A Hundred Pieces of Me (50 page)

It was odd, seeing her clothes in isolation. Even odder, hearing the descriptions Naomi was coming up with for them. It made Gina sound like a very different person. The sort of person who apparently went from office to black-tie function on a regular basis, accessorising all the way.

Naomi was still looking at the dress, playing with the tie. ‘If I’m being honest, it’s not your usual style, this. Did you buy it for something in particular?’

Gina sighed. ‘It was that weird time after my treatment finished. I thought that if I bought enough dresses I’d want to go out. I wanted Stuart to see me as an independent person again, not the pukey, crying, moody invalid we were both getting a bit sick of.’

‘Oh, Gina. He never thought of you like that.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Gina. ‘It’s just a dress. It wasn’t a few months ago. It was a huge guilt trip. But now it’s just a dress. And it’s a dress I can turn into dog insurance. So, come on. Work your sales magic.’

Naomi chewed her lip. ‘“This fabulous vintage Issa dress . . .”’

‘It’s not vintage. It’s only five years old.’

‘That counts as vintage. “This fabulous vintage evening dress, from the Duchess of Cambridge’s favourite label, Issa, will be your go-to event statement piece for years to come.”’ Her fingers clacked on the keyboard. ‘“Featuring timeless detailing and a flattering cut that will have you pulling this luxe gown out of your wardrobe for any smart occasion.”’

‘Oh, you’re very good.’ Gina looked at the screen. ‘It’s the sort of description that made me buy it in the first place.’

‘Stop it, I’m tempting myself. And everything must go, right?’

‘Right.’

While Naomi was filling in the specifications, Gina took photographs of the label and other details. It was soothing, doing something productive, and – she had to admit – made a change from chasing Nick’s building work. She’d spent nearly all the previous day getting quotes from plasterers in preparation for the next phase of work on the Rowntrees’ house; the timetable was now extending towards Christmas.

Christmas. She paused, struck by how quickly time had passed since she’d moved into this flat. Last week – in the middle of the night, to be exact – she’d plucked up the courage to email Kit, to discuss handing over his letters. It had been something Nick had said, about going back to see the town, rather than just Kit, that had made up her mind. Gina wanted to go back so she could close a door properly. Looking back, it had never just been about Kit. It had been about that precious time, living alone, learning, drinking, being free; all of that was still there, tied up with guilt about Terry’s death, and she needed to let it go.

Kit had returned her email the next day, and Gina was meeting him tomorrow, in a café in the middle of Oxford. And in a way that was good, because the nerves were taking her mind off her annual check-up at the breast clinic that afternoon. That had come round sooner than she’d realised too.

Naomi looked up. ‘Problem?’

‘No, just . . . thinking about work.’

I’ll tell her about seeing Kit after I’ve been, Gina thought. It’d only complicate things now.

‘How’s it going at the house?’ Naomi finished typing and got up from the laptop. She wandered over to the wall of Gina’s photographs, and inspected the new ones with interest. They were spreading out across the white space, like leaves on a tree, joined up here and there in clusters when she hadn’t been able to pick just one – three of Buzz, a couple of different cappuccinos, the sky over the park in different weather – white puff cumulus, mauve-tinged herringbone streaks, inky-blue rainclouds.

‘Good, thanks. Well, sort of good. I still haven’t heard any more from Amanda about whether they’re going to let it or live there themselves. Actually . . .’ Gina frowned, thinking aloud ‘. . . she’s gone unusually quiet. She must be busy - normally there’s at least one detailed email a week, but I just get one line responses from her these days. I haven’t had one of her lists since . . .’

Since the follow-up to the Skype conversation over a fortnight ago.

‘She obviously trusts you to get on with things.’

‘Yeah. Well, I hope so.’ The alternative was too stressful to consider: that Amanda had lost interest in the house and was looking into offloading it.

‘By the way, I think you’ve made a mistake on this photo,’ said Naomi.

She’d picked one off and was waggling it at her: a Polaroid of the herb garden where bright lilac chive flowers bobbed under the blackcurrants and mint bushes – Gina had blurred the image to try to capture the slight cloud of green fragrance that rose up as she brushed past.

‘You’ve written “the smell of wet herbs” on here, but I think what you meant to put was “hot man in shirt sleeves”,’ Naomi observed. ‘Shall I change it for you?’

Nick was caught in the corner of the frame in his blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. He was talking to Lorcan out of shot, and his face was animated, his mouth lifted at one side, mid-smile, his hand pushed into his dark hair as he laughed.

Gina blushed. ‘It’s the herbs. The smell of the herbs. He was just . . . in the background.’

It was true and it wasn’t. Secretly Nick was as much part of that moment for Gina as the herbs or the rain. His interest in the house, his jokes, his intent way of listening to her gave the place a special atmosphere. It was a way of sneaking Nick onto her wall, past herself and her conscience, because during the time she spent chatting to him, talking about the house over peppermint tea, explaining the secrets of the building, she was lit with an energy she hadn’t felt before.

‘You’re blushing.’

‘I’m not.’ She got up and joined Naomi at the wall of photos. Without speaking, Naomi pointed at two, three, four photos where Nick’s face or hands were part of the background. And one of him full frame, offering her an old red brick with a charming smile.

‘That’s meant to represent my love of old local materials,’ said Gina, weakly.

Naomi snorted. ‘You can call it what you want. I call it a very good reason to go to work right there. He’s gorgeous. And an artist. And nice. That’s a combo you don’t see very often.’

‘And he’s married. And my employer.’

‘Tsk.’ Naomi threw her hands into the air in a details-details gesture. ‘That doesn’t stop you looking. It’s nice to look sometimes. It must be like going to work with a Rembrandt in the front office.’

Gina stuck the photo back on the wall, next to one of the rosebeds in the park, where the scent changed from one end of it to the other. Something she’d never have noticed without Buzz to walk her past.

‘You’re not saying anything,’ observed Naomi.

‘There’s nothing to say.’ Gina smiled brightly. ‘Except it’s just a shame that the nice ones always get snapped up first.’

‘There’s a girl on the other side of town who said the same thing about Stuart Horsfield.’

‘No!’ It came out more forcefully than she meant: Gina didn’t dare let the furtive middle-of-the-night thoughts take on any solidity. ‘No,’ she added, more gently, ‘it’s just a nice summer crush and . . .’

‘So it’s a crush!’

Gina turned away, then turned back. There wasn’t much point in trying to keep things from Naomi. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t. Nick’s a nice guy, and I hope we’ll be friends when I’ve finished working on his house. But I don’t know what’s going on with him and Amanda. I don’t want to ask.’

Naomi looked more serious for a second. ‘I’m not saying you should have an affair with a married man, of course not, but I’d rather see you have a harmless crush on a nice guy than be the I’ll-never-have-another-relationship woman you were a few months ago.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘You did.’

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Naomi picked up a bag of clothes by the door. ‘Do you want to do these, then we’ll get some lunch?’

‘No, that’s going to the hospice charity shop at the hospital. I’m going to drop them off in the morning.’

‘Is it tomorrow?’

Gina nodded.

‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’

‘I’m sure. It’s just the annual check-up – mammogram, chat with the doctor, routine stuff.’ Gina tried to keep her voice calm because she knew Naomi was listening for wobbles. She liked to keep her diary full around her annual check-ups so she didn’t think about the date too much, but this year, the days seemed to have padded themselves out, and she hadn’t worried as she usually did. More than that, wobbles or not, she wanted to go alone. It felt like the next step. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Naomi tipped her head to one side. ‘If you change your mind, I can take the morning off. I can easily nip up. Or meet you after?’

‘Honestly, no, it’s fine. I’m treating myself to a massage afterwards. Stuart and I always used to go out and buy something for the house from that reclamation place, but I thought this year I’d do something for me.’ Gina nodded towards the new space around them. ‘Something I won’t have to dust.’

‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Naomi frowned.

‘I’m sure.’ Gina reached out and squeezed Naomi’s arm. ‘But thank you.’

‘You’d do the same for me,’ said Naomi. ‘What are friends for?’

The next morning, Gina left Buzz with Rachel over the road, and set off for the hospital.

She couldn’t pretend even to herself that the drive to Longhampton Infirmary didn’t make her heart rate rise. The line of larches up the hill. The Neapolitan houses in their colourful row. Then the concrete Spar shop by the estate, and the left turn into the hospital grounds – the seconds counting down until she’d be there. The sensation of clinging to those seconds floated up again and Gina had to remind herself that she’d been there before, three times now, and in an hour or so, it would all be over again for another year.

The familiar smell of the hospital brought back more memories as she walked through the over-bright corridors towards the oncology unit but Gina made herself focus on what was happening now. She noted they’d changed the colour scheme in the waiting area to a soothing pea green, that there was a new coffee concession, that someone had got rid of the scratchy abstract paintings down the corridor and replaced them with a mosaic rainbow.

The local hospice ran a shop around the corner from Oncology, and Gina was pleased to drop off her last bag of donations – things she’d been saving especially for them. Not all her sorting had happened in one go: there had been various items that had been hard to put in one box or another, but as she winnowed the possessions in her flat, she’d slowly felt the bonds loosen on the final items and now she was ready to let go of these last ones too.

The blue cashmere pashmina that she’d covered herself with during her chemo sessions; the soft headscarves Naomi had ordered from America for her when her scalp was still downy and she’d felt self-conscious; some real hair wigs; a pair of sheepskin slippers. Soft things that had given her a little bit of comfort during the raw days that had dragged on and on. When Gina looked into the bag, she had a clear vision of her old self, a girl who’d been braver than she’d realised at the time.

‘I hope they help someone else,’ she said, when she handed them over to the volunteer in at the shop, and she felt better knowing they would. Giving away those memories was a step forward for her. It didn’t mean they hadn’t happened. They’d always be inside her, whether she had the evidence or not.

The waiting room was full of couples, as usual – mothers and daughters, husbands and wives – but Gina noticed a few more single women than she had in the past. She settled into her seat with an interiors magazine but she’d barely had time to open it before a nurse appeared at the entrance.

‘Mrs . . . um, Ms Bellamy?’ She looked around and when she saw Gina, she smiled and beckoned her forward.

The butterflies surged in Gina’s stomach but she smiled back, and followed the nurse into the mammogram room. On her own.

The massage therapist at the new holistic spa was very good, the oils were soothing and the background music was pleasantly unwhale-like, but in hindsight, Gina wondered if maybe a massage hadn’t been the best idea as a post-check-up treat.

She lay on the couch, trying to focus on relaxation, but instead she ended up thinking. About the check-up (she’d scoured the expressions of the nurse and doctor for any twitches but had seen nothing). About her body (whether anyone would ever touch it again, besides massage therapists). About the inside of her body (and what it looked like after the chemo, whether or not her ovaries had started producing eggs yet).

To stop herself thinking about the tests, Gina allowed herself to think about Nick, away from Naomi’s keen gaze. His quick grey eyes. His casual precision with details. His ability to prod her imagination into action. His dark hair, the way he pushed it off his face when he was thinking. Fine, she acknowledged to herself, with a guilty thrill, it was a crush but there was something stronger underneath it. A similarity between them that Gina knew he felt too. In a few months, Nick had gone from someone who felt like a friend to someone who actually was a friend.

I’ve just got to make sure that stays when the crush wears off, she thought, and felt a kind of bittersweet pleasure that she could be so rational.

The hour was up too soon, and when she was dressed and heading for home, after collecting Buzz from Rachel, Gina found herself feeling tearful, as if the massage had squeezed all her emotions to the surface. The happy wagging of Buzz’s tail when he saw her arrive was nearly enough to set her off. He needs me, she thought. I make a difference to his day.