it rang. As long as Ana did this, then Gay really couldn’t have cared less about her, about what she was up to, what she was thinking, whom she was seeing, or where her life was going. She’d sometimes look startled to see Ana in the house, almost as if she’d forgotten that she lived there, and Ana couldn’t really blame her for this, as she herself often wondered whether or not she actually existed. . . .
Ana’s memories of Bee were all very fuzzy and imbued with a kind of Technicolored, high-octane aura of dimples-hair-and-boobs, turning-a-drama-into-a-crisis, look-at-me-look-at-me type behavior. When Bee was a teenager, she was all fingerless gloves, pink hair, cigarettes, and boys. After she all fingerless gloves, pink hair, cigarettes, and boys. After she left home and moved to London, she was all studied cool, avant-garde makeup, and raw, gauche ambition. And from the day she became famous, in 1985, she was all rush-rush-rush, coffee-fag-coffee, this-flight-that-interview-the-other-TV-show, excuse-me-do-I-know-you-oh-you’re-my-mother-I-thought-I-recognized-you-and-who-is-this-strange-skinny-tall-person-oh-yes-that’s-right-you’re-my-sister disregard.
Ana’s feelings toward Bee had always been enormously ambivalent. On the one hand, she found her quite fascinating.
Bee was a mesmerizing person who could make your day complete by smiling at you. When Bee was in a room, nobody else existed. She was captivatingly beautiful and could be extremely amusing if the mood took her. But on the other hand, Ana had always found Bee frustratingly shallow and occasionally downright cruel. Her nickname for Ana when she was a child was “the Twiglet,” a reference to her knobbly knees and bony arms, and after her sudden growth spurt at twelve, Bee started calling her “the Towering Twiglet.” Some people might think that was cute—funny, even—Gay certainly appeared to, and Bee thought it was hysterical. But not Ana. Ana spent her whole life trying not to draw attention to her height, and it took just one “Towering Twiglet” comment from Bee for Ana to feel like a complete freak.
Bee had always refused to come home to Devon after she’d left, not even for Christmas or birthdays, claiming that the mere thought of the place brought her close to a panic attack, while Gay, conversely, had a fervent hatred for London, which had been brewing and bubbling ever since Gregor had left her for the temptations of the big city. She talked of London disparagingly, as if it were some great brassy harlot with badly dyed hair and a whiff of fish about it.
So, as some kind of desperate compromise, Ana and her family would traipse all the way to Bath or Bristol to meet Bee for rushed meetings in smoky bars, when the conversation would be invariably tense and occasionally fractious, particularly at their very last meeting, in the summer of ’88. Ana hadn’t known at the time that it was going to be the last time she saw her sister, and maybe if she had, she’d have appreciated the experience a little more than she did. Because within three weeks, Gregor was dead, and Gay and Bee had fallen out completely and irretrievably.
three
July 1988
The Catacomb was a gothic club in the center of Bristol.
Gay, Bill, and Ana were here in the middle of the day—
which was strange in itself, as it was a venue quite obviously not designed to be seen during daylight hours. Ana could imagine that at night the purple velvet pinned to the walls, the towering candelabras full of molten church candles, and the fluorescent rubber bats stuck to the ceiling might have made for quite an eerie atmosphere. At two in the afternoon, however, the place looked scabby and seedy.
“Hi, Bill.” Bee stretched onto her tiptoes and kissed Bill, leaving a streak of oxblood lipstick on his cheek.
“Hello there, Belinda—and don’t you look marvelous?” He held her hands and appraised her. She was wearing a skintight Lycra paneled dress that came
Ana’s memories of Bee were all very fuzzy and imbued with a kind of Technicolored, high-octane aura of dimples-hair-and-boobs, turning-a-drama-into-a-crisis, look-at-me-look-at-me type behavior. When Bee was a teenager, she was all fingerless gloves, pink hair, cigarettes, and boys. After she all fingerless gloves, pink hair, cigarettes, and boys. After she left home and moved to London, she was all studied cool, avant-garde makeup, and raw, gauche ambition. And from the day she became famous, in 1985, she was all rush-rush-rush, coffee-fag-coffee, this-flight-that-interview-the-other-TV-show, excuse-me-do-I-know-you-oh-you’re-my-mother-I-thought-I-recognized-you-and-who-is-this-strange-skinny-tall-person-oh-yes-that’s-right-you’re-my-sister disregard.
Ana’s feelings toward Bee had always been enormously ambivalent. On the one hand, she found her quite fascinating.
Bee was a mesmerizing person who could make your day complete by smiling at you. When Bee was in a room, nobody else existed. She was captivatingly beautiful and could be extremely amusing if the mood took her. But on the other hand, Ana had always found Bee frustratingly shallow and occasionally downright cruel. Her nickname for Ana when she was a child was “the Twiglet,” a reference to her knobbly knees and bony arms, and after her sudden growth spurt at twelve, Bee started calling her “the Towering Twiglet.” Some people might think that was cute—funny, even—Gay certainly appeared to, and Bee thought it was hysterical. But not Ana. Ana spent her whole life trying not to draw attention to her height, and it took just one “Towering Twiglet” comment from Bee for Ana to feel like a complete freak.
Bee had always refused to come home to Devon after she’d left, not even for Christmas or birthdays, claiming that the mere thought of the place brought her close to a panic attack, while Gay, conversely, had a fervent hatred for London, which had been brewing and bubbling ever since Gregor had left her for the temptations of the big city. She talked of London disparagingly, as if it were some great brassy harlot with badly dyed hair and a whiff of fish about it.
So, as some kind of desperate compromise, Ana and her family would traipse all the way to Bath or Bristol to meet Bee for rushed meetings in smoky bars, when the conversation would be invariably tense and occasionally fractious, particularly at their very last meeting, in the summer of ’88. Ana hadn’t known at the time that it was going to be the last time she saw her sister, and maybe if she had, she’d have appreciated the experience a little more than she did. Because within three weeks, Gregor was dead, and Gay and Bee had fallen out completely and irretrievably.
three
July 1988
The Catacomb was a gothic club in the center of Bristol.
Gay, Bill, and Ana were here in the middle of the day—
which was strange in itself, as it was a venue quite obviously not designed to be seen during daylight hours. Ana could imagine that at night the purple velvet pinned to the walls, the towering candelabras full of molten church candles, and the fluorescent rubber bats stuck to the ceiling might have made for quite an eerie atmosphere. At two in the afternoon, however, the place looked scabby and seedy.
“Hi, Bill.” Bee stretched onto her tiptoes and kissed Bill, leaving a streak of oxblood lipstick on his cheek.
“Hello there, Belinda—and don’t you look marvelous?” He held her hands and appraised her. She was wearing a skintight Lycra paneled dress that came
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