one-hit wonder (37 page)

“Who the hell is Taka Yukomo?” said Flint.

Ana shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Sushi,” said Flint, clicking his fingers, “the coroner’s report said she ate sushi during her last hours. She must have taken the will down to the restaurant with her that night. Got a waitress to witness it for her. Posted it that night.”

“Yes,” said Ana, “and Amy said she went out that night, at about nine o’clock. She must have decided to go out for one last meal. On her own . . .” She petered off as she felt tears threatening. What an absolutely tragic thought.

“Your mother’s not going to like this, Ana.”

“What?” Ana looked over Flint’s shoulder.

According to Bee’s will, everything was going to Zander.

The cottage. The money in her bank accounts. Her royalty payments. Her books and CDs. The seven thousand pounds hidden under her bed in a cigar box.

“But I visited her solicitor,” said Ana, scanning the page,

“he said she hadn’t made a will. That he’d advised her to and she refused. I mean—does this actually have any legal standing without a copy being with her lawyer?” Flint and Zander shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about that right now, anyway,” said Zander. “Read that letter first. Read that letter and then try making sense of things. It’s quite rambling—incoherent. A bit of a stream of consciousness, you might say. . . .”

Ana perched herself on the edge of Zander’s bed and began reading.

July 28, 2000

My dearest Zander,

I went shopping on Tuesday, looking for a birthday present for
you. I went into Hampstead. It was a beautiful day. I had lunch
at a French cafe and sat outside on the sidewalk. I had a bowl of
vichyssoise. It was freshly made. It was delicious. With it I had
an iced coffee, served in a glass mug with whipped cream on top.

After lunch I went to the Gap and bought you the enclosed
clothes. I hope you like them. And then I just wandered around
for a while, soaking up the sun, people-watching, window-shopping. I bought myself a pair of shoes from Pied à Terre and a
dress from Ronit Zikha.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.

Well
—
there is a reason. It’s because now, from the perspective of
today, I can see that Tuesday was a turning point in my life. And
that wandering around Hampstead High Street that afternoon
was the end of an era for me. And if I’d known it at the time,
maybe I’d have appreciated it more.

Because
—
and I don’t really expect you to understand
this
—
you may have the intellect and bearing of a man of thirty
but you still have the emotional capacity of any sixteen-year-old
boy
—
because about ten minutes after I bought my shoes, I saw
Ed. I saw Ed and Tina, and they had their three babies with
them. Three tiny new babies in a huge buggy. Tina was adjusting
the parasol on their pram and Ed was holding all the baby stuff.

And then Ed leaned down into the pram and I saw him smile, a
smile of complete and utter adoration. And then they carried on
walking, and everywhere they went, people smiled at them,
complete strangers smiled at them because they had three perfect,
identical babies and the two of them looked so proud and
complete.

I was wearing pink silk capri pants that cost me 140 pounds
and a black mesh vest that was 85 pounds. My shoes were pink
stilettos from LK Bennet, 115 pounds. I spent half an hour doing
my makeup that morning
—
the usual slap, you know
—
black
liner, red lips, an inch of foundation. I’d just had my hair done
at John Frieda, the day before. That cost me 90 pounds. It was
pinned up with a big silk rose from Johnny Loves Rosie, 18

pounds.

Tina was wearing a pair of baggy leggings and a big vest with
a pair of old sandals. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and
she was wearing no makeup. She looked knackered and her gut
was enormous.

You can guess who looked the most beautiful.

Something inside me died then, Zander. Not because I felt like
it should have been me or because I wanted three babies or
anything. I got over Ed a long time ago, as you know, and I’m
not the world’s most maternal person. But my desire to keep
taking the path I’ve been on for the last fifteen years just
evaporated at that moment. The past fifteen years have been all
about covering my tracks, patching things up, telling one lie to
cover another to cover another to cover another . . . the past fifteen
years should have been about building a life, growing,
developing, taking whatever fate threw at me. But I haven’t been
able to do that because every move I’ve made, every decision I’ve
made, has been about one moment in my life that can never be
erased and can, I now realize, never be put right.

I got home that afternoon, and all I wanted to do was curl up
into a ball and cry. But Mr. Arif was here. In my flat. Just sitting
there on my sofa. John got out last week. The porter found him
wandering around on the third floor. I went looking for him and I
found him at the porter’s desk being hand-fed tuna chunks from a
can. The porter must have told Mr. Arif about him.

Mr. Arif went mad. His face went all purple and his eyes were
bulging and he was shouting, calling me a cheat and a liar,
telling me he should kick me out. He scared me, and I’m a hard
person to scare. He made me take John, there and then, in his
box, and get rid of him. I took him to the cottage that afternoon. I
spent the night there with him, but at about six in the morning I
woke up having a panic attack. For the first time in years. My
heart was racing, I was sweating and I thought I was having a
heart attack. I could hear noises out in the garden. I was
paranoid. I thought I was dying, Zander. I was terrified. So I just
threw on some clothes, put John in his box, and left. I took the
train, left my bike
—
I was in too much of a state even to get the
key in the ignition
—
and went straight to Lol’s. Asked her to
have John for a while
—
which wasn’t ideal
—
she hates cats, but
what choice did I have?

I’ve just spoken to Lol on the phone. John’s gone. She left a
window open in her flat and he’s gone. I’m devastated. It just
feels like the end of everything. I know what you’ll say
—
he’s just
a cat. Just a big old silly old cat. But he was more than that.

Much more. I mean
—
what responsibilities do I actually have,
Zander? None
—
that’s right. No children, no mortgage, no job, no
family. I’m not even really responsible for you. High Cedars is
responsible for you. And come September, you won’t need me at
all. The only creature on this earth who I had any responsibility
for, who needed me, and he’s gone. Probably squashed flat
somewhere in some dark, lonely road. Or stolen. Stolen and sold
to some fat woman who’ll feed him cream buns and give him a
heart attack.

I’m feeling heartbroken, Zander and so, so guilty.

Now that you’re moving on with your life, now that you don’t
need me anymore, and now that I don’t even have John to concern
myself with, I can’t see the point of lying anymore. I’ve realized
something this week
—
I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of
patching over things, of compromising, of living half a life. And
in order to stop feeling like this, I’m going to have to do
something I never ever thought I’d do. Something that will mean
the end of you and I. Forever. I’m going to have to tell you about
1986. . . .

thirty-five

December 1986

Bee hated this driving-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-road business. Especially in the dark. Especially when she was tired. Especially in a hire car that she’d been driving for only an hour. And especially when there were tears blurring her vision.

She’d landed at Bordeaux airport at nine o’clock and was now heading up eerily quiet Friday-night roads toward her father’s house near Angoulême. The small granite towns that stood flush to the road were all deserted, even the occasional strip-lit café or bar was empty.

Gregor had bought his old town house about four years ago, had it renovated at great expense and now spent most of his time there. Bee couldn’t see the attraction herself. She really wasn’t that keen on France: French food, French architecture, the French countryside, French music—or the French themselves, come to that. She preferred Italy. Or Spain. Or Holland. Or anywhere, really, on the European mainland apart from France. Her father had, on the other hand, become a complete Francophile. He could speak fluent French and was a popular figure in his adopted second hometown, where he went everywhere on his bike in a beret and neckerchief, stopping just short of the stripy Breton top and the string of garlic around his neck.

She steered the Fiat left into the dirt track that ran down the side of Gregor’s house and pulled up behind his 1961

Jaguar. All the lights were on in the cottage, and it looked warm and inviting on this cold, black night.

“Hi-ee,” she called, pulling her weekend case from the backseat and heading for the back door. Her father was standing in the kitchen, wearing a striped butcher’s apron and stirring something in a huge blue le Creuset casserole pot.

He looked at her through the steamed-up windows and his face split open into an enormous grin. He put down his wooden spoon, wiped his hands on his apron, and came to the door.

“Hello, darling,” he said, smothering her in a big, fragrant bear hug. He smelled of cologne and garlic. Bee squeezed him back, her arms barely meeting around his fifty-inch chest.

“Hello, Dad.”

“You smell like a cigarette,” he said, grabbing her head and sniffing her crown, “like a little red Marlboro. When are you going to quit?”

Bee ignored him and dropped her bag and her coat on a red chaise longue. He passed her a huge glass of red wine.

“What’s cooking?” she said, kicking off her high heels and padding across terracotta tiles toward the stove.

“Oh,” said Gregor, smiling at her over his wineglass, “just a little something I’ve been slaving over for an entire day, that’s involved driving to three separate markets and bribing the farmer down the road with a liter of red.”

“There aren’t any pig parts in it, are there?” she said, peering over the edge of the pot.

“What?”

“You know—feet, ears, snouts?”

He laughed his laugh and Bee smiled at him. He was so much more mellow since he’d retired last year and since this place had finally been completed. He’d adored directing but had hated the financial responsibilities involved in his profession, had always borne the pressure to direct a profitable production very heavily. He used to have this air about him of someone who was trying too hard to look relaxed. His smile always looked a little glued-on, and his back had given him constant pain. Now he really was relaxed and it was a joy for Bee to behold. He and Joe spent most of their time here in the Dordogne, just shopping, cooking, reading, and drinking. At home he went out to eat, saw friends, was on the board of a couple of AIDS charities and another charity for impoverished actors. He was finally, at the age of sixty-one, a truly, serenely happy man.

She looked up at her big bear of a father, at his cheeks all pink with kitchen steam and red wine, his thick salt-and-pepper hair, his wiry beard and his trendy Lacoste sweatshirt tucked unfashionably into enormous corduroy trousers. He was wearing soft, pastel checked socks on his size-thirteen feet and his trademark neckerchief around his now-jowly neck. He looked a mess. A big, happy, lovely mess. She felt overcome by a wave of love and affection and planted a kiss on his hot cheek.

“Where’s Joe?” She peered around the corner toward the living room. Joe was Gregor’s partner of ten years’ standing.

He was a set designer, fifteen years Gregor’s junior. Gregor could have had his pick of ambitious, beautiful, six-packed young actors, but he’d fallen for the slightly geeky-looking set designer, Joe, with his goatee and his little pigeon chest and his sensible lace-up shoes. When Joe and Gregor walked around together, they looked like father and ever-so-slightly backward son. But Joe was actually highly intelligent, and he loved all the things that Gregor loved—France, food, people—Bee. He adored Bee, almost worshiped her, in fact.

When her first single had come out, he’d spent the entire weekend in the HMV on Kensington High Street forcing complete strangers to buy it. He kept a beautiful scrapbook of every last piece of press and publicity she got, writing to magazines for back issues sometimes if he missed something.

Joe was her greatest fan, greater even than Gregor. Bee thought of him as a slightly nerdy but lovely big brother.

“Oh. Joe’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s in Angoulême.”

Bee waited for Gregor to elaborate. He and Joe were usually completely inseparable. Bee couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d seen one without the other. But Gregor didn’t say anything, just started chopping a bunch of something green and leafy.

“Is it me?” she said jokingly.

“Oh. Nooo. Don’t be silly, Bee. No—he, er—he had some unexpected business to attend to.”

“Oh,” said Bee. “Right.” She resisted the urge to pry any further. There was something untoward going on here. But she’d leave it for now. They could talk about it over dinner.