She shrugged. ‘I should,’ she began, ‘for Ana’s sake. But I really, really don’t think I can face it.’
‘What. Your mother?’ He put the sausage in his mouth and left it there.
‘Yeah. My Mother. But Ana, too. I feel so bad about Ana.ForAna. She’s going to be so alone and I really want to see her, so badly. But I’m scared, because I’ve got noidea what to say to her. I mean – where do you start, after ten years?’
‘Why don’t you just write her a letter or something?’ He scratched his arse with his spare hand and wandered back into the bedroom, leaving an aroma of bedsheeted-man in his wake.
A letter, thought Bee. That wasn’t a bad idea. She showered and breakfasted and saw Ed off at the door at eight o’clock.
‘You off to Broadstairs this weekend?’ he asked, while he adjusted his tie and switched on his mobile phone.
‘Uh-huh. I’ll be back early Sunday, though. D’you fancy coming over? We can get a late dinner.’
‘Er – I’m not sure. I’ll have to check.’
‘With who? Tina’s not around.’
‘Well – she might be. Her flight’s due in on Monday morning, but you know what she’s like. If she can get an earlier flight, she will. I’ll check. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Bee, a pout forming on her plump lips. ‘But try, won’t you? Please.’
He kissed her forcefully on the lips and smiled at her. ‘I always try, Bee. You know that. Have a good weekend, OK, and send my love to Zander.’
Bee sighed as the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps taking the stairs, two at a time, running away from her and towards his other life – his real life.
And then she made herself another mug of Earl Grey and walked to the desk in the window. She lit a cigarette and searched around in the drawers and filing trays. Paper. Writing paper. She must have some writing paper somewhere. She finally found some old bits of loose A4. Sheplaced one in front of her and picked up a blue rollerball. The sun shone through the window and across the paper, making it look very white and very empty. She hadn’t written a letter for ages. How the hell did you write a letter anyway? Jesus. She went to the kitchen and made herself some toast.
Then she fed the cat.
Then she filed her nails.
Then she opened the rest of her mail and made a couple of phonecalls. Then she took the rubbish out and had a little chat by the trees in the sunshine, with Wendy the Reflexologist.
And then it was nearly lunchtime. So she made herself some more toast.
And then she went back to the desk, where the sheet of paper stared blankly at her. She sat down and eyed the paper up. She didn’t like this paper. She wanted to use nice paper. She pulled on some sandals and a pair of sunglasses, slicked some deodorant under her arms and headed for the stationer on Haverstock Hill – where she spent nearly half an hour looking at their small selection of writing paper. She finally settled on a pad of silky mauve paper with contrasting burnt orange envelopes. And she bought a ‘With Sympathy’ card, with a picture of a single white lily on the front.
By the time she’d done a bit of shopping, bought herself some flowers and picked up her dry-cleaning it was nearly three in the afternoon. She made herself another mug of Earl Grey, lit another fag, spread out her mauve paper and stared at the blank sheet in front of her. And she stared at it and she stared at it and she stared at it.
‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed jumping to her feet in frustration. ‘Why is this so fucking difficult?’ But she knew exactly why it was so difficult. This was Ana she was writing to, little Ana. Little Ana who was now big Ana, big Ana who had a life and a job that she knew nothing about. Little Ana who she’d effectively abandoned twelve years ago when she’d fallen out with her mother. Little Ana who she’d never bonded with. Little Ana who was her sister, for God’s sake. Her only sister. It wouldn’t be enough just to write a line of condolence. Ana deserved more. An explanation. A background. Some history. She picked up her pen and finally started writing.
After she’d finished, she read it through about thirteen times before finally folding it into a square and slipping it inside the ‘With Sympathy’ card.
It was heavy, she knew that. But it needed to be. There was no point being half-hearted about it. Anything else would have sounded trite, would have sounded like the Bee that Ana probably remembered from those awful meetings, the preening, shallow, ambitious Bee. The Bee who thought she didn’t need anyone who couldn’t further her career. The Bee who was more concerned with impressing the trendy people she used to surround herself with than the feelings of her gangling, awkward adolescent sister. The Towering Twiglet. That’s what she used to call her. And laugh. Out loud. Bee blushed at the mere thought. Poor Ana. And she was probably stunning now, she thought. Twenty-five years old and with legs up to here and those amazing yellowy-hazel eyes. She addressed the envelope and licked a stamp and took the letter downto the box on the corner. Post it now. Before she had a chance to change her mind.
And then she went back to her flat and made herself a margarita and waited for the evening to wear itself out so that it would be tomorrow. The day that Ana got the letter. The day that something might change and something good might happen. Maybe. For the first time in years she had something to look forward to. Maybe. A letter from Ana. Maybe. Or a phonecall. A chance to put something right. She’d done it with Zander. Made things right with Zander. Maybe she could make things right with Ana, too.
Maybe.
20
‘Look what I found.’ Flint was standing in the living room of Bee’s cottage, triumphantly holding aloft a small mobile phone.
Lol threw down her slice of pizza and grabbed it from his hands. ‘That’s Bee’s phone,’ she cried, ‘where did you find it?’
‘In the storage compartment under the seat of her bike.’
‘God – I can’t believe she’d just have left it there – she was addicted to this sodding thing.’ She started tapping numbers into the phone until it beeped and lit up. ‘It’s still got some juice,’ she said, ‘let’s have a little look, shall we?’ She sat back down and Ana slid across the sofa to peer over her shoulder.
