one-hit wonder by Lisa Jewell

preoccupation with her fading youth? She must have had friends—she must have had someone she could have talked to? A boyfriend? A lover? It just wasn’t possible that someone like Bee could have died like an unloved pensioner, alone and with no one to notice she’d gone.
    Ana shuddered, took one last look at the empty, ominous bed, switched off the light, and made her way back to the living room, where she eventually fell asleep on the sofa, under Bee’s pink cashmere blanket, which still smelled of her Vivienne Westwood perfume.

    six
    At nine-fifteen the following morning, Ana’s deep sleep was rudely disturbed by a team of four Romanian women, three half-naked men from Newcastle, and Mr. Arif, all arriving at the same time. She had barely detached herself from her dreams, and acknowledged the existence of a hideous hangover, when she found herself peering through the peephole into the enlarged eyeball of a grinning Mr. Arif.
    And there they were, standing behind him. Dozens of them.
    “Good morning, Miss Wills! And tell me. How are my fine ladies here to clean my flat when there are also here these three large gentlemen?” He pulled his monogrammed hankie from his pocket, wiped his brow, and gestured dismissively at the bare-chested men behind him.
    As he walked into the flat, the four women dutifully piled in behind him, clutching buckets and mops and carrying cases full of cleaning products.
    “Well, maybe,” began Ana, tugging self-consciously at her pajamas, “the ladies could start in the kitchen and bathroom and these gentlemen can begin removing these things—you are . . . you are here to remove things, aren’t you?” she asked, thinking suddenly how embarrassing it would be if they weren’t and they were actually journalists or something. The three nodded. “Good, excellent. And maybe while you’re all doing that, I could—er—get dressed?”
    “Yes, yes, yes, of course, Miss Wills. Of course. Ladies”—
    he turned to the somewhat sad-looking women behind him, all in their twenties but with the demeanor and hairstyles of women in their forties—“follow me, if you please.” Ana scuttled into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. This was horrible. After the intimacy she’d experienced last night while she was here alone, the presence of so many strangers was deeply upsetting—and so final. The moment that last box was heaved into the big white van out there, she would have to leave, and she would never be allowed to return. Because it wouldn’t be Bee’s flat anymore. It would be the flat of some prima ballerina. And, quite to her own surprise, Ana wanted to stay here. Not forever or anything, but she wanted another night, at least, just to breathe in the atmosphere and get to know her sister.
    But instead, she would be sitting on a train, all alone, hurtling back to Great Torrington and her bedroom. And, more depressingly, to her mother. Ana sighed and moved to the window. Down on the street below, one of the burly, bare-chested moving men was already hoisting a box into the back of the van. Ana recognized it as the one into which she’d packed Bee’s shoes and felt suddenly and horribly sad.
    It didn’t take long to load up Bee’s paltry possessions, and by ten-thirty Ana was waving off Bez, Al, and Geoff and watching Bee’s life trundle down Bickenhall Street toward Devon. She had an appointment with Bee’s lawyer at twelve, so she returned to the flat to bid farewell.
    Mr. Arif was also preparing to leave, slotting paperwork into the inside sleeve of a maroon leather attaché case and whistling under his breath. “So, Madam,” he said, smiling widely at her now that he was convinced that everything was widely at her now that he was convinced that everything was under control, that the flat was being cleaned and that his prima ballerina could happily move in the next morning,
    “now it is all over. Your sister is in boxes and your task is complete. To where are you