by Louise Beech
Should I have kept my departure to myself and treated this show like any other?
Except it doesn’t feel like it will be.
My phone buzzes. Hoping for Tom, I grab it so fast I knock it from the desk. It’s a text from Late-Night Love Affair presenter, Maeve Lynch.
This is Maeve’s husband Jim. She’s left her phone here. I’ll drop it off later if you think she’ll need it.
I type back to him: Thanks Jim, I’ll ask her when she gets here.
A moment later, my phone lights up again: Isn’t she there yet?
I ask: What do you mean?
The response comes: She left an hour ago.
I frown, look at the words as though they might change. An hour ago? She only lives five minutes up the road from here – so close that she walks. I know her routine well. She usually arrives just before midnight to prep for her one o’clock show. She’s a breath of fresh air; all swinging scarf, intricately detailed blouse, quilted jacket, bright eyes, and hearty Irish accent. Her accent is what the listeners love. What I love.
It’s eleven-thirty, so she must have left home at ten-thirty. Why was she coming in so early?
As though hearing my question, another message from Jim pops up. She was coming in with cakes for your last shift.
I respond: Was she going anywhere else first?
His reply: No. Where else would she go at this time of night?
I’m concerned, but I want to reassure Jim, so I type: Maybe she’s already here and I didn’t hear her. I’ll let you know.
Or have I heard her? Was she the sound I heard earlier? But why didn’t she say hello before going straight upstairs? No. It can’t have been her. She always chats to me.
The song comes to an end, and I have to speak before the adverts. My heart just isn’t in it now. Tom hasn’t responded to my text. Maeve should be here. Stephen Sainty isn’t happy with my show. I’m leaving and I’m not sure now that I should be. What a mess. I’m a mess. I’ve done everything I could to make sure Tom stays with me, but why on earth would he now, after all this?
Somehow, the words come anyway.
‘This is Stella McKeever,’ I say, slow and velvety. It’s so different to my life voice. All the presenters assume air-friendly tones when the world is listening. ‘Don’t go anywhere because we’ve still got plenty of great things coming up. We’ll have “All About Lovin’ You” by Bon Jovi for Ben Groves and his wife Hannah. Then the news at midnight with our very own Stephen Sainty.’
While the adverts run, I dash out into the lobby, shout upstairs for Stephen to come down and then return to the desk.
He saunters into the studio, obviously irritated at the interruption.
‘I’m worried,’ I say. ‘Maeve’s husband, Jim, just messaged – she’s left her phone at home. But apparently she left over an hour ago to come here early.’
‘And she’s not here yet?’
‘Yes. She’s here – look, in the corner.’
Stephen tuts. ‘No need for sarcasm.’
‘It’s not like her,’ I say. ‘Where would she go at this time of night? She was coming straight here because she had cakes for my last shift.’ Sadness swells inside me. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘I don’t like this,’ I add. ‘She should have been here ages ago.’
Stephen nods. ‘And if she doesn’t have her phone, we can’t even contact her. What do you reckon we should do?’
‘Wait. There’s not much else we can do.’
Stephen appears to think of something. ‘Shit. You don’t think…’
‘What?’
‘Well … Victoria Valbon…’
‘No,’ I say more harshly than I intend. ‘That was … a one-off.’
‘But can they be sure? They said personal, but, well…’
‘For God’s sake, Stephen, no one has killed Maeve!’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be dramatic.’
‘If that Chloe who complained about your coldness could see your passion now she’d be pretty happy,’ I say.
‘Stella! This is no joking matter.’
I take the adverts into the song and quickly check my phone for any more messages, feeling bad that I’m looking more keenly for something from Tom than an update from Jim.
Stephen frowns and gently knocks his fist against his pursed lips. Behind him, my thin window is black. No stars. The sky must have clouded over. Doesn’t matter; they’re not bringing any comfort tonight.
‘We have to be practical first,’ Stephen says, avoiding my eyes. ‘What about her show? What if she doesn’t arrive in time to do it?’
I realise that I don’t want to leave until we know where Maeve is. But then I need to see Tom. Need to know what he wants to tell me. I decide I can try to call him.
‘If she’s not here, I’ll do it.’
‘I’m sure she will be.’ Stephen doesn’t sound confident.
‘I’m here, so I’ll stay,’ I insist.
‘Should I go outside and have a quick look?’ he wonders.
‘I don’t think she’s playing hide-and-seek.’
‘For God’s sake.’ He starts to leave the studio. ‘I’ll be back down in fifteen minutes to do the news,’ he says. ‘Let me know if she arrives, okay? Straight away.’
As he speaks I know – somewhere in the dark place within me that has dictated what I do and know all my life – that Maeve won’t be here for her show. Like I knew my mum wouldn’t be back when I was a child, even though I wished and wished for it. And like I knew straight away – when I touched his naked scalp – that Tom was going to mean everything to me.
‘I’m going to have to let her husband know she’s not here,’ I say.
Stephen pauses by the door. ‘Maybe give it ten minutes, in case?’
I nod, knowing I’ll be texting Jim.
Stephen slams the studio door after him and I yell for him to open it again, but he has gone.
The song finishes, and I speak. ‘Sometimes,’ I say, ‘the things we want to hide come out no matter what we do. Like a crush. As we go towards the Late-Night Love Affair, why not tell me who you adore from afar. Go on, they might be listening. And, you never know, they may feel the same. Let’s get some weather, and then I want your hidden loves!’
I grab my phone. No messages.
I send one to Jim: Maeve hasn’t arrived yet. I’m sure she will. Promise to let you know when she does.
As I put mine down, the radio phone flashes blue. What if it’s him? The Man Who Knows? Can I take the call? Stephen could come downstairs at any moment.
I pick up. ‘Stella McKeever.’
‘Stella,’ comes a dry croak. For a moment, I think it’s The Man Who Knows, but when the voice speaks again it’s clearly female.
‘That’s me,’ I say.
‘I don’t usually listen to your show,’ she admits.
‘Always good to get new people. Except you may have heard that I’m leaving.’
‘It was the secrets bit that made me keep listening. I was flicking through the stations … and that … spoke to me…’
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘What you just said about hidden loves…’
‘You have one?’
‘Yes.’ Her words are quiet.
‘You want to tell me your name?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I can’t.’
‘So, who do you love?’ I ask.
‘Jennifer,’ she says.
‘And why haven’t you told her?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she’s dead.’ She says it gently.
‘Ah.’ I glance at my screen. I only have one minute. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I loved her so much.’ She sounds desperately sad.
‘What happened to her?’
‘I—’ The word is strangled. ‘It was me.’
‘You?’ I shiver.
‘Me. I didn’t want anyone else to have her.’
I look at the
time; hate that the clock is ticking.
‘She was with him. But I know she didn’t love him. The way she looked at me. I knew.’
‘So what did you—?’
She hangs up.
The weather finishes. I have to speak, but I feel sick. Was she a crank? Making up a story to get on the airwaves? Lonely? I guess I’ll never know.
‘A caller told me earlier,’ I say to the listeners, ‘that it’s selfish to unburden ourselves by talking about our guilty secrets. That if we do we’re only thinking of how it feels for us. Are we? What do you think? Let me know. You have the number.’
I take them into another song. My head throbs.
I realise I haven’t checked Twitter or Facebook for requests, so I quickly skim-read the mostly negative comments (‘shit show’ ‘glad she’s going’ ‘getting desperate’) and find the odd thing of interest. Nothing serious. Admissions of stealing chocolate bars as a child, white lies, buying handbags and telling husbands they were fifty quid instead of two hundred.
Stephen returns to the studio just before midnight for the news. When he asks about Maeve I resist being sarcastic again.
‘Did you let Jim know she’s not here?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘I’ll get the news done and I might have a walk around the area.’
He takes the seat.
I go to my window, look for the stars. Just blackness. Must still be cloudy. I listen to Stephen. His tone is cool, on air, but it works perfectly well. He tells the region that new work on tidal barriers is expected to halve the chance of flooding. That extra government funding means an extension for our major theatre. And that local police have said they’re interviewing a new suspect as part of the Victoria Valbon murder investigation.
The clouds disperse, and my stars return.
But I don’t smile.
13
ELIZABETH
THEN
It was Stella’s radio voice that made me think she was self-sufficient; that she had learned to be strong in spite of me. Of course, when I first heard it, I didn’t know if it was different to her everyday voice. The last time I’d heard her talk, she’d only been twelve. Now it was deeper. Obviously female, but warm and kind to my lonely ear that first night in my new house.
I’d listened to most of the show before I found the courage to ring the number she had given out for listeners to make requests. I wasn’t sure whether she’d answer or some kind of receptionist would.
But it was Stella. I asked if it was her, but I already knew. Her voice wasn’t quite as rich as the radio one but hearing it was like déjà vu. She didn’t reply, and I wondered if she also had a sense, somehow.
After a brief silence, I told her it was me. I used the word ‘me’, not the word ‘mum’. And she said she knew. She didn’t sound angry or sad; she sounded as if she had been expecting me.
The rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur. We talked about easy things, I think, like the weather and the area. I was just relieved she didn’t hang up. It didn’t seem long before she said she was working and had to go, so I gave her my address and invited her to come over the following Saturday. She didn’t say if she would or not.
But she did.
I waited in the front-room window, hoping but not certain. The house was still bare. I’d only brought the essentials with me: a bed, one armchair, my few clothes. Moving had happened so suddenly.
Just after noon, Stella pulled up in a small white car. She didn’t get out for ten minutes. When she did, she looked straight at me, still standing in the window. I thought about the last time I saw her; a twelve-year-old leaving for school in my tasselled scarf, not looking back. By the time she reached the front door, I’d opened it and welcomed her inside.
I apologised for the bareness of the place and offered Stella the one chair to sit in, but she followed me to the kitchen. I made tea and she looked out of the window at the overgrown garden. I said I had plans to sort it out in the spring. I expected her to have so many questions. But she didn’t really ask much. I asked her instead. About what she had been doing, where she lived. She seemed happy to answer. I asked if she had a partner, and she shook her head. She hadn’t met Tom then; that was a month after. She said she was happy on her own.
Not like me, I thought.
I hate being alone. That was why I turned on the radio my first night in the house. For company. That’s why I went from man to man in my twenties. Why I rushed right back to the only man I’ve ever loved as soon as he contacted me. It was why I wanted Stella again as soon as I was alone. Why I came straight back here. I do love her. I do. I felt it as she sipped the tea I’d made and looked around and answered my question about why she went into radio work.
Stella shrugged and said most people were surprised since she’s not the biggest talker, socially. Then she said she figured that doing something that felt so unnatural for her might be good. A challenge. She said she’d trained for almost two years with Simon Sainty. And it turned out that she loved it, and she was quickly given her own show. Her eyes glowed as she recalled this.
I liked seeing that.
And I knew what she meant about doing something that felt alien.
I told Stella how I’d recently finished training as a doula. She knew what one was. Said she’d had a guest on a show once who was hoping to recruit more of them. A doula is someone trained in all things to do with childbirth. They give emotional and physical support to a mother who’s pregnant, in labour, or recently given birth. This mother is often alone.
Before moving here, I’d spent nine months on a doula training course run by the National Childbirth Trust. The whole thing had surprised me. It wasn’t something I’d ever have thought of doing. I’m too selfish, I know that. My friend Allison – a drinker who had abandoned her kids years before – had started volunteering at Help the Aged. She said it eased her guilt. Something about Allison’s face when she described helping the elderly made me want to do something similar.
Stella asked one of her few questions then: What had made me choose to help pregnant women?
I knew what she meant. Of all the people I could have helped, why someone who is carrying a baby? Why mothers? I could have lied and said I didn’t know. But deep down I did, and I guessed she deserved the truth. Especially since she was at the core of it. I told her I knew what a lousy mum I’d been. That I got a leaflet about doulas through the door one day and thought I could be a better person by helping other women have their babies, especially if they had no one else. In nurturing them, I might learn how to be kind.
I had enjoyed the course more than anything else I’d ever done. Some nights, after a full day of study, I found it hard to sleep. Now I was just waiting for my first client here.
Stella didn’t say anything. She didn’t say that yes, I was a lousy mum, or no, I wasn’t. She didn’t insist I was kind or tell me how cruel I’d been to abandon her. She could have done. She had every right.
She sipped her tea. I tried to read her. Not easy when I’d not seen her grow up. Eventually she said she was sure I’d be a great doula; but her heart didn’t seem to be in the words. I wanted to prove her wrong. Prove that I could be loving.
She saw my good camera then, in its black pouch, on top of an unpacked box.
I remember that, she said. You took that photo of me all done up once and it was so blurred you threw it away. She looked sad.
Let’s take one now, I said.
Stella shook her head.
I said I was better with it now, had played around with some of the functions, but she still shook her head.
Then, after what seemed like only ten minutes, she said, I have to go.
I wished she would stay, but I didn’t say it. Had no right to. We exchanged phone numbers, each of us tapping the new digits into our phones. Then she handed me her empty cup and I followed her to the door. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. I didn’t want to be pushy.
You can text me any t
ime, I said, and maybe we could go out for coffee.
As Stella took her car keys out of her bag, I glimpsed the star perfume inside, catching the light as it always used to. I gasped. It had been so long.
She handed it to me. I held it to my face, the cut glass cold against my cheek. Then I opened it and the sweet smell took me back. Right back. I thought I might collapse; my knees buckled. God, I missed him. Could feel him inside me, breathing, beating. And I realised I’d shown more emotion about the fragrance than about Stella. I could never help it. I was still a terrible mother. It didn’t matter how hard I might try to be a good doula – to put things right now – my emotions still only truly soared for one person.
Stella said, Have it.
I wanted to. I did. So much.
It’s yours, she insisted.
I shook my head, said she was my star girl, and she should have it. The words surprised me. I was thinking about how I’d recently read that Stella meant star. I was thinking about her being on the radio. About how thrilled I had been to first hear her voice. About the star quality I’d felt she had. ‘Star quality’: it was the kind of phrase a mother would use to a small child to make them feel special.
I was fourteen years too late with it.
After a while she put the bottle back in her bag, stepped over the threshold, and headed for her car.
Would she turn around? Would we see each other again? What if she never came back at all? What was she thinking? More words formed on my tongue. Not a question. An admission. But I couldn’t say them. I tried again. Tried to tell her. Stella got into the car. She waved as she pulled away.
And it was too late to shout out that, for all these years, she had been carrying the first and only gift her father ever gave me.
14
STELLA
NOW
After reading the news at midnight Stephen goes to look for Maeve. I don’t tell him that I feel in my gut that he won’t find her; that I’m sure she’s not wandering around in the dark, waiting to be found. I know he won’t settle unless he checks for himself. I understand how he feels. As a child, even though I sensed that my mum wouldn’t come back for a long time, if ever, I still prepared a little speech in case I woke up one day and she had returned, sorry and full of love.