by Zoë Folbigg
‘Are you sure?’
‘Really, take as long as you need.’
Daniel and Mimi stood in the lobby of the bland and unremarkable Holiday Inn Express on the highway between the airport, the hospital and Ibiza Town. Flora and Sofia’s cases were repacked and propped up against the dark brown sofas the girls were slouching on.
‘I just don’t know how long these tests and results will take – when they’ll let her go.’
‘It doesn’t matter how long they take. Really. Everything is in hand.’
Mimi squeezed Daniel on the arm then tiptoed to wrap her arms around him.
‘You’re gonna be OK, you know?’ she said, bright eyes lucid in the cool air-conditioned lobby.
Daniel nodded.
‘And the girls and I are gonna have a great time, aren’t we girls?’ Mimi called out while she adjusted her straw hat. Sofia looked up from her position – like a cat herself – on the top of the armchair over her sister, so they could both see the filters she was putting on her face.
‘Huh?’ Sofia asked, while Flora pouted, eyes firmly on her phone screen so she could angle an animated arch of flowers neatly on her head.
‘Come on little minxes, we have a flight to catch. The shuttle is here!’
Sofia jumped up.
Mimi lifted a handbag that was almost as big as she was and wheeled her case to the automatic doors. A blast of hot air came from outside to hit them. ‘Uff!’ she sighed. Daniel walked over to get Flora and Sofia’s suitcases and wheeled them out to the shuttle bus, where he lifted them into the open doors at the back. He walked back to the front, now trailed by his daughters like ducklings. Flora stopped, with her beach-battered backpack slung over her shoulder, knowing that her dad would want to say something to her even if she didn’t want to hear it.
‘Look after your sister, yeah?’
Flora nodded.
‘And Mimi, she adores you girls, so be nice to her and just do what she asks of you. It won’t be much.’
‘O-K. I get it,’ Flora said quietly, trying not to roll her eyes.
‘Mamma will be OK you know,’ Daniel reassured, putting his hands on her shoulders. Flora looked confused and defensive, as if there hadn’t been any doubt about Mamma being OK, until now. Her father’s words irritated and scared her more than anything.
‘All right!’ she snapped, before proffering a cheek for her father to kiss before she stepped up into the van. Sofia jumped up and wrapped her legs around Daniel’s waist and smothered his face in kisses.
‘Daddy I miss you already. Mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah!’ she said, as she dotted her small mouth haphazardly around his cheeks, nose, forehead and stubble. One left a wet mark on his eyelid. ‘Although we’re going to have LOTS of fun with Aunty Mimi!’ There was an excitement in his little girl that comforted Daniel – they would be all right.
‘You no come, señor?’ asked the doughy bus driver, as Sofia took the seat next to Mimi and waved to her dad through the window.
‘No, I’m staying here.’
‘OK, Papi staying in Ibissssssa. Felices vacaciónes!’ the driver said, as he pulled off. Flora looked out of the window at her father and the last thing Daniel saw as the bus disappeared towards the airport was the wash of fear that haunted his daughter’s face.
Fifteen
May 1997
Cambridgeshire, England
‘Can you talk?’
Daniel sat at his desk, staring at the empty chair opposite where Jim used to sit, confused that it was Jim’s voice at the other end of the phone. Daniel was so very tired, he rubbed his eyes and looked around.
In January, Jim had left to become showbiz reporter at The Sun, and now if Jim wasn’t partying with the 3AM Girls at the Shadow Lounge, he was trying to get one over them with exclusives. Stories about which soap star had been doing coke in the toilets; which comedian had thrown his pager at his PA and bloodied her nose; and which angel-faced boybander had gone down on Jim the night before – although, alas, he couldn’t write that one up.
Jim’s departure had made the stagnant home of local news feel even more stifling.
Daniel had been up for most of the night, first at the Elmworth count, witnessing the local Tory re-elected for the 400th time – the New Labour tide hadn’t quite washed over this corner of the Home Counties, even if its spray caused a light mist – later watching the rest of the results roll in while Matt cracked open another beer and their parents slept upstairs.
‘Not easily… You OK?’
Daniel looked around the office sheepishly. His editor Viv was leaning over Andy the art director’s desk while she ate a nectarine; head of sales Jill walked through editorial on her way to the kitchen for her midmorning Cup-a-Soup, her pencil skirt straining under her stride; the advertising girls were taking advantage of this by resuming their discussion about Michael Hutchence and Paula Yates through the archway; and the TV on a bracket from the ceiling was showing Tony and Cherie Blair walking to rapturous applause along Downing Street – muted of course – just to accentuate the silence and highlight the volume of Jim’s voice on the other end of the line. Daniel moved the receiver from one ear to the other to make a barrier, make it less likely that his boss might hear.
‘Oooh, Jill, can I just talk to you about ratecards?’ Viv asked, as she followed her to the kitchen, although it was more of a command than a question. ‘Be right back,’ she said to Andy with a shallow smile.
‘Oh, hang on,’ Daniel said, with some suppressed cheer as he watched Viv walk off. ‘Yeah I’ve got about two minutes.’
‘Can you believe the result?!’
‘I know!’
‘All my fucking life I can only remember a Tory government, it feels very, very weird.’
‘I didn’t realise men could be prime minister until 1990,’ Daniel quietly laughed, remembering his Thatcher childhood.
‘Obviously my editor is taking the credit for it, even though The Sun has been laying into Labour for decades.’
‘You have to back a winner, eh? You bloody shape-shifters.’ Daniel laughed and craned his neck. Through the archway that separated the editorial desks from the advertising side of the office, Viv and Jill were back at her desk, pondering the flatplan as if it were a strategic wartime map.
‘Anyway!’ Jim said eagerly. ‘Speaking of shape-shifters… You know the hot sports editor here, the one I have a crush on? Ex-rugby player? Thighs of steel?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Well, I was chatting to him while we watched Dimbleby—’
‘Sounds romantic.’
‘No he’s married, to a really dull woman, and they have two very plain kids.’
‘Oh.’
Daniel could see that Viv was aware of him on the phone, probably on a personal call, as she glanced through the archway at him, and knew he didn’t have long.
‘Anyway, Hot Will needs some extra night shifters on the sports desk. Decent money, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. sort of thing. Fancy it? We could even coincide!’
‘Jim, between 10 p.m. and 6 a.m. you’re out stalking celebs and scavenging for stories – we’d never coincide.’
‘OK, maybe not, but this could be your in.’
Daniel looked around the office guiltily. Bill and Andy on the art desk were looking at layouts on their screens, and Kathy, Duncan and Denise on the bank of desks behind him were gathering death notices, transcribing interviews, writing football reports and paying invoices in total silence. The advertising girls had stopped talking about Paula and Michael. The only noise was the quiet whirr of the photocopier warming up since Lee had reloaded the paper tray.
‘I mean, I’d even pretend to give a shit about football if it meant spending long steamy nights with Will Simpson, but alas I have proper work to do.’
Daniel could hear the sarcasm in Jim’s voice.
‘I appreciate it mate, but I’ve not even been here a year.’
‘You wouldn’t be leaving! You could just tell Viv you’re pull
ing some extra shifts; you really need the cash because she’s such a tight arsehole you’re sooooo skint.’
‘I live at home with my mum and dad.’
‘Say you’re saving up for your first flat. Surely you don’t want to live with your parents, Matt and his mizz girlfriend forever?’
Daniel thought of nights on the sofa with Matt and his girlfriend Annabel, who had taken to sitting in Daniel’s favourite chair, reading Catherine Cookson novels and talking to no one. He was even glad to go to the General Election count last night so he didn’t have to watch EastEnders with Matt and Annabel while his dad pottered in the shed and mum prepped a Great Fire Of London display at the dining-room table.
‘When would I sleep?’
‘Sleep is for the weak.’
‘You say that as someone who probably only just got up. It’s almost lunchtime.’
‘It’d be a brilliant way in. On a national. In sports Daniel.’
Viv weaved back through to the editorial side of the office and sat down at Jim’s old desk as she gnawed a leafy stick of celery. Daniel was grateful the crunch might drown out Jim’s voice. Viv leaned in.
‘Look – I’d better go,’ Daniel said. He wasn’t sure if he should pretend he was talking to a story lead or just admit it was Jim. He went with story lead.
‘Thanks for the tip-off Mr, er, Johnson-son. I’ll have a look into it and get back to you, just as soon as I can.’
Jim laughed on the other end.
‘My cat looks like Hitler!’ he shouted, before Daniel could put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Buh-bye now.’
Daniel hung up and wrote some fake notes on his spiral-bound notepad, knowing that Viv was watching his every move. He really would rather write about his sporting heroes than cats who looked like Hitler, in an office where talking was discouraged, you were only allowed to eat at your desk if it were fruit or veg sticks, and visitors were left sitting on the awkward little sofa in front of Lee for an embarrassingly long time.
‘How’s Jim?’ Viv asked with a knowing smile. Daniel rubbed his soft swirl of hair and gave a gentle laugh. Luckily Viv didn’t dwell on things and moved the conversation along.
‘Have you seen the Mercury?’ The whites of her eyes were wide and loaded.
‘No, I’ve been so busy going over my Nigel Dilley story, I haven’t had the chance…’ Daniel knew something was coming from the smiling assassin.
‘Their man – Rob Hanlon – you must know Rob…’
Daniel thought of a weedy guy who always had a spot that needed lancing – his counterpart on their rival paper, the Elmworth Sunday Mercury.
‘Yes, I’ve seen him at a few things,’ Daniel said keenly through the gap between their monitors.
A man in a suit walked into the office and introduced himself to Lee.
‘Well, Rob procured a lot more soundbites from Dilley at the count last night than you seem to have. Unless that’s what you’re writing up now… is there more to come?’
‘Oh no, I filed everything I had. I could only get a couple of lines from him; he was out of there as soon as the returning officer had finished.’
‘Well, the Mercury have their story up on their online website.’
‘Online?’ Daniel asked, flummoxed. The Elmworth Echo didn’t have that facility. Jim had tried to convince Viv that online was the way forward – her antipathy towards it had been another catalyst in him leaving. As well as Jim Beck being too big a personality for the parochial office.
Now Viv had changed her tune, and was obviously scouring her rival paper’s website regularly for stories and soundbites Daniel hadn’t sourced.
‘Yes, they have their election stories up already – and Rob Hanlon’s has a lot more, shall we say, meat, to it, than you seem to have Daniel. Which is fine…’ she added, passive aggressively.
Daniel wished Lee would interrupt them, to announce the visitor’s arrival. ‘But perhaps I should come with you to the next one?’ she suggested. ‘Help you get something better.’
Daniel hoped he wouldn’t still be working at the Echo in another four years. The thought of Viv Hart holding his hand through a count in 2001 made him shiver.
I have to get out.
‘Or perhaps we find you a course.’
‘A course?’ Daniel smiled and nodded to show willing. Viv stood up and Lee saw his chance.
‘Oh Viv, your midday meeting is here. Geoff Tree from…?’
Lee looked back to the bald man in the pale grey suit.
‘The Rotary,’ said the man, rising on shiny shoes as he said it.
Viv nodded to Lee, not acknowledging Geoff standing next to him.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute Lee,’ she said. ‘I’m just going to move to Jim’s old desk. It’s a nicer view overlooking the office and you can bounce ideas off me more easily here Daniel. If you’re struggling.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Apparently we’ll all be hot desking one day,’ Viv said with a laugh, as she rolled up her sleeves and started moving a pile of papers without any urgency.
Geoff from the Rotary looked irked, and lifted the creases of his pressed trousers as he sat back down on the sofa.
This is shit.
Under the guise of work, Daniel composed an email to Jim, grateful that Viv had recently conceded to installing an external internet, cables that connected them to the outside world, a world beyond the office intranet. It was just one line:
Thanks Jim. I’ll email you my updated CV tonight.
Sixteen
August 2017
Ibiza, Spain
‘So you see Mr and Mrs Bleeker, from this area here, you can see you have a, how do you say… a mass on the outer part of the cerebro, sorry, cerebrum. Here…’ A handsome Spanish consultant in a white coat and a grey beard held a flimsy X-ray up to the window, while Daniel and Olivia looked gobsmacked from the bed. The sunshine tore through a grey blob that looked like a small cauliflower on the outer part of Olivia’s brain.
‘This has to be a joke,’ Daniel said. But all Olivia could think about was how the medic looked like Antonio Banderas; he was too handsome to be delivering such a blow, his eyes too warm.
No, this definitely wasn’t happening to her.
She turned to Daniel, who looked more grave, which in turn puzzled her.
‘Is call an astro-cy-toma…’
Even the way he said astrocytoma was sexy; Olivia couldn’t take it seriously and almost laughed, as a horror washed over her at the realisation that a ‘mass’ meant a tumour.
‘What?’ Daniel almost spat.
‘An astrocyte is a cell in the shape of a star. It has kind of far-reaching claws like an asteroid. If it mutates then it becomes a glioma, or an astrocytoma more especifically. This is what we suggest it is, but you need further tests to find out more about it, to grade it.’
‘So is it cancer?’ Daniel asked, looking so pale Olivia thought he might puke.
‘It’s a glioma, yes, a tumour. But it could be very low grade – whoop, taken out.’ Dr Lorca put his fingers together and opened them out like a flower, as if it was so simple. ‘It might not be too serio.’
Nothing about this conversation made Daniel think it wasn’t serio.
‘Does it have to be taken out?’
Olivia still couldn’t speak.
‘Well, even low-grade gliomas need to be looked at closely Señor Bleeker, because of the pressure and the impact they could have on the rest of the brain.’
Daniel shook his head.
‘So yes, your lovely wife will need to have an operation.’
‘Fuck,’ Olivia whispered. Dr Lorca suddenly stopped being sexy. Someone was going to open up her brain.
‘You will need to have some more tests, more details, more investigations at an especialist department. The good news is, we think this is a primary tumour, not a secondary one.’
‘Wh-what do you mean?’ Daniel stuttered.
‘We couldn’t
find tumours anywhere else, in all those tests your wife had. So it’s more likely that it’s just in the brain.’
‘“Just” in the brain,’ Daniel said, at the same time as Olivia thought it.
Fuck.
Neither could speak, so Dr Lorca continued.
‘So what I would suggest is you return to the UK, I will give you permission to fly just as soon as the swelling abates a bit more from the seizure, the fall, but you will need to see your family doctor as soon as you arrive home, and they will get you the next steps, which will be scans and surgery.’
‘But I feel fine!’ Olivia protested, tearing at her hair.
‘That is good, but you need this little asteroid out of your brain in case it grows, or in case it give you another seizure, or in case it is one of the bad guys.’
All the air in Daniel’s lungs shot out.
‘Oh Christ,’ he said, slumping his head in his hands.
‘But you are young! You’re healthy! You are 42 and fit, not 82 and weak. You’re in a good position.’
Nothing about this situation, from where Olivia was lying and Daniel was sitting, felt like being in a good position.
‘Daniel, I feel fine!’ Olivia repeated, as she turned to her husband, dismissing everything the good doctor had just said.
Seventeen
June 1998
London
‘I’ve met someone!’ burst Jim. He couldn’t wait for Daniel to sit down with the balloon glasses of Pimm’s and lemonade he was holding in each hand.
‘Hang on hang on…’ Daniel said, trying not to spill anything as he straddled a small pub stool and lowered himself onto it. Crowds were gathering for the football in the Fitzrovia tavern and it had been a mission to weave through without anyone knocking into him and spilling his drinks. ‘Slow down…’ He made his elbows big and placed the glasses on the crumb-strewn table. They had met there early, to get a seat and a vantage point, even though Jim didn’t give a hoot about the United States versus Yugoslavia in the World Cup, although he did get excited about the Netherlands beating South Korea 5-0 last Saturday, for reasons he was about to explain.