‘It’s a big fucking tumour pressing on the base of my brain. The size of an egg, the doc said. Can you imagine?’
‘Frankie, look at me, we need to talk about this seriously. We need to discuss your options. I’m a doctor, I can help you.’
She laughed her light, airy giggle and wrestled out of his arms. ‘Not yet, sweetheart, there’s so much life left to live!’
He should have intervened then. He should have learnt from the example of his father and taken control of the situation. Tyler and Frankie were a team, and sometimes one member of the team doesn’t know what is best for them. He likes to think he tried.
He remembers pacing around her apartment, weeks later, begging, cajoling and raging.
‘Frankie! This doesn’t have to be the end! Look at these academic papers I found at the hospital – there have been cases just like yours where the patient has gone into remission after several rounds of aggressive treatment!’
‘But at what cost, Ty? So I can spend my days vomiting, losing my hair and becoming completely dependent on my family, on you? You know how much I value my independence. Can you imagine what torture that would be for me?’
‘So you don’t want to get well. Is that what you’re saying?’
Tyler had only seen Frankie angry once or twice and even then, it was mild. After barely being together for six months, they were still careful in what they revealed, wary not to get too raw and scare the other away. But today it pulsed through her body, white-hot and indignant. She glared at him, eyes narrowed.
‘I never said that. I don’t understand why we are so quick to believe that poisoning our bodies with man-made chemicals is the only solution to curing diseases! I’ve seen what chemo does to people, Ty, and I just can’t do it. You come here brandishing these studies like they’re the solution. Well, there are other studies that show how people have treated cancer through diet, medicinal marijuana and other natural therapies.’
Tyler sees a new future unfolding before him, one that looks all too similar to his past. Why won’t she let him help? Why won’t she let him love her?
‘Studies, you say? You mean like Holly Evans’s diet dressed up as pseudoscience?’
‘You don’t understand, do you? Tyler, I am making an educated, personal decision here. The fact that you think otherwise is insulting. You know what? I actually think it’s best if you leave. We’re both not in a place to discuss this.’
He shouldn’t have left that day. He should have pushed harder. At that critical time, he had the authority to do something and he didn’t use it. But before he could blink, her parents had swooped in with the offer of her old childhood bedroom in their house. He couldn’t compete with her mother’s cooking and a lifetime of comforting memories. Soon there was a cab waiting outside filled with her bags, and he was walking out of her apartment for the last time.
Even today the memory makes him seethe. He taps his news app as a distraction. The search for Holly’s attacker is still making headlines. He doesn’t get it. Syria is being bombed to pieces, Burundi is on the verge of genocide, yet the UK is obsessing about a few swollen scratches on a famous girl’s face. It is amazing how prettiness and the scent of fame makes a person’s media real estate go up. It’s all about location, location, location. Location in the right place of society, where people are deemed special enough to be interesting. Nothing has changed since he last checked. The online map is still being populated each day, yet he can’t find himself in any of the photos. This wasn’t even an intentional move on his part. Truly privileged men like him, men who have grown up steeped in money, have the gift of being grey. Conspicuous consumption is for the tacky; true prosperity doesn’t wish to be seen. So he slunk through London that night invisible, with nobody giving him a second glance.
He chuckles over his cortado. He could blow this shit wide open in a few seconds if he wanted to. He could make fools of these hysterical women, and of Holly especially. Perhaps he should send these girls a few incriminating photographs to show them the type of person they are really dealing with. Maybe they can help him when the moment comes to ruin her flimsy life for good. He’s been ready ever since he returned from Exeter months ago, and read the sentence on her medical history that stoked his anger into a raging wildfire: NO EVIDENCE OF DISEASE.
Yet there is something inside that is stopping him. Perhaps it’s because revealing everything all at once would be too crude. Timing is crucial. Like the perfect wound, it has to happen when it will hurt the most. He wants a long, slow meaningful courtship of her ruin, not an easy one-night stand. He wants to stand in the distance and observe her falling apart. Isn’t that what she forced him to do with Frankie?
Chapter 26
Holly
A new white bed. A new hospital. Another nuance to Holly’s failure. It’s not natural to move backwards, she should be healing better than she is right now. She has an audience of thousands to console. It’s time to move on. Even her mother seems to think this, as is clear by her tired voice sighing over the phone,
‘You really need to summon the strength to get over this, darling. You can do it, I know it.’
In her voice, something else, that clenched fear that she’s starting her old tricks again. The intimation that she is the one who brought this on herself. Prickly as she is, her mother remains the only person in her family who calls.
‘I’m trying my best, Mum. You know that the guy hasn’t been caught yet. Everyone seems to be forgetting about this.’
Everyone forgets, and nobody knows the way he circles her, swooping every now and then, a flash of evil.
‘Yes, but you’ve always had such a strong mind—’
‘Jesus, Mum! Please don’t go on about the toilet-training story again!’
‘First of all, sweetie, please don’t blaspheme. It’s not attractive. And secondly, no, it’s another story. Do you remember when you were a little girl and found out that Father Christmas didn’t exist?’
‘Yes, Mrs Folkes told us all when we were ten and some of the parents were really angry with her.’
‘No, you actually found out years before that. I remember it so clearly. We all lived in that house in Buddle Lane. You were a few months short of turning six and had written an elaborate letter to Father Christmas asking for a pink bicycle. Your father and I were so excited to get it for you, but in the excitement of finding the right one, I left my car door wide open, with the bike resting on the back seat. I was unpacking the groceries in the kitchen when I saw you run out and look right at it. You even ran your hands over the handlebars. Then you whipped around, ran back inside and didn’t mention a word of it. When Christmas time came, you acted like you had never seen it before and insisted on writing a letter to Father Christmas to say thank you.’
A sinking feeling. Holly knows where this is going.
‘Why do you think I did that?’
‘Well, as I said, you have a strong mind, and you wanted to believe. You blocked out everything you didn’t want to see.’ She can feel the bitterness crawling from her phone and into her bones.
‘OK?’
‘So, do that now. Focus on the good and pretend this evil man is far away, because, let’s face it, he probably is by now.’ Her heart clenches as she hears her father shouting in the distance, and the breaking of glass. ‘I’ve got to go,’ her mother whispers. ‘I love you, darling.’
The conversation wasn’t as encouraging as Holly wished it would be. If anything, it has unsettled her even more. What did she expect? In contrast to the fanfare of her attack, she faces today’s operation by herself. She’s not sure yet if this makes her feel freer, or more alone. Perhaps it’s for the best. Her face has been raging against her for days now. She’d rather not see the impact of the diagnosis reflected on someone with a full range of expression.
Still, whatever the diagnosis is, it comes with the promise that an expert will fix her. She just wants someone to knock her out so that she can wake up to her normal lif
e again, the one where she knew who she was. This seems to be her best shot.
Holly always expected to return to being invisible, but she thought time would be the one to do the disfiguring. Her beauty was never a thing that felt real. She wore it like an expensive dress she had bought in a sale, paralysed with self-consciousness and a sense that she was somehow undeserving of it.
When she was twelve years old, she had curly black hair hacked into an awkward bob, with braces slammed into her round face. While other girls were softly budding and being taken to dark corners of the playground, she was never chosen. The only time she was referred to sexually was when SHAWN FINGERED HOLLY was etched crudely into the desk in the library. Shawn was one of the slow kids, who was frequently bullied. Accusing him of touching Holly was just another way of punching him in the face. She couldn’t even find the heart to get too upset about it, not when she was being punched for real at home.
At eighteen, a shift started taking place. Her features were changing, refining. The coarse curls crowding her face had relaxed into waves. While she was still slumped and awkward in posture, her proportions were blatant enough on their own. Narrow waist, full hips, large breasts. Contrary to what magazines would have girls believe, you don’t need the right clothes or make-up to hook a guy. You just need to feel right under his hands. She started lying down often and gratefully, being moulded, appraised and approved of by rough, teenage hands.
Now, after countless Brazilian blow-waves and boxes of peroxide, she has blonde mermaid-hair, with a fantasy body that she has stretched and pulled around its original curves to become effortlessly slender. Years of juicing and her raw food diet have refined her doll-like features, and her bright, brown eyes appear large and wild within the frame of her delicate cheekbones.
Looking the way she did never fixed anything, but it made her life easier. Now, she is not just scarred, but she has been marked by a tragedy she did not choose. The thought of being in an operating theatre again makes her want to scream and run out of the door, but it could make everything normal again. It could quell the fear that the empire she has built is about to fall apart.
Holly Evans, you’re a fucking fraud.
The words taunt her. They stick to every thought. She’ll do anything she can to make them go away.
‘Well, hello there. This must be the famous Holly Evans!’ A tall, clumsy-looking man walks in. He runs his hands through his wiry hair, something he must do often as it is standing out all over his head. His face is chubbier than in the pictures – those must have been taken over a decade ago.
‘Dr Warner?’
‘Call me Eugene. It’s a pleasure to meet you. My daughter is a big fan. She’s got us all drinking your Green Monster shake!’
‘Hah, that is an evergreen classic.’ She tries to wink but her eyes no longer feel part of her body. Everything feels disconnected, loose, as if she has been reassembled in a rush.
‘Evergreen, clever. I’m glad you’re in high spirits this morning. Today is going to be a really good day.’
‘Is it?’
‘In my opinion, yes. When you first came in for surgery at the other hospital you were losing a lot of blood. The previous doctor didn’t have time to fuss around with the stitches. I just need to go in there and clear things up. Ideally it would have been nice to have a consultation before the surgery, but as soon as my colleague saw your face on the news, he brought your case to my attention. As soon as I saw you, I realised we didn’t have much time. It’s best to act now while the scars are fresh, yes?’
His touch is warm and gentle against her face, like a father’s. Not her father, but like she’d imagine a father to be. Her arms ache to hug him.
‘Will I look . . . ?’
‘You want to know if you’ll look yourself again? Not right away, but if you are patient and take your antibiotics, you should heal nicely in a couple of months. And then, of course, it may be six months until you get the full movement of your facial muscles back. Judging by this inflammation, I think you need to be a bit more religious in taking your medication. Am I right?’
‘Maybe a little right,’ she laughs. It’s not that she’s deliberately not taking her medication, it’s just that her throat closes on her after so many pills. It feels like a fist pushing down her throat.
He crouches down beside her. ‘Listen, Holly, this is serious stuff. I don’t know who did this to you, but he managed to hack through some of your key muscles and nerve endings. I want you to be able to smile again, and to keep on doing all your positive work. You have the world at your feet, so let’s work together to keep it that way. Do you believe in me?’
She wants to cry with relief. ‘Yes, I believe in you.’
‘Poor thing, you’ve been through so much. I’m sure you’ve been in and out of hospitals countless times with your . . .’
Don’t look back in the file. Please don’t look.
‘Yes, but it’s OK. I can be brave one more time. Let’s get this done.’
He pats her shoulder. ‘You’re a remarkable girl. Now lie back and relax. I’ll get a nurse to administer your pre-med. The worst is over now. It’s time to get you on the path to the good stuff again.’
Chapter 27
Tyler
Two hours. That’s how long it will take to operate on Holly. Two hours of staring at that familiar blonde hair and those skinny legs. The little tart always loved to show them off.
Fifteen minutes until he has to scrub in. But first he needs to make a quick phone call to the Daily Mail. It’s time. Finally. He’s glad he’s waited, planned. It’s almost too easy, but he knows Frankie would be proud of him. He’s done it all for her and soon she’ll get justice. Soon everyone will know what Holly’s done.
‘I’d like to speak to your newsroom please?’
Sirens blare outside the hospital while he holds the line, listening to the inane background music and fidgeting in his seat. Finally, a tired presence comes on.
‘Hello there, yes, I’d like to provide an anonymous tip. I am a doctor based in London and lost my fiancée to cancer last year.’ He still chokes whenever he says it out aloud. ‘While I agree that Holly Evans’s methods may successfully prevent or even halt the development of cancer, I have never in my long career met a late-stage cancer survivor that has been cured through a one hundred per cent natural approach. I went looking for Holly Evans’s medical file, which confirmed my suspicions. She faked her entire cancer journey. Not only is this catastrophic for the brands she represents, but her promotion of alternative cancer treatments has resulted in the loss of lives, including that of my fiancée. I had the medical documents, as well as a written explanation, couriered to your offices this morning.’
The buzz leaps in his chest as the reporter starts talking quickly about getting the story out there as soon as possible. He fizzes with the knowledge that the photos would have just been delivered to the #JusticeforHolly girls today too. Months before he and Holly met that night in Starbucks, he has photographed her slinking through the city. The images reveal a woman who is the exact opposite of who her fans think she is.
Everything is colliding so beautifully. Holly’s carefully constructed world spiralling out of her grasp. Not only will the world turn on her, but so will the followers who loved her most. Soon she will know what it’s like to lose what is most precious to her, and soon she will know what it feels like to have nothing.
Five minutes to theatre. Two hours in surgery. One hour in intensive care. That’s how long it takes to ruin a life.
Chapter 28
Holly
Holly’s tongue feels thick and swollen in her mouth. She tries to talk to the nurses but her words sound like someone else’s voice. She turns her head from side to side as they wheel her to the operating theatre. Walls, beds, windows are luminous and sparkling with white stars. She is an acrobat balancing on the edge of consciousness. How she loves this feeling! How she wants to hold on to this in-between, this �
�not here, not there’ bliss. She hears jagged peals of laughter. It’s her, not her; it’s the joy inside her finding a way out, like vomit. A nurse with wide, cartoon eyes smiles down on her. ‘Ssssshhhh.’
‘Sssssh!’ Holly giggles back.
She is under the blinding white light. Everything is too reflective, too clean in this room. It hurts her eyes. She tries to cover them but her hands feel so far away, so filled with lead. The tools, the knives have been casually arranged next to her bed, like a new box of crayons on the first day of school. She tries to stop herself but, no, there it is, there’s the scalpel, glinting in the bright light just like it did that night. The memory burns behind her eyes – that heart-stopping feeling of fear, suspended in time. The scream comes from something that doesn’t sound like her. It’s going into her face again. Panting claws her throat. She’s too weak. Once again, there is nothing she can do to stop it.
A voice from another world, ‘The patient is showing signs of distress.’ A tall woman appears, her face wrinkled and grave. She is patting her arm. For a second Holly feels as if she is the woman and it is her hand, touching her own arm. She is everyone and no one, everything and nothing. She feels heavier now, like she’s being pushed into the ground, far, far down until her body is scalded by the earth’s core.
A face above her. A smile. Familiar. Good-looking. Cold eyes. ‘Well, if it isn’t my favourite patient.’ No. No no no no. How could he be here? Zanna said she knew Dr Warner well. Holly had trusted her. But there’s no mistaking it. It’s him, swaying above her, his fingers grazing the tray of sharp objects. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ he whispers, still smiling. ‘Don’t you want me to fix you?’ Nobody notices, the nurses preoccupied far away in another corner of the operating theatre. She’s screaming now. Bucking her body like a dying animal while he holds her down again. Slurred words crowd the room, but she’s too far gone under the pre-meds. Nobody can understand her. One last surge of adrenaline pulses through her arms as she scratches desperately at the nurses, the doctors. ‘It’s him! He’s the one! He hurt me!’ They’re holding her down, struggling against the bite of her words, the clamping of her jaw. A dark mask is secured on her face and held down. No, no, she can’t breathe. Can’t anybody tell she can’t breathe? They all want to kill her; she’s sure of it. This is her punishment for everything she has done. Words, not her words, floating above her, coiling into her ears like smoke, ‘Oh, Holly, how should I hurt you today?’
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