one-hit wonder

by Lisa Jewell

  “I just came to see you. I didn’t have a phone number for you and I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  Amy’s face pinkened with pleasure. “Really,” she said, “you wanted to talk to me?”

  “Yes. I’ve . . .”

  Amy put out a hand to stop her. “Tea,” she said, “let me get some tea first. Then we can have a nice chat.”

  Ana curled herself up in a ball on the floor and talked to John while Amy rattled around in the kitchen. He was more relaxed now and rolled over onto his back and mewed at her. “What?” said Ana. “What d’you want?” She put a hand on his big fluffy tummy and rubbed it. And then he straightened himself out and gave himself a quick hard scratch behind the ears before climbing up on Ana’s lap and settling himself down for a snooze. Ana picked him up gently and took him to the sofa. She sniffed the top of his head while she carried him. He smelled of fresh air.

  “Good Lord,” said Amy, coming back into the room with a tea tray, “will you look at that? He’s barely moved from that corner since I brought him back from the vet, and now look at him. He must sense it,” she said, “sense your relationship to Bee. Milk? Sugar?”

  Ana rubbed John’s neck and chin as Amy poured tea, and he purred loud and hard. “So‌—what can I do for you?” She passed Ana a minuscule teacup of bone china so thin it felt like fiberglass.

  “Well, we’ve had the coroner’s report back on Bee, and it’s official, I’m afraid. Suicide.”

  Amy gasped and clutched her chest.

  “And we‌—me and Bee’s friend‌—well, we’ve found out why. Something really traumatic happened to her‌—about fifteen years ago.”

  “Traumatic?”

  “Yes. I’d rather not say what it was, but it explains everything. And the thing is, now that everything’s final, I just really wanted to do something. Something special for Bee. And I know she’d think that she didn’t deserve it. But it seems that everyone else‌—even those she hurt‌—feels she deserves it. So I wanted to organize a wake. A funeral. For Bee. You know, a proper funeral, with music and people and wine and tears. Because, did you know, there were only three people at her real funeral? Three.”

  “How awful.”

  “Isn’t it? So. Would you come? If I organized it?”

  “What a good idea. Of course I’d come. Will there be lots of young men there, d’you think?”

  Ana smiled at her. “Yeah,” she said, “actually there probably will be.”

  “Well then‌—count me in. What are you planning?”

  “I’m not sure really‌—I was hoping that maybe you could give me some advice? You must have been to loads of funerals. Oh‌—sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

  “Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Ana. You’re right. I’ve been to more funerals than I’d like to consider. And they’re all different, you know. Each one unique. But Bee‌—well, hers would be something very special. Very special indeed.”

  They chatted until early afternoon, when Ana looked at her watch and realized it was time to go if she was going to get anything done that day. She gently heaved the still-slumbering John from her lap and let him flop onto the sofa, where he stretched himself out, made a funny little noise, and then slipped back into sleep. “What are we going to do about him?” Ana asked.

  “Well,” said Amy, smiling brightly, “don’t you think that John might be rather happy in Devon? Maybe you could adopt him, take him back home?”

  Ana’s face fell. The thought of home just made her want to give up living altogether. Made her break out in a cold sweat. Made her‌—oh my God‌—made her feel exactly how Bee had always said she felt about going back home after she had come to live in London. She gulped and shook her head. “Well,” she said, “I haven’t really decided anything yet. Would it be all right just to leave him with you until the funeral, until I can decide what I’m going to do?”

  Amy looked at her playfully. “You’ve no intention of going home, have you?”

  Ana looked startled. “Of course I have,” she began, “I just . . .”

  “Oh come on now, you can’t fool me. I can tell you’ve given your heart to this city, haven’t you? You’re not going home now. You’ve come too far.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, last time I saw you you were on a day trip. You had that mentality. All dressed up in your sister’s clothes. Drinking champagne. Playing out a role. But now you’re a person in your own right, aren’t you?”

  Ana’s stomach flipped over and a blush crept up her face. Amy was right. She was a person in her own right. For the first time in her life, Ana felt as if she had an identity. Her own identity. Nothing to do with her mum or Bee or Hugh. But to do with her. Ana Wills. She beamed at Amy and got to her feet.

  “Well,” said Amy, heading toward the front door, “I really hope you’ll be able to persuade your poor mother to conquer her terrible fears and make it to the funeral. It would be a tragedy if she missed it. And you know, I think it would be more harmful for her in the long run if she didn’t make the trip.” She looked poignantly at Ana.

  Ana felt her breath catch. She hadn’t even considered her mother. But Amy was right. She couldn’t plan an event like this without trying her hardest to get her mother to attend. It was another chapter in Bee’s damaged life story that needed closing. She nodded. “I’m going to see what I can do,” she said.

  Amy smiled. “Good,” she said, “that’s very good. Now. You’ve got my telephone number. Just call if you need anything. And I have yours and will be in touch. Say good-bye to your auntie Ana, John.” She turned to address the snoozing cat, who flicked his tail at her. She smiled. “I must admit, I’m not really much of a one for cats. But he really is a particular delight, isn’t he?”

  They both turned then and regarded the cat, who studiously ignored them. And then Amy unlocked her many locks and unchained her many chains, and Ana kissed her on her floury cheek before heading back home to complete the next part of her plans.

  forty-one

  “I want to come with you.”

  “What?”

  “To Devon. Let me come with you. I can drive you there. And I’m good with mothers.”

  Ana’s breath caught. The thought of going back to Devon was worrying enough, but going back with a man? It was close to unthinkable. “Honestly, Flint. I’ll be fine.”

  “But honestly, Ana‌—I insist.” He smiled at her and twisted her hand over into an armlock.

  “Are you threatening me with physical violence?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Are you being a big, fat bully?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he said, “I’m really scared that if you go home on your own, your mother will persuade you that you’re a pointless piece of pond scum again and that you’ll lock yourself in your bedroom and never come back.”

  “And who’s to say that I don’t want to lock myself in my bedroom, eh? Maybe I was happy being pond scum?” She smiled and grabbed hold of his arm and began twisting it.

  “Well, if that’s the case, then you can get the train. But I know it’s not the case. And I know you’re really scared about going home. And I know that, actually, you’ll feel much better about the whole thing if I’m there with you. And besides, I’ve always wanted to have a little chat with your mother. . . .”

  “But what about work? Surely you’ll be too busy. . . .”

  Flint shrugged and let go of Ana’s arm. “I’ve got another airport run tomorrow morning, but I’ll be finished by midday. We’ll be in Devon by teatime. Oooh,” he said, smiling, “d’you think your mum will make tea for us?”

  Ana traced a fingertip over the smooth skin on the underside of Flint’s arm and smiled. “Yes. Without a doubt.”

  “Well then‌—I’m coming whether you like it or not.”

  Ana smiled at him. “What‌—again?” She got to her knees and straddled him.

  He
grinned at her lopsidedly and put his hands on her naked hips. “Yeah,” he said, “again. And whether you like it or not.”

  As they pulled up to Gay’s house, Flint felt a shiver go through him. For so many years, ever since he’d first met Bee, the concept of the house on Main Street had had this mythical, almost Amityville quality about it. The house where Bee had been miserable. The house where soft furnishings were treated with more respect than children and husbands. The House Where Gay Lived. In his mind’s eye it had yellowish windows, a full moon hanging above it, and a wooden gate that creaked back and forth in a perpetual ghostly wind. In his mind’s eye it was 25 Cromwell Street meets the House That Bled to Death. In reality, it was a very smart, flat-fronted townhouse with a shiny red door, sash windows framing expensive-looking swagged curtains, and window boxes full of tumbling ivy and tiny topiaries.

  “You all right?” He turned to Ana and squeezed her hand.

  She exhaled and nodded. “I can’t believe it’s been only a week,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been away forever.”

  He squeezed her hand again. “Ready?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Flint straightened his tie‌—he was still wearing his chauffeur’s uniform‌—and helped Ana out of the car. A middle-aged couple strolling past eating chips eyed them up and down with unashamed curiosity. “Hello, Anabella,” they said.

  “Hello, Anne, hello, Roy,” said Ana, hitting them with an impressively fake smile.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “Oh‌—she’s not too bad. I think.”

  They tutted and shook their heads. “That poor, poor woman,” said Anne.

  “She’s in our prayers, Anabella. Do tell her,” said Roy.

  Ana nodded at them, and they nodded at her and looked at Flint before going on their way, leaving an aroma of cooking oil and vinegar in their wake.

  “Christians,” Ana whispered in Flint’s ear.

  Flint nodded.

  It took a while for Gay to come to the door, but eventually they heard the sound of locks being opened and then, a few seconds later, Gay’s face appeared through a crack in the door.

  “Yes.”

  “Mum‌—it’s me.”

  “Who?”

  “Ana. Anabella.”

  The crack in the door opened a bit wider. “Oh.”

  Gay looked smaller than Flint remembered, and much older. But she still had all that jet-black hair pinned haphazardly all over her head and those soulful lilac eyes lined with smudged black kohl.

  “And who’s this?”

  “This is Flint, Mum‌—he’s a friend of Bee’s.”

  Flint prodded her in the waist.

  “And of mine,” she smiled.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wills‌—we’ve met, actually, once before. . . .”

  Gay stared at him intently and interrupted him. “You’re very tall. You remind me of Gregor. Come in.”

  She hurried them in and pulled the door closed behind them very loudly and very quickly. Flint noticed that she was having trouble catching her breath. She headed straight for the living room and collapsed on the sofa, with one tiny hand clutching her chest.

  “So,” she said, turning to Ana, “how nice of you to come home, finally. Can you imagine? Can you even begin to imagine what I’ve been going through for the last week? Can you?” Her voice was quavering and weak.

  “Yes. I can actually. I can imagine every last horrific second of it.”

  Gay looked thrown. “Well then‌—why? Why did you do this to me?”

  “Because I hate you, that’s why. Because I wanted you to starve to death.”

  “Oh Anabella, you know I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

  “Who said I was being sarcastic?” Ana murmured under her breath.

  Flint still hadn’t been invited to sit down, so he hovered hopefully in the background, waiting for someone to suggest a cup of tea and maybe a scone or two.

  “So‌—Hugh tells me you’ve been living with a pair of lesbians?”

  Ana laughed out loud and Flint stifled a grin. “Sorry?” she said bemusedly.

  “He says you’re living in a very small house with two lesbians. In a ghetto.”

  “A ghetto?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t at all impressed by the locale. He said it was very dirty and very menacing and there were large numbers of black people. Everywhere, apparently.”

  Ana raised her eyebrows and dropped her knapsack on a sofa. “Mum,” she said with her hands on her hips, “you are horrendous. And I can absolutely assure you that neither Gill nor Di is even vaguely lesbian. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  Gay clutched her heart. “Please, Ana,” she wheezed, “my nerves. Please don’t exacerbate my nerves.” She pulled herself to her feet. “I’ll make some tea.”

  She eyed Flint up and down as she passed him, as if she’d only just realized he was there. She smiled. “Oh, how rude of me. Sit down, Clint. Please.” She patted a cushion and Flint saw her pull in her stomach and push her shoulders back. She put a hand to her hair before making her way elegantly toward the kitchen. Flint and Ana looked at each other and flopped onto a sofa.

  “Isn’t she vile?” said Ana.

  Flint shrugged. “She’s ill, Ana. Give her some slack.”

  Ana shrugged. “Just because she’s already flirting with you. She’s a man’s woman, you see. Just like Bee.”

  “Women don’t like men’s women, do they?”

  Ana shook her head. “They’re the worst.”

  “Do you like Earl Grey, Clint?” Gay chimed girlishly from the kitchen.

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Wills. Thank you.”

  “Please, call me Gay.”

  She emerged a minute later carrying a tray laden with scones, clotted cream, jam, slim mugs, an antique teapot with gold flowers painted on it, linen napkins, crested silver cutlery, and a small saucer of Belgian truffles.

  “Where d’you get this lot?” asked Ana accusingly.

  “Well, darling, you didn’t expect me just to sit here like Miss Havisham, growing cobwebs and starving to death while you gallivanted around London, did you?”

  “Yes‌—I did actually. The way you carry on . . .”

  “Mr. Redwood has been his usual indispensable, chivalrous self and has been shopping for me every day.”

  Flint threw Ana an “I-told-you-so” look.

  “But of course, I can’t depend on his generosity forever. It’s the responsibility of the family, really, isn’t it, when someone is unwell?”

  “Yes, Mum, that’s right. Like we were there for Bee when she needed us. When she was ill.”

  “Ill?” Gay suspended the teapot over a strainer.

  “Yes. Ill. Depressed. Suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. For years. And where were we?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake‌—Bee wasn’t depressed. What on earth would she have had to be depressed about? She had everything, everything that a woman could possibly dream of.”

  “Like what?”

  “Talent. Looks. Money. The adoration of strangers.”

  “She had looks, Mum. She had money. She had absolutely nothing else. Take it from me. I’ve seen her life. Why d’you think she killed herself?”

  Gay flinched.

  “Mum‌—why didn’t you tell me the real reason that you fell out with Bee? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gay slid a scone onto a plate and passed it to Flint.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Stop being so obtuse.” Ana pointed at Flint. “Do you think I haven’t been talking to people who were at Gregor’s funeral? People who heard the way you spoke to Gregor’s friend?”

  “A complete overreaction,” she sniffed, “ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Bloody poofs . . .” She trailed off and turned her mouth down into a sourpuss frown.

  “Mum‌—you accused Gregor’s friends of killing him. At his funeral. How can you say that they were overreacting?”

 
“Well. I was grieving. I was in shock. Belinda still had no right to throw me out like that. Humiliate me in front of everyone.”

  “Gay,” began Flint trepidatiously, “er‌—I was there. And I have to say that I don’t think that Bee overreacted in the slightest. I think you deserved to be humiliated, quite frankly.”

  Gay’s face rearranged itself dramatically from brow-beaten frown to icy shock before rapidly reassembling itself into a mask of feminine delight. She smiled at him. “What do you mean, you were there?”

  “I mean, I was at Gregor’s funeral. I saw everything.”

  “But how? Who on earth invited you?”

  “Bee did. Bee invited me.”

  “Well‌—I can’t think why.”

  “I was her friend, Gay.”

  “Really,” she beamed, her voice laden with innuendo. “Well, Clint. I’m sure you were Belinda’s friend, but, and please don’t think me rude to say so, but this is a family affair, as it were, and if you don’t mind . . .”

  Flint had long suffered from an innate compulsion to speak the truth when he felt that others were avoiding it. This trait had gotten him into trouble on more than a few occasions, but it still didn’t stop him. Flint attributed half the world’s problems to pleasant people pussyfooting around unpleasant people. And looking at Gay now, he saw a woman who’d been spoiled rotten all her life, who’d been refused nothing, who’d been pampered and preened and protected from the truth at all costs. Flint remembered Bee explaining to him why she hadn’t gone to Bill’s funeral‌—because she was scared she’d speak the truth. Flint had tried to reason with her at the time, but Bee had told him he was wrong, now wasn’t the time‌—not while her mother was grieving. And meanwhile, Gay had been allowed to spend another year spreading poison, damaging her children, and becoming more and more unhappy. He took a deep breath and moved in toward Gay, establishing a firm line of eye contact with her and taking one of her cold, bony hands in his own. She looked shocked.

  “Gay,” he said in a measured, soothing voice, “I knew Bee for fifteen years. That’s longer than I’ve known anyone I’m not related to. And in a way, she was family. So in a way, so is Ana and so are you. And I know there were lots of things that Bee wanted to say to you over the years. But she was too scared to say them. Well‌—I’m not scared, Gay. So I’m going to say them to you.