Before You Go Page 12

  There was a beat of silence and then Dad picked up a cracker. ‘All right, pull my cracker then.’

  I smiled at him and leaned over and pulled the end of the cracker with a bang, and just like that the tension was gone.

  We’d hardly spoken about it any more, apart from a few good luck wishes as we’d left to drive home, and I was grateful to them for trying so hard.

  Then the new year had come and I’d gone to see my GP and been referred for tests. I’d had an ultrasound scan and a biopsy, which had left me with the small scar, and Ed had been with me at the appointment, holding my hand. I was glad he was. Mum had wanted to come too, but I’d been insistent. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’ll let you know the minute I have some news, I promise.’

  And now here we are, just a week later. The day of my results.

  Even though now, more than ten years later, I know what results I got on that day, I have a tight feeling in my chest at the thought of going through it all again. And who knows whether the results will be the same the second time around?

  I could die before Ed. The realization hits me like a train and I stay sitting for a few more minutes, just taking in the details of the kitchen in our old flat. It still strikes me as strange how something can be so ingrained in your memory that, even when you haven’t seen it or thought about it for more than ten years, or even twenty, it can still feel utterly familiar.

  There’s a chipped tile above the sink that we always meant to fix; there’s one ring on the electric hob that doesn’t work, and never will; I know if I open the cupboard on the wall there will be seven or eight mugs, none matching, a box of teabags and a jar of coffee. I know the good coffee, the cafetière coffee, is kept in the fridge. I know the fridge light flickers and that eventually it will give up the ghost completely, and that there are two ring marks on the wooden tabletop where Jane and I left our glasses after drinking too much one night. I know there’s a gap in the floorboards that, if I place my chair at the wrong angle, its leg will get wedged down.

  I know all these things intimately, despite not having been in the flat for years, despite having lived somewhere else for years since.

  If the mind is a strange place, then mine is even stranger.

  My chair scrapes on the floor as I lean on the tabletop and push myself up to stand. All the other times I’ve woken up my body has felt younger, sprightlier, than it does at the age of thirty-eight. I hadn’t noticed myself getting older physically, but being reminded of how I used to feel has made me realize I’m stiffer, creakier, than before.

  But this time, my body feels old. I don’t know if it’s the fear or whether it’s because I truly am ill this time, but I do know for certain that today is going to be a lot tougher than the last day I spent with Ed.

  The clock on the wall says it’s only 9 a.m. Usually I’d be at work, but I have the day off.

  It’s cold in the flat and I get dressed carefully in several layers – vest top, long-sleeved top, jumper, jeans and thick socks. I switch the radio on as I make some breakfast and eat it mechanically at the kitchen table.

  When I’ve finished I wash the dishes and place them carefully on the draining board. I wipe the surfaces down even though they don’t need cleaning and cast my eyes round the room for something else to keep my hands busy. I’ve got the day off work but I still have four hours until I’m meeting Ed and I don’t know how to fill them. But I do know I can’t hang around the flat any longer, thinking. It’s too cold for a walk, so I decide to take myself off to an art gallery. There’s something soothing about walking round quiet galleries. It doesn’t matter what art is on the walls – I know nothing about art anyway – but it’s a good way to distract myself for a couple of hours, and lose myself in the throng of tourists.

  An hour later I’m in the huge, cavernous space of the main hall of Tate Modern. I’ve been here many times in the years following this day and the sheer scale of the place never fails to put things into perspective for me.

  I spend the next hour wandering through the rooms, staring at paintings and installations. Colours blend before my eyes, textures merge, and I wonder how the artists who spent their lives creating these pieces would feel if they knew they were all blurring into one; that their soft shapes and colours were helping to calm my nerves.

  I make my way to the downstairs café and order a cappuccino and a piece of carrot cake – there’s no one here to see me ordering the coffee I used to hate so much – and sit at a table by the window, watching the grey clouds slide slowly across the London skyline. It’s only 12.30 and already it feels dark outside. The sky’s so heavy it looks as though it could snow at any minute, and part of me hopes it will.

  I sit a while longer, then walk outside and stand at the barrier on the South Bank overlooking the Thames. A few boats dot the mighty river. The water is so dark, reflecting back the colour of the sky, that it looks bottomless, and for a second I wonder what it would be like to jump from the riverbank into the freezing water and just be carried away. Would the real me, asleep back in 2013, just drift off, and never come back again?

  I’m not prepared to risk it. Even though Ed is gone, and the pain is too much even to bear thinking about, I have other people to consider too, other people who need me.

  I check my watch and walk briskly along to Waterloo Bridge, run up the steps and hurry across the river to Embankment Tube station. The gentle rumble of the train washes over me, and when I step onto the platform twenty minutes later at Archway, I feel calmer.

  I walk slowly up the hill towards the Whittington Hospital where I’m going to hear my fate. I scan the entrance as I approach but can’t see Ed anywhere. It’s too cold to wait outside, so I pull my coat tighter round me and walk, head down, to the front door. As I step inside the wind stops and warm air hits me. I feel the tension seep from my body. And then I spot Ed. He’s standing by the hospital shop, looking idly at the magazine selection. I gasp loudly, glad of the background noise that swallows the sound. He looks older than he did last time I saw him, and yet still so achingly young. His hair is shorter, but it still hangs sexily over his eyes. He’s holding a coat and dressed all in black, as though he’s going to a funeral. I watch him in awe for a couple of seconds then stride towards him purposefully. I need a hug. He spots me before I get there, and opens his arms wide as though he can read my mind.

  ‘You OK?’ he says softly, pulling away.

  I nod mutely.

  ‘Let’s get this over with, then.’

  We walk, hand in hand, to the lift, and stand in silence as it glides up to the fifth floor. My body is tense, my stomach wound tighter than a ball of wool, and I’m gripping Ed’s hand like I never want to let go. He squeezes it gently as the lift reaches the floor we need and we step out.

  We sit down on the hard green plastic chairs. ‘You OK?’ Ed whispers again. I nod tightly. There are three other women in the waiting room; one woman on her own, a flowered scarf wound artistically round her head, and two women sitting together, one older than the other. They hardly speak, except for the odd whispered word which is impossible to make out from where I’m sitting. They’re holding hands, their knuckles white. Probably mother and daughter. I wonder which one is waiting for news. I smile weakly at them and they both smile back. Then we look away. Knowing other people are going through the same thing doesn’t help, not really. It doesn’t take away the utter terror.

  I stare blankly at the details of the waiting room. The pale-green walls, the posters offering counselling, help, advice; the rows of green chairs nailed to the floor, as though anyone was going to sneak one under their coat and walk out with it; the piles of magazines on the low tables between the rows of chairs, dog-eared and out of date. I read a coverline over and over again: Dumped for losing weight. I wonder briefly how that woman must have felt, telling her story to the whole world. Would anyone believe my story if I told them what was going on?

  And then my name’s being called and Ed’s pulling me gently t
o my feet and we’re walking into the surgeon’s office and sitting down again and the surgeon is looking at me with kind eyes and Ed is clutching my hand and my heart is hammering so hard against my ribcage it feels as though it’s going to jump right out of my chest and land on the doctor’s desk. I take a deep breath and it catches in my throat, sounding like a sob, and Ed tightens his grip on my hand. I don’t dare look at him.

  I stare blindly at a poster on the wall behind the doctor’s head. This all seems like so long ago, and yet still so fresh in my mind now I’m here again, reliving the terror. The silence in the room before the doctor speaks is probably only a few seconds but it feels like a lifetime as I sit there, squirming in my chair, trying not to guess what she’s going to say as the silence is filled by a deafening roar in my head. I put my hands to my ears to try and stifle it.

  And then the silence is broken. The doctor has a soft voice and whatever she says sounds kind, cushioning any blow she might have to deliver to her patients. It’s a good quality to have, I think. All through this process she’s delivered news I don’t want to hear: Zoe, you need a biopsy; Zoe, we need to hurry you through; Zoe, we have your results. It’s never been good news so now as I hear her familiar tone, I’m expecting the same again, so much so I’m hardly listening. So when she stops and I realize she’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak, I don’t know what to say as I can’t remember hearing anything at all. And despite what happened last time, I can never assume this is the same.

  Nervously, I glance at Ed. His eyes search mine, a small crease between his eyebrows, waiting for me to react.

  ‘I – I’m sorry, what did you say?’ I stammer.

  The doctor’s face breaks into a warm grin. ‘You’re clear,’ she says, soft as feathers. ‘You don’t have cancer.’

  ‘Oh!’ It comes out as a strangle, a sob, the tension and relief flooding out of me with this one syllable, and I feel as though I’m going to fall off the chair. I turn to Ed and he wraps me in his arms as I cry and cry. The tears won’t stop, and this time it’s more than just the relief of the all-clear from cancer, which I half knew was coming anyway. This time, I’m letting myself sob for everything I’ve lost since, everything I haven’t let myself cry about until now.

  Finally, three, four, five minutes later, I pull myself together and listen to what the doctor has to tell me. She explains that the biopsy showed the lump was simply a benign cyst, and that it’s nothing to worry about. I don’t need an operation, it should just go away by itself. They’re the same words I’ve heard before but the relief is still as immense. I don’t have cancer. I’m going to be OK.

  Nothing has changed. I’m not going to die before Ed. I’m not sure how happy this makes me feel.

  I stand, my legs still wobbly, but feeling strong.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stick my hand out and shake hers firmly.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  We say our goodbyes and walk out of the office, through the waiting room, trying not to catch the eye of anyone there who might not get the same news as me, down in the lift, then out into the crisp, grey day.

  The wind that had felt so cold before now feels fresh on my face, and the dark clouds feel comforting rather than threatening.

  I look at Ed. Tears are shining in the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Well, that was a surprise,’ he says.

  ‘It was.’

  He says nothing for a second, his breath coming in puffs in the biting air. I shiver.

  ‘Let’s get out of here, I’m frozen.’ He takes my hand and we head to the nearest place we can find out of the cold, a coffee shop on the corner. The heating hits me as I walk in, and I unbutton my coat and sit down at a table to wait. Ed orders drinks and, among the warm buzz of the coffee shop, with the cappuccino machine whirring and banging in the background, I tap Mum’s number into my mobile.

  She snatches it up before I’ve even heard it ring.

  ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Mum. It’s OK. I’m fine. I haven’t got cancer.’

  Her breath comes out in a rush. ‘Oh, thank God, Zoe. Thank God. I was so worried. Hang on.’ There’s a rustling sound and I hear her speaking to Dad in the background. ‘John, she’s fine. She’s going to be OK.’

  I don’t hear Dad’s response, but then Mum comes back to the phone. ‘Don’t tell anyone but Dad’s crying.’

  ‘I’m bloody not.’ Dad’s voice is gruff but I laugh. It feels good to listen to Mum and Dad bickering as though nothing is out of the ordinary.

  ‘Tell him my lips are sealed.’

  There’s a beat of silence. Ed places the paper cups down on the table and smiles as he sits opposite me. I smile back gratefully. Then there’s a sniff down the line. ‘Mum, you’re not crying as well, are you?’

  ‘No love, not crying. I’m just so – oh, Zoe, I’m so relieved. I love you so much.’

  ‘I love you too, Mum.’

  I make a snap decision then, something I didn’t do enough of before. ‘Why don’t you come down and stay? It would be good to see you; we don’t see you often enough.’

  ‘I’d love to, love. Be good to spend some time with you. Let me speak to Dad and we’ll sort something out, OK?’

  ‘OK. And Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love.’

  ‘Can you tell Becky for me? I’m not sure I can keep having this same conversation over and over again.’ I take a sip of my drink and wince as the hot liquid burns my lip through the plastic spout.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘OK, Mum, well, I’ll ring you later, have a proper catch-up, OK?’

  ‘OK, sweetheart. Your dad sends his love.’

  ‘Give him a sloppy kiss back.’

  Mum laughs. ‘He’ll love that. Bye.’

  We hang up and Ed watches me across the table, sipping his coffee quietly. The voices and sounds in the coffee shop are soothing and I can feel the tension in my shoulders release as I sit there cupping my hot chocolate in my hands. A sense of contentment washes over me and I realize how stressed I’d been. I can only imagine Ed feels the same way.

  ‘Do you fancy going out to celebrate?’

  I sip my drink again, remembering last time, when we’d gone out and got drunk on champagne, eaten budget-busting food. It had been lovely, but having Ed here now, I just want to spend some time with him, alone. Who knows if I’ll get another chance?

  ‘Do you know what, I think I’d just like to go home and relax, maybe get a takeaway. Does that sound boring?’

  ‘Yeah, terrible.’ Ed grins. ‘It sounds perfect, Zo.’

  ‘Good.’

  We finish our drinks and stand, make our way back outside. It’s turned bitingly cold and a gust of wind almost takes my breath away. We walk quickly to the bus stop, hand in hand, and huddle ineffectually behind the plastic shelter, but the wind seems to go right through it. Ed wraps his arms round me tightly and I bury my face in his chest, slip my arms round his waist under his coat. He rests his chin lightly on my head and despite the cold I feel warm, loved. I want to stay like this forever.

  Plastic takeaway boxes cover the rug and the light from the TV flickers across Ed’s face, giving it a deathly glow. I shiver at the thought.

  ‘Shall we go to bed?’

  Ed looks at me sleepily. ‘Yeah. I’ll just clear this up.’

  ‘Leave it. We’ll do it in the morning.’

  He doesn’t need telling twice and I stand and hold my hand out to pull him up. In the bedroom we take our clothes off and let them fall on the floor, then climb under the duvet. Ed holds his arm out for me to snuggle into and we lie there, drifting off. His body is warm, his skin slightly damp despite the chill in the air. I breathe in his scent, trying to commit it to memory, just in case. I can hear his heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, in my right ear, and he feels so vital, so alive, I can hardly believe he’s gone now. How can he be, when he’s right here next to me?

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘
Mmm-hmm?’ His voice vibrates through his chest and into me.

  ‘You know I’ll always love you, right?’

  ‘Mmm. Me too.’ His voice is thick with sleep, but I’m not ready to leave him yet. There’s something I need to do first, to try to get him to understand.

  ‘Did—’ I pause, unsure. ‘Did you really mean it when you said there was no way you wanted to get married, ever?’

  His body tenses and he pulls away slightly, peers down at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you thought marriage was a waste of time, and that it wasn’t for you. I just wondered if – maybe, you think you might change your mind one day?’ I’m aware this has come out of nowhere but it feels important. He’s looking at me and I don’t want to catch his eye, scared of what I might see there. So instead I keep my head down, eyes trained on his chest, studying the tiny hairs and the smooth, soft skin.

  ‘I did mean it, Zo. I just don’t see the point.’

  My heart contracts, squeezes tightly. ‘But—’ I stop, wriggle to a sitting position so I can look at him properly. This is something that needs to be said, and he needs to listen, whether it makes a difference or not. I cross my legs and lean my elbows on my knees.

  ‘Listen, Ed. I know you said you think it’s meaningless because it meant nothing to your dad. But you’re not your dad and I’m not your mum. I’m not saying I want to get married now, and I definitely don’t want to scare you off. But to be honest I find it pretty hurtful that you’re so adamant, so against the idea that you won’t even talk to me about it, won’t even consider it as a possibility.’

  He opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off.

  ‘I know it’s just a piece of paper and that it shouldn’t make any difference, and I can’t explain why it does, but it just does, Ed. And that’s it. One day, I’m going to want to get married and I want you to be prepared for that. I don’t want it to drive us apart, but you need to know.’ I stop, shrug. ‘And that’s it.’