Love @ First Site (17 page)

Having been to a couple of his gigs myself, I can report he is the lead guitarist in a band called Tint, best described as the love child of Coldplay and REM. Several record company A&R's have been to see them, but as yet the lucrative deal remains elusive.

"You've always been very supportive of what he does," I point out, more due to a lack of anything else to say.

"Well, you have to be, don't you?" She sneers slightly. "God forbid I don't look like the supportive little girlfriend, fawning from the sidelines."

Oh dear, I've been here before. Whenever she's single, Kara is a raging feminist, finding sexism in every little male utterance. But as soon as she's dating, her sisterly principles do a runner and she's ready to play the Mrs. in a heartbeat.

"You seem quite upset," I venture bravely. "Perhaps you should try to talk to him about this, tell him how you feel."

"What, and have whatever shred of self-respect I have thrown back in my face?" She glares at me challengingly. "No thanks."

"Maybe he feels that
you
don't care enough about him, and he's doing this as a kind of challenge, to see how you react." I wince slightly, waiting for the onslaught of a feminist diatribe on how women should never prostrate themselves on the altar of men's mind games. Or something like that.

"Do you think so?" she says meekly, grasping pathetically at my emotional straw.

"Yes," I say effusively, warming to the theme. "Men are just like babies really. They do things solely to get your attention." I don't know when I became such an expert on the male psyche, but my comment seems to have the desired effect.

Kara straightens her back and visibly brightens. "I've got an even better idea."

"What?" I smile encouragingly.

"
You
talk to him on my behalf and find out. That way, I don't have to face the humiliation of being rejected again."

My smile evaporates. "Me? He's not going to tell
me
what's going on inside his head, is he?"

She shrugs. "He might. Sometimes it's easier to talk to someone fairly objective, although of course you're on
my
side."

I nod in assent, but inside I'm thinking that if I was Dan, I'd have dumped her long ago.

"Yes, that's it." She's positively cheerful now. "Take him out for a drink and tell him that I'm the best thing that's ever happened to him. See what he says."

I could probably write the script now, I think, and the words "happy ending" don't spring to mind. But I stay quiet, instead picking up her empty wineglass and returning to the kitchen to fill it.

"You know, I'm so glad I came round to see you," she shouts through the open doorway. "At first I thought, nah, what's the point of getting advice from the terminally single Jess . . . what can she possibly know about the ups and downs of a serious relationship? But it's been a real tonic, it really has."

Would Ex-Lax show up in a glass of wine? I muse. Sadly, it probably would.

Nineteen

W
ell, well, well, it seems my little tantrum to the chairman's PA has paid off. I really must learn to throw a wobbly more often. As my old grandma--a career complainer--used to say: "The squeaky wheel gets the grease."

I came into work this morning to find a message on voice mail saying that Saffron Records has had a change of heart and
will
now allow Phit to be filmed at Sunshine House this afternoon.

Which means I have precisely one hour to organize myself and a crew, and get down there in time. Short notice, short shrift, I'm afraid, and I just know the only available camera crew will be the two unaffectionately known as Stinky and Perky.

One and a half hours later, I'm crammed into an ancient Volvo that reeks of dogs and the BO of Stinky the soundman in whose armpit my face is practically buried. The cameraman, aka Perky, is renowned for his long-winded, tedious monologues about the state of the country and he's in the middle of one right now. Asylum seekers . . . drone drone . . . should go back where they belong . . . drone drone . . . come over here and take our money and women . . . drone drone.

Surrounded by camera equipment, my feet jammed under the seat in front, it's possibly the most uncomfortable journey of my life. Not for the first time, I mull over other career options.

"Turn left here," I mumble, trying desperately not to gag. As the car sweeps onto the driveway of Sunshine House, I have to restrain myself not to leap out and kiss the tarmac.

Ben is waiting just inside the front entrance, a pleasantly warm, welcoming, and nicely fragrant area after the traumatic, stench-filled journey. The building is modern and purpose-built from charity funds, with a small reception desk to one side and a vast, busy notice board peppered with photographs of smiling children.

There's a small clutter of chairs scattered around a low coffee table and I wonder how many anxious parents have sat there, waiting to be checked into an establishment that offers so much comfort but where you'd do anything not to have to be there.

"Hi there." He smiles, extending his hand for me to shake. "Good journey?"

"Fine thanks." I force a smile back. Now isn't the time to complain, particularly as the crew are ambling through the door.

"Great." Ben claps his hands together, then looks at his watch. "Well, we're expecting Phit to pitch up in about half an hour, so I expect you'll want to get set up. Follow me."

He leads us down the hall into a well-heated lounge area with a large television in one corner and several sofas and beanbags scattered around. In the other corner, there's a large collection of toys and a stack of well-used board games like Monopoly, Junior Scrabble, and Clue.

"This is the communal lounge area where families can get together if they wish," says Ben. "If they don't feel up to socializing, they each have their own little unit with beds and a small sitting room. But this is where Phit will meet the children."

Leaving the crew to set up the camera and lights, I follow Ben down the corridor for a guided tour of the center. He shows me an empty unit, waiting for a new family to arrive that afternoon, then leads me into an annex at the back that houses the small kitchen cum canteen. It's empty.

"We've got three families staying with us at the moment, and they're all in their units right now. Coffee?" He points at an instant coffee machine.

"That would be lovely, thanks." I wander over to a small notice board at the back of the room and study the photographs. Again, it's a selection of shots of children and their parents, just like those found in any family home. Except, of course, for the stark difference that these children have a death sentence hanging over their young, innocent heads.

Ben appears at my side brandishing a cup of coffee and two sugar packets. He points to the picture of an angelic-looking blond boy, aged about seven, grinning widely and standing slap bang in the middle of a puddle. "That's Billy. He was such a great character."

"Was?"

"Yes, he died about six months ago," says Ben matter-of-factly. "He needed a bone marrow transplant to save his life, but they just couldn't find a match for him. His whole family had the tests, and so did everyone here at the center. But I'm afraid nothing even came close. It happens that way sometimes."

Staring at the smiling face of the little boy robbed of his life before it's barely begun, I feel overwhelmed by sadness. "Did he die here?"

Ben smiles warmly. "Yes, he did. That's the whole point of this place. When parents know their child hasn't got much longer to live, they can come here and be surrounded by a support network. We have doctors, nurses, and counselors on hand if need be, as well as general staff just to help out with cooking, cleaning, or even a bit of babysitting if the parents want a break."

I walk over to a table and sit down. "So where do you fit in?"

"Me?" He sits opposite me and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, I sort of run the place, but I'm also trained in grief counseling."

We sit in silence for a few moments, him staring down into his coffee cup, me studying the top of his head whilst deep in thought.

"Doesn't it ever get you down?" I say eventually. "You know, getting to know the children, losing them, and then having to deal with their parents' grief as well as your own?"

"Sometimes." He shrugs. "But it's not about
me,
is it? It's about the children and the families they leave behind. I would feel horribly self-indulgent if I allowed my grief to overwhelm me when it's so much more valuable to hold it together and help the parents to cope. After all, their distress is always going to be much worse than mine."

"Put like that, it makes perfect sense," I reply. "But I'm still not so sure I could deal with it. I'm probably too selfish."

He makes a scoffing noise. "Nonsense. You'd be surprised what you can cope with when you have to."

Despite promising her I wouldn't discuss it with anyone, I suddenly feel compelled to tell him about Olivia. At this precise point, he doesn't even know of her existence, and that anonymity proves too tempting. After all, what harm can it do to share the burden with a virtual stranger?

"It's funny you should say that," I say with a half-smile. "My sister has just been diagnosed with breast cancer and is relying on me to hold it together." It feels odd but liberating to have finally told someone.

"And
are
you holding it together?" He looks at me intently, as if searching for clues.

"Kind of." I shrug, none too sure myself. "I'm being strong in front of her, but I must confess I have lost it a couple of times when I've been on my own."

"That's entirely normal." He smiles reassuringly. "You'd be unusual if you didn't."

"I suppose it's a form of panic really. I can't bear the thought that her children might lose their mummy."

"And that you might lose your sister . . ."

I nod. "Yes, that too." Before I know it, tears are pricking the corners of my eyes and I start to blink furiously, determined not to cry in front of someone I barely know.

Ben, seemingly nonplussed, stands up and walks behind the kitchen counter. Seconds later, he returns with a box of tissues and quietly places it in front of me.

"How bad is it?" he asks.

I dab my eyes. "I'm not really sure, as everyone involved in the diagnosis is being rather noncommittal at the moment. She's about to have an MRI scan to see whether it has spread, and if so, then probably a mastectomy."

Ben considers what I've said for a few moments. "Well, I'm certainly no expert on breast cancer, but if, as it sounds, they've caught it in the early stages, then there's still plenty of hope."

"I sincerely hope so. But it's the waiting I can't stand." I blow my nose, feeling pathetic to be disintegrating in a building full of young children that hope abandoned long ago.

"Yes, the parents here say that, too. But unlike your situation, there's no chance of a happy ending for them."

Reaching into my handbag for my notebook, I place it on the table in front of me. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions for the report? I want to make sure I get it absolutely right."

"No problem."

"Do the children know they're dying?"

He nods. "Yes. That's part of what we do here . . . help the parents to tell them and keep reinforcing the message. But children are a lot more accepting of death than adults."

"In what way?" I'm jotting it all down.

Pursing his lips in thought, he stares into the middle distance for a few seconds. "They don't get as sentimental about it, if you like. The parents think of all the future missed birthdays, the missed wedding, the missed birth of their grandchildren, but the child doesn't. They don't really have an awareness of all that, so they don't think about it."

"So how
do
they react?"

He gives a little sigh. "Um, it depends really. They pick up an awful lot from their parents, so if Mum and Dad can pretend to be quite matter-of-fact about it, then the child will cope better. But if they fall apart, the child will react to that and become very upset too."

"Are you able to tell me more about Billy?" I jerk my head back towards the notice board and the photographs.

"Yep. His parents have given us media clearance to talk about him. Some parents retreat into a shell and block out the world, but Billy's mum and dad want to help the center whichever way they can, and they also take comfort from seeing him written or spoken about."

I scrawl "Billy" on the page and underline it. "So when did he first come here?"

Ben screws up his face, trying to think straight. "It was last summer, about August, I think. He was from Kendal, in the Lake District, and he'd been under the care of a specialist unit in Bristol whilst waiting for a bone marrow match."

Seeing me scribbling to keep up, he pauses for a moment, watching and waiting for me to get it all down.

"He got weaker and weaker, until it was pretty obvious he was going to lose the battle. So his parents brought him here." He smiles at the memory. "He was such a fantastic little boy, so full of life considering what he was going through. He used to call me Big Ben . . . he thought that was hilarious." He tails off, a sad look on his face.

I put my pen down. "This isn't for the report, but I'm fascinated to know, so I hope you don't mind me asking . . . do you
know
when someone is about to die?" I can't remember the last time I asked such a weighty, significant question within the context of something work related.

He turns down the corners of his mouth, pondering the question. "Everyone's different. Some simply pass away in their sleep, which is the nicest way to go for them, but horrible for the parents because they feel deprived of the chance to have said a final, final good-bye. But Billy was quite something. He
knew
when he was going to die."

He takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee and glances over at the notice board to Billy's picture.

"Billy was a huge Manchester United fan, and his bedroom here was covered in posters and memorabilia. Even his quilt cover was Man U. His dad used to take him to quite a few matches, but that became an impossibility after he got ill, so we arranged for Ryan Giggs to pay him a visit here.

"I'll never forget his little face when Ryan walked up to his bed. It was magical." He pauses for a moment, clearly savoring the memory, then lets out a deep sigh. "Anyway, after Ryan had gone, Billy asked to watch his favorite TV show,
Byker Grove
--he
loved
that--and his mum and dad sat either side of his bed and watched it with him. When it had finished, he lay back on his pillows and said 'I'm ready to die now.' A few minutes later, he drifted off to sleep . . . and that was it."

Tears are unashamedly pouring down my face. Tears for Olivia, tears for Matthew and Emily, and tears for a little boy called Billy who I never even met but, to my mind, represents everything that is unfair and unjust about this world we live in. A world where good, innocent people get struck down in the prime of their life, whilst others with shameful existences frequently live long into old age.

Ben looks concerned and passes me another tissue. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

"Please don't apologize," I mumble through the tissue. "Bizarrely, that story makes me feel lucky, because I know that Olivia still has a long way to go before things get that bad.
If
they get that bad." I cross my fingers.

"That's the spirit." He smiles, glancing at his watch again. "Look, Phit should be here at any moment. Shall we go and find Anne so I can introduce you? She's so excited about coming up to London for her makeover next week."

I nod and stand up. It will be good to leave the sadness behind for the moment and focus on putting something happy and positive out into the world.