somewhat—mercurial.”
“What do you mean?”
“One could never quite predict what sort of mood she might be in. Some days she was exuberant and other days she would be rather withdrawn—easily distracted. And she would always insist on smoking in here, although it’s absolutely forbidden, you know, and awfully dangerous. My wife always knew when I’d had a meeting with Bee because I’d return home reeking like an old ashtray.” He did a strange, snorty thing into his fist. “She was very open, which could prove somewhat disconcerting. She would think nothing, for example, of using very, aaah, strong language and asking somewhat—personal—questions.”
“But that day. In January. The last time you saw her. How was she then? How was her mood?”
“I’m afraid, Miss Wills, that I really do not recollect. But if you’re asking me if she appeared to be on the brink of, aaah, taking her own life, then I would have to say, no. Most definitely not.”
A nasal voice on Mr. Arnott Brown’s intercom informed him that his next client had arrived. He smiled apologetically at Ana. “I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a day now, Miss Wills. I’ll get all this paperwork to your mother’s lawyer. If you could just sign these release papers, to authorize everything. Here. And—here. Super. Thank you.” He unfurled himself from his desk and saw Ana to the door.
He grasped her hand in his and shook it warmly. “And may I just take this opportunity to say, Miss Wills, how terribly, terribly sorry I was to learn of Bee’s death. She was a very unusual character, but I have to confess to having been awfully fond of her. She had a way of making one feel very, aaah, special. Do you know what I mean?” Ana nodded, shook his hand again, and left his office, thinking sadly to herself that, no, actually, she had no idea what he meant, as she’d barely known her and how much she was starting to wish that she had.
eight
At the other end of a cobbled alleyway around the corner from Mr. Arnott Brown’s office was a pretty Georgian square. Ana took a right and found herself on a quiet residential street lined with diminutive Victorian city housing with tiny balconies entwined with ivy and passion flowers. Children played in a small playground fronted by a sign declaring ADULTS PERMITTED ONLY IF ACCOMPANIED BY A CHILD. The sun had come out again, and Ana pulled off her cardigan.
As she walked, a delicious smell suddenly wafted toward her: fresh bread. She hadn’t eaten anything at all that day, and her hangover was giving her a most impressive appetite. She followed the smell into an art gallery housed in an old Methodist chapel and found herself in a peaceful, almost monastic courtyard, lined with wooden sculptures and large potted trees. There was a small kitchen at the back of the courtyard, serving a limited menu of healthy-sounding things, and there was hardly anybody there.
Ana ordered a pasta and wild-mushroom bake, and as she waited for her food to arrive, she looked around her and began to feel overcome by a sense of her surroundings. She was in London. She was in the city where Bee had gone when Ana was four years old. The city that had broken her mother’s heart—twice. And Ana was on her own—and it wasn’t that scary. Ana had always thought of London as this mysterious place that swallowed people up like a big black hole, that took away their values and their emotional depth, dressed them up in stupid clothes, hooked them on alcohol and drugs, infected them with viruses that didn’t even exist in Devon and then, when there was nothing left of the person they’d once been, spat them out the other end. That’s what London had done to Gregor, according to Gay. And that’s what London had now done to Bee, too. But try as she might, Ana couldn’t hate the city for it, not like her mother did. In fact, there was something fascinating about this huge, unruly place of which she’d seen only a
“What do you mean?”
“One could never quite predict what sort of mood she might be in. Some days she was exuberant and other days she would be rather withdrawn—easily distracted. And she would always insist on smoking in here, although it’s absolutely forbidden, you know, and awfully dangerous. My wife always knew when I’d had a meeting with Bee because I’d return home reeking like an old ashtray.” He did a strange, snorty thing into his fist. “She was very open, which could prove somewhat disconcerting. She would think nothing, for example, of using very, aaah, strong language and asking somewhat—personal—questions.”
“But that day. In January. The last time you saw her. How was she then? How was her mood?”
“I’m afraid, Miss Wills, that I really do not recollect. But if you’re asking me if she appeared to be on the brink of, aaah, taking her own life, then I would have to say, no. Most definitely not.”
A nasal voice on Mr. Arnott Brown’s intercom informed him that his next client had arrived. He smiled apologetically at Ana. “I’m afraid we’ll have to call it a day now, Miss Wills. I’ll get all this paperwork to your mother’s lawyer. If you could just sign these release papers, to authorize everything. Here. And—here. Super. Thank you.” He unfurled himself from his desk and saw Ana to the door.
He grasped her hand in his and shook it warmly. “And may I just take this opportunity to say, Miss Wills, how terribly, terribly sorry I was to learn of Bee’s death. She was a very unusual character, but I have to confess to having been awfully fond of her. She had a way of making one feel very, aaah, special. Do you know what I mean?” Ana nodded, shook his hand again, and left his office, thinking sadly to herself that, no, actually, she had no idea what he meant, as she’d barely known her and how much she was starting to wish that she had.
eight
At the other end of a cobbled alleyway around the corner from Mr. Arnott Brown’s office was a pretty Georgian square. Ana took a right and found herself on a quiet residential street lined with diminutive Victorian city housing with tiny balconies entwined with ivy and passion flowers. Children played in a small playground fronted by a sign declaring ADULTS PERMITTED ONLY IF ACCOMPANIED BY A CHILD. The sun had come out again, and Ana pulled off her cardigan.
As she walked, a delicious smell suddenly wafted toward her: fresh bread. She hadn’t eaten anything at all that day, and her hangover was giving her a most impressive appetite. She followed the smell into an art gallery housed in an old Methodist chapel and found herself in a peaceful, almost monastic courtyard, lined with wooden sculptures and large potted trees. There was a small kitchen at the back of the courtyard, serving a limited menu of healthy-sounding things, and there was hardly anybody there.
Ana ordered a pasta and wild-mushroom bake, and as she waited for her food to arrive, she looked around her and began to feel overcome by a sense of her surroundings. She was in London. She was in the city where Bee had gone when Ana was four years old. The city that had broken her mother’s heart—twice. And Ana was on her own—and it wasn’t that scary. Ana had always thought of London as this mysterious place that swallowed people up like a big black hole, that took away their values and their emotional depth, dressed them up in stupid clothes, hooked them on alcohol and drugs, infected them with viruses that didn’t even exist in Devon and then, when there was nothing left of the person they’d once been, spat them out the other end. That’s what London had done to Gregor, according to Gay. And that’s what London had now done to Bee, too. But try as she might, Ana couldn’t hate the city for it, not like her mother did. In fact, there was something fascinating about this huge, unruly place of which she’d seen only a
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