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1× transparent plastic Oral B toothbrushvery good condition

1× interspace toothbrushgreen

1× tube smoker’s toothpastesqueezed in middle

1× bottle Listerine mouthwashnearly full

1× Boots own-brand dental flossopen

1× OK magazine—Patsy Palmer on coverdated January 7, 2000

1× Hello magazine—Ronan Keating on coverdated June 8, 2000

1× large chrome ashtrayfull

3× houseplantsdead

1× box matchesPizza Express

1× box matchesVasco and Piero’s Pavilion

1× box matchesTitanic Bar and Grill

1× box pessaries (for thrush)half full

1× pessary applicator

1× tube Canestenused

1× Jolen Creme Bleach

1× box mixed fabric plastershalf empty

Ana failed to find any clues to her sister’s state of mind among these objects—all they told her was that Bee was a woman who liked to read trashy magazines on the toilet, signifying prolonged, possibly masculine-style bowel movements (which Ana found quite disturbing, as she’d never really thought of Bee—in much the same way as the Queen and Claudia Schiffer—as the going-to-the-toilet type), and that she was very conscious of oral hygiene, although not so concerned, it would appear, with other aspects of her physical health—as indicated by the presence of a full ashtray on the side of the bath. She was not green-fingered and suffered from thrush, unwanted facial hair, and somewhat heavy periods. She was also, it seemed, not a big believer in rinsing out the bath after use, as demonstrated by a small cluster of curly black hairs clinging to the grimy tidemark that ringed the bath.

Ana stared at them for a while. Bee’s pubes. Bits of Bee. A sudden and painful reminder of why Ana was there. Bee was dead. Her sister was dead. And nobody could tell her why. All the evidence pointed to suicide but, for whatever reason, a tragic accident seemed somehow the more palatable option. When Bee went to bed that Friday night, had it occurred to her that she wouldn’t wake up the next morning? When she brushed her teeth that night, had she known that she’d never see her reflection again? Had she moved around the flat before she went to her bedroom, saying goodbye to things because she knew she was going, or was it just another Friday night, a late night, too much to drink, staggering around trying to get ready for bed, reaching for the sleeping pills when she couldn’t nod off, grabbing the painkillers when her hangover kicked in, not thinking what she was doing?

Maybe she was here now, a soul in limbo, watching Ana packing away her things and wondering what the fuck she was doing. Ana often had this really strange thought when famous people died untimely deaths—the thought that they didn’t know that they were dead, that no one had told them. She imagined Diana on that Sunday morning in 1997, coming down for breakfast and reading the headlines, switching on the TV and seeing pictures of the mangled Mercedes in the underpass, the photos of Henri Paul, the CCTV of her and Dodi leaving the Paris Ritz and thinking no, no, no and… Ana sighed and got to her feet. She really was a very morbid, very weird person sometimes. And she really did think all sorts of peculiar thoughts.

She moved to the kitchen, and into a second box, or in some cases, into the bin, went the following:

1x copy of How to Eat by Nigella Lawsonpristine, untouched, signed with a handwritten inscription saying “To my best friend, who sometimes needs reminding, with love from Lol”

1x glass bowl of lemonsgreen fur in places

2x chrome cocktail shakers: one small, one largesticky residue at bottom of both

1x bottle of Jose Cuervonearly empty

1x bottle of triple secnearly empty

1x bottle of Absolut vodkanearly full

1x bottle of Bombay Sapphire ginunopened

1x bottle of Tabasco saucehalf full

1x bottle of Worcestershire saucetwo-thirds full