by Eva Woods
Contemplate mortality
“Hello, I’m here to see—”
“She’s busy right now,” Annie said resignedly. She was basically Polly’s unpaid PA at the moment.
The gawkers had started showing up the day after Polly was admitted. Old friends, casual acquaintances, people she’d once done a course with or met on holiday or dated their brother. They came with grapes—Polly joked that she could start a fruit and veg shop from her room—or chocolate, or flowers, or massive cards with cartoon elephants on them clutching ice packs to bruised heads. Polly made Annie throw these in the toxic waste incinerator. “For God’s sake, I have a brain tumor, not a bump on the arm. What’s the matter with these people?” But she always saw them. Annie didn’t know why.
The most recent visitor was a very skinny middle-aged woman in a drab navy anorak, clutching a hemp bag to her chest. “Who shall I say it is?” Annie said brightly, heading her off in the corridor. Maybe after all this was over she could get a job as a receptionist. Experience—helping a very popular narcissistic friend to die.
“I’m Emily.”
“Emily...?”
“Oh, she’ll know me.” They always thought this.
“But just in case...you know, she’s very tired.”
“We used to work together, years back. I was the office manager.”
Annie shuddered, thinking of Sharon. “And did you keep in touch?”
“Oh, no. I saw her on the World Wide Web, and I said, That’s Polly! Polly the PR girl! And I wanted to bring her this.” She extracted something from her handbag—a badly printed pamphlet that read Heal Yourself with Food. Annie could smell her whiff of patchouli and sweat. “You see, there’s still time, but it has to be now.”
“Time for what?” Annie strained away.
“To go vegan. She always ate a lot of that posh stringy ham, didn’t she, drank too much, had milk in her coffee? If you show her this pamphlet, though, she can cure herself with fasting and herbs and—”
Annie pasted on a smile. “Thank you, Emily. The thing is, she’s only allowed so many visitors per day. Doctor’s orders. But I’ll make sure she gets this. Thanks now. Byeeee!”
“No, no, you have to let me see her—it’s really important. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’ll handle this, Annie. Thank you.” Valerie had appeared, paper cup of tea in hand. “What’s going on?”
Emily rushed over to clasp Valerie’s hand. “You must be her mother! There’s such a likeness. Hello, hello, I’ve come to give her some pamphlets.”
“Her has a name,” Valerie said tersely. “What sort of pamphlets?”
Emily pressed one on her. “I’ve got a cure for her cancer right here. It’s very simple. She just has to avoid meat, sugar, alcohol, gluten and all additives.”
There was a pause as Valerie read the pamphlet. “Do you actually know my daughter? Have you kept in touch?”
“Not for some years, but I heard what was happening and felt compelled to come down! I mean, it’s so easy to heal yourself without all these dreadful toxins and poisons.” She looked around at the hospital corridor with distaste. “They just keep the truth from us because of ‘big pharma.’” She did air quotes, dropping some of her leaflets.
“So let me get this straight. You, a virtual stranger, took it on yourself to come to my little girl’s hospital bed and tell her she has cancer because, what, she ate a chocolate bar once?”
“Not just that. Meat, alcohol, dairy—they all lead directly to cancer. But she can still save herself! She just has to leave hospital, come off her treatments and start intermittent fasting immediately.” Emily beamed.
Valerie took a deep breath, swelling with rage. “How...dare you? How dare you come here, to where they’re actually trying to save her life, and suggest she’s suffering like this because of...ham? Get out!”
“But—”
“No. I said go, or I’ll call security!”
Emily scarpered, uttering some decidedly non-Zen curses on her way. “Are you okay?” Annie asked Valerie, who was shaking.
“Yes. No, not really. These people just won’t leave her alone. Everyone wants something from her, thinks they can tell her what to do. It isn’t fair.”
Annie wondered if that was how Valerie saw her, too. And maybe it was true. “Can I get you anything...do you need to sit down?”
“I’m fine. I’ll just—I don’t want Polly to see me like this.” She was clutching her cup so tightly beads of beige liquid were rolling down the side and puddling on the floor. Valerie stooped to rescue the leaflets, gazing at them. “It’s really happening, isn’t it. She’s not going to be saved by massage or reiki or some amazing new cure or any of this stuff.”
“I don’t think so,” Annie said as gently as she could. It was so tempting to lie, say there might still be a last-minute miracle, but she knew there wouldn’t be.
“I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. To have some hope.”
“It doesn’t. But... I think she’s ready to face up to it now. To make the rest of her life as good as she can.”
Valerie bit her lip. “Thank you for all you do for her, Annie. Please don’t think we haven’t noticed. I know it isn’t easy.”
“It’s fine. She does more for me, far more.”
“All the same. We’re very grateful.”
Leaving her alone—she thought Valerie might need a little private cry—Annie went back in to Polly, who was looking ruefully at her latest floral tribute, an arrangement of cacti in a Hope Your Temperature Doesn’t Spike pot. “What do you think these symbolize? My spiky personality?”
“Maybe. Here.” She dropped the pamphlet on the bed. “Your mum got rid of a hippie for you, though I’m sure she’ll be back. Emily from your old work.”
Polly had to think about it. “Dear God. Vegan Emily? Saving your spirit, not your documents. She was hopeless with IT, we lost the entire server three times.”
“Don’t they realize it’s not cool to come here and hound you?” Annie dropped into the chair by the bed.
Polly shrugged. “They’re sort of thrilled by it. Terrified it might happen to them, relieved that it isn’t. It’s voyeurism, really. And if they can think of a way it might be my own fault, that makes them feel safer.”
“Why do you even see these people?”
“What else do I have to do in here? And besides, people really listen to you when you’re dying. It’s one of the perks. Who knows, maybe I’ll inspire some of them to change their lives and be happy.”
“Or maybe they’re just coming to have a gawp at your bald head.”
“Maybe.” Polly smiled. “Good job I have you here, Annie. Things might get dangerously positive otherwise, and we wouldn’t want that. What would I do without you, eh, Betty Buzzkill?”
“You’re welcome. Now, it’s time for your commode, Baldy.”
DAY 49
Support someone
“Woo! Go, Dr. Quarani! Go!” Annie jumped up and down, waving enthusiastically. She’d waited for over an hour to catch him jogging past, lean and focused. He didn’t seem to hear her, just kept pounding forward. His running gear wasn’t even sweaty. She turned the phone around so Polly could see via Skype. “That’s him.” All around them people were pressed against the marathon barriers, waving charity banners, shouting encouragement. The atmosphere was alive with positivity—Annie was worried she might even catch it. She’d brought Buster along on his lead, and he barked ferociously every time someone in costume went by. Annie hadn’t realized that being with a dog made people smile at you. It was disconcerting, but she couldn’t say it was unpleasant.
Polly was still mooning after Dr. Quarani. “He’s got such a nice bum in that Lycra.”
“Poll!”
“Well, he does. Whe
re’s Dr. McGrumpy?”
“Not sure. Oh, look, here he comes now! Woo! Go, Dr. Max!” Dr. Max was struggling up the final stretch. His face was so engorged with blood Annie wondered if he was going to burst. He was absolutely plastered in sweat, the logo of the hospital trust obscured by dark patches—despite his grumbling, he had, of course, been raising money for it all along. “Keep going!” she shouted. “You can do it!”
“I don’t think he can do it, you know. I’ll tell them to clear a bed in A&E,” Polly said, her voice coming tinnily out of the phone.
“Shh,” Annie chided. “He’s doing his best.” She waved at him as he limped on, brows knit fiercely and shoulders pumping forward.
“‘Oh, I love you, Dr. McGrumpy! I definitely won’t look up your kilt if you collapse!’”
“Shut up, Polly!”
DAY 50
Quit your job
“I’m sorry, Annie, but we do need to get the bottom of this.”
Annie’s stomach fell away. She’d been called into Jeff’s office, where Sharon was sitting at the Chat Area, an expression on her face like she was chewing a rotten sardine. Today she wore outfit three—an oversize jumper printed with pictures of puppies, and sprinkled all over with hairs from actual dogs. Annie tried not to sneeze just thinking about it. “What’s the trouble, Jeff?”
Jeff looked even more awkward. “Um. Annie. I’ve just seen an online film thing.”
Oh, no. Her stomach sank so far it was knocking about in the region of her ankles. Not the stupid Thorpe Park thing. “Oh.”
“Is that you?” Jeff spun his laptop, which had the YouTube video on it, paused on a shot of Annie, mouth open, screaming.
“It’s hard to say,” she said evasively. “It’s quite blurry.”
“I have it on good authority that it’s you. That you went there, to a theme park, when you were supposedly off sick.”
“I don’t know who that Kent fellow was what rang up,” Sharon muttered. “Sounded so nice and all.”
“But you can’t prove that’s me,” Annie said, keeping her voice light and distant.
“No. We’d have to go through an official disciplinary process, and give you a written warning. It would take months. If you’d own up, however, we could leave it with a verbal warning. Three verbal warnings equal one written warning. Two written warnings mean a hearing...”
A familiar feeling was coming over Annie. Sitting in Jeff’s office with its smell of protein shakes and Pot Noodles, being told off for not smiling enough, or being sad, or not wanting to talk about other people’s healthy babies. In short, for being human, in a place that wanted to turn her into an invoice-processing robot. It sat on her chest, the knowledge that she could never change this place, its red tape, its rules. She wouldn’t even be able to get the dead plants taken away without a health-and-safety briefing. She couldn’t face one more day of lifting up her hand to key in the door code. Not one more day. “I can’t do this,” she heard herself say.
“Own up? I must say, Annie—”
“No. All this. Jeff...Sharon...why do we do this, day after day? Come into the horrible office—your homes are nicer than this, I hope? Don’t smell of gone-off food and have dirt on the desks that hasn’t been cleaned off in four years? They must be. But we spend most of our waking hours here—more than we’re even paid for—and we don’t even like any of the people we have to work with.”
Jeff opened his mouth as if he was going to protest this, then didn’t.
Annie went on. “What’s the point? Why do we commute for hours on crammed trains, with everyone angry and miserable, and sit at a desk all day in a dirty nasty place, and eat limp sandwiches and Cup A Soups, and ignore each other, and get sciatica, and then go home and sit in front of shows about baking and dancing and other people watching TV?”
“We ain’t all made of money,” Sharon sniffed. “Some of us need the cash.”
“No, we’re not. But why do we live here in London, where we just work to pay for travel and rent on horrible damp flats on the tenth floor? And surely we can find something else to do with our lives, something that pays? You, Jeff. I know you have dreams. You want to be the big man in local government. Big salary. Move out to Surrey. Propose to one of the women at your gym, with the spray tans and boob jobs. Send your kids to private school, give them what you never had.”
He gaped. “How did you—”
“But is it worth it? Is it worth spending your thirties pretending to care about dish rotas and photocopier etiquette and who stamps a little bit of paper? Just to get a good pension one day?”
“Annie! I must ask you to stop—this is very unprofessional.”
“I know. I know it is. It’s being professional that got me in this mess in the first place.” Annie felt like she was falling, and sliding, like gravity had her and she couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Her fears were clinging to her legs, shrieking. How would she pay the mortgage? How would she look after her mum? How would she buy chocolate? But as Polly said, when you were dying, it really focused your mind. And Annie was dying, too. Maybe not in the next one hundred days, sure, but sometime, and in that context spending even one more hour in this office was too many. “I quit,” she heard herself say. “I can’t work here anymore. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. Well, it is sort of Sharon’s fault, but I guess she can’t really help it.”
Sharon gaped. “You cheeky mare!”
Jeff was blinking hard, trying to keep up. “Annie, there’s a process, there’s a notice period, and—”
“I know that. But if I walk out right now, for example, is there anything you can do?”
“But...references...your final pay...”
“I don’t care about those.” If she was going to burn her life to the ground, she may as well douse it in petrol. “So, can you stop me? If I literally just go now?”
“No, but—I mean, leaving dos! We usually get a card and a whip-round...”
“That’s kind, Jeff. But I can’t go through it, pretending we all loved each other and you’ll miss me. I need to start being more honest in my life. So...bye.”
“But...but...”
Annie stood up. “Hey, by the way, you know those redundancies you’ve been holding over our heads for months now? Getting everyone to toe the line and work extra hours and keep their mouths shut? How about you give me one of them? Oh, and you’d be mad if you let Fee go. She’s the only one who does any work about here.”
She left the room, her vision swimming, her steps wobbly. Oh, God. Oh, God. She had to speak to Polly. Polly would think it was great.
No one looked up from their desks. They all stayed slumped at their screens, playing Candy Crush or scrolling through Facebook. Annie picked up her bag and coat, and powered down her computer. She looked around for one last time—the dead yucca plant, the invoice tray with the smear of ink, the dust ingrained in her keyboard. The square foot of the earth where she’d spent most of her life for the past four years. Her hands were shaking. She picked up the sparkly pens and posh tea bags and the little hyacinth Polly had given her. She opened her mouth to say something—Bye, everyone, hope you have nice lives, hope you get out of here, too, unless you actually like it, of course—then she closed it, and quietly walked to the exit, shutting the door behind her for the very final time.
* * *
“Okay, okay, stop whooping. I still got fired.” Annie held the phone away from her ear.
“You didn’t get fired,” said Polly. “You stuck it to the man. You made a break for freedom! Annie, this is awesome news.”
“Is it? Every time I think about the rent I want to throw up.”
“Rent, schment. You’ll find something. You’ve got some savings, yes?”
“A bit.” Things did add up when you never went out or bought anything nice.
“You can do whatever you want now. Shoot for the moon, Annie! Even if you miss you’ll be among the stars.”
“You do know the stars are millions of miles farther than the moon? That saying makes no actual sense.”
“Whatever. Never mind about work now. What you need is time to think it over. Regroup. Relax.”
“Uh-huh,” Annie said suspiciously. “What’s the plan this time?”
“Scotland,” Polly said happily. “Picture the scene, Annie. Herds of Highland cattle. Majestic snowcapped hills. A wee dram of whiskey to warm your cockles...”
“Are you working for the tourist board or something?”
“We’re all going. The doctors say I’m well enough to come out now, take a treatment break, and I’m not spending any more time in Lewisham. You, me, George, Costas and Dr. McGrumpy. We’re going to stay on his mum’s farm in the Highlands.”
“But won’t it be freezing? We couldn’t go to, say, Barbados?”
“I tried. He says I can’t fly, spoilsport, and can’t be too far from the good old NHS. Anyway, it’ll be nice. There’s tons of cool things to do up there, and we can cuddle up by log fires. It’ll be great. We might even see the northern lights. I always wanted to but I’ve missed it every time. Even went to Norway, Iceland—no lights. This’ll be my time, surely.”
As if the aurora borealis themselves would show up at Polly’s summons. After all, everything else did. “Well, okay. My diary’s suddenly become very clear.”
“Great. I’ll tell McGrumpy. He’s going to drive us all up.”
Annie had a brief vision of a blazing log fire, a fur rug and Dr. Max beside her, whiskey in hand, kilt on and...
No. Dear God, what was she thinking? She couldn’t have a crush on a scruffy grumpy doctor, especially not one who held her friend’s life in his big hairy-knuckled hands.
“Oh, and pack some warm clothes,” Polly added. “You can ski, right?”
DAY 51
Plan a holiday
“Mum, I’ve got some news.”
