Chapter 3
The Catacomb was a Goth club in the centre of Bristol.
Gay, Bill and Ana were here in the middle of the day – which was strange in itself, as it was a venue quite obviously not designed to be seen during daylight hours.
Ana could imagine that at night the purple velvet pinned to the walls, the towering candelabras full of molten church candles and the fluorescent rubber bats stuck to the ceiling might have made for quite an eerie atmosphere.
At two in the afternoon, however, the place looked scabby and naff.
‘Hi, Bill.’ Bee stretched on to her tiptoes and kissed Bill on the cheek, leaving a streak of oxblood lipstick on his cheek.
‘Hello there, Belinda – and don’t you look marvellous?
’ He held her hands and appraised her. She was wearing a skin-tight Lycra panelled dress that came almost up to her crotch, towering Vivienne Westwood platforms fastened with ribbons, and her sleek hair was greased back off her face.
She looked like one of the girls in the ‘Addicted to Love’ video.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, giving him a little curtsey, ‘and you’re looking rather lovely yourself, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Bill scoffed pleasurably.
‘Twiglet!’ Bee exclaimed, noticing Ana skulking behind her father. ‘How’s my skinny-minny?’
Ana smiled reluctantly and leaned down to kiss her big sister. ‘I’m all right,’ she murmured, feeling a blush forming on her face and shoving her hands into the pockets of the sensible twill skirt her mother had bought her from Long Tall Sally.
‘Jesus, you are getting so tall,’ she said, appraising Ana at arm’s length.
‘You’ll never find a boyfriend now, you know – men hate tall girls – they make them feel inadequate.
’ She winked, to let Ana know that she was only joking, but it was too late – her words had already left a brand on Ana’s fragile soul.
‘Mum,’ she said, turning to Gay, who was waiting impatiently in line, wearing her new green suit, ‘how are you?’
Gay offered up her cheek for Bee to kiss. ‘Tired,’ she said, ‘exhausted. The traffic. Terrible. And this heat.’ She flapped at her face with her hand, and Bill immediately strode off to find a chair for her.
Gay sat down primly on the chair that Bill had brought her and looked round the club with undisguised disgust. ‘And what,’ she began disdainfully, ‘could you possibly be doing in a place like this?’
‘Oh – don’t start, Mum. Please. I’ve had a bad week.
Can’t we just have a nice time for once?
This place belongs to a friend, OK? A very kind, very wonderful friend who has also lost someone to AIDS, who is about the only person who can make me smile at the moment and who I happen to be staying with tonight.
‘Bill,’ she said turning to her stepfather and clapping her hands together, ‘let me get you a drink. What would you like?’
‘Oh – just a soft drink for me, Belinda. I’m driving. A lemonade or something.’
‘Twiglet?’
Ana looked at her and shrugged. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, forcing a smile, ‘anything.’
‘Er, right – OK.’ Bee grimaced at her sideways and Ana felt herself die a little inside.
She never knew what to say to Bee. That was the trouble.
She was always worried she was going to say something stupid or embarrassing.
So she usually ended up saying nothing at all – which was just as bad, because then Bee just thought she was an illiterate cretin.
And Bee was so beautiful, thought Ana. Look at her.
Those huge eyes, framed by thick lashes.
And her tiny little nose. Ana would have quite happily killed for that nose.
Sometimes she’d play around in the mirror at home, trying to see what she’d look like with a little nose like Bee’s.
She’d already decided she was going to get a part-time job the moment she turned fifteen and she was going to save up every penny and have a nose job.
And when she did, she’d take in a picture of Bee and tell the surgeon, ‘I want that nose.’
And her breasts. Round and creamy, tucked into her tight Lycra dress.
Why? thought Ana, staring at them with a gut-churning envy, why?
Same mother. Same gene pool. Same chances of being petite and big-bosomed and pretty.
But no, she thought, looking resentfully at her father, I get to look like Bill Wills.
Bee handed Ana a can of Coke with a straw in it and smiled at her. Ana smiled back tightly.
‘How’s your father?’ Gay asked, in a tone of voice that suggested she was secretly hoping that Bee would say he was dead.
Bee sighed and leaned back against the chipped black bar. ‘Bad,’ she said, ‘very bad. He’s been talking about the hospice.’
‘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 towards 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 favourite 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 pop star – but she couldn’t play an instrument to save her life.
‘Cool,’ said Bee, pulling open a packet 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 colour 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 on 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 day-dreams.