It was hopeless. He made himself a cup of strong coffee before spending hours looking up CF on the Internet. There was a wealth of information about symptoms, treatment and research. Much of it made gloomy reading but some websites offered hope with advances in science and medicine. The following morning he went out for a run, finding himself jogging past his local bookshop again. This time he didn’t hesitate. He had to buy that book.
Tom glances at his watch. Alice will be here any minute. He heads downstairs to the kitchen to make a salad and grab a beer from the fridge. As he tosses a bag of readymade lettuce and rocket leaves into a bowl, he replays in his mind his visit to Alice at the Brompton. Typically he’d left the decision to see her right up to the last minute. He wasn’t just anxious about Alice and what she might think of him turning up out of the blue. Would she even remember him? What if her boyfriend was there? He was also apprehensive since he had not set foot inside a hospital since his car accident eight years ago. He didn’t want to be reminded of lying, day after day, on that bed, close to death. He swore to himself he’d keep it casual. He’d say he happened to be passing by . . . He wouldn’t stay long. Twenty minutes at the most.
But the moment he’d walked into her bedroom all his rules went out of the window. He was involved.
16
Alice
Mum comes downstairs just as I’m about to head to Tom’s place for dinner. She’s wearing a navy dress with heels. I know she and Dad are going out tonight with friends. ‘Would it hurt you to pick your things up, Alice?’ She puts one of my many rejected shirts back on its hanger.
‘That’s what I have you for.’
She shoots me a look before we both laugh and I help her pick up the rest of my clothes which are scattered across the floor. ‘Have you done your physio?’ she asks.
I nod.
‘I like your hair up. It’s pretty.’
‘I’ll wear it down then,’ I tease, distracted by a packet of condoms lying on my bed. Professor Taylor drills into me that CF doesn’t necessarily reduce fertility, so contraception is important since an unplanned pregnancy is not wise. Mum clocks me discreetly putting them in my bag; not that I think I’ll need them. It’s been almost three months and still nothing. If only he would make a move . . . give me some kind of signal that this is going somewhere.
Snails move faster.
17
Tom
When Tom opens the front door Alice is wearing leather jeans with a tight cream top that shows off her slim figure. She hands him a bottle of red wine and a dark chocolate orange, his favourite, before he kisses her on the cheek, finding her closeness almost unbearable. She follows him downstairs into his kitchen, commenting that something smells delicious.
As he uncorks the bottle of red he notices out of the corner of his eye Alice cramming a whole handful of tablets into her mouth before swallowing them down with water in one quick go. He doesn’t draw attention to it, sensing she was trying to do it unnoticed.
Over their meal Tom feels surprisingly jealous when Alice tells him about this Peter Harris man. It’s clear Alice likes him; in her mind he’s powerful, since he holds the key to her possible success. As she tells him how tiny the studio is, he tries to block out the image of the two of them spending hours cooped up together, Peter strumming his guitar as they write songs in such close proximity. Nothing makes sense to him. He’s jealous but at the same time he’s the one putting the brakes on this relationship.
Tom doesn’t want to grill her about how she can sing with damaged lungs when clearly she believes she can. Instead he says, ‘You’ll have to sing me something.’
‘Maybe. You’d better be careful, I might write a song about you,’ she says, maintaining eye contact.
Tom is the first one to look away. He has to crack a joke, say anything to ease the tension between them. ‘As long as I’m tall, handsome and good in bed.’
‘I wouldn’t know. About the good in bed part.’
He leans towards her. ‘I’m good.’
‘I like to make up my own mind.’
‘More wine?’ he asks. She’s better at this game than him.
‘OK,’ Alice says after the first course. ‘Previous relationships?’
‘That will take all night.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Fine. I’ve had a couple.’
‘Tell me about your last one.’ She’s gazing at him now, all wide-eyed, elbows against the table.
‘It ended eighteen months ago.’
‘That’s a long time to be single.’
‘We went out for four years, I was in no rush.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘When it was going well it was fantastic, but we also fought far too much. I loved her deeply but in the end it was too exhausting, too highly charged for both of us.’
Alice nods, as if she understands. ‘Has there been no one since then?’
‘I briefly dated a yoga teacher.’
‘She must have been flexible.’ Alice stretches out her long arms, smiling provocatively at him.
She is giving you all these hints so make a move, Tom. Here she is in her leather jeans and tight top, her beautiful blonde hair that he’s longing to run his fingers through again . . . don’t just sit there like a lemon. ‘Very flexible,’ he says, this time his eyes remaining on hers. He’s made up his mind. He can’t end tonight on another handshake or peck on the cheek. If he does, it’s over. Alice doesn’t strike him as the type to hang around waiting for blundering indecisive idiots like him.
She’s leaning towards him again. Do something. Say something. ‘More trifle?’ he asks, before cursing himself. He can almost hear Alice screaming, ‘What’s going on with you? What does this all mean?’
‘What do you think we’d be like together?’ she says.
Tom almost drops the serving spoon on to the floor. ‘Us?’
‘Yes. You and me.’
‘Hang on, what about you and Phil? I haven’t heard—’
‘You’re avoiding the question.’
‘I’m not.’ Nothing gets past her.
Tom pretends he needs something from the cupboard. He hears a chair scraping back, footsteps approaching him. ‘Tom, do you ever think about me? About us?’
He turns towards her, leans against the sink. ‘All the time.’
‘And?’ She is only inches away from him now.
This is it, Tom. Make up your mind or let her go. ‘Listen, it’s kind of like a tin of baked beans.’
What the fuck?
Alice doesn’t say a word.
Next he is grabbing a tin of baked beans from the cupboard. ‘See this, right? This tin stands so well on its own, it doesn’t need any company.’
‘What are you saying? That you’re a tin of baked beans? Or am I the tin of beans?’
Seriously, Tom, if she were confused before, I’d say she is completely stumped now. At least she has the grace to smile, not slap you round the face and walk out of the room.
Tom continues, ‘I’m saying one tin of beans or five, you don’t . . . you don’t need them all together. One works very well . . .’ He scratches his head again, as if he’s confusing himself too, ‘. . . on its own. Oh shit, Alice,’ he exclaims when he sees her face. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying. I know we need to talk but . . .’
‘Well, while you work it out, I’m off.’
‘No,’ he urges. He can’t let her go. Not like this. ‘Don’t leave.’
‘I need the loo,’ Alice reassures him, before turning and saying ‘seriously, Tom, baked beans?’
After she leaves the kitchen Tom wants to punch and kick the wall. If it weren’t so tragic it would be funny. What’s wrong with him? He has never been like this before. He pours himself another glass of wine. The truth is there is a blocking agent with someone like Alice, someone who has ‘a condition’. People are scared off and he is ashamed to admit he is one of those people. He wishes again that he hadn’t bought that book
or looked up CF on the Internet. If only he knew nothing about transplants and life expectancy . . .
He thinks of Alice, the questions she had every right to ask. What is he going to do now? He has run out of places to hide. Where is she? She’s been ages. He runs up the stairs, fearing she may have left. He wouldn’t blame her if she had.
He is so relieved to see her in his bedroom that he doesn’t notice what she’s doing until she looks up at him slowly. Tom tries to take the book out of her hands but she won’t release it. ‘Major improvements in treatment have increased the life expectancy to thirty years . . .’ she reads out, before saying to him, ‘Good bedtime reading?’
He can see the hurt in her eyes.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have been snooping,’ she says, putting the book back where she found it.
‘Alice, wait.’ He grabs her arm when she walks past him. ‘That thing you asked me, about us? We need to talk. I like you, I really like you . . .’
‘But you’re scared of the CF thing. I understand.’
‘Can you blame me?’
She doesn’t answer.
Tom sits down on the bed and is relieved when Alice sits down next to him.
‘When I broke my back,’ he says, ‘I knew it was going to heal, but with your—’
‘Tom, it terrifies me too. If I think about it . . . That’s why I don’t. I don’t want friends or family reminding me of it. I want someone to help me escape from it.’
She gets up but he takes her arm more firmly this time. ‘Don’t go, not until you’ve given me the chance to explain.’
‘You don’t need to. You already have.’ She looks at him as if she has made the decision that it’s over. ‘Can you call me a cab?’
‘No, not until—’
‘I want to go home.’
‘Christ, do you think I’d be reading up about it if I had no feelings for you?’ He gets up and paces the room. ‘This is all new to me.’
‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘I can’t mend. I can’t heal. I don’t have a choice with this, but you do.’
Tom drives Alice home, both of them quiet. When he parks outside her parents’ home, she thanks him for supper before opening the passenger door and saying, ‘I’ll see you around.’
But Tom has turned the engine off. He’s out of the car and telling her he’ll walk her to the door.
‘I’m fine, don’t worry.’
‘I know, but I want to.’
Tom gives her his hand and to his relief she takes it before they climb down the stone steps that lead directly to the back door. ‘Can I come in?’ he asks her. When he detects her defensive body language, he urges, ‘Please, Alice, we can’t leave it like this.’
Tom looks around the room: it’s more like a studio apartment. He glances at the framed prints and photographs of family and friends on the walls, the bookshelves crammed with novels and CDs. He tries not to stare at the medication boxes surrounding her double bed. Instead his eyes rest on a guitar on the bedside chair, next to a tall fridge and a keyboard.
‘One day I’ll move out,’ Alice says, taking off her shoes. ‘I’ll have a flat that overlooks the Thames, and I’ll watch the sun setting from my roof terrace.’ She sits down on her bed. ‘May I?’ Tom gestures to his boots. Alice nods before he takes them off and sits down next to her.
‘Tom . . .’
‘Alice . . .’
‘You go first . . .’ they both say, tension still between them.
Alice sits cross-legged on the bed. ‘What I was going to say is I do understand you’re nervous about my CF. I always knew you were.’
Tom doesn’t try to argue. He wants to be honest.
‘But the funny thing about life,’ she continues, ‘is none of us know what’s going to happen, what might be round the corner. I have more of a clue than most, but you don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, or next week, do you? You might get run over by a bus tomorrow.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Or you might win the lottery.’
‘I prefer that option.’
She laughs lightly. ‘Life is unpredictable. You might go down a path with someone and who knows if it will be a bumpy ride or if you’ll reach a dead end.’ Alice turns to him. ‘But I can’t begin to go down a path with someone who’s scared already, someone who’s too frightened even to touch me . . .’
Tom places a hand against her cheek.
She doesn’t pull away. ‘Or someone who compares me to a tin of baked beans,’ she says.
‘Not my finest moment.’
His face is so close to hers now.
‘Do you think you might ever kiss—’ Tom doesn’t allow her time to finish the sentence. His mouth is pressed against hers; he’s holding her face in his hands. He has had enough of waiting, of soul searching, of burying his head in a book and cursing their fate. Alice is here, now, in this moment, and she’s right. Who knows what tomorrow may bring. He’s sick of having doubts. He kisses her as if the world might end tonight, already loving the way her mouth feels against his own. He raises her arms and Alice holds them up as he takes off her top before chucking it on the floor. She unbuttons his shirt. He looks at her again. ‘I don’t want to rush . . .’
‘Rush?’ Alice exclaims with that smile he’s falling in love with.
‘Fine.’ His hand travels down to the zip of her jeans; he has no intention of stopping, not now. ‘I don’t have anything,’ he whispers.
‘Wait.’ She turns over and reaches into her bedside drawer.
‘Are you sure?’ he asks before he rips the packet open with his teeth.
‘Stop asking.’
‘Only being terribly British and polite.’
‘Well don’t be. I like bad boys.’
‘How bad?’
‘Really really bad.’
Tom’s mouth finds Alice’s again and soon they are naked . . . clothes strewn across the floor.
Tom imagines he hears noise, it must be coming from outside . . . but then it’s getting closer . . . ‘Don’t stop,’ Alice murmurs. But the lights are on and someone is standing at the foot of the bed in a long cotton nightie, shining a torch, fear in her eyes. Tom jerks away. ‘Mum!’ Alice gathers the sheets around them both, failing to cover their nakedness.
‘What’s hap— . . . are you . . . Oh! You pressed the button! I thought you were having one of your . . .’ She glances at Tom.
Alice presses a hand over her mouth. ‘We’re fine, everything’s great.’
Tom holds out a hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you again, Alice’s Mum.’
‘Er, hello. Please call me Mary.’
‘Mum, we’re fine,’ Alice repeats, her eyes begging her mother to go back to bed.
‘So sorry to interrupt.’
Tom watches her edge away. There is more commotion, someone coming downstairs. ‘It’s fine, Nicholas, false alarm!’ She glances at Tom and Alice again, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Have fun.’ She waves before retreating as quickly as she can.
‘Great to know the emergency services work so well in this household,’ Tom says as he watches a mortified Alice bury her face under the pillow, kicking her legs up and down, before they both laugh.
Soon they can’t stop laughing.
18
Alice
‘Morning. I didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for last night. I have a stag this weekend (wish I didn’t) but I’ll call you Sunday night. PS. Please say hi to your mum again’.
I reread his note, feeling emotionally drained but insanely happy. After Mum had fled the room last night Tom and I had stayed up chatting, the heat of the moment gone, but in a way it was so much better. We’d talked well into the early hours of this morning. He had touched the scar across my stomach. ‘My happy scar,’ I’d said, taking his hand and guiding him across it, ‘because it’s like a half circle, in the shape of a smile.’ Tom had wanted to know why I had the scar, so I told him, without going into too much detail, ‘When I was born, I had this block
age in my tummy so it had to be removed.’ When Tom had wrapped his arms around me, ‘I don’t remember the op, I was only days old so don’t feel sorry for me.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘And the moment you call me brave, it’s over.’
I could feel both of us smiling in the dark as he said, ‘Bless. But you are brave.’
I’d hit his arm playfully.
‘I’m exceptionally brave,’ he went on. ‘You should have seen me when I broke my back. I was stoic, uncomplaining, so heroic in the face of it all.’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Make me,’ he’d teased before we kissed again, this time making sure no button was pressed and when finally we slept together there was no interruption from the emergency services.
Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed last night. It felt as if we were going in such opposite directions; I’d been so certain things were over between us. When he’d leant against the sink I’d expected him to give me the ‘let’s be friends’ speech. The baked bean comment was the definite low point. When I’d seen the book on his bedside table my worst suspicions were confirmed. Tom was exposing my weakness, all the reasons not to be with me. I didn’t blame him, not at all, but it made me feel vulnerable and insecure, and suddenly all I’d wanted was to be alone. Yet the moment he kissed me . . .
‘It’s quiet downstairs,’ I hear someone saying, jolting me from my thoughts of how I wish Tom wasn’t away this weekend.
‘Hello, Rita! I think she had rather a late night,’ Mum says loudly, clearly wanting to warn me that if Tom and I are still in bed together, perhaps it’s a good time for him to scarper.
‘A late night,’ Rita responds, equally loudly. Rita is the nurse who runs a home service linked to the Brompton.
A Song for Tomorrow Page 8
