Flawed Beauty

by Ernesto Lee

  My next four hours were spent absentmindedly surfing the various movie, TV and music channels trying to find something to keep me occupied. It is a great relief then to finally see daylight creeping through my window.

  Captain Müller is absolutely right, the Alps are stunning and probably even more so at this time of the year.

  The morning sunshine reflecting off of the snowcapped peaks is both magnificent and oddly captivating.

  Before his announcement, I was so lost in my own thoughts that I only realized how long I had been staring out of the window when Müller’s German accent came to life on the PA.

  I look down at my watch and am surprised to see that more than an hour has passed since I last checked it. For the life of me, I have no idea what I might have been thinking about during this time. Given the circumstances of this trip, it is hardly surprising I have been preoccupied, but to remember absolutely nothing of the last hour is extremely unusual. I can’t decide, though, if remembering nothing is worrying or liberating. I rack my brains for answers for another few minutes before I finally give up and turn away from the window.

  Unlike me, Karen has been sleeping soundly for almost the entire flight. Even Captain Müller’s chirpy morning announcement has failed to disturb her. I lean in to kiss her on the forehead. Her breathing is slow and relaxed, and I consider for a moment to allow her to sleep for longer. But I know she will be annoyed if I do. This is the last leg of an incredible journey that we started together more than three months ago, and today of all days, she will want to arrive at our final destination looking her very best. I smile at the thought of everything we have done together in these last three months, and then I gently shake her shoulder.

  “Karen, we’re going to be landing soon; you need to wake up now and get ready.”

  She doesn’t react and I shake her for a second time. This time she reaches up and squeezes my hand.

  “Just a few more minutes, babe. Please, I’m so tired. I promise, just give me a few minutes more.”

  Her eyes remain closed while she speaks, and even though she has been asleep for almost eight hours, I know how badly she needs the rest. The cabin crew haven’t yet started their preparation for landing, so I kiss her hand and gently place it back down on her pillow.

  “Okay, just a few minutes more, darling. Go on, go back to sleep now.”

  My gesture is returned with a sleepy smile, and within seconds she is sleeping peacefully again. I take the opportunity to freshen up in the washroom before returning to my seat.

  Then, all too soon, the cabin crew start their rounds and politely ask me to wake Karen up. I lean over to speak to her, but there is no need for me to touch her or to say anything. She opens her eyes and after a short pause to get her bearings, she sits up and takes a deep breath.

  “I don’t think I ever truly appreciated sleep until we started this thing, Mark. No matter what’s going on in life, when you sleep, you can take yourself away from everything. You can build your own alternate reality, and, to a certain point, you can create your own destiny. Does that make sense, or am I rambling?”

  “It actually does make sense,” I reply. “It’s a reality that doesn’t last, but while it does last, it’s a comfort. So, how was last night’s reality?”

  “Ironically, it was probably the best one in a long time, Mark. Do you think that’s because we are near the end?”

  This question brings back the seriousness of our situation and the expression on my face shows it. The look on Karen’s own face tells me instantly that she regrets asking the question. She takes my hand and apologizes for upsetting me.

  “Mark, I’m so sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I really am sorry. Please forgive me?”

  I squeeze her hand and force the smile back onto my face.

  “There is nothing to forgive, Karen. It’s just a shame that you didn’t bring me along for that reality. I spent the night twiddling my thumbs and listening to you snoring. I had to check under your blanket a few times to make sure it was still you and not an escaped rhinoceros. No offense, of course. To the rhinoceros, I mean.”

  In response, she playfully punches my arm and then shakily gets to her feet. She steadies herself on the headrest of the seat in front and I pass her handbag up to her.

  “Go on, go and get freshened up. The Captain is going to be putting on the seatbelt signs soon and I doubt you’ll be allowed into the country looking like a hobo. It would be such a shame if I had to leave you on your own at immigration.”

  “Yeh, you wish,” she replies. “Even if I was refused entry, you wouldn’t leave me on my own. It’s not possible because you, Mr. Mark Rennie, are completely infatuated with me.”

  With that, she winks and then blows me a kiss before stepping into the aisle and walking slowly towards the washroom.

  Knowing full well that I am watching her, she stops at the door and playfully wiggles her ass, much to the amusement of myself and all the other guys that have been following her progression down the aisle.

  She steps inside and closes the door, leaving me alone once again with my thoughts. Like it or not, Karen knows me almost as well as I know myself. I’m not just infatuated with her, I am head over heels, up to my neck, batshit crazy in love with her. Despite the utter irony of our situation, the last few months have been the happiest of my life, and no matter what happens from here on, nothing will ever change that.

  Chapter One

  Four Months Earlier

  After my initial diagnosis, I had spent nearly two weeks researching my condition and looking into who the top specialists in the UK were. My final shortlist had three names on it. After a consultation with each of them, I had sat down with my father and brother to make the most important decision of my life to date.

  With his impeccable credentials and an even more impressive track record of success, I finally chose to put my faith and my life in the hands of the eminent Harley Street Consultant Oncologist, Dr. Alan Bleakley. More than eighteen months on, he now feels like a close friend, and I feel like I know the layout of his surgery better than I know my own apartment.

  As with all close friends, there is an unwritten rule that no matter how harsh the message or the opinion, friends should always be honest with each other. They shouldn’t be afraid to tell the truth and they should never, under any circumstance, try to sugarcoat the message in an attempt to spare the feelings of the other person.

  With Alan, this has never been an issue. By the very nature of his profession, Alan Bleakley is as straight as they come when delivering bad news. Unfortunately, this is of no consolation to me, and despite there having always been a chance of this scenario, it’s a bombshell none the less. After delivering the latest bad news, Alan tactfully stays quiet and allows me a couple of minutes to fully digest it, before he speaks again.

  “Mark, I know we’ve discussed this possibility before, but I think now is the time to look at the options we discussed prior to your last transrectal MRI scan. You should really consider the—”

  “Sorry, doctor, but am I missing something here?” I angrily interrupt. “You’ve just told me that my tumor has grown and that the cancer may also now have spread to my lymph nodes and bladder. Is there any real point in continuing this conversation? When I first met you, you confidently told me there was a ninety-one percent survival rate for prostate cancer at my age. That was pretty good odds by any measure. So, what the hell went wrong? Did I back the wrong horse?”

  My outburst is completely uncalled for, but, ever the professional, Alan doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, he allows another short pause for me to compose myself, during which I immediately regret speaking to him in such a way.

  My reaction to the news that my cancer is now at stage four is most likely a scenario that he has witnessed many times before, and whilst I have no doubt that he has heard a lot worse from other patients, this is still no excuse for my behavior, and I offer
an apology.

  “I’m sorry, Alan. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m truly grateful for your advice and support. I just never thought it would ever get this far. I’m forty-one years old and I have no idea if I’m going to see my next birthday. I really don’t know what else to say.”

  “You don’t need to say anything,” he replies. “I do need you to listen carefully though, and then I suggest you go home and speak to your family.”

  I nod my agreement and then I ask him how long I have left.

  “Well firstly, Mark, let’s clear something up, shall we? Stage four cancer doesn’t necessarily mean that we are out of options. It’s very serious, of course, but it’s still possible to beat or to prolong life expectancy with the right combination of therapies and surg—”

  “But, how long do I have?” I Interrupt again.

  My question causes him to look down at his notes and then he frowns and pushes his glasses further back on the bridge of his nose.

  “Your best-case scenario without further treatment is nine to twelve months, but it could be as little as six months. However, with surgery and a more intensive application of hormone therapy and chemotherapy, there is a real chance of…”

  Dr. Bleakley is still talking, but he lost me at six months and my mind wanders to a place where all that awaits me is a protracted and painful death. The way I see it, the only two options I have are to continue my unpleasant course of treatment with a slim chance of beating my cancer, or to walk away now and make the best of what little time I have left. Neither option gives me any sense of comfort or hope, and when he realizes that I am not listening, he stops talking and reaches across his desk for my hand.

  “Mark, why don’t you go home and get some rest. I’ll ask my PA to make you another appointment in a few days’ time. We can discuss then how you’d like to proceed. Would you like me to arrange for one of our drivers to take you home?”

  I can still barely comprehend what is happening, but I get to my feet.

  “No, that’s okay, thank you. I think I’d prefer to walk for now and get some fresh air.”

  Alan gets up and walks me to the reception to make my next appointment. His PA is an attractive blonde in her early thirties, and despite her best efforts she is failing horribly to hide the fact that she knows the details of my latest prognosis.

  On my previous visits she was chatty and bubbly, but today her smile is forced and I’m almost feeling embarrassed for her. To save both of our blushes, I turn away and pretend to check something on my cellphone whilst Alan checks for the next available appointment.

  “Joanna, please check if we have a one-hour slot available on Monday for Mr. Rennie.”

  There is a short pause and then she asks me if 2 pm would be okay, adding, “If two is difficult for you, then we could also fit you in at four. Which would you prefer, Mr. Rennie?”

  “Both are fine,” I reply, “so put me down for the 4 pm slot, please. I can finish work early and I’ll head straight home afterwards.”

  “Okay, that’s confirmed for you,” Joanna says. “Would you like our driver to take you anywhere?”

  Alan replies on my behalf, “Mr. Rennie would like to walk to get some fresh air. Mark, please let me show you out.”

  I turn towards the door, but before either of us can move, Joanna informs her boss about his next appointment.

  “Dr. Bleakley, Dr. McKenzie is here to see you next.”

  We both turn to face the waiting area and the stunningly beautiful woman sitting on one of the leather sofas. I had been so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I hadn’t seen her when I came out of Alan’s surgery. Now, though, I can’t take my eyes off of her. She is in her mid- to late-thirties, around five-feet eight-inches tall, slim with a fair complexion and long black hair. I’m wondering about her connection to Dr. Bleakley when he puts his hand on my shoulder and my concentration is broken.

  “Mark, are you sure you won’t take that ride? It’s no problem, the car is just outside.”

  I decline again and Alan walks me to the door. He shakes my hand and tells me again to speak with my family.

  “This is not the end of the line, Mark. There are options. I’ll see you at 4 pm on Monday, but feel free to call me if you have any questions before then.”

  . . . . . . . .

  I step out into the street and Alan closes the door behind me. The time is just after three, but I have no appetite to go back to work. My boss and my colleagues are all aware of my condition, and I am in no mood for the inevitable questions, or the barrage of advice and suggestions that I know will be waiting for me. They all mean well, but for now I just want to walk and be on my own. It will be bad enough talking to my father and brother later today, without also having to explain myself a dozen times to my workmates.

  Without really knowing where I am going, I slowly walk down Harley Street and take some time to reflect on the frailties of life. Less than two years ago, I hadn’t a care in the world. Approaching my fortieth birthday, my career in the city was on the rise, and I was living a life that most can only dream of.

  As a successful commodities trader with one of the leading London trading houses, I had it all. I had more money than I could spend. I had the flashy car, a penthouse apartment, memberships to the best clubs and, above all, I had my health and a beautiful fiancée.

  I still have the material things, of course, but the things that mean the most are long gone. My body has been ravaged by cancer, and unable to cope with the challenges of my illness, my beautiful and caring fiancée turned out to be not so caring after all and is now engaged to one of my former friends.

  I stop for a moment and take in the sight of the impressive Victorian and Edwardian period buildings that dominate Harley Street. It’s famous as the center of private medicine in England, for those fortunate and wealthy enough to be able to afford it.

  A fat lot of good that has done for me.

  Despite the enormous sums of money I have thrown at my treatment, it has still not been enough.

  When the odds are against you, it doesn’t matter how much money you have. You still can’t win.

  At the top of Harley Street, I turn right onto Devonshire Street and then left onto Portland Place until I reach the crescent that encircles Regents Park. It’s still early September, and although I’ve been walking slowly, I am sweating.

  I take off my suit jacket and tie, and for a moment I consider going into the park, but then decide against it. Inexplicably, I leave my jacket and tie hanging on the railings and I turn right towards Marylebone Road. I’ve lived in London for more than fifteen years, but I’ve never been to this part of town before and this is the first time I’ve seen the John F. Kennedy Memorial close-up.

  The memorial itself is beautiful in its simplicity. There is a bust of JFK on a tall black plinth with the simple inscription ‘John F. Kennedy 1917–1963’.

  I compare my own situation to his, and then completely irrationally I find myself getting angry that he was forty-six years old before he died.

  “For Christ’s sake, even he made it to forty-six. What the hell have I done to deserve this?”

  My question is to myself, but my outburst has caught the attention of a small group of elderly American tourists who are also looking at the memorial. One elderly gentleman wearing a baseball cap emblazoned with a US Navy emblem and the words USS Arizona approaches me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

  “Are you okay, son? You look a little pale. Can I help you with anything?”

  His words are sincere, and I find myself blushing as his friends crowd around to offer their help. I assure the veteran that I’m okay and then I ask him about his cap.

  “The USS Arizona, wasn’t that one of the ships at Pearl Harbor?”

  My question makes him smile and his chest swells with pride as he confirms that it was. I can tell he is itching to tell me more, but I interrupt him and ask his age. If I thought his chest couldn’t swell anymore, I am instantly pr
oved wrong as he answers me.

  “Would you believe me if I told you I was ninety-two years old, son? I was just eighteen when the japs attacked us at Pearl Harbor.”

  I’m stunned at how well he looks for his age and I ask him a final question.

  “Would you say you’ve lived a good life, sir?”

  “I think so,” he replies. “Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t led a perfect life and I have plenty of regrets. But, on balance, yes. I think I have led a good life. Is everything all right, son?”

  “It is, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  I shake his hand and then leave the veteran and his friends to mull over my last comment.

  I continue to walk, but now I know what I want. I want some time alone and I want a cold pint. On Euston Road, I stop outside The Green Man pub to check my phone. It has been on silent for the last few hours and I have half-a-dozen missed calls and text messages from my father and brother asking me to call them. I message them both to tell them that I’ll call them later, and then I turn off my phone and go inside the pub.

  This is my first visit to The Green Man, but if I had to put a label on it, I would describe it as a contemporary British boozer. The clientele, however, are anything but contemporary. Even without needing to hear the accents, most of the drinkers have tourist written all over them. It’s likely they are here simply to tick the trip to the British pub off of their bucket list.

  I walk towards the bar and signal to the barman. He is a tall, good-looking young man with tightly cropped blonde hair, so it is no surprise when he greets me with a strong Eastern European accent.

  I return his greeting and order myself a pint of Stella Artois. Then I take a seat in a quiet booth opposite the bar.

  I watch for a few seconds as the condensation runs down the side of my glass, and then I take a large gulp and savor the taste of the cool liquid. If anyone was watching me, they might think that I’d never had a cold beer before, and they wouldn’t be too far wrong. After my diagnosis, and on the advice of Dr. Bleakley, I gave my lifestyle a complete overhaul. Healthy eating, a sensible exercise regimen, no more late nights and, most importantly for my immune system, no alcohol.