“You’ve not done badly,” I say. “That’s a nine out of ten by my reckoning.”
“A seven,” she says. “The sex has gone. Make that a five.”
“Sex is overrated.”
“Telling me,” she says with a giggle. “Actually, it’s a relief. What with kids you’re always so tired.”
“I see,” I say.
“Oh no!” she says, shaking her head. “It hasn’t always been like that. Martin was great in the beginning; he was so fit, you remember? So good-looking. But he’s let himself go. It’s difficult to eat healthily in his job. Out with clients all the time. But sex gets dull anyway, doesn’t it? After a while.” She pauses in contemplation. “Same old, same old.”
“It’s been so long since I’ve been in a long-term relationship I don’t remember. But thanks! You’re a great advert for staying single.”
“I envy you that.”
“Don’t be silly!”
“Really,” she says. “I do. Your life always sounded so exciting. So free . . . after your divorce. And Mother always went on about how amazingly well you were doing in your job. Unlike me. Stuck at home. I was so shortsighted back then. Always in a rush to have a family and then that didn’t happen quite as quickly as I’d hoped. I wish I’d gotten some qualifications first. I’ve never worked. I’ve achieved precisely nothing.”
“Oh, Isabelle. Don’t be ridiculous. You have two beautiful daughters. What could be better? What have I got to show for myself? A list of failed relationships, an average degree, for all that mega brain power I supposedly had.”
She turns my face toward hers. “I love you, Jennifer,” she says. “And I’m really sorry.”
“I love you, too,” I say. I don’t think we’ve ever said that to each other. So many firsts, too late.
“Thanks for writing the letter. It was very brave. . . . I’m not a complete bitch, am I?”
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Only half the time.” We laugh and share a forgiving smile.
I feel amazing. I’ve made this happen. I’ve done something good between Isabelle and me. Not that I think she’s a different person. She’s exactly the same as she ever was. I can see that over the family dinner. She’s bossy and controlling, but I see how her husband and children work around her. They take her for who she is and they love her for it. It’s fascinating to watch from a place of acceptance instead of resistance and awe. Her behavior has taken on a different quality. And it’s not because I’m looking at her through rose-tinted glasses. Or that I’m trying to whitewash the past. It’s simply that I understand her so much better now.
She smiles at me across the table. She’s luminous. And that’s how I want to remember her. I hope she’ll remember me that way too.
Day 62
Every night, before I climb into bed, I cross off another date on my calendar, reminding myself of my ever-looming deadline. Of course I know some people defy these deadlines, but somehow, with the creeping tiredness and Doctor Mackenzie’s unshakable conviction, I don’t feel I’m going to be one of the lucky ones. To be honest, I’m not convinced the counting is doing me any good. I feel I’m gamely watching the days slip by. But I’m committed to my calendar now, too frightened to stop in case it’s an omen.
Harry is due back soon, which lifts my spirits, but no matter what my mood, sleep as always is hard to come by. Tonight I toss and turn, lie quietly for a bit, focus on deep breathing, but it’s all hopeless. I decide to drag myself from the warmth of my bed, wrap myself in a blanket, and lumber downstairs like some frozen somnambulist. It’s so cold. So cold! I boil the kettle and make an herbal tea then stumble back to bed, clutching it to my chest. Eventually, tea consumed, I close my eyes, at last heavy with sleep, yet as soon as I feel I’m dropping off, my mind switches back on again. I think about work and Isabelle and Harry and what the end will feel like. My thoughts drive me to distraction.
Against all the wise counsel of the sleep sages, I brave the cold again, groan my way to my desk and retrieve my laptop, then crawl back up to bed. I google alternative advice for sleep and find myself listening to some weird crackling noises, which are meant to be soothing. I am just trying to enter a form of meditation when my phone rings. It takes me by surprise. I check the screen and my heart skips a beat. It’s Harry. I love the effect that seeing his name has on me.
“Hey! Where are you?” I say. I turn off the crackling, relaxing into the far more soothing sound of his voice.
“Still in Milan,” he says. “I was going to leave a message. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Chance would be a fine thing. Tell me nice things.”
“Tell me how you are?’
“Tired. Missing you.”
“I’m missing you, too, but unfortunately I’m held up out here. Will you be okay for another week?”
“Oh no, Harry.” I sigh. “That’s so disappointing. I mean, time is not exactly on our side.”
“I’m so sorry, Sal.”
I groan. “It’s fine. It’s just I was so looking forward to seeing you.”
“I was looking forward to seeing you, too. I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’m coming home next Friday. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning and take you away from it all.”
“Okay. Well, that’s a nice thing! Sadly, I’m busy.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not. I have no plans for the rest of my life.”
“Well, you do now. Be ready early. Pack light. You’ll mainly be wearing a toweling robe. And I promise the time will fly by. It will be next Friday in a blink.”
“That’s lovely, but I’d like to hang on to time if it’s all right by you.”
“Of course you do. Stupid thing to say. Now, promise me if things change and you need me, you’ll call. I swear I’ll be there at the drop of a hat.”
Things change every day, Harry, I think. I just don’t like to talk about them.
“Promise,” I say. “I’ve got you on speed dial.”
“Good. Now try and get some sleep!”
“Good night, Harry.”
We hang up and I put my laptop on the floor, all interest in crackling noises gone. It’s like someone is teasing me, keeping Harry at a distance, the way he always used to be in my dreams. But still, I get a weekend away with him. I should be grateful.
Day 56
This week has seen a sudden rush of activity, like my symptoms have finally woken up and remembered they have a job to do. On Monday, a dark depression overwhelmed me like an unstoppable wall of water. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other, I retreated to bed, just about managing to send a text to Pattie to let her know I wasn’t coming in. Work wasn’t an option.
Tuesday, day 58, felt a bit lighter. I could still feel the misery in my soul but sensed it was losing its power. I waded through it, determined to go back to work, to not let it claim me, telling myself that so many good things had happened and there would be more to come, even in the short space of time I had left. I had to believe this.
I made myself see the bright side: I have Harry returning this weekend, taking me away because he cares about me, and Isabelle, who is coming over after I finish work on Friday, something she hasn’t done in years. It’s symbolic. Huge, actually! She needs to see that my life hasn’t been the big, riotous singleton extravaganza she imagines and then maybe she’ll accept that she’s done pretty well, even on five out of ten.
But things moved on again. From my bed of misery to the recovery of optimism, Wednesday began with full-blown, head-over-the-toilet vomiting. I’ve been feeling nauseated for a while, but actual vomiting is a new development. And the nosebleeds have started. The information in the leaflets is becoming all too real.
Then today, day 56, the worst happened. I can no longer use work as a diversion. I was resisting it for as long as possible but Frank took the initi
ative. He took me aside in his office after morning conference where an untimely nosebleed seemed to startle everyone despite my protestations that it was nothing.
“You don’t look good, Jennifer. I think you might be pushing yourself too hard.”
“I’m fine, Frank. That nosebleed was unfortunate.” I don’t want to tell him I’m being sick, too, but it’s as though he can see through me anyway.
“Well, I don’t want you to struggle. I want you to go home and take care of yourself.”
“I need to work, Frank. I need the distraction.”
“I understand. I really do. But it’s not doing you any good now. You’ll find better distractions at home.”
“But what about everything I’m involved in? What about my team?”
“We’ll get cover, Jennifer. Just temporary. I’m not saying this is forever because maybe the rest will do you good.”
I know he’s trying to be nice, cushioning the blow. “It’s not going to happen, though, is it, Frank? It’s going to be permanent. Once I leave . . .” I feel faint. “That’s it. Isn’t it?”
“Oh, Jennifer,” he says. He sways disconcertingly, and I swear he’s trying to stave off tears. He lets out a huge sigh. “I’m so sorry. Truly I am. But you never know. Things may improve. Don’t give up without a fight. That’s not your style.” Frank knows nothing of my personal life.
“Thanks, Frank. For everything. I hope you’re right.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze. “We’ll make sure you’re looked after. Anything you need, and I mean anything, just call me. We’ll still keep your news to just Pattie and me. I’m sure no one will associate a random nosebleed with anything, and knowing what people are like, they’ve probably forgotten about it already. And don’t worry, I’ll keep Pattie in check. We’ll think of a way of explaining your absence. Compassionate leave maybe. No one ever questions that. It will account for the suddenness. And the lack of the usual party and cake.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Although I’ll miss the cake.”
He gives a wry smile then grabs me in one of those unexpected big hugs. I smell the sweat of his armpits. Poor Frank. He must have hated doing that.
I’m crying all the way home. I know I’m being irresponsible and should go back to the doctor—I haven’t rescheduled that canceled appointment—and maybe I’m still in denial, but I’m hoping a couple of days with Harry at a spa will help. Of course if nothing changes, then I’ll go and see Dr. Mackenzie next week, but all he’ll do is insist I start taking the drugs. And perhaps I’ll have to. Maybe I’ll even want to.
I text Harry.
I’ve had to give up work. I’m devastated.
To my amazement a reply pings straight back.
Even more reason for me to spoil you x
I take comfort in his words, but the onset of my new symptoms couldn’t be worse timing. I wish they’d waited until after this weekend when he’ll undoubtedly be away again. It’s trivial in the scheme of things, but I don’t want them to spoil our limited time together.
Truth is Harry was never one for sympathy even when I had nothing worse than a cold. Or a headache. Or heaven forfend, period pains. I’m not sure why I’m putting all my deathbed expectations onto him. But credit where it’s due, he’s definitely more considerate. The shame is it took a terminal illness to change him. Why do we only appreciate what we’ve got when it’s put at risk?
Day 55
Today Isabelle is coming over, which is a real turning point. I told her I’d stopped working and she’s coming round earlier than planned, allowing herself time to get home and pick up the girls from school.
I’ve tidied up the house as best I can, vacuuming and polishing; even though it’s draining me. I don’t want the place to disappoint her.
She brings me a beautiful bunch of flowers. We exchange hugs and wander through into the living room. “Last time I was here was eons ago,” she says, giving everything a cursory glance, “I don’t remember it at all.” She goes to take her coat off, then changes her mind. “It’s bloody freezing in this house, Jen. Maybe that’s why you got ill.”
“I’ve not got the flu, Isabelle.”
“No,” she says. “Obviously not. Sorry. Listen, I don’t know whether I should say this, but are you aware your eyes are bloodshot?”
“Strain of vomiting.”
“Oh, Jennifer,” she says, failing to muffle a gag. “That’s awful. You poor, poor darling.” She shudders. “Sorry to be a pain, but have you got a hot water bottle? I’m not used to the chill and I can do without catching a cold.”
“Sure. That would be annoying.”
We stand in the kitchen and she chats away about nothing while the kettle boils. I’m making her a coffee with her hottie.
I peel some ginger. “You having ginger tea?” she says.
“Yeah. Want some?”
“I love ginger tea.”
“I don’t know you at all, do I?” I say.
In the living room, she sits huddled in the armchair with the hot water bottle stuffed inside her coat, cupping her mug close to her, warming her hands. “This is quite a lovely room, Jennifer,” she says, looking around.
“You’re being polite.”
“Maybe,” she says. “A little bit. But at least I’m trying.” We both laugh. “So how are you coping? I mean, how on earth can you be doing this on your own?”
“I’m not on my own anymore,” I say. “Harry and I are together again.” Her eyebrows strain upward. “I sent him a letter too. He’s been quite wonderful. He’s taking me to a spa tomorrow.”
“That’s so lovely,” she swoons. “I’m so pleased for you. You need someone. Everyone needs someone. I just hope he’s kinder to you this time.”
“Not much harm he can do in fifty-five days,” I say.
She chokes on some tea. “Are you counting down the days?”
“Yes.”
“Why? That’s awful. I mean that’s like . . . being on death row.”
“I am on death row.”
She looks away. “It just seems wrong,” she huffs. “Listen, I was going to suggest you come and stay with us. I’ll take care of you. Unless Harry’s living with you, of course?”
“That’s really kind. Thank you.”
“Well, it would be warmer.”
“But I’d rather stay here. Not that Harry’s living with me. His work takes him away a lot. He’s abroad more than he’s home and besides, he has a beautiful flat in the city. He has this amazing view of the Shard.”
“Gosh!” she says, as though she’s impressed. “Think of the pollution.”
I snort. “Yes. I’m sure he does.”
“Oh, well! The offer is definitely open should you change your mind. You ought to do something about your heating, though.”
“I’m fine, Isabelle. I’m used to it. Honestly, I don’t even notice the cold.”
“So who else did you write to then?”
“Just you, Harry, Andy and Elizabeth.”
“Andy and Elizabeth. Did you hear back?”
“Yes, actually. Andy sent a really lovely letter. In an Andy kind of way.”
“Can I see it?”
“No! It’s personal.”
“Oh, go on.”
“You can see it when I’m dead. If you can find it.”
“I’m not going to wade through your things. What about Elizabeth?”
“Nada.”
“Ah, well. Not much she can say really, is there?”
“You mean apart from sorry.”
She shrugs. “Maybe she’s not sorry.”
“Ouch.”
She picks at some ragged loose threads on the arm of the chair. “Not everyone’s kind like you, you know. In fact, I think you’re the exception that proves the rule. M
ost of the women I know are real bitches. I’m aware you think I am too, but some of the mothers at school are far worse than me. You’re lucky you’ve never had to deal with any of them.”
“I don’t think you’re a bitch,” I say. “But I’d have quite liked to have been a mother. Even if it meant dealing with some bitchy ones at school.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe I thought you never wanted kids. Shows how wrong you can be. And I’m so sorry that bugger cheated on you because of it. I guess we can’t always know what drives people into other people’s arms when everything seems fine on the surface.”
“Did it seem fine on the surface?”
“Always. I was shocked when you told me. Mum and Dad were shocked too. So upset for you.”
This is a revelation to me. “They never said as much. It was, like, move on. Let’s not discuss it. He’s not worthy.”
“Well, that’s classic Mum and Dad. They never liked discussing uncomfortable stuff. They probably thought they were being helpful by not bringing up the subject.”
“I know. But why? Look how long it’s taken us to have a real conversation. And look how good it feels. I loved them but seriously. They were hopeless at dealing with shit.”
I point to a black-and-white photo of them that sits on my sideboard, dancing together at some ball, happy and relaxed. “They were such a beautiful couple,” I say. “A shining example of a perfect marriage and that’s all they ever allowed anyone to see. Did they never falter? I certainly never heard them argue.”
“Nor me.”
“It was as though they didn’t want us to find out that life is messy and people screw up.”
“Damn! You found out!”
“I still miss them,” I say. “Do you ever think about them?”
“All the time. The fact they can’t see the girls growing up.”
“Yeah. That’s tough. But I’m glad they’re not here for this. I wouldn’t want them knowing about me.”
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 13
