by Lucy Diamond
‘Well, maybe … Do you want to come and meet me to talk about it?’ she said. ‘My lunch break starts at one – we could have a salad in the cafe or something. You don’t have to tell me the details, but sometimes company can help. And it’ll get you away from the kitchen, too.’
I looked at the clock. It was only ten thirty. I wasn’t sure I could hang on until one. But at least it would break up the day. ‘Thanks, Jess,’ I said. ‘I’d really appreciate it. Are you sure that’s all right? I don’t want to take up your time.’
‘It’s totally all right,’ she said in such a firm voice that I believed her. ‘I’ll meet you in reception at one o’clock.’
I put the phone down. Two and a half hours to kill. I had to get out of the house, otherwise I knew I would crack and pig out. I didn’t want to keep pestering Mum – I’d told Gerald I’d pop back in the afternoon to see how she was doing. Nicole would be working and, even though I knew she’d be sympathetic, it would be with a whipped-cream hot chocolate and a pastry, and I was trying to stay away from her restaurant for that exact reason while I was dieting – too many tasty temptations.
Then an idea popped into my head: a thought that had never ever occurred to me before. I’d go to the gym for a workout before I met Jess! It was such an unlikely and unusual thing to occur to me that I actually laughed out loud.
I would do it, though. Mum would be dead pleased when I told her later, and that was as good a reason as any.
Jess was kind, encouraging and supportive when I met her that day – the perfect near-anonymous person to let off steam to. The gym was surprisingly therapeutic too. So much so, in fact, that I found myself going there for the next few mornings as well, and letting out all my stress and frustration on the machines. Mum was still crippled by terrible headaches and stubbornly refusing any assistance, and I felt powerless to do very much for her. I wanted to help, but there was nothing really I could do – and I knew that badgering her would eventually send her into a rage. I kept popping round, but she was usually in bed or lying on the sofa, feeling too rotten to talk.
‘I’m scared,’ I said to Nicole one evening on the phone. ‘I’ve never seen her like this before, she’s always been so … so well. So together. Now she’s just this feeble invalid, barely able to sit up and talk to me.’
‘Shit,’ Nicole said. ‘I can’t imagine her like that. Is there still nothing definite from the hospital? What have they told you?’
‘Well, they’ve said that the full blood count showed “an imbalance”, whatever that means, but that it wasn’t enough to draw any conclusions. We’ve just got to wait. It’s awful.’
‘I can imagine, babe,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Just hang in there – and if there’s anything I can do, you know you only have to shout. Running errands or taxi-ing you both around – anything at all.’
By the time the call came from the GP the following week asking Mum to come in to discuss the results, I had almost got to the point where I didn’t want to know, so frightened was I of what the diagnosis might be. ‘I’ll take you to the surgery,’ I insisted. ‘No buts. I know you want to do everything yourself, but tough. I’m coming with you this time.’
She looked like a sullen teenager for a moment and I half expected her to stamp her feet and argue the toss, but she rolled her eyes instead, with a flash of her old humour. ‘Since when did you get so bossy?’ she muttered, but there was a reluctant smile there too. ‘Come on, take me if you must, then.’
I could tell by Dr Brooks’s face that something was seriously wrong as we sat down in her room. Dr Brooks was about my age, lean and rangy, with a sharp fringe and keen eyes. Today, though, those eyes were full of sorrow, and her lips were set in a strange, awkward line. Oh God, I thought, sitting down. It’s bad.
‘Hello, Anna, hello, Maddie,’ Dr Brooks said, then took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid it’s not good news,’ she said bluntly. ‘The CT scan results show you have a tumour on the right side of your brain. It’s quite a large tumour – about the size of an apple. That’s what caused the seizure on Monday, and that’s why you’ve had such bad headaches and nausea recently.’
Mum didn’t speak. Neither did I for a moment. The words were reverberating around my head and it took me a few seconds to unscramble them.
‘A tumour … so it’s cancer?’ I said. I felt numb, hollow, as if I couldn’t quite process my emotions. Then fear took over. ‘Oh no.’ I took Mum’s hands, tears swimming in my eyes. ‘Oh no, Mum.’
‘Now, I know it sounds scary,’ Doctor Brooks went on gently, ‘but a brain tumour isn’t necessarily a death sentence. The hospital want you to go in and have more tests this afternoon, before they decide a course of treatment.’
‘What sort of tests?’ I managed to get out. My heart was thumping hard, and adrenaline spiked through me. ‘What sort of treatment?’
She gave it to us straight. ‘The tests are to determine if the tumour in the brain is the primary tumour – where the cancerous cells originated – or if the cancer began somewhere else, and spread to the brain,’ she replied. ‘If they discover there are other tumours in your body, Anna, it will affect the treatment. So they want to do further scans, have a proper look at you, get all the facts as soon as possible.’
Mum still hadn’t spoken, and her face was a mask, betraying no emotion. ‘Thank you, Dr Brooks,’ she said politely.
Bless her. It was the diagnosis from hell, and she was giving the performance of her life.
Everything got worse after that. To cut a long and horrible story short, after an agony of waiting, the CT and ultrasound scans revealed that, yes, the primary tumour was in her brain, but that there were ‘shadows’ on her lungs, which meant undergoing a bronchoscopy. And when the results of that came back, it showed that, oh yes, there were cancerous cells there too. It was a late diagnosis. Terribly late. If they’d caught it earlier, they might have been able to operate on her brain and stop the cancer spreading, but now … Now, there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of hope for her chances.
She was dying, I just knew it. Surely there was no way back from this. My fabulous, feisty mum was being eaten away by cancer, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Chapter Nine
Wedding Cake
Jess
‘All set for the big day tomorrow, then?’ I said as I came back into the room. Francesca was lying face down on the massage table, her golden hair twisted up in a scrunchie, shoulders bare, and a thick blue towel covering the rest of her body.
I didn’t really need to ask, to be honest, because it was obvious that she was absolutely bubbling over with excited happiness – I had seen it in her eyes and in the hundred-kilowatt smile she’d flashed at me when I’d gone to collect her from the reception area. She seemed a completely different woman from the tensed-up-tight person who’d sat before me a few weeks earlier stressing about her wedding plans.
‘I just can’t wait,’ she said as I rubbed some of our energizing orange-and-ginger oil between my hands. ‘I can’t believe it’s actually happening tomorrow. After all this time – all this work, all this planning – I’m finally going to be Mrs McCarthy …’ Her head was turned away from me, but I could tell she was smiling as she spoke. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll have said our vows, we’ll be man and wife … oooohh!’
I began the massage, lightly sweeping both of my hands up her back and around her shoulders until her skin glistened with oil. It was nice to hear that someone was happy at least – I’d had a terrible morning so far. Louisa had called me in for a little ‘chat’ first thing, and proceeded to really tell me off for letting down the salon image.
‘It’s not good enough, Jess,’ she’d said. ‘While you’re wearing the uniform, you’re an advertisement for this place. You’ve got to look professional at all times – and that means not walking about sobbing on your phone. For heaven’s sake, get a grip of yourself!’
It had felt like a slap. No ‘Is everything all right, Jes
s?’; no ‘Sorry to hear you were upset the other day, can I help, Jess?’ Not that I’d have told her anything about my private life, but, you know … the thought would have been appreciated. I reckoned Louisa must have been skiving the day she was meant to learn about adopting a ‘sympathetic bedside manner’ as part of her beautician training. She was about as sympathetic as Simon Cowell. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, desperate to get away from her as fast as possible.
‘Yeah, I should think so,’ she’d said. She’d pursed her too thin, too glossy lips and looked me up and down, her eyes contemptuous beneath their ridiculously over-mascara’d lashes. ‘I might as well tell you now,’ she’d said. ‘Karen’s not sure whether she’s coming back after her maternity leave, so I’ll be putting in for her position. And if I do become the manager of the salon, I’m going to shake things up a bit. That means slackers will be out.’
‘I’m not a slacker!’ I’d protested. ‘I work really—’
‘Work isn’t everything,’ she’d interrupted, stabbing a scarlet-painted nail in my direction. ‘Image counts for a lot. And right now …’ That sneering look again, as if I was the most hideous creature alive. ‘Let’s just say that you’re not a great advertisement for business, Jessica.’
I shook her bitchy remarks out of my head and tried to concentrate on Francesca’s massage. ‘So what’s the plan for tomorrow, then?’ I asked her brightly. ‘Tell me all about it.’
‘Well,’ she began, ‘the hairdresser’s coming round at eight to do me and my sisters …’
I let her talk and talk while I kneaded her shoulders in circular movements. Louisa didn’t like me, that much was obvious. And if she became the manager permanently, she would make my life here even more of a misery. She would probably demote me to the most basic jobs, try to squeeze me out. I didn’t want that to happen. Couldn’t let it happen, especially with the wedding to pay for.
It seemed as if Francesca had her wedding day all sewn up. The hair, the make-up, the delivery from the florist, the car … It was planned down to the last stitched bead on the smallest bridesmaid’s shoe, by the sound of it. ‘Wow,’ I said, when I managed to get a word in. ‘And now you’re just waiting for it all to begin – how exciting that must be.’
Maybe she picked up on a tinge of wistfulness in my voice, because she twisted her head slightly to look at me then. ‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t you say you were getting married this year, too? How are your plans coming along?’
I hesitated. I didn’t want to rain on her parade, but at the same time I’d never been any good at lying. ‘Well … okay,’ I said vaguely in the end. ‘I don’t think we’re as organized as you and your husband-to-be, though. We haven’t sent out the invitations yet.’
‘Really?’ She sounded shocked. Horrified, even. ‘And you’re getting married in … Sorry, I can’t remember when you said. Before Christmas, wasn’t it?’
‘Um … yeah,’ I said. ‘Hopefully.’ I forced a laugh and then, not wanting to talk about my failings any more, I changed the subject. ‘So are you all packed for your honeymoon? Are you going away straight after the wedding, or have you got a few days to catch your breath?’
Envy needled me all over as she talked about the wedding night booked in a luxury hotel suite with a four-poster bed and private balcony. I could imagine the crisp white sheets, the fancy bespoke bathroom, the bride and groom slow-dancing together in their suite before taking off their clothes and making love for the first time as husband and wife. It made me want to cry. I wanted all of that too, I wanted it so much.
But one glance down at my tight-fitting uniform, the buttons straining, the creases under my bust … one glance at my big fat self was enough to remind me that it wasn’t going to happen any time soon. I’d been really careful on my diet all week, not a single biscuit or packet of crisps, but I still looked just as porky. Image counts for a lot, Louisa had said. I knew damn well she was referring to my fat body as well as the tears I’d been seen shedding. I was starting to wonder if I’d got my calorie-counting wrong. Probably. I’d never been any good at numbers. It was going to take ages for me to shift my bulk.
December, Charlie had suggested when he’d decided to push the wedding further into the future. But it was the end of July now and December was getting closer and closer. What was the betting Charlie would decide to push it on again?
After the massage, I gave Francesca a few minutes to dress and compose herself before I took her through to our nail bar to begin her manicure. I always felt a frisson of pressure when it came to manicures for brides-to-be. I knew the photographer would be sure to take lots of hand shots featuring the wedding rings, so a bodge-job on the nails was absolutely out of the question.
I put her hands to soak in a coconut milk bath for a minute or two while I consulted her on the shade she wanted. She told me she’d like a classic French manicure – always a good choice for a bride – and selected the pale pink as her colour.
‘So, tell me about your dress,’ she said, smiling across the table at me as I patted her hands dry with a towel. ‘What sort of style have you gone for?’
I bit my lip. We were face to face now, and it wasn’t so easy to fob her off with vagueness. ‘I haven’t actually bought anything yet,’ I admitted. ‘Because …’ I busied myself, putting the towel in a hamper to be washed, and arranging her hands on the padded board between us. I could feel her eyes focused curiously on me. ‘Because … well, I’m dieting at the moment,’ I said eventually, blushing. I took one of her hands and began shaping the nails, deliberately not looking her in the eye. ‘I’m hoping to lose quite a bit of weight before the wedding. So …’
‘Ahhh,’ she said sympathetically. ‘You and every other bride-to-be! I see a lot of them in my classes.’
That got my attention. ‘Your classes?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I say? I teach salsa dancing – I do evening classes in town. You should come along sometime if you’re interested – it’s great if you want to tone up, and really fun, too.’
I hesitated. The thought of shaking my fat behind in a hall full of sexy, snake-hipped dancers sounded a lot like torture to me. ‘I’m not sure I’m very coordinated,’ I said, blushing even harder.
She grinned. ‘Well, that’s where I can help.’ With her free hand, she rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a business card. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Obviously I’m going to be away for a few weeks on honeymoon, but if you fancy giving it a go, I’ll be back at the end of August. You can have your first lesson free – my little thank you for that pep talk you gave me last time. And bring your bloke along. I’m telling you – sparks fly in my classes. It can all get very hot and steamy!’
‘Thank you,’ I said. My first instinct had been Ooh, no, not for me, but when she said that about Charlie, I started to wonder. I liked the idea of us sharing a hobby that involved us actually leaving the house. We hardly ever went out together as a couple any more, and I was convinced it was because he was ashamed of being seen with me, Jessie Five-Bellies.
But we might have fun, I thought, imagining us shimmying together in a salsa class. We could even work on a routine for our first dance at the wedding! An image came into my mind of me, slender and lithe, in a scarlet, full-skirted dress, and Charlie in a sexy suit, a few shirt buttons undone, and his hair slicked back. He was whirling me around, and I was swaying, sashaying, shaking my tiny, toned booty …
I smiled at Francesca. ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘I might just do that.’
I felt quite floaty with optimism when I finished work that evening. I’d managed to put Louisa out of my head, and my mind kept turning to Francesca, wondering how she was feeling now that the hours of her last pre-wedding day were counting down, imagining the thrilling jitters of anticipation that must be racing through her. I’d been feeling a bit blue about Charlie’s and my wedding ever since he’d postponed it, but having seen Francesca so buoyant with happiness about hers meant I’d caught her mood and wa
s full of renewed optimism.
I will get married this year!
I will stick to my diet until I’m a size twelve!
I will go salsa dancing with Charlie and we’ll fall in love with each other all over again!
Being married would make everything better between us, I was convinced of it. I would be able to relax, stop worrying he was going to find someone better (someone slimmer, in other words). Because once you made those vows, you were bound together. And then we’d both live happily ever after.
Oh yes, I was in a good mood all right. Such a good mood, in fact, that when I got in I had a quick bath, then changed into some slinky underwear with just a light robe on top. I was starving but managed to resist having anything to eat, rather enjoying the empty, hollow feeling in my belly. Emptiness was good. Emptiness meant self-discipline.
I’m in the mood for love … I hummed as I switched the computer on. Then I went online and began looking up suitable places for our wedding reception. I would find us the perfect place, I vowed: romantic, intimate … and cheap as chips, with a bit of luck. No, not chips. Mustn’t think about chips.
I lost myself in the wedding websites, reading page after page of testimonials, tips and true stories. I gazed hungrily at the photos, drinking in all the details: the dresses, the flowers, the cakes … I scoured the true stories for advice, wanting to know how so many other happy brides had prepared for their weddings before me. What were their secrets?
We kept things simple by putting up a marquee in my parents’ garden, one woman had typed. Well, that was all very well if you had a whopping great big garden in the countryside, wasn’t it? For most people it was out of the question. You could hardly put a three-man tent up in my mum’s back garden, let alone a marquee for a hundred guests.
We were on a limited budget, so got married abroad – just the two of us, said another. The accompanying photos were beautiful – sunset beach shots, floral garlands around the bride and groom’s necks, both of them looking tanned and carefree as they posed in front of palm trees.
