by Maeve Haran
‘Just back for my wrap. Anyway, darling, I’m sure I told you. A cocktail-mixing course at the Cross Keys in Shenford. It’s all sponsored by Bombay Sapphire and they provide all the gin. By Christmas I’ll be a qualified mixologist.’
Claudia almost despaired.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she shut the door to the sitting room firmly, ‘you can’t go. This has got to stop. You’ve spent thousands of pounds on these courses.’
‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Olivia clucked at her daughter’s obvious ignorance. ‘They’re all seventy per cent off. I told you.’
‘Even with seventy per cent off you’ve still spent four grand.’
Olivia looked genuinely puzzled. ‘But how could I have? We don’t have that kind of money.’
‘All you’ve been doing is making the minimum payment on your card.’
‘Oh dear,’ Olivia looked as if finally the truth were filtering like dim sunlight through the canopy of her obsession. But the hope was short-lived. ‘I’m sure you’re making too much of this,’ her tone took on an edge of aggression. ‘You can be such a killjoy. I sometimes feel quite sorry for poor Don.’
‘I’m not being a killjoy, Mum. You’re ill and you’ve got to stop all this signing up for things. Now.’
‘You mean I can’t go tonight?’ The disappointment in her mother’s tone was almost funny.
Claudia shook her head. ‘Do you remember the doctor said all this stuff was a mania?’
‘But it’s such fun,’ Olivia replied mulishly. ‘It’s what keeps me going. Otherwise I’d just be an old person sitting around at home.’
‘But you can’t pay for it, Mum.’
Olivia sat down on the arm of the sofa, her face set in angry lines. ‘But what will I do with myself?’
‘Tell you what. Why don’t you go and change. We’ll make a cake together like we used to. You’ll show me how to. Just like you did when I was little. We’ll have a nice fire and have tea and cake in front of it.’
‘What about scones?’ asked her father, trying to join in the forced jollity. ‘Your mother’s scones are second to none.’
‘We’ll make scones too,’ promised Claudia.
Olivia went up to change.
Twenty minutes later she still hadn’t returned.
‘I wonder where Mum’s got to,’ Claudia thought aloud. ‘I’d better go up and see.’
Olivia was sitting on the end of the bed, still wearing her grey dress, staring into space.
‘Mum, are you all right?’
Olivia looked up. Her eyes had taken on the odd opaque look of a very old person. ‘No, dear, I don’t think I am.’
Claudia sat down next to her, taken aback at the transformation. Her bossy, energetic mother looked vulnerable and frail as if some inner life force had been quenched.
Claudia felt a stab of guilt that this had been because of her. She had turned up and confronted her mother in the hope that she would see sense. Instead, the argument seemed to have brought on a dramatic and abrupt change of mood. It was as if her mother had no choice but to be either restless, hyper-energetic, ceaselessly planning or silent as a block of stone.
‘Maybe there is something wrong with me after all.’ Olivia turned to her daughter. ‘I’m frightened, Claudia, I don’t always feel like me.’
Claudia took her hand. ‘You’re not alone, Mum. You have Dad. And me and Don. And Gaby. And all your friends and neighbours. It’s a well-known condition. There are treatments which will help.’
‘You mean I’m loopy.’ It was a statement not a question.
‘Not at all. There is therapy and also pills which are really effective.’
‘Pills!’ She almost spat the word out. ‘I’ve never had any time for pills.’
‘You’ll get better, Mum. I promise.’
And for the first time since her move from London, Claudia was glad to be here in Minsley, near her mother, where she might be able to help.
Laura found after only a few sessions she was actually looking forward to Relationship Recovery.
The thing was, she didn’t even want to share with her best friends how shittily Simon was behaving. At Relationship Recovery she could come clean about how she was really feeling and no one would be shocked.
The memory of the slashed tyres and the police visit came vividly back to her and she started to feel sick. Not that she was a brilliant role model. When Simon had first called to tell her about his car she had felt a distinct wave of satisfaction. Until the police arrived.
‘Hello, everyone,’ Suzanne greeted them brightly as the group arrived in the church hall and began to seat themselves in the circle. She reminded Laura more of her old hockey teacher than a marriage guidance counsellor. ‘What you girls need is fresh air and exercise!’ Come to think of it, that seemed to be pretty much what the current medical establishment recommended nowadays for everything from diabetes to heartbreak or depression.
‘How have you all been doing?’
‘Pretty well,’ Laura found herself saying. ‘My son slashed my husband’s tyres and my husband decided to call the police.’
‘That must have been hard,’ Stephen, the co-counsellor remarked, his tone all practised sympathy. But even practised sympathy made Laura want to cry. ‘And you’re feeling angry?’
Laura nodded. ‘And powerless. My lawyer told me to be reasonable and not to lose my temper. But when my son slashed the tyres I felt delighted.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable,’ Suzanne soothed. ‘But perhaps not very useful for your recovery.’
‘I was over the moon when my kids wouldn’t go to their dad’s wedding,’ confessed another group member.
‘When my daughter refused to even talk to her father, I thought, Yes! Serves you right, you bastard!’
‘Today,’ Suzanne steered the discussion deliberately away, ‘the session is about discovering the reasons – admittedly hard at this stage – why you are actually better off without your ex-partner.’
There was a silence as deep as the Continental Shelf.
‘He snored. At least I can get a good night’s sleep.’
‘She undermined me constantly. I’m lonelier but I don’t feel got at.’
‘He wanted to control me. In fact, he still tries even though we’re separated.’
‘He spent every penny in the betting shop.’
‘Actually,’ Laura admitted when it was her turn, ‘until I found out he was having an affair I quite liked my husband.’ Nine pairs of eyes swivelled disapprovingly in her direction. ‘Of course I didn’t realize what he was really like.’ The terrible moment came back to her when Simon had simply announced that he knew he was the shit and the villain and that they’d all hate him and that he was leaving, end of story, as if by admitting his fault he could somehow get away from the consequences.
Had he really even been sorry?
Laura closed her eyes, then stared ahead as if she’d seen Moses and the burning bush. ‘I really am better off without him,’ she announced in a tone almost of wonder.
To her intense embarrassment she found the rest of the group were clapping.
Laughing, Laura stood up and took a bow.
As they filed out Calum came up to her. ‘That was quite a moment.’
‘To be honest, it smacked a bit of casting out demons. I wasn’t that comfortable with it.’
‘Don’t knock it. You actually look a lot happier.’
Laura smiled and shook her head. ‘For the moment. Till I get home and find my son’s being sent to a young offenders’ institution.’
‘Actually, I was wondering if . . .’
‘Yes?’ she asked as his question petered out.
‘Oh nothing. Just a thought. See you next time. Hang on to that happiness! It’s a rare enough commodity around here.’
Laura watched him walk down the street, convinced he had been going to ask her for a coffee or something. Would she have wanted to go? She could just imagine Bella’s reaction. ‘Oh, yeah, that’s a go
od place to meet a new man, at a group full of desperate divorce victims on the rebound! Good choice, Mum!’ But there was something attractive about Calum, she had to admit.
When she got home she was surprised to find Bella there again. Maybe she’d come to give Sam moral support. Bella, dressed like a Jack the Ripper victim in a black bustier over a long Victorian skirt with laced-up ankle boots, was lying on the sofa. She and Sam were eating pizza and watching television. The wonderful normality of the scene made Laura want to shout with joy. She was delighted she didn’t even have to nag him about job applications.
‘Where have you been?’ Bella asked, grabbing her hand and giving it a big-sisterly squeeze. The break-up had meant that, even more than before, she treated her mother as if she were the wayward child who needed looking after. It infuriated the hell out of Laura.
‘To the Relationship Recovery group you signed me up for.’
‘Is it useful? I hope it gives you the chance to say what a shit you think Dad is instead of ludicrously protecting him like you do to us!’ This was so blisteringly accurate that Laura had to smile. ‘Have some pizza. It’s Meat Feast. Sam was telling me about the police coming.’
Laura remembered her maternal responsibilities. ‘It was quite wrong of Sam to slash Dad’s tyres.’
‘Yeah, Sam, dumb idea.’
Laura found herself relieved she had Bella’s backing.
‘I mean, a car’s just a piece of machinery. Wait till he finds out what I’ve got to tell him.’
‘What do you mean?’ Laura demanded, a sense of foreboding beginning to envelop her.
‘I’m going to have a baby too, Mum,’ Bella announced, a diabolical smile lighting up her pretty features. ‘And I’m not going to let Dad anywhere near it!’
Laura sat down and closed her eyes. Bella was going to have a child with a tattooed giant who could hardly string a sentence together and who had no visible means of support.
And then the full impact struck her. She was going to be grandmother to a baby that might have been conceived as a grudge to get back at Simon for leaving them.
The night before her treatment started Sal stood at the mirror and surveyed her body.
All these years she’d prided herself on defying age and doing whatever she wanted. Now she was probably going to lose a breast and quite probably all her hair into the bargain.
Almost defiantly, she got out the jumpsuit she had considered embarrassingly youthful and laid it out to wear. Even if the chemo knocked her for six she would simply have to go ahead at New Grey in spite of the tiredness and pain. She would work nine to five and say no to anything extra so she could spend the rest of her time recovering. Willpower would have to carry her through.
And if the chemotherapy didn’t go well? There was no point even thinking about that since everything, her entire life, would then be up for grabs. It wasn’t a scenario she was prepared to face.
A thought struck her. She might not want fuss and sympathy but how on earth was she going to explain to her friends what was happening to her?
Next morning, when the cab she’d ordered arrived, Sal was feeling particularly pathetic.
‘Where to, love?’ the minicab driver enquired.
‘The Princess Lily Hospital.’ He gave her a quick double take and to her great relief didn’t ask what she was going in for, engage her in proto-racist banter or even put on a loud football channel.
‘Lovely day,’ was his only comment.
Sal looked out of the window. He was right. The sky was a bright blue and the pale winter sunshine softened the edges of the office blocks and rows of shops, making Sal think of that Joni Mitchell song about the sun coming in through yellow curtains and making rainbows on the wall. God, Joni Mitchell. She must be seventy and still singing. Good for you, Joni. There’s life in us old birds yet.
They passed the life-size crib outside the Catholic church on the hill and it made Sal feel suddenly alone. She’d been brought up a Catholic but had abandoned her faith along with her Northern accent the moment she’d arrived in London. Would it have helped her now? Christmas was coming and here she was having her first ever cycle of cancer treatment. Unlike her friends she didn’t even have children to hold her hand like that mother and two lovely daughters she’d seen. For a moment she found herself back in Norway all those years ago. No, she wouldn’t think about that. Not now. Too late. All too late.
And then they were at the hospital.
‘Righto,’ said the driver, ‘nine pounds, please. I won’t say have a nice day.’
It suddenly struck her that she’d need a cab home too and she’d liked this driver’s restful silence. ‘Can I have a card, please? What’s your name, by the way?’
‘Ricky. They call me Ricky Reliable.’
‘Thank you, Mr Reliable,’ she laughed at her own feeble joke. ‘I’ll ask for you when I need to go home.’ A mad idea suddenly struck Sal. ‘I don’t suppose you could come in with me? For an extra fiver?’ Suddenly, madly, she felt the need for moral support. Even from a stranger.
‘Dear lady,’ he climbed out of the cab and bowed with all the insouciant gallantry of a Walter Raleigh throwing down his cape for Queen Elizabeth I, ‘if I can find a parking space I’ll do it for nothing!’
He let her out and promised to follow her up if parking permitted.
Sal took the lift to the chemo suite on the tenth floor, feeling silly at her sudden weakness.
She reported to reception.
‘One of Mr Richards’s breast lumps,’ the receptionist informed the chemotherapy nurse, indicating Sal.
‘Poor man,’ Sal was about to flash angrily back, ‘how many breast lumps does he have?’ when Aussie Pam, suddenly annoyed on her behalf, intervened.
‘Lucy, for crying out loud! Ms Grainger is a patient, not a breast lump. I do apologize.’ Pam shook her head. ‘You can’t get the staff!
‘Now, I have to tell you,’ Pam explained as she led her through the suite, ‘this may take a while, maybe even all day. In fact, it can drive some of our patients wild. You need your blood done to make sure your count’s not low, then you get checked over, see the pharmacist, hang around a bit, then they’ll put you in one of these nice chairs.’ She pointed to a row of large squashy seats facing out towards the London skyline, each attached to a stand to which a delivery unit was fixed and various monitors and infusion pumps.
‘Oh, no,’ Sal said in her best Monty Python tones, ‘not the comfy chairs!’
Pam looked bewildered. ‘Would you rather sit somewhere else?’
‘The Ritz bar?’ suggested Sal. ‘These will be fine.’
‘Then they’ll put in your cannula and off you go! The one compensation is the chemotherapy nurses. Everybody loves the chemotherapy nurses!’
Pam handed her over to a smiling middle-aged Irish woman who fitted Sal’s head into a freezing ice pack in the hope of saving her hair. Sal hoped it bloody worked. At the moment having a cross between a long-distance swimming cap and a jockey’s headgear full of frozen gel felt like the final indignity.
Once she’d sat in her cold cap for forty minutes she was finally ready for the first drug onslaught.
‘Your arm, please. Wonderful,’ the chemo nurse congratulated. ‘Virgin veins!’
‘That sounds ominous. Are they usually so hard to find?’
‘It’s a lot easier to get a line in at the beginning when your veins stand out nicely like yours do.’
Sal decided to take this as a compliment. The journalist in her was intrigued. ‘How do heroin addicts manage to find a vein, then?’
‘In their bums, earlobes, toes, elbows, you’d be amazed. Mind you, heroin isn’t as bad for your veins as this stuff.’
As the line was fitted into her arm through a cannula, a surge of sickness swept through her.
‘It’s the impact of the drugs,’ the nurse told her. ‘You’re on FEC – Fluorouracil, Epirubicin and Cyclophosphamide.’
‘What’s the red stuff?’ W
arily, she eyed the contents of the injection going into her arm.
‘That’s the Epirubicin.’
There was no sign of Ricky. Sal was beginning to feel relieved. What the hell had she been thinking of, appealing to a total stranger like that?
Suddenly, he materialized on the other side of the room carrying a copy of Grazia, a large bottle of Lucozade and the rug she’d noticed on the back shelf of his cab. He waved to her cheerily.
‘Here’s your husband,’ the chemo nurse informed her with a smile. ‘And he’s brought lots of goodies.’
He proceeded to wrap her in the tartan rug.
‘It’s the air con,’ he explained. ‘Cold enough to freeze your tits off.’
He looked stricken at this outbreak of tactlessness and by way of apology produced a bottle of massage oil out of his parka pocket. He sat down next to her chair and began to massage her feet. Taken aback by having her feet grabbed by a strange minicab driver, Sal almost protested, then suddenly grinned and relaxed. What the hell, she had cancer!
She surrendered to the delicious luxury of the fragrant oil. What did it matter if he was an almost total stranger? As far as she knew he could be the angel Gabriel.
‘Where on earth did you find massage oil? Don’t tell me you carry it to lubricate your sumps?’
‘Chemist across the road. My other wife gets migraine. Massaging her feet is the only thing that helps.’
‘You’re a better actor than Kenneth Bloody Branagh,’ murmured Sal, almost forgetting the fear, panic and nausea. ‘And twice as good at foot massage.’
‘Me and my other wife are keen on amateur dramatics.’
‘What a lovely husband,’ murmured the chemo nurse admiringly to Lucy, the receptionist.
‘Funny,’ Lucy whispered back, ‘only I could have sworn I’ve seen that man down the Arndale Centre with another woman.’
‘Oh no, not another one!’ The nurse quickly revised her opinion of poor Ricky. ‘How can men do it? The wife gets cancer and he has to stick it to someone else.’ She shot a disdainful look at Ricky. ‘And he looks so harmless too.’
Unaware of this assassination of his character, Ricky took himself off with instructions that Sal should call when her chemo was finished and, even if it meant a few white lies, he would try and come and collect her.