‘I love you more.’ It’s something I used to say to her as a child.
We sit for a few minutes with our arms around one another.
‘Your bottom must be getting numb,’ I say eventually.
‘And I think I left the front door wide open.’
And then we turn to one another and laugh. We sit on the bonnet of my car and we can’t stop laughing, especially when we see our confused ginger-haired traffic warden coming towards us again.
41
I offer Jake some popcorn.
When he says no, I say, ‘Are you OK?’ It’s a question I wish I hadn’t asked him when I know he can’t possibly be all right. Lucy has just lost their baby. She had a miscarriage at twelve weeks.
‘Not really, Leech.’
He stares ahead, fighting the tears.
‘It’s worse for Lucy,’ he continues, as if his feelings should be cast aside. ‘And then you only have to turn on the news to see the Twin Towers being blown up. Think of all those thousands of innocent people who have died. Those families who have lost sons, daughters, sisters, husbands. I mean, what we’ve been through—’
‘You don’t have to be brave, not in front of me.’
‘It’s worse for Lucy,’ he repeats.
But it’s still happened to you. It was your unborn child too.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I whisper, realising neither one of us is in the mood for a horror film. There’s enough of it going on in real life right now. Every moment of the day our television screens remind us of the atrocity of 9/11.
Jake and I walk to our usual Italian place, just round the corner from Mum and Dad’s.
‘People have miscarriages all the time . . .’ Jake says over supper.
‘Stop this stupid brave act,’ I insist. ‘You’re talking to me.’
‘I feel guilty,’ he admits at last, pushing aside his bowl of pasta. ‘Downloading this on you when I know how much you’d give to have a child. Lucy and I can try again . . .’
‘Jake, however much I’d love to be a mum, maybe one day I will be, this is about you.’
He nods. ‘Sure. OK, it was fucking awful, Alice.’ He presses his head into his hands. ‘I can’t imagine what it must have felt like for Lucy, carrying around our child, bonding with our little person, and then it’s gone. One moment we’re painting the nursery, the next . . . We were so sure we were safe at twelve weeks.’ He looks at me, tearful as he says, ‘I was getting used to the idea of being a dad.’
‘You still will be. You’ll make a great father one day.’ And I am going to make sure I’m still around to see that.
As we carry on talking, we don’t notice the time until the waiters begin to wipe down the tables, telling us they’ll be closing in five minutes. ‘Fancy a game of Scrabble?’ I say as we walk home, linking arms. ‘I’ll let you win.’
42
It’s Sunday afternoon and Cat and I are at home, in bed, dressed in our tracksuits and T-shirts, scanning the guest list for my gig this coming November, only six weeks away. I sent a demo to a venue close to Trisha’s studio in Hammersmith. It can take up to eighty people, which is perfect, since we want something small and intimate. When they’d called saying they’d be happy for me to hire the room for the night, it was like being given a large dose of confidence. This venue has hosted live gigs for many current artists, famous singers who have albums to their names.
Mum is away this weekend, staying with a friend, leaving Dad and me home alone with frozen meals and scribbled instructions on Post-it notes as to how to work practically every single gadget in the house. Dad and I are about as domestic as one another, we’re both professional burners of toast. Lucy and Jake are also away. Jake felt they needed a break after losing the baby.
Tom is kitesurfing with George. Often they do their own thing together just as Cat and I do. I’ve taken Cat’s advice. It’s important to give him space otherwise I’ll lose him. Besides, it’s not healthy doing everything together. Last year I went on a kitesurfing weekend with George, Tom and his friends. We went to Sandbanks beach in Poole. Cat had warned me I might not enjoy it and the truth is I didn’t. George and Tom didn’t set out to make me feel a spare part, but inevitably I became one because I was left alone, reading on a cold blustery beach and then in the evening all the chat was geared around the surf, the boards, the wind. ‘You don’t need waves,’ George had snapped at me, ‘it’s not surfing, Alice. We need wind. It’s a wind powered surface water sport.’
So if they go off to do their kitesurfing thing I much prefer to stay at home. ‘Who needs wind?’ I say to Cat.
‘Exactly. Not us. How’s Tom’s work going by the way?’
‘He’s still working with his techies. The latest thing didn’t take off so he’s designing some other new software for another game.’
‘Are you still working with computers?’ my father asks him. Tom always jokes that his parents don’t really understand what he does either. In their generation you’re a solicitor, pilot, soldier or the family doctor. Mind you, I’m not much better at understanding when it comes to anything techie. I just want Tom to succeed.
‘How about inviting Bono?’ Cat says, immediately returning her attention to our guest list. She means Bono, lead singer of U2, of course.
‘Definitely.’ I write his name down and underline it twice as Cat looks up his agent’s name on her laptop. ‘Robbie Williams is invited too. Trisha knows him, she sent him one of my demos,’ I tell her, ‘and I wrote to him.’
‘Robbie would positively be disappointed not to be asked,’ Cat says. ‘I hope he realises this is going to be the hottest gig in town. If we get him, we’ll get the press. I might have a few contacts there, too,’ she thinks out loud.
Pete and Trisha are also going to invite a few key people from the music industry, along with some journalists. ‘Anything to get people talking about you, Alice, and hearing your music,’ Pete had said, ‘and then we’ll send out your demos again.’
My mobile rings. It’s Trisha. ‘Sweetie, I’ve just heard from Robbie.’
I love the way she casually drops him into conversation, as if he’s any old person.
‘He said he’ll pop along.’
He’ll pop along! Cat and I must scream because Dad comes flying down the stairs. ‘False alarm,’ I shoo him away. ‘It’s only Dad,’ I tell Trisha, wondering if maybe I could ask Robbie over for tea too, at Jake and Lucy’s place. I can’t have the oldies cramping my style.
‘I have such a good feeling about this,’ Cat says when I hang up, both of us still screaming and kicking our legs up and down in joy. One of the most famous singers in the world is coming to my gig. ‘Who’s Robbie Williams?’ Dad asks, half way up the stairs.
OK, the world minus Dad knows Robbie Williams.
I feel impossibly excited. I look at Cat, deciding I’m going to send her some flowers at her office next week, as a thank you for all her support. Things are beginning to fall into place. We have a plan to get me one step closer to a recording contract.
‘Alice?’ Cat says.
Oh no. Please no . . .
My arm is going numb.
My face feels strange.
I can taste blood.
This was not the plan.
Cat is stripping off my bloodstained duvet. Dad is rushing around my bedroom packing an overnight hospital bag, before he’s in the bathroom, something clattering against the sink. ‘And a bit of blusher for the hunky Prof,’ he calls out.
Oh Dad.
‘Dressing gown, towel, wash bag, anything else we need, Alice? Are you with me, Alice?’
‘I’m here. I feel fine now.’
Do I really need to be rushed into hospital? It’s probably far worse for the people watching, I think, trying to ignore the fact that I’m beginning to have more and more of these ‘funnies’, that I am losing a dangerous amount of blood. ‘I’m sure I don’t need to go in overnight,’ I try again, although I don’t feel safe here either.
>
‘We’d better pack, just in case,’ Cat says, and I don’t argue, since it’s an argument I won’t win.
Dad comes back into my bedroom and I watch as he opens my chest of drawers and puts a handful of knickers into my bag. ‘I’m not staying that long, Dad. One night max.’
‘How about socks? Will you need socks?’ Dad finds the right drawer and produces a red pair. He turns to me. ‘Shall we keep the theme red?’
We can’t help but smile.
43
Tom
Tom lies down next to Alice on the narrow hospital bed, some awful reality television programme playing in the background, neither one of them watching. Mary has just left. They often share shifts, sitting either side of Alice, talking in whispers across the bed while Alice dozes. Both Mary and Tom agreed Alice seems desperately quiet; this last funny has knocked her sideways.
Haven’t you had enough of her, CF? Haven’t you sucked enough of her blood? Stop stealing her strength and energy. Can’t you leave Alice alone for one single fucking moment? All she is trying to do is live her life but you keep on getting in the way. Give her a break. She doesn’t deserve this. Haunt someone else. Let us be.
Tom can’t help thinking that however much they long to take the path of a normal couple the CF loves to divert them down another route.
He worries that she’s having more funnies. He wouldn’t dare ask Alice if it’s because of her singing. That studio and Pete, along with Trisha, the gig and the dream of getting a recording deal mean more to her than he can possibly imagine. Her ambition is what keeps her driven. It’s what gets her up each morning.
Are these attacks warning us that her time is running out? He thinks back to that time when he went into the bookshop, the assistant telling him her best friend, aged twenty-nine, had died of CF. Alice is twenty-nine. He can’t even bear to think about that. ‘You OK?’ he asks her, frustrated by his inability to make things better.
She says she is fine, either too kind or too tired to snap at him. Of course she isn’t OK. She’s stuck in here yet again, when all she wants to be doing is planning her gig. She was admitted two days ago, on Sunday, when Alice’s father, Nicholas, was home alone. Thankfully Cat was with them. She’d only expected to be in overnight. Professor Taylor is being particularly stubborn about her leaving. Alice can normally wind him round her little finger but he’s dug his heels in this time. Clearly he’s also seriously concerned and wants to keep a closer eye on her.
When he turns to look at Alice again, she’s dozing. Carefully he picks up her lyrics book.
‘To Be Someone Else’ he reads.
‘When I’m low you want me high
When I’m drunk, you want me dry.
‘Cos you’re killing my energy
And I’m finding it hard to breathe
You’re stealing my time
Feels like a crime to me’.
In capitals she has written, ‘TWO YEARS. FIVE YEARS’ with thick lines slashed through the words.
‘Being something I don’t understand,
Being someone I’d never planned
What I would give for my health
What I would give to be someone else’.
The following morning Tom wakes up in a crumpled heap on the floor when he hears the breakfast trolley rattling into the room. The nurses and doctors on the ward are used to his out-of-hour visits and sleepovers, providing extra pillows and blankets for him. ‘Come here, sleepyhead,’ Alice says, before he gets into bed with her, her warm body and the soft mattress comforting. She runs a hand through his scruffy hair. ‘You really didn’t have to stay. Hopefully I can go home today, then we can both sleep in a proper bed.’
Tom is relieved Alice appears brighter.
‘Tea or coffee?’ the care assistant asks, standing in front of the cluttered breakfast trolley.
‘Two coffees, please.’ Alice strokes Tom’s cheek. ‘Thanks for being here.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No thanks,’ Tom says.
‘You can’t have got any sleep down there.’
‘More than I’d have got at home, worrying about you.’
As the trolley rattles away, Tom asks, ‘What are you doing?’ as if he’s only just noticed the paper scattered across her bed. He scans a list of names. ‘Is this the invite list for your gig?’
‘Mum’s birthday. I want to give her a special party this year, to thank her for everything she does for me. Jake and I want it to be at home, with all her closest friends and I was thinking beef wellington and apple strudel or maybe chicken. She loves roast chicken . . . What’s so funny?’ Alice looks around as if she’s missing the joke.
‘You’re amazing.’
Alice smiles back at him. ‘Why?’
Many people would be feeling sorry for themselves but Alice has never had a shred of self-pity, only frustration that makes her human. And the fact that she can’t see how thinking about others is so extraordinary when she could be crying into her bowl of cereal is . . .
. . . Well, it’s just Alice.
They eat breakfast together, Tom planning to head to the office when Alice begins her morning dose of antibiotics. ‘One of these days, I’ll take you to Claridges, Tom,’ she says, attempting to eat some of her bran flakes. ‘It will be my treat, my present for you.’
‘What is it about Claridges, funny feet? Why stay in a hotel that’s in London, only down the road from your house?’
‘Because it’s Claridges, stupid! We’ll have tea in the afternoon, cake and cucumber sandwiches . . .’
‘Alice?’ Tom says, that familiar panic rising in his chest when he sees her face. It can’t be . . . not again.
Within seconds he can see blood.
A lot of blood.
Tom gets out of bed, presses the buzzer before grabbing one of the plastic trays on the fridge. He holds her hair back off her face, shoving the tray in front of her, pressing the buzzer again. Soon it’s filled to the brim. He grabs another, continuing to hold her hair away from her face, flinching when the tube in her stomach dislodges. ‘Nurse!’ he shouts, now stabbing at the buzzer repeatedly. Alice is clearly desperate to get some air into her lungs but the blood won’t stop, it’s gushing inside of her. He fears it’s never going to stop this time. This is it. She’s drowning.
She is going to die.
She cannot die.
A nurse rushes into the room. He watches as she plunges a needle into Alice’s elbow. The needle looks far too big. ‘You’re hurting her. Don’t hurt her!’ Tom pleads.
The rest is a blur.
All he can see is black.
44
Alice
I wake up, an oxygen mask attached to my face. I can smell Mum’s fig scent. Feeling sore, battered and bruised, I battle to sit up in bed. ‘Where’s Tom?’
‘Shush, you need to rest, shush.’
But I can’t rest until . . . ‘Where is . . .’ I can’t get the words out.
‘Tom . . . he fainted.’ She strokes my arm as I struggle to sit up again. ‘But he’s fine. He’ll be back, don’t worry. Lie down, Alice. Rest. Please, darling.’ Her hand rests gently against my forehead. ‘Lie back. Don’t worry, I promise you he’s fine.’
I don’t trust that word.
The following evening, after my anti support group have visited me, Mum, Dad, Jake, Lucy, Tom and Cat are all in my room talking, trying to act as normally as possible when the alarming reality is that yesterday I coughed up eight containers of blood. That’s about two litres. This funny was so severe that Professor Taylor and his team had to intervene immediately with a catheter operation, identifying precisely where the blood was coming from and blocking the offending artery.
My body is nothing but a war zone.
My veins shot to pieces.
‘And I gather you stole the moment fainting,’ Jake says to Tom.
Tom looks at me, both of us smiling. ‘Yeah, I felt she was getting way too much attention.’
We all
sit up straight when we hear a firm knock on the door. Tom hops off my bed when Professor Taylor enters the room. ‘Quite a party in here,’ he says, shaking Dad’s hand, my father thanking him for looking after me.
Each time I see Professor Taylor he becomes even more distinguished in looks and manner. I can imagine him giving a speech to thousands of people from a balcony, commanding attention like the Pope. ‘May I have a word, Alice?’
I nod. ‘Can they stay?’ Normally he wouldn’t like it, but I know today is an exception.
‘Of course.’ Professor Taylor sits down on the chair by my bed. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks me.
Shy smile. ‘On top form. I’m going clubbing tonight.’
‘I’m not going to beat around the bush here . . .’
‘You never do,’ I say.
‘I’m concerned by the speed and the amount of blood you produced yesterday.’ There is a lengthy pause before he continues, ‘I think the time has come, don’t you?’
I know exactly what he means, and so does everyone else in the room. ‘I’d like to go on the transplant list,’ I say.
‘Good. We’ll need to do a range of tests first.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I’ll refer you to Harefield Hospital. As you know, that’s where the heart and lung transplantation unit is based. You’ll be well looked after there.’
‘Could you tell us more about it?’ Mum asks him, the others muttering in agreement.
‘Yes.’ Composed, he turns to address everyone. ‘As you know, the only option for Alice is a heart, lung and liver transplant.’
Mum nods. ‘Because Alice’s liver is bad enough that it’s unlikely a lung transplant on its own would work.’
‘And I don’t even drink,’ I joke.
Professor Taylor says to Mum, ‘Exactly, and it’s much simpler to transplant lungs and heart as one unit. The advantage of this too is that Alice’s healthy heart—’
‘Something in my body is healthy?’ I break into more nervous laughter.
A Song for Tomorrow Page 19