Chapter 3 #2
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 packet 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 day-dream 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 on 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 pop stars 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 any more …
‘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 …’
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. Far too 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 when Bee’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 on dragging us out to these godforsaken towns and making us sit around in these awful places with 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 a baboon. 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 Ala?a dress, standing against a stark concrete backdrop in a dank Bristol multistorey 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 would you want 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.