by Lesley Lokko
She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just said. ‘Too thin?’ she echoed. ‘Me?’
He lifted his shoulders. ‘Yes … I don’t know, you’re much thinner than you used to be. I saw your ribs this morning and …’ His voice trailed off. An ugly blush had spread itself across her face and neck. He began to wish he hadn’t brought it up.
‘No, I’m not. I’m exactly the same weight as I’ve always been. It’s the rehearsals, that’s all. I don’t always have time to eat lunch.’ She turned away from him, busying herself with the dishes.
He remained where he was, unsure of himself; should he go on, press the point? There was tension in the way she held herself at the sink, he saw. He’d touched on something raw. But what? He tried again, regretting it as soon as he opened his mouth. ‘But, Maddy …’
‘Drop it, Rafe.’ Her voice was a low, tight command.
‘But—’
‘Rafe.’ Maddy turned round. There were two brilliant red spots of anger in her cheeks and her eyes were glassy with tears. She was trembling ever so slightly. She untied the apron and laid it carefully on the counter top. ‘Just drop it, will you?’ she hissed.
‘Maddy—’
But she was gone. She walked out of the room, holding herself very tense and still. He heard her climb the stairs and shut the bedroom door. He stood in the middle of the kitchen feeling like a prize idiot, wondering what he’d done wrong and why she’d reacted like that. What was going on? What had he failed to spot? He was a doctor and yet he could do nothing to help her. How could he when he had no idea what was wrong?
Again and again. She retched in almost total silence, removing the last traces of the conversation from her body and mind. She reached up for the handle and tugged downwards, watching the angry swirl with relief. It was gone. All gone. She stood up, feeling slightly dizzy. She put a hand under her jumper and touched her skin … she could feel her ribs standing hard and proud underneath her fingertips. Was it true? Had she really lost so much weight? She lifted her jumper up all the way and turned to face the mirror. Her heart was thumping. No, no … no change at all. She saw herself as she’d always done. White, alabaster skin, freckled here and there, dimpled at the belly button, the same gross swelling of her abdomen when she turned sideways … he was completely wrong. She was fat, not thin. What the hell was wrong with him? She tugged her jumper back down again. She picked up her toothbrush and began brushing her teeth. Soon the bitter taste of bile was replaced by a pleasingly sweet peppermint. She rinsed her mouth once more, smoothed down her hair and opened the door. The flat was quiet. Fortunately their muted, angry exchange in the kitchen hadn’t woken Darcy up. She drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked downstairs to the living room.
He looked up as she entered. The look of perplexed worry in his face sliced through her like a knife. She walked over to the couch and sat down beside him. She took one of his hands in hers, turning it over slowly. When she first met him, it was his hands that had fascinated her most. She couldn’t stop staring at them – less for their physical qualities than for what she imagined their capabilities to be. ‘You save people’s lives with these,’ she’d said to him on more than one occasion, lifting up one of his hands to her cheek. He’d laughed, embarrassed, but it was true. She was in awe of what his hands could do. Now she traced the raised map of tendons, running her fingers in between his own, lacing his hand tightly to hers. She felt in his answering grip his relief. She turned her head and kissed him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, pressing herself into him. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’ He held her tightly.
‘Everything. For snapping at you. For not taking better care of Darcy. For not being nicer to Diana … for everything.’
‘Is … is everything all right, Mads?’ Rafe used his nickname for her.
‘Of course it is. It’s just—’
But whatever she was about to say was cut short by the shrill ringing of the phone. Rafe stretched out one hand to pick it up but the other stayed where it was, holding her. She leaned into him gratefully. ‘Hello?’ He listened to whoever was on the other end for a few minutes. She felt his body stiffen. ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘Who is it?’ she asked, looking up into his face. There was a terrible confusion in it, something she’d never seen in him. ‘Who is it?’ she repeated, suddenly afraid. Darcy was upstairs. She was safe. Who else was there to worry about?
‘It’s Harvey. Dad. I … I’ve got to go over. Now.’ His words came out in short, sharp bursts, as though he were out of breath.
‘What’s the matter?’ Maddy reached out a hand to stop him, but he’d already disengaged himself and was practically running towards the door.
‘It’s Diana. Something’s happened. I’ll … I’ll call you later,’ he called over his shoulder, grabbing his jacket. The front door slammed behind him and he was gone. She leaned back against the cushions, perplexed. Something wrong with Diana? What on earth could be wrong with her? She passed a hand over her lips, feeling their rough, papery texture against her fingertips. She knew exactly why they were so dry. That was another one of the little side effects of her ‘problem’ – with the opening night of Phaedra only two days away, she’d been feeling even more panicked than usual … silly, of course. She had a grand total of eight lines and she’d more or less memorised everyone else’s parts. She knew the play inside out, back to front and front to back. She’d read every interpretation going; studied the critics’ responses to other, older adaptations … she’d fine-tuned her eight lines until they sang. In other words, it was all going to be fine. She would be fine. She had tickets for everyone; she’d organised a babysitter for Darcy and there were several bottles of champagne in the fridge for herself and Rafe to celebrate when it was all over. She felt a ripple of excitement rush through her at the thought of the rest of the family seeing her up there on the stage, in some capacity other than the one they knew – Rafe’s wife, Darcy’s mother, somebody’s sister-in-law. For the first time since she’d come to London, she would be herself, who she really was. An actress. Someone with a profession and a talent worth showing. Herself, in other words. As she really was and as she’d like to be seen. She buried her face in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and relief. From now on, things would be different. There’d be no need to panic, no need to be afraid or to find herself out of her depth. She would be able to hold her head up amongst them all, yes, even Diana. More than anything, it was Diana’s respect she craved. She no longer cared whether Diana liked her or not. That, she realised, was out of her hands and always would be. But respect was another issue altogether. That she could control. Signing up with Stef, getting an audition and actually landing the part were the first, tentative steps towards regaining some control. If she could do that, there was no telling what else she could do. She looked at her hands. They too were dry, the skin paper-thin. It was time to stop that other stuff before it was too late.
98
AARON
London, October 2000
Aaron stared at the young doctor who’d come in to deliver the news. Although he understood what it was he’d said, the lawyer in him fought back. ‘So, what you’re saying is … anything’s possible. How is that possible?’
The doctor was patronisingly patient. ‘Medicine’s not an exact science, contrary to popular belief, Mr Keeler. Now, I know this may be hard to grasp, but in your case, we simply don’t know. Yes, you’ve been diagnosed with azoospermia – low sperm count, that is – but, just to complicate matters further, we’ve also detected spermatozoa that are lethargic but not always consistently so. In other words, yes, you are experiencing difficulty fertilising an egg, but there’s an outside chance that you may succeed in doing so one day, and the bottom line is, we’ve no idea how or why.’
Aaron shook his head slowly. He was aware of his heart lifting in relief. So it was possible. The child was his – of course it was. Who else’s would it be?
He picked up the envelope that contained the report and slid it into his briefcase.
Ten minutes later, the bill settled and paid, he was out on Harley Street, walking towards Great Portland Street. His heart slowed to its normal pace; his thoughts, which, for the past few weeks had been so jumbled, so confused, slowly began to right themselves. He wouldn’t speak of it again, he knew, now that it was over. He’d sought a second opinion, just as Rafe had suggested, and the result was what he wanted, wasn’t it? The child was his. His and Julia’s. And yet … the tiniest, most fleeting doubt remained. For all his relief and outward assurance, there was a part of him that didn’t believe it. He knew himself well enough; he knew he would push the doubt deep down into himself, somewhere so buried he would not be able to get at it. But it would be there, waiting to unsettle him whenever the opportunity arose. He would have to live with it, just as he’d lived with the questions that had tormented him for the past few weeks. He had no other choice, no alternative. He could no more force the truth out of Julia than he could face it, whatever it turned out to be. The medical uncertainty that had emerged over the past few hours had presented him with a stark choice: accept the version of events that was on offer – or not. Accept that she was telling the truth – the child was his. Or not. It wasn’t the sort of choice he’d ever dreamed he would have to make.
He walked into his office and sat down at his desk. His phone was beeping furiously; there were a dozen messages, three from Julia, two from Rafe, one from Harvey. He listened to the last, a bolt of fear spreading through him as his father’s disembodied voice faded away. He put down the receiver, all thoughts of Julia, the baby, the report, the truth, simply vanishing into thin air. Diana. Diana was ill. He stood up, grabbed the jacket he’d just placed on the back of his chair and fled from the room.
99
JOSH
London, October 2000
Niela wasn’t home. He pushed open the front door impatiently; it was just after eight o’clock in the morning. He went into the bedroom – her coat was gone. He must have just missed her. He tossed his duffel bag on to the bed, hurriedly stripped off his clothes and walked into the shower. He felt as though he’d been travelling for weeks. He stood under the blast of hot water, feeling the tiredness and dislocation of stepping on to a plane in the heat of Africa one moment and then off it into the cool damp of England the next sloughing off him. He stayed under for longer than was necessary; by the time he finally emerged out of the steam and fug, the skin on his fingers was wrinkled. He towel-dried his hair and pulled on clean clothes. The living room was quiet; he sat down with a mug of coffee, enjoying the soft light and the scent of coolness. He glanced at the phone; he ought to give Diana a ring. He hadn’t spoken to her since he’d left.
A few minutes later he put down the phone, a strange hackle of fear rising somewhere in him. Diana was not in chambers. She hadn’t been in all week. She wasn’t well, her PA told him. She wasn’t sure what was wrong but she’d only been in sporadically in the past couple of weeks. He hung up the phone and brought the receiver to his lips for a few moments before dialling. Diana answered on the third ring. As soon as he heard her voice, he knew something was wrong.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Josh.’ Diana’s voice was weak with relief. ‘You’re back. When did you get back?’
‘This morning. What’s the matter? I rang chambers – they said you’re ill.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she began, brushing aside his concern, as always.
‘It’s not nothing,’ Josh interrupted her quickly. ‘I can hear it in your voice. What is it?’
‘Oh, Josh.’
To his horror, he realised Diana was crying. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard her cry. He stood up, agitated. ‘I’m coming over,’ he said, already walking towards the door. He picked up his lightweight jacket on the way. ‘I’ll see you in half an hour.’ He put down the phone before she could say another word.
His first reaction was one of relief. Diana didn’t look terribly ill. She looked more or less the same; a little thinner, perhaps, but he was used to her dropping a few pounds every now and then in response to a dress she wanted to buy or some photograph she’d seen of herself in which she always seemed to claim she was actually much thinner. She was sitting on the chesterfield in the upstairs living room when he arrived, wrapped in a light cashmere blanket although it wasn’t cold. Her face was drawn, he noticed, as he bent to kiss her. There was a chemical smell to her that he’d never noticed before – it mingled with the perfume she always wore; his relief began to evaporate.
‘Mother,’ he said, straightening up. ‘What’s the matter? What’s going on?’
Diana patted the space next to her. She took one of her hands in his, turning it over, examining the dark, tanned skin in silence for a few moments. He felt a tightening in his gut, as if someone had literally turned a screw. ‘Josh,’ she said slowly, ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She looked up at him. She was holding herself in. They sat for a moment like that, Josh all emotion, Diana calmer now. ‘I wish I knew how to say this better, darling,’ she said, lifting her hands from his and bringing them up to her own face.
‘Say what? What is it?’
‘I’m not well, Josh. It’s … well, there’s no other way of saying it. It’s cancer. It’s pretty far advanced, I’m afraid.’
The words slid into him like a knife. He’d been holding his breath, he realised. Cancer. He wanted to put up a hand as if to ward the word off but Diana grabbed it, holding on to it tightly. ‘Cancer?’ The word spun out of control.
She nodded. ‘Breast cancer. I found out about a month ago, just after you left. I couldn’t tell you over the phone, especially not when you’re so far away.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’ He slipped easily into the medical terminology that had been theirs around the dinner table.
She let go of his hand. ‘It’s not great,’ she said, turning her own hands over, examining her fingernails.
‘Just tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘It’s unusually aggressive. It’s spreading fast, and despite what everyone says, they’re not optimistic.’
‘What about Dad? What does he say?’
She spread her hands. ‘You know your father. He doesn’t give up easily. But he’s looking at it like a surgeon would.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Cut it out, clear everything in its path … that’s the way they’re trained to think. Geoffrey – you remember him … Dr Laing? – he thinks it’s more complicated. Not just a matter of surgery. The statistics are pretty low … less than ten per cent, he says.’
‘Just numbers,’ Josh said automatically. ‘Didn’t you always tell us that?’
Diana smiled. ‘I did. But this time … I don’t know, Josh. I just don’t know.’
‘You’ll get through this, Mother. Of course you will. You’ll have the best treatment available … Dad’ll see to that. You’ll get through it.’
‘I wish I had your confidence, darling,’ Diana said, looking straight at him. ‘But I don’t. And it’s not that I don’t think everyone won’t move heaven and earth on my behalf – it’s not that at all. There’s something else. I … I’ve been speaking to Niela this past month … no, let me finish. She’s been a great comfort to me, I can’t tell you. Took me completely by surprise. And it’s because of something she said that I feel I have to talk to you before I talk to anyone else. I haven’t told your brothers yet. Only Dad knows. And Uncle Rufus.’
Slowly, as he watched, Diana’s face changed. Her eyes, dark like his own, were difficult to meet. The small, taut fold of skin beneath each eye fell away as her face was drawn back over her high cheekbones. It was a feature of hers that he’d known since childhood. Her face tightened, taking on a new urgency. Her mouth opened; words came tumbling out. He felt himself shrinking as the true meaning of what she was telling him began to dawn on him. His whole body felt as though it
were turning itself inside out. He struggled to focus on her words. Khadija. Mohammed. Djemmorah. None of it made any sense. His mouth opened a moment in unease but Diana took no notice. She was spinning a thread of a story he’d known all along. He didn’t belong. That wasn’t the surprise. What he couldn’t have guessed at was the lengths to which she had gone.
100
DIANA
Mougins, June 1969
She lay down just as Rufus had instructed her. Her stomach was churning with fear and the brandy he’d forced her to drink. The sun had come up, advancing its way across the pale gold flagstones of the patio. The blood-red geraniums that stood to attention in the terracotta pots were slowly unfolding their petals towards it; everything coming alive again with the dawn of a new day. Her teeth were still chattering, despite the warmth of the room. Where was Rufus? Her breath caught itself on a sob. Where was Josh? What had he done with him … with the tiny body? She closed her eyes in anguish and brought her hands up to her face. From outside came the familiar sounds of the properties around them slowly coming to life: the farting stutter of old Cassoux’s motorcycle, the gear-whine of a tractor from the villa down the hill that still had land to till; music from the pool house across the track … now and then something came tinkling clear – a woman’s voice, the gobbling bark of a dog. She lay on the rug in front of the stone-cold fireplace, her whole body tense with panic, waiting for Rufus to return.