When I told Hugh, we decided to wait until things were clearer to tell Simon and Laura. I didn’t want to worry them if I didn’t have to. Course we spent hours looking up treatments, outcomes, etc., on the Net; researching, trying to gain a modicum of control. I was good at that normally, but it felt like things were moving at a pace beyond my ability to stop them. The doctor had a course of tests and treatments mapped out in record time. I had a CT scan of my chest, abdomen, pelvis, as well as a bone scan. It wasn’t looking good. They found several malignant deposits in my liver, as well as extensive bony metastases in my spine and ribs. Result – metastatic breast cancer, stage 1V. High grade. Hah. I used to pride myself on getting those. Incurable. I was still sure there was some mistake. I felt fine. They had to be wrong, but then the oncology consultant showed Hugh and me the scans and there was no denying it. ‘In the early stages, this type of cancer is often asymptomatic, which is possibly why you feel it can’t be true,’ I was told.
I felt so angry. Why me? Why now? I didn’t have time for this. And guilty. Could it have been prevented if I’d gone sooner? Why didn’t I go earlier? Idiot. When I’d first felt the lump? Because like everyone else on the goddamn planet, I didn’t think it would happen to me. Cancer happens to other people, not me. Wrong.
Fleur left a message, wanted to talk about Mum’s will, and I sent an email back saying I wouldn’t be joining her and Dee in working through Mum’s list, but I wasn’t thinking straight. I felt crazy that day. Then Dee called a few days – or was it a week – later? Pleading with me to follow Mum’s wishes. She must have thought me such a selfish bitch. I knew she needed the money. She probably thinks we’re rolling in it to have even considered for a moment letting Mum’s inheritance go. Not the case – we’re comfortably off but not rich; and I’m not a fool, I won’t forgo the inheritance just because I have cancer. Hell no. I’ll do it for Simon and Laura’s sake. A sum like the amount I’m due to inherit will get them on the property ladder. So maybe my diagnosis wasn’t crap timing. Maybe it was perfect timing, and I can sail off into the sunset knowing my family will be cared for. I have to think of my children’s future and what I will leave behind if things don’t go well. Seems ironic, Mum telling me in the letter read out at Mr Richardson’s to chill out before I get ill. Too late, Mum. But as Hugh pointed out once we’d calmed down a little, maybe Mum’s programme will be just what I need. A distraction. A look at happiness as dictated by three wise old birds. Why not? Messages from Mum. I have a message of my own for her and that is hey, I might be coming to join you sooner than you think.
But maybe I’ll learn something that I can pass on to my kids as well as the money. Maybe not, if mad Moon and her strange pipe are anything to go by. To me, happiness just descends sometimes for no reason. You can’t manufacture it. Not really, but I guess there are some things one can do – meditate, exercise, eat right. Acupuncture is supposed to help with the after-effects of chemotherapy if/when I get to that stage. I’ll give it all a go. A nutritionist put me on this stricter-than-strict diet. Why not? I’ll try anything, but I could see that I offended Dee by not eating the food she’d prepared. I could tell her what’s happening to me but no. Not yet, if ever. She’ll just have to think what she thinks and that I’m an almighty pain in the ass. I can deal with that, would rather deal with that than have her pity me.
Actually she’s a sweetheart. Always was. Bit of a dreamer, bit idealistic. I shouldn’t take my problems out on her. Or Fleur. I could have told Fleur on the way down here. We were in the car for four hours together, but actually it was good to hear her prattling on about her life. I could feel things were normal for a while and it was good to hear about something else besides the C word and all that it involves. So I will tell them when I have to, not before. Dr Campbell said that the drug treatment can cause hot flushes and sweats, especially if I haven’t been through the menopause yet, which I haven’t. If I have an off-day I can tell them it’s that.
The first stage of treatment is hormone therapy for three months. It might block the cancer cells. Might. But only if the type of cancer I have is what they call hormone receptor positive. Tamoxifen is my drug of choice. We won’t know if it will work until I’ve tried it. ‘On the plus side,’ (now there’s a joke, I thought) said the oncologist, ‘the treatment has few side effects apart from bringing on an early menopause. And you won’t lose your hair.’ Well hurray for that. So bring it on. She didn’t dwell on the negative side – that being, the cancer I have is incurable because it has spread to my organs, so really, all they can do is buy me time.
It was hard telling Hugh, Simon and Laura. I tried my best not to cry in front of them. I learnt fast that this thing is not just about me. They suffer too. I see the way they look at me, such sadness in their eyes and, last week, when he thought I was asleep, I heard Hugh in the bathroom, sobbing his heart out. Hugh, who never cries. That hurt more than anything. I did consider telling Dee and Fleur, but they can’t fix this and I don’t want my illness to define me. All Fleur and Dee could do is be sad about it, and seeing more people be miserable, that’s not going to help. I want to stay in control, and I know it’s selfish but I want to use my ‘Mum’ weekends as an escape from thinking about what’s coming. Mad as her kicking the bucket list is, it’s my best chance, apart from at work, at having some time when I can just be me. Rose. Not Rose with cancer.
The irony is it’s now my kicking the bucket list too. So, my choices are a) to have Dee and Fleur’s pity for the remaining months, or b) have them think I am an uptight asshole. I choose option b) and to carry on as normally as I can for as long as I can. Uptight asshole I can do. Cancer victim, no thanks, I’ll pass. Mum asked that I talk to God. A tall order to ask of someone who doesn’t believe, but if I did talk to him, I’d have two words to say, and those are, fuck you.
16
Dee
Sunday 13 December, evening
The events of Sunday evening changed everything.
Fleur and Rose had been gone half an hour when the phone rang. Daniel. He was still at the Bell and Anchor. Had my sisters gone? Yes. Would I meet him for a drink? Yes.
‘What’s it about?’ I asked.
‘Tell you when you get here.’
I got changed, put on a bit of make-up, not too much in case he thought I’d tried too hard, a spray of Mitsouko perfume, and set out to meet him. What on earth does he want? I wondered. My mind went into overdrive as I walked down the lanes to the pub. Was there something on the list just for me? Did he want to discuss an upcoming session for future months? I didn’t really care. I was feeling very positive after the weekend and that I was making progress with both sisters, getting to know them again. I’d been touched by their offers of help about my housing situation. Not that I’d want to take either of them up. I valued my independence and didn’t want to ruin things by feeling beholden to either of them in any way, but it was nice to feel that they were both there for me in their separate ways.
Daniel was by the bar nursing a pint of beer when I walked through the doors and smiled in greeting. He looked the part of a local in a navy fisherman’s sweater and jeans. I felt a surge of … what? Attraction? Anxiety? Anticipation? All three?
‘So how can I help?’ I asked when I joined him.
‘First a drink. Wine? Something soft?’
‘Wine. White. Dry. Thanks.’ I needed a glass to relax.
As he ordered, I quickly glanced around the pub to see who was in there. A few locals who nodded hello, but no sign of Ian, Anna, or – worst still – Michael Harris.
We took our drinks and found a corner near the fire. I was waiting for him to say something but he was unusually quiet.
Eventually I asked, ‘Are we here to discuss Mum’s programme?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t discuss the list or your sisters with you.’
‘Oh. OK. No problem. So what is it then? How come you’re still here?’
‘I’ve never been to the Rame peninsula
before, and I took the opportunity to have a look around the area. It was getting late by the time I got back here, so I decided to stay down another night.’
‘Ah. So this is social?’
‘It is. Sort of. I wanted to see you again. I enjoyed our time together last time so …’ He reached over, took my hand and looked directly into my eyes. ‘Look, I’m just going to come out and say this. I felt attracted to you the first time we met, felt a connection, and I might be wrong but I think you felt it too.’
Cue me to say something. He was looking at me, waiting. But I was aghast. Things like this didn’t happen to me, and to come out with what I’d been feeling, as he had, and to admit that the attraction was mutual, would expose me, leave me open to getting hurt again. I knew nothing about him and I wasn’t sure I was ready to let down the walls I’d built so carefully to protect myself.
‘I know it might seem full on,’ said Daniel, ‘but I’m old enough to recognize something – someone special – when it happens.’ Cue me again, but my brain appeared to have gone into meltdown; too much was going on inside – a rush of adrenalin, attraction, elation, fear. He stroked my hand with his thumb then let go and sat back. ‘I’m rushing you. I apologize. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about your work, your painting.’
Now that I could talk about, and I was grateful for the change of subject whilst I processed what was happening. A stunningly good-looking man with denim blue eyes was sitting in front of me, telling me he thought I might be someone special. Anna would say go for it. What have you got to lose, you idiot? Am I mad to hesitate? I wondered as I filled him in on my work at the school and the night classes.
‘So the painting session today was a bit old hat for you?’ he asked.
‘I thought we weren’t supposed to discuss the programme?’
He laughed. ‘Rules are for breaking.’
‘Actually the session was surprisingly good. The painting I did wasn’t, but it got me started on something. An idea for a series of work. Birds.’
‘Birds?’
I nodded. ‘It began with something your swami said in our meditation session. He said not to be troubled by thoughts but to see them as birds flying overhead and let them go.’
‘And you are the mountain below, still, serene.’
‘Yes, that was it, but I got to thinking that there are many kinds of birds. Small ones, large ones, the gentle and the cruel.’
Daniel laughed. ‘You’re right there. There are beautiful birds and ridiculous ones too. Well that’s ruined that visualization for my meditation then. I’m going to be seeing vultures, seagulls … pigeons, oh no … all that bird shit. Dee, what have you done to my peace of mind?’ He looked at me directly as he said the last part. I looked away, unsure of what to do with the rush of heat he was causing inside me.
‘Oh! Sorry. Think about clouds passing over then, that should work.’
‘It’s OK, you have a creative brain. I like that. But these birds gave you an idea for your paintings?’
‘They did. I thought I’d paint different kinds in different atmospheres to reflect different states of mind. Swans on a river, beautiful, peaceful, the exhilaration of a murmuration of starlings, the comedy and riot of colour of parrots, that wonderful look of disdain that owls can give you. I don’t know yet, I need to sleep on it, but I feel inspired. Buzzing, in fact. To take the bird analogy further, like an egg about to hatch.’
Daniel laughed again. ‘You should paint that too.’
‘I did a painting of a menacing dark flock today, just as an experiment, and it unlocked something and now my head is full of colours and images that I could develop. I was just jotting ideas down when you called.’
Daniel leaned over and squeezed my hand. ‘You light up when you talk about something you’re passionate about.’
I blushed. He appeared to be genuinely interested and impressed by what I was saying. It had been a long time since I’d had such rapt attention from a man. When I was with John, he was the artist with a growing international reputation. I was completely in his shadow. When he spoke about art, everyone listened, captivated by his knowledge and use of language. If I was with him and spoke about my work, I could see it was like an interruption, distracting from the great man, so I stopped talking, kept my ideas to myself and grew more and more silent.
‘So if you were a bird, what would you be?’ Daniel asked.
‘God, I don’t know. Let me think. What about you?’
‘You must tell me that.’
‘I don’t know you well enough.’
‘Not yet.’
I liked the way he said that and the way he smiled.
‘My ex-boyfriend would have been a peacock,’ I said.
‘Was that good or bad?’
‘Good in the beginning but bad in the end.’
‘Vain?’
‘That’s what peacocks are known for, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll do a painting inspired by him. That would be fun.’
‘What about your sisters?’
I felt a rush of excitement. ‘Actually, yes. I could let the birds be inspired by people, all sorts of people, not just John and my sisters. What a great idea. So let me think. Rose. Something hard working – a busy bee bird, but that’s too ordinary. I’d need something striking and stronger for her. I know, a peregrine falcon. I’m told they’ve been spotted up on the cliffs at Whitsand Bay, though I haven’t seen any yet. And Fleur, something exotic and colourful like … a bird of paradise. Perfect. One that likes to preen.’ I sat back and met his gaze. Neither of us looked away. His eyes were tender and smiling, completely focused on me. Something deep inside of me responded and I smiled back, my eyes not leaving his. Oo, I thought as I felt a jolt of electricity. Haven’t felt this for a while.
‘Sounds good to me,’ he said. Suddenly he sat back, looked at his watch then pulled his mobile out. ‘Mustn’t forget. Time to send the next text from Iris.’ He started laughing as he texted and, a moment later, my phone pinged that I had a message.
‘Do these go out to all of us?’
He nodded. ‘They do.’
I got my phone out of my coat pocket, looked at my message then back at Daniel. He was looking smug.
‘Are you sure you didn’t make this up and it’s from you and not from Mum at all?’
‘Scout’s honour. I have a list from her and the times within the programme to send them. That one was scheduled for end of weekend two, Sunday evening, which it is.’
The text read: ‘If you believe that something fantastic is about to manifest in your life, it probably will.’
Daniel took my hand, looked into my eyes again, then let his gaze slowly slide down to my mouth. It felt utterly erotic. And we haven’t even touched each other yet, I thought. He didn’t say anything for a few moments and neither did I, but there was no doubt in my mind what was happening. Chemistry with a capital C.
‘I believe it,’ he said finally. ‘Question is, do you?’
I did. I do, I thought, but I wasn’t ready to let him know. The feeling between us was strong, seductive, but part of me felt terrified. A message from Mum. Very timely, I thought as we got up to leave. Maybe it’s time to trust again and follow my heart.
Monday 14 December, 8 a.m.
Up, showered and shaved, so I am smooth as a baby’s bottom apart from where the razor slipped and I nicked myself just below my knee. Bugger. I stuck a bit of tissue on the cut. Mmm, sexy, I thought as I caught sight of my leg in the mirror and made a note to book in for regular waxing.
Before I got dressed, I pulled out all the drawers looking for the Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir body lotion that Fleur had sent me years ago. I’d kept it for special occasions. I found it shoved behind my underwear in the second drawer down, and when I took off the lid saw that it had gone hard with age. That’s how many special occasions there had been in the last few years. I made another mental note to use any such gift in future. Such a waste. I went to the wardrobe and pulled out s
ome of the gifts I’d already bought for friends for Christmas. I found the coconut bath lotion I had bought Anna. I’ll have to get her another present, I thought as I applied it liberally.
Back to the underwear drawer. What a sorry sight, I thought as I sifted through a pile of off-white comfy knickers. I was sure I still had a sliver of lace in there somewhere. Why haven’t I got a thong? I asked myself. Because they’re like wearing dental floss, came back the answer. I guess it’s easy to tell the state of a woman’s love life by her underwear drawer, and mine was saying, action in the bedroom department, nil. Why am I taking such care? Why am I feeling so edgy and hyper? Because Daniel is coming back at ten for coffee before he goes to get his train, that’s why. He might fancy a bit of coconut tart with it. That’s me. The coconut tart. I think I might have overdone it with the bath lotion. After our drink in the pub last night, he’d walked me back to the house and we’d stood on my doorway just looking at each other, holding hands, grinning like idiots.
A memory of Fleur from when we were teenagers flashed into my mind. She was getting dressed before going on a date, dressed in an itsy-bitsy bra and pants set, emerald green and black lace, and was busy with the body lotion. I’d asked why all the effort? ‘Dyb dyb dyb, dob dob dob. Girl Guide’s motto. Be prepared and do your best,’ she’d replied with a wicked grin.
Good motto, I thought as I found an unused pair of black lace low rise. Where have these come from? I wondered as I unwrapped them and put them on. Some friend must have bought them for me one birthday, probably Anna and I’d forgotten about them. I looked in the mirror. Oh dear. I hadn’t taken my clothes off in front of a man in a very long time. Not since Blubber Lips, in fact. Oh, please don’t let Daniel be like him, I prayed. Actually I wasn’t in bad shape, slightly crepey around the neck and the knees and boobs could do with some tightening up, but still slim, thanks to Mum and Dad’s lean genes. Is it too early for candlelight? Maybe I should close all the curtains? God, I’m so nervous. Relax. Breathe, hold … exhale. And Daniel might not even want to have sex. He might think me a brazen hussy for even considering it. We hardly know each other. But a sweet sharp tingling in my stomach reminded me of the look in his eyes last night. Dyb dyb dyb, dob dob dob. Be prepared, said Slut, my inner sex goddess.
The Kicking the Bucket List Page 14