by Lucy Diamond
‘What the . . . ? Turn that down!’ he yelled at Maisie.
‘Yes, Dad,’ she piped, meek and docile, Daddy’s little bunny rabbit. Then, as Rick went over to the coffee machine and swiftly made them each a latte, Maisie raised her hand, middle finger aloft, a private message for Jo.
Message received, thought Jo, turning away and trying to concentrate on what Rick was saying about breakfast. Loud and bloody clear.
Chapter Fourteen
Back in her late twenties, Eve had been one of the last of her group of friends to marry and settle down, always having shied away from serious relationships until then. ‘Let’s face it, it’s because of Dad,’ said Rosalind, her sister, who was similarly unattached, although she, at least, had had plenty of boyfriends, however fleeting. Rosalind had a point: having grown up with a dad like theirs – unpredictable, aggressive, volatile – Eve had never felt particularly confident around men. It wasn’t as if she was scared of them, nothing so clear-cut as that. It was more a sense of mistrust, a reluctance to reveal her inner vulnerabilities, for fear that she was opening herself up to be crushed. Men with loud voices made her particularly uneasy.
Then she’d met Neil. Earnest, bespectacled Neil, who was quiet and cerebral and a little bit awkward, just like Eve. Their paths had crossed at the Whitworth Gallery, at a pop art exhibition, when they’d both simultaneously burst out laughing in front of a Roy Lichtenstein piece. Drowning Girl, it was called, featuring a close-up of the eponymous drowning girl with a thought bubble above her tearful face, claiming that she didn’t care, she’d rather sink below the water than call Brad for help, and Eve had found it funny because it reminded her so much of her own self.
If she had been the superstitious sort (she wasn’t) or at all inclined to believe in Fate (she didn’t), she might have called this chance encounter with Neil pre-destined, seeing as both of them were there spontaneously alone – Eve killing time before meeting a friend, and Neil having wandered in out of the rain. As it was, they fell into shy conversation following their mutual laughter, and then wandered around the rest of the exhibition together until, eventually, when she looked at her watch and realized with a start that she was going to be late, he had blushingly asked for her number. And so it began.
Goodness knows why that particular memory had drifted through her mind today, she thought, washing up the lunch things in the Peak District cottage where they’d come for a few days over half-term. Perhaps because it felt as if light years had passed since she and Neil had done anything romantic together. That initial fluttery flush of attraction had given way to the predictability of married life, of jobs and children and responsibilities. They barely even went out together any more, because there always seemed to be other things to do – PTA meetings, laundry, taxiing the girls around to gymnastics clubs and the school orchestra, and all the rest of it. Somehow, a night out with her husband seemed to have been relegated right to the bottom of Eve’s To-Do list. (Although, to be fair, he could take it upon himself to suggest a date just as well, couldn’t he? Why should it be her responsibility to organize everything anyway?)
She rinsed the suds from the last plate and stacked it neatly in the draining rack, emptied the water and wiped round the sink. Then she dried everything and put it away. Now what? she wondered, peering through the small window at the leaden skies and the horizontal rain. Having discovered with great joy that the owners of the cottage had in fact recently installed a Wi-Fi router – ‘Welcome to the twenty-first century,’ Grace had sighed in relief – the girls had flatly refused her suggestions of family card games or a jigsaw, preferring the company of their own phones. Neil, similarly, was glued to his, repeatedly taking business calls, even though this was technically a holiday. It was too wet to go for a run, and Eve had already finished the thriller she’d brought with her. It seemed embarrassing to admit it, but without her usual To-Do list, she felt ever so slightly cut adrift.
‘Does anyone want to . . . do anything?’ she called up the stairs to the rest of the family. No reply came.
This wasn’t how holidays used to be, she thought padding back to the kitchen and making coffee, even though she’d only just finished one. She was used to noise and laughter, family activities and games, racing up hills together and charging about on bikes, not this morgue-like silence. Was this a sign of how things would be in the future? The girls peeling away into their own worlds of independence, she and Neil busying themselves with work, kidding themselves that they still had a purpose, were still useful in the world? She hadn’t yet managed to get to the bottom of this apparent boyfriend of Grace’s, despite her best attempts at a cosy mum-and-daughter chat. Was she becoming redundant, irrelevant to her own family? For so long she had felt at the centre of things, a crucial cog in the works, keeping the family machine spinning smoothly with all her lists and tasks. Admittedly, a holiday task sheet boiled down to just: Have fun with Neil and the girls – but you couldn’t force someone to have fun with you if they didn’t want to, could you?
‘A walk? A game? Anyone?’ she called again, desperate to try and drag them from their screens. Still no reply. Maybe this would be a good moment to sit down with Neil while the girls were busy, and the downpour so biblical, she thought: start a proper conversation. Who wanted to be like Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl, anyway, prepared to die from stubbornness rather than ask for help? She opened and closed her fingers reflexively as she pictured herself sitting down on the small double bed with its soft floral coverings and clearing her throat. ‘Have you got a minute?’ she would say.
But then she heard his voice floating down the stairs to her, mid-phone-call, sounding tense and urgent. ‘If the files aren’t with the council by the end of play today, then the whole build’s in jeopardy. If we’re to get this signed off, then . . .’
Eve sighed, wandering into the small living room and sinking onto the sofa there. The financial director of a leisure company, Neil had been distracted for weeks by the current takeover of a small chain of health clubs, and it wasn’t a huge surprise that he couldn’t switch off. Sod it, she thought. She’d fully intended to have a screen-free break while here, so that she could enjoy her family’s company, but they didn’t seem to feel the same way. So she plugged in her laptop, feeling guilty about what a relief it was: the thought of catching up on a few emails, keeping on top of things. Maybe she could start looking at possible teambuilding activities for the company away-day in September too, as a sop to her boss, just so that she could reply, ‘It’s all in hand!’ next time Frances asked about it. Here’s an idea – we could all go to a rainy cottage with nothing to do and try not to kill each other! Maybe not.
The screen blinked into life and the notifications totted up in one corner. New emails. New Facebook messages. New system updates. Diary reminders. Sometimes her laptop was like one more member of the family, pestering her for attention. She opened her emails and scanned down the in-box. Waitrose vouchers, the library, various newsletters, a Marks & Spencer sale, a bank statement . . . Lewis Mulligan . . . Her finger must have inadvertently jerked while scrolling down the list, because in the next moment his email was opening itself up in a new box on the screen. There were his bank details, as promised, plus the total she owed him (ouch). And there underneath was the question: How are you, Eve?
She stared at it for a moment, biting her lip. It was ridiculous, really, that he – her hopeless fuckwit client – was the only other person in the world who knew her secret. Bizarre to have him asking solicitously after her, like she wasn’t just his accountant and the distracted driver who’d knocked him off his bike. Like he actually gave a toss.
He was probably only being polite. Probably just wanted her to hurry up and hand over the money she owed him, too. But then again, when was the last time another person had asked that question? Neil was in his own world. The girls, too, were in their private bubbles these days. She’d waved to India a couple of times, fleetingly, at the school gates, and had had a text
from Jo about meeting up, but nobody had asked about her, specifically, for quite some days. How are you, Eve?
Kind of a mess, actually. Fraying at the edges. Having some dark moments. You?
Thanks, she typed quickly in reply, rejecting all her previous answers. I’m okay.
But the words seemed to mock her and she found herself backspacing through them again. I’m a bit scared, she typed next, which was more truthful at least, but horribly needy. Delete, delete, delete.
I’m still burying my head in the sand, to be honest, she typed next, and then pressed Send before she could change her mind.
Seconds later, his reply appeared. Aw, Eve, come on, it said. See the doctor. Do the right thing.
She could almost hear his Scottish accent as she read the words. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard and she felt a weird pang at the sound of Neil’s voice drifting through the ceiling. This was wrong, surely, chatting secretly to this guy she barely knew, in whom she’d confided. Then another reply came.
I’ve got half an hour between classes. Want me to ring and book you an appointment? It’s no bother.
God, he didn’t let up, did he? For such an airhead when it came to a business model, he was proving surprisingly tenacious in terms of Eve’s health. It’s fine, I’ll do it, she replied after a moment. Then, before she could stop them, her fingers seemed to be typing of their own accord. But what if it’s bad news? What if they say I’m going to die?
His reply came back, swift and pertinent again. Then you need to get on with living, he’d written. Crack on with all the fun stuff. How about a new career in rally driving?
‘Well, I am annoyed, yes, because this should have been done last week, and we both know that,’ she heard Neil saying crossly upstairs, and Eve grimaced, Lewis’s words resounding around her head. Fun stuff, yeah, right. Was this really the best the Taylor family could manage, sitting in separate rooms, all plugged into different devices? On their holiday?
Be careful what you wish for, she typed and was just about to add a winking emoji when she stopped herself hurriedly. This was a client, after all – a pretty irritating one at that, and the last thing she wanted was to encourage him. Still, she thought, her finger hovering over the Send button, at least he cared. Thanks, she added after a moment.
Email sent, laptop closed down, she looked out of the window to see that the rain seemed to be ceasing and that the sun had broken through the clouds to cast a gleam on the stone walls. The leaves dripped, wet and lush, the mud glittered, the sky had streaks of white and blue amidst the grey. Enough, she decided. Enough silence and stillness. There would be plenty of that when they were all dead. She went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, ‘We’re going out. Screens off. Chop-chop!’
Five minutes later, clad in macs and wellies, the Taylor family were all tramping up the puddle-sodden lane towards spongy moorland, and Neil was pointing out a pair of lapwings above them. Rally driving indeed, Eve thought to herself, with a snort of amusement. But Lewis had been right about one thing, at least. Crack on with all the fun stuff, his voice urged in her head, and it was just the kick she’d been waiting for.
‘Who’s going to race me to the stile?’ she yelled impulsively, galumphing away in her wellies, coat flying behind her. ‘Catch me if you can!’
For a moment, she thought the girls were going to ignore her, that Neil too would refrain from chasing after her – or, worse, find her behaviour immature. But then came the thudding of footsteps, the squeals of her daughters as they jostled one another, trying to catch her up, and then all four of them were racing along together in pursuit of victory.
I choose living, she thought, accelerating into a sprint, elbows like pistons, almost losing her footing in a particularly craterous puddle and yelping with laughter at the look on Neil’s face as Grace outpaced him. See, Lewis? I am living. I am.
Tick. Tick. Tick. It was the following Wednesday and Eve was in the waiting room of her local surgery, eyes flicking up impatiently to the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty, her appointment had been set for, and it was already eight thirty-three. If there was one thing that particularly riled her, it was other people’s disregard for punctuality – especially when that meant having to sit around for ages in an over-heated waiting room as a result. She shifted restlessly on the hard plastic chair. If I’m still here at eight-forty, she vowed, then I will go, regardless of any so-called deal with Lewis Mulligan. The lump was probably only a cyst anyway, she was almost certainly wasting the doctor’s time and—
But then Dr Pathak put her head around the door – ‘Eve Taylor? If you’d like to follow me’ – and her escape was thwarted after all.
Eve followed the doctor down the corridor, heart skittering up the gears as they went into the consulting room. This is it, she thought with a lurch. No more avoidance, no more head in the sand. Judgement Day.
Dr Pathak was about the same age as Eve, with a pierced nose and businesslike manner. ‘How can I help you today?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ Eve began, ‘I really hope I’m not wasting your time here, but . . .’ The words, so long buried, were difficult to unearth, now that the time had come. ‘I . . . I found a lump. In my breast. And maybe it’s just nothing – I mean, chances are it is nothing, and I’ve made a fuss for no reason, but—’ She swallowed. Stop babbling. ‘But it’s there. And it’s not going away.’
‘I see. Have you noticed any pain, or a change in your breast’s size or shape?’ asked the doctor, who was obviously well versed in dealing with gabbling fools.
‘Not really,’ Eve replied.
‘Any redness or swelling of the skin? Any inflammation, would you say?’
Eve shook her head. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘Okay. And otherwise do you feel well? When did you notice the lump?’
‘I’m fine. I’m really healthy. I eat properly, I exercise, I don’t smoke,’ Eve said. Then she hesitated, the good girl becoming unstuck. ‘I first noticed the lump about . . .’ She dropped her gaze. ‘About a month ago.’
‘Right. It’s probably best if I take a look, if you don’t have any objections,’ the doctor went on in a matter-of-fact sort of way. ‘If you’d rather, I can ask one of the practice nurses to be in the room as well or . . .’ Eve shook her head again. ‘Okay, so why don’t you pop your top and bra off, and we can take it from there.’
Even though she knew the doctor must see other people’s bodies every day, and had presumably witnessed all manner of shapes and sizes before, Eve couldn’t help feeling self-conscious as she undressed. Her breasts had never really recovered from feeding her daughters; they were small and deflated-looking, and appeared rather pathetic in the bright light of the consulting room. They’re just bags of flesh – get over it, she reminded herself, as the doctor approached to inspect the lump. All the same, it felt embarrassingly intimate, having this woman leaning over her, pressing around the skin of her breast with cool, exploratory fingers. Sitting there, naked from the waist upwards, Eve could smell her own deodorant and shower gel from earlier, and prayed that a cheery window cleaner wasn’t about to appear at the window and cop an eyeful.
‘Okay,’ said the doctor, returning to her own chair. ‘Thanks. You can put your things back on now.’
Eve’s fingers were sweaty and clumsy as she hooked her bra back up and pulled on her silky cream blouse. ‘So . . .’ she began questioningly, wanting to get this over with. Tell me. Just tell me.
‘Well, you’re right, there’s definitely a lump,’ the doctor said, ‘and the good news is, you’ve come in while it’s small, so we can get straight on and investigate. I’m going to refer you to the breast clinic for some tests, and they’ll be able to give you a full diagnosis. Because you’re over forty, it’ll probably mean a mammogram and possibly an ultrasound initially and then, if they can’t determine the cause of the lump, they’ll carry out a biopsy.’
Eve swallowed, trying to take it all in. ‘So . . . you don’t think it’
s just a cyst?’
‘I’m not ruling anything out,’ the doctor replied. ‘It could well be a cyst, or an abscess even. A lump in the breast is more common than you think, and nine out of ten times they’re benign. But let’s find out for sure.’ She typed on her keyboard quickly, then turned back to Eve. ‘I’ll get a letter sent out today and you should receive an appointment to be seen within two weeks. In the meantime, I know it’s easier said than done, but try not to worry. You did the right thing coming in, and now we’ll get to the bottom of the problem. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Eve, her voice barely a whisper. She just about had the wherewithal to thank the doctor for her time before leaving the room, legs shaking.
Chapter Fifteen
‘It really is the most precious time. It’s magical. It actually feels like a miracle.’
‘I know! I’ve never felt so important in my life. People offer me a seat on the tram. Strangers come up and talk to me, and ask me how long I’ve got to go, and do I know if it’s a boy or a girl . . .’
‘I’ve had that, too. Always the older women, who seem so sure about how you’re carrying. Load of rubbish, if you ask me.’
‘And some of the comments can be quite personal, can’t they? I walked into a shop the other day, and the woman behind the counter actually gasped and said, “My God, look at the state of your ankles, love!” – I mean, I can’t help it if they’re swollen, can I? I thought she was quite rude.’
‘It’s the ones who want to touch you that give me the creeps. Who, like, hover with their hand out, doing that weird smile. “Do you mind if I have a feel?” Well, yes, I bloody well do, actually, thank you very much – I’m not public property. Do you know what I mean?’
‘It is a special time, though.’
‘Oh yes, it’s delicious. I do feel very blessed. We’d only been trying a month as well. My husband’s been swaggering about ever since, believe me. Mr Turbo-Sperm, he thinks he is!’
