Don't Get Me Wrong (24 page)

The silence grew just long enough to become awkward.

Jake glanced down at his phone and raised his eyebrows. Kim could see his mind moving off to great and important events involving influential people she didn't know and would never meet. “Well,” he said, making an effort, but obviously itching to be elsewhere, “I'll leave you to your evening. Perhaps next time you're in London, we can try to organize things a bit better. I know Zofia would love to see you.” Staring at his phone,
not even looking at her, he raised his hand in a general gesture of farewell. “
Ciao.
”

The doorway was suddenly empty.

Kim stayed quite still until she was sure it was safe enough to breathe.

2012

I
t's like he wants to pretend it's not happening.”

“What's wrong with that?”

Kim couldn't think where to start. “It's not real.”

“I'm not sure,” said Grace, on the other end of the phone from the South of France, “that dinner at Le Caprice is any less real than the inside of a cancer ward.”

Kim was so angry she thought she might explode. Eva had been through months of grueling treatment. She was tired. Her body was battered and bruised. She didn't need Marilyn Monroe at the National Portrait Gallery, Jane Birkin at the Barbican. She didn't need ice-cream sundaes at Fortnum & Mason, afternoon tea at the Ritz, an outing to Regent's Park zoo. Rushing from Harrods to Buckingham Palace to the London Eye. Gallivanting round London like a tourist. It had been going on for weeks. And it was completely unnecessary. Superficial frippery. What was Harry playing at?

What Eva needed was rest. Time to recover. Sleep.

Damaris said, I think he's just trying to cheer her up.

She doesn't need cheering up, Kim said. She needs to concentrate on getting better.

Damaris looked as if she was about to say something and then stopped. They're all on his side, thought Kim. They've all
been completely taken in. They're charmed when Harry zooms up in his Porsche, grinning like an idiot, throwing money around, offering yet another stupid surprise. Eva's not a child. She's a grown woman who needs to concentrate on her health.

Sometimes, looking at Harry, Kim wondered if he realized quite how ill Eva had been.

And my mother's no better. Kim imagined Grace drifting round the ancient splendor of the villa in Nice, looking out onto the formal gardens, the swimming pool, the lemon and olive trees. It's easy to ignore reality, she thought, gripping the phone, if you're never required to face it. So far, throughout Eva's months of chemo and radiotherapy, Grace had visited London only once.
People like me find illness depressing. We're so sensitive.
Kim said, “And now he wants to take her to Monterey.”

“To where?”

“Monterey. Near San Francisco.”

Grace sounded puzzled. “Why would he want to do that?”

“The music festival in 1967. Otis Redding. The Mamas and the Papas.”

“Oh,” said Grace, sounding vague, “her hippie phase.”

The night before, Eva had talked again about going to Black Bear Ranch, north of San Francisco. In the spring of 1968, a group of hippies had set up a community in an abandoned gold mine at the end of nine miles of dirt track. A remote canyon, with eighty acres of forest, orchards, creeks, and meadows, it was an idyllic setting for a whole new way of life. But it was hard going. None of them knew how to chop wood or cook. They were surrounded by black bears, cougars, and lynx. That first winter, there was four feet of snow.

“But the community survived,” said Eva. “And over the years, people have come and gone. Children were born there. Families grew up there. There's a whole gathering every year to celebrate the summer solstice. They welcome visitors. I'd love to go and see it.”

A brave new world on the surface, thought Kim. But from what I've heard, it wasn't all flowers and butterflies. Free love. Happy drug trips. Communal possessions. But also sexual jealousy, petty arguments, and disillusionment. Most people gave up and went back to the city. But Kim didn't say any of this. Over Eva's shoulder, she had admired the website, looked at pictures of the ranch, and read Peter Coyote's
Free-Fall Chronicles
. She wanted her sister to be happy.

But she was still dead set against a trip to the States. Eva's oncologist had said it was OK. But Kim knew it was too risky. What if there was a medical emergency?

“It's too far,” said Kim to her mother. “She'll be exhausted.”

“But Harry will go with her, won't he?”

As if that's going to help, with his insistence on constant activity. “I don't think it's sensible. She's been very ill.”

“I think,” said Grace, “that it's up to her.”

Kim made one last attempt to yank the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “She should be recuperating. Building up her strength.” She took a deep breath. “Convalescing somewhere warm.”

“As should we all,” said Grace. “I've never known a spring this cold. It may be the South of France, but I'm sitting here in this drafty old villa in layers of cashmere. Shivering. Wondering if the sun will ever shine again.”

•  •  •

“I've done something bad.”

“No you haven't.”

“I have. Really bad. Really, really, really bad.”

Kim shook her head. “I don't believe it.”

“It's true.” But Damaris didn't look distressed. She looked, if anything, excited. Unwinding a purple scarf from round her neck, she dropped her coat and bag on the floor in a heap. Kim was astonished. Damaris was normally so careful about neatness and order.

“So what is it?”

“Tea,” said Damaris. “I need a cup of tea.”

It was a Sunday morning in late March. They were in Izzie's flat in Sydenham. Kim felt guilty that she was still living there. There was only one bedroom, so whenever Izzie was in London, Kim had to sleep on a blow-up mattress in the living room. But it wasn't just the practical difficulties. Years ago, Kim had abandoned Izzie in New Cross. Because she herself found it hard to forgive anybody for anything, Kim felt Izzie should still be bearing a grudge. She should have said, Sorry, Kim, this is my flat so you can bugger off. But she hadn't. She'd said, Stay as long as you like. It's fine. I'm often away anyway. You're doing me a favor. Keeping the flat occupied so I don't get burgled. Which was, of course, rubbish. But extremely kind.

Kim liked Sydenham. It was so high up. Sometimes you came across a view over London that made you catch your breath with surprise.

This weekend, Izzie was in Manchester. She said she didn't
mind being away from London. But she had developed a deep-seated hatred of trains.

“Why?” Kim had said, expecting Izzie to talk about rude station staff, dirt, and delays.

“They're so boring,” said Izzie. “Either going straight there, or coming straight back.”

Damaris—sitting at the kitchen table in Izzie's flat, watching as Kim filled the kettle—was working at Accident & Emergency in King's College Hospital in Camberwell. Kim had been surprised at her choice of specialism. Medical emergencies, from what she'd seen on TV, were all about panic and snap decisions. Surely Damaris, with her love of detailed and thorough analysis, should have gone for something more sedate, like research? No, Damaris said, you don't understand. It's like being Sherlock Holmes. Not the accidents, obviously, or the heart attacks. You just deal with them quickly as possible and get the patients admitted. But the weird, random symptoms that come on so suddenly that people call an ambulance—you have to stay calm and think. It might be nothing. Or it might be life-threatening. Analysis is crucial.

I wish her hours weren't so long, though, thought Kim, reaching up for the bright blue teapot. Whenever I get worried about Eva, Damaris explains what's going on. All through her treatment, Damaris has found the words that help me understand. I don't get that panic that rises up whenever I take Eva to hospital. Panic makes you deaf. All you can hear is the pressure in your ears.

“So go on, then,” said Kim, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “What have you done that's so terrible?”

Damaris took a deep breath. “Jake came into A&E.”

Kim's heart missed a beat. “Did he?” she said, trying to sound casual.

“He didn't recognize me,” said Damaris. “At all.”

Kim thought back. How many times had they met? There was the disastrous supper in Eva's flat when Otis was a few months old. And they'd sat side by side in the audience for Izzie's first big stand-up in Deptford. Kim also had a vague recollection of a group outing to see
Shutter Island
in the cinema because Damaris loved Leonardo DiCaprio. But she couldn't remember their ever actually talking to each other. Jake had tended to hold himself aloof from all her friends because, she suspected, he found them young and boring. Which I suppose, thought Kim miserably, we are.

“So I walked into the cubicle, and there he was, sitting there, looking all tragic. I was smiling, because I thought he was going to say, Oh hello, Damaris. And feeling a bit embarrassed, because it's awkward bumping into your friend's ex, especially when he's been a complete prick and dumped her in the cruelest way possible, so that you hate him and think you might make an effigy out of plaster of Paris and stick pins in it. But you know you've got to be grown-up about it all. So you're all ready to look pleasant and say, in a mature and professional way, Hello, Jake, how can I help? Do you want to talk to me, or would you prefer a doctor you don't know? But he just looks at me like he's never seen me before. Like I'm nothing. And I think, You bastard. All those times we met, I was so beneath your radar that you didn't even see me. And I start feeling really angry. So the smile disappears, and I sit down at the computer and look up the notes they took
in triage. And it says he's come because he's got a bit of pain in his thumbs. Which is so incredibly irritating, because it's clearly something he should take to his GP, not clog up emergency appointments on a Saturday night in the middle of inner London. But I don't say any of this, obviously. I nod and ask all the usual questions, and check the range of movement and ask when it started, and what makes it hurt, and it doesn't take long to work out what's happening. He spends all day on his phone. It's some kind of repetitive strain injury. OK, I understand he's concerned. He's someone who thinks the world will come to an end if he's not texting. Normally I'd be sympathetic and explain that it's not an acute injury so he needs to go to his normal doctor and let us be. But I'm tired. It's been a long night. He behaved like a bastard to you. And he's still looking at me like he's never seen me before. Not a glimmer of recognition. So something snaps. It's never happened before. It's like someone else is doing the talking—some other Damaris from an alternative universe. I say, I'm really sorry, it's not good news. He looks taken aback. He wasn't expecting this. Why would he? He's only come in with a pain in his thumbs. I say, This is a very rare symptom. I've only seen it a few times before. It's an STI. A what? he says. A symptom, I say, of a sexually transmitted infection. Do you have a lot of sexual partners? A generally promiscuous lifestyle? He just sits there, looking as if I've thrown a bucket of cold water over him. And then I laugh. I'm just joking, I say. He carries on staring, his face white. I pretend to be puzzled. You've just been texting too much. Put the phone down for a couple of days and it'll probably get better by itself. He carries on staring. I lean forwards. I'm so sorry, I say. You do recognize me, don't you, Jake? Damaris.
Kim's friend. It was just a joke. I apologize. And suddenly his face is bright red, and he says, Damaris! Yes, of course. Yes. And he gives a little strangled laugh. Yes, of course I recognize you! And I say, Go and see your GP on Monday. But I don't think it's serious. Nothing a bit of a break from instant messaging can't cure. And I carry on smiling, and he gets up from the chair and turns round and somehow trips and falls through the curtain. Straight into a walking frame that someone's left outside. So I help him up from the floor, and he's saying, Oh sorry, sorry, and coming out with that same strangled laugh. And then he says, And how's Kim? Never see her these days. And I say, She's having an affair with Leonardo DiCaprio. Spends most of her time in LA. But I'm sure she could fit you in somehow if you got in touch. And then I wag my finger at him and say, But don't do it by text. Or those thumbs will never get better! And he's in such a hurry to leave that he walks into an instrument trolley and there's a huge crash. And then he's gone.”