‘ … and having nothing to do all day long. You wait – one day you’ll be my age, then you’ll understand what it’s like to have a hard life. Imagine – surviving on ateacher’s pension.’ She spat out the words and flicked a spiteful look at Bill. ‘Imagine not being able to go shopping for designer clothes whenever you feel like it. Imagine beingme,Belinda …’
‘Oh God.’ Bee slapped her forehead in frustration. ‘Bill,’ she beseeched, ‘how do you put up with this?Whydo you put up with this? Run away,’ she teased, ‘run away now …’
Bill smiled at her impotently and scratched the back of his neck. Ana stared at Bee desperately, drinking her Coke,trying to send her telepathic messages that she was on her side and wishing more than anything that Bee and her mother could be friends so that she could actually enjoy these rare, precious afternoons with the glamorous big sister she barely knew.
‘You look terrible. Your skin. Have you been taking your make-up off at night?’
‘Yes, Mum, I’ve been taking my make-up off at night. I’m just stressed, that’s all.’
‘That dress. I can almost see your breakfast. Don’t you ever think about the impression you give people, Belinda? I mean – I’m your mother. I know you’re a good girl. But other people. Well – they might just get the – wrong idea.’
‘Oh. Great. Now my mother is telling me that I look like a hooker. Jesus.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and turned to face the spiky-eyebrowed man behind the bar. ‘Can I have another one, Tarquin?’ She slid her empty glass towards him. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’
‘And you drink far too much, Belinda.Fartoo much. Do you know what all that alcohol will do to your skin by the time you’re my age? It’ll suck you dry – desiccate you – you’ll look haggard by the time you’re thirty. You’ll look like Katie Dewar’s mother – believe me.’
And so it went, on and on and on. Bee’s hair gel was going to kill the shine, her shoes would damage her spine, if she lost any more weight she’d get osteoporosis. Her posture was terrible and as for the ‘horrible London accent’ she was developing …
They left the Catacomb two hours later, having managed a few bursts of civilized conversation, particularly whenBee’s friend who owned the club had dropped by to say hello. Gay had been charm personified when Jon, a tall man with dyed black hair, pointy little sideburns, tight black jeans and a leather jacket with fringed sleeves, had introduced himself. For a while the conversation had been lively and friendly and Ana had sat on her bar stool, sipping her Coke and basking in it. But then Jon had left and the atmosphere had turned sour within moments.
Bee walked with them to the car park where they’d left the car. As they walked, every single man they passed looked at Bee. Every single one. Young, old, black, white, thin and fat. Proper, head-turning, walking-into-lamp-posts looking. Ana watched in awe as her sister kept walking, completely unfazed by the amount of attention she was getting, her bum still swaying from side to side, a cigarette burning nonchalantly between the fingers of her right hand. Ana just couldn’t imagine ever, ever, ever being on the receiving end of so much undisguised male desire. What power Bee had. What must it be like?
The atmosphere was one of distinct relief as Bill unlocked the doors of his car and everyone said goodbye and pretended that the last three hours hadn’t actually been a social form of water torture.
‘Maybe next time,’ said Bee, grinding her cigarette out on the concrete of the car park, ‘we can try to be a little bit more pleasant to each other. I’m exhausted right now, Mum. I’m looking after Dad round the clock. I’d really like it if we could just all try to, you know, get along.’
‘Yes, well,’ began Gay, lowering herself, with Bill’s help, into the passenger seat, ‘maybe if you didn’t insist ondragging us out to these godforsaken towns and making us sit around in these awfulplaceswith all these strange people, it would be a little easier for me to relax.’
Bee’s face softened for a second, and she leaned into the passenger window. ‘Maybe,’ she sighed, ‘maybe you’re right. Maybe next time I’ll come to Exeter. How about that? And you can choose where to go. We could have tea at Dingle’s. What d’you say?’ She smiled wryly.
‘Hmm,’ said Gay, ‘we’ll see. And for God’s sake, stand up straight, will you? Standing there with your bum sticking out in the air like ababoon.With all your bits showing, no doubt, in that dress.’
Bee smiled defeatedly but with a certain amount of amusement and straightened herself out. ‘Bye, Mum, bye, Bill,’ she said, patting the side of the car. ‘Have a safe journey. I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.’ She peered into the back window and pulled a face at Ana. ‘Ta-ta, Twiglet,’ she said, ‘say hi to your boyfriend.’
And then, as Bill carefully manoeuvred the car out of the parking space and headed towards the exit, Bee turned around and sauntered away from them. Ana twisted in her seat to wave at her through the back window. Bee waved back enthusiastically, grinning her big, toothy grin. But as the car disappeared into the exit tunnel and Bee thought she was out of view, Ana saw her drop her hand, break off her smile and let her shoulders slump forward before turning and heading slowly towards the lifts.
And Ana’s last ever glimpse of her sister was of a beautiful woman in an Azzedine Alaïa dress, standing against a stark concrete backdrop in a dank Bristolmultistorey car park, who looked like life had knocked all the stuffing out of her.
Three weeks later Gay travelled down to London for Gregor’s funeral, leaving Ana and Bill at home with a very firm ‘Don’t be ridiculous – the place will be overflowing with homosexuals – why on earth wouldyouwant to come?’ She booked herself into Claridges, bought herself a new dress from Jaeger and had a hat specially made. She booked a minicab, packed an overnight case, filled the fridge with enough meals for about a week, made a complete fuss about leaving and then came back ten hours later, in tears so hysterical that mascara almost dripped from the end of her nose.
Bee, apparently, had kicked her out of the crematorium, during the service. Physically. Using her hands – she’d shown them the muted bruising on her upper arms. And in front of everyone. Called her a bitch. Said she never wanted to see her ever again. Or Bill and Ana for that matter. Said she was disowning her family. Said she hated all of them, that she was ashamed of them.
There was no Bee, Gay had said, when a tearful Ana asked if she could call her. Bee, she said, no longer existed. There never had been a Bee. And Ana had numbly, obediently, put Bee in a box marked ‘vague memories from my past’ – and left her there.
Ana had occasionally wondered about her sister, looked for her blunt black bob and red-lipsticked mouth in the celebrity pictures in her mother’s trashy magazines. Gay had invited Bee to Bill’s funeral and Ana had stood at his graveside, her grief tempered by a sense of trepidationthat at any moment her mysterious sister might appear from behind a tree. But she hadn’t come and Ana had chalked it up as yet another disappointing moment in her life. Bee did send Ana a card, however, with a photograph of a lily on the front. It didn’t say much – just ‘My thoughts are with you, all love, Bee.’ It was nice, but it was coolly polite, and Ana had meant to write back to say thank you and how are you and what’ve you been up to, but the bond between the two sisters was so slight and so flimsy that she’d just never got around to it. Ana always thought that she’d meet up with Bee again, one day, maybe go up to London for a weekend, hang out together. The age gap between them would have been less of an issue as Ana hit her twenties, and she was sure that Bee would have calmed down a bit, maybe got a proper job, maybe married, maybe even had a child or two. She imagined Bee meeting her at the station awash with perfume and Gucci, taking her to be pampered at a health spa and then to dinner at a posh restaurant run by Gordon Ramsay or that other chef bloke with the curly hair and the double-barrelled surname, and maybe taking her out to Bond Street the following day and insisting on buying her something disgustingly expensive from a designer clothes shop. It would have been a pleasant weekend, and Ana would have enjoyed the diversion, but when it came to an end the two women would have hugged and smiled kindly but sadly at each other, because they’d both know there was no friendship to be had, no bond to be formed, and that they’d probably not bother seeing each other again. Because, really, they’d have nothing in common.
But now even that sad little scenario was impossible. Because Bee had made the ultimate dramatic exit. She’d gone and died. At the age of thirty-six.
The police had paid a visit nearly three weeks ago to Gay’s handsome Devon townhouse. Bee’s body had been found on Tuesday afternoon by a Mr Whitman, the building’s porter, who’d let himself into the flat after a bad smell had been reported by the neighbours. He’d called Bee’s landlord, who’d called the police. Apparently she’d been wearing a silk dressing-gown and a diamond necklace.
The police had been unable to find a contact number for Gay at first, but after two days they’d finally managed to get through to Bee’s solicitor, who’d given it to them. Bee’s body had been formally identified by a Mrs Tilly-Loubelle, the next-door neighbour, who claimed to be on ‘quite friendly terms’ with her. Her body had been taken to St Mary’s Hospital, somewhere in central London, and was currently subject to an investigative autopsy, the results of which would not be made available for a few weeks.
‘How come it took so long for anyone to find her body?’ Ana had asked.
Gay had sniffed and shrugged. ‘It’s unthinkable, Anabella. That’s London for you, though. A heartless, uncaring city. It happens all the time. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.’
‘Butfour days,mum. And over a weekend, too. Bee always had so many friends, she always had so many people around her. I don’t understand.’ There’d been a moment’s silence while Ana arranged the words of her next question in her head.
‘Did she – did she kill herself? D’you think?’
