Page 6 of One-Hit Wonder

“Hospice?”

“Yes. The place in St. John’s Wood. You know.”

Gay nodded sagely and pursed her lips.

Ana took a slurp of her Coke and wondered what a hospice was.

“So, Twiglet,” said Bee, changing the subject and turning toward her, “what’ve you been up to?”

Ana shrugged. “Nothing much,” she said, “you know, just school and stuff.”

“How are the guitar lessons going?” Bee mimed strumming a guitar.

“Good,” said Ana, relaxing a little now that they were discussing her favorite thing in the world. “I just mastered the bar chord.”

Bee looked at her blankly and Ana felt a small stab of disappointment. She’d been hoping that Bee would have been impressed by her achievement—Bee was supposed to be the famous popstar—but she couldn’t play an instrument to save her life. “Cool,” said Bee, pulling open a pack of Camels and offering one to Bill, before slipping one out and lighting it. “And boys,” she said, winking at Ana, “tell me about boys.”

Oh God. Ana hated it when Bee did this—this teasing thing. A blush started percolating in her chest and rose steadily and hotly to her cheeks. “There’s nothing to tell,” she managed to stutter.

“Oh, come on now”—Bee exhaled a cloud of smoke—“you’re… what are you now? Thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Thirteen,” muttered Ana. “I’m thirteen.”

“Thirteen years old. You must be—you know—getting all hormonal about now. No? Getting a bit restless in the old downstairs department?”

Ana’s flush went up a few ratchets and she looked at her father desperately to rescue her from this humiliation, but he just smiled at her benignly as if to say, Isn’t she a hoot?

“Oh my God—look at the color of you!” shrieked Bee. “There must be something going on. Who is he? Go on—you can tell me—”

“No one,” muttered Ana hotly, “there’s no one.”

Bee grinned wickedly, licked her finger, and rested it against Ana’s cheek. “Szzzzz,” she hissed, and tossed her head back to laugh.

Ana pushed her hand away and grimaced at her. And then Bee turned to talk to Gay, her interaction with Ana officially over. That’s all it ever consisted of—a brief moment of humiliation before going back to more grown-up matters. Ana watched her as she chatted with Gay and Bill, about Gregor, about what she was going to do when he’d passed away, about her career, and she noticed that Bee seemed different somehow. There were circles under her eyes, her hair needed a trim, there was a small outbreak of spots around her mouth, and her body, although as lithe and firm and trim as ever, was sort of tired-looking—her shoulders slumped, her spine curved. And she was thinner. And she looked… older. Much, much older. Everything about her seemed forced, unnatural, like she was putting on a show.

Ana felt suddenly overcome by a desire to ask her how she was—how are you, Bee?—but she knew there was no way she’d ever ask her. Bee would just look at her like she was insane and say something to make her feel ridiculous for ever having considered her state of mind.

The guy washing glasses behind the bar, whose peroxide hair was interwoven with little purple tufts and who was wearing black lipstick and had a metal spike growing out of his eyebrow, handed Bee a cocktail. She picked it up, and as she brought it to her lips Ana noticed her hands shaking. Maybe she was having a nervous breakdown, she pondered. Ana had just found out about nervous breakdowns—everyone else seemed to be having them, particularly Americans. Or maybe she was on drugs. That made your hands shake, didn’t it? And it made your skin bad and made you lose weight and gave you circles under your eyes. Ana watched her sister, mesmerized. Was it possible, she thought, that Bee was a drug addict? It wouldn’t surprise her. There’d been one time, a couple of years ago, when they’d been to see Bee in Swindon and she’d smoked marijuana—in front of them! Ana had thought it was just a funny-looking cigarette at first, and then she’d noticed that it smelled really weird, and then her mother had said, “Belinda—I hope that’s not marijuana you’re smoking,” and Bee had said, “Don’t be stupid, it’s just a herbal cigarette,” and Gay had said, “Do you think I was born yesterday—I was alive in the sixties, you know—I know about these things.” Bee had just raised an eyebrow at her and handed the “cigarette” on to some bloke who was wearing a dress. And they said, didn’t they, that smoking pot could lead to other things—harder drugs—like heroin. A shiver ran down Ana’s spine as she pictured Bee lying on a concrete floor in a windowless council flat, sticking a syringe into her arm. Ana might live in a sleepy, middle-class Devon town, she mused, but she’d seen Made in Britain. She knew a bit about how the world worked…

The conversation between Bee and Gay was becoming predictably fractious, and Ana pulled herself from her daydreams.

They were talking about this “hospice” that Gregor was apparently going to be staying in. Ana presumed it was a kind of hospital. Bee had finished her cocktail and banged the empty glass down on the bar in response to something Gay had just said. “It’s all about you, you, you, isn’t it, Mum? My father is dying, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yes,” sniffed Gay, “and whose fault is that? Hmm?”

Bee pulled another cigarette from the pack and began pointing it at Gay like a fencing foil before sticking it in her mouth and allowing Bill to light it for her. “You make me sick. D’you know that?”

Ana gulped. It didn’t matter how many times this happened, it always got to her. And it didn’t matter how many times this happened, she always expected the next time to be different. She’d daydream for weeks in advance about these meetings. This time, she’d think to herself, Mum will be in a really good mood and she won’t start in on Bee, and we’ll all get along really well, and me and Bee will talk. And this time I’ll make Bee laugh and tell her funny stories about school and show her how well I can play guitar, and she’ll tell me stories, too, about famous popstars and Top of the Pops and first-class flights to New York. And this time we’ll all go out for lunch somewhere, and I’ll have a glass of wine and we’ll have fun, and when we get into the car to go home we’ll all hug Bee and she’ll look really sad to see us go. And this time Bee will say, “Why don’t I come home next time? Why don’t I come and stay at Main Street? And then we can have a proper time together and take Tommy for a walk and wear sloppy socks and cook together.” And then, thought Ana, maybe I won’t feel so lonely anymore…

“Look—can we just change the subject, Mum. I really can’t take your shit at the moment.”

“Oh yes, of course. It must be terribly hard for you having to cope with all your father’s money and his enormous house…”

“It’s not a house—it’s a flat.”

“… 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 a teacher’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 being me, Belinda…”

“Oh God.” Bee slapped her forehead in frustration. “Bill,” she beseeched, “how do you put up with this? Why do you put up with this? Run away,” she teased, “run away now…”