. Flint held the door open for Ana as the intercom buzzed to let them in. A uniformed security guard at the front desk directed them to the fifth floor, which they reached by a tiny mirror-lined lift.
“He might not know that Bee’s dead, you know?” Flint said. “We might be the bearers of bad news.”
The lift pinged and the door slid open and they stepped out into a plush reception area. A girl with platinum-white hair with black streaks in it looked up at them brightly from behind a glass-brick desk. She was wearing one of those headsets like Steps wear in their videos.
“Hi!” she beamed. “Can I help you?” As they approached, Flint noticed that she smelled overpoweringly of strawberries.
“Yes,” said Ana, “we’re here to see Ed Tewkesbury.”
“And do you have an appointment?”
“Uh-huh. He said to meet him here at twelve. At noon. Midday.”
All three of them turned their eyes toward a large chrome clock on the wall to the left. It was dead on twelve. And noon. And midday.
“I’ll just try him for you. Who shall I say is here?”
“Ana Wills and Flint Lennard. Thank you.”
Flint and Ana both stood smiling at her as she tapped numbers into her switchboard. “Hi, Shona, it’s Amber here, I’ve got an Ana Flint and a Leonard Wills here to see Ed. Cool. Cool. Cool. Uh-huh. Cool. OK.”
“Hi,” she beamed again, “Ed’s just fin
ishing up a meeting. He’ll only be five minutes. Would you like to take a seat?” She pointed behind them at a denim-covered sofa with contrast stitching and rivets and huge pockets on the arms. Trade magazines were spread in a fan on a glass-brick table. Flint picked up a copy of Broadcast and started flicking briskly through it. He didn’t like offices. They made him feel uncomfortable. He’d never had to work in an office in his life, apart from one week—well, three and a half days actually—on a youth training scheme when he was sixteen, working at a firm of accountants in Palmers Green. He’d had to wear a suit that belonged to his cousin Paul. Paul was a slight boy at least four inches shorter than Flint and with a habit of letting his cuffs trail in his food judging by the encrustations that Flint had had to scrape off with a knife before he could even contemplate putting on the jacket. Unable to stomach the prospect of wearing Paul’s stinky nylon shirt, too, Flint had worn one of his own frayed-cuff school shirts, and his mother had tried to tame his tufty mullet coif with some of his dad’s old Brylcreem from a tin that had been rusting in the bathroom for ten years. He’d looked like a complete clown and had been treated accordingly, particularly by the snobbish secretaries with the frilly-collared blouses and stiff hair. They’d made him stick stamps on envelopes and clean the fridge and take things to the post office every five minutes and make them tea in their prissy little cups and saucers, and he’d hated every second of it. He’d thrown a box of PG Tips—loose, not bags—all over the desk of one of the secretaries, called her a “fucking balloon-faced old trout” and stormed out when she’d chastised him for taking a personal phone call, and as he’d walked out of the musty-smelling building and into the fresh, crisp air of a January afternoon, he’d felt like the guy in Midnight Express. He’d joined the army the same day.
“Hi.” An anorexic-looking woman in turquoise pedal pushers and a black knitted halter top was standing in front of them with one skeletal little bird hand clutching a folder. There was a big cold sore on her lip. “I’m Shona, Ed’s PA. He’s ready to see you now—would you like to follow me?”