I can’t spend another day, a day I’ll never get back again, under the covers.
I’m going to work out whether I want to take the test or not, but either way I’m not going to let Theo’s rejection or any test result beat me.
I draw the curtains. I have no idea what the date is. I’ve lost all track of time. I’m aware James, Maddie and Granny have been in the flat most of the time, like shift workers. I feel guilty that everyone is putting their life on hold for me, that they’re trying to piece me back together again. Maddie even mentioned she’s been in touch with Natalie. They haven’t found a permanent replacement yet; my old job is still mine if I want it back.
I look down at my ring, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.
I take it off my finger.
If I have any kind of chance of moving on, the ring has to go. I’ll send it back to Theo.
Now I know exactly why Mum chose not to meet anyone else. Who would want to go through this twice?
I’m never going to let any man break my heart again.
47
Flo
It’s now September. Three weeks since I forced myself out of bed and back to life.
‘What are you doing?’ James asks, before I turn round, gasping.
‘You gave me a shock.’
James is standing in my bedroom in his black Nike shorts and T-shirt. I hadn’t even heard him come in from his run. He must have been up at the crack of dawn this morning.
His discipline makes me feel guilty. I must sign up to a gym.
‘I’m going through my stuff,’ I tell him, taking out of my suitcase all the things I’d packed for New York, including the red silk dress Theo gave to me a year after we got together. It was an anniversary present. I try not to remember the night I’d unwrapped it from its tissue-lined box, or recall the look on Theo’s face as he watched me try it on before I felt the touch of his hand as his fingers played with the back zip.
I snatch it off the hanger and chuck it into the black bin bag, along with the memory.
I wish I could stop thinking about him. When I don’t hate him, I miss him. And when I miss him, I hate both him and Graham for giving up on Mum and me so easily.
James sits down on the edge of my bed. ‘Why are you throwing that away? You could wear it to the Oscars.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You want it?’
James crosses his legs and pouts, saying ‘It’s not my colour, darling.’
I laugh, as James continues to watch me chuck more tops and dresses into the black bag at a frightening speed.
‘You’re not going to have anything left to wear at this rate, although that’s fine by me,’ he says, masking his fear of my erratic behaviour with more humour.
‘It’s time for a new start,’ I declare.
‘That’s great, but you still need clothes for that.’
‘Out with the old and in with the new; I mean, I’ve had this jumper for years,’ I exclaim, tossing it into the bag. ‘And when am I ever going to wear this again?’ I hold up a black cocktail dress with a healthy slit up one side, that I wore to one of Theo’s work events.
‘You’ll wear that again, won’t you?’
‘Theo gave it to me,’ I say, as if that’s all he needs to know.
‘Flo, are you all right?’
I sit down on my bed, suddenly exhausted by the mess I’ve made, clothes strewn across the floor.
I thought I was doing fine. Yesterday was a good day, a happy one with Granny. We walked to the cemetery to visit Mum and Granddad, and then we went to see a movie in the evening. Granny spent half of it asleep, mind you, mouth wide open and treating me to the occasional snort, before telling me at the end how much she’d enjoyed it. In the past few weeks, I’ve been feeling better, much more in control: my boss, Harriet, gave me my old job back, and I have a date to see a genetic counsellor next month.
‘What’s up?’ James persists.
I look at him, unsure how to explain. I think back to my first day in the office just over a week ago. I’m exceptionally lucky to have been given a second chance, even if my shattered plans to go to America, my break-up with Theo and the risk to my health had all been showcased in spectacular fashion to my work colleagues.
When I entered the office there was a painful silence, the kind of awkwardness you might feel on a first date, when you’re not sure whether to shake hands or kiss on the cheek.
All I could think was, Natalie, please still be nightmarishly chirpy and tell me to sod off if I ask you to make me a coffee with frothy milk. And Simon, don’t look at me with that awful sympathy in your eyes, as if my dog has just died.
Finally, Natalie gave me a hug, saying, ‘Nice to see you back on your feet, boss,’ before she’d glanced at my skirt hanging off my hips. ‘But bloody hell, you need cake,’ she added, which finally made us all relax.
When I thanked Harriet for keeping my job for me, she said, ‘I didn’t keep it for you, Flo, I just didn’t happen to find anyone else half as good,’ which was my first compliment from her in five years.
I know, despite everything, I’m fortunate. I could easily be out of work, and the one thing I need right now is security and routine, and company, and money to pay my rent. As much as I love James for not finding a new flatmate, I can’t abuse his kindness by not paying my way. Besides, my pride won’t allow it.
Look at what Mum went through. Look at how she pulled her life back together. I’m so relieved she felt this positive after taking the test.
‘You’re bound to feel restless,’ James says, bringing me back to reality.
‘I feel like I need something new,’ I confide, ‘but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.’
‘Flo, I’ve been thinking.’
‘Uh-oh.’
‘Don’t call me crazy. I wanted to mention it a while ago, but needed to pick the right moment.’
‘Go on.’
‘You should train for the marathon.’
I laugh. I must have misheard. Yet when I look at him, I realize he’s not finding it as funny as I do.
‘You said you wanted to get fit in America, right?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Why not get fit here?’
‘I meant eating less chocolate and more kale, and going to the gym a couple of times a week.’
‘Who wants to eat kale? And why join a gym when running is free?’
‘James, this is insane.’ I laugh again. ‘I’d rather miss the bus than run for it.’
‘Listen, I’m not saying it’s easy, you’d need to be tough and fit like me.’ He flexes his muscles. ‘It’s a commitment, Flo, but when you cross that finishing line—’
‘If I cross it.’
‘Flo, running is the best release for stress. It helped me through my finals, when my head was exploding from too much time cooped up indoors revising. I never thought running twenty-six miles in a rhino suit would be one of the most memorable days of my life.’
I smile. ‘But I can’t run.’
‘Everyone can run,’ he says, refusing to listen. ‘You could run for a charity. Hang on, you should do it for HD.’
‘James, this is crazy.’
‘Why? I can help you train. Seriously, Flo, this could be the perfect way for you to throw yourself into something new and do something positive while you’re trying to work out if you want to take the test or not. Running is a brilliant way to think, to put things in perspective. You’re too late for the ballot, but you could probably still grab a charity place, so long as you can raise some serious cash.’
‘I could sell some of these clothes on eBay,’ I begin to think out loud, ‘and put the money towards—’
‘Exactly.’
‘Have you got a place?’ I ask, warming up to the idea if we could run together.
‘I entered the ballot; I should know by early October.’
That’s next month.
‘You need to get on to this quickly,’ James advises. ‘It’s reall
y competitive. Believe it or not people are queuing up to run twenty-six miles. I know someone who has signed up to the ballot five years in a row and still hasn’t got a place.’
‘Wait here,’ I say to James, before rushing into the kitchen and returning with my laptop. Granny gave me some articles that Ricky had printed about research and new drugs and treatments for HD, and information on the HDA, the Huntington’s Disease Association. I haven’t read any of it yet, but maybe it’s about time I did.
I perch on my bed next to James and log on to the charity website.
I can’t believe I’m seriously considering this, although I have to admit there is something about the idea that is waking up my senses.
‘You’d really help me train?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘I can’t wait to haul you out of bed on a cold, wet day and make you run five miles with me.’
I smile at that, even if I hate the idea. But it’s better than lying in bed, worrying about my future.
‘My father ran the New York Marathon a year before I was born,’ James continues, ‘Mum called it his last run for freedom. Honestly, Flo, Dad said it was one of the most incredible moments of his life, so I knew I had to do it too. I was one of those weird kids at school who loved cross-country training more than football.’
‘That’s lovely, but you’re a natural at sport. I was the girl who finished last in every race. You really think I could do it?’
‘Well, you won’t know until you try. What have you got to lose?’
‘Nothing,’ I realize.
Nothing at all.
48
Peggy
I take the pad of paper from the person next to me, a man young enough to be my grandson, and write down my email address. He’s looking at me as if he drew the short straw, turning up late to class and finding the only free seat was next to an old, grey-haired biddy.
What am I doing here? Italian for beginners seemed such a good idea at the time.
The idea came to me after Flo announced she was running the marathon. I recalled something Ricky had said, about me not being retired from life, so I decided it was time I too had some goals.
I was writing my bucket list when Ricky knocked on my door. As we sat down to chat, I quickly shoved my pad of paper under the nearest cushion.
‘What’s that you’re hiding?’ Ricky asked, sharp as a pin.
‘Nothing,’ I said, blushing like a teenager.
‘Peggy Andrews! Are you writing a dirty novel?’ He roared with laughter.
‘If only I could. I’m glad you find yourself so amusing.’
‘Well, what is it?’
‘I took your advice.’ I retrieved my list and showed it to him.
‘Ballet,’ Ricky read. ‘Men in tights don’t do it for me, but if they rock your boat, Peggy,’ he said, clapping me on the back. ‘Bravo!’ he added when he came to my dream of learning the most romantic language in the world.
‘If you aren’t able to make a lesson,’ says Maria, our young Italian teacher, bringing me back down to earth, ‘please email me. But it helps if I have all your names and addresses so I can email you the notes from the lesson and your compiti. Homework,’ she translates.
‘Homework? We don’t have to take an exam, do we?’ I mutter, before passing the pad on.
‘First things first,’ says Maria. ‘Welcome everyone. Salve a tutti.’
‘What does that mean?’ I ask without thinking.
‘Hello everyone,’ Maria answers for me.
‘Yes, of course.’ I laugh nervously. ‘I knew that.’
Oh dear Peggy! There’s always one dud.
‘Hello. Salve,’ I repeat to no one in particular, before looking down at my hands.
‘Ciao is another way to say hello,’ Maria informs me, before addressing the whole class. ‘It’s less formal.’
She perches on the edge of her desk, exceptionally pretty, dressed in leopard print leggings and purple suede ankle boots. ‘But before we get stuck in, I thought, as an introduction, we could take turns and tell the others why we all want to learn Italian,’ Maria suggests, making English sound such a romantic language when spoken with her accent. ‘And what you hope to achieve by the end of term one. You can see the topics we’ll cover, on the sheets I’ve given you, like saying hello, travelling on public transport and going to the bar.’
‘That’s the most important,’ says the man sitting opposite me, leaning nonchalantly against his chair, arms crossed, everyone around the room agreeing.
‘Or booking a room in a hotel—’ Maria continues.
‘For a dirty weekend,’ the man adds, laughing, and to my horror winking at me, but I suppose I am in his firing line, sitting directly opposite him.
Maria gives him a look. There is always one who brings the tone down.
‘For your vacanza,’ she corrects. ‘But if there is something you specifically need to learn, now is a good time to tell me, so I can add it to the list.’
I scan the class, all of us sitting behind tables arranged to make up a square. There must be at least twelve of us, maybe sixteen, I think, nodding as I count everyone.
‘Why don’t we begin at this end,’ Maria says, thankfully choosing the end opposite mine. She looks at the pad. ‘So, Nigel, would you like to go first?’
Nigel looks as if he’s in his mid fifties and dressed for a boardroom meeting. ‘I was recently made redundant from my City firm,’ he says. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, it was a blessing in disguise because my wife and I are now looking to buy a place in Italy. It’s time for a new start.’
‘Ah, that is exciting,’ Maria says. ‘Where?’
‘Just outside of Florence. San Casciano. In Val di Pesa.’
‘Beautiful.’
Maria has to stop Nigel from showing her the numerous photographs on his iPhone, and telling her about all his plans to renovate a property and set up a bed and breakfast, and how learning Italian would help him read and understand property contracts.
I suspect he’s expecting too much from a beginners class.
‘Sarah, you next,’ Maria says. Sarah looks as if she’s in her mid sixties, with dyed blonde curly hair, glasses and a bright smile. ‘When my husband finally retires, we want to move to Florence,’ she says.
‘I have an Italian girlfriend, she can’t speak much English,’ says the next chap, ‘so it would be no bad thing for me to learn her lingo, you know,’ he says, which receives a few smiles and raised eyebrows.
‘Don’t,’ advises the man who made the comment about the dirty weekend. ‘Once you communicate that’s when it starts to go wrong, trust me,’ he advises, before realizing it’s his turn, and I think we’re all fascinated to know what this man does.
He’s rather handsome in that grubby unshaven kind of way. ‘I’m an antiques dealer,’ he says, which I sense rather disappoints everyone except me. I wonder if he enjoys Flog It!.
‘I travel round Europe and can speak Spanish and French.’ He shrugs.
‘So you have saved the best language until last,’ Maria suggests.
It’s getting closer to my turn and I’m still unsure what to say, my stomach churning at the thought of having to say anything at all.
‘I’m an art dealer,’ says the next person.
‘A chef.’
‘A writer and I’m setting my next book in Bologna.’
‘I work in TV and our next project is in Sicily.’
‘My daughter’s fiancé is Italian so I want to surprise everyone on the big day by giving a speech in Italian,’ claims Iris. ‘I haven’t told a soul I’m doing this course.’
‘Peggy?’ Maria says.
There’s nothing wrong with putting myself first once in a while, is there? I’m doing this for me, for Peggy. Not for Tim, not for Beth or even Flo, but for me.
‘Peggy?’
The room hushes, everyone looking at me expectantly.
‘I need to get out of the house more,’ is all I end up saying, which to my absolu
te astonishment receives the best laughter of all.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ says the writer. ‘I stare all day long at my screen, and it’s not good for my eyes.’
‘Being cooped up in editing studios isn’t good for the soul either,’ says the TV man.
‘My wife is delighted I’m out of the house,’ admits another, ‘and not hanging around asking what’s for lunch.’
But Maria is looking at me, as if waiting for something extra.
‘Peggy,’ she says once more, this time her tone gently challenging, and I’m twisting my wedding ring round and round my finger. I’ve never enjoyed the limelight; that was always Tim’s place, a place he actively sought. At school I used to dread the teacher asking me to come to the front of the class to read out loud.
‘Well, it’s a beautiful language, something I’ve always wanted to do,’ I say, disappointed with giving such a bland response, though Maria, sensing my discomfort moves on to the next and final person.
‘And it’s never too late,’ I say, before the young man has had a chance to give his reason.
Maria encourages me to go on.
‘Life is short,’ I continue, the room deadly quiet, ‘but it’s never too late to start living again.’
‘Respect, Peggy,’ says the man next to me, holding up his hand towards me to do a high five, something I’ve never done before in my entire life either, but it’s never too late to start.
49
Flo
I watch James walk towards the reception desk with a woman in her seventies, carrying a slate-grey cat in a cage. ‘Flo,’ he says with surprise when he sees me sitting in the waiting room. ‘What are you doing here?’
I hold up a form. ‘It came today.’
‘Hang on,’ he says to me, before placing the cage on the desk and helping the woman settle her extortionate bill. I still don’t understand why James is so broke.
‘Lovely to see you, Mrs Rogers, and Smokey,’ he says, before gesturing to me to follow him into his office. He closes the door behind us and takes the form.
‘Huntington’s Disease Association, Virgin Money London Marathon, Sunday 22 April 2018 Gold Bond Application Form,’ he reads out. ‘That’s great, Flo.’
If You Were Here Page 16
