by Louise Beech
The second night I took the letter and bottle out of my bag again. I knew I’d keep the perfume. It was the best of her. A sweet scent that only we had shared. The letter I tore into small bits. There was no bin, so I put them in the bedside drawer, scattered like large dandruff flakes. I took the star stopper out of the bottle and inhaled the whiff of her. I decided I wouldn’t waste a drop. I’d never wear it. I wouldn’t even smell it too often in case it evaporated altogether.
‘Goodnight,’ Sandra called through the door, making me jump. ‘I’m going to bed now, but if you need me, just wake me up.’
Why would I do such a thing? I’d never woken my mum in the night. Even when I was sick – when I threw up violently in my bin. I’d just cleaned it up and gone back to sleep.
‘Goodnight,’ I called back.
I waited until I’d heard her door shut then got up and opened my window. I wanted to freeze. To turn into a loveless icicle. I thought then that maybe I might one day defrost again and look at my feelings – when I was strong enough. But the longer you deny them, the harder it becomes to find them again. In the end, you wonder if you ever even had them. In the end, you forget how you even should feel.
That night I wondered for a moment what it would be like to fall through the open gap. To land on my back on the concrete below. Would I smash or just splatter?
No.
I wanted to get another A in English. I wanted to finish school and do all the exciting things I’d seen adults do in TV shows and films.
Though I tried to ignore it, I heard my mum’s voice.
Never bore them, she had said of men.
I had always feared boring her. I dreaded when I saw her bright eyes dim as her attention drifted, as my words fell flat and dull before her.
‘It’s better that you get bored first,’ she had 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.’
Was that why she had gone, left me first? She didn’t want me to forget her. Then the worst thought of all came to me, making me collapse against the windowsill. I staggered back to the bed and dropped onto the crochet blanket. I couldn’t look at the star perfume. I put it under my pillow. Covered my head with my arms.
I had finally done it. I had finally bored her altogether.
I would never bore anyone again.
16
STELLA
NOW
Gut feeling heavy in my chest, I go to the narrow slash of window, hoping to see my stars. I play the game so many of us play; if they’re visible, I decide, all will be well; if they’re not it won’t be. The clouds must still be thick in the post-midnight sky. Not a single twinkle breaks through. My fatalistic gut feeling makes me maudlin. I put my forehead to the cool glass and try to prepare.
The main door slams.
I run towards the foyer. No one will fool me this time. No games. No mystery. My heart hammers with the fear of who – what? – I might find.
Stephen Sainty stands there, hair wilder than ever, unfastening his coat with one hand and holding a parcel wrapped in newspaper in his other. The thick odour of chips emanates from his package.
‘It’s just you,’ I cry.
‘Who else would it be?’
I frown. ‘You got chips?’
‘I’m starving. I got you some too.’
‘You didn’t find Maeve?’
‘No.’ Stephen hangs his coat on one of the pegs by the door and shakes his head slowly. ‘I walked around the area a few times. Went up and down the alleys and tenfoots. I thought I saw someone in the car park here. I got excited for a second. But it was stupid to think it would be Maeve. Why would she loiter there and not just come in? Then I smelt that chippy up the road. Couldn’t believe they were still open, but the fair’s on, isn’t it? Loads of people in there. So I—’
‘Who was it?’ I demand.
‘Who was what?’
Stephen goes into the studio and starts unwrapping the newspaper. I follow. I want to remind him that we’re not supposed to eat in here. The pounding bassline prompts me to check how long I have; one minute.
‘Who was loitering in the car park?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘They’d gone by the time I got there. Here – help yourself.’
‘How can you eat?’
‘What do you mean?’ He pauses with a chip halfway to his mouth.
‘Maeve’s missing.’
‘And because I’m eating I don’t care?’
‘You were suggesting the poor woman had been murdered earlier!’ I cry. ‘What are we going to do? Just carry on like it’s all fine?’
He chews noisily. ‘I’m only eating because I’m staying. Normally I’d eat at home, but I can’t leave with Maeve not here, can I?’
‘You can.’
I dread the thought of him staying and hovering over me; but I dread also the thought of being here alone again. Am I alone though? A question I don’t want to consider. No, even with the unexplained noises and my overactive imagination, I want Stephen gone.
‘I’ve agreed to do Maeve’s show,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you if there’s any change.’
I glance at the monitor. Time to speak to the listeners.
‘Going on air,’ I say, taking my seat. I move the slider up as the melody fades, and take a breath, like a swimmer preparing to dive. ‘We’ve reached the other side of midnight where things get darker, folks.’ Stephen glares at me. ‘That was “Saving All My Love for You” by Whitney Houston, requested by Jon Murray in Bridlington.’
I remember that Stephen didn’t hear any of the things I’ve said in the last half hour; the confession about my father. He definitely has to go, no matter what I have to face when I’m alone. I can’t do my show the way I want with him here, interfering, irritating. I can’t say what I want to say.
‘We’re not far from the Late-Night Love Affair,’ I say on air. ‘Don’t go anywhere if you want to cosy up with a loved one to some of the biggest love songs of all time. Now, some adverts, and I’ll be waiting on the other side.’
‘Maybe you should have announced that you’ll be doing the Love Affair.’ Stephen scrunches up his empty newspaper wrapper. My chips remain on the desk, uneaten. I can’t stomach them.
‘What if Maeve turns up?’
‘Do you really think she’s going to now? How long since she left home? Over two hours.’ He pauses, then says thoughtfully, ‘We should let her husband know she still isn’t here.’
‘I said I’d get in touch if she arrived, so he’ll know she hasn’t.’
‘The poor man must be worried sick. I’ll call him.’ Stephen heads out of the studio. ‘Don’t you want your chips?’
‘No’
He shrugs. ‘I’ll be upstairs. Call me if she turns up.’
‘I will.’
‘If she doesn’t come by ten to one you should announce that you’ll be staying on for the Late-Night Love Affair.’
I nod. ‘I will,’ I repeat. Then, after a breath, ‘God, where is she, Stephen? Where? I just have such a bad feeling…’
‘Do you? Shit.’ He studies me, frowning as though he’s seeing something he’s not seen before. A man sings about sparkling windows in one of the commercials. ‘Look, Stella, maybe she’s gone back home, and Jim just hasn’t contacted us yet.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I’ll go and speak to him, find out. If she’s still missing, I’ll see if he has any ideas where she might have gone. And if he wants to contact the police.’
‘They’ll not be interested until it’s been at least twenty-four hours.’
‘Still, I’ll ring Jim.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘What a last shift to have, eh?’
‘I know.’
‘Maybe you’re supposed to stay?’
‘No,’ I insist. ‘I’m supposed to go.’ All this tells me I should.
He leaves, closing the studio door after him.
As the
adverts conclude, I wonder what to say. Stephen is no doubt listening upstairs. I feel censored. Oppressed. And angry about it. But what is it I want to say that I can’t with him around? I’m not even sure. The words are stuck somewhere deep in my stomach. When they do surface they will emerge in my everyday voice, not my smooth, syrupy radio voice; that much I know. But until he leaves, I’m Stella McKeever, radio personality. Star girl. The phrase comes to me, like a whisper. Star girl. For a moment, I think I can smell the sweet scent from my mum’s antique bottle. I haven’t inhaled it for weeks. Now it fills the room, as though it’s rising up through the floor.
Then, only the stench of chips.
‘As we head deeper into the night,’ I say into my microphone, ‘stay with me and there may be some surprises. Maybe from me, maybe from you, and definitely more of the best music. No other station in the region gives you all of those things. Stay tuned. This is WLCR, and I’m Stella McKeever.’
I take them into a song and push my chair away from the desk. My phone vibrates, and I scramble for it, hoping for Tom. It’s a text from Stephen: I’m listening up here. Less of the surprises stuff please.
I type, You want me to stay and do Maeve’s show, so let me do things how I want.
Then I dial Tom’s number and listen to it ringing. Has he gone to bed and left it downstairs? Now that I know I’ll be here for another few hours I have to find out why he wants us to talk. I won’t be home until 4am and I can’t wake him then, even if he doesn’t love me anymore; and I can’t wait until he wakes up tomorrow.
No answer. I hang up. No point leaving a message.
If he tells me it’s over, I can change his mind. I may have done some intense things with him already, but there are many more things I’d do.
Before playing the last song of my show, I tell the listeners they have me for another two hours. ‘The station isn’t ready to let me go yet,’ I say. ‘Our lovely Maeve Lynch has sadly been taken ill, so you’ve got me instead. I know I’ve some beautiful shoes to fill and a big personality to live up to, so why not help me make it extra special and get your requests in for that favourite love anthem. And share your secret crushes. Is it that guy you keep seeing on the bus? The one who ignores you? Was it a teacher at school long ago? Is it a co-worker? You know the number.’
Then I play ‘The Sound of Silence’ by Simon and Garfunkel. It was playing the first time Tom ever said he loved me. I wondered earlier what my last song here would be.
It won’t be this one.
17
STELLA
WITH TOM
I was ill the first time Tom said he loved me.
I barely had a voice so I hadn’t been to work for a week. I lay in my bed, shivering and listening to Maeve Lynch covering my show; I was happy she was doing it so well but worried they might never have me back. I had kept Tom away as much as I could, not only to keep him flu free but because I couldn’t bear him seeing me in such a state when we’d only been together five weeks.
He persisted. Kept messaging and saying he was worried about me. Delirious one evening, I relented. Let him in. Apologised for the mess and just made it to the sofa before I collapsed. He sat next to me and moved my damp hair away from my clammy brow. Looked concerned.
‘I never get ill,’ I croaked, almost as an apology.
‘Don’t speak.’ He put his finger over my lips. ‘Silence. Rest that gorgeous radio voice of yours.’
As though to back him up, ‘The Sound of Silence’ began to play on the radio. We both smiled. That haunting melody in the room with us was intoxicating; that famous first line about ‘darkness, my old friend’. Tom’s face was light though. Calm. The happiest I’d seen it. I’d already seen his dark side. We had explored how far we could push one another within days of meeting at the hospital fundraiser; how much we both liked to be held down, to be blindfolded and teased, to be made to wait for that exquisite release. The intensity was immediate. Like it had been waiting since the beginning of time, and now said, hey, what took you two so long to meet?
But now Tom stroked my forehead with the lightest touch.
‘I know,’ he said to me.
‘What do you kn—?’
He shook his head, put a finger over my lips again. I felt anxious as his eyes probed mine. Had he seen all my flaws and decided it was over? Had he seen it all and decided I was dull?
‘What?’ I croaked. Was this another game? Another challenge?
He shook his head again. ‘It’s too soon.’
‘What is?’
‘To feel this way.’
‘What way?’ I whispered.
‘Stop talking,’ he said. ‘I can tell it hurts you.’ He paused. ‘I love you.’
I didn’t speak. Yes, it was soon. Very soon. But I was thrilled.
And I was sure I felt the same as he did.
‘Seeing you like this. Vulnerable. I feel … well, I just want to protect you. You have no idea. I feel like I’d … do anything for you.’ He exhaled. ‘And when you know, you know. I’ve never felt like this before. And I never want to feel like this about anyone else. I mean it. I love you, Stella.’
I remained silent.
Silence was our sound.
Darkness was our friend, but lightness won that evening.
18
STELLA
NOW
As soon as I finish introducing ‘The Sound of Silence’, as if she knows I’ll have ten minutes until we go into the news on the hour, my mum calls my mobile phone. It lights up, silently demanding. It’s still odd to see MUM flash up on the screen. For ninety percent of my life this word hasn’t been on my contact list. I’ve often thought that, if I were in an accident and someone found my phone, in the absence of a MUM or DAD listing, they wouldn’t know who to call.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she says, like she always does – eternally apologising for being here after so long away.
‘No, I don’t mind. It’s late. You’re still up?’
I don’t know her routine so I’m not even sure why I say this. I’ve not spent a full evening at her house since she came back; we’ve only met up in town, shared phone calls, spent an odd hour or two at hers. She came to the radio station once, to look around, excited about the equipment and meeting Stephen.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says. ‘I’ve been listening to you in bed.’
Usually she asks me if I want anything – eggs or bread – but then she’s never rung me this late at night, or during one of my shows; aside from that very first phone call. I turn the music down so I can concentrate.
‘You never said you were leaving.’ She says it softly and yet it annoys me so acutely that I move the phone away from my ear for a moment.
Can the woman who never warned me she was leaving be so heartless as to say such a thing? Does she even realise the potency of the statement? You never said you were leaving. It feels like an accusation. That I’ve been cruel not to tell her. That I should feel guilty. That I’ve done something as bad as not telling a child that she’s about to be abandoned, as bad as just leaving while she’s at school.
I turn and look through the slither of window; it’s still clouded over, as grey as cold stainless steel.
I bury my outrage.
‘It’s such a shame,’ my mum continues. ‘You’re so good at it, and you’re so loved by the listeners.’ She seems to think for a moment. ‘When did you decide to leave?’
‘Oh, I’ve been thinking about it for ages,’ I lie.
‘But why?’
I try and think of an answer that makes sense. ‘I’m just ready for a change.’
‘Have you got a job at a different station?’
‘No,’ I admit. ‘Nothing lined up.’
‘Gosh, that’s risky. What will you do?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
‘What did Tom say?’ The inevitable question. What my boyfriend thinks is what matters most.
‘He�
�’ I decide to lie; haven’t the energy for the truth. ‘He’s supportive. We talked about it, made the decision together.’
‘As long as you’re both fine. You make such a lovely couple. I’d hate for anything to come between you.’
Like what? I want to ask.
‘I know I’m not the best one to talk about relationships.’ Is she referring to the many men who came and went during my childhood, or to her time away from me? I have no idea what happened in her fourteen years away from me. I haven’t asked, and she hasn’t told. ‘But I do know when a man is worth keeping,’ she says. ‘When he’s worth doing anything for.’
I hate that we sound alike.
But I’m not her. I’d never abandon a child.
‘I’d have done anything for…’ She pauses.
For the first time since we reunited I sense something before it comes; my gift returns. After eight months of having her back in my life, I smell the words before she speaks. I taste them too; citrus lemon on my tongue. Instinctively, I look back at my window again. The grey has given way to sparkle.
She says: ‘I heard what you said earlier.’
I hear each word a split second before she says it, but what I said earlier is a blank. Then I realise that she might be about to answer the biggest question hanging over my existence.
‘You have to understand,’ she says. ‘I always did it to protect you.’
She pauses but I’m not going to speak. My sound, again, is silence.
‘You haven’t mentioned it, you know, since we met again.’
I want to ask why it never occurred to her to bring it up; but instead I let her continue.
‘If you had,’ she says, ‘I was prepared to tell you. I’ve anticipated the question every single time I’ve seen you. I’m surprised that you’ve never asked it. I don’t know why you would say it on the radio before you’ve even asked me.’
‘Say what?’ I ask, determined not to make this easy.
