by Lucy Diamond
One last chance, she repeated to herself as she left the surgery in a daze, a hand stealing back to her stomach with that same startled awe. Whatever happened, she was going to cling on to that feeling of hope. Cling on and not let go. Because maybe this, right here, was the happy ending she’d been holding out for.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘And . . . run on the spot. Fast as you can. Really go for it, pump, pump, pump. Hard! Fast! Keep going. Keep going! Your body is an oiled machine. Your body is amazing. Feel those endorphins. Admire your own strength. You’ve got this. Hard! Fast! Run!’
In a quiet corner of Platt Fields Park, Eve was pounding up and down along with a motley group of Lycra-clad people, lungs heaving, fists like pistons, her mind empty of everything other than the dogged will to keep going, to resist being beaten by this or anything. Lewis was at the front of the group, his red hair like a flaming halo around his head as the sun lit him from behind.
‘And . . . stop. Let your arms float down. Feel your body tingling. Feel your blood pounding. Look up at the sky and let your thoughts fall away, drifting far out into the distance. Focus only on your breath as it goes in . . . and out . . . In . . . and out . . .’
Eve’s limbs throbbed as the class began winding down. They had jogged for miles en masse, they had performed squat thrusts and push-ups, lunges and star jumps, and she had forced herself through all of it with unyielding determination. Rubbish, feeble body, she had raged throughout. How dare you fail me? How dare you go wrong on me? I’ll show you. I’ll beat you. Consider this your first warning.
‘Are you on your own?’ the nurse had said earlier when he saw her waiting there in the corridor, and she’d known immediately, from the way he’d asked the question with that air of concern, that the news she had come for could only be bad.
Yes, she was on her own, she had said, hackles rising in a bid to pre-empt any unwanted pity with defiance. Wasn’t everyone on their own at the end of the day, anyway? Why would she need anyone else, when she had built up that careful barrier around herself, brick by brick, to form a miniature kingdom, which she had run with superb self-sufficiency for years and years? And wasn’t that the wisest of precautions? (Okay, so she hadn’t said all of that out loud, even though the words had drummed defensively around her head.)
‘Grab your right ankle and pull the leg behind you, stretching out the quads. Deep, long breaths now as you feel the stretch . . .’
Eve obeyed, gripping her ankle, her hand slippery with sweat, the breath panting out of her. She’d come here on a whim, throwing on the gym kit she kept in the boot of her car, because . . . well, because she couldn’t face going back to the office and tussling with her clients’ paperwork after receiving the news. Also because she’d remembered, just by chance, Lewis talking about his afternoon classes in the park, and how he loved that it was this random mix of pensioners and students and new mums whose babies dozed in buggies beside them. But mostly she’d come because she wanted to do something physical, really push herself hard, in order to prove that she still could. Remind herself that she wasn’t dead yet.
‘You might not think so right now, but you’re actually pretty lucky to have found a lump at all,’ the doctor had said, once he’d dropped the cancer bombshell. He had a lilt to his voice, steady brown eyes, photographs of two beaming girls in school uniform and neatly plaited hair on his desk. ‘Because at least that brought you in here to us. With DCIS cases there aren’t always obvious symptoms; it can go undetected for a long time. The fact that you’re here, and we’ve been able to make an early diagnosis, is a very good start.’
A good start? Lucky? Yeah, sure, she felt really lucky. Unbelievably lucky to have tested positive for DCIS – or rather, Ductal Carcinoma In Situ, to give it its full and terrifying name. Oh, she had learned all sorts of new terms and acronyms today. Lobules, for instance. The terminal duct lobular unit. There was an alarming-looking information leaflet stuffed in her handbag too, which she hadn’t dared look at yet.
‘Shake out the right leg and now swap sides, bringing the left leg up behind so that the thigh is stretched out. Really pull it back, that’s it. And hold.’
He was good at this, Eve registered belatedly, as Lewis demonstrated at the front of the class. He had just the right amount of push and enthusiasm to drive the class through all the exercises, spotting any stragglers and cajoling them along. For her part, she’d turned up bristling with pent-up energy – rage and aggression, really, if she was honest – hoping to channel it into a hard, obliterating workout. Hoping to exhaust herself so that she didn’t feel anything any more. Admittedly this course of action hadn’t entirely worked. She still felt raw with the shock of the news, stunned that something had gone wrong in her own traitorous body, and so scared it was hard to breathe whenever she thought about what might become of her. But in a funny sort of way, coming here had definitely helped take the edge off things, numbing her in the way that a large gin and tonic could. She hadn’t been expecting to experience the warm exuberant glow now coursing through her bloodstream as she stretched out her legs, either. So maybe her body was still good for something, at least.
‘We will be looking at surgery, followed by radiotherapy,’ the doctor had informed her in his calm, kind way. ‘In your case, as the DCIS does not affect a large area of the breast, it won’t be necessary to carry out a mastectomy – that is to say, the removal of all the breast tissue.’
‘I do know what a mastectomy is,’ Eve had snapped, before putting a hand up to her mouth in the next moment, shocked by her own rudeness. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . I’m really sorry. It’s a lot to take in.’
A lot to take in. God, even by her standards, that was pathetically restrained. Ridiculously understated. She’d found herself laughing in a mad sort of way, hysteria building. A lot to take in! When he’s just told me I’ve got cancer! How bloody British was that? Then she had to battle really hard to pull herself together, before the doctor started questioning her sanity.
Oh shit, though. Shit shitting shitting shit. How was she going to get through this? How was she going to manage? The doctor had said that DCIS, as the earliest form of breast cancer, was eminently curable; he had given her all sorts of facts and statistics, which the accountant in her was trying to cling to, rationally. But the rest of her – the mum, the wife, the ordinary frightened woman – was struggling to come to terms with it all. So much for the nine in ten. Not so lucky after all, Eve.
‘And . . . thank you. Great work, everyone. See you all next week. If you could hand over your money before you leave, that would be brilliant,’ Lewis said, raising his hands above his head to applaud the group, before fishing in the pocket of his shorts and pulling out a small creased notebook with an elastic band around it.
Eve pushed her sweaty hair back off her face and gave her arms and legs a last shake as members of the group drifted over to him, handing over notes and coins, which he stuffed into a zipped pocket. So this was his accounts system, she thought, rolling her eyes, as she saw him scribble names haphazardly in his book. She might have guessed. Two or three people even seemed to be slinking away without making any kind of payment, she noticed, her gaze hardening, but Lewis appeared quite unaware. Did he actually know how many people he’d just had in his class? Even with her own head jumbled full of worrying thoughts, she couldn’t help thinking how impossibly disorganized this all seemed. When the class he’d run had been well structured, well executed and perfectly timed, too. Why was he so bad at making sure he was paid for his efforts?
‘Excuse me!’ she found herself yelling after two of the men who were walking in the other direction. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
They looked suitably sheepish as they turned around and she made the money sign at them, rubbing her fingers and thumb together in a pointed I-see-you sort of way. It was even better when they changed course and made the walk of shame towards Lewis, ferreting in their pockets for cash.
Tutting
under her breath, she followed them over, waiting until everyone else had paid him before she opened her purse. ‘So this is why your accounts are so bloody awful,’ she said, only half-joking as she handed over a ten-pound note. ‘I hope you’ll be going straight home to input all of your takings onto a spreadsheet for me.’
‘Eve! Good to see you. Did you enjoy the class?’ he asked with a grin, completely ignoring her comments and stuffing the tenner into his pocket with all the other crumpled notes. ‘You were really going for it. I’m impressed. How are you, anyway? Any news?’
Now it was her turn to assume temporary deafness. ‘You know, you’d make life a lot easier for yourself if you got people to sign up at the start of a six-week block or whatever. Maybe even get some direct debits going, rather than this – randomly taking cash off people and hoping everyone coughs up,’ she told him tartly. Most of the group had thinned away by now, people peeling off in pairs, all pink and shiny from exertion, a few blokes still in a cluster nearby. ‘Next time you come into the office I could show you how to set up a new system, and it would really streamline your business model.’
‘Sure, yeah.’ He gave her an odd look. ‘Eve. Are you okay?’
‘Then you wouldn’t have to worry about people not paying or not turning up, because they’ve already committed, they’ve bought into what you’re doing – literally – so . . .’
‘Eve.’ He took her gently by the shoulders and she shut her mouth with a snap. ‘Talk to me. And not about bloody business models or accounts. Are you all right?’
She drew breath, wanting to carry on with what she’d been saying, to tell him about the business software she’d recommend, which would really, really help him – but he was looking at her so intently, so firmly, that the words dried on her tongue. Instead she shook her head, her eyes sliding to the ground. ‘Not exactly,’ she admitted.
‘What, you mean . . . ?’ He couldn’t say what he wanted to, either, all of a sudden.
‘Yes.’ Her exhalation was like a sigh of resignation as it left her body. ‘Bad news.’
His cheeks had been flushed from the exercise, but now they paled with her words. ‘Aw, shite, Eve. Bloody hell. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. I just need to . . .’ She shrugged miserably and then her next words came out in a whisper. ‘I just need to get my head around it.’
‘You going to be in the pub later, Lewis?’ The men nearby were poised to leave, turning to look over at them.
‘Not sure yet,’ Lewis called back, a hand in the air. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’ He turned back to Eve. ‘How long have you known?’
‘Today. This afternoon. About two hours ago. It’s fine,’ she said once more, as if repeating herself might make the words come true. Then she looked at her watch: four-fifteen. ‘In fact, I should go really, the girls will be wondering where I am. I’ll have to start cooking dinner soon. Spaghetti bolognese tonight.’
She was babbling again, because she could tell he was shocked to see her here at all; shocked that she’d just charged around doing all that exercise when she was full to the brim with this unspoken, unshared bad news. ‘Eve, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.’
‘What, spaghetti bolognese?’ she asked facetiously, trying to make a joke out of it. ‘I’ve got a good recipe, with—’
‘No, I mean, you pretending that everything’s all right. You going home and making spaghetti bolognese like nothing’s happened.’ He looked wary, as if he knew he had to tread carefully. ‘Because it has happened, Eve. And I know you’re good at sorting things out and managing brilliantly, but . . . they need to know now. You’ve got to let them in.’
She was feeling light-headed suddenly and swayed on her feet. All that running and jumping, without drinking enough water, probably. It’s a lot to take in, she heard her own voice bleating, high-pitched and tremulous. Yeah, you don’t say.
‘Look, I’m going to come with you,’ he said. ‘And we’re going to sort out a friend who can mind your kids tonight while you and your husband have a proper talk – or I can look after them, if need be. I know you’re going to say you don’t need any help,’ he added quickly, putting up his hand as she opened her mouth to argue, ‘but I’m telling you – you do. Sure, you’re the expert on business models and all that stuff, but take it from me, you’re bloody rubbish at letting other people pick up the slack when it comes to you, Eve Taylor. Rubbish at it, do you hear?’
A weak sort of whimper came out of her, the faint sound of one final protest. ‘I . . .’
‘And this is where that all changes,’ he went on, taking no notice. ‘Now. Where’s your car? Are you okay to drive, or do you want me to do it? I’ll try not to knock over any cyclists, I promise. Come on – I mean it. I’m not taking no for an answer. Let’s go.’
‘Of course I’ll have them!’ India cried. ‘No problem. Is everything all right?’
On reaching the car, Eve, in an uncharacteristic admission of weakness, had felt that she couldn’t face the journey home after all and had slid into the passenger seat, while Lewis took the wheel and instructed her to start making calls. Asking friends for favours – even good friends like India – just did not come easily to her; it never had. Perhaps it was pig-headed, perhaps you could be too independent about such things, but she’d always been the type who preferred to do something herself rather than ask anyone else for assistance. Of all her children’s early storybooks, Eve had identified most with Little Red Hen, whose catchphrase had been (in hindsight, the kind of martyrish) ‘Then I shall do it myself’.
This passenger arrangement meant she had Lewis giving her a pointed side-eye as he steered deftly through the heinous school-run traffic, the phone like a lead weight in her hand. ‘Go on,’ he’d ordered her, and so she had taken a deep breath and reluctantly dialled. Sure enough, it had proved every bit as difficult and awkward as she’d anticipated, asking India if she’d mind picking up the girls and giving them dinner tonight, and she’d felt obliged to apologize, several times over, for the short notice and add, also several times over, that it really didn’t matter if India couldn’t do it.
It came as something of a shock, then, to have her friend exclaim in the next breath that it was fine, absolutely – she’d sling a couple more sausages in the pan, no trouble at all. In fact, India had said, given the thousand or so favours Eve had done for her, she couldn’t be happier to pay one back. But . . . ‘Eve?’ she asked, following Eve’s mumble of thanks. ‘Are you all right?’
Eve wasn’t sure how to answer that. She had never been a very convincing liar. ‘I’ve just had one of those days,’ she confessed, which was true at least. ‘I’ll tell you about it some other time.’
‘Oh, love! Can I make you dinner as well? Is there anything else I can do?’
There was such warmth in India’s voice, such straightforward kindness, that tears pricked Eve’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I’m going to . . .’ It was hard to get the words out. ‘I’m going to have dinner with Neil. We need to talk.’
‘Okay,’ said India slowly, although you could almost hear the million questions that now buzzed, unasked, through the receiver. She was probably thinking Eve’s marriage was going down the pan, just like Laura’s had recently done. ‘Okay, sure. But . . . well, I’m here, all right? If you need me. And if you want the girls to stay over, or . . . or anything else, just say. All right? Because you know I won’t mind.’
‘Thank you,’ mumbled Eve again. And that was the daft thing, because she did know India wouldn’t mind. She wouldn’t mind any of this – the extra sausages in the pan, the extra settings at the table, even unfolding a couple of camp-beds and unrolling the sleeping bags . . . No, she’d just get on with it, in her usual cheerful muddling-along sort of way. It occurred to Eve, for the first time, that actually India was the sort of person who liked being able to help. Not in a pious Mother Teresa sort of way, but in a genuine, good-person, good-friend
way. And by not letting her help for all those years, Eve had denied her that pleasure. She had effectively rejected her own friend. Why hadn’t she worked that out before?
‘Thank you so much,’ she repeated, feeling emotional. And actually, now that she was in this position, it was remarkably comforting, knowing that there was a friend who had her back, a friend who said, ‘I’m here if you need me.’ Who would have thought? Who knew? ‘You’re a star. I owe you one.’
‘No, you bloody don’t,’ India told her with a little laugh in her voice. ‘You really don’t, Eve. And you’re welcome. I mean it. Any time at all.’
Eve let out a long, tired breath as she hung up. Then she rang the girls to tell them the plan and apologize for not being there, and even though Grace asked suspiciously, ‘Are you okay? You sound a bit weird,’ she was able to gloss over the question with enough breeziness to pass as convincing.
‘Two down, one to go,’ she told Lewis, who took a hand from the steering wheel to give her an encouraging thumbs up. ‘Just the big one now.’
‘You can do it,’ he said.
Neil sounded quite surprised when Eve called and asked him to leave work as soon as possible and come home, because she had something to tell him. As with India, you could almost hear the possibilities whizzing around his brain as he took it in, calculations being made, conclusions jumped to. Her husband was not the sort of man to panic, but his voice sounded fearful with urgency as he asked, ‘Has something happened to one of the girls?’
The girls were fine, she assured him. Look, she didn’t want to talk about this on the phone. But please – and she wouldn’t ask, unless it was important – please come home. Now.
