one-hit wonder by Lisa Jewell Read Free Book Online

journey. I’ll be in touch soon. I promise.” She peered into the back window and screwed up her face at Ana. “Ta-ta, Twiglet,” she said, “say hi to your boyfriend.” And then, as Bill carefully maneuvered the car out of the parking space and headed toward the exit, Bee turned around and sauntered away from them. Ana twisted in her seat to wave at her through the back window. Bee waved back enthusiastically, grinning her big, toothy grin. But as the car disappeared into the exit tunnel and Bee thought she was out of view, Ana saw her drop her hand, break off her smile, and let her shoulders slump forward before turning and heading slowly toward the lifts.
    And Ana’s last ever glimpse of her sister was of a beautiful woman in an Azzedine Alaïa dress, standing against a stark concrete backdrop in a dank Bristol multistory parking lot, who looked like life had knocked all the stuffing out of her.

    Three weeks later Gay traveled down to London for Gregor’s funeral, leaving Ana and Bill at home with a very firm “Don’t be ridiculous—the place will be overflowing with homosexuals—why on earth would you want to come?” She booked herself into Claridges, bought herself a new dress from Jaeger, and had a hat specially made. She booked a cab, packed an overnight case, filled the fridge with enough meals for about a week, made a complete fuss about leaving, and then came back ten hours later, in tears so hysterical that mascara almost dripped from the end of her nose.
    Bee, apparently, had kicked her out of the crematorium during the service. Physically. Using her hands—she’d shown them the muted bruising on her upper arms. And in front of everyone. Called her a bitch. Said she never wanted to see her ever again. Or Bill and Ana for that matter. Said she was disowning her family. Said she hated all of them, that she was ashamed of them.
    There was no Bee, Gay had said, when a tearful Ana asked if she could call her. Bee, she said, no longer existed. There never had been a Bee. And Ana had numbly, obediently, put Bee in a box marked “vague memories from my past”—and left her there.
    Ana had occasionally wondered about her sister, looked for her blunt black bob and red-lipsticked mouth in the celebrity pictures in her mother’s trashy magazines. Gay had invited Bee to Bill’s funeral and Ana had stood at his graveside, her grief tempered by a sense of trepidation that at any moment her mysterious sister might appear from behind a tree. But she hadn’t come and Ana had chalked it up as yet another disappointing moment in her life. Bee did send Ana a card, however, with a photograph of a lily on the front. It didn’t say much—just “My thoughts are with you, all love, Bee.” It was nice, but it was coolly polite, and Ana had meant to write back to say thank-you and how are you and what’ve you been up to, but the bond between the two sisters was so slight and so flimsy that she’d just never gotten around to it.
    Ana always thought that she’d meet up with Bee again one day, maybe go to London for a weekend, hang out together.
    The age gap between them would have been less of an issue as Ana hit her twenties, and she was sure that Bee would have calmed down a bit, maybe gotten a proper job, maybe have calmed down a bit, maybe gotten a proper job, maybe married, maybe even had a child or two. She imagined Bee meeting her at the station awash with perfume and Gucci, taking her to be pampered at a health spa and then to dinner at a posh restaurant run by some celebrity chef, and maybe taking her out to Bond Street the following day and insisting on buying her something disgustingly expensive from a designer shop. It would have been a pleasant weekend, and Ana would have enjoyed the diversion, but when it came to an end, the two women would have hugged and smiled kindly but sadly at each other, because they’d both know there was no friendship to be had, no bond to be formed, and that they’d