Nothing to Lose

by Anna Legat

  *

  As anticipated, the party was a drag. Dozens of screaming kids were bouncing around the garden, from wall to wall and on a trampoline the diameter of the London Eye. Balloons floated about aimlessly; one drifted into Giacomo’s food. He shouldn’t be eating so much, his tight trousers, two sizes outside his comfort zone, had cut into his underbelly, which began to expand like those balloons. Giacomo wished that, like them, it would just bloody well float away.

  A woman, who could be anyone’s grandmother, decided to stalk him. She had to be at least sixty-five, incidentally Giacomo’s age though he didn’t feel that old and today, hopefully, didn’t look it either. Now an expert on matters of hair-dyeing, he could tell the stalker-granny was grey under the layers of copper red. Giacomo felt sorry for her, she must have been giving it her best to make herself look younger, poor cow! He had no idea what had brought her into his orbit. They had absolutely nothing in common. He wasn’t listening when she was telling him something or other, but now she started asking questions, and he had to concentrate to answer them, in monosyllables as it were. She accepted his half-hearted answers gracefully, convinced, no doubt, that his English was poor. If only Giacomo could wish her away! Not that he wasn’t a gentlemen, but he didn’t want to be judged by the company he kept. She made him look like a pensioner! If he had Megan on his arm, he would be a different man! Young. Spring in his step. Funny. Oh, Giacomo could be funny if he put his mind to it. He could be the life and soul of the party. Yet he wasn’t. Because Megan had abandoned him.

  ‘Do you miss Greece? You must miss it! It’s such a beautiful country! If I had a choice I’d move there tomorrow.’ The granny-stalker flashed her capped teeth at him.

  Greece? Close enough, Giacomo shrugged. ‘Yes. Very nice.’

  He was busy watching Megan. She was wearing a body-hugging little black number and high heels. Giacomo loved women wearing high heels, especially Megan. Her thighs blossomed. Round, rich, abundant thighs! He could lick them, eat them, ravish them! He was captivated by those ample thighs, taking bites of them with his eyes.

  Megan hadn’t looked once at him, not once since they arrived. She had drifted away, like the balloons, and found herself instantly surrounded by people. Mainly men her own age. She should be feeling overwhelmed and frightened – being a person with agoraphobia – but she was laughing. Giacomo should be swooping to her rescue and taking her to the safety of their marital home, but she didn’t appear distressed in the least, so it would make him look stupid.

  He was already feeling stupid. The men in Megan’s circle had been glancing at him stealthily from afar. A few jokes, probably at Giacomo’s expense, had been shared, for everyone’s eyes were on him and everyone burst out in laughter, including Megan. That was when she finally spared him a glance. He raised his glass to her, and she looked away. Was she ashamed of him?

  ‘Is that Megan?’ the granny-stalker asked him. ‘Can’t see from a distance without my glasses.’

  ‘Megan, my wife.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course! You are Megan’s husband! Someone did say she married a foreign chap, a good few years older than her. Of course, I didn’t realise! I’m Megan’s auntie, Flora,’ she paused, expecting him to share the secret of his first name with her. When that didn’t happen, she added, ‘I wasn’t at your wedding. We only returned from Canada three years ago, and then Stan died. I thought of going back to Canada, but the kids are here now. Megan’s age, James and Tom.’

  It stung at first – the older chap bit, the good few years older chap – but it didn’t hurt for long. He knew he was older than Megan, no revelations there. He was older from the start and their twenty-four years' age difference wasn’t going to get smaller over time. But he had hoped they would age together at the same rate. It hadn’t happened that way – Giacomo had aged; Megan had grown into a woman.

  *

  Flora had left hours ago together with most of the little tots and their parents. The crowd around Megan had thinned too. It was just her and that bloke. They were standing face to face, so close that their breath was mingling in the rapidly cooling air. Giacomo marvelled at how the hell she could have been standing like that for hours in her high heels, and not get sore. Normally her back would hurt. Why wasn’t it hurting now? Giacomo didn’t wish his wife ill, but he couldn’t bear her closeness to that bloke. If her back started to hurt, she would want to go home.

  They were only talking, and talking shouldn’t trouble Giacomo, but there was also the body language. And that did trouble him. She was drawn to the bastard – that much was obvious. It was in the way she would lean on him from time to time as if she had lost balance and needed him to steady her. Other times she would rest her hand on his forearm and hold it there for a while, unrushed and unwilling to take it back. He, in his turn, lowered his head as if to speak into her ear, but Giacomo was sure Megan wasn’t deaf! She didn’t need him speaking into her ear! The bastard was taking advantage of her good nature. Giacomo clenched his fists. When the bloke wrapped his arms around Megan and squeezed her shoulders, and went on to rub her back, Giacomo thought, Basta!

  He got up. He had had a few drinks too many and his gait wasn’t steady, but he managed to stumble across the lawn towards the two lovebirds. He had a lot to say to them, especially the bloke. He would have words with the bastard, and those words had already begun to simmer in his head, coming to the boiling point. But the bloke was much younger and much taller than Giacomo, and besides, it wouldn’t do to spoil the occasion by starting a fight. So Giacomo asked his wife, ‘Are you cold, bella?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’ She didn’t look too pleased to see him. A disconcerted glint in her eye said as much.

  Giacomo wanted to point to the bloke’s hand rubbing her back, but the hand had dropped away from Megan, and once again, Giacomo looked and felt stupid. ‘It’s late and it’s cold, I think,’ he said.

  Megan didn’t look cold. Her face was flushed, her bare hands and those ample bare thighs radiating heat. She was on heat.

  ‘Maybe we should think of going home. I’ve got work tomorrow. Early.’

  She ignored the suggestion. ‘Look who I bumped into!’ she chirped. ‘Ryan! We were at school together, in the same class! Ryan had a thing for me, didn’t you, Ryan?’

  Ryan grinned and said hi. Giacomo winced as if she had slapped him. ‘Good to meet you, Ryan. We should be going.’

  ‘Must we?’ Megan pursed her lips, like only she could, like a little spoiled girl. Giacomo loved her pouting and teasing, but on this occasion he wasn’t amused.

  ‘We must.’

  Once again, just to annoy Giacomo, she touched Ryan’s forearm. ‘Only if you promise to come and visit, Ryan! Yeah? A promise?’

  The bastard raised his right hand, palm out. ‘Promise! Cross my heart and hope to die!’

  I hope you do, an uncharitable thought crossed Giacomo’s mind as he led his reluctant wife to the car.

  MARGARET

  Margaret couldn’t decide what she was more anxious about: leaving Vic at home alone or meeting Dr Vineshi. She was nervous on both accounts. She couldn't ask anyone to look after Vic in her absence without telling them about the appointment. She couldn’t lie – didn’t have the imagination, or the guts.

  Alison was the last person Margaret would talk to about it – the girl would make so much fuss! Would break into pieces. She had the stamina of a porcelain doll. Plus, Alison had better things to do than worrying about her mother. Alison had a family to keep together, two young boys to raise and an ever-absent husband to please. She was a worrier without need for the added bonus of her mother’s condition, which could yet prove a storm in a teacup.

  Telling Teresa and Gordon wasn’t an option either. As sweet as she was, Teresa would advertise the matter to the entire village and that would put people in an awkward position. Wouldn’t Margaret feel ill at ease if she had to strike a casual chat in the street with a neighbour who she knew was dying? What would she say?
What was the protocol? Would she say how sorry she was? Or would she try to divert their attention to the possibility of life after death? Discussing the weather was the safest option but could be seen as insensitive. The thing was this: whatever the topic of conversation, it wouldn’t change anything and people would be unnecessarily put out.

  No, Margaret had to trust Vic to be on his own for a couple of hours. What was the worst he could do? Shuffle off to the cemetery, his favourite vantage point of late? Sit in the conservatory, watching the grass grow through the window? He could do that for hours. He wouldn’t even notice Margaret was missing.

  Yet, she was worried. Even though she had taken all measures to prevent potential incidents. She had turned off the mains so there was no chance of Vic attempting to make himself a cup of tea by boiling an empty kettle, as he had done previously. She had locked all the doors to stop Vic from running away and getting lost, as he had done previously. She'd hidden away in the garage the scissors, kitchen knives, screwdrivers and any sharp objects to avert the possibility of Vic doing a spot of DIY should he discover that the kettle wasn’t working. She had removed matches, detergents and cleaning materials from the house – just in case. Yet, she was worried.

  Clutching the strap of her handbag, Margaret was telling herself everything would be just fine. The bit of a cough she was finding hard to shake off for months had to do with her age. So did the occasional – very occasional indeed, and rather negligible – pain that would stab and twist her ribcage. The truth of the matter was that at seventy one could not possibly expect to get out of bed in the morning without a little niggle and nip here and there. It came with the territory of getting on. Yet, despite her flawlessly logical reasoning, Margaret was worried. She had not changed her position in the last twenty minutes in the waiting room: feet and knees close together, handbag on her lap, the strap strangled inside her white-knuckled fists.

  Several times she had been tempted to get up and walk away. Obviously, this was a misunderstanding. She really had to get home and check on Vic. God knows what he was getting up to, rattling around the house on his own! She couldn’t take that risk! What was she thinking leaving him home alone! The good doctor would understand. In any event, whatever he had to say to her in person, he could put in a letter. Marked confidential. It would be easier for Margaret to read about it in the privacy of her own home. Face to face, there was no accounting for her emotions. It could be embarrassing for her. Not to mention the doctor who would be forced to watch her. She would much sooner find out about the outcome of her tests in writing. She had never met Dr Vineshi. How bizarre it would be to sit down and discuss her greatest fears with a stranger. Margaret was growing more anxious by every minute.

  She groaned and felt her knees buckle under her as she jumped to her feet when a small Asian man said her name.

  ‘But I don’t smoke. I never smoked in my life!’ That was all Margaret could say in her defence.

  ‘Lung cancer can be associated with smoking, of course. But there are exceptions. In fact, I should correct myself – there aren’t any clear-cut rules. Cancer often strikes indiscriminately.’

  Dr Vineshi was softly spoken and sensitive. He gave Margaret time – an unaffordable luxury in an NHS world – to compose herself. She didn’t know what else to say. A couple of times she opened her mouth to say something, something appropriate under the circumstances, but nothing came to mind. Nothing correct. Perhaps she should be apologising to him for wasting his time as he was waiting patiently for her to say those magic words that would somehow conclude this appointment. What words could do that? It was his turn, Margaret decided, and pursed her lips.

  ‘The pain you’ve been experiencing is caused by the cancer spreading to the bone and the surrounding tissue of two of your ribs. That’s what hurts. There’s no pain inside your lungs.’

  ‘I see.’ Margaret nodded as if, somehow, everything had now become clear and she could, at last, put it all behind her.

  ‘The good news is we’ll be able to operate. What we have detected so far is operable. It can be removed, and then if it doesn’t spread any further you could get a clean bill of health. Of course, there would be hours of chemo- or radiotherapy, possibly both, but we will cross that bridge when it comes to it.’

  Margaret hung on his every word. She didn’t mind hours of anything as long as she could cross that bridge, as the doctor said. She would co-operate. She would bend backwards. She would do anything that was required of her to do. She was keen to get on with it. ‘When would I have the operation?’

  ‘As soon as possible. We were lucky to discover it at a fairly early stage so the sooner, the better. You’ll get a letter with all the details.’

  ‘Will I have to stay in the hospital overnight after the operation?’ The ever-practical Margaret had perked up. She could work with details. She could handle direct and straightforward facts much better than she could uncertainty. ‘I only ask because I have to make plans for my husband if I can’t be back home the next day. My husband has Alzheimer’s. He can’t be left on his own, not for long, anyway.’

  ‘It’ll be several days, Mrs Adams. At the very least.’ Dr Vineshi appears disconcerted. ‘I must impress on you to make firm plans. What I mean is: anything can happen. It won’t be a routine procedure. There are no guarantees. And after the operation, you won’t be able to return to your daily routines. Not straightaway. Someone will have to help with your husband. I’ll put you in touch with social services. I’ll get someone to contact you. You won’t be able to take care of your husband by yourself. You will need rest – plenty of it. You will need lots of support from your loved ones. Is there anyone here with you today? Anyone taking you home?’

  ‘No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be all right. Absolutely fine. I drove myself here. I will drive myself back. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry for the –’

  Margaret couldn’t finish the customary courtesy. She was lost for words. What was it exactly that she was sorry for? The inconvenience? She really had more serious matters to focus on. The tightly steered ship of her and Vic’s life was drifting off course. She couldn’t let it crash, but neither could she see through the thickening fog.

  *

  Holding it together was paramount. Margaret had to concentrate on the road ahead. Heavy motorway traffic was confusing at the best of times, and today wasn’t even one of them. Her hands were grasping the steering wheel at the prescribed ten-to-two position. She was hunched over the dashboard, her shoulders drawn to her ears, not allowing herself to blink or twitch, even though blinking and twitching was exactly what her body wanted to do. The car was carried on the wave of the slow lane’s procession of lorries and campervans while Margaret was making sure she wasn’t squeezed into the middle lane. That would be disastrous. She could not handle distractions coming at her from two sides simultaneously.

  It was a relief to get off the motorway. But the relief was temporary. As soon as she relaxed on the road, her anxieties came flooding back. She had to keep the floodgates closed. Stay in control. Not let this thing get on top of her. She could do it. A nurse would come and look after Vic. Why hadn’t Margaret thought of it before? She was telling herself off for worrying unnecessarily about that, knowing damn well that Vic would tolerate no strangers around his person. She was inviting positive thoughts for she could not afford to let the fear take over. She was being strong. She would explain everything to Vic. Get him used to a nurse. An hour a week to start with. If there was enough time...

  Then she saw him. A man in a ditch, by the side of the road. A ditch where excess rain water, together with whatever pesticides were dissolved in it, was drained from the fields. He must have slipped into the ditch and was now trying to climb out. But the bank was muddy and steep. He slipped back in and fell to his knees...

  ‘Vic! How did you get out of the house?!’ Margaret stopped the car and ran to her husband. He saw her, looked at her, but didn’t seem to recognise her. He was cryi
ng and somewhere deep inside him he felt embarrassed about his tears, for he hid his face in his hands.

  ‘Vic, give me your hand!’ she shouted to him, but he shook his head.

  Margaret slid into the ditch and knelt next to her husband. The water was cold. He was soaked and now so was she. It didn’t matter. She clung to him, holding on to his arm, her head on his shoulder. She was weeping with him. The floodgates had been opened.

  LUKE

  It had been a nice day, sunny and full of good things, and now it looked like it was going to be an equally nice family evening. Imogen was sitting on the floor, playing with her teddies. They had been lined up in order from the largest to the smallest, and now she was giving them a pep talk about staying in line, especially when crossing the road. She must have heard that in pre-school. Sammy was tidying up in the kitchen. Luke felt too full to do anything other than slouch in the chair and exercise his wrist by using the computer mouse. He didn’t like computers and all that hogwash that came with them. He would much rather go out for a walk or do something involving fresh air. As it was he inhaled enough fumes in his line of work. But Sammy was into Facebook and Instagram, and fuck knows what else, so – from time to time – Luke would check on her. To keep her in line and to show interest.

  That was when he saw Tanya’s face. He hadn’t seen the cow for ten years, but he would recognise that shit-stirrer’s smirk any time, any place. It was bloody Tanya, the mother of his two other girls, Clara and Louise. He recognised her but he doubted he would recognise the girls, for she hadn't let him see them since they were Imogen’s age. In January they turned eighteen. It had been ten years since Luke had any contact with them at all, and that had only been on the telephone.

  What was Tanya doing being friends with Sammy?

  Luke sat, staring at the computer screen and the face he had come to despise, and to fear. She had decided to re-enter his life through the back door, using Sammy. Why now? It was bound to have something to do with money. As soon as the girls turned eighteen, Luke’s maintenance payments had ceased. Two months ago. Was that it? What was she hoping to achieve? Was this some sort of fucking blackmail attempt? Because if it was, he wasn’t falling for it. He had done nothing wrong. It was all in her sick head.