Everything I Know About Love

by Dolly Alderton

  (Please read my sexploits on www.theadventuresofandrea.org. ‘Amusing, desperate’ – Huffington Post.)

  Health-wise, my hypochondria continues to thrive in direct correlation with my anxiety. In the past year alone, I have self-diagnosed five types of cancer, three sexually transmitted diseases and four mental health conditions. I have also stopped walking in grassy or woodland areas since reading about Lyme disease (I still think I have it – do you?).

  My Uber rating has fallen to 3.5, which is disappointing, but I am hoping to face this challenge head-on in the New Year with renewed optimism and alacrity.

  Over on social media, it’s been one hell of a ride. I managed to reach 2,000 followers on Twitter in November – hitting my projected target (you might remember this was my main goal in last year’s round-robin letter). And, even more excitingly, I’ve had four Instagram photos receive less than seven likes and I’ve managed not to immediately book an emergency discussion with my online therapist as a result. So, progress all round!

  My goals for this year include getting off anti-depressants, getting out of overdraft and finding the perfect shade of cream blusher to suit my skin tone. Wish me luck on the next chapter of this ever-changing, unpredictable journey we call life.

  That’s all for this year – wishing you a very merry Christmas and a New Year full of happiness!

  Andrea xxx

  Weekly Shopping List

  – Loo roll

  – New knickers

  – Paper

  – Desire to read all sections of the paper

  – Coffee capsules

  – Marmite

  – Apples

  – Sanitary products that aren’t scented with a Britney Spears perfume

  – Time-management skills

  – Puppy (dachshund, miniature)

  – Tap dispensing strong but milky Yorkshire tea

  – A better toaster with a more reliable timer

  – Flatmates who will watch Countryfile with me

  – My own driver, just for me

  – Bin liners

  – Puppy (Norfolk Terrier, soft-coated)

  – Jarvis Cocker

  – An endless supply of Cheddar

  – The time to watch every Seinfeld episode three times

  – My own cinema

  – Better grammar

  – Thicker skin

  – Better ability to say ‘no’ to things

  – Twenty pairs of tights with no ladders

  – Milk

  Florence

  When I first met Florence, she was six years old and I was barely a teenager. Farly opened the front door to see her little sister standing on the step swaying side to side, her hair cut into a tufty mop on her little head.

  ‘FLORENCE!’ she yelped. ‘WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR?!’

  Florence smiled cheekily.

  ‘DAD, I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU’VE LET HER DO THIS!’ Farly shouted in her teenage bellow to her dad, Richard, standing by the car. ‘SHE LOOKS LIKE A LITTLE BOY!’ Florence carried on grinning.

  ‘She begged to have it that way, angel,’ Richard said, shrugging. ‘What could I do?’

  I adored her instantly.

  Florence and I grew closer when she approached adolescence. Like me, she always felt like she was ready to be a grown-up. She wanted her own identity and independence. She was weary of her peers. She escaped into books and films and music. She was an obsessive; always tracking down every word ever written by her new favourite writers, watching every film ever made by her favourite directors back-to-back. Like me, she found being a teenager at an all-girls school tough and I always wanted to reassure her that the best was yet to come; that being an adult, no matter how difficult or boring at times, was the best thing in the world.

  ‘You know when people say schooldays are the best days of your life?’ I said to her one weekend afternoon as we lay in the sunshine of their family’s garden.

  ‘Yeah?’ she said.

  ‘They’re talking shit.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, stroking my arm – always a condition of her being able to hang out with Farly and me when we were in our late teens.

  ‘Yes. It’s the biggest load of rubbish I ever heard. Schooldays are the worst days of your life, Floss. All the good stuff only begins when you leave.’

  ‘Thanks, Aldermaston,’ she said (it was their family nickname for me – anyone who walked through the doors of their home got a nickname).

  But Florence had nothing to worry about, because she grew into a completely sensational teenager. Far better than I had ever been: like most teenagers, I was mainly concerned with myself, but Florence’s world-view was wide-reaching and empathetic, especially for someone so young and who had lived a fairly sheltered life. Floss was creative and angry and curious and passionate. She wrote a blog on film, dissecting American indie cinema and bemoaning modern Hollywood. She wrote daily diaries. She wrote half a novel. She wrote and directed plays that she put on at school. She gave a talk on LGBT issues in her buttoned-up school assembly. She went on marches. She once came round to our house in Camden with a camera and two friends and asked if she could use it as a location to shoot a short film to raise awareness about domestic violence.

  She also became delightfully, wonderfully disruptive at the dinner table. A meal with Farly’s family was nearly always punctuated by Florence shouting ‘MISOGYNIST!’ at someone during a heated discussion. During one particularly memorable dinner, she went hell for leather on Scott when he dared to question the artistry of Wes Anderson’s films and said he found his work to be a purely aesthetic experience. Floss went into a long, passionate piece of oratory, informing him why he was wrong, before leaving the table in a rage and returning with a huge hardback book about cinema and slamming it on the table with a thud.

  Florence was diagnosed with leukaemia in the summer she left school. She’d finally got to the finish line of adolescence and stood on the cusp of life, only to be told she had cancer. But, from everything the doctors said, though the treatment and recovery from the treatment would be very serious, the outlook was positive. And so was she – magnificently so. She went straight to Kingston Hospital for chemotherapy and made best friends with the nurses and cleaners; she would raise her bed as high as she could so she could chat to them and give them advice. She was told she wouldn’t be able to have children, a fact that many around her found devastating, but she responded with characteristic grace and good humour, stating that the world was overpopulated anyway.

  She started a funny, honest blog documenting her journey with cancer that garnered thousands of readers. She took selfies of her newly shaved head and made funny videos of herself dancing around her bed. She was inundated with emails and letters from supporters. I couldn’t have been prouder of her and regularly sent her texts telling her she had no right to be such a good writer at the age of nineteen.

  One particular post read:

  The worst thing I heard that night [on the date of her diagnosis, 8 August] wasn’t actually the diagnosis but the following words: ‘We want you to stay in overnight.’ I didn’t expect that at all. And then the doctor said, ‘And in the morning the haematologist will perform a bone marrow extraction on you.’ That’s when I knew something was not right. They don’t just DO those kind of things.

  The haematologist came in to see me to say hello and introduce himself before he went home for the night. I just wanted an answer, really, so I asked him plainly, ‘What do you think this is?’ (gesturing to my lumpy and swollen neck). He breathed a sigh before plainly replying, ‘50/50 it’s cancer.’

  When you hear the word cancer you hear death. You think of all the prospects of your future shrivelling into non-existence. And you cry. And cry I did. This lovely man, evidently not so great with others’ emotions, patted my back and attempted to comfort me with words of ‘I didn’t come in here to make you cry.’ Well what do you expect someone to do when you tell them they’ve probably got cancer?!
Leap in the air and yell, ‘Yippee! My life just got so much better!’ No, of course they’re going to be upset. And I was. And I was angry. And I was worried about my parents who were crying just as much as I was.

  And I remember saying, ‘I’m not ready to die yet. I haven’t even lived yet.’ And then later on, ‘And I haven’t had sex yet! It’s not fair.’

  But I got over that stage. And now it’s more like, ‘When I’m done with this cancer, I’m going to kick the world in the arse and be the best thing anyone’s ever seen.’ I mean who can reject me, I’ll have beaten cancer. Everything else is easy.

  I texted her to tell her how much I loved it and assured her that she’d definitely have sex once all of this was over.

  ‘We’ll go on the pull,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to find you one cracking fella, I promise.’

  She celebrated her nineteenth birthday in hospital; the nurses made her a banner that they hung outside her room. She found out she got into York University to read film studies and they said she could delay her place for a year until she’d made a full recovery. She came home after her last cycle of chemo and made chocolate Guinness cake for the nurses who’d cared for her.

  Farly shrunk her world during this time; she was either at the primary school where she was now a teacher, at the hospital or with her family. Scott was with her for everything and I loved him for being such a steadfast, sturdy pillar of support for her and her family. We texted and called each other regularly and he’d let me know how she was doing – it brought us closer, and I felt lucky that my best friend had someone so strong and loving at her side.

  Floss carried on blogging when she came home from Kingston. Her brother, Freddie, was a bone marrow match, which was fantastic news as it enabled him to be a donor for her, though she had to recover from chemotherapy before having the operation at a hospital in central London. But, quite suddenly, her health started deteriorating and she was rushed into the hospital prematurely. A series of issues followed in succession, one never being solved before the next problem came. Her kidneys weren’t working, she couldn’t speak, her organs started failing and she was put in intensive care and on a ventilator to breathe. Farly was given some time off school to be at the hospital with her family every day.

  I had just left my job of over three years to be a full-time writer, which meant I was working from home and could get a bus to meet her. We met for lunch most days for a month, always going to the cafe above Heal’s on Tottenham Court Road and ordering the same thing each time, two Caesar salads and a plate of chips to share. She’d tell me how Floss was doing that day, but the news never seemed to get better. Everything was up in the air and no one had any clear idea of what was going to happen next – the bone marrow transplant seemed like it was getting further and further away. I tried to calm her with the same repeated platitudes: she’s in the best place she can be, she’s in safe hands, the doctors know what they’re doing. I knew she was being inundated with stats and science every day from experts, so I felt it was my job as an ignorant friend to be a positive cradle for her hope. But the truth was, I had no idea what was happening.

  Every day she asked me my news, desperate for some normality to distract and rejuvenate her before heading into the hospital room for the afternoon. I told her about the articles I was writing that week. I showed her boys on Tinder. She bought me a glass of Prosecco the day I found out I’d been given my first column, telling me she was just happy to celebrate something.

  At one point, it seemed like Floss was showing small signs of progress and Farly said I should come to the hospital to visit her. I said I would love to, although I was nervous I wouldn’t be able to keep it together. As I sanitized my hands before I went in, I realized I’d never visited anyone in hospital before.

  ‘Someone’s come to see you,’ Farly said as I entered the room. Floss couldn’t speak, but she smiled at me, and I was filled with relief and a rush of love for this girl who was the closest thing I’d ever known to a little sister. I stood at the end of her bed and babbled at her, hoping it would provide some sort of distraction; I told her about the new series of Girls that I knew she was going to love, about a new band I’d been listening to that I thought she would like. Farly asked me to tell her about all the stuff I was writing, and she smiled again as I told her about the short film Lauren and I were working on, the script of which she’d have to edit for me sometime soon. After fifteen minutes, I said goodbye to this spectacular, beautiful, electric thunderstorm of a girl, knowing it could be the last time I ever saw her.

  ‘I feel like I’m watching her slip away,’ Farly said to me one day soon after my visit during one of our lunches. ‘I can feel it, I know it’s happening.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I said. ‘People go to the darkest edge and come back to full health. You hear the stories all the time.’ But, having seen Floss so ill and being told that was her best day, I knew why Farly was having those thoughts and it was important that I let her express them.

  The following week, early one afternoon, I was writing at my kitchen table when Farly called.

  ‘She’s gone,’ she said, gasping for breath. ‘She died.’

  I’ve never seen as many people gathered at a funeral as there were the day we said goodbye to Florence. All of our friends came to the service, along with masses of teachers and girls from her school, family, friends she met on her travels; people who had been touched by her warmth and wit and intelligence and kindness over the years, of which there were hundreds. There were so many attendees, many of them had to stand outside the crematorium and watch the service from a screen. I smiled up at the sky when I realized this, hoping it would have made her happy, and hoping she knew just how loved she was. Freddie gave the eulogy; the rabbi – who’d known her since she was a kid – spoke admiringly of her charisma and courage. Her best friend did a reading of a breathtaking piece Florence had written for her year-book page. ‘It may seem that life is difficult at times but it’s really as simple as breathing in and out,’ she read. ‘Rip open hearts with your fury and tear down egos with your modesty. Be the person you wish you could be, not the person you feel you are doomed to be. Let yourself run away with your feelings. You were made so that someone could love you. Let them love you.’

  In between the funeral and the shiva – a period of mourning in the Jewish faith that happens at home – all the girls came back to our place. We went to Ivan’s and picked up some wine. I made a huge pan of scrambled eggs while India produced endless rounds of toast. We talked about Florence – everything that was funny and brilliant and outrageous about her – we cried and we laughed and we raised our glasses to her memory.

  The family house was just as packed for the shiva as it had been for the funeral. We all stood in the kitchen and the rabbi said prayers and spoke again of Florence. Farly began to read a poem and I watched her speak the lines into the microphone, looking so much smaller than I’d ever seen her. She stopped at a particular line and began to cry, so she passed the poem to the rabbi, who continued to read it aloud. I looked across the crowded kitchen at this small, birdlike creature, snapping into pieces, all her bones and words crumbling, and I wanted to barge through the room to hold her. It was the worst moment of my life.

  People stayed on late into the evening. Her school friends all sat in Florence’s bedroom among her books and clothes. I had been tasked with the condolences book. India, AJ and Lacey were chugging Bristol Cream Sherry that Aunty Laura had plied them with from plastic glasses. All of Farly’s colleagues from the school where she taught had come to pay their respects, including the head teacher. Halfway through the evening, as is Jewish tradition, the grieving family sat on chairs in a line and the mourners wished them a long life.

  I got to Farly and crouched down to her level to hug her.

  ‘I love you very much,’ I said. ‘And I wish you a very long and happy life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing me back. ‘Have you seen all the tea
chers from my school?’

  ‘Yes. They’re lovely. I’ve just been talking to your deputy head.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  ‘I do. We had a great chat, what a nice woman.’

  ‘I’m pleased you like her,’ she said, smiling. ‘What did you guys talk about?’

  ‘I asked her to look after you when you go back to work,’ I said. ‘I asked her to make sure someone’s always looking after you.’

  ‘I’ll be OK, Doll,’ she said, her huge brown eyes brimming with tears until one escaped through her lashes and ran down her cheek. ‘I just have to find a way to live without her.’

  I spent the following days at the family home with Farly. There wasn’t much talking, but I made tea and we helped her stepmum, Annie, with any bits that needed doing around the house. After Florence died, a Telegraph journalist found her blog and got in touch with the family to ask if they could run extracts of it in the paper, as well as an accompanying piece about her. They agreed, as they knew it’s what she would have wanted, and the article meant even more people got in touch with Annie and Richard to express their sorrow at the loss of someone so full of life.

  ‘Send letters,’ Annie said one morning as she sat reading through a huge pile of cards and letters from people offering their condolences. ‘I used to always worry when I heard something bad had happened to someone that writing would be an intrusion. It’s never an intrusion, it always helps. If there’s one thing we can learn from this, it’s to always just send the letter.’

  That afternoon, we all took the dog for a walk. Farly and I walked side by side. We wore matching bobble hats that we’d bought a few days earlier when we’d gone to Kew retail park to pick up insoles for the shoes she wore to the funeral. What with the intense week of inseparable company, these matching hats and the adults behind us, it felt like we were teenagers again. Except this time we weren’t talking about boys on MSN. Somewhere in our fifteen years of walking side by side, from school to university lectures, to the streets around our first place in London, we had stopped playing at being grown-ups and accidentally become grown-ups.