Page 41

40

THE EIGHTH SUMMER – 2018

‘I don’t know, Libby, it feels like a farce going to Paris when he’s so ill. I mean, even if they can’t start treatment yet, he should be resting, surely?’ she said, tucking the phone under her chin as she spoke and zipping up her half-heartedly packed suitcase.

‘But it’s what he wants,’ Libby pointed out.

Sophie sighed, turning to sit on the bed. ‘I know,’ she said, feeling depleted. ‘He kind of wants a short break before he starts treatment. And it’s only two nights. And they weren’t going to be able to start much before then anyway…’

‘So why not go! Enjoy yourselves!’

Sophie shook her head. ‘But how can we?’

Libby was silent for a moment, then ‘But what’s the alternative? Sit around in the flat and wait for his treatment? Maybe if you can put it to the back of your minds just for one last break.’

Tears pooled, hot and insistent, in Sophie’s eyes. ‘How can I, though?’

‘Well, maybe you can’t. But perhaps Tom can. Maybe he needs to…’

‘So I’m just meant to pretend?’

‘I’m really sorry, but I think you have to. If that’s what he wants.’

Sophie had got used to the misery of infertility, carrying her disappointment with her almost constantly over the past year. But now, this, Tom’s – well, what? Terminal illness? Neither of them were calling it that, but what else was ‘incurable cancer’? It seemed too much to bear. Yet this time, she wasn’t the one carrying the majority of the pain. He was. His feelings had to come first.

‘Oh God, Libby, what am I going to do?’

‘You,’ said Libby, ‘are going to try to make the best of things.’

‘Yeah.’ She picked a thread from the eiderdown, idly watching as it snaked away from her across the embroidered satin. ‘I’m not so good at that.’

Libby gave a small snort of laughter. ‘Understatement of the century.’

Sophie smiled weakly. ‘But how do you do it?’

‘What?’

‘Well, you always seem to be so… upbeat. In the moment. And I know it hasn’t always been… easy.’

Libby’s father had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, and was now in a home. At just sixty-two, it was unbelievably cruel. They spoke about it sometimes, and Libby was both grieving and stressed about the situation. But what amazed Sophie was her capacity to rise above it. To throw herself fully into a night out, or immerse herself in a book. To talk about trivial things in the face of such monstrous bad luck.

Libby sighed. ‘Ah, chick. It’s not easy,’ she admitted. ‘But I figured, what’s the alternative?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if I sit and think about Dad and all the things that have happened so far, and what’s going to happen next, I could probably reduce myself to a blubbering wreck on a daily basis,’ she said. ‘And I did, for a while. Remember when he was diagnosed?’

Sophie nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I couldn’t understand why Mum didn’t seem as affected. I mean, she was sad, worried. But not floored. Not devastated. And I asked her. You know, “How come you’re not frightened?” And she told me that she was, of course. But that she’d learned that life was about seeing all this stuff – whether it’s your own illness or pain, or grief, or worry – and living anyway. Or else what was the point?’

‘But… how?’

‘That’s what I asked,’ Libby told her. ‘And she said you just have to kind of keep doing the things… you know. Get up, have a shower, wear something nice, eat, work, go through the motions. And that eventually your mind catches up. Realises you are living anyway. Kind of demotes the worry.’

‘I just don’t think I could…’

‘But you have to,’ Libby said. ‘For Tom. He needs you to do that. To be strong in the face of it all. And you know, he’s here right now. He’s relatively OK. And who knows what might happen in the future. Good things, maybe. But if not, then this time is even more precious.’

Sophie fiddled with the zip on the suitcase. ‘Yeah, I get that,’ she said.

‘I know. It’s not easy. But like Mum says, a lot of the time, you or someone you love, or even other people, farther away, are going through something awful. If you let it floor you each time, you’d never get up at all.’

‘She’s pretty wise, your mum.’

‘I know.’

‘Mine just told me to make sure we were eating properly.’

‘Oh, Soph. But you know, it’s kind of the same thing. Keeping on, in spite of it.’

‘If you say so.’

‘And I suppose Tom’s parents have thrown money at the problem.’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Well, I mean. That can’t hurt, I suppose.’

The door to the flat opened, signalling Tom’s return. ‘I’d better go,’ Sophie said. ‘But thanks. You’ve really helped.’

By the time Tom entered the room, she was standing next to the packed suitcase, her phone squirrelled away. ‘OK?’ she asked him.

‘Not too bad. Apart from the late-stage cancer, that is.’ He grinned and she tried to mirror him.

‘Ha. Well, yes. There is that.’ She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss him deeply.

‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

‘Just love you,’ she said simply. ‘Now come on, let’s get your case packed too.’

‘You’re sure you’re OK with going?’

‘Pretty much. And you know, it’ll be good for us. To get away for a couple of nights.’

He nuzzled into her. ‘Thank you.’

She blinked rapidly to ward off threatened tears. ‘You’re welcome. Let’s go have the holiday of a lifetime.’