by Daisy Tate
Emily felt as though she was in a Louis Theroux documentary: ‘The Secret Lives of Chinese Parents’.
‘So, ummm, anyway … I guess we’re all caught up with the lesbian thing, then?’ Emily reached for her ponytail and, too late, remembered it wasn’t there.
‘Yea. Okay, fine. You ready to play mah-jong with your mother?’ Her mother looked across at her and smiled.
Yes. Yes she was.
Freya glanced up at the Vettriano painting and promptly tripped over a box of pans.
‘Careful mum!’ Regan held her hands out to catch the cake, although she was nowhere near enough to help. Living in a building site had a way of turning even the simplest of journeys into an obstacle course.
‘I’ve got it. We’re fine.’ They were as well.
When Rocco had sent the painting down ‘to get rid of some of the clutter in the attic’, she’d not been under any illusion as to why he’d sent it. He’d done it so she could get the money. It certainly hadn’t been so that she could have a daily reminder that her mother could have chosen another life. Now that it had been hanging there for a couple of weeks, she had a new interpretation of the painting. Life was full of options. There would always be other men. Other careers. Other roads to follow. It was what you made of the path you chose that mattered most. And, of course, whether or not you decided to stay on it.
‘What’s good?’ Monty reached up to take off the tie Felix had wrapped over his eyes.
‘No you don’t!’ Felix cupped his hands over Monty’s eyes, even though he hadn’t taken off the tie. ‘You ready, Mum?’
She was. The cake, on the other hand, was a bit of a shambles. Not a patch on what Charlotte would’ve whipped up, but she was at the cinema with the kids. Izzy and Luna were due back later and Emily was rocking into town tonight if the WhatsApp message was anything to go by, so, this was the cake they had. As long as it tasted good, she told herself. That’s what counted here.
At least Monty had been so distracted by getting the television aerial up in the choir loft that he hadn’t noticed she and Regan had been making it. Felix really could do ‘tragic son being denied his television rights’ when called upon to be a decoy.
Regan lit one candle, then the rest. ‘Ready?’ she whispered, even though Monty wasn’t more than a metre from them. The piece of ply straddling two workbenches that served as their table was diagonally opposite their vestry-based corner kitchen. It comprised a microwave, their bashed-up Coleman camp stove, a kettle and a sink big enough for cleansing a pair of hands preparing to do the lord’s work and not much more.
Suffice it to say, the lord’s architect hadn’t envisioned a family of four eating three meals a day in this room, but needs must, and all that. The basement café kitchen had already been gutted, so it was make do or give up the ghost.
This family wasn’t planning on giving up the ghost, holy or otherwise, any time soon.
‘All right, here we go. One … two … three!’ Felix tugged off the tie blindfold and they all began singing.
‘Happy Father’s Day to you! Happy Father’s Day to You!!! Happy Faaather’s Day dear daaa-dyyy! Happy Father’s Day to you!’
Monty looked beside himself with joy. He loved being the centre of attention. The cake was lopsided and the butter icing had already started separating under the heat of the candles Regan had weighted it with, but he looked as though they’d just handed him the keys to a gold-plated Ferrari.
‘You nutters!’ And by nutters he obviously meant the loves of his life. ‘It’s not even Father’s Day.’
‘Yeah, we know,’ Freya smiled sheepishly. ‘We thought things went a bit pants on the real one.’
More than pants. He’d come into London to stay the weekend. Everyone had been excited and a bit hypersensitive as it was the first weekend the For Sale sign had gone up outside their house. They’d had a fight when he’d found out the reason they had enough money to go out for dinner was because Freya had put his brew kit on eBay. Monty had stormed off in a cloud of ‘I thought we were being honest about everything’ and taken the train back to Bristol. Freya had stomped off to the shed and made some designs that she ended up hating. The children had unearthed a pizza from the freezer and eaten that instead of going to the gastro-pub on the river that Monty loved as they had planned. It was meant to be his ‘farewell to London’ tour.
Now Monty said: ‘It’s perfect. I love it. Help me?’ He pointed at the candles.
They all leant in and, after a swift one-two-three, they all made wishes and blew.
After the children had gone to bed in the side chapels they’d partitioned off (Felix, who didn’t care about daylight, in the north-facing transept, and Regan, their early bird, in the south), Monty and Freya collapsed onto the sofa which they’d plonked where the altar had once stood.
‘Oh, this is nice,’ Monty sighed, stretching out so that his head was in her lap.
Freya curled down and pressed a light kiss onto Monty’s forehead. He tasted like sawdust and buttercream. Good thing she liked it, because that would be his man scent for the foreseeable future.
‘It is nice.’ She ran her fingers through his hair and felt that old familiar flutter of frisson tickle through her. ‘You’re nice.’
Monty twisted round and pushed himself up onto his elbow at her change of tone. ‘You’re nice, too.’
Monty had The Look on. The one she hadn’t seen in a while. Months, if she was being honest. And, as honesty was the new black: ‘Wanna play nice with me?’
Monty jigged his eyebrows up and down. ‘Definitely.’
Monty climbed over the back of the sofa and did a slut-drop to the bottom zip of their orange tent. She loved their tent. It was old and barely held the weather at bay, but it held a thousand good memories. And, unlike their London home, it was entirely paid for.
Monty did his best Magic Mike bum gyration as he pulled the zip open and flipped the tent door up and over the roof. They hadn’t bothered with the waterproofing. They wouldn’t need it. Not yet anyway.
‘Your boudoir awaits, madame.’ He held his hand out so that she could walk up and over the back of the sofa and straight into his arms. Laughing, she willingly did.
Izzy clonked her head on the sterile hospital mini desk.
So many forms. So many forms! Somanyforms.
How was she supposed to concentrate on getting better if everything was written in acronyms?
HRA, REC, MHRA, CTA, R&D, SSA, and the list went on.
FFS.
She was beginning to lack charm. At least she’d made the very wise move to have a meal with Luna, Charlotte & Co last night and then ‘business as usual’ this morning. Long goodbyes were her kryptonite. So were hospitals. Just one hour in and the ward already felt like a prison. A slightly unfair assessment considering she was completely free to leave, but even so …better out than in.
‘C’mon woman.’ Emily tapped the stack of papers. ‘Sign your life away.’
‘Emms!’ Jesus. It wasn’t like actual death was on the line or anything.
‘Soz.’ Emily pushed the papers towards her. ‘It works on hip and knee patients.’
‘Not so much with cancer patients.’ Izzy gave her a half-hearted poke as she slumped in the squeaky vinyl chair. She’d felt so full of energy at the weekend. The best she’d felt since Sussex chemo. When anyone asked how she was feeling about the treatment, she was all ‘Rarin’ to go!’ or ‘Can’t wait!’
Now that she was here? Not so much.
When Emily put the next form in front of her, one line blurred into the next, apart from the big X she’d put where Izzy needed to confirm that yes, filling her body full of drugs was perfectly fine and no, she wouldn’t sue them if it all went wrong.
As Emily read through the next form, highlighting little bits, circling others, Izzy’s thoughts drifted back to the beach.
She and Luna had never stayed in a geodome before. They’d stayed awake late, sworn to each other they’d seen shoot
ing stars even when they hadn’t, but you couldn’t make wishes on ordinary stars, so … She’d done little beyond sitting on the beach, enjoying the campfire, talking nonsense about surfing. Mostly she’d watched Looney, prancing about in her cute little wetsuit, dazzling the other children with her boogie-board moves. Izzy’s very own shooting star. And yes, she’d made a wish. Just the one.
Emily tapped the paperwork again. ‘C’mon, woman. As your newly appointed next of kin, I’m happy to help you go through all this, but –’ she tapped her watch – ‘Mrs Hitchin’s knee wants replacing. My train’s in two hours.’
‘Show me the card.’ Izzy knew she was wasting time, but … she was building up to a question she should have asked the minute she’d arrived back in the UK. Before, even.
Emily indulged her by flipping the card out of her purse like a secret agent.
There it was:
Emily Cheung: Next of kin.
She narrowed her eyes and pictured another line: Emily Cheung: Adoptive mother.
She lifted her gaze to Emily, her exacting features taut with concentration as she pocketed the card and got back to highlighting and circling. Izzy poked her again, trying to elicit a smile. Emily slapped her hand away without looking.
What if Emily was a shit mum? She didn’t want Luna being slapped away if she was trying to have a bit of fun.
And then the tsunami of doubts and concerns that had kept her from asking Emily that all-important question clotted her throat.
There’s always Alfred.
She’d googled him again last night after Emily faked being asleep. Alf was married, as suspected. At least she presumed he was. If the Family Business website was anything to go by, he had two children. A boy and a girl. Young. Lots of sun-bleached blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. His. She knew that because she stared into a pair of them every morning she woke her daughter up.
Yachts. His family business. Very posh and very expensive yachts. The wife was never in the photos. The grandparents were. And great-grandparents. Which was a good sign for Luna. Longevity clearly wasn’t a Yeats thing. Not yet, anyway.
Would Alf’s wife mind adding a mixed-race, half-grown addition to her flock? She’d scrolled and scrolled to find a photo of the wife, but hadn’t succeeded. Izzy had concluded that she was either camera shy or the one who took the photos. They were good. Arty. And in Denmark. Would Luna be happy eating breakfast pastries and herring for the rest of her life?
Not a factor if she grew a pair and asked Emily to adopt her.
She could always not die.
That was a good option.
A shrill bell rang somewhere in the ward. A flurry of running feet and rolling carts followed in its wake. The universe, no doubt, tapping her on the shoulder to remind her of her mortality.
‘You should move to Bristol like the rest of us.’ Izzy nudged Emily with her flip-flop.
‘Pah! Yeah right.’ Emily tapped another X and Izzy signed it without looking. Emily looked at the clock again. Why did she have to go so soon, Izzy silently whined. They had Big Stuff to talk about.
Emily tapped again. ‘C’mon. Hurry up.’
Izzy would ask next time. When she was looking more wan and feeble. Emily could never say no to her when she was weak and frail.
Cheery Oncologist – much more charming/informative/helpful than Stern Oncologist – stuck her head inside the door. ‘How’re we getting on in here?’
‘Great!’ Izzy crowed a bit too enthusiastically.
‘Any questions with the paperwork I can help with?’
‘Nope.’ Izzy started scribbling her name on the bottom of the remaining sheets.
‘I have one.’
Izzy glared at Emily. Hadn’t she expressly told her to dial back the ‘I’m also a doctor therefore totally qualified to ask irritating questions’ thing?
‘Go on,’ said the doctor.
‘I can’t see anything in here regarding what we do for Luna if, you know …’ Emily tapped her pen on the stack of paperwork, as if to garner strength from all the facts lying within. ‘What I mean is, is there anything we – and by we I mean Izzy … Is there anything Izzy needs to sign regarding what to do with Luna if anything should happen to her.’
Cheery Oncologist’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh. Gosh. I was under the impression that had already been addressed.’
Izzy panic-laughed. This was definitely not the way she’d planned on asking Emily to care for her daughter if she sparked it. She patted Emily on the head as if she were an adorable schoolgirl. ‘It’s cool. She’s joking. Emily’s in charge of everything. Aren’t you, Emms?’
She’d clear everything with her later. This was just an unfortunate blip.
Until she saw the blood drain from Emily’s face, Izzy hadn’t taken on board just how much she’d presumed. What a huge thing it was to ask someone to care for your child if you died.
‘Ummm …’ Emily looked down at the forms.
Izzy’s entire body began to vibrate with a year’s worth of fear. A decade’s, if she were being honest.
When Emily finally met her eye, she saw a reflection of her own terror.
Izzy might actually die.
Luna might become an orphan.
And she’d done nothing to ensure her daughter would be safe and cared for if anything went wrong.
The doctor gave the door a light pat and the pair of them a bright smile. ‘I’m pretty sure there are a couple of charities that help in these sorts of situations. I’ll see if I can rustle up some brochures. Give you two a few more minutes to talk.’
Chapter 5
Emily glanced up at the station clock. If Freya hurried she just might make it. Mrs Hitchin’s hip had a lot to answer for.
Charlotte absently poured milk into her tea, blew some of the steam away, then put the cup down. Far too hot.
She looked as thunderstruck as Emily felt. ‘And you’re sure you want to do this?’
Seriously?
The only thing Emily was sure of was that she’d gone completely mad, but what else was she meant to have said? Nope. Don’t want her. Find someone else to care for your orphaned daughter.
‘Luna and I get along.’
‘We know you get along. That’s not the …’ Charlotte paused while an announcement about train delays to Cardiff boomed through the station. When it finished she adopted a new tack. ‘Whatever Izzy wants is obviously the right path to choose.’
There were a lot of things Emily could say in response but reading between the lines was pretty easy on this one. Liking a child was one thing. Raising one was an entirely different kettle of fish. Mahi Mahi and Bigeye Tuna in Luna’s case.
Emily scrubbed her fingers into her scalp. Leaving Izzy behind all tearful and anxious was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. ‘Look. All of this is completely hypothetical. Luna only needs a guardian if Izzy isn’t … you know … alive.’
Charlotte blinked rapidly as she attempted to take another sip of her murky train station tea. It looked like something out of 1984. In fact, everything was taking on a surreal tint now that Emily had agreed to adopt a ten-year-old child if her best friend died.
‘Have you done anything legally binding?’
‘Nope.’ It was all she could do to get Izzy peeled off the floor once Cheery Oncologist had left the room, let alone google how to do a custody hand-over. ‘We wrote it on a Post-it.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘We did.’ Emily showed her the Post-it then tucked it back into her bag alongside Tansy’s number. Which of the two would be used first?
‘And you think this treatment is the best there is on offer?’
‘As far as I know it is, but …’ Oh fuckety, fuck monsters. Nothing was foolproof. Emily held her hands up in the surrender position. ‘Nothing’s guaranteed. She might live. She might die.’
There. She’d said it.
The words hovered over her, then crashed back down, dislodging her heart as they did. Her very best friend i
n the world – the one she’d had her first proper crush on, her first hangover with, her first laugh until you throw up in your mouth a little with – had, on her suggestion, walked into hospital today and could very likely not walk out again.
Mercifully, Charlotte didn’t try to comfort her. There were no placating turns of phrase to change the fact that Izzy was being eaten alive by cancer.
Charlotte slipped a pile of serviettes between Emily’s elbows as she pressed her thumbs into her eyes trying to stem the tears.
When she collected herself, Emily briskly patted the table, pretended she didn’t look like a red-eyed demon and announced, ‘It’s all academic anyway. Izzy will be fine and who will or won’t look after Luna irrelevant.’
‘Sorry, sorry …’ Freya rushed in and collapsed into a seat at their corner table, not bothering with the requisite cheek kisses or hugs. ‘I know your train leaves soon, Emms. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Izzy wants Emily to have legal custody of Luna if …’ Charlotte’s voice cracked as she, too, tried to put words to their shared fear. ‘… if the treatment isn’t successful.’
‘I think she wants all of us to have custody,’ Emily corrected. Hoped? ‘I mean, there has to be one person who sorts out the logistics, but you two are totally going to help. Aren’t you?’
Freya gave a vague nod, still trying to catch up.
Charlotte pointed out the obvious. ‘It will be tricky with you in London.’
‘Sure. Of course.’ Emily tried to imagine sitting her parents down at the mah-jong table for this one. Remember that thing about never having a grandchild? Well … surprise!
‘I would’ve thought she’d have had something in place from the first time,’ Freya said.
‘This is Izzy we’re talking about.’ There was no need for Emily to elaborate. Izzy’s modus operandi had and always would be: deal with it when it happens.
Well, it was happening. Big time.
Freya took a sip of Charlotte’s tea, made a face, then started teasing a serviette into slender strips. ‘It makes sense now.’
‘What does?’ Charlotte began folding her own serviette into smaller and smaller squares.