Chapter 19
A pool of letters lay on the doormat. Bee leaned down to gather them up and quickly let John drop to the floor when she saw an envelope addressed to her – in her mother’s handwriting.
Bee hadn’t heard from her mother since Gay had written to tell her that she was contesting Gregor’s will.
That was nearly ten years ago now. This had to be something pretty serious.
She ripped at the Basildon Bond tissue-lined envelope and pulled out the neatly folded little letter, handwritten on heavy blue paper.
‘Dear Belinda,’ it began,
I shouldn’t suppose that the following news is of very much interest to you but I thought it only polite to inform you that my beloved Bill passed away on Sunday.
It was fast and relatively painless and he had a good, healthy, long and happy life.
I should count my blessings, but can’t help feeling robbed and very, very bitter.
First Gregor, then you (you may as well be dead) and now my wonderful, wonderful Bill.
My life really is one long tragedy … The funeral is to be held on Thursday at St Giles (Bill always loved that church and he got on so well with Father Boniface) but I don’t suppose you’ll have any interest in attending. Still – I thought you should know.
Your mother,
Gay
Bee collapsed on to the bottom stair and clutched the two sides of her dressing-gown together over her chest. Ana, she thought immediately.
Poor Ana. Her mind filled with images of pale little Ana, with her knobbly knees and gawky features, sitting there during those dreadful family meetings in the Eighties, so quiet and perfectly behaved. And so much like her father.
She stared into the distance for a while, stroking John, absent-mindedly, trying to decide what to do.
It was Wednesday. The funeral was tomorrow.
She had nothing planned for tomorrow. She could go.
She could get on her bike and go. To Devon.
She could. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to imagine the scenario.
Tried to imagine standing there in the graveyard at St Giles, her mother dressed in head-to-toe Escada sobbing dramatically at her side, sad, lanky Ana on the other.
She imagined going back to Gay’s perfect townhouse on Main Street afterwards, the big, squishy sofas covered in huge jacquard cushions with glossy tassels that Bee happened to know had cost ￡8 5 each.
Wandering around disconsolately on expensive cream Wilton in the glow of fat-bottomed table-lamps.
Making polite, muted conversation around a coffee table covered in expensive little objects, tiny lumps of carved marble and beautiful engraved silver boxes that seemed to perform no function whatsoever other than to give her mother something extra to dust and polish and arrange.
Standing drinking sherry beside the huge open fire carved out of the wall, flanked by big baskets full of dried roses and shiny brass things for stoking the fire.
And remembering all the time her mother’s rage if any one of these pointless, spotless objects were moved by so much as a millimetre.
She tried to imagine her mother, moving from person to person, around her lovely home, dabbing daintily at her nose and soaking up the sympathy and the attention like a delicate sponge.
Gay had her own personal fan-club in Torrington, people who could see no bad in her.
People who thought she was an angel. People who truly believed her claim that her charmed life had been ‘one long tragedy’.
And then she tried to imagine what it would be like after all the villagers had left, when the canapés had been cleared away and the caterers had packed their van up and it was just her and her mother and Ana.
And she would have to speak her mind. She knew it.
‘You didn’t deserve that man,’ is what she’d have to say, ‘he was too good for you and you treated him like shit, like you were ashamed of him. You never appreciated him while he was alive and now he’s dead all you’re interested in is milking the situation for your own benefit, for the attention.
Exactly like you did with Gregor. You fucked me up and now you’re fucking up poor Ana.
You make me sick.’ That’s what she’d say.
And every word would be true. Which was why she couldn’t go.
She couldn’t do that to her mother. Not at her husband’s funeral. It wasn’t the right time.
Bee picked up John and went back up to her flat. Ed was just emerging from the bedroom, scratching at his cropped, silver hair and yawning.
‘Thought you’d been abducted by aliens,’ he said, heading towards the kitchen.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I got some bad news. In the post.’
‘What sort of bad news?’ Ed’s disembodied voice came from the kitchen, where Bee could hear the click of the fridge door being opened.
‘It’s my stepfather. He died.’
‘I didn’t know you had a stepfather.’ Ed emerged clutching a carton of orange juice and a cold sausage.
‘Uh-huh. My mother’s second husband. Ana’s dad. He was very old.’
‘So – are you going to the funeral?’
She shrugged. ‘I should,’ she began, ‘for Ana’s sake. But I really, really don’t think I can face it.’
‘What. Your mother?’ He put the sausage in his mouth and left it there.
‘Yeah. My Mother. But Ana, too. I feel so bad about Ana. For Ana. She’s going to be so alone and I really want to see her, so badly. But I’m scared, because I’ve got no idea what to say to her. I mean – where do you start, after ten years?’
‘Why don’t you just write her a letter or something?’ He scratched his arse with his spare hand and wandered back into the bedroom, leaving an aroma of bedsheeted-man in his wake.
A letter, thought Bee. That wasn’t a bad idea. She showered and breakfasted and saw Ed off at the door at eight o’clock.
‘You off to Broadstairs this weekend?’ he asked, while he adjusted his tie and switched on his mobile phone.
‘Uh-huh. I’ll be back early Sunday, though. D’you fancy coming over? We can get a late dinner.’
‘Er – I’m not sure. I’ll have to check.’
‘With who? Tina’s not around.’
‘Well – she might be. Her flight’s due in on Monday morning, but you know what she’s like. If she can get an earlier flight, she will. I’ll check. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Bee, a pout forming on her plump lips. ‘But try, won’t you? Please.’
He kissed her forcefully on the lips and smiled at her. ‘I always try, Bee. You know that. Have a good weekend, OK, and send my love to Zander.’
Bee sighed as the door closed behind him and she heard his footsteps taking the stairs, two at a time, running away from her and towards his other life – his real life.
And then she made herself another mug of Earl Grey and walked to the desk in the window.
She lit a cigarette and searched around in the drawers and filing trays.
Paper. Writing paper. She must have some writing paper somewhere.
She finally found some old bits of loose A4.
She placed one in front of her and picked up a blue rollerball.
The sun shone through the window and across the paper, making it look very white and very empty.
She hadn’t written a letter for ages. How the hell did you write a letter anyway?
Jesus. She went to the kitchen and made herself some toast.
Then she fed the cat.
Then she filed her nails.
Then she opened the rest of her mail and made a couple of phonecalls. Then she took the rubbish out and had a little chat by the trees in the sunshine, with Wendy the Reflexologist.
And then it was nearly lunchtime. So she made herself some more toast.
And then she went back to the desk, where the sheet of paper stared blankly at her.
She sat down and eyed the paper up. She didn’t like this paper.
She wanted to use nice paper. She pulled on some sandals and a pair of sunglasses, slicked some deodorant under her arms and headed for the stationer on Haverstock Hill – where she spent nearly half an hour looking at their small selection of writing paper.
She finally settled on a pad of silky mauve paper with contrasting burnt orange envelopes.
And she bought a ‘With Sympathy’ card, with a picture of a single white lily on the front.
By the time she’d done a bit of shopping, bought herself some flowers and picked up her dry-cleaning it was nearly three in the afternoon.
She made herself another mug of Earl Grey, lit another fag, spread out her mauve paper and stared at the blank sheet in front of her.
And she stared at it and she stared at it and she stared at it.
‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed jumping to her feet in frustration.
‘Why is this so fucking difficult?’ But she knew exactly why it was so difficult.
This was Ana she was writing to, little Ana.
Little Ana who was now big Ana, big Ana who had a life and a job that she knew nothing about.
Little Ana who she’d effectively abandoned twelve years ago when she’d fallen out with her mother.
Little Ana who she’d never bonded with. Little Ana who was her sister, for God’s sake.
Her only sister. It wouldn’t be enough just to write a line of condolence.
Ana deserved more. An explanation. A background.
Some history. She picked up her pen and finally started writing.
After she’d finished, she read it through about thirteen times before finally folding it into a square and slipping it inside the ‘With Sympathy’ card.
It was heavy, she knew that. But it needed to be.
There was no point being half-hearted about it.
Anything else would have sounded trite, would have sounded like the Bee that Ana probably remembered from those awful meetings, the preening, shallow, ambitious Bee.
The Bee who thought she didn’t need anyone who couldn’t further her career.
The Bee who was more concerned with impressing the trendy people she used to surround herself with than the feelings of her gangling, awkward adolescent sister.
The Towering Twiglet. That’s what she used to call her.
And laugh. Out loud. Bee blushed at the mere thought.
Poor Ana. And she was probably stunning now, she thought.
Twenty-five years old and with legs up to here and those amazing yellowy-hazel eyes.
She addressed the envelope and licked a stamp and took the letter down to the box on the corner.
Post it now. Before she had a chance to change her mind.
And then she went back to her flat and made herself a margarita and waited for the evening to wear itself out so that it would be tomorrow.
The day that Ana got the letter. The day that something might change and something good might happen.
Maybe. For the first time in years she had something to look forward to.
Maybe. A letter from Ana. Maybe. Or a phonecall.
A chance to put something right. She’d done it with Zander.
Made things right with Zander. Maybe she could make things right with Ana, too.
Maybe.