one-hit wonder (41 page)

We’ve just found out that the official cause of death was suicide.

We’re all very, very upset. Bee was such a vibrant, exciting
person, and I don’t think any of us were as close to her as we
could have, or
should
have been. But this was due to
circumstance rather than a lack of affection or concern. I’m not
sure why I’m telling you all this. I suppose it’s just that I
remember Bee primarily as a star, as a glamorous, famous pop
star. And so do you. I didn’t really know her as an adult, just as
a child. And it’s nice to think that there are still people out there
who think fondly of Bee. And in fact, what I’ve discovered during
my time here in London, is that an awful lot of people in the
world thought fondly of Bee. Loyal people. People who managed
to see the best in her no matter how hard she may sometimes have
made it. She was an extraordinary person but she died a rather
ordinary death. Her funeral’s already been and gone, so
unfortunately there’s no way now to celebrate her life. Which is
really quite tragic. Anyway
—
for some reason I just really
thought that you should know since you’ve obviously taken such
an interest in her over the years. Maybe you could post the news
on your Web site so that other fans might find out. . . . Please feel
free to write back if you’d like.

Yours,

Ana Wills

She read through the e-mail and was about to press Send, when another thought occurred to her. She quickly highlighted the last few lines of text, deleted them, and then rewrote them:

. . .
Her funeral’s already been and gone and only three people
attended. I wasn’t even there. No matter what mistakes a person
makes in their life, I truly believe that they deserve a better send-off than that, particularly someone like Bee, who was always so
happy to be in the limelight. So I’ve decided that I’m going to
organize a proper wake for Bee. If you can have a wake after
some
-
one’s been buried for nearly a month, that is. But
anyway
—
I’m going to organize something worthy of Bee and I’m
going to invite all the people who weren’t there three weeks ago.

And I’d really like it if you came. And anyone else you know who
loved Bee. Anyone who wants to celebrate her life. I haven’t
decided what I’m going to do yet, but watch this space and I’ll let
you know.

As Ana typed faster and faster her mind started buzzing with thoughts and ideas. She was going to throw a party Bee would have been proud of.

forty

Ana covered one ear to block out the deafening racket of a road drill and shouted into the crackly intercom. “Hi, Mrs.

Tilly-Loubelle. This is Ana. Bee’s sister.”

“Ana! How marvelous. You came back! Do come in.” Ana took the lift up to the third floor and felt a shiver of recognition. This is where it had all started on Thursday, just under a week ago. It felt to Ana like she’d been a completely different person then.

It seemed to take about half an hour for Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle to undo all the locks and chains on her door. She finally greeted Ana in a fog of talcumy confusion, with the ever-present Freddie clutched tightly to her chest. She looked chic in a black turtleneck and blue trousers, and was wearing large gold earrings and a slick of coral lipstick. The radio played in the background.

“Ana,” she beamed with porcelain teeth, “how wonderful to see you again so soon. Though I presume you’re not here to see me?” She smiled at her knowingly.

“Of course I am,” Ana said, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

She held the door open for Ana to enter.

“Gosh,” said Ana, “what a beautiful flat.” It was exactly the same as Bee’s old flat next door but exquisitely furnished with unusual antiques, expensive curtains, engraved mirrors, and gilt-framed paintings.

“Bit crammed, I always think. I moved here from a seven-bedroom house in Paris, you see. I sold a lot of things but couldn’t bear to part with most of it. But anyway—you’ve not come to look at my soft furnishings, have you? Now, where is he?”

Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle bent down and began making kissy-kissy noises.

“He’s over here,” said Ana, pointing at Freddie, who was now stretched out and snoring gently, where Amy had put him down on a green velvet footstool.

“No, no. Not him. The other one.
Here, boy
.” She began moving cushions out of the way and peering behind things. “I don’t know,” she said, straightening up and smiling at Ana,

“he’s hiding again. I think he’s a little bit traumatized. But then, who can blame him? Why don’t you have a little look for him, and I’ll make us some tea?”

“Have a little look for
who
?” Ana was starting to worry slightly about Amy now. And she’d seemed so
sane
last week.

“Why, John, of course.”

“John?”

“Yes.”

“John the cat?”

“Yes, dear.” Now Amy was looking at Ana with concern.

“But, Amy—John doesn’t live here.”

“No—not usually. But I didn’t know what else to do with him. It’s just the most wonderful luck that you found out about him. Who told you? Was it Mr. Whitman? He found him, you know. Wandering around out in back, picking tidbits out of trash cans, if you please. Barely recognized the poor mite at first. He was so thin. But . . .”

“Sorry? Amy? Are you saying that John is
here
?”

“Why, yes, of course. We found him a couple of days ago.”

“John?”

“Yes—John—aaah, there he is.” She beamed and walked toward a door on the far side of the room. “Hello, my lovely—and look who’s here to see you. It’s your auntie Ana.” Ana put down her knapsack and started walking to where Amy stood.

“Careful,” she said, “go gentle. He’s very nervous.” Ana peered around the corner of a shiny round table laden with silver-framed photos. And there, in the corner of the room, crouched down with his front paws tucked tightly in toward his body and his eyes wide open in terror, sat the most beautiful cat Ana had ever seen in her life. He was huge and cobby with a big square face, thick silver-blue fur, and bright copper-orange eyes.

“Hello, beautiful,” she said, moving toward him very slowly with one hand outstretched. His ears flattened against his large skull and he backed himself farther into the corner.

“It’s all right, little one—I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Goodness only knows what the poor mite’s been through these last few weeks. He must have run away when Bee went, with the shock of it. I should imagine he’s been down there, in among the trash cans, ever since.”

“No,” said Ana, “Mr. Arif made Bee get rid of him. He was staying with a friend of hers and he escaped through a window. About three weeks ago.”

“And this friend was living where?”

“Ladbroke Grove.”

Amy looked startled and put a hand to her turtlenecked chest. “But that’s nearly three miles away. You mean to tell me that this little man found his own way all the way from there to here? On his own?”

Ana put her finger a few inches from John’s nose. He ignored it at first, but then tentatively stretched his head forward and took a little sniff. “It certainly looks that way.”

“My goodness,” said Amy, “that really is quite incredible.

What intrepidity. What luck. What
spunk
! He’s a real hero.” Ana gently moved her finger across the cat’s cheek and gave him a little tickle. He closed his eyes and started purring.

“He was in a terrible state when Mr. Whitman found him.

Filthy and half starved. I took him to the vet yesterday and they gave him a clean bill of health. He had a few scratches and scrapes, and he’s somewhat underweight, but apart from that he’s in the
pink
of feline health.”

“I can’t believe he’s here,” said Ana in wonder, stroking his chin. “He’s so beautiful.” And he really was. It wasn’t just his physical appearance—there really was something special about him. Ana could immediately understand why her sister had been so devoted to him. And then she felt a tear start to work its way out of her left eye as she thought of Bee’s note and her guilt and sadness about losing John, and imagined Bee’s face now if she were to walk into the room and see John here, John, who squeezed through a four-inch gap in a window and walked three miles across London to find her.

“I’d been trying to get in touch with you, you know.

Frantically. I even phoned the obscene Mr. Arif, but he was supremely unhelpful. How did Mr. Whitman manage to track you down?”

Ana looked at her in surprise. “He didn’t.”

“So—how did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I just came to see you. I didn’t have a phone number for you and I wanted to talk to you about something.” Amy’s face pinkened with pleasure. “Really,” she said, “you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes. I’ve . . .”

Amy put out a hand to stop her. “Tea,” she said, “let me get some tea first. Then we can have a nice chat.” Ana curled herself up in a ball on the floor and talked to John while Amy rattled around in the kitchen. He was more relaxed now and rolled over onto his back and mewed at her. “What?” said Ana. “What d’you want?” She put a hand on his big fluffy tummy and rubbed it. And then he straightened himself out and gave himself a quick hard scratch behind the ears before climbing up on Ana’s lap and settling himself down for a snooze. Ana picked him up gently and took him to the sofa. She sniffed the top of his head while she carried him. He smelled of fresh air.

“Good Lord,” said Amy, coming back into the room with a tea tray, “will you look at that? He’s barely moved from that corner since I brought him back from the vet, and now look at him. He must sense it,” she said, “sense your relationship to at him. He must sense it,” she said, “sense your relationship to Bee. Milk? Sugar?”

Ana rubbed John’s neck and chin as Amy poured tea, and he purred loud and hard. “So—what can I do for you?” She passed Ana a minuscule teacup of bone china so thin it felt like fiberglass.

“Well, we’ve had the coroner’s report back on Bee, and it’s official, I’m afraid. Suicide.”

Amy gasped and clutched her chest.

“And we—me and Bee’s friend—well, we’ve found out why. Something really traumatic happened to her—about fifteen years ago.”

“Traumatic?”

“Yes. I’d rather not say what it was, but it explains everything. And the thing is, now that everything’s final, I just really wanted to do something. Something special for Bee.

And I know she’d think that she didn’t deserve it. But it seems that everyone else—even those she hurt—feels she deserves it. So I wanted to organize a wake. A funeral. For Bee. You know, a proper funeral, with music and people and wine and tears. Because, did you know, there were only three people at her real funeral? Three.”

“How awful.”

“Isn’t it? So. Would you come? If I organized it?”

“What a good idea. Of course I’d come. Will there be lots of young men there, d’you think?”

Ana smiled at her. “Yeah,” she said, “actually there probably will be.”

“Well then—count me in. What are you planning?”

“I’m not sure really—I was hoping that maybe you could give me some advice? You must have been to loads of funerals. Oh—sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Ana. You’re right. I’ve been to more funerals than I’d like to consider. And they’re all different, you know. Each one unique. But Bee—well, hers would be something
very
special. Very special indeed.” They chatted until early afternoon, when Ana looked at her watch and realized it was time to go if she was going to get anything done that day. She gently heaved the still-slumbering John from her lap and let him flop onto the sofa, where he stretched himself out, made a funny little noise, and then slipped back into sleep. “What are we going to do about him?” Ana asked.

“Well,” said Amy, smiling brightly, “don’t you think that John might be rather happy in Devon? Maybe you could adopt him, take him back home?”

Ana’s face fell. The thought of home just made her want to give up living altogether. Made her break out in a cold sweat. Made her—oh my God—made her feel exactly how Bee had always said she felt about going back home after she had come to live in London. She gulped and shook her head.

“Well,” she said, “I haven’t really decided anything yet. Would it be all right just to leave him with you until the funeral, until I can decide what I’m going to do?” Amy looked at her playfully. “You’ve no intention of going home, have you?”

Ana looked startled. “Of course I have,” she began, “I just . . .”

“Oh come on now, you can’t fool me. I can tell you’ve given your heart to this city, haven’t you? You’re not going home now. You’ve come too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, last time I saw you you were on a day trip. You had that mentality. All dressed up in your sister’s clothes.

Drinking champagne. Playing out a role. But now you’re a person in your own right, aren’t you?”

Ana’s stomach flipped over and a blush crept up her face.

Amy was right. She
was
a person in her own right. For the first time in her life, Ana felt as if she had an identity. Her own identity. Nothing to do with her mum or Bee or Hugh.

But to do with her. Ana Wills. She beamed at Amy and got to her feet.

“Well,” said Amy, heading toward the front door, “I really hope you’ll be able to persuade your poor mother to conquer her terrible fears and make it to the funeral. It would be a tragedy if she missed it. And you know, I think it would be more harmful for her in the long run if she didn’t make the trip.” She looked poignantly at Ana.

Ana felt her breath catch. She hadn’t even
considered
her mother. But Amy was right. She couldn’t plan an event like this without trying her hardest to get her mother to attend. It was another chapter in Bee’s damaged life story that needed closing. She nodded. “I’m going to see what I can do,” she said.