Page 55 of One-Hit Wonder

Flint heard Ana breathe in. “Uh-huh, yeah—we know about Zander.”

Flint had stopped breathing. Brilliant, he thought to himself admiringly, what a brilliant maneuver.

“Well, then, you don’t need me to tell you anything else, do you?” There was sweat rolling down Ed’s temples and along his jawline. He was finding this whole experience deeply stressful.

Flint looked at Ana. “Well, yes—we do, actually. Like how can we find him? How can we get to talk to him?”

“No,” said Ed bluntly, “no way. I only ever met him once. Her son was her own affair, and she hated the idea of anyone else having anything to do with him. So, no—leave well alone. Trust me. Zander’s a difficult boy—very angry, very… cruel. He wouldn’t take kindly to being unearthed. And he’s fine where he is. Leave him alone. Really. Trust me…”

Flint sat down. Ana looked at him and then back at Ed. “Bee didn’t have a son,” she said.

“Try telling that to Zander,” sighed Ed.

“No—but really—she didn’t.”

“Look—you’ve just told me that you knew next to nothing about your sister. So take it from me. She had a son. His name is Zander. He’s sixteen.”

“No no no,” said Flint, getting to his feet, “that’s bollocks. That is such bollocks. I’ve known Bee for more than fifteen years. I’ve known her, see, and she was never pregnant. Ever.” Flint was starting to sweat now, as he began to doubt his own recollection of the major life events of his closest friends.

Ed shrugged. “What can I say? She had a son. I met him once. He existed. Sometimes it’s impossible to know everything about your friends.”

“Yes, but—there’s secrets and then there’s going around with a fucking great lump in your frock for nine months. I mean—Bee was only tiny—I’d have noticed.”

“Maybe she went away? Maybe she had her baby somewhere else?”

“No,” said Flint, “no, because she never went anywhere. Never went anywhere for longer than a couple of weeks and no—because that was 1986, see, and 1986 was the year that… well… No way—there’s no way…”

Ed shrugged again and sighed, and Flint wanted to hit him. How could this small, smug man, sitting here in his poncey handbag of an office, this little weasel who’d known Bee for, like, two seconds, possibly think he had anything to say on the subject of Bee Bearhorn? And particularly on the subject of Bee Bearhorn circa 1986, which Flint happened to know had been the worst year of Bee’s life and a year in which they had been almost inseparable.

Ana put her hand on his arm again. Soft, fluttery hands. “What happened to him—to Zander?” she asked Ed. “Why was he disabled?”

Ed shrugged. “Just came out that way, I suppose. He was in a home from birth, as far as I know. Bee only regained contact three years ago. Around the time that I met her.”

“And where did you meet her, exactly?”

“At the children’s home. Where Zander was living. I was there making a documentary, and she was visiting Zander. That was when I met him—the only time I met him. Look,” he said, “I’m not going to tell you where to find him, but I’ll tell you everything else. About Bee. And Zander. Everything I know. OK?”

Ana glanced at Flint and then nodded. “Sure,” she said, “OK.”

Ed sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s get some lunch. Japanese all right?”

chapter twenty-two

june 1997

Bee parked her bike and dismounted. She pulled a bag from the pannier on the back and walked toward the house. It was a beautiful place, turreted and gargoyled and slightly enchanted-looking. She crunched uncertainly across the gravel driveway to the front entrance.

“Good morning,” she said to the blue-uniformed nurse on reception, “my name’s Belinda Wills. I have an appointment with Dr. Chan. About Alexander Roper.”

The nurse smiled. “Yes, certainly. Do take a seat.” She indicated a row of plastic chairs behind her.

“Actually,” said Bee, “I was hoping I could get changed first. You know. Get out of these leathers. I don’t want to frighten him, or anything.” She laughed nervously and the nurse smiled and pointed her toward the restroom.

Once in there, Bee started feeling sick with nerves. What was she doing? What in the name of God was she actually doing? This was a ridiculous idea. Bee had had some ridiculous ideas in her time, done some foolish and ill-advised things, but this really took the double-chunky-chocolate-chip-stupid-biscuit. Her heart raced and her hands shook as she tried to unzip her leathers.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, “fuck.”

She finally managed to slip out of them and then fiddled around in the bag she’d brought with her for her “Belinda Wills” outfit. Tailored black trousers, gray turtleneck jumper, flat lace-up shoes. She grimaced at them. Flat shoes—she hated flat shoes. They made her look like a pygmy. And turtleneck—yuck. She looked mono-bosomed in a turtleneck, like a little boy with a giant Swiss Roll stuck up his jumper. She put on the hateful clothes and then tried to do something with her hair, something to make her look less like a coke-sniffing advertising executive and more like the schoolteacher she was claiming to be. She combed it till it went limp and then slicked on a bit of pearly lipstick. Her eyes, without the thick black eyeliner she normally wore, looked like two currants pushed into the white dough of her unfoundationed, unblushered face. Yuck yuck yuck. Still—she wasn’t here to be admired, she was here to be accepted, and this was the only way. The only way.