Helen frowned in bewilderment. Customers? Brands?
‘I mean, there’s such a thing as loyalty. I’ve been using Magique for the last fifteen years or more. It’s become my signature perfume, an essential part of my psyche, you could say. I can’t just switch to another brand, any more than I’d walk down the street in a ra-ra skirt. Magique is – well, me. It took me long enough to find it, for goodness sake. I’d experimented with other scents, but never felt they were right. So, when I discovered Magique, it was like the perfect match – a marriage made in heaven. And now that I can’t buy it any more, it’s as if I’ve been divorced.’
Helen snorted in contempt as she switched off the querulous voice. How dare the woman complain about something so ludicrously trivial. Snatching up her bag and keys, she strode out of the house. She had better things to do than listen to some pampered bitch mourn the loss of her favourite scent.
The coffee was exceptionally good at Francesca’s. Although it meant taking the lift right up to the fifth floor, it was worth it for the atmosphere alone. The bustle of the store seemed left behind in this oasis of a café, with its soothing blue-grey walls, its prints of Victorian London on the walls, and the romantic music playing softly in the background. Sitting with her expresso and a slice of almond gateau, she checked her shopping list, ticking off the items she’d just bought: ready-meals for Philip, so he wouldn’t have to cook; pyjamas for herself, and a stack of greetings cards, to thank the friends who might send flowers; presents for Sue and Sarah, to divert them while she was hors de combat, and a silk scarf for her mother, who would be looking after them. Should she have bought more presents for the girls – to last them through the decades, if she died before her fortieth? That crucial birthday was only eighteen months away, but she couldn’t actually count on being around for it.
She gulped her coffee scalding hot, almost welcoming the pain. A lesser form of trauma sometimes cancelled out a greater, she had learned in the past few weeks. But she must stop being so damned negative and remember the statistics she’d looked up on the web: approximately 41,000 new cases diagnosed every year, and only 13,000 deaths. And, on top of that, at least seven out of ten women survived five years or more. She forked in a piece of comfort-cake. Five years seemed frighteningly short. Children needed a mother until they could manage on their own, or had even flown the nest. And, anyway, the chances of survival were actually worse for younger women, like her. Paradoxical as it might sound, if she were fifty-nine instead of thirty-nine, she’d be statistically more likely to beat this dread disease.
Back to the list. It was important to keep control, focus one’s mind on practicalities, instead of giving way to constant apprehension. She had already cleaned the house from top to bottom, and typed out all the phone numbers Philip might require: Sue’s school and Sarah’s nursery, their ballet teacher and best friends’ mothers, the hospital ward, her personal nurse, the plumber and electrician, in case of emergencies. And the funeral director – just her little joke.
Forking up the last morsel of cake, she glanced around at the people in the café, longing to change places with them – yes, even with the old crone in the corner, dribbling tea and butter down her coat. Just at this moment, she would swap lives with anyone, however old and raddled, so long as she was spared tomorrow’s ordeal. And, as she glided down the escalator, past Women’s Fashions and the Designer Boutique, she was seized again with envy – envy for those shopping purely for pleasure: here to revamp their winter wardrobe or buy a new exotic party dress. Yet ‘Why me?’ was a pointless question. Half the world could ask it, with good reason: torture victims in Darfur, beggars in Calcutta, AIDS orphans in Botswana, or just ordinary folk in England, born poor, sick or disadvantaged. ‘Why not me?’ was a better line. Self-pity was quite loathsome – a cancer in itself.
As she made for the main exit, she passed the perfume counters: Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Lancôme and half a dozen others. On impulse, she approached a salesgirl – a tall, languorous creature, with bleached blonde hair and scarlet nail extensions. ‘Do you sell Magique?’ she enquired.
‘We don’t. But see that counter on the left and the girl in the black trouser-suit? They should have it there.’
Black trouser-suit apart, the girl was almost a carbon copy of the first – bottle-blonde, skinny as a drinking straw, and with long, red, lethal talons. ‘I hear it’s about to be discontinued,’ Helen added, having repeated her original question.
‘Yes, I’m afraid that’s true, madam. We do have a few bottles left, but only the eau de toilette – nothing in the full-strength perfume. But you’ll be pleased to know it’s reduced to less than half-price. Did you want the small size or the large?’
‘Neither,’ she was about to say, when she was struck by an idea – a completely crazy notion and ridiculously extravagant, even at half-price – yet appealing none the less. She would buy up all the stocks of Magique and dispatch them to that woman on the radio, if only to heap coals of fire on her head. She changed the ‘Neither’ into ‘Both, please.’
‘Right, let me show you what we have. This is the little spray bottle, which is perfect for the handbag. Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, gorgeous.’ Woman’s Hour would probably agree to forward a small package, if she enclosed a covering note.
‘There are just three of these, at a knockdown price.’ The girl laid them on the counter, then rummaged in the drawer again. ‘And this is the larger size. We only have the one left, but again it’s a genuine bargain. And there is a matching body lotion, if I can interest you in that.’
‘I’m grateful to have anything. In fact, when this lot runs out, I don’t know how I’m going to manage.’ Helen suppressed a smile. She had wanted a change of role and here she was enacting one.
The salesgirl gave a sympathetic nod. ‘I know exactly how you feel, madam. Several other customers are extremely disappointed. And, of course, it is a lovely fragrance – magical, like its name.’
‘It’s the only fragrance as far as I’m concerned.’ Helen maintained her new persona. It felt better being someone else: a lady of leisure, who spent her mornings phoning Woman’s Hour. Arabella, she would christen her. Yes, she was coming into view: a wealthy fashionista, lying on a day-bed, snuggled up to a couple of Chihuahuas, and sipping chilled champagne ‘It’s become part of my identity,’ Arabella whimpered. ‘And I feel completely adrift without it.’
‘I can understand that, madam. Perfume is so individual, isn’t it? And extremely powerful, too. I’ve been reading this new research study, which shows it works directly on the brain, to lift our mood and increase our sense of well-being. Apparently it activates the limbic system, and that’s the seat of emotion, you see. Which is probably why you’ve been feeling so low without your usual stimulus. But if you’re looking for a replacement, madam, let me recommend Pizzazz. You’ll find it has the same floral note, with undertones of musk, and just a hint of—’
‘No!’ Arabella snapped, handing over her credit card. ‘Nothing can replace Magique. It’s my signature scent, an essential part of my psyche. I’m just praying that the manufacturers will reconsider their decision.’
‘Well, that’s always possible, madam.’
‘We’d better live in hope then.’ Her mantra for the next few weeks.
Once back home, she wrapped the scarf in pale pink tissue, with a silver bow on top, then used brightly coloured paper for all the children’s presents. She hoped her mother would remember the instructions: just one gift apiece each day, and not the whole lot all at once. Of late, her mother’s memory was giving cause for concern. If it were to develop into dementia, there would be no one to look after the children, should anything happen to her.
‘It won’t,’ she said aloud. ‘I will survive. I must.’ It wasn’t just the children who needed her, but poor old Philip, too. Talented he might be, but domesticated, no. He could boil an egg – just about – but the new complicated washing machine left him both baffl
ed and indignant, and if he tried to plait Sue’s hair, it would have come undone by lunchtime. And how would he deal with periods and boyfriends, once the girls got older? He’d probably remarry, on the pretext of providing them with a stepmother – a convenient excuse for ensuring that he got his oats. He might remarry anyway; unable to cope with her disfigurement. The scar on each of her breasts would be at least seven inches long and, if the surgeon made a mess of the job, the end result could be quite horrendous. She had seen pictures on the Internet: hideous gashes, with stitch-marks like barbed wire.
She gave herself a sharp slap on the wrist; her wrist still stinging as she went upstairs to pack. Since her diagnosis, everything took longer, as if the continual worry was beginning to wear her down. It seemed extraordinary now that she had ever done a full-time job, run a home, cared for two daughters, and still had energy to spare for a weekly aerobics class.
She hauled the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe, and stood looking at the double bed. When she came home from hospital, she would be lying there, next to Philip, with two raw, red wounds instead of two pale breasts. Would it make him physically sick, drive him into the spare room – or even out of her life? If she had a life, that is. Her future remained uncertain until after the operation. Only when they’d removed her breasts and the lymph nodes in her armpits, could they study them under the microscope, to check the size of the tumours and how far the cancer had spread. There would be another endless wait for the results – every day dragging like a month until her appointment with the oncologist. She loathed his dispassionate voice. When he’d told her she had cancer in the first place, the word had reduced her universe to ruins, yet he’d pronounced it almost casually.
She suddenly caught Philip’s eye. He was smiling from their wedding photo, in his slightly-too-tight morning-suit, with his arm around her waist. She looked almost shocked, as if amazed to be doing something so conventional as getting married in church. If only he were here with her, to distract her from her worries. He might be totally impractical, but he could always make her laugh. She had assumed he would take the day off, but that had proved impossible because some loathsome guy – a director of the company – was flying in from New York. At least he’d promised to be home by four, to drive her to the hospital, and she was literally counting the minutes: only fifty-eight now. And nineteen and a quarter hours before the operation. She doubted if she would sleep tonight, in a noisy, overheated ward, with all her terrors escalating, and images of scalpels slashing through her mind.
She laid her new pyjamas in the case. Philip would abhor them. He liked her black lace nightie, slit up to the thigh, or the frilly baby-doll with matching thong. It was the hospital that had specified pyjamas – something that unbuttoned down the front, to give access to the wounds. The only pair she had managed to find looked totally unfeminine, in blue-checked winceyette. Already she seemed to have changed; become a sexless, neutered invalid, a reject on the ‘seconds’ pile.
‘Just stop it!’ she reproved herself, trying to concentrate on the packing. Having fetched her slippers and spongebag, she trekked downstairs again to choose a book for the hospital – something easy and upbeat, with a happy-ever-after ending.
She brought up the bottles of scent, as well as a shamefully frothy novel. If she could find a shoebox to put the bottles in, it would make posting easier. The idea still appealed, despite its extravagance – restoring a stranger’s identity with a present out of the blue. If only hers could be restored with so little effort.
She removed her evening shoes from their smart gold cardboard box – the perfect receptacle, in style as well as size. The five bottles fitted snugly, and once she had showered and washed her hair, she would parcel up the box and phone the BBC, to get the correct address. She was actually quite grateful to have something to distract her; something else to think about. For the last few weeks, her mind had barely moved from scans, biopsies, mammograms, blood tests, implants, prostheses … One advantage of this whole ghastly saga was that her vocabulary had increased. Two months ago, she simply hadn’t heard of phrases such as keloid scarring, lymphoedema, axillary clearance, tissue-flap reconstruction. And she would be learning more each day. When she came home from hospital, she might be damaged beyond repair, but she would have gained a stock of new impressive words.
She stood, still dripping from the shower, staring at her reflection in the full-length bathroom mirror. This was the last occasion she would see herself with breasts, and it seemed crucial to remember what they looked like. She had a sneaking suspicion that Philip had actually married her for her breasts. Even at school, they’d been large – a source of deep embarrassment in those days but, bit by bit, Philip’s admiration had changed her attitude.
Yes, she had to admit, they were still reasonably full and firm, despite having fed two infants. They looked completely healthy, in fact – the skin smooth and glowing, with no sign of any tumours. Were she to touch her breasts, she could feel the lumps, of course, but she had no intention of doing so. Every time her fingers made contact with those evil little growths, a wave of panic jolted through her, as she pictured the ruthless cancer cells silently spreading through the body – out-of-control bully-boys invading normal tissue.
But how could it be going on, when everything seemed so normal on the surface? Her nipples, for example, were not only pink and plump, but actually erect – which she couldn’t understand, unless they were cruelly trying to emphasize exactly what she’d lose.
Certainly Philip would have legitimate grounds for complaint, faced as he’d be with a grotesquely different woman from the one he’d originally married. And worse was to come. Once she had recovered from the surgery, there would be at least six months’ chemotherapy, which was bound to make her hair fall out. Could she really blame him if he decided not to stay with a bald and breastless freak?
There was always reconstruction, of course, but it sounded almost worse than the mastectomy itself, and would leave another extensive scar, either all along her back, or underneath her stomach, depending on the site they used to remove the fat and muscle needed to rebuild the breasts. And the procedure was so complicated (not to mention painful) that things frequently went wrong, necessitating still more operations. One girl she’d met at the Breast Clinic had spent the last two years in and out of hospital, in an effort to replace her breasts, including reconstruction of the nipples – an extremely tricky procedure in itself. And, judging by what she’d heard, implants weren’t much better. They could rupture, leak, infect, or even cause further cancers, some authorities believed. With all these obstacles ahead, there wasn’t a chance in hell now of getting promotion at work – in fact, she’d be fortunate to keep her job at all. Worse, all the pain and trauma could prove so much wasted effort, if the cancer were to spread to, say, her liver or her bones, and she was given only months to live.
That was another facet of the illness – never knowing when it might recur. After the initial diagnosis, every tiny lump that subsequently developed might prove to be your death knell.
‘Stop it,’ she repeated, towelling her hair so vigorously it hurt. She was lucky to have a decent surgeon – one unlikely to mess up. And a lovely husband and two healthy, lively children. And her own personal breast-care nurse, whom she could phone at any time. And all her treatment free on the National Health. She could even get a wig free – a choice of wigs, in fact: blonde or auburn, poker-straight or curly – any style she chose. OK, wigs felt hot and uncomfortable, and they could itch, or slip, or even come right off, but they were a definite advance on …
The phone interrupted the counting of her blessings. Still naked, she darted into the bedroom and picked up the extension. ‘Oh, Philip – good! Are you on your way, darling? … What, you haven’t even left? … He can’t! I don’t believe it! Didn’t you tell him that…?’ She sank down on the bed, feeling completely crushed. Yet she mustn’t make things worse for Philip, who already sounded distraught. ‘It’s OK,
darling. I understand. No, honestly, I’ll be all right. See you about eight, then. Victoria Ward, remember.’
She crept into bed and pulled the duvet over her, as if trying to escape this latest blow. The one thing she’d been dreading was going to the hospital alone. If she took the car, she wouldn’t find a parking space, yet cabs were unreliable and, anyway, she needed moral support.
She wasn’t going – she’d changed her mind. In fact, there wasn’t any hospital to go to. She was Arabella, wasn’t she, and Arabella enjoyed perfect, radiant health? She had never been ill in her entire pampered life, and nothing would deprive her of her glamorous looks, her luscious femininity or her rock-hard confidence. And her husband was so wealthy he didn’t need to work, so he was with her all the time – yes, even at this moment, hovering by her side, popping grapes into her pouting mouth. And she would never, ever lose her mane of hair – hair so long and thick and shining, she employed a team of hairdressers just to brush it every day. And a beautician and a masseuse were on twenty-four-hour call, to primp and knead and titivate. She never had to work, of course. Meeting clients, meeting deadlines – all unknown territory. And as for juggling family and career, the concept was utterly foreign. She didn’t have any children, so she would never stay up half the night making costumes for school plays, or fairy cakes for end-of-term bazaars. Nor did she have an odious boss, who made her feel constantly guilty having to ask for sick leave when he’d just lost two of his staff.
‘You don’t know you’re born!’ she shouted suddenly, springing out of bed. ‘Your life’s one long endless holiday, sitting on your arse all day, with your doting husband in attendance. Mine’s hardly ever here. He’s stressed out of his mind. He works fifty hours a week, and some weekends as well. And the girls are in a dreadful state because an idiotic child at their school told them that everyone with cancer always dies. And my mother’s losing her marbles, so I’m worried sick about leaving her in charge. Yet there’s no one else, for heaven’s sake. You think you have problems, do you? Oh, yes, of course, I’d forgotten – you’ve lost your favourite perfume, so you’re absolutely devastated!’
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 4