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Dear Stuart,

My name is Ana Wills and I am Bee’s sister. I’ve just been looking at your website and it’s really very impressive, particularly your photo gallery. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but my sister died recently. On July 28, to be precise. We’ve just found out that the official cause of death was suicide. We’re all very, very upset. Bee was such a vibrant, exciting person, and I don’t think any of us were as close to her as we could have, or should have, been. But this was due to circumstance rather than a lack of affection or concern. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I suppose it’s just that I remember Bee primarily as a star, as a glamorous, famous popstar. And so do you. I didn’t really know her as an adult, just as a child. And it’s nice to think that there are still people out there who think fondly of Bee. And in fact, what I’ve discovered during my time here in London is that an awful lot of people in the world thought fondly of Bee. Loyal people. People who managed to see the best in her no matter how hard she may sometimes have made it. She was an extraordinary person but she died a rather ordinary death. Her funeral’s already been and gone, so unfortunately there’s no way now to celebrate her life. Which is really quite tragic. Anyway—for some reason I just really thought that you should know since you’ve obviously taken such an interest in her over the years. Maybe you could post the news on your website so that other fans might find out… Please feel free to write back if you’d like.

Yours, Ana Wills

She read through the email and was about to press send when another thought occurred to her. She quickly highlighted the last few lines of text, deleted them, and then rewrote it:

… Her funeral’s already been and gone and only three people attended. I wasn’t even there. No matter what mistakes a person makes in their life, I truly believe that they deserve a better send-off than that, particularly someone like Bee, who was always so happy to be in the limelight. So I’ve decided that I’m going to organize a proper wake for Bee. If you can have a wake after someone’s been buried for over a week, that is. But anyway—I’m going to organize something worthy of Bee and I’m going to invite all the people who weren’t there three weeks ago. And I’d really like it if you came. And anyone else you know who loved Bee. Anyone who wants to celebrate her life. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, but watch this space and I’ll let you know.

As Ana typed faster and faster her mind started buzzing with thoughts and ideas. She was going to throw a party Bee would have been proud of.

chapter forty

Ana covered one ear to block out the deafening racket of a road drill and shouted into the crackly intercom. “Hi, Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle. This is Ana. Bee’s sister.”

“Ana! How marvelous. You came back! Do come in.”

Ana took the elevator up to the third floor and felt a shiver of recognition. This is where it had all started on Thursday, less than a week ago. It felt to Ana that she’d been a completely different person then.

It seemed to take about half an hour for Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle to undo all the locks and chains on her door. She finally greeted Ana in a fug of talcum-y confusion, with the ever-present Freddie clutched tightly to her chest. She looked chic in a black turtleneck and blue trousers, and was wearing large gold earrings and a slick of coral lipstick. Radio 3 played in the background.

“Ana,” she beamed with porcelain teeth, “how wonderful to see you again so soon. Though I presume you’re not here to see me?” She smiled at her knowingly.

“Of course I am,” Ana said, wondering what on earth she was talking about.

She held the door open for Ana to enter.

“Gosh,” said Ana, “what a beautiful flat.” It was exactly the same as Bee’s old flat next door, but exquisitely furnished with unusual antiques, expensive curtains, engraved mirrors, and gilt-framed paintings.

“Bit crammed, I always think. I moved here from a seven-bedroom house in Paris, you see. I sold a lot of things but couldn’t bear to part with most of it. But anyway—you’ve not come to look at my soft furnishings, have you? Now, where is he?”

Mrs. Tilly-Loubelle bent down and began making kissy-kissy noises.

“He’s over here,” said Ana, pointing at Freddie, who was now stretched out and snoring gently where Amy had put him down, on a green-velvet footstool.

“No, no. Not him. The other one. Here, boy.” She began moving cushions out of the way and peering behind things. “I don’t know,” she said, straightening up and smiling at Ana, “he’s hiding again. I think he’s a little bit traumatized. But then who can blame him? Why don’t you have a little look for him, and I’ll make us some tea?”

“Have a little look for who?” Ana was starting to worry slightly about Amy now. And she’d seemed so sane last week.

“Why, John, of course.”

“John?”

“Yes.”

“John the cat?”

“Yes, dear.” Now Amy was looking at Ana with concern.

“But, Amy—John doesn’t live here.”

“No—not usually. But I didn’t know what else to do with him. It’s just the most wonderful luck that you found out about him. Who told you? Was it Mr. Whitman? He found him, you know. Wandering around out back, picking tidbits out of bins, if you please. Barely recognized the poor mite at first. He was so thin. But…”

“Sorry? Amy? Are you saying that John is here?”

“Why yes, of course. We found him a couple of days ago.”

“John?”