by Lisa Jewell
Flint and Ana both stood up and smiled at Shona and then at each other. This was it. They didn’t talk as they made their way behind the upsettingly thin figure of Shona, down a muted corridor. She knocked on a pair of double doors at the farthest end and a brusque male voice said, “Come.”
It was a huge office with windows on both sides, one set overlooking the street below and the other a fire-escaped courtyard. They looked around them, absorbing the heavy limestone linen curtains, the biscuity calfskin sofas, the custom-made galvanized steel chandelier, the five-foot pewter candlesticks, and the screen-printed canvases. It looked more like the bachelor penthouse of an over-bonused city boy than an office.
“Hi, Ana, nice to meet you.” A small man emerged from a booth in the corner of the office, smiling minimally. He was slim and well dressed, with cropped white hair and wire-framed glasses.
He was the man in Bee’s India photographs.
“Ed Tewkesbury.”
“Hi,” said Ana, turning to catch Flint’s eye, “this is Flint Lennard—he was a very good friend of Bee’s.”
“Hi,” he said grimly, slipping an insubstantial little hand inside Flint’s large paw. “Nice to meet you, Flint.” Flint looked down at him. He didn’t like him. He let his hand drop and put it in his pocket.
“So,” said Ed, clasping his hands together and trying to look relaxed, “a drink? Tea? Coffee?”
They both shook their heads. “Are you sure? No? OK. I’ll have a tea please, Shona—jasmine. Thanks.” Shona left the room and Ed turned and smiled his painful smile at Flint and Ana.
“So,” he began, “you’re Bee’s sister, are you?”
Ana nodded and perched herself uncertainly on the edge of the calfskin sofa.
“I’m really, really sorry about what happened.”
“So you heard, then?”
“Yup. There was a bit in the Times. I was shocked. Absolutely shocked. When you meet someone as alive as Bee, you just can’t even contemplate something like that happening. It’s tragic.”
Ana nodded again. There was a short silence. Ed sat down in his chair ostentatiously. “So. I have to admit to being rather curious about your phone call. It was all very mysterious. What can I do for you exactly?” He was still smiling that awful fake smile, and it was blatantly obvious that underneath the smooth exterior, he was absolutely shitting himself.
Flint opened his mouth to say something, but Ana had already started talking. He turned to watch her. Her ears were protruding from her straight black hair like little white handles. They were slightly sticky-outy. They were unbelievably cute.
“Well,” she began, “the thing is, we found Bee’s mobile phone at her cottage in Broadstairs . . .”
“I see.”
“Did you know,” asked Ana in surprise, “that she had a cottage in Broadstairs?”
He puffed and smiled again. “Well, yes, she did mention it. I think. . . .”
“And we went through her directory—and yours were the only two numbers we didn’t recognize.”
He suddenly stiffened. “How did you know that it was my number in Highgate?”
Ana shrugged and looked at Flint.
“We recognized the area code,” he said.
“Ah. I see. OK.”
“So what was your connection? With Bee?”
“Well,” said Ed, stretching out on his leather chair, “my connection with Bee was rather—er—tenuous, you might say. I don’t think I’m going to be of much assistance.”
“So,” said Flint, losing his patience now, “how did you know her?”
“On a purely professional basis. We were working on a series of nostalgia shows for a big network—you know—the hits and TV shows and ads from a certain year. We approached Bee to appear in the 1985 program. She declined. I took her out for lunch to try to persuade her. And, well—if I’m to be entirely honest, because I really wanted to meet her. I’d had an almighty crush on her when I was younger, you see. So I took her out for lunch and she said, Absolutely no way. The past was the past, she said, and that’s where she wanted to leave it. I got the impression she wasn’t particularly proud of her pop heritage. She struck me as someone who liked to look forward rather than back. So we parted company there and off she went. We made our nostalgia series without her.
“But then in January we were approached by a cable company to produce a similar series—but less documentary-style this time, and more MTV-video-jock style, and it occurred to me that Bee would make a fantastic presenter. She was a beautiful woman and so charismatic. It surprised me that someone hadn’t already asked her. So I phoned her and couldn’t get through on her mobile. I phoned a number of times during those few days. Really frustrating. You know—we had a deadline, we had to get the project off the ground, and I needed confirmation from Bee that she was interested. But I never managed to get in touch. And, you know, she didn’t have an agent or anything. So I had to leave it. Go with someone else. And the next thing I heard of Bee was that she’d . . . died.” He held out his hands helplessly.
Flint looked at him, his eyes slanted with anger. He’d known it. With every fiber of his body. From the first moment he’d set eyes on that photograph of him yesterday morning, he’d known he was a slimy bastard. And now he’d proved it. Lying. He was lying. Flint’s hand went to the buckle of Ana’s knapsack, where the packet of photos was currently residing. Ana’s eyes darted to his hand and then to his eyes. She nodded imperceptibly.
“So,” began Ana, looking Ed squarely in the eye, “you’ve only actually met Bee once?”
“Unfortunately for me—yes.” His eyes darted away from hers, and he focused on Shona, who’d just walked back in with a big yellow mug full of steaming jasmine tea. “Ah, Shona, wonderful. Thank you. Yes—just the once, though as I say, I’d rather I’d known her better.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t more to your relationship?” asked Ana, watching Flint slip the photos from her bag.
“Absolutely,” he grimaced, taking a big slurp of tea far too quickly and burning his mouth in the process. “Ow, shit,” he hissed, letting the mug clank heavily onto his desk and covering his lips with a hand.
“So, it’s quite strange, then, wouldn’t you say, that you appear to have been on holiday with her? To India?” Flint got to his feet and let the photos fall on the desk in front of Ed. Flint watched Ed closely, could almost see the various options running through his mind until, eventually, his face slumped with the realization that there was nothing he could say to negate the fact that he’d been lying.
“Aaah,” he said finally, picking up the picture of himself and looking at it. “I see.”
“OK,” said Flint, going back to the sofa, “can we start this conversation again, please?”
Ed sighed and let his face fall onto his fist. “It was her idea,” he began. “She insisted on keeping the whole thing secret. I wanted to go public months earlier, but she wouldn’t let me. If there was one thing you could say about Bee, it was that she liked to keep her life compartmentalized.”
“So,” said Ana impatiently, “what was going on?”
“Well—we were. We were going on. But I was—am—married. That’s why I was so cagey when I spoke to you yesterday. My wife was standing right next to me. And I would have left her—Tina—I was prepared to leave her from the minute I met Bee, but she kept putting me off, she wouldn’t let me.”
“How long?” said Ana. “How long did you two . . . ?”
Ed sighed, opened a drawer, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered them around, lit one, exhaled. “Three years.”
“Three years?” said Flint incredulously.
“Uh-huh.”
“So you were together? When she lived in Belsize Park?”
“Yup. I paid the rent on that place, in fact.”
“Really?”
“Yes—well, I spent a lot of time there and she was always short of cash so . . . you kn
ow, it wasn’t like I was paying her or anything. It was just a practical arrangement.”
“Is that why she moved out?”
Ed shrugged. “I don’t know. The money probably. And maybe she was looking for some kind of fresh start. Or something . . .”
“And how did you meet?”
“Well, that’s the thing, you see. That’s the thing . . .”
“What thing?” asked Ana impatiently.
“The way we met—it’s got everything to do with why she wouldn’t let me into her life, why she wouldn’t let me leave my wife.”
“What was it?”
Ed shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, “I can’t tell you. I always swore to Bee, swore I’d never tell anyone. I can’t . . .”
Flint felt himself running out of patience—and he was a very patient man. He got to his feet again. “Listen,” he said, using his bulk rather than raising his voice to intimidate Ed, “Bee’s dead. And we’ve got no idea why. And you seem to know a whole load of shit about her life that even her closest friends and family”—he nodded toward Ana—“didn’t know about. If you’ve got any respect for us and for Bee, you’ll tell us what you know.”
Ed shook his head and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. “No,” he said simply, “I can’t. I made her a promise.”
“Did it have something to do with you? Bee’s death? Huh?” Flint could feel a rage building and tried to swallow it. He felt a hand on his bare arm. It was Ana.
“Look,” she began soothingly, addressing Ed, “has this got anything to do with Zander?”
Ed started. “What?” he said. “You know? You know about Zander?”
Flint heard Ana breathe in. “Uh-huh, yeah—we know about Zander.”
Flint had stopped breathing. Brilliant, he thought to himself admiringly, what a brilliant maneuver.
“Well, then you don’t need me to tell you anything else, do you?” There was sweat rolling down Ed’s temples and along his jawline. He was finding this whole experience deeply stressful.
Flint looked at Ana. “Well, yes—we do actually. Like how can we find him? How can we get to talk to him?”
“No,” said Ed bluntly, “no way. I only ever met him once. Her son was her own affair, and she hated the idea of anyone else having anything to do with him. So, no—leave well alone. Trust me. Zander’s a difficult boy—very angry, very . . . cruel. He wouldn’t take kindly to being unearthed. And he’s fine where he is. Leave him alone. Really. Trust me . . .”
Flint sat down. Ana looked at him and then back at Ed. “Bee didn’t have a son,” she said.
“Try telling that to Zander,” sighed Ed.
“No—but really—she didn’t.”
“Look—you’ve just told me that you knew next to nothing about your sister. So take it from me. She had a son. His name is Zander. He’s fourteen.”
“No no no,” said Flint, getting to his feet, “that’s bollocks. That is such bollocks. I’ve known Bee for more than fifteen years. I’ve known her, see, and she was never pregnant. Ever.” Flint was starting to sweat now, as he began to doubt his own recollection of the major life events of his closest friends.
Ed shrugged. “What can I say? She had a son. I met him once. He existed. Sometimes it’s impossible to know everything about your friends.”
“Yes, but—there’s secrets and then there’s going around with a fucking great lump in your frock for nine months. I mean—Bee was only tiny—I’d have noticed.”
“Maybe she went away? Maybe she had her baby somewhere else?”
“No,” said Flint, “no, because she never went anywhere. Never went anywhere for longer than a couple of weeks and no—because that was 1986, see, and 1986 was the year that . . . well . . . No way—there’s no way . . .”
Ed shrugged again and sighed, and Flint wanted to hit him. How could this small, smug man, sitting here in his poncey handbag of an office, this little weasel who’d known Bee for, like, two seconds, possibly think he had anything to say on the subject of Bee Bearhorn? And particularly on the subject of Bee Bearhorn circa 1986, which Flint happened to know had been the worst year of Bee’s life and a year in which they had been almost inseparable.
Ana put her hand on his arm again. Soft, fluttery hands. “What happened to him—to Zander?” she asked Ed. “Why was he disabled?”
Ed shrugged. “Just came out that way, I suppose. He was in a home from birth, as far as I know. Bee regained contact only three years ago. Around the time that I met her.”
“And where did you meet her, exactly?”
“At the children’s home. Where Zander was living. I was there making a documentary, and she was visiting Zander. That was when I met him—the only time I met him. Look,” he said, “I’m not going to tell you where to find him, but I’ll tell you everything else. About Bee. And Zander. Everything I know. OK?”
Ana glanced at Flint and then nodded. “Sure,” she said, “OK.”
Ed sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s get some lunch. Japanese all right?”
twenty-two
June 1997
Bee parked her bike and dismounted. She pulled a bag from the basket on the back and walked toward the house. It was a beautiful place, turreted and gargoyled and slightly enchanted-looking. She crunched uncertainly across the gravel driveway to the front entrance.
“Good morning,” she said to the blue-uniformed nurse at the reception desk, “my name’s Belinda Wills. I have an appointment with Dr. Chan. About Alexander Roper.”
The nurse smiled. “Yes, certainly. Do take a seat.” She indicated a row of plastic chairs behind her.
“Actually,” said Bee, “I was hoping I could get changed first. You know. Get out of these leathers. I don’t want to frighten him, or anything.” She laughed nervously and the nurse smiled and pointed her toward the ladies’ room.
Once in there, Bee started feeling sick with nerves. What was she doing? What in the name of God was she actually doing? This was a ridiculous idea. Bee had had some ridiculous ideas in her time, done some foolish and ill-advised things, but this really took the double-chunky-chocolate-chip stupid cake. Her heart raced and her hands shook as she tried to unzip her leathers.
“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, “fuck.”
She finally managed to slip out of them and then fiddled around in the bag she’d brought with her for her “Belinda Wills” outfit. Tailored black trousers, gray turtleneck jumper, flat lace-up shoes. She grimaced at them. Flat shoes—she hated flat shoes. They made her look like a pygmy. And turtlenecks—yuck. She looked mono-bosomed in a turtleneck, like a little boy with a giant Swiss Roll stuck up his jumper. She put on the hateful clothes and then tried to do something with her hair, something to make her look less like a coke-sniffing advertising executive and more like the schoolteacher she was claiming to be. She combed it till it went limp and then slicked on a bit of pearly lipstick. Her eyes, without the thick black eyeliner she normally wore, looked like two currants pushed into the white dough of her unfoundationed, unblushered face. Yuck yuck yuck. Still—she wasn’t there to be admired, she was there to be accepted and this was the only way. The only way.
Bee took a very deep breath and looked in the mirror at Belinda Wills one more time before tucking her hair behind her ears and going back to the reception desk.
Dr. Chan was a tiny woman, smaller even than Bee. She had short black hair and was wearing glasses. She also had a large mole on her cheek with one wiry hair growing out of it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wills.”
“Dr. Chan. Thank you for seeing me. And do call me Belinda.” She oozed a smile and squeezed the doctor’s hand.
Dr. Chan’s office looked out over a gorgeous rolling, landscaped garden, dotted with nurses and children playing, some in wheelchairs, some with sticks, and some running around freely.
“This is a lovely place,” said Bee.
Dr.
Chan looked behind her and nodded. “It’s certainly the nicest place I’ve ever worked. So. How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” admitted Bee with a grimace.
“I’m sure you are. Now—I know you’ve already spoken at great length about Zander’s problems to Dr. Whitaker.”
“Zander?”
“Yes. That’s what he likes to be known as.”
“Oh,” said Bee, “right.”
“He’s a very depressed, very angry child. He has his reasons, obviously, but don’t let his woe-is-me victim persona make you think that he hasn’t had his fair share of attention. He’s a nice-looking boy and he’s highly intelligent. Many, many couples have expressed an interest in adopting him since his grandmother passed away, but he’s refused every opportunity to make a life for himself outside this hospital. Potential adopters have either, according to Zander, been too fat, too stupid, too ugly, too quiet, too old, too young. He doesn’t want to live in Oxfordshire, in Cheshire, in London, in York. He doesn’t like their other children, he doesn’t like their furniture, he doesn’t like their dog. Any excuse, any reason. So don’t feel too sorry for him. There are an awful lot of people in this hospital and outside this hospital who’ve done more for Zander over the years than could ever be reasonably expected.
“And you mustn’t think for a minute that he sees your visit as exciting or even vaguely interesting, come to that. So don’t expect an emotional meeting. He’ll probably do his best to ignore you. He’ll attempt to undermine you intellectually. He’ll want to test you, to see how far he can push you, possibly even humiliate you, OK?”
Bee nodded.
“Are you sure, Belinda? Are you sure you want to do this?”
Bee nodded again. And then shook her head. And then laughed. “Sorry,” she puffed, “it’s just very frightening.”
“Yes,” said Dr. Chan, “it is. But if I didn’t truly believe that there was some potential for a positive outcome, I would never have allowed this to happen. You’re going to have to persevere. If you’re going to do this, you need to be committed to going all the way. Yes?”