Ana shrugged and smiled tightly. ‘Me, too.’
‘Flint was Bee’s driver back in the Eighties, when she was famous,’ said Lol.
‘Aaah,’ said Ana. She stared at Flint’s ears. They were surprisingly delicate for such a burly man.
‘Anyway,’ said Flint, leaning forward to find a button on his dashboard, ‘it’s too early for conversation for me, so I’ll leave you two girls to it. Keep your heels off the upholstery. Keep your hands off the champagne. Ashtrays are in the armrests. And give us a shout if you need a pitstop.’
‘Sure thing, Mister Flint,’ said Lol, and then the partition slid back across the car and it was almost as if Flint had never existed.
Lol turned to Ana. ‘Oh, bloody Nora,’ she said, a smile creeping across her face, ‘hark at the colour of you. You look like a fucking beetroot. But just forget about it, all right. That bloke might look like butter wouldn’t melt, but he’s a sly old bugger. Don’t fall for the act. OK?’
‘Jesus,’ said Ana, ‘that’s exactly what Gill just said, too. What is he? A serial killer?’
‘No,’ said Lol, ‘not a serial killer. He’s a serialshit.’
‘Well, anyway. He’s not my type, I can assure you.’
‘Good,’ said Lol, as she folded her long legs up under her and started fiddling with a pop-out tray in the inside door, ‘OK, then. What have we got here?’ She ran a fingertip across the surface of the mahogany-topped table and held it towards Ana. ‘A-ha! Colombia’s finest.’ A film of white powder clung to her skin. ‘Without fail,’ she said, wiping it off on her jeans, ‘every time I get in this car. God, Ihatethis stuff, I really do. I mean – is there such a thing as a celebrity who doesn’t do coke?’
‘Celebrities?’
‘Yup. That’s what Mister Flint there does for a living. Drives celebrities around.’
‘Really!’
‘Don’t sound so excited. He doesn’t even get to see them half the time. Just has to clear up all their coke and spunk and puke after they’ve gone.’
‘Ooh,’ grimaced Ana.
‘Exactly,’ said Lol, turning to face the window. ‘Oh. Look. We’re here already.’
Ana looked out of her window. They’d pulled up on the side of a grimy main road lined with electrical repair shops, minicab offices and West Indian bakeries, and were parked next to a large flower-stand.
‘Where are we?’ asked Ana.
Lol indicated a sign just behind her with her eyes. It was painted with the words ‘West London Crematorium’.
‘Is this where …?’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Lol, ‘thought you might like to say hello. And goodbye.’
Ana nodded slowly. She was going to see Bee’s grave. She hadn’t eventhoughtabout seeing Bee’s grave.
She bought a bunch of orange gladioli and then wondered if they were quite suitable. For a dead sister. Or for a dead popstar, for that matter. Did anyone leave gladioli for Diana? She’d never seen gladioli tied to railings or on the side of the road, either, come to think of it. Maybe they were all wrong. A floral faux pas. ‘They’re beautiful,’ said Lol, ‘orange was Bee’s favourite colour.’
‘Was it?’ said Ana. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ Lol nodded. ‘Well. One of them, any road.’
The two women began walking. ‘Isn’t Flint coming?’ whispered Ana.
‘No. Flint likes to do things like this alone. You know?’
Ana didn’t really know but nodded anyway. They were heading down a meandering gravel driveway, flanked by plane trees and cypresses. The sunlight dappled on to lush green grass. A few other people were here, too, clutching flowers. The graveyard stretched out in front of them for miles.
A crunching on the gravel behind them warned of an approaching car. They moved on to the grass and looked behind them. A funeral cortège. A coffin piled high with red roses and a large floral structure that spelled out the word ‘MUM’ lay in the back of the leading hearse. Lol put her hand to her heart and cast her eyes downwards, standing still until the entire procession of cars had passed them by. When Ana looked at her again her eyes were damp with tears. ‘Sorry,’ she sniffed, wiping them away, ‘I’m an emotional old bugger sometimes.’
Bee’s grave was to the west, in the shade of a sycamore.She lay between her father and a man called Maurice Gumm who’d been born in Tobago in 1931. Her grave was a flat marble plaque, flush to the grass, engraved with the wording that Ana’s mother had chosen:
