by Lucy Dillon
Her skin tingled as she felt herself opening up to take it all in. The soft heat pressing on her face, the distant barking of dogs in the wood mingling with the muffled sound of traffic nearly blocked out by the dense hedges, the crunch of the gravel underfoot. It was too loud, too bright, too hot, too detailed, but she wanted to let it flood into her and be part of her.
I need to be aware of every single moment, she thought fiercely. I need this to be part of me. I need to be here.
She had made herself focus on every moment at the hospital. Gina was determined not to detach as she had six years ago, letting Stuart ask the questions while she floated somewhere above herself. As she’d promised, Naomi had met her outside with a notebook and a checklist, insisting that she’d ask any questions Gina didn’t feel up to, but this time Gina had been the one to stay calm in the room while Naomi sat stunned next to her. Gina knew what the answers would be now: it made the questions easier to ask when they couldn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.
There were more tests, another biopsy, ultrasounds, a scan. A squeeze of the hand from Naomi, two coffees that went cold, undrunk, a dark snigger at the horoscopes in the glossy mags Naomi had brought to read while they waited. The nurses were kind and cheerful, and Gina kept her mind focused on the picnic waiting for her on the hill, in an hour, half an hour, ten minutes, until it was over, and they were walking through the white corridors, out into the sunshine.
Naomi hugged her by the directions board, rocking her from side to side. ‘You’re amazing,’ she’d managed through the tears. Then they’d giggled about the awful pregnant-woman statue in Reception, that looked like a Moomin, then hugged and hugged again for several long minutes, saying nothing.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Gina, and Naomi wiped away her tears and nodded through a watery smile.
And now Gina was walking through the gates of the park it was as if everything was erupting around her, summer condensed into one intoxicating afternoon as if it, too, had to pack in as much as possible to one perfect day.
Gina could see them at the top of the hill: Nick sitting on a large tartan blanket with Buzz lying next to him. She wondered where he’d got it from, that blanket and the Wizard of Oz picnic basket.
It’s like Kit said, she thought. I don’t have to do it all at once. I just need to get through today, and today, and today, and make it the best I can.
Nick saw her – Gina knew she was easy to spot in her favourite red sundress, the one with polka dots and the gypsy neckline that made her feel like she was on holiday. She was wearing her lucky knickers too, her expensive perfume, her best lipstick, her favourite shoes. Enjoying them, not hoarding them for some imaginary day in the future.
He raised a hand and waved, and she waved back, and he had to grab Buzz’s collar to stop him rushing down the hill to greet his mistress. Then he let go, and Gina watched Buzz bounding towards her with a soaring heart.
And maybe it’ll be fine, Gina thought. Maybe it won’t. But I know what I’ve got to do this time, and I did it once. I can do it again. And this time I’ve got some real happiness with me, true happiness, for however long.
She caught Buzz’s collar, and stroked his ears in greeting but as she looked up the hill to where Nick was opening the cider, the unfairness nearly tripped her up. It was unfair. Nick was the man she’d waited her whole life to meet, a man who made her want to do things, visit things, see things. Not show her, like Kit, or tell her, like Stuart. Someone who’d help her be her best self. And just as he’d reached out, the ground had shifted underneath them both.
But who knows how long anyone has anything for? she argued. I’ve got love, and a home, and a dog, and a job. Naomi, and Mum, and Willow, and myself.
Nick waved again. Her heart turned over and began to lift, like a balloon slipping out of a child’s hand, up into the sky, a red dot against the clouds.
Gina set off up the hill, Buzz by her side, and as she made her way along the path, out of the warm bowl of the park, a soft breeze brushed her bare arms. It was a delicious, caressing sensation that made her aware of each hair.
She had the Polaroid camera in her pocket, and she took it out, ready to capture the moment but something stopped her.
Nick rose, ready to ask how she was, what had happened, but she put a finger on her lips. Slowly, deliberately, Gina walked into the picture, closing her eyes as she felt Nick’s arms go around her, Buzz’s cold black nose rest against her leg and the yellow sunshine warm the crushed grass around their blanket.
Gina clicked the shutter in her mind. Forget about what came before, or what’s going to come. Focus on this exact moment, when you’ve got everything you need: this is living.
Now.
Now.
And now.
Acknowledgements
A Hundred Pieces of Me has been a very personal and sometimes hard story to write, and I’m grateful to my sensitive and skilful editor, Francesca Best, and my unfailingly brilliant agent, Lizzy Kremer, for their patience and encouragement over the past months, as well as the wonderful teams at both Hodder and David Higham Associates. I’m grateful too to Andrew Pugh and the renovation specialists who hacked plaster off the walls really quietly, made their own tea, and answered every dim question about render several times until I understood what they were on about. Any howling mistakes about old buildings are definitely not theirs.
Making my own Hundred Pieces of Me board has made me appreciate all the things that bring me happiness, big and small – Herdwick sheep, Herefordshire sunsets, coffees with my best friend, the new Routemaster buses, toast – but at the top of my list is my parents’ windswept haven of peace on the Irish Sea; they taught me that you don’t need things to remind you of love, when you have it in your heart all the time.
A Q&A with Lucy Dillon
What would be at the top of your list of a hundred things?
Top of my 100 things list would be my dogs, Violet and Bonham – they bring a lot of happiness into my life, not just with their lugubrious expressions and wrinkly feet that smell of biscuits, but because every time we go out for a walk, I notice something that I’d probably have missed otherwise – a pink-streaked sunset, or fat blackberries in the hedges, or the change in the air when spring’s coming or summer’s fading. They’re good company, and are always pleased to see me, and they’re beautiful to watch when they’re tracking an invisible scent, ears flapping and tails up like question marks.
What is your earliest childhood memory?
Playing on the beach outside my parents’ house in Seascale – the smell of salt, and sea rosehips, and Ambre Solaire SPF50 suncream, and hot sand, and the sound of the waves in the distance. I know it must have been 1976 because it never seemed to be that warm again for a long time.
Do you collect anything?
I collect old romance novels – I love those old-fashioned dust jackets with winsome nurses in clinches with handsome doctors. And Vivienne Westwood shoes (they’re quite rare in a size 8), old postcards of the village I grew up in, costume jewellery, cookery books, especially American ones from the 50s and 60s . . . I sympathise with Gina and her houseful of boxes.
When was the last time you wrote or received a handwritten letter?
I’m a bit old-fashioned about postcards: I have a box of them on my desk by my computer with some stamps, and I try to send them instead of thank you emails or texts. It’s always nicer to get post than a text, and I keep postcards friends send me in the pages of cookery books, so I find one now and again and have a nice moment, thinking about them.
If you had the opportunity to live one year of your life over again, which year would you choose?
Any of my three years at university probably. But this time round I wouldn’t worry as much about my Finals, I’d say no to the hairdresser who cut off my long hair aged 20, and I’d pluck up the courage to join Footlights instead of mooching about college, miserable that I’d never find anything original to say about Jane Aust
en. No one has anything original to say about Jane Austen. If Jane Austen came back now, even she’d struggle. Those three subtle changes would free me up to enjoy more of the things I didn’t have time to enjoy. Having said that . . . I do genuinely believe that the best year of your life could well be one that hasn’t happened yet, so I might want to book in 2014, or 2020.
What three things would you take to a desert island?
A Nespresso machine, my guitar and the dogs to keep me warm at night.
When was the last time you did something for the first time? What was it?
I’ve just started running – actually, running is probably overstating it a bit. It’s mainly stumbling, interspersed with jogging, at the moment, but I’m putting my faith in the ‘Couch to 5k’ regime to get me running eventually! I’ve always been envious of runners, with their long strides and serene expressions (and great legs), so I thought it was time I made a final concerted effort to join them while my knees are still up to it. I also learned to make choux pastry this summer. Hence the running.
What did you buy with your first pay cheque?
A Mac lipstick, in Russian Red. My first, very low paid, job out of university was as a press assistant in an office over the road from Selfridges on Oxford Street: I used to walk round the Beauty Hall and Food Hall in my lunchbreak in a state of consumer rapture, even though I couldn’t afford to buy anything more expensive than the occasional sandwich. When I finally got paid, I splashed out what felt like an outrageous sum of money on a lipstick, after the make-up artist spent ages finding exactly the right shade for me. I wore it every single day, right down to the swivelly tube: it made me feel really glamorous and ‘London’, and I’ve only ever worn red lipstick since.
What’s your favourite food?
Bread. I love bread, particularly something called a beacon loaf which I’ve only ever found in the village bakery in Gosforth. It’s a delicious treacly, malty loaf and it’s the crack cocaine of the bread world. When my sister and I were little, my mum used to have to buy three at a time, because we would scoff a whole one in the three-mile drive between the bakery and our house. It’s the only recipe I don’t actually want to have, because if I learned how to make them, I would turn into a gigantic beacon loaf, in the manner of Veruca Salt.
Tell us about a guilty pleasure.
Mascarpone mashed up with icing sugar. I urge you not to try it. The slippery slope to Hell is covered in mascarpone, with Irish Dairy Milk handrails.
What’s your favourite karaoke song?
I do a mean ‘If I Could Turn Back Time’ by Cher. Especially the low honking parts.
What was the last song you listened to?
The last song I listened to was The Viking Literally Song from Horrible Histories. No day is complete without a bit of HH.
What’s your secret special talent?
I can waltz, cha cha cha and foxtrot.
What can you always be found with?
A cup of coffee.
What’s your idea of perfect happiness?
A huge sofa, a new hardback, a coal fire, dogs each side of me, and rain lashing down on the windows. Or a night of Scottish reeling that never ends, with a bar that never runs dry.
A Note from Lucy Dillon
Cancer, especially breast cancer, is something that will, sadly, probably touch all our lives at some point; currently, in a lifetime breast cancer affects 1 in 8 women (and 1 in 868 men). I won’t presume to go into detail about such a complicated and important topic here, but I found Macmillan Cancer Support (www.macmillan.org.uk) and Breast Cancer Care (www.breastcancercare.org.uk) straightforward and helpful sources of information and support while I was researching this book. The stories and everyday bravery of women just like Gina were inspiring, and I’m even more admiring than ever of the work the fundraisers, supporters and researchers do to help those facing breast cancer.
Ten tips for being a good client, gleaned from the builders working on my house, and my own ‘slow learner’ experience
1. Decide what you want. House renovators, as far as I’ve gathered, tend to fall into two groups. People who know what they want, and people who don’t. People who know what they want may have stacks of mood boards, and irritatingly specific requirements about lighting that may not always be possible outside a showroom, but they’re easier to work with than people who don’t know what they want, and take three weeks to decide where to put light switches. Some things will only occur to you as you go along, but it saves everyone’s time if you’ve at least thought about how many plug sockets you want in your sitting room before the electrician arrives. (Not surprisingly, when you’re invoiced for two builders standing around for a whole day while you hem and haw about grout colours, your mind will be focused.)
a) Decide what you want between you. This is my builder’s biggest bug-bear: doing a job to the exact specifications of one person, only for their other half to come back and decide it’s completely wrong and needs re-doing. Re-painting a room is fair enough. Moving a whole oak floor is a nightmare for everyone. So is standing by as a couple come to blows about what kind of taps they really wanted.
2. Put proposed works and costs in writing, so there can be no confusion about what was included in the quote. Extras will inevitably crop up but it’s important to communicate exactly what you want. It’s much harder all round when the work’s been done. Or not.
3. Get a kettle, plenty of tea, coffee, milk and biscuits; leave out for the builders. They can then make their own and not bother you. Popular biscuits: chocolate digestives, bourbons. Unpopular: Nice biscuits.
4. Make lists of what’s vital, what’s important and what can wait. Do not harass the builders about items on List 3 while they’re in the middle of vital structural work, but do not be fobbed off about items on List 1. If you haven’t employed a project manager to deal with the various tradesmen, establish who the foreman is, and have a regular ‘end of the week’ conversation, so you know where you are. Write things down.
5. Pay your invoices on time. You don’t want the plumber to be ‘hard to get hold of’ when everyone’s waiting for him to put the water back on.
6. Ask questions. The thing about renovations, according to my brilliant electrician, is that you learn by doing them. The trouble is, not only is renovation work quite stressful (you only have to look at Grand Designs to work that out) but most people have done up one, maybe two houses before. Your builders, on the other hand, have hopefully done lots. So ask. Their last client’s problem might be your solution.
7. If you can’t work out where to put lights or switches, photocopy your fittings and stick them to the ceiling/walls with Blu-tack until they look right. Also, put a plug socket in a cupboard so you can charge all your chargeable stuff in one place.
8. Hide your expensive hoover. Someone will use it to hoover up the seventy tons of brick dust that’ll be generated. There is always dust. Even if you’re just having some shelves put in. Isolate the work if you can; cover up everything. Move out, if at all possible. If not possible, get noise-cancelling headphones and some gin.
9. Take lots of photos – it’s good to have a record, and better to remind yourself just how horrible it all once was, and how much nicer it is now.
10. Be professional but friendly – compliment all the great work the builders have done, as well as moan about the paint splatters on the new tiles. After all, renovation work can go on for ages. There will come a time when the house will seem strangely empty without three men in overalls, listening to Radio 2 and drilling . . . stuff.
a) If your builders are following you on Twitter, make sure you only ever tweet nice things about them. And don’t follow them obsessively to see if they’re complaining about the Nice biscuits again. Actually, best not to follow your builders at all.
Greyhounds: some reasons why they make the perfect pet
If you’re thinking of getting a dog, then spare a thought for the thousands of retired greyhounds looking for a seco
nd life away from the track. Not only are they real pedigree dogs, with ancestry you can trace back through several generations, should you want to, but they’ve been specially bred to be easy-going and companionable. And nothing says love like a greyhound leaning silently against you with its full weight . . .
1. Contrary to what you might expect, greyhounds don’t need endless exercise. They’re sprinters, not joggers, so a couple of twenty-minute walks and the occasional mad dash around an enclosed field or park will do them fine. If you want to walk further, they’re perfectly happy to join you – as long as you wrap them up in winter.
2. Their laidback temperaments make them ideal pets: calm, gentle and affectionate, a greyhound is basically an elegant love sponge with a quirky personality to match his aristocratic looks. OK, so you might have to keep food well out of reach of that long nose but they don’t yap, dig or shed hair as much as other breeds, making them great for owners with dog allergies, and they’re used to a routine from their racing days, so will fit into yours quickly.
3. You get what you see: rehoming a fully grown dog means there are no surprises, unlike puppies, which can often grow into something you weren’t expecting. Rescue centres rehabilitate ex-racers, and fosterers will assess their needs and personalities so you can be matched with the right dog for your specific circumstances. Not all of them are huge either – greys come in all shapes and sizes, from muscular racers to smaller and more delicate dogs, and in every colour.