Chapter 24
Zander was sitting at his computer, and spun around in his chair when he heard the door go. He grinned at her. He looked quite sweet when he smiled.
‘This is getting better and better,’ he said, happily.
‘What on earth was all that about?’ she asked, angrily. ‘How dare you go around telling people I’m your mother?’
‘Well,’ said Zander, ‘how dare you go around telling people you’re my aunt?’
‘I am …’
‘No you’re not. And I’ve got the evidence to back it up now, thanks to our smarmy TV producer friend.’
‘What do you mean?’ Bee perched on the arm of a chair.
‘Recognize this?’ he turned back to his computer and hit a button.
Nothing happened for a while, and then some music started playing. Zander shut his eyes and swayed his head as the intro began. Bee recognized it immediately. Of course. It was her song. It was ‘Groovin’ for London.’ It was Groovin’ for fucking London.
‘Where the fuck …?’
‘Aah,’ said Zander, ‘the wonders of modern technology.’ He turned and fiddled with his mouse for a while. ‘Recognize this, too?’
It was ‘Space Girl’, her shockingly bad second single.
‘But where …?’
‘WAV files. I just downloaded them from the net.’
Bee looked at him blankly. She knew absolutely nothing about computers.
‘Techno-bimbo?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You? Are you a techno-bimbo? I.e., is your experience of digital communication limited to thumbing through the Yellow Pages for dress shops?’
She looked at him blankly again.
‘Look,’ he said, moving slightly so that she could share his view of the monitor. ‘I ran a search for Bee Bearhorn and it brought up all these results.’
‘And what are all these?’
‘They’re websites.’ Zander clicked on his mouse twice, and the screen changed.
Slowly, line by line, a picture emerged.
It was Bee. A publicity picture taken at the height of the campaign for ‘Groovin’.
’ Some graphics popped up underneath, THE UNOFFICIAL BEE BEARHORN SITE in huge sparkly disco letters.
‘Hmmm,’ said Zander, rubbing at his chin and turning from the screen to Bee and back again. ‘Looks a lot like you, wouldn’t you say? Except obviously, you look a lot older than her.’
Bee slanted her eyes at him – he really did know exactly how to get to her.
‘Yes, in the time it took you to smoke a fag …’
‘How …?’
‘I can smell it on your breath – you stink, d’you know that?
Like a dirty old ashtray. Anyway – in the time it took you to smoke a fag and take another minute off your already curtailed life expectancy, I have managed to discover everything there is to know about Bee Bearhorn.
’ He started scrolling down the screen. ‘Yes – let me see. Born in 1964, in Devon. Only daughter of Gay and Gregor Bearhorn. You moved to London in 1979 when you were fifteen years old and soon found yourself absorbed into London’s burgeoning club scene.
I believe you were some thing of a ‘wild child’.
You founded a few bands from the years 1979 to 1984, mainly New Wave, New Romantic and punk bands, all of which disappeared without trace.
But you were disgustingly ambitious and never gave up.
In 1985 you sent a demo tape of one of these bands, The Clocks – g-reat name by the way – love it’ – he winked at her and she gave him the finger – ‘to Dave Donkin at Electrogram Records. He liked you but not the other greebos in the band, so you abandoned them and were signed up as a solo artist. What a sweetheart you are. This was about the time that you adopted your trademark black bob.’ He threw her a disparaging look.
‘What happened to that then?’ he asked, pointing at her hair.
‘It looked fucking stupid so I got rid of it.’
‘Hmmm. So. Your first single “Groovin’ for London” was released in October 1985 and spent five weeks at number one, before being toppled by “The Power of Love” by Jennifer Rush.
The single sold in excess of 750,000 copies.
Realizing that there was more money to be made in the songwriting side of things than the poncing-about-wearing-stupid-clothes-and-miming-on-Top-of-the-Pops side of things, you rejected your label’s suggested song for your second single and insisted on using one you’d written yourself.
It was called “Space Girl”. It made number thirteen in the charts in March 1986 and sold around 150,000 copies.
Your third, also self-penned single, “Honey Bee” was released in July 1986, got to number 48 and sold 24,000.
Electrogram Records promptly dropped you, and your pop career came to a grinding halt.
‘Still. It wasn’t all dull, dull, dull after that, was it?
Your father, the revered theatre director Gregor Bearhorn, developed full-blown AIDS shortly after the disastrous flop that was “Honey Bee” and you devoted yourself full-time to caring for him in his dying days.
Gregor finally passed away in late 1988 and you inherited shedloads of money.
You eschewed all the traditional routes that ex-popstars take – no pantomime for you, no marrying a rich record producer or presenting on VH1.
You just … disappeared. Completely disappeared.
Probably to spend all your dad’s money. On cocaine or something, probably.
Or – if I’m to believe the ridiculous story you told the staff here to get a crack at me, to become a schoolteacher and decide that you were related to my dead mother. ’
Bee sighed. OK. Plan A had gone distinctly pear-shaped. And she didn’t have a Plan B. ‘Who writes this shit anyway?’ she said, gesturing dismissively at the screen.
‘This particular piece of shit was written by …’ – he scrolled down to the very bottom of the screen – ‘some sad loser called Stuart Crosby. He’s a “big fan” – he made the quotes with his fingers – ‘of yours, apparently. How sad is that? To be a ‘big fan’ of some has-been, one-hit-wonder old tart who no one’s heard of for more than a decade. Huh … People …’
Bee thought about slapping him. Round the face. Really hard. So that it left a big handprint. So that he’d start crying. Just like a big baby. God, she’d love to.
‘Anyway. I have a new theory about you now. You’re not my aunt.
And you’re not my mother. And, to be quite frank, I really don’t give a toss who you are.
My theory is that you’re just rich and lonely and feeling guilty about contributing nothing to this life, except a couple of mediocre – and I’m being kind when I say that – mediocre songs.
You’re just a shallow London ex-celebrity with a big gaping hole in your life.
And you want to do good. I also believe that it’s you who’s been sending me those big, anonymous postal orders every Christmas.
Ta for those by the way – they’ve been very useful.
’ He gestured at his PC and his TV and his Playstation.
‘Those are my theories, Miss Bee Bearhorn, and I don’t care whether I’m right or wrong, they’re the ones I’m working with. ’
Bee opened her mouth to argue with him but then shut it again when she realized that his theory was perfect. Just perfect. She let her shoulders slump forward in a gesture of acquiescence. She shrugged, sniffed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I haven’t really done much in my life to be proud of.’
He smiled at her triumphantly. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I think this might work. I like the idea of being your little project. I like that you used to be famous. I like that you haven’t got any kids of your own.
I like that you’re stinking rich. I like the fact that you’re guilty about your pointless existence and that you want to use me to assuage that guilt.
It’s all great stuff. It all puts me in a very comfortable and fortunate position. And I actually quite like you …’
Bee was gratified to note that the cocky little shit had the decency to blush. She was also surprised to feel a flush of pleasure in her own stomach.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘I’ll play along with this “aunt” thing. And you’ll play along with me. OK?’
Bee’s eyes turned to slits as she looked at him. ‘What?’ she said suspiciously, ‘what do you want from me?’
‘I want you to take me away from here.’
‘What!’
‘I’m serious. I want you to take me away from here. Not permanently or anything. Just now and then. You know.’
‘Where?’
Zander looked into Bee’s eyes for a moment, before turning around and wheeling himself towards the window.
‘To a house,’ he began, ‘somewhere small, cosy. Warm. Somewhere quiet. Near the sea. Somewhere with a garden. And a bird-table. Somewhere private. Somewhere where everybody doesn’t know my business.
I’ve been here for ten years,’ he said, turning to face her again, ‘do you realize that? Pretty much all my life. And the only place I’ve ever been is to hospital or on stupid daytrips with all the other cretins in this place.
And everyone stares at you when you’re out with that lot.
They think you’re just as stupid as everyone else.
And this place is very pleasant, I can see that.
My grandma chose this herself just before she died, and she went to see loads of places.
And this was definitely the best. It’s a nice building and they try to make things as nice as possible.
But it’s not a proper home, is it? I mean – is it?
I don’t want to sound like I feel sorry for myself, or anything, but I haven’t anyone.
No family at all. No one to take me out of here occasionally and make me feel …
special. I want my own life. A special little private life. Away from here. D’you see? Do you?’
They stared at each other for a while. There was a vein throbbing in Zander’s temple, and his hands were clenched into fists. He’d dropped the facade, and for the first time since Bee had walked into his room, she felt that the real Zander was talking to her.
A smile played at the corners of her mouth.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘It’s not funny. What are you smiling at?’
She opened her lips and beamed at him. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look really cute when you’re begging?’ she said.
‘Oh, piss off, you old Pop Tart,’ he said, but he was smiling as he said it.