by Amy Andrews
Her face softened, and this time when he tugged at her arms gently she relaxed and let him move them away.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered, looking at her in the early-morning light that filtered in through the window. ‘Perfect.’ He reached up and ran the flat of his hands across her chest. All of it – the bumpy scar, the soft skin, the slight indent where her breast had been. ‘I don’t ever want you to hide from me.’
She leaned down to kiss him, and that was the last thing he said for a long time.
Chapter Six
Five months later
Lights flared and music thrashed around Julia as she smiled mechanically at Poppy, who was gyrating on the dance floor with Ten in some godforsaken grunge pub to some god-awful grunge band. He had his hands firmly planted on Poppy’s behind and it took all Julia’s willpower not to march over and hiss gentle at him.
But Poppy would kill her.
Throughout the last five months of chemo Poppy had insisted she didn’t want to be treated with kid gloves. And Julia had tried really, really hard, but Poppy had been so sick there for a while as the doctors had chopped and changed treatments, trying to wrest her sprinting cancer under control, that even Ten had gone easy.
Although no-one would guess by looking at Poppy’s energetic, vibrant display on the dance floor tonight just what she’d been through. Sure, she was thinner and the funky turbanesque scarf that covered the wispy regrowth of her hair was a dead giveaway, but two weeks off chemo had totally recharged Poppy’s batteries and she was making the most of it.
Poppy turned her back to Ten, waving her arms in the air, clicking her fingers to the beat. His hands snaked onto her hips, drawing her in close to his chest, one hand gliding onto her belly as he moved behind her. His frame dwarfed hers and she was clearly revelling in it.
Poppy was living like she was dying and Julia could barely breathe for the fear of it.
Tomorrow they would know for sure. The scans would tell them whether the last desperate attempts from the oncologist had been the magic bullet they’d all been hoping for. Whether it had halted the galloping progress of the disease. Given Poppy hadn’t caught one single break, Julia wasn’t at all confident.
Poppy, on the other hand, was dancing.
How could she dance? Julia wanted to throw up. Or smash things. Both, preferably.
Someone sat on the bar stool beside her and said, ‘Dance wiv me, sugar doll?’
Julia rolled her eyes at the thick British accent as she came face to face with an elaborate dragon tattoo. ‘Spike, how often have you asked me that these last five months?’
‘Pretty much every time we’ve been at a club togever.’
‘And how many times have I said yes?’
He grinned at her in his infectious, unabashed way. ‘None. But I live in hope.’
She blocked him with a sardonic eyebrow lift. ‘Never going to happen.’
Sure, Spike was a good-looking guy. Hot, she supposed if you were into grungy, high-cheekboned, ratty-haired, earring-wearing, tattooed, rock-star types. Julia wasn’t.
She liked well-groomed men with bare earlobes who changed their clothes at least once a day and smelled like anything from Calvin Klein. Spike smelled like beer nuts and hair gel. And he never seemed to change his clothes. Every time she’d seen him (and that had been way too many times as far as she was concerned) he’d been wearing some version of tatty jeans and black singlet. Sure, the style showed off his great biceps and the impressive tattoo so popular with his band of hardcore groupies, but there was no excuse for an unoriginal wardrobe.
Now she could dress him like a rock god.
‘Why not? You know I’m just gonna wear you down.’
Julia laughed at his complete and utter brashness. She’d never met someone so young who was so damn cocky. Most twenty-year-old guys she knew were either gauche or monosyllabic in her presence, but not Spike. There was a directness, a confidence in his inky-blue eyes that a lot of men never mastered.
Cleary Spike was getting laid far too easily.
But Julia didn’t let any guy call the shots. Growing up as nothing much more than a marriageable commodity to her father, she’d learned to take charge real quick. She said who and when and where. Men didn’t wear her down.
‘Not even in a million years.’
‘Okay.’ He folded his arms across his chest, a move she was sure was designed to draw her gaze to those biceps. Julia didn’t fall for it. ‘Give me one good reason and I’ll stop botherin’ ya.’
‘I’ll give you three,’ she said briskly and held up three fingers to emphasise her points. ‘Number one. You’re twenty years old, Spike. Number two. You’re called Spike for fuck’s sake. Number three. You’re a drummer.’
He grinned. ‘So was Ringo, baby.’
Julia rolled her eyes. ‘I rest my case.’
His grin broadened. ‘It’s just a dance, sugar doll.’
Julia raised another finger. ‘Number four. Sugar doll? It might work with the groupies but I’m neither sweet nor am I a doll.’
He laughed then and a spurt of irritation crinkled her brow.
‘Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.’
And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,’ she said as she returned her gaze to the dance floor.
Poppy was laughing at Ten as he whispered in her ear and Julia watched as he grabbed her hand and spun her out from him. Poppy’s short skirt flared and she laughed heartily, jubilantly almost. Spike said something then but Poppy stumbled (she’d done that a bit the last few days) and Julia didn’t hear him as Ten grabbed her just before she hit the floor. Julia’s blood ran cold.
‘Right, that’s it!’ she announced, leaping off the stool and marching into the gyrating mass of bodies. ‘We’re going home,’ she barked.
Julia’s blood practically snap-froze when a suddenly frail-looking Poppy meekly agreed.
* * *
‘I’m sorry.’
Poppy’s hand was clammy in Julia’s as Dr Dick, who had pulled up a chair next to Poppy’s bed, looked at them with that empathetic gaze they knew so well. Julia decided if she heard those two words coming out of one more doctor’s mouth she was going to freaking raze the hospital to the ground. Five months of I’m sorry was more than enough.
I’m sorry you have aggressive metastatic cancer. I’m sorry each treatment cycle failed to produce results. I’m sorry the next therapy didn’t help. I’m sorry we brought out the big guns and they didn’t work either.
I’m sorry wasn’t good enough. They needed to fix it.
But that was what he was saying. He couldn’t fix it. Poppy’s recent headaches and the stumbling … The scan and the lumbar puncture this morning confirmed the cancer cells had spread to the meninges of the brain.
Poor prognosis. Two to four months. Maybe longer with whole-brain radiation. And something else about therapies to prolong and improve quality of life.
Julia’s heart punched into her ribcage with every beat.
‘Any questions?’
Poppy raised herself up on her elbows. She’d been lying flat since her lumbar puncture a few hours ago. ‘So that’s it?’ She didn’t say it loudly or in any kind of accusatory way, just in that methodical way of hers.
‘No. Definitely not.’ His words were gentle. Kind. As always. ‘Like I said, there are options … for example, intrathecal chemotherapy is recommended. It has good short-term effects on neurological symptoms and can buy you some more time.’
More time. That’s what they were looking at now. There was no more talk of hope. On one hand Julia was grateful there was such a thing, on the other she couldn’t even start to comprehend the implications.
It was madness.
Six months ago Poppy had been vibrant and alive and now her life was down to months.<
br />
‘There have been some successes,’ the doctor added to fill the weighty space in the room. ‘I can show you some studies where—’
‘But it’s palliative, right?’ Poppy interrupted.
Her voice was even, her posture easy, her hands relaxed. She looked the epitome of calm considering the news she’d just been delivered. But Poppy never interrupted.
‘I’m dying, that’s what you’re saying. Really dying. No matter what you do, I’m not going to survive this.’
It wasn’t a question. He shook his head. ‘No.’
Poppy stared at him with her big eyes, even bigger now that her eyelashes and eyebrows were non-existent. There was something about the twin ridges of eyebrows that made a face a face. That framed and defined it. Poppy’s face seemed to go on forever, melding into the baldness of her scalp.
Poppy didn’t say anything for long moments. Tears shimmered in her eyes and Julia waited for them to spill, for her to erupt. It didn’t happen. She merely swallowed hard and said, ‘Right,’ then eased herself back down again.
Julia stared at her. Was that it?
‘Julia?’ Dr Dick looked at her as the silence in the room stretched. ‘You’re quiet.’
Julia dragged her gaze away from Poppy to glare at the oncologist. He gave her a half-smile. ‘You’ve always got something to say.’
Yeah. She did. And now wasn’t any different. Poppy may be taking this lying down but there was no way Julia was. She stood. ‘That’s it? You’re going to sit there and tell me that all the billions of dollars of government money, my—’ Julia stabbed a finger at her chest, ‘tax money, that goes into cancer research and you can’t cure a twenty-nine-year-old woman yet? Did you get your medical degree in a fucking cornflakes packet?’
She started to pace then, her mind flying in a hundred different directions at a hundred miles an hour as the cold harsh reality of Poppy’s condition sank its teeth into her neck and sucked hard. ‘You can give a bunch of middle-aged men erections that last for freaking days but you can’t figure out how to kill a lousy cancer cell? You know what?’
She stopped and stabbed the oncologist with a murderous glare, furiously wiping at a tear she hadn’t been aware had formed. ‘I bet if cancer of the penis was more prevalent there’d be a cure for this fucker. I bet if dicks were being amputated or dropping off left, right and centre there’d have been a cure decades ago. There’d be a whole fucking government dick department dedicated to it.’
The doctor just nodded empathetically and patiently at her like he always did when she ranted at him, and god knew Julia had done that a lot over the last five months. But, as ever, he seemed impervious to insult.
His quiet acceptance of her vitriol shamed her into silence. Poor bastard – what a terrible job. Julia had to give him kudos. He looked like he had all the time in the world to sit there and take her insults when she knew for a fact after five months of seeing way too much of him that his days were crazy busy.
Julia sat on Poppy’s bed, suddenly depleted. Defeated. She glanced at Poppy, lying there so still and rigid, her fingers gripping the sheet like she might somehow fall out of the bed. Her gaze flicked to him as she repeated the phrase she must have thrown at him dozens of times over their short acquaintance. ‘She’s twenty-fucking-nine.’
He nodded. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Julia gave a snort that bordered on the hysterical. They were back to that again.
‘Poppy?’ he said after several long beats of silence. ‘Would you like to hear some more about your options?’
‘No.’ Poppy shook her head. ‘Not now. Could you please just … go? Thank you for coming to talk to me and for being so honest, but I really need to wrap my head around this for a second.’
‘Of course. You can go home anytime you’re feeling up to it, it’s been four hours since the LP so that should be fine. Make an appointment to come back and talk to me in the next few days, okay?’
Poppy nodded but Julia could tell that she hadn’t taken any of it in. So could Dr Dick. He looked at Julia for confirmation. ‘Okay?’
Julia nodded. ‘Yep.’
He left and Julia watched the spot where he disappeared out the door and listened to the squeak of his expensive shoes down the linoleum corridor. She watched it long after he was gone and strained to listen until she couldn’t hear him anymore. It was the easier thing to do. Easier than looking at Poppy. Her best friend. Who had cancer. In her brain.
Who was terminal. Dying. Really freaking soon.
Poppy’s hand found hers. ‘Julia?’
Julia shut her eyes briefly against the tide of threatening tears as she engulfed Poppy’s icy hand in both of hers. Poppy was going to tell her not to cry and she wasn’t sure she could do that.
Poppy curled on her side, tucking Julia’s hand against her abdomen. ‘I don’t want to die,’ she whispered.
A lump of Titanic proportions wedged in Julia’s throat as she blinked away her tears and looked at her friend. ‘I don’t want you to die either.’
‘This … sucks.’
Julia felt like a knife was being slid between her ribs at the utter despair in Poppy’s voice. She squeezed Poppy’s hand tight. ‘We’ll get a second opinion.’
Poppy didn’t say anything for a few minutes. ‘Where’s my phone? I need to talk to Quentin.’
Despite his devotion to Poppy these last months, Julia, selfishly, didn’t want Ten in this moment, but she was too gutted to argue. And besides, while neither she (nor any of the medical profession apparently) could cure Poppy’s cancer, Julia could rattle up Ten for her. The band had an audition this morning then a practice session that Poppy had insisted he go to. Julia had been relieved – she hadn’t wanted him here anyway.
With her free hand she reached into Poppy’s bag, which had been placed in the bedside table, and pulled out her mobile, passing it over. Poppy didn’t let go of Julia’s hand as her thumb swiped across the screen and she put the phone to her ear. Julia smiled at Poppy encouragingly and squeezed her hand, even though her insides felt like they were being ground up in a blender.
A tiny frown appeared on Poppy’s bald forehead as the phone rang and rang. ‘Not answering,’ she muttered as she tried again.
It almost killed Julia to keep her smile in place.
What. The. Fuck.
Surely when your girlfriend who had cancer rang you on the day she was finding out her fate, you answered the fucking phone?
The anger she’d vented at the oncologist earlier spewed up inside her again like a cloud of hot brimstone, searing her chest on the inside and, once again, Ten unwittingly became the focus of her rage.
He’d been a good distraction for Poppy and Julia had humoured that, but shit just got serious.
Poppy texted then rang again. ‘Here, let me text him,’ Julia offered and Poppy handed over the phone. ‘Be nice,’ she said.
Julia smiled and nodded as her fingers flew across the keyboard.
Ten! Where the fuck r u? V bad news. Poppy needs u now! Pick up ph or I swear next time I c u I will insert it so far up your arse you’ll have ringtones where your bowel sounds should b!
‘Julia.’
Julia smiled again and nodded reassuringly at the warning note in Poppy’s voice. ‘All done,’ she said brightly, hitting the send button.
Poppy didn’t look convinced. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘let me try him again.’
Julia watched the sadness and disappointment deepen on Poppy’s face when he still didn’t answer. ‘He’s at practice.’ Julia shrugged, even though it killed her to defend him. ‘He probably hasn’t even heard the phone.’
Poppy nodded miserably as two tears squeezed out of her eyes and trekked down her cheeks. Poppy hadn’t cried – not that Julia knew of anyway – since the day of her mastectomy. Not through any of the horror she’d been through. Not when her hair had fallen out or when she’d been spewing her guts up or when she had bleeding mouth ulcers the size of Alaska. Not even ten
minutes ago when she’d been told she had only months to live.
And Julia couldn’t bear it. ‘You know they all get lost in that crap they call music.’
Poppy drew in a hiccupy breath. ‘I kn-know.’
And that was enough for Julia. She couldn’t bear to see Poppy like this. Rage – at cancer and at Ten – drove her to her feet. ‘I’ll go and get him. It’s not far from here.’
‘C-could you?’ Poppy whispered.
Julia was picking up her bag. ‘Absolutely,’ she said briskly. If she stopped, if she cracked, she’d be useless. ‘I’ll have him back here in twenty minutes and then we’ll all go home, okay?’
Poppy nodded and shut her eyes, more tears squeezing out. ‘Thank you.’
Julia didn’t want to leave her like this, and she certainly didn’t want to have to deal with Ten. But today was a game changer. She suddenly realised they’d only been rolling the dice these last months. As of today, Poppy’s days were officially numbered. And by god if Poppy wanted Ten then she was getting Ten.
* * *
By the time Julia arrived at the suburban community hall where the band practised, she’d had twelve minutes to play out the last tragic months of Poppy’s life and her funeral in full technicolour detail and she was a sodden mess. She’d deliberately chosen her poppy dress this morning not just because of the symbolism but because she wanted to exude a bright, cheery confidence, and the big red poppies crowding out their black background were perfect.
So much for that.
Not even the capped sleeves, the sweetheart neckline with its cute strategic bow or the retro flared skirt she adored so much were enough to give her a lift now or hide the fact that she’d spent the last twelve minutes alternating between extreme rage and ugly snot crying. When she screeched to a halt in the car park and thought about Ten and where the hell he was that was more important than Poppy, the rage cranked up another notch.
She didn’t even bother checking herself out in the rear-view mirror. She didn’t care what kind of hell she looked like when Poppy was in actual hell.
She could hear the muffled crash of drums as she slammed the car door and marched across the concrete car park, the tap of her patent cherry slingbacks an ominous portent. She wanted to scream, yell and kick something, and Ten was looking like a pretty good target right now.
