‘He’s weirdly chivalrous about that sort of thing; he promised, you see,’ I explain. ‘He never breaks a promise. I told him he didn’t have to, that I am perfectly happy reading and watching movies, but he thinks I can’t go twenty-four hours without seeing him.’
Stella smiles, tentatively. ‘When I first started seeing my husband, I remember he couldn’t stop showing off to impress me. He’d do anything to make me laugh, or scream or hit him. He loved it, loved the attention; and I’ve got to say, your Ben reminds me a little bit of that time, right now. Look at him! He so alive, isn’t he?’
We both look at him, head thrown back as he sings, throat exposed, eyes closed, feeding off the energy in the room.
‘He’s not my Ben,’ I say uncomfortably. ‘And, anyway, Ben just likes to be in the spotlight. He’s just your average attention-grabbing monkey.’
‘Or maybe he likes to be in your spotlight, have you ever thought about that?’ Stella asks me, with a mischievous edge I haven’t seen before.
I snort. ‘Ben and I are not in any way romantically involved. He fairly often witnesses me cough up mucus, and I’ve wiped vomit off his chin after a big night out.’
Those dark eyes regard me for a moment longer, keeping secrets, holding back thoughts.
‘See Issy over there in the corner?’ she says, nodding at a girl huddled in an armchair that somehow swamps her. ‘She’s fourteen years old. You are the nearest thing to someone her own age in here. She’s got the room opposite you, and she is obsessed with you. Every time I go in there, she tries to find out more about you. She thinks you look so pretty and interesting. Would you go and say hello? You’d make her day.’
I hesitate and look over at the girl, slight and slim, clearly mortified by the handsome young man cavorting in front of her. It seems awfully unfair to me that even when a person is so gravely ill, they are still at the mercy of adolescence. I feel her pain.
‘Or we could talk some more about Ben and his true intentions towards …’ Stella teases.
‘I thought you were sensitive,’ I tell her. ‘I thought you were like Anna Karenina in scrubs.’
‘No idea – is that a film?’ Stella asks me. ‘What film character would you be? Maybe you and Ben would be like Baby and Patrick Swayze …’
And suddenly it seems like the best idea to go and sit next to Issy and ask her what bands she is into, and try not to draw attention to her grave health, which at least is something I am adept at.
‘So on a scale of one to ten, how awful is this?’ I ask, nodding at Ben wailing away.
‘I like it, actually,’ Issy says. ‘I like noise, almost any noise, but not Accordion Man – he’s just wrong.’
‘Ha! I call him Accordion Man too.’ We grin at each other. ‘What music do you like?’ I ask.
‘Oh, I don’t know, whatever is on Mum’s iPod. I prefer to read, really.’
‘Me too,’ I exclaim, and this time she beams. ‘You have great taste.’
‘I don’t really have any taste at all,’ she confesses. ‘Just a lot of time on my hands – and not enough, all at the same time … I’ll read anything and mostly I like it, but I do like some authors better than others. Books are a bit like time travel, aren’t they? They can pick you up out of your life and put you in someone else’s. It’s just a shame that at some point you always have to come back. So what’s wrong with you? You look OK, to be honest.’
The question takes me by surprise.
‘Me? Cystic fibrosis. It’s like having a really shitty lung infection and constipation for your entire life, which is usually quite short. But, you know. It’s not …’ I gesture vaguely, realising that I’ve taken us down a path that only a minute ago I had been reminding myself not to engage with. Do not mention mortality to the dying kid.
‘Cancer,’ she says. ‘Which is fucking shit.’ She widens her eyes a little after swearing, looking as if she might get into trouble. I glance at her mum, who is sitting next to her with what I assume is Issy’s little sister in her lap, and I lean in a little closer.
‘Yeah, what a cunt,’ I say, and she laughs, clasping her hands over her mouth.
‘You can’t say that!’
‘I think you’ll find I just did.’ I lower my voice a further notch. ‘But don’t tell your mum.’
Ben has the room in the palm of his hand; there’s a little boy, someone’s grandson, I think, dancing around his legs, and he’s got Edward and Saul, two of the older patients, clapping along – even if they are each keeping their own particular time. Without warning, I feel this unexpectedly intense rush of affection towards him for rescuing this evening from a well-meaning but undertalented volunteer and filling this room with laughter, instead of the usual polite enduring applause. Sometimes I forget how wonderful he can be.
Sensing Issy watching me watching him, I drop my gaze.
‘He’s good looking.’ She nods at Ben, who is still caterwauling at the top of his voice. ‘Is he a good kisser?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend!’ I say, sounding about fourteen myself. ‘Plus, boys are overrated. Books are so much better than boys, trust me.’
‘Have you had a lot of boyfriends, then?’ she asks me curiously.
‘At least eighty-seven,’ I tell her. ‘Well, OK, two, and both of them were …’ I glance at her mother, who is pretending not to be listening to every word, as her younger daughter gets up and joins the little boy in frantic dancing. ‘Cunts.’
Issy laughs again, this time loud enough to make Ben raise an eyebrow at us, which makes her laugh even more and blush, the splash of colour bringing her pretty features into full focus, allowing me a glimpse of the girl she should have been. When she laughs, her eyes sparkle and she has two little dimples that form in her cheeks. Neither of us acknowledge the medication that flows steadily into her slight frame from the IV by her side; we both just want to pretend it’s not there.
‘This is a great experience,’ she tells me. ‘This is a good moment.’
‘Yeah, it’s a laugh,’ I acknowledge, smiling at Ben as he twists and grooves with the two little kids.
‘No, it’s more than that,’ Issy says. ‘It’s a happy thing. See?’ She nods at her mother, who is laughing at her little sister. ‘I haven’t seen Mum like this in such a really long time. I’m so glad I’m seeing it now.’
Finally Ben’s impromptu set list runs out, and he takes a bow, and then another, and one more just for luck, coming over and flopping down on the floor next to us, blowing his fringe out of his eyes, and grinning.
‘Did you like that?’ he asks Issy, who is at once a melting mess of mortification, unable to look up from her lap.
‘I’ve got a book I think you might like,’ I tell Issy, desperate to rescue her from the excruciating awkwardness of being around an attractive male. ‘I’ll be back in a second. Ben, come with me.’
Oblivious, he gets up and follows me, waving to his fans one last time, even though they are now more interested in the night’s main attraction: Albie, the therapeutic Labrador.
‘That was a massive laugh,’ Ben says, dropping his arm around me as we go into my room and dragging me into a hug, so that my nose is smooshed against his chest. I let myself rest for a beat, let myself take strength from him as I feel the weakness and background pain intrude into my thoughts again, and then doggedly fight my way out of his embrace, because it is far too tempting to stay there, which would be a little bit awkward after the actual kiss-of-death (alleged) incident.
‘I was awesome,’ he goes on. ‘They were a great crowd. Hey, maybe we should do a full-blown gig? I could get the band in? We could put a show on right here!’
‘You are nuts,’ I say fondly, knowing that he would do exactly that. ‘But also fairly cool. Thank you for saving us inmates from Accordion Man.’
‘The pleasure was all mine.’ He takes a step back and appraises me. ‘You look better, you know. Yes, there’s some colour in those chubby little cheeks.’
‘
Oh shut up, I’ve been on the verge-of-death diet,’ I protest, finding the book for Issy. ‘My gut can barely absorb nutrients! I’m not chubby, I am just very short. It’s different.’
‘You aren’t chubby, anyway. You are as slender as a willow wand,’ Ben says. There is a beat filled with awkward silence.
‘Weird,’ I say.
‘Let’s go out for a pint.’ He dips his chin and looks up through his lashes. It’s his killer move – I’ve seen it stop a girl dead in her tracks a thousand times over. ‘Let’s go and sample the night air.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘Didn’t you hear all the verge-of-death stuff? I can barely walk to the end of the corridor without feeling like the inside of my chest is on fire.’
‘I know, but the aim is for you to get out of here, right?’ He grins. ‘There’s a pub literally across the road, and it’s a nice one. And it’s pretty mild out, and dry for once, and a bit of fresh air and a walk would do you good, build you up a bit. And I checked with the intense-looking nurse and she said OK, as long as you are back by ten. So, a quick one? Doctor’s actual orders? Or nurse’s, anyway.’
‘I’ve got pyjamas on,’ I say.
‘So change!’
‘And I’ve got to drop this book off to Issy.’ I grab the book I was thinking of from my bedside and hold it up, like a shield. ‘We were going to talk about it.’
‘Is Issy the young girl you were talking to?’ I nod. ‘Give her the book on the way,’ he tells me. ‘Catch up with her tomorrow.’
‘She might not be here tomorrow,’ I say, and his expression softens.
‘She will be. I saw how you made her laugh,’ he said. ‘Her eyes sparkled; she’ll be here tomorrow. And, by the way, I think you are extremely cool for talking to her, and letting her have a laugh.’
‘And I hate it when you do this,’ I say.
‘Do what?’ He is going through all the clothes that I left on the back of a chair, and throws a pair of jeans at me.
‘Trying to bring me out of myself,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to come out of myself. I like it in here.’
‘Yes,’ he says, accosting me to drag a sweatshirt on over my vest, dressing me like I am an awkward child. ‘But you are completely failing to notice the obvious.’
‘Which is?’ I ask him.
‘When you are stuck inside your own head, I miss you.’
And just like that, he’s won.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STELLA
It’s 6 a.m. and still dark outside – too late in the year for there to be even a hint of dawn before I make it home. The night sky is still dense above the hum of the street lights, except for glimpses here and there of the fattening moon behind the cloud. I tie my shoes with precise care; the last thing I want is the knots coming undone as I run, because once I’ve started, I don’t want to stop. The beat of my feet on the pavement, vibrating through my soles into my thighs, becomes my heartbeat. If I stop, I falter, and I find it hard to start again.
I never used to run anywhere. I never used to walk anywhere, either, except for that summer I first met Vincent. I liked my car. I liked the power and the freedom it gave me – the idea that whatever else was going on, if I wanted to, I could pick up my keys and be miles away by nightfall. I could start over, start a new life again, where nobody knows me. Back in the day, back before I had someone else to care about, and starting again stopped being an option.
My mum and dad, well, they have always been so in love with each other that it sort of felt more like they were fond and benevolent guardians to my brother and me than parents. When my brother fell in love just as hard, and went down to Devon with his new wife, and my parents retired to a cottage where at last they could simply enjoy each other’s company uninterrupted, I was quite content to be alone. Because I was full of expectation that one day that sort of happiness would be mine.
And I was right. I met Vincent, big, strong, wonderful Vincent, with his long powerful thighs and a backside that was so firm you could bounce a penny off it. I know because I tried once. Back then, we were nearly always naked, always engaged in some activity that would keep us physically close. His fingers always laced in mine, my arms always around his waist, the length of our thighs always touching, our bare skin gliding over one another in a delicious silken warmth. We gravitated towards each other all the time. I was the moon to his earth, or perhaps the earth to his sun, because back then Vincent radiated heat – he shone with life force. He still does, I suppose, but it’s a different kind of force: an all-encompassing hurricane of fury.
Being at the peak of fitness mattered to him; he loved being strong and efficient. In that first summer, that golden time when we first met while he was home on leave, he’d use any excuse to strip off and stride around, skin glowing. Lots of his mates had tattoos, but not Vincent. His skin was clean and as fresh as the day he was born. Outsiders might have thought he was vain, because they didn’t know him. If I were another girl, sitting in the park, watching him strut past, cock of the walk, I’d have thought: he loves himself, that one. I’d have looked at me: short, dark, nothing special, and thought it must be a nightmare being her and being with him. But I never felt that way about Vincent, because I knew him. He wasn’t vain. He didn’t care what he looked like, or what other people thought of him. Plenty of girls would give him the eye when we were out; he never noticed. It wasn’t about showing off for him; it was just that he so loved to be as alive as he possibly could. He loved feeling his muscles ache and his heart beating, and the sun on his back or the rain in his hair. He loved every moment of it. I’ve never met a man that inhabited his body as well as Vincent, at ease right down to the tips of his fingers.
He’d laugh at me, sitting naked in bed eating crisps while I watched him do press-ups, and I’d laugh at him.
‘You should come running with me,’ he’d say, early on in our courtship, and I’d shake my head.
‘You should love me the way I am,’ I’d tell him. ‘With wobbly bits! I told you on the day we met that I’m lazy. I don’t sit down at all at the hospital, so when I’m not working I like to lie down. And eat.’
‘I know, and I do love you the way you are.’ He’d grab me around the waist and lift me up, clean off the floor, like I didn’t weigh quite a lot more than twelve stone – even potentially thirteen if I ever got anywhere near a set of scales, which I didn’t. ‘Especially your wobbly bits, actually, but it’s not about that. It’s about the feeling you get: the road beneath the soles of your feet, the smell in the air. It makes you feel strong, somehow, invincible. Exercise is better than any drug. I want you to feel that too.’
‘And how would you know what’s better than a drug?’ I’d tease him. ‘Your body is a temple. You don’t even take caffeine.’
Sometimes, on days like that, he’d drop me on the bed, sometimes on the rug, and kiss me all over until I pleaded for him to stop. We laughed and laughed and laughed in those early days. Every day we were together was like the first day. Perhaps it was because he was away so much, because we spent so much time apart, that when we were together we were starving for each other – desperate and hungry for every second that we were connected.
The day he bought me these running shoes was a fiercely bright one, full of sunshine and arching faultless sky. He’d presented them to me on one knee, offering the shoebox like a ring on a velvet pillow.
‘Top of the range,’ he told me, proudly.
‘And pink!’ I cried out, looking at the neon articles. ‘You bought me pink running shoes because I’m a girl – sexist!’
‘You like pink,’ he said, still on one knee. ‘Your curtains are pink, your duvet is pink, you have a pink toothbrush and loads of pink underwear. I got you pink because you like it, babe.’
‘Yeah, when I choose pink it’s a choice. When you choose pink it’s a patriarchal statement of expecting me to conform to your masculine ideals,’ I teased.
‘Fuck off,’ he said, laughing. ‘Your fucking
car is even almost pink – well, purple! Anyway, whatever colour they are, they are exactly the right size for running: your shoe size plus half a size so your toes don’t get rubbed.’
And that made me love him just a little bit more, so I accepted the shoes.
On the first day we went out running together, I dragged my feet and complained. I whined like a toddler, and he promised me an ice cream as he ran circles around me. He finally left me waiting for him on a park bench in the sunshine, with my rapidly melting prize, as he disappeared over the brow of the hill. I was still there, dozing, listening to the sound of children complaining and dogs barking, when he came back, shining with sweat, grinning from ear to ear as he collapsed on the bench next to me.
‘How was that?’ I asked him, letting him take my ice cream and finish it.
‘Like flying,’ he told me. ‘Like launching off a cliff and taking to the air! It’s better than ice cream, it’s better than sex …’
I saw the teasing glint in his eye as I launched at him, and some of the ice cream was smeared between us, sticky and cold. He caught me and held me and we laughed so hard I had tears running down my face. An old woman walking by took one look at us, tutted and shook her head. You could almost hear her saying, ‘They’ll learn.’
But I decided then and there that I never would learn. I could never learn not to love this man. There would never be anything that would come between us.
‘You look beautiful,’ Vincent had told me, suddenly quiet and still, looking hard into my eyes, that way he often did, when suddenly everything was so intense and so important, especially to me. ‘You are everything that matters, you know. I never knew, I never knew what it was like to be afraid of dying, until I met you.’
‘Poetic for a squaddie, aren’t you?’ I’d said, looking away because for a moment being loved so much felt a little dangerous, as if we were inviting fate to come and punish our joy. Vincent had kissed me hard, leaving his sweat all over me. We were so connected, it felt like every molecule that made us up vibrated in unison.
We Are All Made of Stars Page 5