Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  I play ‘Pillow Talk’ by Zayn Malik.

  Creak. Then another. Somewhere. In the hallway? I turn the song down, listen harder.

  ‘Stephen?’ I call.

  Then, although I know in my gut that it’s pointless, I cry, ‘Maeve?’

  I go into the foyer. Wait. For what?

  Another creak. Above me. Upstairs. I glance back at the studio, aware I only have two minutes until the song ends.

  ‘Stephen?’ I yell up the stairs. ‘Are you messing around?’

  I head up there, determined to be noisy, show I won’t be spooked. On the first floor is the kitchen, as well as a large open-plan area where the presenters relax. It’s empty.

  Of course it is. I shake my head at my fears.

  I open the fire door behind one of the sofas and peer out into the blackness. The night smells of takeaway food and candy floss from Hull Fair – the travelling fairground. It leaves today, I remember. I’d enjoy that life – moving from place to place, opening a caravan door on a new world each week, fresh news, never reheated.

  From this exit, metal stairs climb the side of the building to the second floor, where Stephen’s office is, and where there’s another fire door. Then to the third floor – our junkyard – and another fire door, and then up to the roof. The stairs going down from here were broken, so they were removed. We’re still waiting for them to be replaced. Everything takes forever to get fixed here. But I suppose it makes this building even safer from intruders. With most of the windows bricked up, leaving only a thin sliver of glass, this place is very secure. No one can get in.

  And yet they did. To leave the book.

  I can’t forget that someone – somehow – did get into the building.

  I look above me, wondering whether to explore further. I wait for another sound. Afraid. But now there’s just the pounding of my heart. It takes forever to slow down.

  I realise the song might be finishing and hurry back to my desk. As the tune fades, I say, ‘And so we’re into the last hour of my final show.’ It occurs to me that if Maeve doesn’t turn up, this isn’t my last hour after all. I could be here until 3am. But they don’t know this.

  ‘Speak to me people,’ I say. With Stephen still outside, wandering the streets, he won’t be able to listen in and monitor me. I can say what I want. ‘You’re all being very quiet tonight. Come on, why not share and make my last hour with you something special. Put in a request for your favourite cloak-and-dagger song and tell me something you’ve shared with no other.’ I close my eyes, inhale. ‘Maybe there’s something you wish you knew. Something that’s been kept from you all of your life.’ I pause. ‘Like the thing that’s haunted me all of mine. I might tell you what it is after these adverts and another song.’

  Sometimes not knowing something is worse than knowing something you wish you didn’t.

  The main door slams. I jump, but I know it will only be Stephen returning. Or Maeve? My instinct tells me not. I lean to try and see into the hallway. No one there. I frown.

  ‘That you Stephen?’ I call.

  No response. I go back into the foyer again.

  ‘You there, Stephen?’ I call.

  I look up the stairs, call out again. Nothing. I wonder if it could have been Maeve turning up, that my instinct is off. But she wouldn’t hide without saying hello in that cheery, tuneful voice of hers. And neither would Stephen.

  Shit.

  Adrenaline pulses into my bloodstream. I savour it, the way an athlete might, before she needs to perform. It’s similar to how Tom makes me feel; face hot, heart fast, stomach tight. I suddenly remember his call earlier – that we need to talk. Fear that he is leaving me heightens my senses.

  The only sound is the commercials; a woman singing sweetly about removing her bikini-line hair. They are almost finished, and I have to queue in the next song. I hurry back to the desk – my panic is rising now, my breath coming fast – and do what I must. Then I return to the foyer.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I demand.

  What would I do if someone answered? If an eerie voice floated down the stairs. It could be my overactive imagination. But is it overactive? Haven’t I been hearing a voice recently? Didn’t I think I heard it again this morning, in the gush of water as I cleaned my teeth?

  Stella, why won’t you listen to me?

  A voice that knows my name.

  I could go upstairs again and check there’s no one lurking behind any corners. But this is the real world, where a cinema audience don’t need me to add to the tension, so I’d rather not know. If someone has got in, intent on harming me, let them come to me. Let them play a game.

  Maybe there’s a fault with the door. Maybe the electrics failed, and it opened and then swung shut again. Not much I can do, and I have a show to finish. I return to the desk and check my phone. No messages. I want desperately to call Tom back, but I only have a minute or so. And if he’s going to leave me, isn’t it better if I finish the show without knowing?

  As the final bars of the song die, I speak, burying all my emotions. ‘That was “Brilliant Disguise” by Bruce Springsteen.’ Opening some emails, I say, ‘Let’s get a few of your messages.’ I skim them, quickly taking in the interesting ones, ignoring the rude ones. ‘Frances Pearson says she’s listening to the show in her car, driving back from a long shift at the hospital, and she often secretly wishes there was a drive-thru where you could pick up a man for the night, like you do a latte or a burger. You could be onto something, Frances. Stuart in Bilton says the only secret he has is that he can’t stand Game of Thrones. Oh, and Lisa Lee wants to know what the lifelong mystery is that has haunted me.’

  I pause.

  ‘A few of you have shared things, so it’s only fair I do too. And Lisa Lee really wants to know.’ I pause. ‘Now this is going to sound like a hook for a bad TV drama: She never knew who her father was. It does, doesn’t it? But the thing is, it’s true: I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know anything.’

  I wonder if my mum is listening. I remember asking her about him as a kid. Not often. Children have a good sense for when grown-ups don’t want to talk about something. She always replied with the same thing: he was the kind of father that was better out of my life. I think now it’s up to me to decide that for myself.

  ‘I imagine some of you have gone through similar.’ I have to control my voice, so it doesn’t waver. It never has in five years of being on air; I can’t let it now. ‘That’s probably why that TV show where families are reunited is so popular. We love a good reunion, don’t we? But what if it doesn’t have a happy ending?’ I pause again. ‘Right, let’s get another song.’

  As it plays, I wonder where Stephen is. He’s been gone more than twenty minutes now. I can’t leave the building. I try his mobile, but it goes straight to the message service. Shit. Annoying as he is, I wish he’d come back. Trembling, I go to the thin window to look for my stars. It’s cloudy, like dark-grey candyfloss. No astronomy for me tonight. No comfort.

  The studio lights up electric blue. The phone sets me on edge every time now. I answer it.

  ‘I think you know who this is,’ he says.

  I do. The Man Who Knows. I don’t show that I hoped he’d call again, let alone that I expected him; I won’t give him the pleasure.

  ‘Is that Stephen?’ I ask. Despite my panic earlier, I now hope Stephen doesn’t suddenly burst in. I’d have to hang up.

  The man laughs. ‘You are playful tonight. You know who I am.’

  ‘Except I don’t,’ I say. ‘You won’t tell me.’

  ‘You’ve seen me before,’ he says.

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Outside here.’

  I frown. ‘Here? You mean at the station?’ It dawns on me. ‘Are you the man I’ve seen watching me? But you … sound…’

  ‘What, Stella?’

  ‘Older.’

  He laughs softly. ‘Flatter
y won’t get me to spill.’

  ‘It’s not flattery. The man I’ve seen around here looks like some kid in a scruffy hoodie, and you sound … well, mature.’

  ‘I suppose I am mature for my age. What I look like doesn’t really reflect who I am. I could say the same about you though, Stella.’

  ‘You think you can scare me, hanging around here?’ I demand.

  ‘I know you called your boyfriend. Got him to come and walk you home that night. I definitely spooked you.’

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to do than loitering around radio stations like some pervert?’

  ‘That hurts, Stella. I’m no pervert.’ He exhales. ‘I have a hobby…’

  ‘Oh God.’ I glance at the computer screen. Two minutes until I have to speak. ‘And what’s that? Peeping in windows? Stalking people?’

  ‘No. I like photography. Mostly at night. I like the lack of light then. Love the night sky. I love to capture the constellations. It’s not as difficult as people might think. You just need good focus, plenty of practice, and the darkest of skies.’ He sighs. ‘Doesn’t it make you feel insignificant? Looking up at the stars.’

  I wonder for a moment if he knows me. Really knows me. Knows my love of the stars too.

  ‘I’m not interested in prancing around, looking at the sky,’ I say. ‘And you didn’t ring me to talk about amateur photography. So, quit bullshitting. You reckon you know what happened to Victoria Valbon – so spit it out and stop wasting my time.’

  ‘I heard what you said about your dad.’

  ‘I’m going to hang up,’ I say.

  ‘I understand it,’ he says. ‘I’ve never known mine either.’

  I listen hard, hoping to recognise something in his voice, but I don’t.

  ‘My mum never knew who he was. At least that’s what she said. But a woman must know. I think you’re right about it not being a happy ending every time. People are so naïve. Not us. So, I understand how you feel.’

  ‘Good for you,’ I snap. ‘Now are you going to tell me what you claim to know, because if you don’t, I have a job to be getting on with.’

  ‘You don’t think I know anything, do you?’ He sounds put out. ‘What if I told you I had my camera that night? That I took pictures. That I had some printed.’ He pauses. ‘I have them with me now.’

  ‘I’d say you’re lying.’ Is he though? ‘If you did, you’d have gone to the papers by now – sold them for thousands and got all the glory you clearly want by ringing me.’

  ‘Oh, Stella, let’s be honest with each other. You’re the one doing secrets on your show. Come on. Tell me. Why do you think I’m ringing you? You’re the one talking about dads. Absent dads.’ He pauses. ‘Where was the father of Victoria’s poor baby, eh? Where was he? Leaving a poor girl to bring up a child alone. To go through pregnancy alone.’

  I don’t know what to say.

  Eventually, I say, ‘Send me the pictures if you have them.’

  ‘You sure you want that? Horrible pictures like these, dropping into an inbox that anyone could see? I don’t think that lovely Maeve Lynch would ever get over such a sight.’

  ‘And I would?’ I ask softly.

  ‘You asked me to send them.’ He pauses. ‘It wasn’t too dark that night. There was a good moon. Would have ruined any chance of shooting the Milky Way. But that meant I caught what happened. I could bring the pictures to you. In person. At the end of your shift.’

  I’m about to tell him I probably won’t be finishing at one, but resist. I don’t need him knowing. I look at the computer. Time’s almost up. ‘I think you’re a fraud,’ I say. ‘And you don’t scare me, if that’s what you’re trying to do.’

  ‘Stella – you really should be scared. Of what I know.’

  He hangs up.

  When the song ends, my throat constricts. I can’t think of anything to say. Can hardly get my breath. I let another song start straight away. The bassline is harsh, drowning out the lyrics. For some curious reason, the words from my teenage speech circle my brain like vultures looking for flesh. The speech I had planned for my mum, if she ever returned.

  Mum, I’m happy you’re back. I’ve wished for this. Every day. But you don’t need to stay. I talk to you at night. See you in the stars. And that’s enough. You’re better up there where the light never goes. If I let you back into my daytime world you might leave again. So I’ll be with you in the sky.

  A gut feeling explodes inside me; so violently that I close my eyes and bend over as though to protect myself from physical onslaught. Every smell in the room is intensified; heat, cold coffee, electronic equipment. It’s a feeling more powerful than the ones I had as a child, when I knew my mum was sad, or when I felt Tom’s aching knee before I saw it.

  It’s a gut feeling that tonight is the last time I’ll see any stars.

  Anyone.

  Anything.

  And most of all I won’t get to meet the father I’ve never known.

  15

  STELLA

  THEN

  The first night my mum was gone I slept under a pink-and-purple crocheted blanket on a thin bed and cried into the pillow until it was saturated with my tears, until my throat ached, my head throbbed, and I threw up in the bin. I fell into an exhausted sleep with her letter stuck to my chest. When I woke at dawn to an alien room, I felt empty.

  The second night she was gone, I slept on top of the blanket, with her star perfume bottle under the pillow and her letter in tiny pieces in the drawer nearby, and I didn’t cry. The tears froze somewhere between my heart and my eyes, like crystal worry beads. I shivered all night. I would not permit them to melt. The cold kept me safe. Immobilised by agonising grief. I opened the window wide and inhaled the night air. Reached out so it looked like I was cupping the stars in my palms. Became part of the sky.

  Sandra, our neighbour, had read my mum’s last letter wordlessly. Her hand shook; the piece of paper looked like it was floating across a lake. She looked at me with a thousand words in her eyes but said none of them. I wondered how many shone in mine. I closed them for a moment.

  I had come in from school that day in such a good mood. I’d got an A for the first time in English, for a story about a killer who was stalking women at the local fair. He lured them onto fast rides and killed them while they screamed, their cries for help merging with shrieks of pleasure. Then he disappeared into the night. My mum didn’t usually listen for long when I told her about my day, but this time she was going to hear it all. How Mrs Brown had said the story showed ‘quite a lot of promise’ even though she worried that it was ‘rather too dark for a twelve-year-old’.

  It was customary for my mum to be out when I came home. I often made our tea, eating my own and covering her portion so she could eat it later. But the letter on the table was a surprise. And so was the star perfume bottle sitting next to it.

  For a while I didn’t open the envelope. I stood there with it in my hand. Tried to sense what was inside, knowing it couldn’t be good, knowing that she hadn’t left me a shopping list or a love note. I sometimes felt things before they happened. It was like smelling a meal before it arrived. But sometimes my nose didn’t work. It had a filter. Only certain things trickled through, and it never happened when forced.

  I tore open the envelope and read the letter.

  Once.

  Then I went next door to Sandra as my mother had suggested. After she’d read the page, and looked at me so sadly, she put it back in the envelope and said, ‘Well, now, let’s not be hasty about this, young Stella. She might just need some space. So, let’s get you some tea, lass, and let’s get you a bath run. Your mum said she’d come and see you when she’s sorted. I bet she’s just gone to a stay with a friend for a few days. You know, to have a rest. It’s hard being a mum, especially a single one. She’ll be back by the end of the week, you mark my words. Now, do you want sausages or fish fingers? Have you got any homework?’

  I let Sandra ramble because I sensed it m
ade her feel better. That she felt she was doing good by whitewashing the harsh colours of my note. Even at twelve, I found it easier to imagine my mum had gone forever and to make plans for dealing with it. I felt bad for Sandra, having been burdened with me. So I let her fuss over me. Let her run me a bubble bath and cook sausages and apologise for the small bed with the itchy knitted cover in the back room.

  In the evening, we watched all her soaps. During the adverts, Sandra was happy to hear about my A in English. She winced when I told her what my story was about, but said I should write mystery novels when I grew up. She made us both some Horlicks during the news and followed me upstairs when I said I was tired. She even followed me along the landing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, more harshly than I’d intended to.

  ‘Tucking you in,’ she said.

  I knew her children were grown up and had left home, and that she had once fostered many youngsters. I also knew that some parents kissed their small children at night and read them stories. But I’d never had that. I’d always taken myself up to bed, pulled my own covers over.

  ‘I’m twelve,’ I said.

  ‘Of course.’ Sandra paused at my bedroom door. ‘Sorry. I just thought … well, you’d like the comfort. Nothing wrong in a hug before bed. I don’t often get the chance to share one with anyone.’ When I remained at a distance she said, ‘She will be back. By tomorrow, I bet. Don’t you go being sad, lass. Have you got a toothbrush? I’ve got a spare in the bathroom cupboard. Just help yourself.’

  I nodded. After a moment I said, ‘You can hug me if you want.’

  She put her arms gently around me. It was nice, but I wasn’t used to it. I was scared to enjoy it too much. Because nothing lasts.

  Then I went into the room she’d allocated me. I hadn’t brought anything with me except my school bag. Without turning the lights on, I undressed to my faded undies then I got into bed. After a while, I got my bag and took out the star perfume and my mum’s letter and cried until I passed out.