‘OK,’ Tanvi says in a noisy whisper. ‘So last night, Devin told me that you and Emerson had come round and that you’d asked him to tell me that you were sorry. Which he did. Anyway, I asked to borrow his phone – mine is broken cos when I collapsed the other day, I managed to drop it in my bath water and no one realized until the next day – duh! So, I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer, so I wrote you a note – old school, huh? – and asked Devin to drop it through your door. Which he tried to do this morning and couldn’t because your house is all cordoned off at the moment. So he put two and two together and asked the nurses if you were here, and they said yes and that you were going to be OK, and basically, I would have come sooner but he literally only told me this afternoon.’
Tanvi says all of this very quickly, barely pausing to take a breath.
‘Which is why,’ she continues, panting slightly, ‘I hijacked this baby from the kid in the bed next to mine.’ She thumps the arms of her wheelchair.
‘You stole someone’s wheelchair?’ I say.
‘No!’ Tanvi gasps in mock outrage. ‘I borrowed someone’s wheelchair.’
‘Where is your ward anyway?’
‘Literally next door.’
‘What if the nurses realize your bed is empty?’
‘Not to worry. I’ve left them a very comprehensive note.’
‘But should you even be out of bed? Aren’t you really ill? You collapsed!’
Tanvi pauses. ‘OK, I’m perhaps not feeling one hundred per cent right now, but I’m basically fine. They’re just being uber-careful because of my history.’
‘Did you get poorly because of me?’ I ask. It’s the question that’s been haunting me ever since I spoke to Devin.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I made you sit outside.’
‘When?’
‘On Saturday,’ I say, wincing at the memory of Tanvi perched on the edge of Bonnie’s sunlounger in the back garden.
‘Don’t be a ninny! I was already ill by then. Don’t you remember me coughing and sneezing at the party?’
I nod uncertainly.
‘Is that what you were sorry for?’ Tanvi asks.
I bite my lip. ‘Not just that.’ I want to expand, but as usual I don’t know where to start.
‘Anyway,’ Tanvi says breaking the silence, ‘enough about me and my boring old pneumonia. How on earth are you?’
‘Oh, I’m OK, I think. My throat feels kind of shredded from the smoke inhalation, but they reckon there’ll be no long-lasting damage.’
‘So you’ll still be able to sing?’
Oh God, that hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Oh, that’s such good news!’
The child in the next bed stirs. Tanvi pulls a ‘whoops’ face and lowers her voice back down to a whisper.
‘Fancy a li’l field trip?’ she asks.
*
‘OK, in here,’ Tanvi says, prodding me through a door.
We haven’t ventured all that far from the ward, but the journey was far from straightforward – dodging members of staff and hiding behind pillars and vending machines in order to escape detection.
My eyes adjust to the darkness a little. We’re standing in the entrance to what looks like a miniature soft-play centre.
‘Follow me,’ Tanvi says, abandoning her wheelchair by the door and wading into the darkness.
I do as I’m told.
The dirty white moon spills light through the windows, illuminating a pile of plastic-coated beanbags in the far corner of the space. Tanvi flops onto one and indicates I should do the same.
‘This used to be my favourite spot,’ she says, turning on her back and stretching out her legs. She glances across at me. ‘What’s up? You’ve gone all quiet.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just didn’t properly twig until now.’
‘Twig what?’
‘That this was the hospital where you were treated for your cancer. You must know it inside out.’
‘You could say that, yeah.’
We sit in silence for a little while, our breathing slowing down until we’re in sync with one another.
‘I’m really glad you’re OK, Ro,’ Tanvi says.
‘Why are you being so nice to me?’ I ask.
‘Nice?’ she asks, tilting her head to one side.
‘Yeah. When I last saw you, you said you didn’t want to talk to me ever again.’
She frowns. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Yeah you did. You said that you couldn’t “do this any more”.’
‘And you interpreted that as me never wanting to talk to you ever again?’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘When I said I couldn’t do this, I meant I couldn’t keep having that conversation.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m not going to lie, the stuff you said about Anna really upset me, but once I’d calmed down a bit, all I wanted to do was come straight back and talk to you about it properly. Alas, my stupid pneumonia had other ideas …’
I feel really stupid.
‘Did you honestly think I was going to be that easy to shake off?’ she adds, laughing.
‘Good point,’ I admit.
She reaches across and punches me on the arm.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say.
‘I know. I’m sorry too.’
‘What are you sorry for?’
‘Not telling you straightaway when I found out where you lived. And not saying anything about Anna.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.’
‘That’s the thing though – I almost told you about her loads of time. But every time I stopped myself because I knew I’d only get upset if I did.’
‘What would be wrong with that?’
‘I didn’t want you to see me like that.’
‘Why not?’
Tanvi takes a deep breath. ‘OK, so for three years, pretty much every single person I met automatically felt sorry for me. When I came back to school, I was determined not to have people see me that way, like a victim, or someone to be pitied. And you didn’t. That was a big part of why I liked you straightaway. You didn’t wrap me up in cotton wool, you just treated me like a normal human being.’
‘I don’t know. I think I was probably pretty rude.’
‘I liked that though!’
‘Weirdo.’
She grins and sticks out her tongue. ‘I know you don’t like loads of people,’ she adds. ‘But you’d have liked her, I think. Anna, I mean.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What was she like?’
Tanvi shifts on her beanbag so she’s lying on it sideways. I do the same so our bodies are facing each other.
‘She was … the best,’ Tanvi says, her face softening. A single tear escapes and trickles down her cheek. ‘See!’ she says. ‘Instant tears!’
‘We don’t have to talk about her,’ I say quickly.
‘No, no. I want to,’ she says. ‘It feels like the right time.’
So I lie back and let her talk.
She tells me everything – meeting Anna in chemo where they bonded over their shared crush on a hot nurse called Lachlan; the silly games they made up together; their midnight excursions to the vending machine; the slow painful acknowledgment that as Tanvi was getting better, Anna was only getting worse; the multiple goodbyes, never knowing for sure which one was going to be the actual one – the definitive goodbye.
The entire time, tears roll down Tanvi’s cheeks.
After she finishes describing Anna’s funeral in January, we lapse into silence. For a few seconds I think Tanvi has fallen asleep, until she says, ‘I’ve just thought of another thing I’m sorry about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The folder. That was dumb of me. Of course you’d looked into all that stuff before.’
‘That’s OK,’ I say. ‘You were just
trying to help. And to be fair, I haven’t tried any of that stuff in a while.’
‘Has your mum always, you know, kept things?’
I swallow hard before answering her question. ‘Pretty much,’ I say. ‘Even though it’s a lot worse now, the house has never looked normal. Well, apart from this one time, when I was seven. Bonnie went away for the weekend and while she was gone, my dad got a cleaning team in.’
There were six of them, all dressed in white overalls. For two days straight they trooped in and out of the house, removing bag after bag of rubbish. When they left, I remember walking from room to room, marvelling over corners and skirting boards and power sockets I never knew existed.
‘I was so sure she would be pleased, but she went mad, shouting and screaming and crying,’ I say.
‘But why?’ Tanvi whispers.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘She couldn’t even explain it. She just started filling the place up all over again. By Christmas it looked exactly the same as it did before.’
‘Wow,’ Tanvi says softly.
With gentle prompting, I tell her more about life at 48 Arcadia Avenue – the Christmas dinners eaten in empty Chinese restaurants; the Saturday nights spent sitting in the wings of dingy social clubs, eating endless bags of Mini Cheddars as Bonnie performed on stage; the terrible audition in London; Halloween; this afternoon’s visit from Social Services.
‘What do you think will happen?’ Tanvi asks.
After speaking to Bonnie, the two social workers came to talk to me. The first thing they did was reassure me they would do their best to keep Bonnie and I under the same roof.
‘Our principal aim is to keep families together,’ the woman, Carina, explained. ‘Not tear them apart.’
At the same time, Carina made it clear that Bonnie had some work to do before she and her team would be happy for me to return to Arcadia Avenue.
As she spoke, I couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if I’d known this sooner. How would my life have looked? I quickly realized there was no point. I’m tired of looking back. I only want to look forward now.
‘What happens in the meantime?’ Tanvi asks once I’ve explained all this. ‘Where will you stay?’
‘I guess I’ll have to live with my dad.’
I shudder at the thought. We spoke on the phone earlier but he seemed way more upset about the way I spoke to Melanie the day before than the fact I was in hospital.
‘You don’t look too happy about that,’ Tanvi observes.
‘No,’ I admit.
There’s a pause. Then Tanvi sits up suddenly. ‘I’ve just had the most amazing idea,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you come stay at my house?’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah! We have the space – you can have Anish’s old room. And just think of the fun we’ll have.’
‘You think your parents would be OK with it?’
‘Course they will! They think the sun shines out of your bum!’
‘What about Social Services? Would they let me, do you think?’
‘Well, I don’t know. It’s worth asking though, isn’t it?’
There’s a pause and I’m flooded with gratitude for my pint-sized friend.
‘Thank you, Tanvi,’ I say. ‘That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s offered to do for me.’
‘Anytime, Ro Snow,’ she replies.
We continue to talk, our voices becoming slow and sleepy as we drift from one subject to another. Tanvi’s hand finds mine in the darkness. For once, I don’t feel the urge to shake her off or wriggle from her grip. Instead, I give it a gentle squeeze and don’t let go until the sun is coming up.
40
I’m finishing my breakfast when a smiley nurse called Tim informs me I have a visitor.
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘A rather handsome young gentleman,’ Tim says, wiggling his eyebrows up and down. ‘Noah?’
My eyes widen. ‘Noah. Are you sure?’
Tim laughs. ‘Yes, I think so … Well, am I all right to let him in? I can send him away if you don’t feel up to it.’
‘No!’ I say. ‘It’s, er, it’s fine …’
‘Righty-oh,’ Tim says. ‘Be right back.’
As Tim walks away, my heart begins to gallop.
Noah is here.
To see me.
I comb through my hair with my fingers and check I don’t have egg down my nightie. I don’t need to look in a mirror to know I’m probably not looking my best. I didn’t crawl back into bed until 7 a.m., and have no doubt the lack of sleep is plastered all over my face right now.
I shove two Polo mints in my mouth and grab the magazine Bonnie left on my nightstand. I spread it open on my lap and pretend to be engrossed in a story about two celebrities who met on a reality TV show and are getting married. My sweaty palms stick to the pages as I hear footsteps on the lino, not quite daring to look up.
‘Hi.’
I raise my head.
Noah is standing at the bottom of my bed, wearing an expression that straddles relief and wonder.
‘You’re OK,’ he says, his lips quivering into a smile.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at school?’ I blurt in response.
‘Oh,’ Noah replies, looking down at his fancy school uniform. ‘Yes.’
‘You’re bunking?’ I ask.
‘I suppose so, yeah.’
‘How?’
‘I crept out of prayers this morning and caught the first train out of York.’
‘Won’t you be in loads of trouble?’
‘Probably. Who cares.’
I swallow. ‘Um, would you like to sit down?’ I ask, indicating the chair next to my bed.
Noah sits down. It’s surreal having him so close. I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to check he’s really here.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ I ask.
‘My dad texted me about the fire last night. I didn’t know you’d be here for definite, but I thought it was worth a try. How are you feeling?’
‘OK, I think. I inhaled a fair bit of smoke but they don’t think it’s going to cause any lasting damage.’
‘That’s good,’ Noah says.
There’s a pause.
‘Oh, I got you something,’ he says, pulling a plastic bag onto his lap. ‘I was going to get flowers. But then I remembered reading somewhere that lots of hospitals ban flowers so I went for chocolates instead. Is that OK?’ He hands over a plastic tub of Quality Street.
‘It’s more than OK,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’
‘I got you this too,’ Noah says, producing a flat square box wrapped in Thomas the Tank Engine paper. ‘Sorry about the wrapping paper,’ he adds. ‘It was all I could get my hands on.’
I open the package to reveal a travel chess set.
‘It’s magnetic,’ Noah explains. ‘It might be a while before we can finish our game from the other day, but in the meantime, maybe we can start a new one?’
My heart lifts.
‘I’m sorry, by the way,’ Noah adds. ‘About Saturday. My dad and I had a massive bust-up at family therapy on Saturday morning so I ended up going back to my mum’s. I would have texted, but my phone’s been out of action all week …’ His voice trails off. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’ he says.
‘Tell me what?’
He discreetly punches the mattress. ‘I asked my dad to knock on your door and tell you I couldn’t come over.’
‘You don’t hate me,’ I murmur.
Noah frowns. ‘Hate you? What are you talking about?’
‘Halloween. I saw you at the window.’
Noah winces. ‘I didn’t mean to spy on you, I swear. I didn’t even realize it was you I was watching until the very last minute. Wait, why did you think that’d make me hate you?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit.
‘I thought it was kind of badass. If I could do something like that to get through to my dad, I’d totally do it.’
&n
bsp; ‘Noah, why do you hate him so much?’ I ask.
Noah blinks. ‘You mean you don’t know? I thought everyone round here did.’
I shake my head.
He takes a very large breath. ‘Six months ago my dad was sacked from his job for sexually harassing five members of staff.’
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting him to come out with, but that definitely wasn’t it.
‘The company settled out of court in an attempt to keep the whole thing under wraps,’ he continues. ‘But it ended up all over the local papers anyway. “The Harvey Weinstein of Ostborough” they were calling him.’ He shudders slightly.
Now that I think about it, the story rings a bell.
‘It was awful. Pretty much overnight, I went from being the kid who flew under the radar to the most hated person at school. It was like I was guilty of all the shitty stuff my dad had done, just by extension of being his son.’
I’m quiet. From the very first moment I clapped eyes on Noah I’ve been trying to work out why I feel this weird affinity towards him. And finally I do. He knows what it feels like to be ashamed of something you have no control over.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say.
Noah shrugs. ‘It is what it is.’
‘Are things still hard at school?’
‘It’s a lot better this term,’ Noah says. ‘People have short memories, luckily.’
I hope he’s right.
There’s a pause.
‘I meant what I said,’ Noah says. ‘It must have taken proper balls to do what you did at Halloween.’
‘I’m not sure it felt very ballsy,’ I admit.
‘Well, it looked it. You looked it.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, heat creeping up my neck. My eyes fall on the travel chess. ‘Got time for a game?’ I ask. ‘Or will the boarding school police be after you?’
Noah smiles. ‘Let ’em.’
I smile back and begin to set up the pieces.
About an hour later, Tanvi joins us in a wheelchair she didn’t steal, a huge grin spreading across her face the second I introduce Noah.
We swap chess for Uno and play game after game, drinking gallons of syrupy orange squash and ploughing our way through the tub of Quality Street until the bed is littered with shiny rainbow-coloured wrappers. As we giggle and crack jokes like we’ve all known each other for years, it dawns on me that this is what friendship feels like. I’ve been so afraid of it, so certain it wasn’t for me.
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