by Tracy Bloom
She sighs and leans back in her chair. ‘So what about these cactus lights then?’ she says, turning to me. ‘Did you say you wanted two sets?’
I stare at the screen then back at my friends.
I don’t give a fuck, I want to scream. I want to curl up in a ball and have someone take me in their arms and slowly draw out of me the catastrophes that are going on in my life. But instead I’m stuck here realising I don’t think it can be any of you. I’ve known you all for over a dozen years and I don’t think any of you can prop me up.
Take Zoe. Whilst being oh-so-sympathetic, I think you would thrive on the drama of finding yourself elevated to the status of the poor woman outside school who has the friend with a terminal illness. I can see you now, taking on the role of gatekeeper to all the other mums regarding any information on my health. As my ‘closest friend’ you would drip-feed anecdotes to all those who enquire with sad watery eyes and lap up the praise when they congratulate you on how good you are being to me. I’m sorry, Zoe, but it would be all about you and I couldn’t bear to watch that.
And as for Lisa?
She’d retreat.
I can already hear her saying, ‘Move away from the nearly dead person. There’s nothing to see here.’ Lisa really only ever wants to be somewhere better. Never content, a three-year stint in America with her husband’s job has spoilt the rest of her life. Stateside she presided over four thousand square feet of all-expenses-paid real estate in a perfectly pretty suburb of Connecticut. Top of the tree with a lifestyle to match. She has never got over the comedown of an over-priced semi on a noisy main road purchased merely for school catchment purposes. Her online trading obsession is just one of the many ludicrous plans she hatches that she somehow thinks will transport her back to the land of drive-thru Starbucks and ridiculous gun laws. Her friend being ill would be a dose of reality she just wouldn’t want to face and yet another reason why this country is shit. Clearly, living in the UK has given me cancer. She would settle her conscience by deciding we were never that close, and others were far better equipped to support me in my hour of need, as she backed away into somewhere I didn’t have to be addressed.
Emma surely? Nice Emma. Sweet, lovely Emma would step up, wouldn’t she? She’d be there by my side, mopping my brow, a shoulder to cry on. She wouldn’t mind me calling her in the middle of the night when the gloom was thick and choking. Emma is my wingman on this. My prop, my support.
No, I don’t think so.
I fear she’d collapse under the strain. I’d spend my time propping her up. Telling her not to worry, it’s all going to be fine, as she weeps on my shoulder. I’d be staring my fate in the face every time I saw her, because her inability to put up a brave front, even for my benefit, would feel like constant visits from the Grim Reaper.
So am I left with Heather as my confidante? The least warm person in our group. The woman who insists on playing Education Top Trumps with me every time I see her. It’s not life and death, is it, your children’s education? Except, for Heather, I suspect it is.
‘Why don’t we buy Jenny the cactus lights for her birthday, seeing as she loves them so much?’ I hear Zoe say.
Our eyes meet over the vintage sugar bowl with one leg missing. I love those lights but I don’t want them as a gift for my birthday.
‘I meant to get you a little something but nothing caught my eye when I went shopping. It’s such a waste of money to just buy something for the sake of it, isn’t it?’ she continues.
‘That’s a great idea,’ gasps Emma, as though Zoe has worked out a cure for my cancer.
I bet you any money they all reassured each other before I arrived that they hadn’t bought me a birthday gift but Emma would be the one worrying about whether they had done the right thing.
‘Presents at our age are so hard, aren’t they? But if Jenny would really like some cactus lights then that’s perfect.’
‘Seriously?’ is all Heather can say.
‘Two sets then,’ says Lisa, starting to tap at her keyboard. ‘So that will be three ninety-five each including packaging and postage. Shall we just call it four pounds?’ she continues, looking up and sticking her hand out in expectation of being paid there and then right in front of me. The birthday girl. Is this what gift-giving has come to? A random mention of affection for something leapt on and instantly ordered on the internet right before your eyes, with contributions collected and pocketed before you can say, actually, what I would really like for my birthday is for you to just take me for a drink and get me drunk so I can tell you how hideous my soon-to-be-extinguished life is.
‘What time does the Queens Head open?’ I ask as Heather and Emma scrabble around in their handbags for money to give Lisa whilst Zoe impatiently waves a ten-pound note in the air, waiting to see if anyone has change.
‘I’ve no idea,’ shrugs Zoe, checking her watch. ‘We’ve not been in since Geoff got barred.’
‘Barred!’ exclaims Emma. ‘What for?’
‘Touched up a waitress,’ announces Lisa.
‘No, he did not!’ cries Zoe. ‘She bumped into him and claims Geoff came on to her. It’s outrageous. Who do these young girls think they are? They can’t go around making accusations like that. Geoff’s been going in that pub for years and the landlord would sooner believe an eighteen-year-old than him.’
The rest of us share fleeting glances. We have all at one time or another experienced the leering nature of Geoff when drunk. We all cheered inside for the girl who dared to stand up to him whilst feeling ashamed it took a teenager rather than a grown woman to out him as the lech he actually is.
‘The Bull then?’ I ask. ‘What time is that open?’
‘About five, I imagine,’ says Emma.
‘But it must be open for lunch,’ I say. I look at my watch. It’s ten forty-five. ‘I bet it’s open at eleven. Let’s walk down there now. Come on, it’s my birthday. Let’s go for a proper drink, not this full-fat organic stuff,’ I say, looking disdainfully at my mug.
‘What, now?’ says Heather, her brow furrowed as though I have just asked some deep philosophical question that may not have been covered on the syllabus.
‘Yes, now,’ I say and I actually slam my fist on the now even more distressed table. I don’t think I can bear to go home without releasing some of what is going on inside me, even if it is to this awkward bunch. The mums on the next table, bouncing red-cheeked crying babies on their knees, look at me and want to say ‘Shush’ – I know they do.
‘Don’t you dare shush me,’ I want to shout back.
‘But… but it’s the morning,’ says Emma nervously, looking around at everyone.
‘Well, I really would love to,’ says Zoe, starting to gather up her things, ‘but I’m due at Pilates at eleven, and I’m not sure a spritzer would do anything for my core strength.’ She laughs her tinkly laugh that she does whenever she is unnerved.
‘When did you last have a spritzer?’ I ask Zoe.
‘Erm, I, er…’ she says, putting her coat on as quickly as possible.
‘I’ve never seen you dilute a drink ever,’ I say. ‘In fact I’ve seen you in the Co-op, going down the wine shelf, checking to find the one with the highest alcohol content.’
‘I do not,’ she cries back, looking wildly round at everyone for reassurance. ‘I’m checking for food pairings.’
‘You’re in the Co-op! The only food pairing to do in there is which flavour of Pringles goes best with cheap red.’
‘Jenny,’ says Emma, putting a hand on my arm.
I know I’m being mean but I’m desperate. Why is it so hard to tell someone, anyone, that you’re dying?
‘Come to the pub,’ I plead with Emma. The smug mums on the next table share uncomfortable glances.
‘I… I…’ starts Emma.
‘Oh, come on, please,’ I beg. ‘You can miss Pilates just this once, can’t you?’
She sits with her mouth hanging open, glancing feverishly between Zoe and me.
‘It is my birthday,’ I state.
Pathetic, a voice says in my head. You are so not handling this situation well. You need to be sitting one-on-one, at home, breaking the news gently and asking for help and support whilst sharing tissues and memories and plans to ‘make the most of it’. Instead you’re harassing people to play hooky from Pilates to go and get early-morning drunk in the pub.
‘We’d better go, Emma,’ says Zoe, clearly miffed at my slight on her booze-buying habits. ‘We’ll miss the start if we don’t hurry.’
‘Heaven forbid you miss the start,’ I say, throwing my hands in the air in an effort to stop the tears coming. ‘A whole five calories not taken care of. Call the Fire Brigade.’
But I’m talking to their backs. Zoe has hustled Emma out of the café at a speed usually reserved for exiting young children when homeless Nick wanders in to use the facilities.
‘Interesting behaviour,’ nods Heather slowly. Oh God, she’s gone into ‘shrink’ mode and any minute will ask me about my relationship with my mother.
‘Lisa, pub?’ I say hopefully, but she’s already gathering her things.
‘I have a delivery coming, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘And I need to order these cactus lights,’ she adds.
‘I thought you’d already ordered them,’ I say.
‘Yes, well, I need to follow it up,’ she continues, frowning. ‘See you later,’ she adds, raising her hand a fraction, and walks out.
‘And then there were two,’ smiles Heather. ‘You don’t seem yourself today, Jenny. I think the pub is the last thing you need, don’t you? They’ve got a spiced latte on here. Why don’t I get us both one of those and you can tell me all about it.’
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head a little too vigorously. ‘No, I’m fine. I must go, really. I have to be somewhere.’
I get up and leave before she can point out that moments earlier the only place I needed to be was the pub.
Twelve
I am left with no other option but to go to work.
My choices today are not good.
I could try my mother again but I know we will meet in the hall then she’ll swiftly throw on her coat and seize the opportunity to escape from her husband and his Alzheimer’s. I can’t face trying to tell her whilst she bends down to push her feet into her ankle boots. There needs to be some kind of build-up to giving her the news rather than me trying to babble it out as quickly as possible before she gets to the front gate.
I could go to Mark. Confront him about the office sex. Or do I tell him about the cancer first? Can I bear to watch his face as I tell him about my condition? All manner of emotions could run over it, including the relief that he won’t ever have to tell me about the affair he’s having. That my cancer has just given him a get-out-of-jail-free card. Can I stand to watch that? Or do I tackle him about his infidelity first, get the truth on that, then watch him squirm as I hit him with the punch in the gut that he’s cheating on his wife whilst she’s battling with cancer? Watch the self-loathing spread across his face.
It’s so confusing. My head can’t grab hold of any of it and its consequences. All I know is that I can’t face going to his office again. I can’t face walking through the building and checking out every blonde woman in a blue skirt to try and work out if it’s her. I can’t stand there and demand that we go and talk somewhere because I know he won’t. He’ll make me wait until later and I will have to walk out with my head bowed and sit and dread the moment when his headlights flash in the window and I know the time has come.
So I go to work.
At least it’s bingo night at Shady Grove. I don’t have to think, just sit there and bark out numbers until I’m interrupted by an incontinence incident or an argument over a winning call. In the past I’ve asked Sandra if we can organise a trip to go out to the bingo, proper bingo, but she says there’s too much red tape. Sandra is in charge and what she means by red tape is that it would require her to get off her arse and actually do something rather than watch re-runs of Peak Practice on the TV she says is a CCTV screen in her cosy little office. You have to knock on the door before you are allowed in but, if you press your ear to the door first, you usually hear someone complaining of dizziness and a ringing in the left ear during a home visit on a wild and stormy night in a remote farmhouse in the Peak District.
In fact she is just like my boss Clare back in Corfu in 1996. A lazy killjoy. Sandra has given me objectives and sees that as her job done, no more input required. Apparently I need to ‘provide a broad spectrum of culturally diverse activities that will stimulate all abilities and provide structure and enjoyment to the daily routine of all residents’. The achievement of this is mainly through the format of bingo, daily armchair aerobics, a weekly tea dance/shuffle around the dining room, the availability of chess, draughts and knitting wool, and the communal daily enjoyment of Countdown on the television. In a rush of creativity, however, I have recently introduced a spin on Countdown entitled ‘Rude Tuesdays’. The first person to come up with a rude word wins a jelly bean. It’s amazing how many times you can spell ‘piss’ on Countdown. Jimmy in particular loves it. The letters to the words he shouts out are rarely available but I suspect his ability to shout ‘Bugger off’ at the top of his voice, several times in half an hour, is doing more for his mental health than the weekly torturous visits from his son, who walks in, picks up the newspaper, reads it and walks out again.
Mark has told me many times I don’t have to keep working there, as though he’s embarrassed that his wife works with the aged. I think he is looking for something more glamorous to brag to the other directors about, like advertising maybe – or even pornography! Sometimes I catch him sniffing when I get home from work as though he can smell the olds on me. Whenever I come home a bit dazed and upset because one of them has died he always tells me to jack it in. He can’t understand why I would put myself through that.
I think I do it for two reasons. One, because it reminds me to be grateful for what I have: my health, my family, my relative youth. Until now that is. And two, because of Maureen.
* * *
‘I’m dying,’ I declare, bursting into Maureen’s room unannounced.
‘Aren’t we all?’ she replies from the armchair next to the window. She doesn’t even look up from the Take a Break magazine resting on her knee. ‘What’s the name of the youngest sister who died in childbirth on Downton Abbey?’ she asks, chewing the end of her finger, deep in thought.
‘Was it Sylvia?’ she asks, finally peering at me over her purple-rimmed glasses. They match the purple scarf wrapped around her neck, but not a lot else. Her outfit, as always, is a riot of mismatched colours and patterns ebbing and flowing over her pillowy frame. She is by her own admission an extreme layerer, often piling vests and cardigans and pullovers over cotton frocks, making her resemble a walking wardrobe. A bold dab of red lipstick and coral pink nails complete the look that declares: ‘I’m old and I’m going to look how the hell I like’.
‘No, really I am dying,’ I say and flop down on her single bed. I lie back, my head hitting her pillow, her flowery perfume instantly engulfing my nostrils. It’s comforting. I turn to look over at the array of black and white photographs lined up along the top of a bookshelf and seek out my favourite.
It’s right there. A young and very glamorous Maureen grinning out at me, one arm draped around her husband Ray, an Elvis impersonator from Leicester, and one around Frank Sinatra. Yes, the Frank Sinatra. Apparently it was taken in the sixties inside the Aladdin Casino in Las Vegas whilst she was accompanying Ray on his world tour. Maureen has lived!
‘I’m dying,’ I tell young Maureen, Ray and Frank.
I realise this is the first time I have said it out loud. It still doesn’t sound like me saying it. It still isn’t happening to me. The fact I have failed to get through to anyone else this horrendous fact surely means that it cannot be true.
‘I’ll try Sylvia,’ says Maureen. ‘I think that
’s the right answer but it would make Tess Daly wrong. Oh, and it’s got too many letters. Mmmm.’
‘Sybil,’ I say.
Maureen jerks her head back up to look at me.
‘Are you sure?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’m very sure. And Mark is shagging someone at work.’ I bite my lip to try and fight back the tears that have sprung out of nowhere.
‘Oh my God!’ exclaims Maureen. A reaction. Progress.
‘Oh my God what?’ I say. ‘Mark or the cancer?’
‘Cancer!’ she exclaims again. ‘Has he got that as well? What are you telling me?’
‘No, no,’ I say, swinging my legs round so my feet are back on the floor and I can see her face. Not the conversation really to be having lying down.
‘I’ve got cancer,’ I say. ‘Mark’s got another woman.’
I watch her face go from shock to confusion to total bewilderment.
‘Oh my God,’ she says again. She’s lost for words. Unusual for Maureen.
‘Cancer?’ she says slowly.
I nod.
‘Since when?’
‘I found out yesterday.’
‘And Mark. When did you…?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Fuck,’ she mutters.
I laugh. Despite it all I laugh.
‘How long?’ she demands.
‘The affair or the dying?’
Her eyes flare in horror but she collects herself.
‘Both.’
‘Who knows?’ I shrug, the tears starting to fall now. I look down at my feet swinging off the side of the bed. I don’t want her to watch me cry. ‘The doctor said maybe two years but he can’t be sure. And I’ve not asked Mark yet. He doesn’t know I know,’ I say to the floor.