Bridesmaid Blitz (5 page)

I decide I’d better eat something and am about to peel back the skin of my banana when I sense someone is looking at me. I raise my head. Seth is standing at the top of the steps and our gazes lock. His eyes are vacant and he doesn’t wave or even smile — it’s as if I’m someone he used to know, not his girlfriend.

I can’t bear Seth treating me like a stranger. My eyes sting, then fill with tears. Mortified that someone — one of the D4s, knowing my luck — will see me in bits like this, I wipe them away quickly with the bottom of my shirt and stand up, eager to hide my sobbing in the loo.

Unfortunately, to get there I have to pass Seth, who’s still standing at the top of the stairs, not saying a word. I hang my head and start climbing the steps, tears dripping from my eyes and splashing onto the gray lino. Part of me wants him to see how upset I am — what he’s done to me — and another part of me is ashamed of crying in school. How pathetic is that? So by the time I reach the top step, I’m almost holding my breath.
Nearly there,
I tell myself. Just a few more yards. Then I feel Seth’s hand on my arm and, lifting my head, I look at him through bleary eyes.

His are dark, almost petrol blue, like a storm at sea, and he looks a mess. His shirt is hanging out and it’s so creased it looks like he’s slept in it, and there’s a large inkblot on the knee of his trousers.

For a few seconds, we just stand there, staring at each other. Tears are still flooding down my cheeks, but I don’t bother to brush them away now. Suddenly I don’t care who else sees me — I want him to realize how much he’s hurt me.

He reaches out and brushes my cheeks with his fingers. “I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you, Amy. Things have been a bit difficult over the last few weeks.”

“What’s happening, Seth? Why won’t you talk to me?”

“I can’t. It’s too much. . . . I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Seth, please don’t shut me out. I just want to help.”

He gives a bitter laugh. “That’s just it — don’t you understand? You can’t
help
, no one can
help
. And it’s not fair. She’s never done anything wrong. Why does this keep happening to her? I don’t understand.” Then he crumples against me, almost knocking me over, and clings to me like a life raft in a storm.

“It’ll be OK, Seth,” I say softly, holding him tight. “It’ll be OK.”

“Stop it, Amy,” he snaps. “Don’t you see? It won’t be OK. Not this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

He shakes his head. I make him sit down beside me on the top step.

“It’s me, Seth,” I whisper. “Just me and you. I know I can’t fix everything, believe me. But you can’t deal with everything on your own either. I’m your girlfriend, but I’m also your friend and I care about you. Can’t you see that? And I’m not apologizing for wanting to help — that’s just who I am. So we can sit here in silence if you like, or you can tell me what’s going on. Either way, I’m here for you. Understand?”

“I’m sorry, Amy. I’m so, so sorry.” He gulps and I can tell he’s trying not to cry. It alarms me a little; it’s one thing for me to be caught crying in the corridor, but if the Crombies see Seth breaking down, they’ll never let him forget it. (Crombies are the male equivalent of the D4s and equally as nasty.) Then I chastise myself for caring what the Crombies or the D4s think. They’re raptors, the lot of them.

We sit for what seems like an age, but is probably only a few minutes, in complete silence, our heads bowed. Finally, Seth starts to talk. “One of Polly’s routine blood tests came back abnormal. The doctor brought her into the hospital yesterday for more tests. Bone scan, CT of her head and body, two different biopsies. Polly said she’d be fine on her own, but I refused to go to school, so she let me go with her in the end.” He pauses and sighs.

I take a deep breath. No wonder Seth’s been on edge — this sounds serious. But I have to give him hope. I think for a second — what would Mills say? She’s always so positive and upbeat about everything. “There’s a good chance they won’t find anything, Seth. They’re probably just being cautious.”

He snorts. “Amy, they don’t do those tests for a laugh. They’re seeing if the cancer’s spread. They’re looking for bone cancer and lung cancer and liver cancer and brain cancer.” He says it in such a rush he has to stop to catch his breath. “I looked it up on the Internet. That’s what all those tests are for.”

“I thought Polly was on some sort of special drug to stop it coming back.”

“She was. Tamox-something-or-other. But, according to the blood test, it doesn’t seem to be working.”

Now I really don’t know what to say.

“And guess when the test results are due back,” he says, his face twisting into a wry grin. “The week after next. Slap bang in the middle of the Paris trip. I have to get the results with her, Amy. She doesn’t have anyone else. If it’s bad news, she’ll need me.”

“She must have friends, Seth. Or a sister or something?”

“Polly’s an only child and we were in London for years. She didn’t keep up with many of her mates back in Dublin. I think she and Dad were pretty self-sufficient, did everything together.”

“I know you said she’s not in touch with him, but things are a bit different now and I’m sure he’d —”

Seth’s back stiffens. “Don’t even think about it. My dad’s out of the picture, full stop.”

I feel so sad for him. My own family is more the Simpsons than the Waltons, but at least there are people I can rely on if something happens, even if they do drive me bonkers most of the time.

“I could go with her,” I suggest.

“Thanks, Amy. But it needs to be me.”

Maybe Seth’s right: if it were Clover or my mum, I’d feel exactly the same way. Seth’s loyal, and that’s why I love him. Paris may have to wait. It just seems so unfair; Polly saved up all summer to pay for the trip, and I know she really, really wants him to see Paris. It’s one of her favorite cities — she showed us all these amazing photos she took on a fashion shoot there a few years ago and made Seth promise to visit some of the cool places she’d snapped.

“What if Polly got the results before you went,” I ask, thinking out loud, “and they showed that everything was fine? Would you go then?”

He shrugs. “I guess — but it’s not likely to happen. Hospitals move pretty slowly.”

I squeeze his hand. “Don’t rule it out yet, just in case. Look, I know you’re scared, I would be too, but I have a good feeling about all of this. Honestly. I’m not just saying it to make you feel better. Your mum’s really tough; you know that. There’s no way she’s going anywhere without a fight.”

“That’s just it — I don’t want her to have to fight; I want her to be well again. She only told me about the blood test on Sunday night. I’ve known something was up for a while now, but I still had to practically drag it out of her. She said she hadn’t wanted to bother me with it.”

I smile to myself. So that’s where he gets it from.

“She doesn’t deserve all this,” he continues. “She’s never smoked; she walks Billy for miles every day; she eats all the right things. It’s not fair.” He puts his arms up in the air in exasperation.

He’s right. It’s not fair. Polly’s a really nice woman. I look away before Seth spots the tears pricking my eyes again. I blink them back. No wonder his moods have been up and down like a playground swing. I feel as frustrated as he does: he can’t fix Polly, and in this case, I can’t help him. Poor Seth.

But there must be something I can do. . . .

“Hey, Bean Machine!”

Seth and I are walking down to the station after school when Clover pulls up beside us in her Mini Cooper. The top’s down and her long white-blond hair is ruffling in the wind. “I’m off to your place to talk weddings with Sylvie. Have new clippings to show her.” She pats a bulging folder on the passenger seat. “Hop in if you want a lift,” she adds, moving it to the backseat. “Seth too.”

We climb in and she pulls out from the curb and zips down the road. At first, Seth looks rather alarmed and keeps glancing at the speedometer. But after a few minutes, he relaxes. Clover may drive fast, but she’s pretty nifty behind the wheel.

“How’s Saint John’s these days?” she asks us. “Monty still modeling?” (Mr. Montgomery is our George Clooney look-alike head. And, no, she’s not joking about the modeling.)

“Yep,” Seth says. “Still setting pensioners’ hearts racing in knitting-pattern books and shopping brochures. I spotted him in the Littlewoods catalog over the summer wearing a pair of Hawaiian shorts. I hacked into the school website and posted the pic on the extracurricular page. It was up there for weeks before Peacock noticed and took it down.” He grins. (He’s been in much better form this afternoon, which is a relief. I know he’s super worried about Polly, but he seems to have found a way of keeping it in the background.)

Clover wrinkles her nose. “Is Mrs. Peacock still the school secretary? She must be at least sixty.”

Seth gives a laugh. “Yep. But the old bag sure knows her way around a computer.”

As we approach Glenageary, Clover asks, “Where can I drop you, Seth?”

“He’s coming back for dinner,” I say quickly. “Only I haven’t told Mum yet, so don’t go mentioning anything until I’ve asked her.”

“I won’t say a word,” Clover promises.

It turns out Polly has completely lost her appetite, so Seth’s been living on beans on toast all week. His eyes lit up when I asked if he wanted to come to our place for dinner, and I was delighted when he accepted the invite. It made me feel useful; even if all I can do is fill his rumbling stomach, it’s something. Seth really likes his food, and come to think of it, he has been looking a bit skinny-jeans recently.

Mum’s clearly been waiting for me to get home, because as soon as we reach the front door, she swings it open. And before I’ve even opened my mouth, Clover says, “Oi, Sylvie, Amy’s brought her boyf back for grub. Coolio with you?”

“Clover!” I glare at her, but Mum just smiles at Seth warmly.

“Seth is always welcome.” And she kisses him on the cheek. Gross! Poor guy.

Seth looks a bit embarrassed but doesn’t move away.

“Come on in, all of you,” Mum trills, leading us into the kitchen. “Food’s nearly ready and you’ll be glad to hear there’ll be no food fights this evening — I fed the babies early. Evie’s already in bed and Alex is playing trains in the living room — for a change.” She laughs at her own joke.

I look at her suspiciously; something has her in a good mood.

It turns out I’m right, because as soon as we’re all sitting down at the kitchen table Mum says, “Got a new job today. I start in a few weeks. Ta-da!” She waves her hands in the air like a conductor. She’s obviously been dying to deliver her news. “I’m ghostwriting a book for a big star. It’s all a bit of a secret at the moment, so until the contracts have been signed, I’ll be dealing with their agent. I don’t even know who the mystery celeb is. It was Monique who got me the job.” (Monique is Mum’s best friend.) “She got talking to their agent in the RTÉ canteen. It’s very hush-hush.” Mum’s cheeks are pink with the excitement of it all.

“That’s great, Mum,” I say. “But what’s ghostwriting?”

“I write a book and someone else’s name goes on the cover, usually someone famous. Madonna, Jordan — they all have ghostwriters.” Mum’s eyes go a little starry. “Maybe I’ll get to meet Madonna. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

“Last time I checked, Madonna wasn’t working for RTÉ, Sylvie,” Clover says dryly. “It’s more likely to be some sort of Irish actress or model.”

Mum’s face falls a little, so I ask, “What kind of book? A novel?”

“I think so,” she says. “The details still have to be ironed out, but that’s not important right now. What is important is that we’ll finally have some money to pay for Clover’s elaborate wedding plans, and Dave will finally be able to drop the overtime and spend some quality time at home. Where he belongs,” she adds firmly. (Dave’s at work
again
.)

Clover throws me a look and I shrug. I know what she’s thinking: Mum has seven unpublished manuscripts sitting in dusty, elastic-banded clumps under her bed. One of them was there so long the edges of the pages grew disgusting furry gray-green mold, and Mum had to throw it out. She has a copy saved on her computer, though, “in case the publishing world ever comes to its senses,” she told us.

“That’s great, Mum,” I say again. Luckily, she doesn’t seem to have noticed the exchange of glances. She’s too busy singing “Money, Money, Money” to herself while slopping a huge square of lasagna onto Seth’s plate with a spatula.

After dinner, Seth and I clear the table. I think he’s glad it’s over. Clover spent the whole time interrogating him about up-and-coming bands, comics, Xbox games, school, Polly, even me — you name it, she asked it.

“Did you have to do that?” I hiss at her while Seth’s loading the dishwasher.

“What?” she asks innocently.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just plonk a lamp on the table and shine it in his eyes.”

She smiles. “Sorry, it’s the journalist in me — I’m doing a piece on boys and their weird little thoughts for the
Goss
next month. Seth didn’t mind.”

“Yes, he did. He was just too polite to say anything.” I turn to Mum. “Can we go upstairs now? Clover has buckets of wedding stuff to bore you with.”