A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  All of us were worried when Judy asked her about boyfriends. She hasn’t heard a word from Tom and I know it breaks her heart. I don’t blame him for what he did, I only wish things had turned out differently. We thought Alice was clever; she acknowledged how much support she received from all her friends and family before quickly steering the conversation back to her singing and the importance of carrying a donor card. I was pleased that they gave her time to discuss this. How can it be right that thousands of people like her, with life-threatening conditions, people in desperate need of transplants die because they never had the surgery, while healthy people who aren’t organ donors are being cremated or buried all the time. It doesn’t make sense. At the end Alice sang ‘The Right Time’, and we could have all kissed Richard when he said, ‘Someone out there, sign her.’

  55

  Tom

  Tom’s mother rarely calls him in the office unless there’s a problem. He’s tempted not to answer since he has so much to do before a meeting in half an hour, but then wonders if it’s about Dad. ‘Mum,’ he says, picking up. ‘Got to be quick.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. Everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ There’s a long pause. ‘It’s Alice.’

  Just hearing her name causes him pain. Has she died? ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s on television right now.’

  He breathes again.

  After the call Tom is torn. If he turns on the television all that guilt will come back to haunt him; not that it’s ever gone away. They’ve been apart for over a month now and work is the only thing that keeps him sane. When he’s at home, alone, all he can think about is, is Alice OK? Is she in hospital? Has there been any news on the transplant? It’s unbearable. As the minutes tick by he can’t take the indecision any longer. Curiosity was always going to get the better of him. He rushes down the corridor, heads to the communal boardroom, thankfully empty although the long table is laid out with paperwork, glasses and a pitcher of water for his imminent meeting. He switches on the television: Channel 4, his mum had said . . .

  Alice is singing ‘The Right Time’.

  Tom can’t take his eyes off her. He feels unbelievably proud. He has never known anyone as ambitious as Alice. He believes that you don’t drive yourself forward if you are content and cruising along happily. You have to feel dissatisfied in some way or other to be passionately driven and Alice has this constant urge to prove herself. She didn’t just go to university; she got a First-class degree in English. He remembers Alice telling him how she’d scanned the results pinned on to the college notice board, heading straight for the 2:1s. She couldn’t see her name there so she looked below, at the 2:2s. No mention. Disheartened, she figured she must have got a Third. When she didn’t see her name in that list either, finally she dared to scan the top of the page. ‘They must have made a terrible mistake,’ Nicholas had said to her, unable to hide his pride. For Alice, it’s the same with singing. It can’t just be a hobby. She has such a strong desire to be recognised for her talent and she won’t rest until she makes it. Richard and Judy! What a great show! They have huge power in the media. He longs to call to congratulate her; maybe this would be the perfect excuse to get in touch? Sometimes he thinks he has made a terrible mistake. Nothing can fill the void of Alice and her family. He has no interest in meeting anyone else; it was never about that. George is desperate to set him up on a few dates: ‘Got to get you out there again,’ he says, but the idea is about as appetising as eating lumpy porridge. He remembers Alice writing this song on a Saturday morning. He can see her now, cross-legged on her bed, chewing her pen with frustration because the lyrics weren’t flowing. He can hear her voice, as if she were right beside him now, saying, ‘I know! How about this, Tom . . .?’

  Things were often impossibly hard with Alice, but they also shared something so intimate and extraordinary. One of their happiest weeks had been a holiday in Majorca. He can see them dancing the waltz in the swimming pool, both of them unable to stop laughing. Alice’s funny feet have flat arches that make dancing on dry land difficult, but in the water they called themselves Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. Some of his happiest memories were also of them just being together in her bedroom, supper on their laps, voting for Will Young on Pop Idol. He didn’t need to be anywhere exotic with Alice. They had learned to be content doing the simplest of things.

  And he’d let her go.

  The worst part was that she’d understood. Alice could be fiery and passionate, but she was never irrational. He’d wanted her to be as angry with him as he was with himself. ‘I want to get married,’ he’d said. ‘I want children.’ He hates himself for saying those things to her.

  ‘How do you think that makes me feel?’

  ‘I could never hate you.’

  Each time he thinks he should pick up the phone he has to remind himself that there are no half measures with Alice. They can’t be friends. It wouldn’t work for either of them. If he initiates any contact, he needs to know exactly what he is doing, because he can’t risk hurting her again. That would be unforgiveable.

  When Alice comes to the end of the song his heart is clapping. When she smiles straight into the camera it takes him back to that very first time when he saw her at Jake’s exhibition. Don’t cry, don’t cry, you idiot. You are about to have one of the most important meetings of your life. In precisely fifteen minutes the CEO of a major company is coming in to decide, once and for all, if they will buy Tom’s software for a new online game. He could be signing the contracts today, so he can’t be an emotional mess. He needs to turn this off. Get her out of his head. . .

  But he can’t help looking at the screen, at Alice, and he could hug Richard when he says, ‘Someone out there, sign her.’

  56

  Alice

  ‘Did I sound OK?’ I ask Milly, my adrenalin pumping as we drink coffee at the nearest café to the Channel 4 studio.

  ‘You came across like a pro.’

  ‘Wasn’t it amazing when Richard—’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Somebody out there, sign her!’ we both say together, laughing, before Mum calls me on the mobile. ‘We thought you were brilliant!’ Soon I’m being handed round to Jake, Lucy and Dad, all of them congratulating me. Cat calls next, telling me that her journalist friend watched the interview and is going ahead with the article this weekend. After talking to Pete about sharing my story, I wrote a piece and sent it to one of Cat’s contacts in the press.

  Susie rings next. She was meant to be with us now, but is feeling lousy in the middle of an IV course. ‘Bond and I were glued,’ she says. ‘We were dead proud of you.’

  I only wish I could share this with Tom, too.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say to Milly, finally putting my mobile away, my coffee so cold that I have to order another one.

  ‘Don’t worry, enjoy the fame.’

  While it lasts . . . ‘I want to do it all over again,’ I confide. To think of all those times I stared out of the window at school, daydreaming about singing to a live audience, and now I’ve done it. ‘You will never be a singer.’ I just hope Miss Ward and Daisy Sullivan were watching.

  Milly stirs her coffee. ‘I love how you said that we need to live for the moment, that we only get one life, so we mustn’t waste it.’

  ‘Did I say that?’ The funny thing is when you’re live on air it goes so quickly that you forget exactly what you said, or even what they asked until you replay it.

  ‘You talked about donors, too, how people should carry cards.’

  ‘Do you think Tom was watching?’ When I mention his name I can still hear that tremor in my voice.

  Has he moved on? Is he relieved to be free? I doubt he’ll have seen it.

  ‘You must miss him,’ Milly says.

  I don’t know how to describe how I miss him. When Judy had asked about boyfriends I’d had to fight so hard not to cry. All I could see was Tom, with oil smudged on his hands,
carrying his bicycle down the back steps. I could see him playfully mocking me when I switched on Pop Idol, blaming me for changing his taste in television. I thought of our holiday in Majorca, Tom holding out the lilo in the sea, encouraging me to jump. ‘Come on, funny feet,’ he’d said. I was so scared but I jumped. Without him I feel as if I am drowning. I have to pedal hard to stay afloat.

  ‘Do you think I should call him?’ I ask Milly. During many sleepless nights I have asked myself if I should get in touch. I need to hear his voice.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says, blushing as she fidgets with her coffee spoon. ‘I have zero experience in these kind of things.’

  ‘Maybe you’re wise.’

  ‘I’m not wise, Alice. I’m a coward. I might not get hurt but I don’t know what it feels like to be in love, either. If I were you, I’d call him. Like you said, life’s too short.’

  ‘But what if he tells me he’s moved on?’ I couldn’t bear it. ‘I don’t think I can risk it. If he cared, surely he’d have picked up the phone by now?’

  Milly sighs. ‘Oh, Alice, all I can say is will you be happy if you don’t give it one more try? Aren’t some things, some people, worth fighting for?’

  57

  It’s Friday night, three days after my interview. My article is coming out tomorrow morning, but right now all I can think about is what I’m going to say when I see Tom at George’s birthday party tonight. George invited me some time ago, when Tom and I were still together, so I have decided to follow Milly’s advice and fight.

  I pay the cab driver before glancing at my reflection in a shop window. ‘You look great,’ Cat reassures me, coming with me for moral support. I’m wearing jeans with a silky black top that I know Tom loves. I’ve also spent some time on the sunbed; anything to give him the impression I’m healthy and well.

  I try to ignore my nerves when we enter the pub. ‘Third floor, love,’ the man behind the bar says when I mention I’ve come for the private party. Well practised, I walk up the stairs. Cat and I have made a plan. If Tom is here and it’s not going the way I’d hoped, we’ll leave as soon as we can. If things are going well Cat will discreetly disappear, unless she meets a tall dark stranger at the bar. I must be casual. Who am I fooling? Casual? I feel sick.

  ‘Alice?’ a voice says.

  George is standing right in front of me.

  He kisses me formally on the cheek. ‘I didn’t expect you to come.’

  ‘I . . . I . . . well . . . Happy birthday!’

  ‘Tom isn’t here,’ he says, making room for someone to pass us on the stairs.

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘You mean he’s not coming at all?’ Cat says.

  He glances at her, as if only just noticing I arrived with a friend.

  ‘Sorry to gatecrash.’ She offers George her hand. ‘I’m Cat. Happy birthday. We met briefly at Alice’s gig.’

  He heads back upstairs with us before we walk into a crowded room, George taking me to one side. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ He points to a lonely chair.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, irritated by the gesture as I watch Cat approach the bar.

  ‘Does he know you’re coming?’ George asks, clearly agitated.

  Before I have time to answer, Tanya comes over, we hug briefly and I congratulate her on her pregnancy. ‘So boring though,’ she says, touching her neat bump. ‘Can’t drink and I live on the loo.’

  I ask her when it’s due, aware of George’s watchful eye.

  ‘You look amazing.’ Tanya stands back to observe me. ‘So thin,’ she sighs.

  You’re welcome to my CF if you want . . .

  ‘How’s the music going?’ she asks, just as a tall woman with hair as dark as Tanya’s joins us, clutching a silver evening bag. ‘Oh, this is my sister, Emma.’

  ‘Have you been on holiday?’ Emma asks me, clocking my tan.

  How do I begin to explain that for the past six months I haven’t been able to travel more than two hours away from home in case I receive a call for my triple transplant?

  But I don’t have to explain because she continues, ‘I don’t know anyone here. George and Tanya dragged me along to set me up with some Tom guy.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Do you know him?’

  Emma wonders why, suddenly, there is a stony silence.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ George pulls me away. ‘I was sorry to hear about you and Tom.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Were you?

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Alice, I don’t want to sound rude, but are you sure this is a good idea?’

  This is it. I could do everyone a favour, including Tom’s set-up date, and walk away. Go home with Cat and regret not being brave enough to stay and confront Tom.

  I turn to George. ‘I know you don’t want me here.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’ve always known,’ I say quietly.

  His skin reddens. ‘Known what?’

  Across the room I see Cat’s face urging me on. ‘That weekend, I heard you talking to him.’

  George picks up his drink, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I heard everything.’ My voice remains quiet. ‘I’m not here to make trouble and I understand you’re his best friend, but please remember . . .’ I pause. ‘I love him too.’

  Cat follows me into the bathroom. We head into the nearest cubicle and lock the door behind us. I lean against the wall and replay the conversation to her. We’ve been over this before, how Tom might make it clear that he has moved on, but it’s no use. I don’t care. I have to tell him that I haven’t. That’s if he ever turns up. ‘He’s useless, remember?’ Cat says, as if she can read my mind.

  ‘Always fucking late,’ I add, both of us smiling.

  ‘Go. Go and find him,’ Cat says.

  I walk back towards the bar.

  I can do this.

  I stop dead when I see him. ‘Alice?’ He looks as if he has seen a ghost. My legs feel weak at the sound of his voice.

  I don’t know how long we stare at one another without speaking, but it feels like an eternity.

  ‘George mentioned you were here,’ he says at last. George warned you. ‘I was coming to find you . . . You look incredible.’

  ‘Thanks.’ There is warmth in his eyes, but he looks tired, his hair dishevelled. It takes all my restraint not to throw my arms around him. ‘How are you?’ I say.

  ‘Fine. Can I get you a drink?’

  As Tom leads me to the bar I catch George’s eye. He looks away, pretending to be absorbed in conversation with Tanya and his friends. ‘How about you?’ asks Tom as he orders me a pineapple juice.

  ‘So much better.’ Where’s the harm in being artistic with the truth?

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘I’m on this new antibiotic.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘How’s work?’

  ‘I won that contract. They bought my software.’

  I raise my glass of pineapple juice towards his bottle of beer. ‘That’s the best news I’ve had this year. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He is still looking at me as if he’s shocked that I’m here.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘I can relax, take a break.’

  ‘Well, you earned it. I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more, Tom.’

  ‘Except you.’

  When he says that, just the look in his eyes makes the idea of leaving the party without him painful, of going home to an empty bed, dreaming about him only to wake up alone . . .

  ‘How’s the music going? Mum saw you being interviewed by Richard and Judy.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘She said you came across really well. Dad watched it too.’

  Did you watch it?

  But somehow I can’t ask him that. We just look at one another, so much left unsaid between us.

  ‘How’s Lucy?’ he asks me, fighting to remain formal. ‘She must be heavily pregnant by now?’
>
  ‘Over six months.’

  ‘And Jake?’ He clears his throat. ‘I was sorry to miss his last exhibition.’

  I see Tanya and Emma leaning against the bar. Emma looks our way. ‘I gather you were meant to be set up tonight.’

  ‘Tanya mentioned something.’

  So Tom would have gone along with it. ‘I’d better go.’ I shouldn’t have come.

  I turn away, looking for Cat to tell her I want to leave. I can’t do this. I know from the way he is acting he cares deeply but nothing has changed. He’s not going to follow me. He doesn’t want to win me back. This isn’t a film. I’m an idiot if I believe he wants us to be together again and I can’t be his friend. It would be like owning the most precious painting but never being able to hang it on my wall.

  But then I find myself turning back. ‘I hate this, Tom. I hate not being with you. Do you ever think about me?’ I’m surprised by the anger in my tone, by how much I don’t care anymore if I make a fool of myself. What is left to lose?

  ‘Do I ever think about you?’ he raises his voice too as if he’s both my ally and my opponent. ‘When I wake up I wonder how you are. When I go to bed I wish you were next to me. When it’s cold, wet and dark outside I pray you’re safe at home. When I eat my microwave meal for one I think about bringing down a tray of your mum’s delicious stew with your dad’s wine. When I listen to music, doesn’t matter who’s singing, I think of you. I wonder all the time if your bleeper has gone off, I wonder if you’re sick and stuck in hospital. I think about kissing your button nose and squeezing your funny feet first thing in the morning. I’ve picked up the telephone hundreds of times, wanting to dial your number . . . but then I think about all the things I said to you and I feel so guilty that I hate myself even more for being so weak, for letting you down, and I can’t hurt you again, I can’t, I won’t, not again. . .’ Tom stops. Breathes. ‘So there’s your answer.’