by Daisy Tate
‘Why she came back. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to work it out. I just thought: typical Izz. Finally settled, running a great business, then poof! Blows it all to smithereens for a diddy cottage in Wales. I thought she had some weird “face her demons” from her mum’s death thing going on, but it was to find a family for Luna, wasn’t it?’
Charlotte tucked her quadruple-folded serviette between her saucer and cup. ‘And as far as you know, she’s not been in touch with the father? What was his name again?’
‘Alfred,’ Emily supplied then shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know. Residency – that’s what they call it now.’ She flashed them all the charity brochure that Cheery Oncologist Woman had given them. ‘I presume residency would automatically go to him if Izzy hadn’t made a call. So, she made a call.’
‘Are you up for it, Emms?’ Freya asked.
‘No.’ If any situation begged for honesty, it was this one. ‘But I’ll make sure I am when – if – the time comes. Which it won’t.’
No one dared disagree with her.
She glanced up as the train timetable updated again. ‘Sorry, ladies. There’s my platform. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’ve got to fix a knee.’
Charlotte and Freya exchanged a look.
‘I know, I know. But it’s not like I’m adopting her today.’
They rose and gave each other quick hugs. Emily made a gesture she hoped they understood meant she’d text them and see them soon and hopefully none of what they had just discussed would come to pass. She crossed her fingers the entire train journey home.
Freya tiptoed up to the edge of Izzy’s hospital room and peeped in the window. She was watching a surfing film from the looks of things. The one where the girl’s arm was bitten off by a shark. Freya was about to march in and switch it off, then reminded herself that triumph over adversity was the name of the game, so … who cared if Izzy had been watching it over and over and over.
She tapped on the doorframe then walked in with a bright smile. ‘You’re looking good, woman! I thought you’d be all bleuuurgh … after last week.’
The second week’s protocol had really sucked the beans out of Izzy. To the point she’d only done FaceTimes with Luna, asked Freya not to come in at all and slept during both of Charlotte’s visits.
Izzy smiled from her mound of pillows. Her hair positively eclipsed her thin face, but, if Freya wasn’t mistaken, that little Izzy glow was back. ‘Must’ve turned a corner.’ She held out a bunch of grapes.
Freya did an automatic food-miles calculation, then forced herself to set a ‘principles exclusion zone’ outside Izzy’s hospital door. If she was well enough to eat grapes after everything she’d been through, it didn’t matter if they’d been grown on the moon.
She took the fruit then plopped down on the vinyl chair Charlotte had covered with a soft polka-dotted throw. Even if Freya did say so herself, the room looked much better with the smattering of her handmade cushions round the place. Her favourite featured a cow in a hammock drinking a martini. She daren’t tell Charlotte it had been inspired by Lady V.
She ate a grape as she inspected the opulent fruit bowl. There were some pukka-looking muffins in it as well. ‘Blimey. I didn’t think the NHS research budget stretched to muffins.’
‘It doesn’t,’ Izzy gave the fruit a loving pat. ‘Emily sent it.’
Creep.
Sweet creep.
Emily had morphed into a different human over the past few weeks. Always on their WhatsApp group. Coming down to Bristol every chance she got. Forwarding joke emails. Whatever next?
‘She’s probably spiked everything with steroids.’ Izzy grinned. ‘Anything to get me out of here so she can go back to being Grumpy Emms.’ She put a grape to her lips then pretended to be getting electrocuted by it. This struck Izzy as hilariously funny. So funny her whole body began jiggling away until, too soon, she lost her steam.
Poor Izz. The treatment had clearly taken it out of her. Her spirits, however, remained unflagging. The Netflix subscription, smuggled in soups, teas, tonics and aromatherapy oils all helped, but it was beginning to look like the cutting-edge medicine did too. Scan after scan confirmed it. Izzy’s tumours were finally shrinking.
‘Is Emms coming down again this weekend?’
‘Nope. She’s coming Thursday and Friday. Said she had something on this weekend and Looney wanted to go surfing anyway, so that’s the plan.’ Izzy plucked another grape from the basket and began to pick at it. ‘She and Looney are going to the planetarium after fancy school camp.’
Freya was about to say it sounded like just the sort of outing Felix would love, then remembered that their Vow of Poverty prohibited those types of extravagances. She’d take him up to the spire tonight. See if they could do some star-spotting from there.
‘How’re we doing today, Miss Izzy?’ A nurse with a thick Jamaican accent rapped on the side of the door. ‘Time for your daily weigh-in, missus.’
Freya didn’t miss Izzy pocketing something from her side table as she slid out of bed.
While she was gone, Freya popped the grapes back into the fruit bowl and examined Izzy’s ever-increasing wall decor. Apart from her DNA maps (courtesy of the hospital), there were posters of Hawaii, a huge collage of Luna pictures (courtesy of Luna and the fancy school-camp art department), and a startlingly beautiful, framed picture of Izzy’s mum. She was giving a poetry reading from the looks of things. Though it was, obviously, just a photo, Theodora oozed vitality. Izzy was very much her mother’s daughter.
‘That’s me done.’ Izzy accepted Freya’s assistance as she crawled back into bed. Once the nurse left the room, Izzy slipped her hand into her pocket and revealed a fistful of crystals.
‘What are those for?’
‘The weigh-in.’ Izzy’s eyes glittered with mischief.
‘For good luck?’
Izzy scoffed. ‘Derrrr. To weigh more.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
Izzy gave Freya the sort of look you’d give a simple, but well-intentioned child. ‘If I don’t weigh enough they won’t give me the treatment. If I don’t get the treatment, I don’t get to live. And this week? I don’t weigh enough.’
‘But … isn’t that risky? With the medicine being dependent on your real weight?’
‘Not if I want to live to see my daughter become a grown woman, it isn’t.’ Her twinkly smile spoke volumes. She was going to beat this thing.
‘Two more weeks. You can do it.’ Freya picked the grapes up again and popped one in her mouth. If whatever was in these things helped Izzy surmount the mountains she’d had to climb, she wanted in on it too.
Once she’d handed Oli his coffee and sat down, Charlotte looked down at her bare left hand, a slight indentation still visible on the finger where her wedding ring had once lived. She gave it a rub, willing it – and Oliver – to go away. The children would be home soon and she certainly didn’t want them seeing him. Not like this.
Red-eyed. A bit of a paunch she was quite sure Xanthe wouldn’t approve of (#gymmumforever). That thick blond hair of his was a bit thinner than it had once been. In fact, he looked so out place in her bright, cheery kitchen, it was almost like sitting with a stranger. And, in a way, this Oliver was. She’d never seen him cry before. Not even tears of joy at the birth of his children. There had been the one time when England did so well at the rugby, but there had been quite a lot of alcohol involved, so …
‘You won’t even consider having me back?’
Before she could say no for a third time, he launched into a fresh PR campaign. He was a changed man. He’d always loved her, just been weak. Dazzled by Xanthe and all of that … he struggled to find the right word and settled for … youth. Xanthe couldn’t do things the same brilliant way Charlotte could. He appreciated it now. All the work it must’ve taken to make their home so beautiful. Raise children without a fuss. Cook. God, he missed her cottage pie.
He’d move to Bristol i
f that was what she wanted. The commute wasn’t too bad. Plenty of people did it. With his support, she could travel more with that new job of hers. Marketing was it? Visual Merchandizing. Yes, of course it was. He knew that because he’d had one of his mates look into the company’s development deal and it had all been very sound.
She’d had a bit of a twinge at this. It was the most protective thing Oli had ever done for her. Perhaps he had turned a corner.
He’d love to move in together, but if she wanted him to live in a flat until she adjusted to having him back in her life again, that would be fine, too. If she’d have him. Which he sincerely hoped she would. Please. Please, Charlotte. Please take me back.
A text pinged in. Despite her ex-husband’s impassioned entreaty to relight the fires of their defunct marriage, she pulled the phone across and peered at it.
Rocco.
No words, just a picture of a pasture thick with buttercups. He did that sometimes. Took a photo of something he thought would tickle her fancy and sent it.
‘Could you put the phone down, Charlotte? I’m fucking baring my heart here.’ Oli slapped the table so hard that her coffee swooped up and over the edge of her cup. He went on to detail how difficult it had been for him to wangle the free time to get to Bristol. The lies he’d had to tell Xanthe. The chavs he’d had to endure in the train carriage. The work he definitely wouldn’t be catching up on, all because he was effing trying to effing change his effing life here. Couldn’t she see that? The sacrifices he’d made?
There he was. The Oliver she knew.
No, she didn’t want that life. Didn’t want that life at all.
‘I’m afraid I’ve got a call to make.’ She held up the phone. ‘Business. I’m so sorry, Oliver. For everything.’
He understood what she was saying.
A very firm and a very resolute, no thank you.
FROM: Charlotte Bunce
TO: Rocco Burns
Dear Rocco,
How lovely to receive a ‘proper’ email from you again. Please don’t worry about not getting to a computer with any sort of regularity. I know how busy you are.
I’m so pleased you were able to put my tips for the shop to use. I’m still in awe that you already have someone working there full time. Just an idea, but perhaps some autumn-themed butters would be a good idea. Are you able to get your hands on some rosemary or garlic? It could be easily marketed as something savoury to lavish on your ‘tatties.’ (!!!) Look at me, pretending I’m au fait with the lingo up there. Speaking of which, your email had me in absolute stitches. I never realized someone could sound so Scottish in print. Your passion for ‘auld Scots’ makes me want to dredge up the Yorkshire terminology I regretfully ironed out of my own vocabulary. Did you know ‘nithered’ means very cold? Heaven knows why I’m thinking of that in the middle of summer!
Yes, you are absolutely right. I had heard of a clootie dumpling as I do enjoy my cooking magazines, but I had never heard of ‘baffies’ for slippers. I won’t be able to get that out of my head now!
Freya did mention your plans for coming ‘down the road’. They will be so grateful to have an extra pair of hands when they put in the kitchen. As they say, every little helps.
You are, of course, very welcome to use the guest room here at the vicarage. Poppy and Jack’s father is being rather tricky at present, so having positive male role models in their lives is always rewarding. I do hope this is not too presumptuous … but, at present, my focus is very much on my children.
Anyway. We’re all over the moon as Izzy’s treatment seems to be coming along as hoped. All things being well, she will be home by the time you come down. As will Luna, who has been enjoying surf camp in Devon on alternate weekends. She goes down on the train herself, pops a camera on the end of her surfboard and just paddles out to sea. That girl is built of bravery! If you’re happy with it, we’ll do meals with Freya and her mob when you’re here. I wonder if you are a fan of Moroccan food. I’ve got a wonderful new recipe for a chicken tagine.
Forgive me for wittering on. I must wrap up and help Jack. We’re struggling to find a college round here that suits him. He claims to prefer animals to humans right now, so are currently looking into agricultural colleges. You made quite the impression over the holidays, so perhaps you could advise him on farming life? My little boy is a towering six-foot-something sixteen year old! Imagine.
Oh, I nearly forgot. That was so thoughtful of you to send the Vettriano painting down to Freya. She’s hung it pride of place in their temporary kitchen (although that might have changed as everything is moving along at quite a pace. I’ve never seen Monty work with such drive!)
All the very best and with warmest regards,
Charlotte
‘… and here we have your DNA map.’ Stern Oncologist circled a long line of gobbledy-gook then tapped it with his pen. ‘This is the change we’re hoping to see.’
Izzy stared at the X-rays and the accompanying paperwork. For some reason, she preferred Stern Oncologist to Cheery Oncologist for this sort of thing. Hearing about her body’s abnormal cell function didn’t seem right coming out of a smiley face.
‘So, does this mean we’re done? I can pack up and never come back?’
‘No. Not even close.’
‘Why don’t you sugar-coat it for me, doc?’
Stern Oncologist gave her a confused look. He didn’t do japey humour. He did facts.
Fair enough.
He grabbed a clean sheet of paper and began to make a list. She was looking at another good six months to a year of treatment. A mastectomy still wasn’t out of the question. He wasn’t convinced she was strong enough for surgery at this juncture. She needed to bear in mind her body had little to no resilience. There was the winter to get through, pneumonia (should she catch it) to survive, strokes not to have, heart attacks to avoid. He’d lost more patients at this juncture than he’d saved. Just to keep her expectations realistic.
As if weeks of vomiting, shaking, weight loss, nail loss, hallucinations and bone-crushing fatigue weren’t little-bitty giveaways.
Bless.
‘Right then, doc. I guess I’d better make some phone calls.’
‘Auntie Emily?’
Emily looked at her handset again. What was Luna doing on Izzy’s phone? ‘Hey, Loons. Everything all right?’
She doubted it. It was the middle of the night. Well. Ten o’clock. Her eyes shifted from the bedside clock to the bottom of the curtains.
Light.
Hmmmm. Maybe it was the other ten o’clock. Blimey.
‘Who’s on the phone?’
Emily covered the handset. ‘Looney.’
‘Tooney?’ Tansy nodded sleepily then gave Emily’s shoulder a little stroke and pat.
Emily slipped out of the covers, pulled a throw off the end of the bed, wrapped it round herself and padded into the lounge. ‘What’s up Loons?’
‘Ummm … could you come out today?’
‘Sure. Of course.’ She couldn’t. Not right this instant anyway. Or could she? She wasn’t really au fait with the rules as regards leaving one’s relatively new, long-distance lover in bed to fend for herself. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Ummm … Sort of. It’s Mommy.’
Emily’s heart leapt to her throat. ‘Tell me.’
When Luna finished, it took her about ten seconds to pull on a pair of yoga pants, a hoodie and order an Uber.
‘Bristol bound?’ Tansy showed no signs of getting up.
‘Yup.’ Emily frowned at her. ‘You okay to see yourself out?’
‘Ab-so-bloody-lutely okay,’ Tansy smiled and gave her a jaunty little salute.
Emily grabbed her keys off the chest of drawers ‘Do you mind asking my parents to lock up after you leave?’
‘No probs.’
They’d met Tansy a couple of weeks ago. Had caught the pair of them sneaking out of the flat as her parents headed off to Zumba Gold. They’d had dim sum and seemed to like her. Emily
hoped they weren’t going to get all happy families in her absence. Tansy was lovely, but from what Emily could gather, she was also a bit of a directionless slut.
All of which was neither here nor there. She needed to get to Bristol. A quick wave goodbye and she was out the door.
‘Do you know what this is about?’ Freya, who was convinced Emily always had advance notice for everything, was waiting outside the hospital. She’d downed two cups of awful canteen coffee while she’d been waiting, so was a bit hyped up and hoping for a bit of advance information. Especially if the news was bad.
‘Clueless.’ Emily did actually look clueless. ‘Luna said Izzy had big news and that she wanted to tell us when we were all together. Wouldn’t say what it was.’
Charlotte ran across from the car park to join them. ‘Sorry, girls. Poppy forgot her flute. She’s got one final tutorial at camp and wants to make sure she starts at the new school with a bang … a trill?’ She dismissed her inability to pin down the best descriptor with a flick of her fingers. ‘Any idea why Izzy called us all here?’
‘No idea.’ Freya spied Luna coming out of the double doors leading into the hospital. She didn’t look devastated. Which was good. She did look a bit … overwhelmed? Whether it was good or bad remained to be seen.
‘Hey, there Loons. Everything all right?’
Luna gave them all half-hugs, doing a rather elaborate ‘My Lips Are Sealed’ mime as she led them all to the lifts.
A hush surrounded them as they shot one another hopeful half-smiles. Charlotte held up a pair of crossed fingers. Freya hoped she was right. There was no way Izzy would use Luna as a foil to tell them the treatment had failed. Especially now, a mere two days before she was due to come home.
The lift ride felt interminable. When they arrived on her floor, they silently followed in Luna’s wake.
When they arrived at the correct door, Luna pushed it open with a flourish and there was Izzy. Hair all big and gorgeously wild. A fetching maxi-dress disguising just how thin she was. There were still shadows under her eyes, but the flush in her cheeks wasn’t from a make-up brush.