The Happy Glampers

by Daisy Tate

  ‘It is nice.’ She ran her fingers through his hair and felt that old familiar flutter of frisson tickle through her. ‘You’re nice.’

  Monty twisted round and pushed himself up onto his elbow at her change of tone. ‘You’re nice, too.’

  Monty had The Look on. The one she hadn’t seen in a while. Months, if she was being honest. And, as honesty was the new black: ‘Wanna play nice with me?’

  Monty jigged his eyebrows up and down. ‘Definitely.’

  Monty climbed over the back of the sofa and did a slut-drop to the bottom zip of their orange tent. She loved their tent. It was old and barely held the weather at bay, but it held a thousand good memories. And, unlike their London home, it was entirely paid for.

  Monty did his best Magic Mike bum gyration as he pulled the zip open and flipped the tent door up and over the roof. They hadn’t bothered with the waterproofing. They wouldn’t need it. Not yet anyway.

  ‘Your boudoir awaits, madame.’ He held his hand out so that she could walk up and over the back of the sofa and straight into his arms. Laughing, she willingly did.

  Izzy clonked her head on the sterile hospital mini desk.

  So many forms. So many forms! Somanyforms.

  How was she supposed to concentrate on getting better if everything was written in acronyms?

  HRA, REC, MHRA, CTA, R&D, SSA, and the list went on.

  FFS.

  ‘C’mon woman.’ Emily tapped the stack of papers. ‘Sign your life away.’

  ‘Emms!’ Jesus. It wasn’t like actual death was on the line or anything.

  ‘Soz.’ Emily pushed the papers towards her. ‘It works on hip and knee patients.’

  ‘Not so much with cancer patients.’ Izzy gave her a half-hearted poke as she slumped in the squeaky vinyl chair. She’d felt so full of energy at the weekend. The best she’d felt since Sussex chemo. When anyone asked how she was feeling about the treatment, she was all ‘Rarin’ to go!’ or ‘Can’t wait!’

  Now that she was here? Not so much.

  When Emily put the next form in front of her, one line blurred into the next, apart from the big X she’d put where Izzy needed to confirm that yes, filling her body full of drugs was perfectly fine and no, she wouldn’t sue them if it all went wrong.

  As Emily read through the next form, highlighting little bits, circling others, Izzy’s thoughts drifted back to the beach.

  She and Luna had never stayed in a geodome before. They’d stayed awake late, sworn to each other they’d seen shooting stars even when they hadn’t, but you couldn’t make wishes on ordinary stars, so … She’d done little beyond sitting on the beach, enjoying the campfire, talking nonsense about surfing. Mostly she’d watched Looney, prancing about in her cute little wetsuit, dazzling the other children with her boogie-board moves. Izzy’s very own shooting star. And yes, she’d made a wish. Just the one.

  Emily tapped the paperwork again. ‘C’mon, woman. As your newly appointed next of kin, I’m happy to help you go through all this, but –’ she tapped her watch – ‘Mrs Hitchin’s knee wants replacing. My train’s in two hours.’

  ‘Show me the card.’ Izzy knew she was wasting time, but … she was building up to a question she should have asked the minute she’d arrived back in the UK. Before, even.

  Emily indulged her by flipping the card out of her purse like a secret agent.

  There it was:

  Emily Cheung: Next of kin.

  She narrowed her eyes and pictured another line: Emily Cheung: Adoptive mother.

  She lifted her gaze to Emily, her exacting features taut with concentration as she pocketed the card and got back to highlighting and circling. Izzy poked her again, trying to elicit a smile. Emily slapped her hand away without looking.

  What if Emily was a shit mum? She didn’t want Luna being slapped away if she was trying to have a bit of fun.

  And then the tsunami of doubts and concerns that had kept her from asking Emily that all-important question clotted her throat.

  There’s always Alfred.

  She’d googled him again last night after Emily faked being asleep. Alf was married, as suspected. At least she presumed he was. If the Family Business website was anything to go by, he had two children. A boy and a girl. Young. Lots of sun-bleached blond hair. Piercing blue eyes. His. She knew that because she stared into a pair of them every morning she woke her daughter up.

  Yachts. His family business. Very posh and very expensive yachts. The wife was never in the photos. The grandparents were. And great-grandparents. Which was a good sign for Luna. Longevity clearly wasn’t a Yeats thing. Not yet, anyway.

  Would Alf’s wife mind adding a mixed-race, half-grown addition to her flock? She’d scrolled and scrolled to find a photo of the wife, but hadn’t succeeded. Izzy had concluded that she was either camera shy or the one who took the photos. They were good. Arty. And in Denmark. Would Luna be happy eating breakfast pastries and herring for the rest of her life?

  Not a factor if she grew a pair and asked Emily to adopt her.

  Or she could always not die. That was a good option.

  A shrill bell rang somewhere in the ward. A flurry of running feet and rolling carts followed in its wake. The universe, no doubt, tapping her on the shoulder to remind her of her mortality.

  ‘You should move to Bristol like the rest of us.’ Izzy nudged Emily with her flipflop.

  ‘Pah! Yeah right.’ Emily tapped another X and Izzy signed it without looking. Emily looked at the clock again. Why did she have to go so soon, Izzy silently whined. They had Big Stuff to talk about.

  Emily tapped again. ‘C’mon. Hurry up.’

  Izzy would ask next time. When she was looking more wan and feeble. Emily could never say no to her when she was weak and frail.

  Cheery Oncologist – much more charming/informative/helpful than Stern Oncologist – stuck her head inside the door. ‘How’re we getting on in here?’

  ‘Great!’ Izzy crowed a bit too enthusiastically.

  ‘Any questions with the paperwork I can help with?’

  ‘Nope.’ Izzy started scribbling her name on the bottom of the remaining sheets.

  ‘I have one.’

  Izzy glared at Emily. Hadn’t she expressly told her to dial back the ‘I’m also a doctor therefore totally qualified to ask irritating questions’ thing?

  ‘Go on,’ said the doctor.

  ‘I can’t see anything in here regarding what we do for Luna if, you know …’ Emily tapped her pen on the stack of paperwork, as if to garner strength from all the facts lying within. ‘What I mean is, is there anything we – and by we I mean Izzy … Is there anything Izzy needs to sign regarding what to do with Luna if anything should happen to her?’

  Cheery Oncologist’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh. Gosh. I was under the impression that had already been addressed.’

  Izzy panic-laughed. This was definitely not the way she’d planned on asking Emily to care for her daughter if she sparked it. She patted Emily on the head as if she were an adorable schoolgirl. ‘It’s cool. She’s joking. Emily’s in charge of everything. Aren’t you, Emms?’

  She’d clear everything with her later. This was just an unfortunate blip.

  Until she saw the blood drain from Emily’s face, Izzy hadn’t taken on board just how much she’d presumed. What a huge thing it was to ask someone to care for your child if you died.

  ‘Ummm …’ Emily looked down at the forms.

  Izzy’s entire body began to vibrate with a year’s worth of fear. A decade’s, if she were being honest.

  When Emily finally met her eye, she saw a reflection of her own terror.

  Izzy might actually die.

  Luna might become an orphan.

  And she’d done nothing to ensure her daughter would be safe and cared for if anything went wrong.

  The doctor gave the door a light pat and the pair of them a bright smile. ‘I’m pretty sure there are a couple of charities that help in these sorts of situations. I�
��ll see if I can rustle up some brochures. Give you two a few more minutes to talk.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Emily glanced up at the station clock. If Freya hurried she just might make it. Mrs Hitchin’s hip had a lot to answer for.

  Charlotte absently poured milk into her tea, blew some of the steam away, then put the cup down. Far too hot.

  She looked as thunderstruck as Emily felt. ‘And you’re sure you want to do this?’

  Seriously?

  The only thing Emily was sure of was that she’d gone completely mad, but what else was she meant to have said? Nope. Don’t want her. Find someone else to care for your orphaned daughter.

  ‘Luna and I get along.’

  ‘We know you get along. That’s not the …’ Charlotte paused while an announcement about train delays to Cardiff boomed through the station. When it finished she adopted a new tack. ‘Whatever Izzy wants is obviously the right path to choose.’

  There were a lot of things Emily could say in response but reading between the lines was pretty easy on this one. Liking a child was one thing. Raising one was an entirely different kettle of fish. Mahi Mahi and Bigeye Tuna in Luna’s case.

  Emily scrubbed her fingers into her scalp. Leaving Izzy behind all tearful and anxious was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. ‘Look. All of this is completely hypothetical. Luna only needs a guardian if Izzy isn’t … you know … alive.’

  Charlotte blinked rapidly as she attempted to take another sip of her murky train station tea. It looked like something out of 1984. In fact, everything was taking on a surreal tint now that Emily had agreed to adopt a ten-year-old child if her best friend died.

  ‘Have you done anything legally binding?’

  ‘Nope.’ It was all she could do to get Izzy peeled off the floor once Cheery Oncologist had left the room, let alone google how to do a custody hand-over. ‘We wrote it on a Post-it.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘We did.’ Emily showed her the Post-it then tucked it back into her bag alongside Tansy’s number. Which of the two would be used first?

  ‘And you think this treatment is the best there is on offer?’

  ‘As far as I know it is, but …’ Oh fuckety, fuck monsters. Nothing was foolproof. Emily held her hands up in the surrender position. ‘Nothing’s guaranteed. She might live. She might die.’

  There. She’d said it.

  The words hovered over her, then crashed back down, dislodging her heart as they did. Her very best friend in the world – the one she’d had her first proper crush on, her first hangover with, her first laugh until you throw up in your mouth a little with – had, on her suggestion, walked into hospital today and could very likely not walk out again.

  Mercifully, Charlotte didn’t try to comfort her. There were no placating turns of phrase to change the fact that Izzy was being eaten alive by cancer.

  Charlotte slipped a pile of serviettes between Emily’s elbows as she pressed her thumbs into her eyes trying to stem the tears.

  When she collected herself, Emily briskly patted the table, pretended she didn’t look like a red-eyed demon and announced, ‘It’s all academic anyway. Izzy will be fine and who will or won’t look after Luna irrelevant.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry …’ Freya rushed in, cycle helmet still on, and collapsed into a seat at their corner table, not bothering with the requisite cheek kisses or hugs. ‘I know your train leaves soon, Emms. What’s going on.’

  ‘Izzy wants Emily to have legal custody of Luna if …’ Charlotte’s voice cracked as she, too, tried to put words to their shared fear. ‘… if the treatment isn’t successful.’

  ‘I think she wants all of us to have custody,’ Emily corrected. Hoped? ‘I mean, there has to be one person who sorts out the logistics, but you two are totally going to help. Aren’t you?’

  Freya gave a vague nod, still trying to catch up.

  Charlotte pointed out the obvious. ‘It will be tricky with you in London.’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ Emily tried to imagine sitting her parents down at the mah-jong table for this one. Remember that thing about never having a grandchild? Well … surprise!

  ‘I would’ve thought she’d have had something in place from the first time,’ Freya said.

  ‘This is Izzy we’re talking about.’ There was no need for Emily to elaborate. Izzy’s modus operandi had and always would be: deal with it when it happens.

  Well, it was happening. Big time.

  Freya took a sip of Charlotte’s tea, made a face, then started teasing a serviette into slender strips. ‘It makes sense now.’

  ‘What does?’ Charlotte began folding her own serviette into smaller and smaller squares.

  ‘Why she came back. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to work it out. I just thought: typical Izz. Finally settled, running a great business, then poof! Blows it all to smithereens for a diddy cottage in Wales. I thought she had some weird “face her demons” from her mum’s death thing going on, but it was to find a family for Luna, wasn’t it?’

  Charlotte tucked her quadruple-folded serviette between her saucer and cup. ‘And as far as you know, she’s not been in touch with the father? What was his name again?’

  ‘Alfred,’ Emily supplied then shrugged. ‘Not as far as I know. Residency – that’s what they call it now.’ She flashed them all the charity brochure that Cheery Oncologist had given them. ‘I presume residency would automatically go to him if Izzy hadn’t made a call. So, she made a call.’

  ‘Are you up for it, Emms?’ Freya asked.

  ‘No.’ If any situation begged for honesty, it was this one. ‘But I’ll make sure I am when – if – the time comes. Which it won’t.’

  No one dared disagree with her.

  She glanced up as the train timetable updated again. ‘Sorry, ladies. There’s my platform. I know we have a lot to talk about, but I’ve got to fix a knee.’

  Charlotte and Freya exchanged a look.

  ‘I know, I know. But it’s not like I’m adopting her today.’

  They rose and gave each other quick hugs. Emily made a gesture she hoped they understood meant she’d text them and see them soon and hopefully none of what they had just discussed would come to pass. She crossed her fingers the entire train journey home.

  Freya tiptoed up to the edge of Izzy’s hospital room and peeped in the window. She was watching a surfing film from the looks of things.

  She tapped on the doorframe then walked in with a bright smile. ‘You’re looking good, woman! I thought you’d be all bleuuurgh … after last week.’

  The second week’s protocol had really sucked the beans out of Izzy. To the point she’d only done FaceTimes with Luna, asked Freya not to come in at all and slept during both of Charlotte’s visits.

  Izzy smiled from her mound of pillows. Her hair positively eclipsed her thin face, but, if Freya wasn’t mistaken, that little Izzy glow was back. ‘Must’ve turned a corner.’ She held out a bunch of grapes.

  Freya did an automatic food-miles calculation, then forced herself to set a ‘principles exclusion zone’ outside Izzy’s hospital door. If she was well enough to eat grapes after everything she’d been through, it didn’t matter if they’d been grown on the moon.

  She took the fruit then plopped down on the vinyl chair Charlotte had covered with a soft polka-dotted throw. Even if Freya did say so herself, the room looked much better with the smattering of her handmade cushions round the place. Her favourite featured a cow in a hammock drinking a martini. She daren’t tell Charlotte it had been inspired by Lady V.

  She ate a grape as she inspected the opulent fruit bowl. There were some pukka-looking muffins in it as well. ‘Blimey. I didn’t think the NHS research budget stretched to muffins.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Izzy gave the fruit a loving pat. ‘Emily sent it.’

  Creep.

  Sweet creep.

  Emily had morphed into a different human over the past few weeks. Always on their What
sApp group. Coming down to Bristol every chance she got. Forwarding joke emails. Whatever next?

  ‘She’s probably spiked everything with steroids.’ Izzy grinned. ‘Anything to get me out of here so she can go back to being Grumpy Emms.’ She put a grape to her lips then pretended to be getting electrocuted by it. This struck Izzy as hilariously funny. So funny her whole body began jiggling away until, too soon, she lost her steam.

  Poor Izz. The treatment had clearly taken it out of her. Her spirits, however, remained unflagging. The Netflix subscription, smuggled in soups, teas, tonics and aromatherapy oils all helped, but it was beginning to look like the cutting-edge medicine did too. Scan after scan confirmed it. Izzy’s tumours were finally shrinking.

  ‘Is Emms coming down again this weekend?’

  ‘Nope. She’s coming Thursday and Friday. Said she had something on this weekend and Looney wanted to go surfing anyway, so that’s the plan.’ Izzy plucked another grape from the basket and began to pick at it. ‘She and Looney are going to the planetarium after fancy school camp.’

  Freya was about to say it sounded like just the sort of outing Felix would love, then remembered that their Vow of Poverty prohibited those types of extravagances. She’d take him up to the spire tonight. See if they could do some star-spotting from there.

  ‘How’re we doing today, Miss Izzy?’ A nurse with a thick Jamaican accent rapped on the side of the door. ‘Time for your daily weigh-in, missus.’

  Freya didn’t miss Izzy pocketing something from her side table as she slid out of bed.

  ‘That’s me done.’ Izzy accepted Freya’s assistance as she crawled back into bed. Once the nurse left the room, Izzy slipped her hand into her pocket and revealed a fistful of crystals.

  ‘What are those for?’

  ‘The weigh-in.’ Izzy’s eyes glittered with mischief.

  ‘For good luck?’

  Izzy scoffed. ‘Derrrr. To weigh more.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  Izzy gave Freya the sort of look you’d give a simple, but well-intentioned child. ‘If I don’t weigh enough they won’t give me the treatment. If I don’t get the treatment, I don’t get to live. And this week? I don’t weigh enough.’