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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Tammy Robinson
Reading group guide copyright © 2020 by Tammy Robinson and Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Cover design by name TK.
Cover photo/art credits TK
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Originally published in 2019 by Piatkus in Great Britain
First Forever trade paperback edition: February 2020
Forever is an imprint of Grand Central Publishing. The Forever name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-0036-5 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-0037-2 (ebook)
E3-20190805-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Disclaimer
Title Page
Copyright
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR PHOTOS OF YOU
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
Photos of You
Questions for Readers
Q&A with author Tammy Robinson
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR PHOTOS OF YOU
“A deeply emotional story that will remind you that life is a gift, and it’s never too late for love.”
—Kelly Rimmer, best-selling author of Me Without You
“Yes, you will no doubt have tears but hey, who didn’t have tears when they read JoJo Moyes’s Me Before You? I implore you to read this book. It will stay with you for long after you have finished the last page.”
—The Oxford Observer
“For fans of Me Before You.”
—Next Magazine
“Heart-wrenchingly romantic, this book will leave you wanting to hold your loved ones just that little bit closer.”
—Emma Cooper, author of The Songs of Us
“There was a life-affirming aspect that kept me turning the pages all through the day and long into the night…fresh and humorous, so honest.…Many moments stole my breath and left me weeping.…Highly recommended.”
—TheresaWrites.com
For Holly, Willow, and Leo, who bring
the joy into every day.
And for love, and the courage to follow your heart.
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Prologue
The End, it begins
In my dreams I go everywhere.
I am limited only by my imagination, but as my year-seven English teacher once remarked, I was blessed with a rather robust one of those. Original and dramatic, she said; proudly, as if it were all down to her guidance and tutoring rather than the genetic card I was dealt. I wonder what she would say if she could see me now.
Such a shame, such a waste.
She wouldn’t be wrong.
In my dreams, I travel to places I have never been but always wanted to go. On the one hand, it is preferable. There are no customs queues, pickpockets to keep a wary eye out for, or tetanus shots to be had. Yet, on the other hand, none of it is real. I will never see these places for myself.
Days have begun to merge. The passage of time is marked by the administration of pain medication. I don’t remember the last time I left this bed, or this room. I am near the window and am grateful for that. I watch clouds roll on by, and then…
Blink.
… they are replaced by stars.
I hear them. The voices. Muffled, tearful, weary. I hate what I have put them through. Continue to do. Is it my fault? That I am still here? Am I hanging on when I should be letting go? Have I failed at the very thing that comes to us all?
Blink.
I dream of him. With the water on his skin and the sunset in his eyes. The timing was all wrong. And yet, the timing was perfect. I wonder where he is, and what he is doing.
Blink.
I tiptoe among the stars, along the Milky Way. Hitch a ride on a comet, dance with the man in the moon.
I am star dust; blow on me too hard and I will disintegrate.
Chapter One
I stopped listening a few minutes ago, right around the time he uttered the three words I had been most longing not to hear.
I’m so sorry.
I watch as his mouth moves and a few other words filter through, even though I feel like I am underwater or listening to him from inside a vacuum.
Secondary
Bone
Incurable
Limited options
On their own, none of those words are particularly malevolent, but together they paint a grim picture. The cancer is back. And this time it’s not going away. Numbness steals over me like an anesthetic and I feel my whole body settle in cold stillness. This can’t be happening.
I should be listening. As far as speeches go, the one he’s currently giving is right up there i
n terms of importance. I know I’ll be fielding a million questions later, none of which I will have the answer for if I don’t listen. Except one, if anyone is brave enough to ask it.
Are you dying?
Yes.
“Ava?”
I realize he’s been saying my name and blink.
“Sorry?”
“Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
Yes. Why me?
“I know it’s a lot to take in and you’ll need time to process it all.”
He gets to his feet and comes around the desk, perching on one corner to look down at me sympathetically.
When did doctors stop wearing white coats? They barely even look like doctors anymore. Half the time they look fresh out of high school. Like this guy, Dr. Harrison. Under any other circumstances I would have been flirting with him. He was seriously good-looking in a cultivated, obvious way. I was willing to bet money that he had nurses falling all over him.
“Is there someone I can call? To come and pick you up?” he asks.
I blink again, realizing I am staring at his lips. Wondering what it would be like to kiss them. Inappropriate, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that what one anticipates is an appropriate reaction in a situation like this and what actually happens can be two very different things.
“No, thank you,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”
Except I won’t.
“OK. Take a few days to think about what I’ve said and then we’ll discuss options going forward.”
I snort bitterly. Options. Discussing options when the end result is unavoidable feels futile, but I don’t say that. Ironically, I don’t want to hurt him.
The autumnal air outside the hospital doors is crisp and fresh and I inhale a big lungful through my nose, feeling my belly expand like a balloon, the way my mindfulness app on my phone has taught me. I hold it for exactly six seconds before releasing it slowly through my mouth. The balloon deflates.
It doesn’t help the rising sense of panic I feel.
There is a bench seat in a little garden to the right of the hospital car park. I have sat there countless times, though not for a while. I perched there through seasons, like a watchful bird. When the seat was cold and the ground was hard and frozen. I sat there when the trees that hulked above were barren, and the air hazy with the smoke of a thousand chimneys. When the ground softened with the first buds of spring and the air became expectant and giddy with new life.
On this day, I sit there and observe a carpet of color as leaves of purple, orange, and red litter the ground. Occasionally a playful gust of wind swirls through and collects them and they dance away like children, with no reservations.
I’ll never have a child.
I’ll never marry.
One I always assumed would happen. The other I have dreamt of my entire life. The pain hits hard in my belly and I double over, clutching my stomach, my eyes squeezed tightly shut in an effort to block out the world.
“Are you OK?”
The voice is curious, concerned. Feminine but raspy, quivering with age. I refuse to look up. Whoever it is can clearly see they are intruding on a moment.
“Shift over, will you?” the voice says, somewhat petulantly. Resentfully I shuffle over on the seat, still without looking up. I feel the air shift as the woman settles in beside me.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asks, already flicking with her thumb at her lighter. Clearly her husky voice isn’t the result of age alone and I find myself judging her before remembering I don’t like to judge anyone, let alone someone I don’t know. On the third flick it lights, and there is silence for a moment apart from the sound of her sucking on the end of her cigarette. Immediately she starts coughing and I finally look up, alarmed. Clad in a dressing gown and slippers, she is clearly a patient of the hospital, escaping on an illicit mission to indulge her frowned-upon habit. Her gray hair is disheveled and wispy, flattened at the back, and she is hacking and spluttering so hard I half expect to see a lung pop out on to the path at her feet.
“Are you OK?” I ask, unsure whether I should be dashing for help.
She holds up a finger, gesturing for me to give her a moment. When she recovers she nods and takes another suck on her cigarette. This time she manages to breathe it out without the dramatic display.
“Oh, yes, that’s better.” She nods. “That first puff always causes a bit of havoc.”
She eyes my face curiously and I realize I still have wet cheeks from the path of my tears. I quickly look back at my feet and wipe them away.
“Bad news?” she asks.
I nod.
“Family member?”
I shake my head.
“Ah.” Suck. “Yourself?”
Nod.
She sucks a few more times. “How bad?”
“About as bad as it gets.”
“Cancer?”
I look at her, surprised. “How did you know?”
She pulls a face. “I’m not psychic, if that’s what you’re thinking. Damn disease is everywhere.”
I notice the sickly pallor of her skin and the fact that the wrists poking out from her dressing gown are thin and sharp. Too thin. The hospital identification bracelet that encircles her left arm dangles loosely.
“You too?”
She sighs. “Yes. Started in my lungs. Now it’s in my bones and pretty much everywhere else.”
I look at my feet. “They just told me it’s in my bones now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It hurts, doesn’t it?”
“No. Well, not yet. Apart from a few minor niggles.”
“Oh. Then it’s not that bad. Definitely bearable.”
I appreciate her vague attempt at reassurance, even though we both know she’s lying.
Suck.
I watch her inhale the smoke right down into the bottom of her lungs, as far as she physically can, before reluctantly letting it out again between her pouted lips. She angles her pout to one side so that the smoke goes to her right instead of her left, where I am sitting. It makes no difference; the wind blows it back toward me anyway. It has a horrible smell, earthy but bitter, strong and intrusive. I honestly can’t understand the appeal.
She notices me watching.
“Do you want one?” she asks, proffering the packet.
I shake my head. “No. Thanks.”
“Good girl.”
Suck.
“Go ahead,” she says.
“Sorry?”
“You can ask me. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. But you will get the same answer.”
It sounds like a riddle. I’ve never been particularly good at riddles.
“What question?”
She holds what remains of her cigarette up toward me; the butt pinched tightly between two fingers so the circular shape is now an uneven oval. Ash drops off the tip and lands on my jeans. I brush it off.
“You’re wondering why I’m still smoking,” she says.
“No I wasn’t.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Oh, right. You have bigger things to worry about. Ignore me. I’ll finish this and be out of your hair.”
I try to ignore her. I sit with my hands under my thighs and the toes of my boots trailing in the dirt, and look out east, over the hills that rim our town. Some people like to people-watch. Me, I’ve always loved cloud-watching and searching for hidden animals or faces. Today is a good day for it. A low bank of clouds stretches above the hills, quite a variety today. Fluffy white ones like snow cones, long, gray, cigar-shaped clouds with wispy ends. The occasional fat, heavy, airship-shaped cloud, its belly swollen with rain.
Normally I’d feel joy at the sight of them. But today all I can think about is that someday soon I’ll drink in my last sight of them, and then that’ll be it. And I think, Will I know? That it’s my last sight? Will I watch them disappear into the sunset one night and know that I’ll take my last b
reath before the sun rises again and brings forth a fresh batch to be admired? Or will I be completely unaware? Unappreciative, delirious, and most likely unconscious from a cocktail of drugs and disease. The panic starts to rise again, threatening to overwhelm me, and I turn to her, desperate to think of something, anything, else.
“Why do you?” I blurt out, my voice shaky.
“Smoke?”
“Yes.”
She shrugs. “Because I’m addicted.”
“Oh.”
“You were expecting a better answer than that.”
‘I don’t know what I was expecting.’
“I know all the reasons to quit, believe me. The biggest reason being the damn lung cancer, of course. But I just can’t.” She eyes the cigarette again ruefully. The yellow-stained filter is all that is left, as she has smoked it down to the last millimeter. “I know it’s not the done thing to admit this,” she says. “But I like it. So help me, I actually enjoy it. I’ve been smoking them so long now I can’t imagine being without them.”
She throws the butt on the ground and grinds it into the dirt with a slippered foot. I notice that her sheepskin slippers are faded and worn, and the toenail on her right big toe has almost poked through in a bid for freedom.
I wonder if she realizes how ridiculous she sounds.
“I know I sound ridiculous,” she says. “But I’m old and I’m tired. I’m not going to start denying myself the only pleasure I have left.”
With some effort, she gets to her feet and stands still, lifting her face to the sky and closing her eyes. “Ironic, isn’t it,” she says after a minute, “that the air always tastes sweeter to me after a cigarette.”
I don’t answer. I don’t really know what to say. She opens her eyes and looks down at me with sympathy. “It’s rotten luck, getting it at your age. It really is. Sometimes the lack of justice in these things really pisses me off, and if there is some old guy in a white robe and dodgy sandals up there he’ll be getting words from me, you better believe it. I have some questions I need answered.”
She pauses to cough a few times, and I notice her hands and fingers are curled with arthritis.
“Listen to me. Don’t make the mistake so many people in our position do,” she says once she’s cleared her chest. “I’ve seen it so many times. People just give up when they get the diagnosis, like their time is already gone.” She looks me up and down speculatively. “You’re young and from the look of you, still physically capable. Don’t spend your last days here on earth dying. If you have something you want to do, make sure you do it. You hear me?”
Photos of You (ARC) Page 1
