It’s heavier than it looks; I heft it onto the bed and unzip it to reveal musty, folded clothes on top. Taking a breath, I tip the bag upside down and shake the contents onto the bed. It’s clothes, mostly – T-shirts, jogging bottoms with one leg cut off, underwear. But also there’s a cheap plastic bag with a necklace in it – a small gold St Christopher, which Vincent had always worn for as long as I knew, but not since the injury, although I don’t think I even noticed until now. A long time ago, soon after we met, I remember fingering the fine gold chain and catching the small octagonal medallion in the palm of my hand.
‘Lucky charm?’ I had asked him.
‘Mum gave it to me when I joined up. She told me, that day, how proud she was of me. I think it’s the only time I heard her say it. It isn’t so much lucky; I guess it’s just a reminder of that – it’s a bit sad, really. You should give me something, too. You should give me something to keep in my pocket, to remind me of you.’
And he’d grabbed a pair of knickers from my drawer and waved them over his head, saying they were going with him back on tour, and I shrieked and chased him around the room until we fell into bed and made love again. I never did see those knickers again, though, but they aren’t in this bag.
There is something else in amongst the jumble of clothes: a long white envelope. Perhaps discharge notes from the hospital? I pick it up and sit down on the bed with a bump. It’s addressed to me. And it’s written in Vincent’s handwriting.
Vincent, who hates even having to write a shopping list, or a Christmas card, has written to me. But of course I know why. I know what this letter is; I just haven’t ever known that it actually existed.
It’s his last letter.
I hold it lightly, seeing how it trembles in my fingers. And even though it somehow feels like a betrayal – no, more like tempting fate – I force my thumb under the seal and rip it open. I take the letter out and unfold it. There it is, his handwriting, neat and boyish, a little laboured, but carefully written, thoughtful. Somehow I know that this wasn’t the first draft; that’d he tried and tried again to get this missive exactly right. I see my name, but the other letters swim on the page – out of focus as tears blur my vision for a moment and I blink them away. I was only ever meant to read this if he died. And yet, once I am able to start reading, I cannot look away.
Dear Stella,
If you are reading this then I am gone. And it will be hard for you. When I think about it, you being alone, having to deal with what’s happened, it feels like it will be hard for me too. It hurts to think about. But it won’t be – I will be gone. It’s not me I have to worry about – it’s you.
We never talked about this, the possibility that I might be killed in action. Maybe we didn’t want to tempt fate. Maybe we didn’t want to acknowledge it. We always did like to believe, you and I, that together we are indestructible.
So, there are some things you must do to remember me. Don’t change, Stella. Don’t stop being brave, fierce, funny, sexy as hell and too clever for your own good. Don’t stop reading all those books, or saving all those lives, or making people smile just by smiling at them. Don’t lose the joy you have in living, which has made me want to stay alive more than anything I know.
Don’t be lonely, not for me. Make sure your friends take you out at least once a week, even in the beginning. Make sure you go out and party. You love to party. Don’t stop flirting. It hurts me to write that, but I want you to be happy. And one day, maybe in about a decade or so, you can try and meet someone new – though just make sure they always feel like they are living in my shadow.
Remember that, for you, I have been the best man, and the best soldier, that I can be. Since you became my wife, I grew up, I cared, I tried. I lived the best way I could, in every moment. And I will die the best way I can too.
Think of me, remember me. But never change who you are because of me. Always be you, perfect and happy. And somehow, some way, I will always be with you. If you are reading this letter, all that it means is that you and I were never meant to have our happy ending. But you can still have yours.
I love you,
Vincent
And all at once I see for the first time what both of us have failed to realise all along. We have been separately mourning the life we used to have, missing what can never be returned to us, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t still be the people we were before. He told me, here in this letter, that if the greatest tragedy happened, I shouldn’t change. And yet, it didn’t happen – I got him back – but somehow we both changed. We both let it change us. And yet, it doesn’t have to. We can be the same people; we can still love each other the same way, simply living life differently. And, above all else, simply living. We have both been ghosts, ghosts haunting an empty house. Ghosts made not by death but by our own lack of will to live, to fight for the life that made us happy.
I look around this bleak, empty building full of shadows and cold corners, and I know that without Vincent in it, without the man that I love it in, it is an empty shell. It’s exactly as Hugh said: what is love if you don’t have to fight to keep it? What is life if you don’t fight every second to live it? We can still have our happy ending, together. Only it won’t be an ending, it will be a beginning.
I know where Vincent is, right now.
I lace up my shoes, let myself out of the front door, glance up at what’s left of the night, and I run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HOPE
‘Are you OK?’
Ben is leaning on me; he sounds a little out of breath. The doctor at Marie Francis checked him out and said everything seemed fine, other than severe soft-tissue damage and some cuts, but to keep an eye on him and get him to A&E if anything changed.
‘Am I OK?’ Ben laughs. ‘I don’t know. Am I? You tell me.’
I know he wants me to do or say something – the next thing that will move us on from where we are now to being more, to being lovers. And I’m terrified; to make someone that is so vital to me, so important, suddenly so … significant is scary. This isn’t some boy I met at a summer festival; this matters. Right now, this matters more than anything else.
‘I think you are OK,’ I say, pulling him a little tighter to me. ‘You’ve got me now. You’ve always had me, you just didn’t seem to know that.’
The market is busy, bustling with cool kids and tourists, harassed-looking mums, people of all backgrounds and faiths jostling with each other for elbow room. I glance sideways at Ben; his head is down, his hair, minus all the product he usually shoves in it, is falling in his eyes. It makes him look younger, somehow – softer, sweeter. Without all the bravado and front that I love about him so much, and yet, somehow, without it, I love him even more.
‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘I want it, what you want. But, Ben, I have to say it, because it wouldn’t be fair not to. What about the whole CF thing? Because, apart from the fact that I am needy and desperate and moody, I might go and die on you. Possibly even before you get bored of me. And I’m not sure … should I let you put yourself through that?’
He stops suddenly. ‘That’s not your choice to make. And, anyway, if it happens, it won’t make a difference if we are together or not, because if it happens, then … well, it’s not going to happen.’ He grabs the lapels of my coat and draws me closer to him. ‘Hope, I love you. You don’t get to decide how much I love you or not; that’s a done deal. All you get to decide is whether you want to benefit from my masterly skills as a red-hot lover. That’s really all you have to think about.’
I gasp and laugh at the same time. And I am about to kiss him when he releases me so suddenly I stumble back at little.
‘Look where we are!’ he says. ‘It’s a sign!’
We are standing outside the Market Tavern, and I remember that tonight is the night we were supposed to be on stage, in there, singing our song. There is this rush of horror, excitement and adrenaline all at once. I get the horrible feeling that I am about to be
impulsive.
‘Let’s do it now!’ he says, tugging at my sleeve and nodding at the sign. ‘Come on, let’s go in and do our song!’
‘Now?’ I am uncertain.
‘No, next Tuesday. Yes, now!’ Ben tugs at my hand. ‘Yes, come on, this is what we need, isn’t it? We both need to get our blood pumping and our hearts beating. To scare the shit out of ourselves and remember that we are young and alive and in reasonably good health, considering. Don’t we? Well, what better way than doing this? This is what we said we would do.’
‘I can’t even breathe properly, at the moment, never mind sing,’ I say.
‘You can never sing,’ he says. ‘You just think you can and people don’t seem to mind.’
‘Cheeky git. I’ll show you!’ He laughs, but then his face stills as he sees something in my expression. ‘You actually want to do this now?’
‘Yes, I do. I’m tired of waiting; my life is in limbo. I’m tired of being stuck inside my own head all the time, so much that I missed the fact that the boy I love is in love with me. I might have been dealt a crappy hand of cards, but I don’t have to let it determine what kind of person I am. I want to get out there, and live, and be … well, like you.’
‘We don’t have guitars,’ Ben says, a little cautiously.
‘It’s a room full of wannabe musicians; I think there will be a couple lying around.’ This time I grab his lapel and drag him towards the door.
‘Wait.’ He stops me. ‘I wanted to say something.’
‘Um, is it something about grabbing life, going for it, not standing about in the street talking instead of doing something exciting?’ I say, recapping.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I want to say that I can’t wait to kiss you again. Oh, and try not to sing out of key.’
The pub is full to the rafters, noisy and beery, and there are three dudes with beards on stage, singing something surprisingly folksy. It’s five-deep at the bar, and a man with a suspicious-looking hat is sitting next to the stage with a clipboard.
‘Hi, can we put our names down?’ I ask him. ‘I know we are a bit late, sorry.’
He looks me up and down, and definitely judges the toggles on my duffle coat, then glances at Ben.
‘We’re full, love,’ he says. ‘You have to get here when we open if you want a slot.’
‘Can’t you just squeeze us in? We only want to do one song.’
‘They all only want to do one song – and, trust me, one song is usually too many.’
‘Look.’ Ben leans across me. ‘You’ve probably heard of my band, The Black Angels? If you can do us a favour, I’ll make sure you get a gig from the band. We always draw a full house.’
‘Oh well, that changes everything,’ the guy says.
‘Really?’ I say.
‘No, not really. Never heard of you. Now look, I’m already up to my ears in overentitled, middle-class, talentless school kids pouring their bile into my ears as it is. Come back next week and put your name on the list in advance.’
‘It’s just that I’m dying, you see,’ I say, and the words come out of my mouth in a rush. ‘Cystic fibrosis. And this is like one of the items on my bucket list. If I don’t do it tonight, who knows when I will get the chance. Might be dead next week.’
‘Boo hoo. I’m weeping for you,’ the bloke says.
‘Well, man, I hope you don’t believe in karma,’ Ben says. ‘Come on, Hope. You tried. We’ll tell that journalist that you just didn’t have the luck to meet someone who cares …’
‘Wait …’ Ugly Hat pauses. ‘Really? You’re really sick?’
‘Yes,’ I say. That part at least isn’t a lie, and I did nearly die quite recently. Maybe I should feel a little bad about using my CF this way, but bugger it – it owes me at least one favour.
‘Fine. All right, then; you can go on after the next guy. I just hope you don’t get bottled off.’
‘Wow, thank you. You are really kind,’ I tell him, not entirely sarcastically. Now all we need is two guitars.
Of course Ben has been on stage a hundred times before, a million times – every paving square or passing park bench is a stage for him – but I never have, and this small triangle of a platform stage, in the corner of a Camden pub, is pretty much the most terrifying thing I have ever encountered. The crowd talked over us while we set up. Ben said ‘one, two’ into his mic, and then I did too, because that’s what you do, although I have never really worked out why. We tuned two guitars, borrowed from some guys Ben knows, and then our benefactor coughed loudly from the side of the stage and gave me a look that said, ‘You’re not the only one on a deadline.’
My voice is too thin, too quiet and too high for the first few bars, but Ben covers me with his too-loud, not-quite-in-tune-but-oddly-melodic tone. I remind myself I have less than three minutes to do this, and only one shot, so I close my eyes and pretend that the crowd isn’t looking or listening to me, which mostly it isn’t because people are talking amongst themselves. I just tune into the music and to Ben, and we sing. A few bars more and it’s just us and the song, and I feel myself smiling as we become entwined in each other’s voices. Our music soars; every hair on my arms is standing on end. I can feel my lungs working properly, my heart thundering. It’s a perfect, wonderful two minutes and fifty seconds, and then it is done. I open my eyes. There is a ripple of disinterested applause and a half-hearted cheer from the back, but I don’t actually care. I feel like Wembley Stadium just gave me a standing ovation.
‘We thank you!’ Ben says. ‘Talent scouts, see me after!’
He bows, and I bow with him, a microsecond too late.
A few minutes later and we are running outside, laughing like loons.
‘That was brilliant!’ I say. ‘We were awesome!’
‘Uh-oh, you’ve got the gigging bug,’ he says, grinning fondly at me. ‘You were great, though, too good. Everyone in there was intimidated and resentful of your beauty and talent.’
‘What shall we do now?’ I ask him. ‘I feel like I need to do something!’
‘Pub? Dinner? Back home to your mum’s house for some more tea and biscuits?’ he asks me.
‘Let go for a walk to Primrose Hill,’ I say. ‘It’s a nice mild night, and it’s only a few minutes; we might even see some stars!’
Ben shrugs and lets me tuck my arm through his, and we make our way through the park, walking in silence, both of us lost in deep thought. Somehow, finding him, saving him from his stepdad’s beating, changed everything. It changed my life even more than being born with CF, or surviving near-death, or knowing that my life will probably be really short. I have been too long in this cocoon that I spun myself, but it was a cocoon that didn’t just protect me from the world, it kept me from it, too. It kept me from experiencing … well, everything. I was so busy feeling sad, scared, anxious, angry that I never had time to feel happy, scared, joyous, lucky. But now, tonight, I do feel lucky. I do. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
By the time we reach the top of the hill, Ben is flagging a little, and we stop by mutual consent to sit on a bench. For a few moments, we sit and look at the city below us, a skyline of landmarks stretching out, reaching upwards towards the heavens.
‘That thing you said,’ Ben says. I hold my breath. ‘That thing about “the boy I love”.’
‘Yes?’ I hold my breath.
‘Does that mean I can just kiss you when I want to now?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, that would be perfectly fine.’
‘I’m really scared, right now,’ he says, and I can feel him trembling. ‘It’s scary to feel this much stuff, and admit to it. I’m terrified.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But we already decided. From now on, we are going to be brave.’ I place my hands on either side of his face, drawing him to me. His arms wrap around me, his huge coat enveloping me, and this kiss is the one that I will always remember to the day I die. This wonderful kiss that floats on clouds of joy and longing, and that is, at last, a
bout to be quenched.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HUGH
When I come out of Mum’s room for a moment, I’m surprised to find Sarah sitting in the corridor outside her room.
‘You came here? You didn’t have to do that,’ I tell her, though I am glad, deep in my heart, that she has.
I really had talked myself into believing that I didn’t really need anyone, and that I was OK – happy going through life, passing through a series of not-that-close encounters. I was footloose and fancy-free. I made myself believe that, even though my dad taught me that it wasn’t true. And then Mum came back, from the dead, turning my life full circle in one fluid moment, and I let myself feel again. All the love that I had felt for her before and pushed down and away for so long, all the fury and the bitterness, all the anger and the need, came flooding back and reignited me. Somehow, right at the last, she has saved me. Only now the doctors have told me this is likely to be her last night. I must go and be with the mother I lost, so many years ago, and watch as I lose her again. Yet there is hope in my heart as I stand outside her room. Because this time I get to look in my mum’s eyes; I get to tell her goodbye.
‘Well, Mikey’s mate invited him for a sleepover, and so I thought … well, I thought you might like someone here,’ Sarah tells me with a small smile. ‘I think that you need people around you during times like this. Someone to hold your hand and make you tea.’
I take a breath and look back at the door. ‘It means a lot that you are here.’
We Are All Made of Stars Page 26
