by Louise Beech
‘I love you,’ I whispered into his ear.
I did. No matter what.
‘I adore you,’ Tom whispered back.
Did he? No matter what?
‘I do,’ he whispered, as though hearing my fears.
9
ELIZABETH
THEN
I sometimes think I should have let someone else take Stella – right from the start.
I was cruel to commit half-heartedly to being a mother. She deserved much more. She deserved a hundred percent from someone. Plenty of couples can’t have children. They would have loved my curious, wilful, opinionated girl. They’d have enjoyed reading her the same book over and over because she loved the abstract pictures and the happy ending. They’d have relished her describing the minute details of her day. They’d not have needed to paint their lips red and wear ever more revealing clothes to lure men to bed, just so they could cope with the mundane daily tasks.
The whole time I brought her up, I think I was waiting for an excuse to leave Stella. One that would take me away, somehow, somewhere, but without any guilt.
When she was twelve it came.
That morning, Stella was at school. For once I’d got up when she did. But she left after we’d argued. She said she hated high school. Said she missed junior school, the gentleness of those days. That’s exactly how she said it. Always one for words, my Stella. I said she’d get used to it, that life was a series of different things that we got used to. She stormed out in a flurry of school bags and the long, tasselled scarf she had taken from my dresser.
I watched her flounce down the path. So young and vibrant. So unlike me, tired at thirty-two, smoking thirty a day, still clubbing when I had the energy, trying to hide crow’s feet and bags with make-up, and working my way through men who now hardly ever bought me perfume.
Frumpy Sandra was pulling her wheelie bin out and made time, as she always did, to chat to Stella for a moment. Stella’s face broke into a natural smile. A pang of jealousy gripped me despite my wish to escape. I didn’t know then that it was the last time I’d see my daughter for fourteen years. If I had, I might have gone after her. Hugged her. Pushed her hair out of her face. Said sorry. Taken a photo of her with the good camera to keep the moment forever.
The post brought a letter.
Though I had never seen his handwriting, I knew it was from him. Just holding the envelope, electricity pulsed along my fingers. It was the first I’d heard from him since before she was born. I must have stood with it in my hands for five minutes before I finally opened it and read the words – fast the first time; savouring them the second. He wanted me. He had never stopped thinking about me. I was all he’d thought about for the last thirteen years. I don’t know how he’d found my address, but I didn’t care.
He wanted me.
But just me.
Because he didn’t know about Stella.
I had worried that if he found out about her, he might disown us both. Though he had never given any indications that he felt that way – if anything he had once said a daughter might be nice – when I had found out I was pregnant I had worried he might not be interested in the dull aspects of life as a parent; in a needy and demanding child. I decided that I would rather let him go; that I would rather cherish the memory of our divine passion than share it with anyone.
But I had an even greater fear: if I told him about Stella, he might love her more than he did me.
Now I had to go to him. Alone. This was my excuse. This was the escape I’d been waiting for. If I went I would be my nineteen-year-old self again. I’d be free. I’d be vivacious. I’d be where I was meant to be, with the one I’d never been able to forget. It didn’t matter who he was or what he’d done, only that he was my soul-mate.
It didn’t take long to fill two bags. I only packed my good clothes, my classy underwear. Then there wasn’t much else to do. Book a taxi. Buy a train ticket at the station. When you rent a house, there are no ties. My tenancy was due to run out in three weeks anyway. Usually I renewed it with a fresh signature. This time, the landlord would simply realise I’d gone and find new occupants. And a part-time job can be ended over the phone. I’d make that call when I got there.
Daughters are a little harder to desert.
I cried; I did. I pictured her coming home from school, her head full of some story, and I felt terrible. Would she simply think I was out late, and that I’d return in the morning, as I often had? How long would it take for her to realise I’d gone for good? Surely it was for the best. My heart had never been here, not really. I think she knew that. She was a sharp kid. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt her, and she’d be glad.
In the end I wrote a note; it wasn’t fair to let her think I might be back.
My Darling Stella,
I know this might come as a bit of a shock and I’m so sorry if it does, but I have had to go. I can’t tell you why or where. But I think you will understand when you grow up. I think you’re too young yet.
You deserve better. Better than me. You always have. You’re a strong girl and I know you’ll be fine. Go next door to Sandra. Show her this. She will take care of you, I know she will. I’ll write when I get settled. I might even be able to come and see you. Yes, I am sure I can do that. Be good, my Stella. I do love you, I just don’t think it’s enough. One day maybe I can tell you why.
Mum x
I left the star perfume on the table next to the letter. I often caught Stella in my drawer, holding it, smelling the fragrance inside. I knew she would like it, and I didn’t need the comfort it gave anymore.
Then I left with my two cases and a photo of Stella taken just after she’d been born. It started raining as I got into the taxi. There was another night, long ago, when rain had sent me into a taxi; into a cab that wasn’t mine. It had been waiting for Stella’s father. Now this one would take me back to him.
I didn’t even look back as we pulled away. Not then, and not for the next fourteen years. I should have written to her. I occasionally started a letter, intending to finish it and put it in the post. But I truly thought that it might upset her. If she had settled with Sandra and was living a life of relative calm, I might disturb all that. Whatever kind of mother I was, I really didn’t wish to cause her any further pain. And anyway, my life was full.
Until now.
Now, I’m trying to put things right.
That’s why I came back to find my Stella. I knew she would no longer be the child I had left. She would be twenty-six. I could hardly imagine it. What would she look like? Had she found a man who loved her? Who was he? Where did she work? What did she do?
I moved back to where we had lived together over half her life ago, not even sure she’d still be in the area.
Then, on my first night in the tiny house I’d rented, I switched on the radio for company, and there she was. I knew her voice right away, before she said her name. I shivered. She had a voice that both lulled and fascinated me. She sounded so confident, so happy.
Somehow, she had learned, in spite of me, to be utterly self-sufficient.
10
STELLA
NOW
I call him The Man Who Knows, in my head – whenever I think of my mysterious caller. But does he know? I think again of the curious note left on the book: Stella, this will tell you everything. Does he know everything? Anyone could ring a radio station, implying they have intimate knowledge of the most serious crime the region has seen in years. Anyone could pretend they witnessed it – invent details so it sounds true.
But why would they?
If The Man Who Knows is a liar, what are his motives? What did he stand to gain? Airtime? I haven’t given him any. Attention? I’ve been blasé with him. But what if he is telling the truth? What if he does know who killed Victoria Valbon?
What should I ask if he calls again?
I’m still standing, staring at my slither of a view, my stars. Just as I went to the window for comfort when I was a child – ima
gining where my mum was but trying to be strong without her – I go to this one to think. Has The Man Who Knows called me because I’m on the radio?
Or are there darker reasons?
And if he did leave the Harland Grey book, that means he somehow got in here.
I realise suddenly that the weather-reader is finishing, so I return to the desk. As I push the slider up I realise I’ve no idea what to say. That fatal silence looms. No music cued. No news. No adverts. Just me.
‘So,’ I say, after what feels like an eternity. ‘You’re all being very shy tonight. Come on now. We all have our secrets. I’ve said I’ll share some of mine, but only if you do too. Let’s have some give and take.’ I say it for The Man Who Knows and imagine him listening, out there, in the dark. ‘There must be things you’ve never shared before,’ I say, my voice low and enticing.
I pause, check the time. Ten forty-five. Almost a third of the way through my show already. Not long until I walk away for good.
‘Shall I tell you something before we go into a song?’ I ask. ‘Okay … I never wear perfume. I love to smell it on other people, but I don’t like it to put it on my own skin.’ I laugh. ‘That’s not very exciting, is it? I’m sure I can think of something saucier, but I’d like to hear from you folks first. You know the number, so get in touch. Now it’s “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi for Gail Shaw in Orchard Park, who says she’s living her life with new vigour after almost choking on a chicken goujon last week…’
I push my chair away from the desk and sigh hard. I’m exhausted suddenly. I imagine getting up and walking away now, abandoning the radio station early, leaving a long silence in my wake. Only half an hour ago I was thinking about shocking my sleepy audience with all the things I never say; now I’m all dried up. I only have two hours left.
I want to end it right.
I’m still not sure what made me hand my notice in. I thought it was boredom. When I was a kid, my mother told me that I should leave a man before he left me. Perhaps my leaving the station is the same: I’m leaving before I’m pushed out. Recalling my mum’s advice makes me think of Tom, of course. I feel a little guilty that I haven’t told him about my resignation. But I like the idea of going home tonight and saying that I want us to pack up and move. Be wild. Reckless.
A sound in the hallway stops my thoughts. A creak?
I frown. Did I imagine it? I move quietly to the studio door, heart thudding.
‘Hello?’ I call.
No response.
A passage from the Harland Grey book comes to me. He was quoted as saying that most films fall flat because lead characters do things no one would ever do in real life. Women go to investigate an intruder without turning on the lights or calling the police first. They’re often scantily clad. Grey said realism was the most important aspect of filmmaking, and what he strived to create.
‘Who’s there?’ I call, trying to sound confident.
In a mainstream movie, I’d now shed my clothes and bounce into the foyer. But this is no film; I go, fully clothed, switching all the lights on.
It’s empty. I look at the table, half expecting another package with a strange note attached. Nothing. I look at the tiny CCTV screen that allows you to see visitors on the other side of the main door. No one.
‘Anyone there?’ I call up the stairs.
I climb the first step.
Out of the corner of my eye I see the studio at the other end of the corridor lighting up blue. I twitch, despite knowing what it is. The phone. I run to get it.
I’ve only a minute until the song ends, so I let the phone ring on while I cue another to get to the reheated news at eleven. My fingers are trembling. The Man Who Knows?
I pick up, heart still hammering. ‘Stella McKeever.’ I realise my voice is barely a rasp.
‘It’s me,’ he says.
I know who me is. ‘Tom,’ I say. His voice thrills me, as always.
‘I was listening in the car.’
‘Oh.’ So he must know I’m leaving. Shit.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ he demands.
I have to think. Get my head together. ‘What? That I don’t wear perfume? You know that.’
He tuts. ‘Why the hell would you give up your show?’
‘I was getting bored.’ I glance at the door, glad all the lights are now on.
‘Bored?’ He’s smoking. I can tell. ‘What is it with you and bored? Everything gets less exciting after time.’
‘Says the man who fucked me while I was unconscious and filmed it.’
Silence from Tom. The next tune starts. I want to turn it right up so I won’t hear any more creaks in the corridor.
‘I love that you’re on the radio,’ Tom says, sulky. ‘I’ve always been so proud to tell people. You love that you are too. Why now? It can’t just be boredom.’
‘Honestly? I don’t know. I feel like … like a fraud.’
‘A fraud?’
‘Like … I’m saying everything and yet I’m saying nothing at all.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘I don’t quite understand it either,’ I admit.
He pauses. ‘Can’t you retract it? Tell them you’ll stay after all.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I say.
‘You don’t know how impressed I was when we met and I found out you were the Stella McKeever I’d heard on the radio.’
‘Are you saying you’ll no longer be impressed with me if I leave?’
‘No,’ he cries. ‘I’m just shocked you’re giving it up when you get the most listeners of all the presenters. You even won that big award last year. Jesus, Stella.’
‘Better to end it on a high.’
‘What will you do instead?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ I pause. ‘I was thinking…’
‘What?’
‘Maybe we could travel? See the world?’
‘Travel?’ He laughs. ‘With what? And I can’t just leave my job, especially if you’re leaving yours. Didn’t you think?’
I concentrate on getting to the news, on fading Madonna’s “Secret” at exactly the right moment so that it goes straight into Stephen Sainty’s reheated bulletin without a gap, bang on the hour. A split second is forever if you miss a beat. I hear Stephen’s familiar voice and relax.
‘Look,’ says Tom. ‘We should talk.’
‘Ooh, about secrets?’ I exaggerate excitement. I don’t feel it though. I’m still spooked. My pulse hasn’t settled. ‘Can I share it on the radio?’
‘No, seriously: you and me, we need to talk.’
‘Do we?’
‘Not on the phone. When you get in tonight.’
Anxiety tightens my chest. He’s going to leave. He got there first. I bored him after all. I played dead and he’s still going to abandon me.
‘Are you still there?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, the word small. ‘Is it because I never told you I was leaving the radio?’
‘It’s … well…’
‘At least tell me we’re okay.’
He doesn’t respond. My heartbeat picks up again.
‘Shit, Tom, you can’t expect me to finish the shift without knowing what it is—’
There’s a sudden movement then, in the corridor. A heavy footstep. I jerk up out of my chair with a gasp, and the phone drops from my hand and clatters onto the desk.
Stephen Sainty is heading for the open studio door, laptop bag in one hand and a cling-film-covered plate of cookies in the other.
Thank God.
Just Stephen.
I didn’t even hear the main door bang. His bulging frog eyes are more prominent than usual; his frizzy hair says he’s angry. He’s like a cartoon character – a villain. His rich voice fills the studio, telling listeners again about the girl in the alley, how there are still no new leads after three weeks.
‘I have to go,’ I tell Tom, and hang up without letting him reply.
I turn to Stephen. ‘You’re early.�
�� I try to keep my tone steady.
‘Why are all the lights on?’ he demands.
We’re supposed to be economical when there’s only one of us.
‘Sorry, I’ll—’
He drops his laptop bag heavily on the desk next to me and perches his reedy frame against the edge, cookies still in hand. ‘Stella, I’m not happy.’
I’d never have guessed, I want to say, but I bite my tongue.
‘I think the secrets theme is getting a bit tacky.’
‘It’s just a bit of fun.’
‘It’s not like you.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to be me tonight.’
‘It might be your last show, but don’t take the station with you. I’ve had a complaint. A lady called Emma emailed me and said yours has always been a classy show, but tonight she turned you off.’
‘What the hell? It’s just a phone-in!’
‘That bit earlier about the wife playing while the husband was away.’ Stephen shakes his head, hair even more wild. ‘It was sleazy, Stella. Who knows what else people will ring you about. You have to be selective.’
‘That’s the only call I’ve had,’ I sigh. ‘A little old lady bitching about her naughty neighbour.’
‘Hmmmm. Well, maybe you won’t get any more.’ He shakes his head. ‘Right, I’ve got stuff to do, so I’ll leave you to it.’ He looks at the cookies, seems to remember they are in his hand. He puts them next to me. ‘I made these for you as a leaving gift. Coffee?’
‘Thanks. And yes, please.’
He leaves to make it, and the news finishes.
‘That was the news with Stephen Sainty,’ I say. ‘You’re listening to me, Stella McKeever. This is WLCR, and you’ve got me for just two more hours, and then it’ll be time for some love with Maeve Lynch. So, go on, make my final show fun. Call me now and tell me everything.’ I smile, knowing Stephen can hear the radio in the kitchen. ‘In the meantime, here’s “Secret Lover” by Atlantic Starr.’