Page 105 of One-Hit Wonder

Ana shook her head. “They’re the worst.”

“Do you like Earl Grey, Clint?” Gay chimed girlishly from the kitchen.

“Yes, please, Mrs. Wills. Thank you.”

“Please, call me Gay.”

She emerged a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with scones, clotted cream, jam, slim mugs, an antique teapot with gold-leaf flowers painted on it, linen napkins, crested silver cutlery, and a small saucer of Belgian truffles.

“Where d’you get this lot?” asked Ana accusingly.

“Well, darling, you didn’t expect me just to sit here like Miss Havisham, growing cobwebs and starving to death while you gallivanted around London, did you?”

“Yes—I did actually. The way you carry on…”

“Mr. Redwood has been his usual indispensable, chivalrous self and has been shopping for me every day.”

Flint threw Ana an “I told you so” look.

“But of course, I can’t depend on his generosity forever. It’s the responsibility of the family, really, isn’t it, when someone is unwell?”

“Yes, Mum, that’s right. Like we were there for Bee when she needed us. When she was ill.”

“Ill?” Gay suspended the teapot over a strainer.

“Yes. Ill. Depressed. Suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. For years. And where were we?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake—Bee wasn’t depressed. What on earth would she have had to be depressed about? She had everything, everything that a woman could possibly dream of.”

“Like what?”

“Talent. Looks. Money. The adoration of strangers.”

“She had looks, Mum. She had money. She had absolutely nothing else. Take it from me. I’ve seen her life. Why d’you think she killed herself?”

Gay flinched.

“Mum—why didn’t you tell me the real reason that you fell out with Bee? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Gay slid a scone onto a plate and passed it to Flint.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Stop being so obtuse.” Ana pointed at Flint. “Do you think I haven’t been talking to people who were at Gregor’s funeral? People who heard the way you spoke to Gregor’s friend?”

“A complete overreaction,” she sniffed, “ridiculous. It was ridiculous. Bloody poofs…” She trailed off and turned her mouth down into a sourpuss frown.

“Mum—you accused Gregor’s friends of killing him. At his funeral. How can you say that they were overreacting?”

“Well. I was grieving. I was in shock. Belinda still had no right to throw me out like that. Humiliate me, in front of everyone.”

“Gay,” began Flint trepidatiously, “er—I was there. And I have to say that I don’t think that Bee overreacted in the slightest. I think you deserved to be humiliated, quite frankly.”

Gay’s face rearranged itself dramatically from browbeaten frown to icy shock before rapidly reassembling itself into a mask of feminine delight. She smiled at him. “What do you mean, you were there?”

“I mean, I was at Gregor’s funeral. I saw everything.”

“But how? Who on earth invited you?”

“Bee did. Bee invited me.”