‘I am not lying to you, how can I prove it to you? I mean, how …’ She broke off half-way through a sentence when she heard a knocking at the door.
‘Enter,’ said Zander, wheeling himself towards the door.
‘Oh. Hi. Sorry,’ said a smallish man with close-cropped grey hair, ‘I’m looking for Tiffany Rabbett’s room.’
‘Two doors down. You can’t miss it. It’s verypink.It’s Tiffany’s life ambition to one day be a Barbie doll. Not to actuallywalkor live a long and healthy life or anything. Just to be a doll.’
The man looked at Zander in amazement. ‘Er, right. Yup. OK. Thanks.’ He started to back out of the room.
‘Hey, hey, hold on. Wait a minute,’ Zander called after the man’s receding back.
‘Yes.’
‘Are you with the TV crew?’
‘Uh-huh. I’m the producer.’
‘D’you want a really good story for your show?’
He smiled and edged into the room. ‘I’m always interested in hearing a good story.’
‘Well then. Get this. This woman,’ he pointed at Bee, ‘she’s my mother.’
‘You what!’ cried Bee, jumping to her feet.
‘Yes,’ said Zander, ‘but she’s too ashamed to admit it, because she hasn’t been a very good mother.’
‘He’s lying,’ said Bee, turning to face the producer, ‘I’m his aunt, actually.’
Zander tutted extravagantly. ‘Yes, well, that’s the story she’s concocted. Because it’s a hard thing to admit, isn’t it? That you gave your baby away because he wasn’t perfect, because his little legs didn’t work properly.’
‘He’s lying. He is. Honestly. Lying. You can ask the doctors. They’ll tell you. He was paralysed in an accident …’
‘And so this woman gives away her imperfect little baby boy and he goes into a home and nobody wants him. Nobody wants a baby that can’t walk, that can’t be potty-trained, do they? And then one day, say, oooh, twelve years later, that woman finds herself all alone and getting old and decides to find her baby. And here we are. Ourfirst meeting. Our first reunion. Isn’t it joyful to behold? Aren’t you moved? Don’t you think your viewers would just love this little scene?’
‘I am not his mother. I’m his aunt. Why are you lying like this, you little shit?’ Bee hissed.
‘Aw,’ said Zander. ‘See? Isn’t this sweet?’
‘Look. I’m sorry,’ muttered the producer. ‘I’ve obviously interrupted something. I’ll just go to Tiffany’s room now.’
‘No. Don’t go,’ said Zander, ‘I want to be on TV. Can’t I? Please? Please Mr Hot-Shot TV Producer – I want you to make me a star.’ He crossed his arms across his chest and fluttered his eyelashes at the man.
‘Sorry, son. No can do. We’re doing Tiffany and that’s that. Besides, I think you and your mother have got some talking to do, haven’t you?’
‘I am not his mother,’ shouted Bee, ‘I amnothis fucking mother.’
‘Hey,’ said the man, suddenly stopping in his tracks and giving Bee a strange look. ‘Aren’t you Bee Bear-horn?’
‘Who’s Bee Bearhorn?’ said Zander.
Bee’s jaw dropped. This was getting worse and worse. Worse than she could ever possibly have imagined. She stared at the man in horror. ‘No,’ snapped Bee, ‘I am not Bee Bearhorn. And I am not this little monster’s mother either. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some fresh air.’
‘Who’s Bee Bearhorn?’ said Zander again.
Bee stormed past Zander and the man and stomped out into the corridor.
‘I said, “Who’s Bee Bearhorn?” ’ Zander’s voice followed her down the corridor.