The Last Laugh: A romantic comedy that will make you laugh and cry

by Tracy Bloom

  Thirty-One

  ‘I’m having a party,’ I announce the next morning.

  Mark has overslept. His reading an actual book distracted him from setting his alarm and now he’s dashing around the bedroom like a whirling dervish, swearing under his breath about a presentation he needs to finish before nine.

  ‘On the twenty-first,’ I add. ‘It’s on the calendar.’

  ‘Since when?’ he asks, ramming the fat end of his tie through the knot.

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘You decided to have a party yesterday?’

  ‘No, I put it on the calendar yesterday.’

  ‘But when did you decide to have a party? You never mentioned it.’

  ‘Oh, a while ago. Well, actually, to be perfectly honest, after I went to that funeral. Made me realise we haven’t had a party in too long.’

  ‘What funeral?’

  ‘Oh, erm…’ I’m already struggling to remember her name. ‘Emily Stonehouse.’

  ‘Someone from the home?’

  ‘No, a friend of Maureen’s, actually.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, turning away to pick up his watch and cufflinks from the top of the chest of drawers.

  ‘And well, my birthday was a bit rubbish, wasn’t it? Decided I needed to put that right.’

  ‘The only thing that was wrong with your birthday was your choice of restaurant,’ he says, turning back to face me.

  Not the fact you left me high and dry to go back to work to shag what’s her face, I thought.

  ‘Well, whatever, I thought it was time we had a party.’

  ‘I don’t have time for a party just now,’ he says.

  The temptation to shout at him that if he gave up shagging his mistress he might have time is almost too much to bear.

  Despite falling asleep quickly it had been a bad night. Nights are the worst thing about having cancer. Reliving 1996 doesn’t shield me well at three in the morning when I’m positively shaking with fear at the blackness, not of the night but of death.

  The middle of the night is when it looms and engulfs and swallows me up and I have no defence, no distraction, nothing. No radio tinkling away in the background, constantly keeping me out of the depths of my mind. No TV throwing me lives and stories separate to my own to mull and chew over in the blessed relief of not having to dwell on my own. No friends or enemies or family to occupy my thoughts as I deflect requests and phone calls and texts and demands, putting out fires then reigniting them. In the middle of the night I long for the drone of daytime television to keep the wolf from the door.

  But if I wake as I did last night, still in the arms of my husband, the wolf makes his attack and savages my brain with thoughts and feelings so black and vile that I could be physically sick. The party, the vision of the party, weakly tries to fend off the wolf as I explore food options, cocktails and where I might find foil dishes for custard pies. These thoughts struggle against the force to confront what it will feel like to die. The terror of what there will or will not be after I am gone. What is contained in the blackness of death.

  It’s a battle but eventually the image of me on the shoulders of my friends singing Oasis at the top of my voice sends a tear down my cheek but seems to quell the ferocity of the attack. ‘Champagne Supernova’ weaves its way through my mind and the next thing I know, Mark is charging round the room like a bull in a china shop, cursing the fact he’s slept like a baby.

  ‘You don’t have to do anything,’ I tell him. ‘Just turn up. It’s on the calendar,’ I re-confirm.

  I was sure to do this before mentioning the party. The calendar is sacrosanct. If it’s not on the calendar it ain’t happening, and if it’s on the calendar and you have neglected to previously note something you have already arranged, well, that ain’t happening either. First to the calendar wins every time.

  He looks at me and sighs, then looks at his watch. He wants to argue. He wants to tell me it’s a waste of time and money but he doesn’t have time. If I’d planned it, telling him now would have been a genius move. I pat myself on the back.

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he says, grabbing his jacket from a coat hanger.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, knowing that by the end of today I will have hopefully put everything in motion, committed money, invited more people, so a conversation about not having the party will be immaterial. This party is happening. The wolf whimpers away into the corner for another day.

  Thirty-Two

  All four of them look at me blankly.

  ‘Did you say 1996?’ asks Zoe.

  ‘Oh yes, brilliant, hey?’ I say, nodding enthusiastically. ‘It’s going to be such a laugh.’

  I grin back at her and watch the colour drain from her face. She’d been very gracious in accepting my apology over the phone earlier. I’d told her I’d had time to think about what I said that day in the café and I explained that everything I’d said was untrue. I’d just had a terrible birthday. Mark hadn’t performed like the loving husband that Geoff clearly is.

  There had been a pause on the other end of the phone. I could practically hear her brain whirring.

  ‘Well, I appreciate that you are being very honest with me, Jenny,’ she eventually declared. ‘I know that I’m a very lucky woman.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I agreed. ‘I’m just jealous, that’s all, but it’s no excuse for that rubbish I said about you buying wine in the Co-op. I just hope you are a big enough person to be able to forgive me.’

  ‘Of course I’m a big enough person,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry that you were jealous, I really am, but what am I supposed to do, not talk about what me and Geoff get up to or the lovely things we go and do and see?’

  ‘Of course not, Zoe. It’s not your problem, it’s mine.’

  ‘Okay, well, apology accepted. Let’s put it behind us, shall we?’

  ‘Zoe, you are a true lady.’

  ‘Well, I try.’

  ‘Lunch at Nourish?’

  ‘That would be lovely. I’ll tell the others, shall I?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve already invited them.’

  ‘Oh, and they said yes?’

  ‘Yes. See you at twelve then.’

  * * *

  The other three do have the decency to look a bit sheepish when Zoe walks in, for not consulting her on whether they were permitted to accept an invitation from me. Emma hides behind a menu, Lisa pretends to send a text and Heather makes a big play of getting Zoe a chair from another table so we can make up five.

  I proceed to pour my heart out to them about what a disaster my birthday was, which was why I’d been in such a bad mood last week. I apologise profusely whilst they all nod kindly and Lisa presents me with a gift bag containing two sets of cactus lights.

  ‘You were weird that day,’ she says as she hands them over. ‘I was going to bring these over after they got delivered but I wondered if it was the cactus lights that had upset you.’

  ‘No, these are brilliant,’ I say, pulling out the two strands. And they are. Even without being lit up they make me smile.

  ‘They need batteries,’ points out Lisa. ‘I would have put some in but I’d already taken everyone’s money and it seemed too complicated to ask for more.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve got some at home.’ I stuff them back in the bag and put it under my chair.

  ‘I would have been upset if my husband had taken me to The Purple Burrito for my birthday,’ says Zoe. ‘Geoff’s managed to book Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons in Oxford for our wedding anniversary by the way. We’re staying over.’

  ‘How lovely,’ I beam at Zoe.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies with a nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘Well, Mark’s trying to make up for it,’ I announce.

  ‘Oh, good for Mark,’ says Emma. The relief is written all over her face. She’s not comfortable if any of us are bitching about our husbands.

  ‘I can put him in the right direction for a light-up palm tree,’ says Lisa. ‘Direct import from China
. They’re so cheap, they’re insane.’

  ‘Do you think that’s because they’ve been made in a factory employing children as slave labour?’ asks Heather, peering over her glasses at Lisa. ‘Do you really think you should be buying from such people?’

  ‘They supply Smith & Jones on the high street,’ says Lisa. ‘Says so on their website.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ says Heather. ‘I always buy my light-up palm trees from Smith & Jones.’

  ‘Actually he’s organising a party for me,’ I interject.

  ‘Who is, Mark?’ gasps Zoe. ‘For you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘Isn’t that brilliant?’

  Zoe looks confused. A party might trump a night away at a fancy restaurant.

  ‘That sounds lovely,’ she says. She doesn’t pat my hand this time.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ says Emma, practically bursting with happiness that we are going to live happily ever after because Mark is organising a party for me, even though he isn’t.

  ‘You will all come, won’t you? It’s the weekend after next. Thought we’d do it quick to get it in before the summer holidays and everyone takes off to faraway places.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ says Zoe. ‘I must book my fake tan in before we leave for St Barts.’

  ‘Is that the twenty-first then?’ asks Lisa, looking at her phone.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. She starts tapping.

  ‘It’s in the diary,’ she confirms.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I reply.

  Emma fishes out a diary from her bag. ‘Yep, we can do that,’ she confirms.

  ‘I know we’re free,’ adds Heather, without referring to anything. I don’t think she gets out much.

  ‘And you, Zoe?’ I ask. She’s scrolling through her phone, wrinkling her forehead.

  ‘It appears so,’ she says. ‘We must have had a cancellation.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so brilliant. I’m so pleased you can all come, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘So is it at your house?’ asks Emma.

  ‘Oh no, it’s at Shady Grove actually. On their lawn – more space.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Emma, looking slightly surprised.

  ‘Oh, and it’s fancy dress,’ I add.

  ‘Seriously,’ says Zoe. ‘Fancy dress?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I love fancy dress.’

  ‘Any particular theme?’ asks Zoe. ‘I do still have a Marie Antoinette gown in the loft from an eighteenth-century ball we went to a few years ago.’

  ‘The theme is 1996,’ I announce.

  All four of them look at me blankly. I smile inside.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Zoe eventually says. ‘What on earth do we wear for that?’

  Lisa immediately dives in to Google ‘1996’ on her phone.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she nods, ‘I get it now. There’s some great stuff here. We can so do this, girls,’ she says, looking up. She grins at me, genuinely excited, and I’m so grateful to her. ‘What are you going as?’ she asks.

  ‘Ginger Spice, of course,’ I say, pointing to my hair, which everyone has been too polite to mention.

  ‘What a riot!’ she exclaims. ‘Right, you leave it with me. I’ll get this lot sorted,’ she says, casting her thumb at the other ladies. ‘We won’t let you down. I’ve got this, you just wait and see.’

  Thirty-Three

  Okay, so I have to tell you something: I’ve become a stalker.

  I know, I’m not proud, but sometimes I’m so filled with the absolute need to see them, to watch them live, that I get in the car and drive to their school and park outside at lunchtime when I know I might see them drifting out.

  I watched Ellie today. Phoebe has not been mentioned so far this week. Then again, no one has been mentioned, as she’s not talking to me. I watched as she wandered out of the gate, running her hand through her hair before looking back to check on her accomplice. I braced myself to see her best friend but instead a boy appeared with floppy hair and a slouch. I gasped. This is new. A boy? Is a boy better than Phoebe? All the pitfalls of a potential boyfriend flash through my brain. Kissing, groping, sex, teenage pregnancy! Despite all that, I was still relieved not to see Phoebe.

  I’d watched as he smiled warmly at my daughter and draped his arm protectively around her shoulders. For some reason an image of Ellie standing at the altar in a wedding dress blundered into my mind. A cruel reminder of an image I will never see. I’d screwed my eyes tight shut, trying to blot out the picture and prevent the tears spilling out. I turned on the engine and drove to work.

  Later that day I return and watch George amble through the gate looking nervously around, head bent low. What am I to do with him? The times I have been tempted to come clean with Mark for the sole reason of talking about George and how we might suit him to life more. Make him at ease with the world. I know I need to somehow see a brighter future for him. See him on his way in a positive direction rather than gazing into a motherless black hole. I know I cannot leave him like this.

  I flash my headlights at him and he wanders over.

  ‘Has someone called about Betsy?’ he asks hopefully, getting into the car.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  His face falls. He reaches to put his seatbelt on. My heart might break. At this very moment it might break.

  ‘So why are you here?’ he asks.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ I say, looking at him. He looks up at me and frowns.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Fine,’ I try to say brightly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You look ill,’ he says.

  I gasp at the shock of it. The last thing I was expecting him to say. No one has said it to me. Not one person, so I thought I was getting away with it. My fictional ‘Lean in 15’ diet regime ready as back-up in case anyone mentioned my weight loss. Nobody had. I couldn’t work out whether that made me happy or sad.

  ‘Do I?’ I say, hurriedly putting the car into gear and looking behind me over my shoulder to hide my face from him. ‘I feel fine,’ I add. ‘Bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘You need to eat more,’ he says, looking straight ahead now. I gasp again. ‘You wouldn’t share the stroganoff with me I made last week – you love stroganoff.’

  Who is this boy? He’s a teenager. He isn’t supposed to notice these things. Isn’t he supposed to be a self-obsessed moron by now? Why couldn’t I have a normal teenage son like everyone else? Life would be so much simpler right now.

  ‘I’ve been trying to be good,’ I say. ‘You know, lose a bit of weight.’

  He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

  ‘You can stop now,’ he says.

  ‘Right, okay. If you say so.’

  I look over and he’s staring out of the passenger window. I can’t help it – I reach over and touch his hand resting on his knee. He grasps my fingers then pulls his hand away. What am I doing? What exactly is the benefit of pretending I don’t have cancer? The gloom descends like a blanket being dropped over my head. And I remember. Pretending you haven’t got it is a lot easier than being suffocated by it, day in day out.

  ‘I need you to come to Shady Grove with me,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need your help with something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get there.’

  He looks over at me. He sinks down into his seat and dips his head deep into his jacket. We talk no more.

  * * *

  George follows me wordlessly into the reception area and I hear him shuffling behind me as I sign him in. I wonder if he has noticed the smell: detergent, polish and old. I’m sure he has. Has he spotted the noticeboard full of rules and regulations all designed to make the staff’s lives easier rather than the residents’ lives better? There are three fire extinguishers, the two smoke alarms and four panic buttons in reception alone. You only have to walk in here to feel on the edge of some kind of fatal catastrophe. Maybe that’s what happens when you put a load of people close to
death in one house together: you are always prepared for the worst.

  ‘This way,’ I say, striding off down a beige corridor in search of Maureen. She said she'd be in her room but on a nice day like today she’s more likely to be out on a bench in the grounds. He follows me, occasionally having to jog a few steps to catch up.

  When there is no answer at door number twenty-two, I suggest we head out to the gardens. George says nothing. I hope Maureen is right about all this. She’s only met him once when I invited her round for dinner and yet she claims she is going to cure his anxiety by putting him in a high-pressure situation. Only someone of her age would think you could cure a mental disorder by sheer hard work and cooking!

  I find her in the plum spot: sitting on Alice. Or rather a bench dedicated to Alice by her husband in 1985. They don’t let you do that any more. Dedicate a bench, that is – Sandra said the grounds were starting to look like a bus station as there was a new bench arriving practically every week.

  ‘And who wants to be reminded that a lot of people die here?’ she famously said in a staff meeting.

  So Alice’s husband was lucky. He got his bench to remind us all of his wife’s last resting place in the spot with the best view of the enormous lawn at the back of the main house where many an oldie would look out at the beautifully manicured lawns and no doubt pass wind.

  ‘Hello,’ she says as we approach. ‘Just as I thought,’ she adds. She holds out her hand and George takes it to shake, not raising his gaze from the floor.

  ‘Now you sit down here,’ she tells him. ‘We’ve got work to do. Shall we say an hour?’ she says to me.