What She Wants (37 page)

Sam could feel the familiar nagging pain growing in intensity, gnawing at her insides, spilling out from the centre of her belly into a dull, ceaseless ache in her lower back and her entire pelvic area. If there was a time and a place for everything, this wasn’t it. The Density album launch was being held in the hottest rock venue in town and the place was jam packed, although it was hard to tell if it was packed with the right sort of people. There were at least

three hundred milling around, drinking free drinks and eating free canapes, but if they weren’t the top media people, the correct rock show hosts and basically the right people, it was a waste of time. Sam had to make a speech, a short one, luckily, before Steve’s. Which was why it was not the time to feel utterly crippled with oncoming period pain. Another wave hit her and she was suddenly terrified the damn thing would start and she’d ruin her skintight beige trousers. Almost stumbling in her haste to get to the loos, she cannoned off Mrs Roberta Ceci, mother of Enchanting, and absolutely the last person Sam wanted to see right now. ‘Sam,’ said Roberta, holding up a talon. ‘I need to talk to you …’ ‘Sorry, can’t right now,’ gasped Sam and fled, leaving Roberta Ceci looking angry, which wasn’t unusual. In the loos, Sam stayed in the cubicle for a long time, glad she’d learned to carry tampons with her all the time nowadays. She was certainly living the boy scout motto: be prepared. She dry swallowed a painkiller and sat down on the toilet lid, hoping the pain and the faintness would go away. These bloody fibroid things were killing her. Ever since she’d seen the GP, she’d begun to trace backwards and remember all the other times when crippling period pains had made her life a misery. There had been many occasions, she realized, thinking of the back ache and the dull gnawing in her pelvis that she’d tried not to notice at the time. Or had been too busy to notice. Her appointment was in nearly three weeks’ time and, not for the first time, she began to wonder if she shouldn’t have insisted on being seen by a consultant sooner. She knew there was a crisis in the National Health Service, but she was going privately and had enough health insurance to skip the queue, surely. Then again, it was probably nothing and she was worrying needlessly. She’d look “he a neurotic woman if she rang up and frantically tried to change her appointment now. Her GP’s secretary had

insisted that this was the earliest one they could make for her. After ten minutes, she felt marginally better and emerged from the loo. The sight of her ghostly white face in the mirror made her realize she needed to slap on a bit of blusher to disguise how she felt. Unfortunately, Sam was not the sort of woman who carried lots of make-up in her sleek handbags, so she had to make do with putting a few dots of pink lipstick on her cheekbones and rubbing it in. The repair job didn’t really work but it was dark in the club, so hopefully nobody would notice. Outside, the time for speeches had clearly arrived and Sam could see Steve standing at the backstage door, looking around furiously. Sam rushed over to him. ‘Sorry, I was giving an interview to the Mirror,’ she lied. Placated, Steve pushed open the door and they went onto the stage,. Density were waiting in the wings, ready to perform as soon as Steve had told the world they were the hottest band on the planet. It took all of Sam’s professionalism to smile, shake hands with the band’s troublesome manager, and tell the band how incredible they were. The problem was that she had a bad fueling about Density, a feeling which magnified every time she met them. For a band who’d never sold a record, they were too smug by half. And if they failed, they’d probably bring her down with them. Her speech lasted two minutes, Steve’s lasted five, and then the band were cranking up their guitars and roaring at the crowd. ‘I love those boys,’ yelled Steve to Sam over the noise. ‘Me too,’ she said cheerily as they left the backstage area. Mrs Ceci appeared like a bad penny and collared Sam, her face purple under a heavy layer of Max Factor. ‘Don’t think you can just walk out on me like that!’ she squealed. ‘I need to talk to you and I won’t be pushed aside…’ Sam had had enough. She moved slowly forward until her face was only inches away from Roberta Ceci’s. ‘This is

an album launch and I’m working,’ she breathed. ‘I do not know what you’re even doing here because I did not see your name on the guest list, but if you wish to speak to me, you can phone my assistant at the office and, she emphasized this, ‘If you have anything valid to say, then I’ll see you. Do you understand?’ Roberta Ceci’s eyes widened. She understood all right. ‘And by the way, you can stop phoning my staff and giving them hell,’ Sam added. ‘If you have something you want to say, say it to me because I won’t take any crap from you.’

After another half an hour, Sam slipped out and hailed a taxi. Nobody would notice she had left, she hoped. As the taxi drove her home, she phoned Karen Storin on her mobile. Karen answered with the noise in the background making Sam realize that Density were still playing. ‘Karen,’ Sam shouted, ‘I’ve had to step out for a moment, I got an urgent call on my mobile. If Steve’s looking for me, tell them I’ll be back in an hour.’ In an hour, Steve would be too far into the champagne to notice she hadn’t returned while Density’s manager would be too far into the Colombian marching powder to notice anything at all. London’s lights flashed past and Sam forgot about the hassle with Mrs Ceci. What she couldn’t forget was the pain she was in and the anxious, upset feeling that wouldn’t go away. What was wrong with her, was it really only fibroids? Should she have insisted on getting an immediate appointment with the specialist instead of settling for one in nearly a month’s time? At home, her feeling of anxiety got worse, so Sam booted up her computer and decided to research what was wrong with her. She loved surfing the internet and was an expert at zipping in and out of interesting sites. Medical sites were not ones she’d ever visited before, so it took a few goes before she found one on women’s health.

It wasn’t long before she was engrossed in illnesses she’d never heard of. And then she found it, a list of symptoms that mirrored hers exactly. The pains, the nausea, the period problems, the list described her perfectly. Only it wasn’t a description of the symptoms of fibroids. The disease in question was ovarian cancer. The more Sam read, the more she realized that when a woman had symptoms like hers, the disease was at an advanced stage and was a killer. Symptomless until it was too late, she read, with an ever growing sense of horror. Shocked, she clicked on a self-help group and the first thing she saw was a poem from a woman whose sister had died of the disease, a poem calling for more women to be aware of the silent killer.

We had two months before you died, Juana, Two months to fill with memories, Two months to remember a lifetime. It wasn’t enough. We all miss you so much; We miss you more because it shouldn’t have to be this way.

The accompanying biography explained that Juana had been expected to live for at least six months from diagnosis, but had survived for only two. She left three teenage children and a husband behind her, along with a sister who vowed to stop other women dying needlessly and who’d set up a group to increase awareness of ovarian cancer. Sam wrenched the internet connector from the wall and punched the off button on her computer. Numb, she stared at the darkened screen for a long time. Now she knew what was happening to her, now she finally knew why she’d been ill and losing weight. She was dying. Time was running out for her. She didn’t have three weeks to wait and see some specialist; she needed help now. But then, what was the point if she was dying anyway?

It was strange: her hands didn’t shake and she didn’t cry. Instead, she rocked herself back and forth in her favourite chair and thought about how she’d taken every day for granted. Waking up was never a miracle for her, she’d never thanked anyone for her existence, she took it as her right and went on living, fully expecting that no matter what happened, she’d wake up the next day. And the next, and the next. Except not any more. Time really was precious and hers was running out. It was such an enormous idea to get her head around. Like trying to imagine infinity, her brain couldn’t imagine a time when she would cease to be. What would it be like? Was there anything out there? Was there nothing? And who would mourn her, if she were truly honest? An image of Hope came into her head, Hope with Millie and Toby, laughing. That’s when the tears began to fall. Sam didn’t bother going to bed that night. Instead, she sat in her silent living room and drank glass after glass of white wine. Why bother with abstinence when you were dying? In the early hours of the morning, her face swollen with crying, Sam finally made up her mind. There was only one thing for it. She knew what she had to do.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Matt had the car that afternoon meaning that Hope was stuck at home. It was too wet to think of walking into the village, so she decided to work on the chair she was attempting to revamp. It was a plain wooden kitchen chair but the fretwork at the back was pretty and Hope imagined it could be lovely if only it wasn’t covered with layer upon layer of thick cow-dung brown paint. She’d taken a week to strip off the old paint, and had painted it with lemon yellow wood varnish. Now, she planned to stencil wild flowers all over it with the help of the Irish wild flower book she’d got from the library. Millie was very keen to help, so both she and Toby were wearing their old creche painting smocks over their clothes in what Hope knew was a vain attempt to keep them paint-free. Hope was wearing an old shirt of Matt’s over her T-shirt and jeans for the same reason. ‘Mummy, give me a go,’ Millie said imperiously, holding out one fat little hand for the tiny paintbrush. Millie painted pictures like a novice decorator painted a huge wall: with sloppy, enormous strokes and little attention to detail. Hope smiled because she knew they’d all be covered in paint soon. ‘Now you can do one bit here,’ she said firmly, giving Millie a tiny brush with a tiny smidgen of paint on it, ‘and Toby can do this bit.’ Millie’s tongue poked out of her mouth as she concentrated. They were all so engrossed in the chair that none of them

heard the car and the sound of someone knocking on the door gave them all a huge shock. Hope leaped to her feet and vowed to get a doorbell. She was used to doorbells, but the sound of knocking reminded her of films where the police knocked before they raided the place. She opened the door and gasped, for there, shivering in her shearling coat and with her eyes huge in a thin, haunted face, stood Sam. Hope was momentarily speechless but when her sister uncharacteristically burst into tears, Hope threw her arms around her and pulled Sam out of the doorway and into the house. At first, she couldn’t get any sense out of what Sam was saying but she figured out that something awful had happened. ‘I’ve made such a mess of everything,’ Sam sobbed, her voice shaky. She felt so thin, Hope realized with horror. She used to be slim but now she was like a walking skeleton. ‘I’ve got nothing, n … nobody,’ stammered Sam. ‘Who’s going to give a damn when I’m gone? Nobody, that’s who. I’ve turned so bitter and it’s all eaten me up on the inside. That’s why I’m sick. I’m even beginning to repel people who like me. Like him, I mean, he was only being nice and I haven’t liked anyone so much for ages and I was horrible …’ She broke off with howls of misery, like Millie when she scraped her knee and couldn’t begin to tell her mother how awful it was. ‘Is it the guy you told me about in Bath?’ Hope asked. ‘Have you split up, love?’ Sam’s big eyes were stricken. ‘There was no guy,’ she whispered. ‘No guy for a long time. Who’d come near me? And I’ve even frightened off my friends. Jay and Catrina…’ ‘Hush, hush,’ crooned Hope as she held her sister tightly, trying to stop the shuddering. Poor darling Sam. ‘And now I’m sick I’m dying and nobody but you cares.’

Hope finally understood the phrase about your blood turning to ice. She felt every litre flood icily through her veins. ‘You’re sick. What? Tell me. Now.’ It took endless moments for Sam’s shuddering to stop. Hope held her tightly and prayed like she’d never prayed before. Aunt Ruth hadn’t been much of a one for religion but Hope made sure the children said their prayers every night. Dear God, please, please let it not be true. Finally, Sam was able to speak. ‘I read about it on the internet. It’s ovarian cancer.’ ‘But a doctor hasn’t told you, you haven’t had tests or anything?’ ‘I can read, Hope! I’ve got all the symptoms. I’ve got an appointment with a specialist in three weeks but I know it without seeing her, don’t you see?’ ‘But surely they wouldn’t make you wait this long to see someone if it was serious …’ began Hope, but stopped when Sam began to sob hysterically in a way Hope had never seen her cry ever before. Hope sat her sister on the couch and instructed a wide-eyed Millie to sit beside her aunt while she got Sam some tea. Millie loved Sam but she was scared of this wild-eyed, sad person and she stood behind an armchair, twisting her pinafore in her hands and peering out nervously. Toby, however, climbed up on the couch and began to show Sam his new favourite toy, a big dumper truck with a yellow hydraulic trailer that actually went up and down. ‘Up and down,’ said Toby gravely, demonstrating this. ‘Up and down.’ ‘That’s very good,’ Sam said, doing her best to sound normal because she could see how her behaviour had upset Millie. ‘Do you let Millie play with it?’ ‘No,’ said Millie indignantly from her position behind the chair. ‘What new toys have you got, then?’ Sam had herself under control now.

Millie came out of hiding and began to pile toys on the couch beside Sam. ‘See, loads.’ Hope brought the cups of tea from the kitchen and laid them carefully on the low table away from small hands. ‘Now Millie and Toby, Auntie Sam wants to have her tea. I’ll put a video on for you, OK?’ she said in a bright voice. Sam smiled at her sister weakly. For the first time, she could see how mummydom meant having to subdue your real feelings and pretend nothing was wrong. When the children were engrossed in the Teletubbies, Hope sat beside her sister. ‘Tell me everything, from the very beginning,’ she commanded. ‘The consultant I’m to see has no appointments for over three weeks. She’s supposed to be the best there is but I’m afraid to wait any longer. I thought if I was here, it would be easier.’ ‘Sam, why didn’t you insist on seeing another consultant? You’ve got the health insurance, they could have managed it.’ ‘I know,’ Sam said, ‘I didn’t think. I panicked at the thought of waiting three weeks. And what are they going to tell me, anyway? That it’s spread all over me and that I can put myself through agonizing chemo just for a few more weeks. I’ve read all about it…’ ‘Sam, please, don’t say that,’ said Hope, distraught. ‘Cancer is one of the most curable diseases now. Modern medicine is incredible and there’s always hope.’ ‘Not with this when you have symptoms like mine,’ sobbed Sam. ‘By the time you notice, it’s too late. You should have seen this site on the internet.’ Hope silently raged against scare-mongering sites where other people’s terrible experiences made you fear the worst. ‘Listen, there was something on the internet recently that said you could get cancer from using deodorant. How about that for rubbish?’ ‘I know but this is different.’