by Tracy Bloom
I want to ask him what he is saying, what he means, but I am too terrified of the answer.
‘Chemotherapy is likely to prolong your life but it is unlikely that it will get rid of your tumours.’
Now I am in a freezer, my whole body numb. I pull my hands away from his and lean back in my chair.
‘How long?’ I pray for the look of surprise on his face. A look of shock to indicate that I have totally misunderstood. But it doesn’t come.
He leans back and folds his hands in his lap.
‘It’s virtually impossible to say,’ he says with words that toll the final bell. ‘Any answer I give you will be inaccurate but, if pushed, I’d probably say between eighteen months and two years. But it could be longer, could be shorter.’
‘But there is a small chance that the chemotherapy could get rid of the tumour?’ I ask.
I have to ask something. I can’t leave his previous answer hanging out there for scrutiny. It’s blinding.
A small smile plays on the edge of his mouth. He must hear it every time – the desperate cling for hope.
‘There is a very small chance,’ he replies. ‘But it is very unlikely.’
What a terrible word unlikely is. Ugly and vague.
‘Can I make a suggestion,’ he says, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees in a motion that clearly states we need to move on from the whole finding-out-I’m-dying thing. ‘Why don’t you ring someone to come and fetch you? Go home. Let all this sink in and then come back and see me in a couple of days. But bring someone with you. Do you have a husband, Mrs Sutton?’
I nod.
‘Call him and ask him to come and fetch you. I’ll set you up with an appointment and we can decide on your treatment plan together. I can talk it all through again with him. Two sets of ears are often best in this situation. It’s hard to take it all in on your own.’
I’m looking at him but I’m not listening to him. For some reason all I can hear in my head is the crowd at my twenty-fifth birthday shouting, ‘Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny.’
Seven
Twelve pounds fifty! Twelve pounds fifty to park whilst I find out I’m dying! Utterly outrageous. The NHS should be funding an entire hospital, given how much it costs to leave a car whilst you absorb a death sentence.
I look up at the parking charges displayed on the board as I wait for the machine to regurgitate my ticket. Over seven hours I’ve been here. I’ve already had seven hours of this. Seven hours spent trying to understand the incomprehensible whilst sitting in my car with my head on the steering wheel or walking laps of the hospital grounds. Somehow I couldn’t leave. The minute I leave, my new life will have to begin, and I have no idea how to live that life. That terrible life.
Of course I’d tried to ring Mark. Five times in fact. But each time it had gone straight through to voicemail. I left a message three times. A short, ‘Hi, it’s me. Ring me as soon as you can.’
I’d tried to keep my tone light so as not to worry him, which may seem ridiculous given this was one of the most worrying pieces of news I could possibly give him. I’d tried to think of what could be worse. Something wrong with the kids of course would be infinitely worse. That had given me some respite from trying to face up to the simple fact that I was dying. At least it’s not one of them, was the only thought that could stop me from going to the edge of the cliff and looking death full in the face.
I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t make my brain focus on it. I approached it with caution, then at the last minute would veer left into something I could get my head around. Much easier to focus on the fact my kids are safe and well. I held that fact close to my chest like a security blanket, a buffer, for a good hour until the dark thoughts crept back in.
I’d rung in sick to work. Why I hadn’t just taken the day off I have no idea. Some vague hope that I wouldn’t need it. That I would be strolling back in, relief written all over my face.
I bet you’re wondering what happens to sacked tour reps from the nineties, aren’t you? Where does one go with a vast experience in organising ridiculous cultural outings that no one wants to go on unless the majority of the time is spent eating and drinking? Or with my ability to be a surrogate agony aunt to countless fall-outs and squabbles that occur when you put a load of childish human beings in one place. Where could one possibly take such skills?
It’s obvious, isn’t it?
An old people’s home.
A combination of my unique talents and requirement for flexible working hours led me to become Activities Coordinator at Shady Grove Retirement Home after I had had the kids. So I’m still a tour rep really, just for out-of-control geriatrics rather than out-of-control twenty-somethings. But there’s no way I can face out-of-control anything today. I’m out of control myself.
* * *
By six o’clock I can’t put off leaving the hospital any longer. I will go to Mark. Who knows when I might see him if I don’t? If I go now, the office should be quiet and I can break it to him gently and then I won’t be alone. Yes, that’s a good idea. Better there than at home, where George or Ellie would have to be addressed before we have time to properly contemplate what we will tell them.
I text the kids to say I will be home late. A single x back from George and nothing from Ellie. No doubt she will use it as an excuse to hang out at Phoebe’s in her five-bedroom mansion with double garage that has electric doors housing the Mini that Phoebe’s father’s already bought for her, ready for when she passes her test. A fact that arises all too frequently in our household.
Mark has hinted that he might buy Ellie a car if this deal comes off, to which I reacted badly. He spoils his daughter, leaving me to be the bad cop in order to somehow try and keep her feet on the ground. His extravagance with her and my constant efforts to pull him back have driven a wedge between me and Ellie that he fails to feel any responsibility for.
Still, soon he will be able to buy her what he likes without me harping on about her needing to understand the value of things. How will that turn out, I wonder. How will she turn out, I find myself thinking with a terrifying lurch. For too long now I’ve hoped she’s just going through a spoilt brat phase. Now I will never get to see if it was just a phase. Never get to see if she grows up to be the strong, determined woman I know is in there somewhere. The thought causes me to shake violently. I cannot think about my children’s future yet. Not now. I must save that for later when I pray it will somehow be less terrifying.
I park in front of Mark’s office. Thankfully the car park is virtually empty. The firm moved to this brand new building, barely distinguishable from the rest of the business park, just two years ago. It’s shiny and masculine and full of white male ego and empty of any imagination. I walk through the huge glass doors and into a double-height lobby, where black leather sofas seat the minions coming in from the outside world to beg an audience with the powers that be at Brancotec – Suppliers of Precision Technology for Precision Machines.
A security guard sits behind the ten-foot-long reception desk sporting the company logo.
‘I just need to speak to my husband,’ I gabble. ‘He’s working late. I know where his office is.’
‘Name?’ drawls the man.
‘Mark, Mark Sutton. Oh, do you mean mine? I’m Jenny Sutton, his wife.’
The guard looks me up and down slowly, assessing whether I’m capable of industrial espionage. His decision that I’m not comes in the faintest flick of the head towards the stairs and the offer of a plastic card, which I presume I need to get onto the floor where my husband works.
I scamper towards him and grab the card before he remembers that industrial spies can come in any shape or form, including that of a scatty-looking middle-aged woman.
Mark had very proudly shown me around the new building when they first moved in. He’d beamed as he’d guided me into his office on the third floor with all the other directors. Right on the end, a corner position with windows overlooking
the back of the factory and the car showroom next door. We’d hugged each other in that very office. An unspoken moment between us to acknowledge that life at that point was most definitely going to plan.
I’m slightly out of breath when I get to the top of the three flights of stairs. I pause to get my bearings then recognise the double doors that lead through into the directors’ wing, complete with boardroom, kitchen, a full array of large green plants serviced by a specialist office plant supplier, and two toilets. No urinals apparently. Is that a perk of being a director? I remember asking Mark. You don’t have to get your knob out in public. I don’t remember his reply.
I show the plastic card to a square cube mounted on the wall and miraculously hear a click. I push the doors open into the inner sanctum. All is quiet. All the offices I can see appear to be empty but I know Mark is here because his car is in the car park.
I walk down towards the end of the corridor to find him. I can see his office door is shut. My heart starts pounding. I’d rehearsed, somewhere around four o’clock, on about my fifth lap of the hospital grounds, how I would tell him. Sitting down was key, I’d thought. Make sure he’s sitting down and then announce I had something important to say. If he looked worried, if he started to panic, then I must talk quickly. Think of the most efficient way to get the words out. I’d just say whatever came into my head, I finally decided. Just blurt it out. If I was lucky I’d get it out before I started crying. More than likely I’d cry immediately and then it would take a good fifteen minutes to gather myself and say the words aloud. I’d even thought of writing it down, walking up to him, bursting into floods of tears and shoving a note in his hand explaining why I was crying. But I didn’t know what to write. No, just blurt it out and let him put me back together again. That’s all I was capable of.
I swallow and put my hand on the door handle. Taking a deep breath, I push it down. I peer in. On first glance his chair is empty behind his desk and I’m about to withdraw when a movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention. I look up to the left towards the window that overlooks the factory at the back of the building. The movement that my eyes had automatically tracked is my husband’s buttocks as he bends over someone’s backside, pumping away over the low filing cabinet.
Eight
I run.
I turn and flee, running down the stairs so fast that at any moment I’m likely to trip myself up and fall all the way into the stairwell. I might break my leg.
This reminds me of one of George’s ‘Would you rathers’. Would you rather have no arms or no legs? No legs had been my choice, I remember as I career into the bannister on the first floor, virtually blinded by my own tears. Hurtling down the last flight, I consider a new choice.
Would you rather find out you have cancer or that your husband is having an affair? Oops, sorry my mistake! There is no ‘Would you rather’ about it. No choice whatsoever. Congratulations, you have hit the jackpot. You don’t have to choose, you get them both.
I remember George once demanding I choose between two impossibles. He was probably about ten. Would you rather have twenty Twixes or ten Mars Bars had been his challenge. I told him I couldn’t choose. It was quantity versus quality as far as I was concerned and I couldn’t pick between them, I wanted both. Well, now I had both. No choice available. Two catastrophes in one.
I run across the lobby and out the double doors, fumbling in my bag for my keys. All I can think about is that I have to get as far away as possible. The image of them standing there, oblivious to their audience, is burning into my brain. Snippets of detail pop in and out of my mind. Mark’s buttocks looked good, really good. It must have been a really long time since I had cause to peruse his backside from that kind of distance and it was impressive. Smooth and creamy without a single blemish or rogue hair. Has he been doing something to keep it in tip-top condition for his new conquest, I wonder.
Not that she could admire it from her position. Her view was of the back of the factory and his was of the back of her head and her long blonde hair. Of course she was blonde. She had to be, didn’t she? Such a cliché. And she was wearing a blue skirt pulled up round her waist. I shake my head violently to try and rid myself of the all-too-vivid image. I look up as I fumble the keys into the lock, worried they have seen me and that Mark is coming after me, having hastily pulled his trousers up.
I can’t face him. I can’t face him now. I thought I didn’t have the words to tell him about my illness; I certainly don’t have the vocabulary to deal with my devastation at discovering the person who I have never needed more to be strong and supportive is actually weak, pathetic and a cheat.
I back out of the parking space at speed. I have no idea where I’m going but it has to be anywhere away from here.
Nine
‘Fuck off, Alanis,’ I shout at the top of my voice. Ever since I hurtled out of the business park driving my green Mini (original, by the way) way too fast for its delicate little frame, Alanis Morissette had haunted me from 1996. What was it that she was so angry about in that song? I thought there was a line about a cheating husband in there somewhere until I go through the lyrics in my head and realise it was actually about thinking you’ve met the man of your dreams then learning he already has a beautiful wife.
‘Just bloody unlucky,’ I scream. ‘Not ironic at all and nowhere near as bad as this.’ I realise I’m hitting the steering wheel in anger and that I really should stop before I have an accident and kill someone. Now wouldn’t that be ironic, I think.
I pull into a random side street and park outside a bungalow.
‘Bastard, bastard, bastard, bastard,’ I rage, using both hands this time to strike the unfortunate steering wheel. In some ways it’s a relief to let some emotion out. The cancer news has left me numb, unable to conjure up any type of reaction. The affair news, however, now that is something I can really throw everything at. Tears, rage, head banging, you name it.
After I have shouted and screamed at the speedometer for a good few minutes, my mind drifts towards the piecing together of the backstory of Mark’s new status as adulterous husband. Late nights at work. Numerous overnight stays in London meeting with the investors. Too preoccupied to talk. Too tired for sex. Too busy for a night out together. Too frequently annoyed by my presence. Too much new underwear being bought. I’d congratulated him at the time, when he came home having made a special trip to John Lewis. I was impressed that he’d finally realised that it is not in the wife’s job description to buy their husband’s pants.
All this hyped-up behaviour had been explained away by the huge effort required to sell Brancotec and his pivotal role as Finance Director. The perfect cover for an office affair. Sell a company, have a shag. Who knows, maybe she, whoever she is, had a whiff of the money that is coming. Maybe that’s why she was prepared to pull her knickers down over a filing cabinet. The promise of a fortnight in Barbados after the deal has been done and the wife ditched. Only he didn’t even have to ditch me now, did he, just wait until…
How come he gets all the fucking luck and I get all the shit? I scream.
My phone buzzes in my bag. Perhaps it’s him texting to say he’s going to be home even later because he’s not quite done shagging yet! I scrabble around in my bag and fish it out.
If only it had been Mark texting.
Ten
DON’T FORGET IT’S MY BRIDGE NIGHT. I NEED TO BE GONE BY 7.
‘You have got to be kidding me!’ I shout at the phone. ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ I shout louder, throwing it back in my bag and turning on the ignition.
The three-point turn is a disaster and I see a lace curtain twitch in the bungalow I’m parked outside. I wave as I depart on my way to my next hell.
You’d think your mother would be the one you would run to in such a situation surely? A mother would have to be the absolute pits of the earth to not be the one you could flee to when your entire world has just collapsed. It’s a truly sad state of affairs if you have a
mother you cannot imagine will provide any words of comfort to a daughter who has just received the most devastating news about her health and found her husband having sex in his office.
As I drive, breaking the speed limit yet again, in the direction of my parents’ house, I think about sitting my mum down and breaking the news to her that I’m sorry but she will not be able to attend her bridge night tonight. I need her to console me because I’ve got cancer and Mark is having sex with another woman. I try to imagine her response.
Best possible response: ‘Oh dear. Can we talk about this after I get back, only Margaret and Roy are relying on me?’
* * *
Medium-level response: ‘Well, I always thought Mark was too good for you.’
* * *
Worst-level response: ‘At least it’s you and not your brother going through this.’
You think I’m kidding, don’t you? You don’t think anyone’s mum could be like that. Well, I’ve known her for forty-five years and, believe me, none of these responses would come as a surprise.
To say we never bonded is an understatement.
To say I’m a total and utter disappointment is an understatement.
To say that she’s obsessed by my high-achieving but smug bastard younger brother is an understatement.
To say, however, that despite the utter shame of having a daughter whose career peaked with being named ‘Sunseeker Tour Rep of the Season, Corfu 1995’, she is perfectly happy for me to act as general dogsbody to do whatever her bidding, whenever she wants it. Of course she couldn’t possibly ask Antony as he’s too busy chopping people’s legs off somewhere under the guise of ‘apparently’ being an orthopedic surgeon. Something I refuse to believe he is capable of since he famously fainted at school whilst dissecting a frog and split his head open. Something I enjoy reminding him of on the rare occasions we see each other. We speak on the phone twice a year when I call to remind him it’s Mum or Dad’s birthday. I always remember his birthday and I always send him a card with a frog on it. He never remembers mine.
