Call Me Star Girl

by Louise Beech

  ‘We can never know anything for sure,’ I say.

  ‘You hoped I would.’

  I don’t speak. Absolute silence at his end. Music at mine.

  ‘Is it because of me that your last show is all about secrets?’

  ‘Why would it be because of you?’ Surprised at his arrogance, my tone is harsher than I intended. ‘I thought it would make a juicy topic.’

  ‘Of course.’ He inhales deeply, and I wonder if he’s smoking. ‘I have the biggest secret ever. Don’t you want to know?’

  ‘No,’ I lie.

  ‘It could make your show the best yet…’

  ‘Not interested,’ I lie.

  ‘I heard your announcement. You’re leaving. I’m a bit disappointed.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I ask.

  ‘I was hoping for longer.’

  ‘For what?’ I ask.

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘We have tonight,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll be going soon,’ he says.

  ‘Not yet, I’ve a while.’

  ‘I mean the song will end and you’ll have to talk to the listeners instead.’ He said that last week; sounded sad about it rather than put out. ‘And you’ll never hear what I know.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ I say, ‘if you really do know something.’

  ‘You can’t just blurt these things out, Stella.’

  ‘You said you know who killed Victoria Valbon. Is that your so-called secret? You’ve said it four times now. It’s getting boring. If you expect me to believe that, tell me who you are, and how you know.’

  ‘I’m nobody. Really. But what I know is everything.’

  I only have two minutes now.

  ‘Everything? How can you?’

  ‘I was there,’ he says.

  The line in the song that’s playing repeats. The word pounds three times.

  ‘You were there?’ I whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why were you there?’ I ask.

  ‘What kind of question is that? You’d not make a very good detective, Stella.’ He pauses. ‘Ask what you really want to know. Go on.’

  ‘What did you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I saw everything,’ he says.

  I frown. ‘Saw? You could just be saying that. Tell me something the papers haven’t said.’

  ‘I know that the killer knew Victoria.’

  I feel sick. I close my eyes, swallow the nausea back. ‘The papers have said it was personal. One of my callers mentioned that earlier. So, I think we can all assume that the killer knew her.’

  ‘Knew is vague, though,’ he says. ‘Could be a work associate. Someone up the street. This was more than that. They were arguing. In the alley. It got very heated.’

  ‘Do you know the person?’

  He doesn’t speak.

  ‘Do you? Or can you describe them?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  I have only another minute until the song ends.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. ‘You just want airtime. Attention. Anyone could ring and tell me the same thing. Do you know how many cranks we get calling here?’

  ‘I’m no crank.’

  ‘Look, I’ve only got fifty seconds.’

  ‘Stella, that’s your loss.’

  ‘Did you leave me a book in the foy—’

  He’s gone. The song fades out and I can barely concentrate. Have I cued adverts? Is it the news? No, it’s me again.

  I wonder if he’s listening. As I move the fader up, my throat closes. I gulp, try to fill the fatal silence.

  ‘This is WLCR and you’re listening to Stella McKeever. That was—’ The song title eludes me, and I look at my computer screen for help, but can’t see it. ‘Um … Let’s get some weather, and then hopefully more … more music…’

  I wonder if my mystery caller expects me to share his revelation with our listeners. Will he be disappointed when I don’t? Because I’m not going to. Maybe he’ll call back. Tell me more. My hands shake uncontrollably.

  I go to the window and find my comfort in the stars.

  7

  STELLA

  THEN

  When I was ten, one of my mum’s boyfriends bought her a bottle of perfume shaped like a woman’s torso. She had moved the perfume bottle with a star-shaped stopper to the drawer by then. The new scent stood amid the chaos of rings and scarves and necklaces on her dresser, like a mistress insisting she be seen.

  My mum caught me dabbing some on my wrist, the way I’d seen her do many times.

  I froze. Her reactions to me were endlessly unpredictable; I both feared and thrived on them. I’m now sure her responses are why I need such intensity in my relationship with Tom. They’re why I’m addicted to drawing attention to myself.

  ‘I’m not sure I like it,’ she said, in an offhand way, sitting on the padded stool. I loitered by the dresser, basking in this rare moment of attention. ‘But Rob bought me it, so I suppose I’ll wear it until he’s gone.’

  Just like every time, I thought.

  ‘Go on, put more on,’ she said, playful. ‘It might suit you better than it does me. Perfume changes its smell, depending on who wears it, you know. Something about the skin and hormones.’ She sniffed my wrist. ‘It’s kind of sweet on you. You can’t have it, though. Well, maybe when he’s gone…’

  I had a box of perfume bottles in my bedroom, most half full, some barely used. Each time a boyfriend left, Mum tossed them my way. My friend Alissa said I was lucky; she said the bottles were so pretty, the smells inside so nice. I often let Alissa rummage through my collection and take one home.

  Each cologne reminded me of a different mother. There was the sharp, bitter scent in the purple bottle, which she had worn when she dated Stephen. The light fragrance in the tiny bottle, which she’d dotted on her neck when Malcolm was on the scene. The flowery one she sprayed all over when it was Sean.

  My mum fluffed her golden hair in the white vanity mirror and ran a tongue along her teeth. ‘Think I could pass for twenty-one?’

  I knew she was thirty because she’d had me young, at twenty.

  ‘You always look beautiful to me, Mum,’ I said.

  It was true. Even without her usual blusher and long eyelashes, her skin glowed and her eyes flashed with the kind of life that only passionate people have. To me, she was prettiest without her make-up. When she stared off into space, a little sad. I loved her so much then that I thought I’d burst.

  ‘You would say that.’ She put on lip gloss. ‘When you’re older you’ll realise that you can’t ever be less than perfect. Not with a man, anyway.’

  You are perfect, I wanted to say.

  ‘And never bore him,’ she said, very serious.

  This I feared. I knew I bored my mother sometimes. When I was telling her my exciting tales – my day’s adventures or who had sat next to me at school – she invariably stopped me halfway and said she didn’t have time or could I run to the corner shop for her. What she meant was that she was bored. I knew it. Saw her eyes dim as her attention drifted.

  ‘It’s better that you get bored first,’ she said. ‘Better that you finish it, and then he leaves, wanting you desperately and wondering why it’s over. That way he’ll never forget you.’

  I lapped up my mother’s words, happy that she was giving them to me.

  ‘Do you think I’ll be interesting when I’m older?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll try.’

  ‘I will be,’ I insisted.

  ‘You’re too…’ She paused to consider. ‘You’re too wilful. Stubborn. You’ll have to supress that. Do things you might not want to do to keep them happy.’

  ‘Like what?’ I asked, innocent.

  She paused. ‘Like washing their socks,’ she laughed.

  ‘Never!’ I cried. ‘Yuck. I’ve smelled Rob’s socks in the bathroom. I’ll never love anyone enough to do that.’

  She laughed, then studied me for a long moment. ‘Shall I style your hair?’

&
nbsp; ‘Will you?’ I jumped onto the padded stool as she stood up.

  ‘We could sweep it up into a high ponytail.’ She fiddled with my locks, her hands warm. ‘Hold this part with a jewelled clip. Leave these bits loose to soften the look.’

  When she was done, I looked fifteen. I wanted to sit there forever, luxuriating in her love.

  She rummaged around in her bottom drawer and then took out a large black pouch. From it she extracted a camera, the kind with a huge zoom lens and all kinds of fancy functions. I’d never seen it before.

  ‘I keep forgetting I’ve got it,’ she said, as though hearing my query. ‘It’s one of those dead good ones.’

  I presumed one of her many men had given it to her.

  ‘Let’s get a picture,’ she said, fiddling with it.

  I smiled, posed like the models I’d seen in magazines. Later, she would have the picture developed, but it would be so blurred she’d throw it away.

  My mum’s phone buzzed on the bedside cabinet and our rare mother/daughter time was done. She spoke flirtatiously to Rob while I unclipped my hair, and the years fell away with my heart. She hung up and chose what she would wear; silver top, tight black skirt and heels that made her legs beautiful.

  ‘You know,’ she said, spraying the woman’s-torso mist on her neck, ‘I think when a man buys me exactly the right perfume, he’ll be the one.’

  But I thought the star perfume was exactly right. I loved its smell because she wore it when there were no men around; when it was just us two. If that floral, sweet scent drifted around the house, I knew she’d have more time to talk. She’d smoke cigarettes in the kitchen with me, say that now it would just be us against the world, and that men were useless anyway.

  I decided when I grew up that I’d never wear perfume.

  When my mum disappeared the month after I turned twelve, she left the star perfume. I kept it with me. Took it everywhere I went. Wherever I lived after my mum had gone, I kept the bottle by my bed or under the pillow. At night, the star stopper glinted as though winking at me. I couldn’t bear to waste the remaining perfume inside. I feared that even just sniffing it would somehow steal the essence.

  So, I only unstopped the bottle and breathed in the scent when I missed her so much, nothing else would ease my pain.

  8

  STELLA

  WITH TOM

  Two days after the girl in the alley was found, they announced her full name on the midday bulletin: Victoria Valbon, twenty-six, single. Tom and I were sitting at the kitchen table, opposite one another, drinking coffee when Stephen Sainty spoke. Tom shook his head, looked sad. He swigged his coffee and went upstairs.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I followed him.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ he said. ‘A woman killed like that … only miles from where we live. Your age too. That’s what gets me.’

  I held him tight. Let him know that I’m fine, I’m alive, not gone.

  Despite his dark obsessions, Tom is sensitive. Kind. Thoughtful. That was the first part of his nature that I saw. Along with his skull. We met at a radio party. It was a fundraiser to get treatment for a local girl who needed life-saving surgery in America. All the hospital staff were invited. Tom knew the family. He shaved his head on the night and raised another three hundred pounds. I loved his generosity and how different he looked in just the space of five minutes. Long floppy hair gone in a flash.

  Over drinks afterwards, I’d boldly touched his head. It was the first part of him that I touched. Before his hands, or arms, or stomach. I sometimes wonder if I tapped into his mind by doing so, because after that I could not get him out of mine.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ he’d said.

  ‘What’s it?’ I said.

  ‘We have to go out.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said. His eyes glowed. ‘You just touched me where no other girl ever has.’

  I had smiled. And even though I’d never had a relationship, had sworn I would never submit to any man, we’ve been together since. His hair grew back, thick and tug-able. But I would forever be the only girl who had touched what was underneath

  The day after Victoria’s name was announced, Stephen Sainty shared the sad news on the midday bulletin that she had been almost nine months pregnant when she was killed. Twitter went crazy. #BabyKiller started trending. The local paper ran it as a headline in the late edition. Reporters said the frenzied attack was even more vicious because the murderer must have seen that she was pregnant. I threw up each time I heard her name on the news.

  Perhaps it was to distract ourselves from the relentless headlines, but we finally talked about the playing-dead game that night.

  The game had been like the one with the kitchen chopping board; Tom pretended not to care, I faked forgetfulness, and neither of us put it straight. He had shocked me, and I needed to reclaim my power. Most mornings when he gets up early, while I stay in bed, Tom dresses in the dark. I’ll reach to pull the curtain open, so the half-light permits me a dim view of his beautiful body while he fastens his shirt. Seeing me watching, he’ll smile, dress more slowly. If there’s time, I pull him to the bed, take his cock in my mouth, and pleasure him until he abandons the shirt and joins me.

  But during our game of who’s going to mention playing dead first I didn’t watch him. I didn’t seduce him. I pretended to sleep, which was ironic in light of his dark-game suggestion, and made me smile beneath the covers. If Tom noticed, I couldn’t see. But I knew I would not be the first to talk about it. If I surrendered, he’d get bored.

  Then, the day of Victoria’s pregnancy headline, Tom asked me if I knew what Beverley Allitt had used to kill those babies in Grantham. I didn’t say anything. I was in bed – I didn’t have to work that night – ready to end another day with no victor in our game. Now, though, it looked like I had won. I knew what he wanted from me. A reaction; a question. I buried my face in the pillow.

  ‘I know you’re listening,’ he said.

  ‘She didn’t mean to kill them,’ I said eventually.

  ‘You know what she used?’

  ‘Yes. Insulin.’

  I sat up. Tom’s damp hair absorbed the lamp’s glow, like a sponge in blood.

  ‘I remember this documentary about her,’ I said. ‘She just wanted those babies to get ill so she could rescue them. She liked the attention. She wasn’t a traditional killer – whatever one of those is. Grey was the same – he was only experimenting.’

  Even with the shocking details of Victoria Valbon’s murder – and having previously decided I wouldn’t – the previous night I’d read some more of the Harland Grey book, perhaps hoping to find clues as to who had left it for me, and why. But I was no closer to knowing.

  Grey was obsessed with getting everything on camera: sex, birth, life, death. I’d never heard of cinéma vérité until I’d read him discussing it. The term means Truthful Cinema; it’s a style of documentary filmmaking in which the camera is acknowledged. Most films try and make the camera invisible, letting the story unfold as though the camera isn’t even rolling, but with cinéma vérité the camera is – in a way – another character. One that seeks to share the full truth. Grey said he wanted to capture that truth.

  Tom paused. ‘Still, not a nice thing to do.’

  ‘I wasn’t justifying what she or Grey did.’

  ‘Insulin is a miracle drug for those who need it.’ Tom climbed into bed. ‘It used to be a psychiatric treatment, you know; patients would be injected with it to induce daily comas. Allitt was just too heavy-handed with it. Those babies were probably too tiny.’

  ‘Those poor parents,’ I said, sadly. ‘What must that have been like – never seeing your baby reach childhood?’ I thought it must be like my mum not witnessing me change from a twelve-year-old into the adult I was now. It had been her choice to leave, but I still pitied her. I pitied the teenage me.

  And the baby inside the girl in the alley.

  ‘Don’t you wonder what it might
feel like to fade away?’ asked Tom, moving closer to me. ‘Like being dead but coming back. And you’d never know afterwards what had happened – would you? I suppose the body might recall anything that had been done to it…’ Tom smiled and turned off the lamp. He leaned over, tugged my earlobe and asked, ‘And what do you think I might do with you while you’re playing dead?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  I knew what Tom wanted to do with me if I played dead.

  And he realised I knew, because he said, ‘It could be dangerous, of course.’

  I said that there was something far worse than danger.

  ‘And what might that be?’ he asked.

  ‘Boredom.’

  ‘How could I ever get bored of you?’ he said, kissing my neck. ‘You’re avoiding it.’

  ‘Avoiding what?’ I asked.

  ‘My question. What do you think I might do to you while you’re playing dead?’

  My eyes became more accustomed to the dimness. I wrapped my leg around his, pressed myself against him. I had to surrender to this game. I had to keep him. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t tell me,’ I whispered. ‘Maybe we try it out, and you can do whatever you want.’

  He shivered. ‘How will you know that you’ll like it?’

  ‘I won’t. But if you film it, I can watch afterwards, and I’ll let you know.’

  I was thinking of Harland Grey’s obsession.

  ‘Film it?’ I could hear the smile.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But what the hell.’

  ‘God,’ he murmured. ‘I think you’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Only think?’

  He kissed me urgently, his lips grinding against mine, as if he thought stopping might allow me to escape. Change my mind. I responded with equal ardour. I was afraid of losing him. When he pinned me to the mattress and entered me, hard, I realised I would do anything he asked. Did this shock me? It should have done. But for me, love and risk are bound. They are wrapped up in one another as absolutely as Tom and I were in our heat.