A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  Both George and Cat are standing by us now. ‘Go,’ he says to Tom, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’ve been nothing but a miserable bastard since you split up and it’s getting a little bit dull,’ he admits with a faint laugh. Tom and I look at one another, a smile slowly creeping across our faces. ‘Get out of here, the pair of you. If Tanya and I love each other half as much as you two do, we’ll be lucky.’

  That night Tom and I lie in bed. As I tell him about the false alarm, all I can hear is the sound of his breathing until he says, ‘You will never go through that again on your own. I can’t believe I wasn’t there . . .’

  ‘I had Mum and Dad . . .’

  ‘But you could have died.’

  ‘I’m here now.’ And you’re with me.

  ‘I was scared, Alice.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’

  ‘I panicked.’

  ‘I know.’ It hurt me but I understood.

  ‘We’ve got to pray your bleeper goes off and that it’s not a false alarm next time.’

  ‘It might, Tom. If it’s happened once, it could happen again.’

  I think you definitely have another two years, but if someone were to ask me if you’d live for another five I couldn’t honestly answer.

  Professor Taylor said that to me when I was twenty-six. In a few months, I shall be thirty. Am I on borrowed time?

  ‘All I can do is hope that someone up there is listening, that my guardian angel will step in at the right moment,’ I say.

  ‘They need to step in right now. Do you honestly believe that, Alice, that we have a guardian angel?’

  I have to. ‘Someone saved you the night you crashed, didn’t they?’

  ‘The emergency services.’

  ‘Maybe there’s more to it than that though, maybe there are conferences taking place up in the sky, there’s serious plotting going on, perhaps someone was working out how to bring you and me together. If you hadn’t had that crash, would we have ever met?’ Sometimes I do wonder if things happen for a reason. ‘So yes . . .’ I kiss him. ‘I do.’

  I sleep deeply that night, my mind finally at peace in Tom’s arms.

  The following morning, Mum comes downstairs holding a glossy magazine, a full-size picture of me plastered onto the front cover. ‘Oh!’ she stops when she sees Tom. She can’t help smiling, laughing, almost crying, as if the prodigal son has returned. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Hi, Mary.’ Tom hops out of bed, dressed in his boxers. He gives Mum a kiss on both cheeks. I register a look between them, a look that suggests Mum is asking if he’s back to stay, and to stay for good this time, and Tom’s nod is saying ‘yes’. ‘Who’s that amazingly beautiful girl on the cover of the magazine?’ he asks her. I’m barefoot in a sundress, sitting on the steps in our garden, attached to my faithful old oxygen machine, the weeping silver pear tree in the background. The image takes my breath away. Never have I been so confronted by what I look like, the raw reality of my CF.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Mum replies, waving it in my direction, ‘but she seems lovely. Apparently she’s a singer. And for some reason there’s a picture of me too, and Jake and Nicholas. And I think you’re even mentioned, Tom.’

  ‘Give it to me! Give it to me! Have you read it? Have you read it?’ Why am I saying everything twice?

  When Mum heads back upstairs, Tom sits down next to me, both of us propped up against pillows. ‘I am a young woman in my twenties who has all the hopes and desires of any girl my age,’ I read. ‘I love music, travelling, my friends and my cats. I dream of being a singer, but I am not expected to live beyond the age of thirty. I intend to fight that with everything I have.’

  ‘Alice, this is incredible . . .’ Tom says as he continues reading.

  I flick over the page; it feels strange seeing my story in black and white.

  ‘What made you be so open about everything?’

  ‘Something Pete said, that I shouldn’t hide my CF.’

  ‘It’s a good move.’

  ‘He’s back!’ we overhear Mum saying upstairs in the kitchen. ‘Nicholas, he’s back!’

  ‘I’m assuming you mean Tom?’ Dad replies, but I can hear the relief in his voice too.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Mum calls down that they’re heading out. ‘Back in a couple of hours!’

  ‘I can safely say my parents will be a lot happier about us getting back together than some people.’

  ‘My parents love you, and George has never disliked you.’

  ‘I know.’ Especially after last night . . .

  ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. I’m a grown up. I can make my own decisions.’

  ‘You stick your head out of a train window and then seem surprised when it gets lopped off.’

  ‘You remembered my school report.’

  ‘I remember everything.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Tom laughs as my mobile rings. Soon my telephone rings too, it doesn’t stop, but I’m too busy kissing Tom to take their calls. I can also hear Mum and Dad’s phone ringing upstairs. They leave messages to say they’ve seen the article. ‘All your fans,’ Tom murmurs when my mobile vibrates again. ‘How about this for a plan?’ He tosses my mobile across the room. ‘Let’s both stick our heads out of the train window and see what happens,’ he suggests as we wriggle under the covers. ‘Now, have you taken a couple of big deep breaths, Alice? Because you’re going to need a lot of energy for what I’m about to do to you . . .’

  ‘How exciting.’

  ‘Breathe, Alice, breathe.’

  We can’t stop laughing as we do it all over again.

  58

  It’s late June. I have been on the transplant list for almost ten months. Tom and I are obsessed with watching 24 on television. Lucy, my semi invalid twin, is on the verge of giving birth. Jake is working every hour of the clock towards his next exhibition. Following the press article, I have received many letters and emails from readers, which I love responding to while I do my nebs in bed. Dad teases me, says it’s my fan mail. I find it heartening reading other people’s stories of pain and hardship, of their battle to reach the place where they are now. It makes me think no one is alone. We are in this fight together. Pete has sent my demos to more music companies; the deal feels close but remains elusive. I’m still having sessions with Trisha. Often I get a cab to her studio, or Mum drops me off right at the door; anything to conserve my energy for singing.

  I have to keep trying.

  I won’t give up.

  And finally, it’s the weekend and I’m with my anti support group in Chiswick Park. I picked Susie up and drove us both here. There’s a car park within the grounds to avoid any extra walking.

  ‘He’s doing a you-know-what.’ Milly points to Bond squatting in the grass.

  We watch as Susie slowly walks over to the scene of the crime. ‘She’s getting worse,’ I whisper to Milly. ‘Far more breathless.’

  ‘I know. The other day, she could barely make it up the road to post a letter.’

  ‘I feel old,’ Susie says when she’s back with us. ‘Too much partying. Can we sit down a sec?’

  We head towards the nearest bench, close to the café. We all flop down: one, two, three. ‘Aren’t we pathetic old crocks?’ Susie says as she picks up Bond and plonks him on her lap.

  ‘We’re olympic athletes,’ I put her straight, thinking of Trisha who always says she’ll make a gold medallist out of me even if it kills her.

  ‘Lucky we’re not in a hurry to get anywhere,’ Milly reflects.

  For a moment we enjoy the peace, the sunshine beating against our faces. I watch a small blonde-haired girl in a flowery sundress running across the grass, a Jack Russell keeping pace behind her. ‘I need to talk to the Prof,’ Susie admits, breaking our silence. ‘My antibiotics . . .’ She takes another puff from her inhaler. ‘They’re not doing their stuff anymore.’ She looks as if she is on the verge of tears.
r />   ‘Susie? What is it?’ Milly asks, sensing like me that it’s not just about the drugs.

  My mobile rings. It’s Pete. I ignore it.

  ‘I miss him,’ she says.

  When I put an arm around her, she edges away, as if sympathy will only make it worse. I pray she doesn’t regret leaving Ethan, that she doesn’t blame me in some way, and that she won’t go back to him because there’s no one else.

  ‘When I see you and Tom . . . I should have . . . should have left him . . . a long time . . . ago. I’ve wasted my life, haven’t I?’

  ‘No,’ both Milly and I say resolutely.

  ‘I don’t know if he ever cared . . . you know? I know I’m better off on my own . . . but I’m . . . lonely.’

  Bond looks up to her with innocent eyes, as if to say, ‘you have me’.

  Milly produces some tissues from her handbag, along with a bar of chocolate.

  My mobile rings, Pete’s name lighting the screen again. I reject the call. ‘Come here.’ I hold Susie in my arms until her crying subsides.

  We forget the walk, heading straight to the café instead for lunch. We order some salad, cheese sandwiches and chips.

  My mobile rings again. It’s Pete. It must be urgent. This time I pick up.

  ‘Where are you?’ He asks.

  ‘With friends.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to call you for ages.’

  ‘Sorry. What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got news.’

  There is something about the way Pete says ‘news’. I leave the table, telling the girls I won’t be a sec. Nervous, I step outside the door for a moment. ‘Go on,’ I urge, my heart beating a little faster than before.

  ‘Keep calm.’

  I now feel anything but calm.

  ‘Sony wants an interview.’

  ‘What!’ I must shriek because Susie and Milly look my way.

  ‘Sony, just one of the biggest labels out there, didn’t like your demo. They loved it.’

  I’m too stunned to speak.

  ‘Alice, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Is this real? Am I asleep? Is this a dream?

  ‘We’re meeting them next Monday.’

  It’s Saturday. That’s in two days.

  ‘Three o’clock.’ He tells me the A&R woman is called Vanessa Pollen. She read the article and watched me sing live on television so she knows about my CF.

  I love Vanessa Pollen already.

  ‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ I say, my head spinning.

  ‘Well believe it. We have a chance. Vanessa has bought into your music already. All she needs to do now is fall in love with you, which she will.’

  When I return to our table, they ask me, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘Sony wants an interview,’ I say, still unable to believe it’s true.

  ‘Oh my giddy aunt!’ Susie screeches. ‘Even I’ve heard of Sony!’

  The girls fire questions at me about when the meeting is, what Sony might say, what will I wear . . . Will I have to sing in front of a panel or something . . .? Will they give me an answer on the day . . .?

  I hadn’t even thought about that. On Monday I could be signed. I am tantalisingly close.

  Don’t get carried away; it could be a no and then I’ll be back to square one . . . But if they want an interview, they’d have to be fairly confident they want to sign me, otherwise why bother? Why waste my time and theirs? I feel overwhelmed with excitement, but I also feel guilty that here I am, impossibly happy with Tom and now I have this news. I don’t want to rub it in their faces.

  ‘Don’t be daft, it makes my shit more bearable,’ Susie assures me.

  ‘You know what, Alice?’ Milly slams her coffee cup down.

  ‘Go on,’ I encourage, exchanging a look with Susie.

  ‘I don’t have any highs,’ she says, ‘and I don’t have any lows, either. I just live. I run my boss’s life, but not my own. I live in neutral, don’t I?’

  Neither Susie nor I can argue with that. ‘I’m not going to get a tattoo or a record deal but I am going to stop being so scared of every little tiny thing, especially rejection, and start living,’ she declares. ‘Starting from today. You know what? I’m going to book a holiday, take some time off work, use my savings and go to Rome. I’ve always longed to see the Sistine Chapel for real, not just on a postcard.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Susie claps.

  ‘And I’m going to find a boyfriend.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ I say.

  My phone rings and I grab it, thinking it could be Pete again.

  ‘You’re an aunt,’ Jake says, sounding as if he has just given birth himself. ‘We’ve had a baby girl.’

  Further screams come from me, accompanied by more stares from the women on the next-door table, one of them saying, ‘I’ll have whatever she’s having.’

  ‘She’s about to be signed by Sony,’ Susie explains to them. ‘Get her autograph, my friend is going to be rich and famous.’

  ‘And I’ve just found out I’m an aunt,’ I say, receiving another round of applause.

  I promise Jake I’ll be over at his place tonight. He tells me Mum and Dad are visiting too. They haven’t decided on names yet. I decide to give him my news later, face-to-face. I have so many people I want to tell.

  ‘I want to order a bottle of wine,’ I say, after I’ve finished my call with Jake and a waiter is clearing our table. ‘You serve wine here, don’t you?’ I ask him. ‘Can I order your most expensive bottle?’

  ‘We only do wine by the glass.’

  ‘Great. Can I have three glasses of your best?’

  ‘Alice!’ Milly says.

  ‘Remember you’re starting to live,’ Susie points out.

  She shrinks into her seat. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Red or white?’ he asks me.

  ‘You choose.’ I ignore his confused expression as I say, ‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter.’

  He returns with three glasses of red and Milly gasps when she looks at the bill that comes to twenty-one pounds.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m paying.’ I hand them each a glass.

  ‘It’s Pinot noir,’ the waiter informs me.

  ‘Pinot noir, how delicious.’ I haven’t had a proper drink for months since my liver can’t tolerate it anymore.

  ‘You know I’m allergic, it’s a waste,’ Milly protests once more.

  I lean back in my chair. ‘See, I’m not so sure. I want to make a toast and this . . .’ I gesture to our glasses, ‘. . . this makes me feel normal and I’d pay a million quid if I had it to feel normal, so what’s twenty-one?’

  ‘In that case . . .’ Both Milly and Susie pick up their wine glasses. ‘To Milly and her new travelling adventures,’ I kick off, before we cheer.

  ‘To Susie.’ I touch her shoulder. ‘You are never alone.’

  ‘To Alice,’ Milly says finally, ‘who’s going to knock Sony dead.’

  59

  Later that evening I open my chest of drawers to find the baby clothes I’d bought for Lucy a few weeks ago; I’d chosen an outfit for a girl and one for a boy, the store saying I could return whichever one I didn’t need. Secretly I’d been hoping for a girl. I touch the little pink and white shoes with red embroidered flowers, unable to imagine ever being so minute. With it, I bought a matching white and pink baby grow. Now that Tom and I are back together, occasionally I do wonder if we’ll get married. When I was a child I used to play this game with Mum. Each time we drove past a wedding shop we had to point out our favourite dress in the window, the dress I’d walk up the aisle in. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t . . .

  ‘You scared me!’ I say when Tom kneels down beside me, congratulating me about Sony again. The moment I’d left my anti supporters, I called Tom and Cat to tell them the news. I watch as he lifts up one of the shoes, which fits into the palm of his hand. For a moment I imagine our little girl with blonde hair and Tom’s blue eyes. She’s a picture of health as she stands bet
ween us, holding our hands, as we walk down to the sea. Next I see her in a pink spotted swimming costume, with her chubby little legs, building sandcastles. She rushes towards us with a seashell; she holds it against Tom’s ear, asking if he can hear the sound of the waves. She has my smile and Tom’s laugh. ‘The house is quiet,’ he says, and I sense he’s lost in his own thoughts too, of being a father.

  I give him a hug, just when we both need one. ‘Do you want to go over?’ I ask him.

  ‘I think we should,’ he says.

  I want to see Jake, Lucy and the new baby, of course I do, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that there isn’t a thorn in my side, and I sense Tom feels it too.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ we overhear Dad saying as Tom carries me upstairs towards Jake and Lucy’s bedroom.

  ‘It can only be one person,’ Mum replies.

  ‘Just some intruders! Where are the diamonds?’ Tom calls out, before entering their bedroom. Lucy is lying down, looking exhausted but happy with a small bundle in her arms. Mum sits on a wicker chair beside her, close to the Moses basket, unable to tear her eyes away from her granddaughter. I hug my brother, before handing Lucy my present, tied with a pink ribbon.

  ‘Here,’ Lucy offers Mum her baby.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Lucy nods.

  Mum lifts the baby gently into her arms while Lucy unwraps the paper. ‘Oh, Alice, it’s adorable.’ She holds up the outfit. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s from Tom too.’

  ‘I knitted the booties,’ he says, making us all laugh as he kneels down beside Mum to take a peek. I join him. She looks like a baby seal with her wide blue eyes and dark hair. I lock my little finger with hers. ‘She has a knowing face, doesn’t she?’ I observe. ‘A kind of worldly look about her.’

  ‘She’s advanced,’ Dad claims with that twinkle of pride in his eyes.

  ‘Of course,’ Tom agrees. ‘Destined for great things.’ We decide she’s bound to be artistic with both parents who paint.

  ‘How about names?’ I ask.

  ‘Rose Alice,’ Jake says as he sits down on the other side of the bed, next to Lucy.

  ‘And we’d love you to be her godmother,’ Lucy adds.