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Ana bit her lip, unsure whether or not she should tell her mother what was going on. “Look, Mum. There’s all this weird stuff. About Bee. So we’re going down to the coast to see if we can find out what’s been happening…”
“We?”
“Yes. Me and Lol and Flint.”
“And who is Flint?”
“He’s another friend of Lol’s. I haven’t met him yet…”
“Ridiculous name. He sounds like a caveman. Anyway—everything’s arrived. All of Belinda’s things. They got here yesterday afternoon. But I’m a bit concerned that some of it might have gone astray. All Gregor’s furniture, for example. And her memorabilia. There doesn’t appear to be very much here.”
“No, Mum. That’s all there was. She didn’t have very much stuff.”
“I see. And the papers? What’s happening about the papers? I still haven’t seen anything, you know—not a thing.”
“Mum,” sighed Ana, “I hate to break this to you, but I don’t think anyone cares.”
“Of course they care. They’re obsessed, these days, the papers, obsessed with celebrity—any celebrity.”
“Yes, but Mum—Bee wasn’t a celebrity.”
“Of course she was.”
“No, Mum—she was an ex-celebrity. Nobody cares about ex-celebrities.”
“What—not even when they’re dead?”
“Not even when they’re dead.”
“Oh.”
“Look. Mum. This call’s going to cost a fortune. I’m going to go now.”
“Oh. I see. Will you… will you call me again? Soon?”
Ana felt herself softening as her mother’s pathetic, childlike side came out blinking into the open. “Of course I will. I’ll call you.”
“Good. Because I’m feeling rather low. About everything. I feel like I’ve lost everything. D’you understand? Everything. And now you’ve gone, too. And I’m all alone… all alone…”
“I’ll be back in a few days, Mum, I’ll…”
“… How you could do this to me, I just don’t know. It’s that city. That evil city. It sucks people in. It destroys people. It’s the devil’s own playground. It’s… oh God! I’m so alone, Anabella. I’m so entirely alone. I don’t know if I can cope. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I’m scared. I’m so, so scared. I can’t sleep at night, I can’t…”
“Take a pill, Mum. Just take a pill,” sighed Ana as her mother began to lose her austere façade and go into emotional meltdown. She always did this. She would start off with her lips pursed together like a drawstring bag, spitting out her words like bitter little fruit pips, and then, if that didn’t work, she’d let her face collapse into a tragic sack of despair and start talking about “how alone” she was. There was no middle ground. No point at which Ana could begin to communicate with her in a reasonable manner. She didn’t want to listen to this. She didn’t have to listen to this. She had more important things to worry about.
“Bye, Mum.”
“No. Anabella. Don’t go.”
“I’ll phone you in a couple of days.”
“No! Don’t. Stay on the line—I insist… I…”
Ana pulled the phone away from her ear but she didn’t put it down immediately. She listened first to the muted sounds of Gay softly sobbing as she replaced the receiver. And she knew what Gay was sobbing for. Not for Bee and not for Ana, but for herself. Because as long as Gay had had Ana upstairs in her bedroom being useless, then there was always going to be someone worse off than she was. And without Ana upstairs in her bedroom being useless, it was just Gay, a sad and lonely old woman, too chock-full of neuroses to go out her front door, who’d failed at everything she’d ever attempted, whose daughters couldn’t bear her and who was now, for the very first time in her life, all alone.
Ana imagined her mother there, alone, in her finely decorated home. She imagined the thud of the Telegraph landing on the doormat like it did every day, at nine on the dot. She imagined the smell of Gay’s peppermint tea, and the lopped-off tops of people’s heads passing by their front window on the way to the paper shop next door, and the sound of church bells on Sundays being carried on the breeze from St. Giles in the Wood.
It already felt alien, only two days into her absence. And then, as she lay there on Gill’s cream deckchair, drinking up the sun, she thought of last night, of her shiny hair and her snakeskin stilettos, her chiffon top and her gold clutch bag. She thought of her strong feelings for Lol and the way everyone had stared at them and the guy who came up and asked them if they were both models. She thought of holding on to Lol’s arm in the midnight breeze, of giggling together and singing “Groovejet (If This Ain’t Love)” together at the tops of their voices, until a blond woman in a satin camisole top opened a window and shouted at them to shut the fuck up. She thought of the minicab that picked them up at one in the morning, driven by a guy from Serbia with enormous brown eyes, who showed them pictures of his little daughters and his beautiful wife and explained how he was staying in a hostel with sixty other men, sharing a room with five, some of whom cried themselves to sleep every night, and how he was the lucky one because he could speak English and had a car. She thought of rolling down the window and feeling the warm night air billowing through her smoky hair and watching young Londoners reeling around the streets in denim jackets and midriff tops and dyed hair. She thought of going back to Lol’s little flat and watching her make a big fat spliff with oily pungent grass the likes of which she’d never seen in Devon and smoking it with her while they listened to Lol’s demo tapes, the sash window in the living room heaved wide open, letting in drifts of warm city air, and the occasional sounds of partygoers on their way home. She thought of how she’d started getting the spins and had sat with her head over the toilet for a few minutes before feeling normal again, and how Lol had laughed and called her a lightweight, and told her how ashamed Bee would have been and how she was going to have to toughen her up.
