by Louise Beech
She doesn’t answer.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘You’re not sorry. But I don’t mind. I was always terrified I’d be dull as a kid. But having that sort of thought only makes us strive harder to resist whatever we’re scared we might be, doesn’t it? Tell a kid they’re ugly and they’ll spend their whole life dieting and wearing loads of make-up. If you knew me, you’d know I’m not dull.’ I pause. ‘God, if you knew.’
I glance at my mum and tears are streaming down her cheeks. I think of the many that I’ve held back over the years. I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I don’t wish her any pain, in fact I hate to think of her hurting. I still love her. But her sadness isn’t my responsibility. She isn’t. She has chosen her life just as I have chosen mine.
‘Don’t be sad,’ I tell her. ‘I’m not. We’re here.’
She sniffs and nods.
‘We’re almost out of time,’ I say softly.
She holds out the carrier bag. I take it carefully from her. Our fingers touch briefly. Hers are still cold.
‘It’s just a few pictures of Harland and me,’ she says. ‘They won’t be like those formal ones they used in that biography. These are the real him, I suppose. The man I loved. Your father.’
His cinéma vérité, I think, in photograph form.
‘I’ll look at them later,’ I tell her, knowing she expects me to open the bag now. I pause. ‘Do you think he might have been a good dad?’ I ask. ‘Do you think he would have cared about me?’
My mum rolls up the carrier bag as though to occupy her hands. A new song begins. I know it’s the last one I lined up. We have three minutes.
‘I think he would have been, yes,’ she says. ‘I think he’d have adored you, but that’s what I was scared of. My selfishness has denied you your dad and I can’t undo that.’
‘You should go,’ I say. ‘I need to be on air soon.’
I walk her into the foyer. We stand, awkward, by the door. The phone flashes blue in the studio behind her. It will have to wait. It’s like lightning. I almost count in my head, waiting for the thunder to sound, like you do as a child.
‘I did miss you sometimes,’ I admit. ‘So much that it was painful, physically I mean. I denied it to myself, but it was there. That was when I’d smell the star perfume. It revived me somehow.’ I shake my head. ‘Then I got used to it just being me.’
‘You must miss the perfume now it’s gone.’
‘I do. More than I ever missed you.’ I don’t say this to be cruel, but because it’s true. ‘That bottle was the one thing I’ve known all my life and now it’s gone.’
‘Can you forgive me?’ my mum asks.
The phone stops and the blue light dies.
‘I can let the past go,’ I say. ‘Is that the same? I think it is. I haven’t done too badly after all. Look at me. I’m well. I’m here. I have made a success of myself.’
‘But you’re leaving,’ she says, clearly still shocked by it.
‘Isn’t it better to end on a high? You taught me well, Mum.’
‘My star girl,’ she says.
‘You’re making me sound like some book again.’
‘I mean it. You are.’
‘I really have to get to the studio,’ I say. ‘Will you keep the radio on when you get home?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Not sure yet.’ I’m not. I don’t know where the words come from. I just have a hunch again that she should tune in. ‘Keep listening. All night.’
‘I don’t think I’ll sleep anyway.’
‘Guess I’ll see you soon,’ I say.
I open the door. Cold air trickles in. The fading smell of chips and candy floss from the fair follows it. Another gut feeling hits me so hard I gasp and clutch at my chest. My mum reaches for me, but I push her away, shake my head and insist she goes. As she walks away, I suddenly know she is going to see something terrible.
Tonight.
Soon.
I want to warn her. Find the words. Something. Anything. But she reaches the end of the carpark. She turns left and goes up the street.
It’s too late.
I could be wrong. Maybe the gut feeling is for me?
But I don’t think so.
32
STELLA
NOW
I close the door. The phone is flashing blue again. I rush into the studio, but I can’t answer it. I’m out of time. The song dies, so I have to speak. I slide the fader up and open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Find the words. Something. Anything.
‘This is Stella McKeever standing in for Maeve Lynch,’ I say after a fatal second or two. ‘It’s almost two-thirty, and for those of you who are still awake I’m with you until three. And that was a whole lot of love for you there with our string of beautiful ballads. After the adverts, I’ll return with some of your dedications. Make them juicy, now…’
Immediately, the phone flashes blue again.
‘Stella McKeever,’ I say.
‘Why didn’t you answer before?’ he asks. The Man Who Knows.
‘I couldn’t,’ I say.
‘But you weren’t on air.’
‘I was busy.’
‘With that woman who came to the studio?’
My heart stops. He must be outside. I glance at the window. He can’t get in though. Can he? He didn’t get in here to leave the Harland Grey – my father’s – book, I know that now. And so he doesn’t know the door code, surely. I want to demand if he knows where Maeve is, but what if he’s nothing more than a desperate fan? Then I don’t want him knowing she’s missing.
‘It’s not three o’clock yet,’ I say, hiding my nerves.
‘You still want to meet?’ He seems surprised.
‘Yes.’ My heart screams no. ‘I want to see those pictures.’
‘I told you, they’re not pretty,’ he says.
‘Life isn’t pretty.’
I suddenly feel brave. Have I been emboldened by what I’ve learned in the last half hour? That I’m the daughter of a murderer. I’m the daughter of a man who was a genius, who was interesting, who was someone. In the brilliant light of my true ancestry, I need to examine the truth in these pictures taken by The Man Who Knows. I’m not afraid. The truth is not something to fear.
My father knew that.
‘You sound … different.’ The Man Who Knows is unnerved.
‘It’s all different now,’ I say, more to myself.
‘Is it? Has something happened?’
‘Are you being absolutely honest when you say you have pictures of that night?’ I ask him.
I need to see them. I won’t be alone. By three Gilly Morgan will have arrived for her show. I don’t want her to know about this meeting, but she’ll be inside the building if I need her. Then I remember: she’s in Vietnam for two weeks. Her show has been prerecorded.
I suppose I don’t have to let him in. I can speak via the intercom at the door. Tell him to post the photos through. But what if he won’t? No time to worry now. Face that when the show finishes.
‘Absolutely honest,’ he says.
‘Then I’ll see you in half an hour.’
I hang up and go and look out of the window. Why would I be scared of him being outside when I’ve invited him here? When I might let him in? I realise I’m not afraid of the outside world.
It’s what might be in here that scares me.
The adverts finish and I tell the listeners about some of the upcoming shows this week. While I’m talking my phone flashes. A message from Jim. Desperate to read it, I rush my speech, and open the text.
I’m at hospital. Maeve hit by car. She’s fine just shaken up. Cracked ribs and bruising. Keeping her in overnight. Thanks. Jim.
‘Thank fuck,’ I say to the empty studio. ‘Thank fuck.’
And I cry. With relief. For Maeve. For me.
Then – despite her minor injuries, and what must have been a terrifying experience – I smile. Whisper ‘Thank God’ aloud. Mae
ve is okay. My gut feeling was for an accident, not an ending. The lovely, vivacious Maeve, who always makes time to talk, is okay. It’s one thing I can stop worrying about.
I message Jim: That’s wonderful, give her my love! X
But if I was right about Maeve, is my gut feeling about never seeing the stars again true too? Or does it mean one star in particular? The star perfume bottle?
I haven’t seen it for weeks.
But I don’t want to think about that right now.
At least knowing about Maeve makes room in my head for all the other revelations tonight. It means I can concentrate on getting through the show and then do what I must afterwards. Over the current song, I hear other lyrics; lines about fathers’ identities, boyfriends’ past fiancées, and mothers’ insomniac admissions.
I send a quick message to Stephen about Maeve being okay, and then move the fader up and speak to the world again.
I realise someone might have to cover her show tomorrow night, and it definitely won’t be me, or Gilly. I smile when I think of Stephen doing it, and the complaints he might get. There’s a text from him on my phone.
So glad Maeve is okay. Couldn’t sleep until I knew. Will call Jim in the morning. Thanks, Stella.
I stand and stretch, think about perhaps making coffee.
Then my phone flashes with Maeve’s name. Probably Jim with an update. As always, I look to see how much time I have until the song ends. It’s a habit that now infiltrates my everyday life. If I’m microwaving something at home, I check to see how long I have before answering a ringing phone. If it rings while I’m stirring pasta sauce or boiling an egg, I look at the clock. I wonder now if I’ll still be doing it when I’m long gone from this place.
I swipe my phone’s screen.
‘Stella,’ comes that gorgeous Irish voice.
‘Maeve,’ I say, feeling teary again.
‘Yes,’ she says.
How often I’ve secretly wished she was my real mum. It’s a craving I’ve hidden even from myself; when the longing arose after we chatted each evening here, I buried it, cursed myself for being needy.
‘How are you?’ I ask. ‘What happened? Shouldn’t you be resting?’
‘I’m trying to,’ she says. ‘Jim’s just left and I’m on a ward with a serious insomniac who keeps trying to jump out of the window, and a woman who’s snoring like a horse.’
I laugh. How she cheers me. I stand and move to my thin slither of a view. Outside, the sky is clear. Clearer than it has been all night. The stars look as though they are competing to burn the brightest.
‘What on earth happened?’ I ask.
‘It’s a bit of a blur,’ she says. ‘I was on my way to you. Had a plate of star-topped fairy buns for your last night. Those stars are spread halfway across Anlaby Road now. Anyway, I must’ve been miles away because I stepped out onto the road – and that was it. Next thing, I’m coming around, my ribs hurt, I’ve a corker of a bruise on my head, and some man is bending over me, looking worried.’
‘We were worried too,’ I tell her.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for covering my show. I’ve been lying here listening. You’re doing a wonderful job.’ She pauses. ‘Why are you leaving us, Stella? You’re a fantastic presenter. It won’t be the same.’
What can I say to her?
‘Why do I think you won’t stay in touch,’ she says sadly.
‘I will,’ I lie.
‘Well, I just wanted to say…’ Maeve sighs. ‘I wish we’d got to know one another better. Outside of the radio station, I mean. All of us are too busy, and that’s sad. You’re an elusive one, Stella, but I’ve grown very fond of you.’
‘And I have you.’ This isn’t a lie.
‘Sorry to miss your last night. Take care, won’t you?’
‘You too,’ I say.
When we hang up, I turn away from my stars and return to the desk.
Victoria Valbon is standing in the foyer.
My knees almost give way.
Not Victoria, says the voice in my head. She liked to be called Vicky.
Golden hair flies away from her head. Then, like Medusa’s curse, they become silky snakes, hissing and writhing. Her throat is bloody. Thick drips fall onto anaemic hands. Hands that cradle an infant; her golden-haired child. The baby grips her finger and opens its pink mouth to swallow the rich droplets. Others splash onto the floor by Victoria’s feet, spreading like crimson lava.
Not Victoria, says the voice in my head. Vicky.
I close my eyes.
Whisper, No, no, no, my mind is playing tricks on me.
When I open them, she is gone.
But I can still see her, the way you still see the sun after you’ve foolishly stared at it for too long. I sink into my chair, heart hammering. My mum and Tom have made Victoria Valbon too real. Brought her to life for me. They both knew her. The girl Stephen Sainty has mentioned over and over on the news is no longer just a headline. She’s real.
I can’t look back towards the foyer. I want to close the studio door, but daren’t approach it.
All the sounds I’ve been hearing – were they her?
But they were real, and she is not.
Weren’t they?
I feel light-headed. When I started my show hours ago, I felt the thrill had gone. Now it’s back. Goosebumps crawl up my arms and spine. Breath tickles my neck. I turn, half expecting Victoria to be standing behind me.
Stella, I’m not behind you. I’m beside you.
I shiver, look to my left and then my right. No one there.
It’s just me.
Me and all my terrible gut feelings.
33
ELIZABETH
THEN
Vicky said she would wait. And then she didn’t. She said she would have her baby before going to see Tom. And then, one day in the middle of September, she told me that she could not wait. That she sensed this baby might come before its due date in two weeks, and she wanted him to be at the birth.
We were not on our West Park bench the afternoon she told me, but in a café we’d never gone to. I’m not sure why, but we never returned to our bench after she revealed that Tom was her baby’s dad. Something changed that day. She no longer shared small details with me. Didn’t show me the make-up she’d bought or new clothes she was excited to get into one day. It was like she was working up to letting me go.
But how could I be angry about it? Hadn’t I done the same to Stella?
The doula agency called me the morning of our meeting in the café. They wanted to know why I’d missed her recent appointments. Said that I should be going to every single one with her. But I hadn’t known about them. Vicky hadn’t told me. I tried to explain this to my manager, but she wasn’t happy. She suggested things must have deteriorated somehow if Vicky felt the need to keep them from me. That I should be placed with another woman. I promised to work something out that day and headed to the café with my emotions all over the place.
I was angry that Vicky had deceived me, yet sad that I had grown really fond of her and now she wanted me gone. Now I knew how Stella must have felt; what I must have done to her.
It’s no good trying to feel something if you haven’t experienced it yourself. You can imagine it. You can analyse it. But you can’t actually feel it. I’ve only ever cared how I feel. It’s true. I still do, really. So now I knew first-hand how it felt to be abandoned – and this only gave me more determination to stop Vicky messing up Stella’s relationship. It mattered far more than being Vicky’s doula now.
Vicky was waiting at a table by the window. She often arrived at our meetings before me. Her usually pink cheeks had lost their glow. I wondered if it was guilt for how she had deceived me. I sat down, and before we could speak a very eager waitress flounced over to take our order.
After a while, Vicky asked about Stella.
She didn’t often mention her, and I wondered if it was to avoid talking about what we’d really come here to d
iscuss. Previously, when she had asked about Stella, in order to avoid admitting how new my relationship with my daughter was, I said that being a doula meant it was really just about Vicky. One time she’d suggested I’d been happy to talk about Harland, and yet my daughter’s name hardly came up.
Now I simply said that Stella was fine, thank you very much.
I’d seen her yesterday. I didn’t tell Vicky that. Didn’t tell her we’d gone shopping for a rug to cover my cold kitchen floor and that we’d laughed at the fussy saleswoman who tried to get us to buy a bright pink one. That, while we giggled, I’d put my arm on Stella’s arm and she hadn’t pulled away. She usually did if I got too close. I could still feel her slender wrist beneath my hand. The silky sleeve of her shirt.
Does your daughter have a boyfriend? Vicky asked.
I frowned. Was it a loaded question? Did she ask because she knew the answer? No – her green eyes were bright only with curiosity, not with knowing.
I told Vicky that she did.
Of course, she wanted to know what he was like.
I said he was the kind of man you would never let go.
Our food came then. Two steaming bowls of soup and warm bread. I tore into mine. Vicky didn’t seem to have the same appetite. She sipped slowly from the bowl. After a while she said she had decided that today was the day. I could have asked her what day, but I think we both knew I had a clue.
I’m going to see Tom tonight, she said.
I nodded because I wasn’t sure what I might say.
Vicky told me she’d been awake most of the night, thinking about him. About what future they might have together. She’d been imagining that he might be out there, knowing she was pregnant, and actually hoping she would come back to him. And what if she didn’t? What if she didn’t and she missed her chance? So she was going to eat tea with her family, excuse herself and go upstairs, and then sneak out while they were watching the soaps.
She paused, and I knew she was waiting for my response. I finished chewing my bread to buy time. Then I told her that I thought she was heading for heartache.
