by Louise Beech
He sat on the bed, mistaking my frown for reluctance, for being afraid and wanting out before we’d begun. ‘I read it in that weird book of yours.’
I followed his gaze to the Harland Grey book on the bedside table. I’d had it two weeks now. I’d shown Tom the curious note inside the cover – whispered the words Stella, this will tell you everything to him – and asked if he had left it at the radio station, even though the handwriting was nothing like his. He had shaken his head, suggested maybe I had a stalker.
I didn’t have much time to read, but I was a few chapters into it then, hoping for clues as to why it had been left for me. Grey had strangled twenty-one-year-old Rebecca March on camera. The moment – in close-up – had featured in the film In Her Eyes and was almost released in the UK. Then he was caught and imprisoned.
I still had no idea why anyone would leave me such a book.
Or what the note meant.
And now, with a girl having been found in an alley dead, I wasn’t sure I would read any more. It was downright creepy to have received it just two weeks before this shocking murder.
‘You’ve been reading it?’ I asked Tom.
‘You seemed so caught up in it – I had to look myself.’
I ran my fingers over his dark, stubbled chin as though to sharpen my senses. ‘Are you sure you didn’t leave it there just so you could suggest weird stuff to me?’ I said evenly, though my heart fluttered inside my chest. ‘And do I need to worry about what you’re doing with those dead bodies at work?’
Tom smiled, shook his head. ‘You know what I love about you, Stella? How brave I can be with you.’
He looked vulnerable then. Sad even. I sometimes think he’s more afraid of his light than his darkness – that he has to keep up the bravado of being adventurous when really he would like to be tender with me.
‘I’d never hurt you,’ he said, ‘but that scene in the book made me think that you being totally out of it during sex would be hot. I don’t know if it’s even a thing. But when I think of you … lying there, as helpless as anyone can be…’ He squeezed my arm. ‘I’m not even saying we should try it, I’m just saying it excites me.’
I didn’t say anything. I loved the thought of exciting him. Keeping him that way. Keeping him. It surpassed any fear of a game called playing dead.
‘How do you think we could play it?’ Tom asked.
He wanted me to answer, so I didn’t. This was how I took over the game.
‘Shall I make us something to eat?’ I suggested.
I hoped he would go on talking. I love Tom’s voice. He can say the ugliest thing and it sounds like something from the Bible or a great poem. When he said play dead it was like he had suggested we eat some exotic food. His mouth follows his heart more than anyone I know.
‘Now I know you’re interested,’ said Tom.
‘And how do you know that?’
‘Because you’re changing the subject.’
‘No,’ I said, getting up. ‘I have to go to work soon and I’m hungry.’
We ate together and listened to the radio and talked about the roof tiles. The reheated news came on at eight and Tom said very softly that the family of the girl in the alley must surely be wondering where she was now, twenty-four hours later.
‘Maybe they’ve been told about the murder now.’ The words caught in my throat. ‘That was just a repeat of the news at noon.’
‘Maybe.’ He paused. I waited. Watched him. ‘I’d know,’ he said.
‘Know what?’ I asked.
‘Know if something had happened to you.’
‘You didn’t know when that weirdo was hanging about near the radio and I had to call you to walk me home.’
‘That just looked like some kid in a hoodie,’ he laughed. ‘You could probably take him.’
‘And what would you do if someone had killed me in an alley?’ I asked softly.
‘Kill them,’ Tom said, without pause.
He held my gaze. His eyes misted. He got up and stood behind me and held me to him until I could barely breathe. I loved it. The intensity of his need. The feeling that he would never, ever abandon me.
Neither of us talked about playing dead again that evening.
Then I went to work and played people’s lives.
5
ELIZABETH
THEN
I was hurting when I had Stella. Not just the way all labouring mothers hurt. Not just because of the contractions and the tearing and stretching. I hurt in my heart. I was angry that I was doing it alone. That the man I loved wasn’t at my side, holding my hand, telling me to breathe slowly and promising me it would all be okay. Even if I’d told him I was pregnant, he wouldn’t have been at the birth. He wasn’t father material.
I wasn’t really mother material either.
And then Stella arrived, all wrong.
The scans had told me she was lying transverse in my womb, but the midwife said I was young, and that I could still deliver normally. Breech deliveries were tricky but possible, she said. Stella’s feet emerged first, so that the worst pain came at the end of her expulsion, not at the beginning, like for most mothers. I screamed as her head completed the journey.
I screamed at the unfairness of it.
Then the midwife put her in my arms and told me she was a girl. I said I already knew. I hadn’t found out her sex, I’d just known. All along. Just as I knew she would change my life. Disrupt it, inconvenience it, bless it. She was a fighter; little red fists pushed open the blanket. She screamed the way I had giving birth to her.
One of my first feelings was disappointment: she was covered in mucus and blood, nothing like the clean, pink babies in films and soap operas.
I called her Stella. I had no names ready. But the next day, in the visitors’ waiting room, a black-and-white movie called Stella Dallas was on the TV. And that was that.
I took Stella home. Part of me wanted to leave her at the hospital. I was sure they would take better care of her than I could. I was young. Alone. This wasn’t what I’d expected my life to be. Only a year ago I’d been nineteen, cutting hair by day and partying at night, with the pick of the men. I’d only wanted one though. I only wanted him. The one who changed everything. The one I could never see again. Stella’s father.
None of my friends came to see me in those early, lonely weeks. They loved me when I was up for clubbing every night, when I styled their hair into glamorous waves before we went out. When I shared the phone numbers of the all men I knew. Once I had a screaming kid, no babysitter and no money, they disappeared. My only companion was frumpy Sandra from next door. She was a retired foster mum who made time to call around when she’d made pies, who fussed over Stella, who could quieten my screechy daughter with just a whisper.
Fuck them, I thought, when my friends didn’t ring.
I washed bottles, changed nappies and tried to smile at my newborn. Tried to meet her never-ending demands. Tried to hide my frustration and sadness. I decided there and then that the best thing I could teach Stella was to be self-sufficient. I could hardly do it by example, but I’d do it the hard way.
As soon as she was a toddler and didn’t need night feeds, I found a part-time hairdressing job, got frumpy Sandra to babysit for nothing, and started going out once more. Alone. To bars. I was stunning. My figure had sprung back, my hair was golden from days in the garden with Stella, and I wore the same skin-tight dresses I had before my pregnancy, with a slash of my favourite fire-engine-red lipstick.
Men flocked around me again. The simmering resentment at being alone dissolved. I could live on this. It would get me through motherhood. The warmth of this attention helped me get up in a morning to a noisy child who asked questions all day. It helped me do all the things that bored me: the cooking, the washing, the story-reading.
But it didn’t erase the face of the only man I had ever loved.
Stella’s father.
Who she would never know.
I would not s
hare his attention with anyone, not even our child.
She first asked me who he was when she was five and the kids at school had been talking about their daddies. Wanted to know why she didn’t have one. We all have them, I said. Some just don’t stick around. Some don’t need to know they have a child. Some aren’t good men, I thought, even if you love them so much that nothing tastes right and sleep evades you, and sometimes, just for a moment, you think your heart has stopped.
Stella asked again when she was seven. And then eight. Each time, I said that she had a dad; he just was the kind that was better out of her life.
I was that kind of mother too. But here I was anyway. Trying to be something that didn’t come naturally to me. Trying to love a needy child when all I craved was the oblivion of nights with men who showered me with compliments, affection, and gifts.
New man Dave bought me perfume.
He said I never wore any. Asked me why. I said I couldn’t afford it. I didn’t tell him about my favourite scent, hidden away in the drawer. The beautiful cut-glass bottle with a star-shaped stopper that I opened every now and again, just to smell. I wore Dave’s cheap, sickly eau de toilette until I got rid of him for being dull. After that I demanded perfume from every man I dated. Most of the fragrances lasted longer than they did. I hoped that each would drown out the smell of my star perfume, wash away the memories that bottle held.
Stella’s childhood flew by. It was a blur of late nights and late mornings, when I’d wake to find that Stella had made her own breakfast and taken herself to school. The haze was punctuated with occasional shared moments, when I’d style Stella’s hair, paint her nails, give her advice. Frumpy Sandra was a blessing, taking her in when I worked late at the hairdressing salon, and always remembering a treat on her birthday. She sometimes went to Stella’s parents’ evenings when I didn’t and helped pay for school trips when I couldn’t.
Sometimes I felt I hardly knew Stella at all. I’d look into her intense eyes and wonder what went on in her head. Other times I wanted to squash her to me and apologise for all my flaws. But mostly I got by on the wave of love men gave me at night, letting that carry me through the dirty dishes and school reports and head lice and ironing.
Sometimes she looked like him. It wasn’t so much her appearance as something she did. A way she’d move. A turn of the head. And my heart would contract.
I loved Stella.
I did.
I just loved her father more.
6
STELLA
NOW
Sometimes, when I’m in the WLCR studio alone, and I’m off air, I undo my shirt to the waist.
We’re not required to wear a uniform, but I like to dress for my show just as I might for any other job. I have five blouses in various pastel shades. Tonight, I selected pink. No particular reason, other than it was the closest to hand. When I lean back in the chair and unfasten my buttons, slowly, one after the other, it’s not because it’s warm in here – though it can be, with all the equipment – but because it feels bad.
There’s a chance I might be caught in this state of semi-undress.
It makes me smile.
I know Stephen Sainty won’t be here until eleven-thirty, and Maeve won’t be in for the Late-Night Love Affair until just before twelve, but there’s still a chance of being seen by someone. Cleaners turn up at random times, maintenance men come, and presenters sometimes arrive early for their shifts. I imagine them seeing me before I can cover up. There’s something about shocking people that I love.
But that need is missing tonight. Even though I’ve left the studio door open. I don’t care if Stephen arrives early and bursts in, gasping at the sight of my bare chest.
I suddenly want to go home and cry.
Five years of the show and I’m tired. It’s partly why I handed in my notice. But, unless he was listening earlier when I shared this information, Tom doesn’t know. He’s at home, so he may have tuned in. I think he’ll be surprised, which is always good. He has surprised me a lot recently, so maybe it’s my turn.
When the Beatles song ends, I slide up the fader and say, ‘That was “Hey Jude”, and you’re listening to WLCR with me, Stella McKeever, from now until one. After that, the lovely Maeve Lynch will be here to play some classic love songs, so get ready to snuggle up with your special someone. Let’s get some weather first and then I’d love to hear your secrets. Come on, don’t be shy. I can feel you all out there, itching to share. Email your thoughts to WLCR.co.uk, tweet us or give us a call on the usual number.’
Why hasn’t anyone called in yet?
I was hoping for a memorable final show. How much do I have to share before listeners will, too? How much should I say?
I link to the weather and fasten my blouse. I stand, stretch until my bones click, and go to the tiny window that permits a view of a sliver of night sky, her stars random, and her moon absent. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I leave here, but I can’t stay. I try hard not to be my mum, but at times I feel her pulsing inside me – her restlessness, her resistance to routine, her hunger for new things.
Something moves outside.
I freeze.
I stand on my tiptoes to see more through the thin strip of window.
Was it just a shadow flickering? The black trees waving against the dark-blue sky? Or was it the man who’s been waiting for me after work? The person who left the book? Did I just imagine it?
I wait. I watch.
Nothing. No more movement. It must have been my imagination.
Stella.
Who said that?
Is it the wind in the trees?
Stella, Stella, Stella.
Yes, just the wind.
I look up at the stars and remember the perfume stopper glinting at me all those years ago on my bedside table. I remember going to my window then, feeling that the sky was my refuge. Now all those efforts to sustain the bubble I’ve lived in, to ignore my hurts, are coming undone.
The room lights up electric blue: the phone. I decide that if that weirdo is loitering outside after work tonight, I’m going to confront him. I return to the mixer desk. I’ve lined up a song to follow the weather, so I have three minutes to talk to this caller.
‘Stella McKeever,’ I say.
‘I’m sorry you’re leaving, lass.’ She sounds elderly, her voice as frail as thin china. I bet she’s got secrets. ‘I’ll miss your show. I always listen while I’m getting ready for bed. My Derrick likes to watch those benefit-fraud shows, but I’d rather listen to you. Your voice is like syrup.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Why are you going? Are you having a little ’un?’
‘Oh, no. I’m…’
What can I tell her? That I’m tired, after she’s told me I’m part of her bedtime routine and have a syrupy voice?
‘I’m leaving the area,’ I lie.
‘What a shame.’ She sniffs heartily. ‘Please tell me they won’t get some young, screechy thing to do your show.’
‘I think Maeve Lynch will cover until they get someone.’
‘Oh good. She’s nice. I love her Irish accent.’
I smile. ‘Would you care to share a secret?’
‘Ooh, not sure I should.’ She pauses, then adds, guardedly, ‘I think my neighbour Jean listens. Mind you, I know some things about her…’
‘Do tell,’ I smile.
‘I couldn’t possibly.’
‘I won’t name her.’
‘You’re a minx!’
‘You have no idea,’ I laugh.
‘Well … Jean, she used to take in chaps when her husband was at sea. They’d come around the back when it was dark, and she’d get them to leave at three in the morning.’ Her voice has lost its frailty. ‘She wasn’t picky either. Young, old … sometimes two at a time. I only know because I’m an insomniac. I was often at the sink, no lights on, just drinking tea, you know? This was some years ago now. Don’t think she knows I saw.’
; The song is coming to an end; I must hang up. ‘Thank you for calling,’ I say, ‘have a lovely evening.’
To the listeners I say, ‘It’s just after ten-thirty, you’re listening to WLCR, and I’m Stella McKeever. Ah, secrets. I know one about … well, you know I can’t say the name. About a lady – a naughty neighbour – who let’s just say was a naughty wife too. While the cat was away, the mouse certainly played. Are you such a naughty wife? Do you have one? Share all – you know you want to.’
As I play the next song, my phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a message from Stephen Sainty. He tells me to be careful about what I share on air, and how I word it. I want to remind him that I’ve done this for five years; I know. Is he scared of how I’ll be on my last night? He says he’ll be here in an hour. I suddenly wonder if there will be a gift. A card signed by all the presenters. Will I be upset if not?
No.
I’m used to goodbyes without a word.
Sometimes I think of just leaving, the way my mum did. Would I ever do that to Tom? Could I do that to her now she’s found me again? Most mornings recently I feel sick when I wake up. I feel like everything is coming close; that my past and my future are going to collide.
The song finishes. Silence is unforgivable here. There must never be gaps between tunes, between a presenter’s last word and the news. I go straight into the adverts and play the number-one song.
The room lights up blue again. I jump. I don’t think I’ve ever had so many calls during one show. I have three minutes to talk.
‘Stella McKeever,’ I say.
‘You knew I’d call, didn’t you?’
‘Who is this?’ I ask.
But I know.
It’s him. The man who has called four times already, every Friday since Victoria Valbon was found, and one Tuesday. I asked the first time if he had left me a book at the studio, how he got in, and what Stella, this will tell you everything meant, but he ignored the questions.
Should I ask again?
Do I want to know?
He speaks slowly, as if disguising his true voice, trying not to let his accent slip out. His voice isn’t deep, but it’s smooth, gravel-free, gentle, as though trying to lessen the menace in his words. ‘You know who it is,’ he says. ‘And you knew I’d call, didn’t you?’
