by Louise Beech
Stella, Stella, Stella.
For a moment, I tensed. Resisted. Was that him saying my name? It didn’t sound like him.
Stella, why do you love him?
‘Stella,’ whispered Tom, urgent.
That was him.
Perry purred on the fur rug nearby. I cried Tom’s name back at him, drowning out my own on his lips, overpowering his passion, and the voice I didn’t want to hear.
Afterwards I asked him, ‘What were you thinking earlier?’
‘What do you mean? When?’ His forehead was damp.
‘When I mentioned our special keys and you looked … I’m not sure. Guilty or something?’
‘Oh.’
‘What?’
‘I lost it,’ Tom admitted.
It had only been a pair of cheap stainless-steel keys, but it was meaningful – the first gift I’d given him, and symbolic of us moving in together. It hurt that he’d lost his.
‘I didn’t tell you, cos I felt bad. It must have fallen off my keyring. I’m heartbroken, I am.’
I shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped.’
‘It used to cut me all the time anyway,’ he said. ‘Shredded the inside pockets of my trousers.’
‘Thanks,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I like mine.’ I didn’t admit it had also ruined the pocket in my bag. ‘Admit it … you lost it on purpose.’
He laughed. ‘We have Perry now,’ he said, touching my cheek. ‘An even better gift.’
‘Have you watched the video again?’
‘The video?’
‘The playing dead one.’
‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘Would you be bothered if I had?’
‘No. I’m just curious.’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve watched it a few times. If you want me to delete it, I will.’
Once we’d watched it just after we made it, I’d had no interest in viewing it again. Though I’d willingly taken part, now I wanted to forget it.
‘Keep it,’ I insisted. ‘I don’t mind if you still want to watch it, though.’
Perry jumped into my lap. I passed her to Tom, but she preferred me. I didn’t want her to.
‘Did you fix the washing line?’ I asked him.
‘What?’ Tom laughed. ‘God, you change the subject so fast, it’s like your brain is this weird puzzle or something! I just fucked you over the sofa and you’re asking about the washing line.’
‘Did you? It seems lower again.’
‘Yes. I was sick of not being able to reach it all the time. I loosened it a bit. Why?’
Coming home from the radio station the night before I’d cut through an alley behind the rows of terraced houses; forgotten laundry hung limp from a washing line in one of the gardens. I’d realised at that moment that I liked ours being just too high; I realised that I wasn’t ever going to lower the line, even though it meant dragging a chair into the garden to peg clothes to it.
‘It was the day after Victoria Valbon died,’ I said, studying him.
‘What was?’ Tom asked.
‘When the builders tightened the washing line. It came on the news that lunchtime. The line was too high when Stephen Sainty said what had happened to her.’
‘You’re such an odd girl, the way you link things. I don’t get how your mind works.’
I didn’t think Tom would understand.
But I didn’t mind.
If he understood me, there would be nothing more to know about me.
What he didn’t understand was that having to stretch for the washing line reminded me to let go of things I could easily reach. And now Tom had undone that. I could reach. I could touch it.
But I didn’t want to.
It was all too close.
21
STELLA
NOW
And so, the Late-Night Love Affair begins.
I play a song dedicated to myself first, though I say that it’s for Tom. Tom in West Hull. Tom who’s likely asleep now.
Some songs are our favourites because of the lyrics; a certain turn of phrase haunts us for days after. Some are our favourites because of the melody; a tune that rises and falls with your heart. For me, though, a song can become a favourite because of an intense pause. A caesura, which in music represents a break. A breath. A moment to catch that breath. A moment between what was and what will be. I’m in that pause. My own show is over, and my leaving here will be next.
There’s an almost-pause in this song: I play Madonna’s ‘Live to Tell’.
When it ends I say, ‘Here we go into the darkest time of night. The time for the lovers and the restless and the insomniacs. Let me ease you into sleep, if that’s what you want, or into romance if you’re with your lover. But make sure you get in touch and tell me everything…’
I pause. I’m closer to knowing what I’ve always wondered about.
‘Call us or message us on social media with your love secrets,’ I continue. ‘Or request a song for your other half. I’ll be waiting. And in the meantime, some adverts, and then it’s “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan” by Marianne Faithful. Not so much a love song as an anti-love song, I admit.’
The song is from one of my favourite films: Thelma and Louise. Marianne Faithfull once said her interpretation was that Lucy climbed onto the rooftop and was taken away by ‘the man who reached and offered her his hand’. Others think Lucy jumped from the roof and died. She had been bored of being a housewife.
Poor Lucy.
I make a coffee while the adverts run into the song. Then I scan our Twitter and Facebook feeds for requests and comments. A handful of tweeters dislike me doing Maeve’s slot. I’m too heavy-handed and not as soft-voiced as she is. I agree. Maeve’s voice is perfect for the Late-Night Love Affair. But would they rather Stephen Sainty covered it?
I ignore them.
There are requests for a few of the cornier love ballads. I slot them into the next half of the show. And there are also one or two secrets. Simon in Hedon admits to a crush on Boris Johnson. I smile. Claire in Gilberdyke says she’s always been in love with Bruce Forsyth. Honest admissions; not outrageous or wicked. Just routine daydreams.
Nothing, I imagine, like finally knowing your father’s name.
Right now, I feel as if I have a forgotten word on the tip of my tongue. The consonants are heavy in my mouth. I just can’t see their order yet. If my mum tells me, I feel sure it will be as familiar to me as my own name.
I wonder if she has any pictures of him. Will I feel complete when I see his face? Will the storm in me abate? Will it make me settle down, want children, security, marriage – all the things I’m supposed to long for?
Do I want it to?
‘In the next twenty minutes,’ I say to the listeners, ‘I’ll be playing Rihanna’s “We Found Love” for Gemma Clark in West Hull. She dedicates it to Jason on their anniversary of meeting in the theatre where they work. Later we’ll play Mariah Carey, and after three you’ll have Gilly Morgan with you.’
Gilly isn’t actually here in person; she’s in Vietnam for two weeks. Listeners won’t know this as she prerecorded some shows.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ I say. ‘WLCR has everything you need.’
And I play the music.
I look towards the darkened hallway beyond the studio door. Is it my imagination or is there someone at the far end? I blink, twice, my chest tight. Nothing now. I stand, my legs trembling. I squint. Definitely nothing. Was it just a shadow? It must have been.
Am I losing my mind?
When the studio lights up electric blue just as the bassline comes in, I almost jump out of the seat. I answer, glancing at the monitor. I have two minutes. My hands won’t stop shaking.
‘You’re still there, Stella,’ he says softly. The Man Who Knows.
Did he somehow get in the building? Is he the shadow I thought I saw? I look again. No. Nothing.
‘Who is this?’ I ask.
‘Where’s Maeve Lynch?’
I frown. I don’t like
him asking this. Am I hearing menace in the words, suggesting he might know more, or is he simply curious? I won’t show my concern. He wants me to.
‘If you don’t tell me who you are,’ I say, ‘I’m going to hang up.’
‘No, you’re not, Stella. We both know that.’ He pauses. ‘I didn’t think I’d get to speak to you again tonight. I tried ringing again during your show, but the line was busy. I resigned myself to that being it. I was quite disappointed. I almost turned the radio off, but something made me stay tuned. Then you said you were covering for Maeve. Is she really ill?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘I don’t think you’re telling the truth.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘I can tell when you speak the truth, you know,’ he says. ‘We have a connection…’
‘I doubt that.’
‘Don’t be so hasty to dismiss it. I think by the end of tonight you’ll be thanking me.’
‘For what? Keeping me entertained? Making me laugh?’
‘You can be as flippant as you like, Stella, but I know it’s an act,’ he says. ‘So how come you’re the one still there? Couldn’t they have brought Gilly in early? I thought you were leaving.’ He pauses. ‘You know, I don’t think you really will leave. I don’t think you can.’
‘You don’t know me at all,’ I snap.
‘Maybe. But I do know.’
‘So you’ve said. You’ve been saying it for weeks. And now you’re saying you have pictures. But I don’t just believe what some weirdo tells me without seeing the actual evidence. So, unless you’re going to come and show me what you have, I’m done.’
‘Is that an invite?’
‘It is.’ What the hell am I doing? ‘I’m not scared of you. But I think you want me to be.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’ He sounds sad.
‘You ring a woman multiple times without giving your name, and act all cryptic about a horrible local murder, and you’re not trying to scare her?’
‘I needed to get your attention. It’s for your sake, Stella. It really is.’
‘For my sake?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been listening to you for a long time.’ His voice softens. For a moment, I think I hear a hint of accent, but I can’t place it. ‘You’ve got me through some really tough times. You were my glass of wine after a bad day at work. That’s the best way I can explain it. Sometimes you’d say just the right thing at exactly the moment I needed to hear it. At night, I just have you and the stars when I go out with my camera.’
I’m tempted to ruin his speech with a brusque comment, but something stops me. I glance at the monitor; I only have a minute now.
‘I knew when I first decided to call you that, if I just gave the usual request for a song, you’d not even take notice of me. I’d be one of many people you speak to every show. But I’m not.’
‘So you decided to make up crap about witnessing Victoria’s murder.’
‘I didn’t make it up. I saw what happened.’
‘Okay, then,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Bring the pictures to me when I’m done here.’
‘What time will that be?’
‘Three.’
‘You’re sure.’
I’m not. I feel sick.
‘I am,’ I say. ‘I won’t be coming back to WLCR again, so this is your only chance.’ I pause, then add, ‘But first answer me this: you said something earlier about Victoria Valbon’s baby’s father. You asked me where he was. What did you mean? What do you know about that?’
He ignores the question. ‘Are you alone there?’
‘No,’ I lie. ‘What do you know about that baby’s father?’
‘We both know about not having a dad, don’t we?’
Not anymore, I almost say.
‘I was only commenting on the fact that poor Vicky was all alone that night. No one to protect her. If she had been walking home with the father of her child, who knows how differently things might have turned out. What hope do kids have when one parent isn’t there?’
‘I’ve done pretty fine,’ I say.
‘Have you though?’ He asks it kindly.
Indignant, I shake my head. ‘I have. I don’t need some strong male to make everything okay.’
‘I think you protest a little harshly.’
‘Come here at three,’ I say.
‘I will.’
For the first time, I detect nerves. Now I’ve forced his hand, I have the power. I sit up a little straighter in my chair. I let it thrill me, chase away my fears. I look at the time. Just seconds left.
‘I have to go,’ I say.
‘See you later, Stella.’ He hangs up.
What have I done? I fumble for the fader, mutter over the dying song that our listeners can call in, and reminding them about our numbers and social media names. I take them into the adverts. Then I stand. I want to leave now. I head for the door. But I stop. Look into the shadowy hallway. Wait for a sound. A creak. Nothing. I could run. Instinct is screaming that I should. But the feeling I had when I knew The Man Who Knows was nervous is overwhelming too; the feeling that I have to finish what I have begun.
So I turn and go back to the desk.
I’m not done. This isn’t done. The show. The night. Me.
22
STELLA
THEN
There came a night when I woke on top of the pink-and-purple crocheted blanket on my thin bed in Sandra’s back room with the star perfume under the pillow, and I didn’t think of my mum straight away. A night when I didn’t wonder for a moment if tomorrow might be the day she came back, and then, as fast as it had occurred, bury the hope deep with my tears. A night when I didn’t whisper my speech for when she was sitting in Sandra’s cosy lounge waiting for me.
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.
The cold continued to freeze my grief at night. I opened the window wide every evening, even in midwinter. Sometimes I’d wake, and it was closed again. Sandra must have felt the draught and come in and shut it as I slept; but if she did, she never said. I never asked. I liked to feel I was part of the sky – an unfeeling star far from anyone, but bright and strong.
On this night – having been with Sandra a full year – I woke and, instead of the speech, I whispered: It’s just going to be me. It made me feel I could do and be anything I wanted. I whispered it again. And again.
The next day at school the star perfume bottle fell from my bag while I was taking out my PE kit. I’d been carrying it around with me since my mum left. It wasn’t because I wanted her – no, I fiercely told myself – but because of how strong I felt when it was with me.
I hated PE. Neither of my two friends, Shauna and Clare, were in my group. I was always picked last for the teams because I made zero effort to compete. I intentionally let the opposing teams’ goals in and everyone would yell at me. In the changing room I pulled my kit sulkily from my bag and the bottle rolled along the wooden bench and fell into a pile of socks. When I reached to get it, pearly-pink-nailed fingers met mine. Beat them. Got it first.
It was Kylie Sandhurst, the most popular girl in our year. She was picked first for every team. Even though we were only thirteen then, she had the body of a twenty-year-old woman and wore immaculate pink make-up every day.
‘What’s this?’ she asked. Her friends gathered around, eyes narrowed, immediately loyal to their leader. ‘Looks dead expensive. Did you nick it from Boots?’
‘No.’ I tried to snatch it back from her, but she hid it behind her back. She’d coated her lashes in blue mascara and glossed her lips – hardly dressed for hockey.
‘Where’d you get it, then?’
&nbs
p; I wasn’t going to say. It had nothing to do with them. I should’ve been scared. Kylie and her cronies had beaten up bigger girls than me. They had picked on smaller girls too. Weak girls. One girl, Jane Temple, had asthma and they tormented her by stealing her inhaler, chasing her until she couldn’t breathe and then throwing it in the bin. I had got it out for Jane, cleaned it on the corner of my skirt and sat with her until she was okay. I hated people who tormented anyone vulnerable. It incensed me, made me get up and fight.
And my rage at Kylie for taking my star bottle was similar.
I could freeze my grief with an open window, but this was harder to control.
‘Not gonna tell us, eh?’ sneered Kylie. ‘Thinks she’s fuckin’ better than us.’ She squinted at the star-shaped stopper. ‘Thinks she’s somebody. Friggin’ weirdo. What’s so special about this bottle?’
‘I reckon some boyfriend got her it,’ said one of Kylie’s friends, a girl with dyed red hair and fierce eyes.
‘Nah, who’d go out with her?’ Kylie spat the words out; her friends laughed. ‘Unless it was some knobhead in chemistry or physics. Ha, probably that fat ginger lad. That’s about all she could get. What do you reckon, girls?’
They noisily agreed.
Kylie raised the bottle. It glinted in the fluorescent light above, spat tiny stars on the wall nearby. I lurched forward to get it, but two of her friends stepped in and held me back. I suddenly saw my mum and me, at the kitchen table: her smoking, me listening, no men on the scene. The bottle sitting between us. I could bury my sadness as much as I wanted to, but the rage that they were trying to steal my precious thing grew, becoming bigger than I was.
‘Does it smell good?’ she asked. ‘Let’s see.’ She pulled out the stopper. The sweet, sad scent filled the fusty changing room. It entered my pores, fanning the flames of my anger. ‘Not bad. Bit like that Chanel one my mum has. Funny, cos I never smell it on you.’
‘Yeah, Stella just smells of shit,’ jeered the red-haired girl. ‘Shitty Stella.’
‘Ha.’ Kylie studied me, sniffed the air. ‘Yeah, she could do with a stronger perfume than this. So why would you carry it around but never wear it?’