Love @ First Site (13 page)

"But, darling," I say gently. "If you have to have surgery or chemotherapy . . ." I have to stop a moment as the tight knot in my throat is constricting my voice ". . . . then they're bound to notice something."

"True, but I've thought of that already. If they ask, I'm just going to say that Mummy has an arm problem that needs sorting out, but that it's absolutely nothing to worry about." She gives a little laugh. "Emily gets very anxious when I'm ill. I had a cold recently and she said 'You're not going to die, are you, Mummy?'"

That's it. I'm off again, the dull ache in my chest rising to a crescendo and bursting from my mouth in a strangled sob.

"Don't cry, Jess." Olivia shuffles towards me on the sofa and wraps me in a tight hug. Her body feels soft and warm against mine, immensely comforting. "I need you to be strong for me."

"I know," I wail, kicking myself for being so pathetically weak and self-centered. "I'm so sorry. It's just such a shock, that's all."

"It is. But we'll beat it together," she murmurs.

We will. The alternative is just too hideous to even contemplate.

Fourteen

I
t's the mother of all Monday mornings. Granted, not a great day at the best of times, but this one is particularly grim.

As usual, I wake up and enjoy that blissful two-second hiatus where my brain hasn't quite kicked in and, with touching naivete, I think there's lots to look forward to in life. Then a gloom descends as I realize it's the dawn of yet another week toiling away at the shit face of
Good Morning Britain
.

But then even that pales into insignificance when Olivia suddenly pops into my head and I almost retch at the memory of our conversation.

Yesterday, I'd had a humdinger of a day lined up, the kind I love. A bit of a lie-in, then a wander down to my local Starbucks for a cafe latte and pore over the Sunday papers in splendid isolation, give or take a few hungover souls scattered around me.

After that, it was to be lunch on the Kings Road with Richard and Lars, then a little putter around the shops before retiring home for an afternoon nap and a Marks and Spencer meal for one in front of
Coronation Street
. Utter bliss.

But after my emotionally draining Saturday with Olivia, I ended up canceling the lot and just slopped around the house, alternating between bouts of sobbing and drifting off into uneasy catnaps after a virtually sleepless night.

Now it was Monday, and it was tempting to use the food-poisoning excuse I gave Richard and Lars to sneak a day off from work. But having spent the previous day feeling so miserable, I knew the feeling was increased threefold by having so much time on my hands, so going to work was probably the best thing to do under the circumstances. Now, sitting at my desk a couple of hours later, I'm wondering whether I have made the right decision. Sure, I'm here in body, but my spirit is crushed and I'm unable to concentrate on the task in hand for more than a few seconds at a time.

"Jess!!!!"

"Huh?" I feel a sharp tap on my shoulder, stirring me from my deep, dark thoughts. It's Tab.

"I have asked you the same question three times now and you've ignored me every time," she says crossly. "What planet are you on?"

"Sorry." I blink rapidly a few times, feeling myself close to tears. "I don't feel terribly well."

Her expression changes immediately from one of irritation to concern. "Oh you poor thing." She places a reassuring hand on my back. "Come to think of it, you
do
look rather peaked. What's wrong?"

I'm desperate to pour my heart out and tell her everything, particularly as I know she's 100 percent trustworthy and wouldn't tell a soul. But I promised Olivia I wouldn't say anything to anyone, and it's her secret, not mine.

Trouble is, whilst Olivia now has me as an outlet for her hopes and fears, I don't feel I can burden her with mine. I feel I have to be strong and unerringly positive at all times, which is why it would be nice to be able to tell Tab and have someone I could occasionally fall apart in front of.

"I ate a dodgy prawn on Saturday and I spent all day yesterday retching," I lie. "I have stopped being sick now, but I'm still very shaky and totally exhausted."

She rubs my back. "Why on earth did you come in to work, you idiot?" she chastises. "Come on, get your coat and go home. I'll tell Janice, so don't worry about her."

I smile weakly. "Thanks, but I'll be fine, honest. Besides, there's a disabled single mum of three coming for a makeover today, and if she can struggle through each day without whining, I'm damn sure I can."

In the event, the woman--Sandra was her name--was the best person I could have met that day. Just forty-one years old, she had been a normal, happily married mother of three small children when she was hit by an out-of-control car ten years ago.

She had been pushing her youngest in a buggy at the time and, seeing the car hurtling towards them across the pavement, had managed to shove the child out of harm's way whilst taking the full brunt of the impact herself.

She never walked again.

Soon after, her husband said he "couldn't cope" (
he
couldn't cope?) and left her to bring up their three children alone--popping in sporadically when his guilt got the better of him. Eventually, the visits died away to nothing, and she discovered through mutual friends that he'd remarried and was expecting another child.

As she was telling me all this off air, the tears started to course down my cheeks, a mixture of sadness for her and shame that I was being so self-pitying over Olivia. If this woman can get on with life without falling to pieces, I'm damn sure I can.

"Please don't cry," she says soothingly. "I stopped weeping about it all years ago. You have to get on with life, don't you?"

"You do indeed." I smile, silently vowing to think of Sandra whenever I lapse back into gloominess.

Consequently, when Tab says she's meeting Will for a drink at 7 p.m. and invites me along, Sandra's smiling face pops into my mind and I find myself saying yes.

Besides, a couple of glasses of wine and an hour or so of mindless chitchat will be a lot better for me than sloping off home for a solitary mope in Anne Frank's attic.

The Mulberry Bush is a busy, modern pub frequented by the post-work overspill from nearby offices and our television studios. As Tab and I walk in, the wall of noise and smoke makes us both reel backwards.

Will is sitting in the far corner, with a persistently beeping jukebox on his left and a persistently bleating woman to his right who is clearly giving her male companion a hard time about some misdemeanor. His glazed expression suggests he gave up listening long ago.

"I'm glad you're here," says Will, casting a sideways glance to the woman at the next table. "I need a break from this, so I'll get the drinks in while you guard the seats."

When he returns about ten minutes later, he's accompanied by a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties, clutching a glass of white wine in each hand. His face is slightly chubby, but he has an endearingly friendly smile he's exercising to great effect right now.

"This is Ben Thomas," says Will. "We play rugby together at weekends. I found him lurking at the bar on his own."

"Just call me Billy No Mates," grins Ben, extending his hand first to Tab, then to me. "Will invited me to join you. I hope you don't mind?" He looks inquiringly at us.

Tab and I both shake our heads in unison, and she shifts along the bench to make room for him.

"Do you work round here?" she says. Unimaginative, but what else do you say to someone you have no clue about?

"No," he splutters, through a mouthful of lager. "I've just had a meeting over at Carlton." He jerks his head towards the TV studios opposite.

"Oh?" It's my turn to do the polite social chitchat now. "Do you work in television?"

"Oh, good God, no!" he says, shaking his head emphatically. "I work for a charity and I was having a meeting with the local news program about the logistics of them coming to film a forthcoming fund-raising event we're having."

"And what's wrong with working in television?" I say, rather more snappily than intended.

"Sorry?" He looks perplexed.

"All that 'good God, no' business, as if working in TV is second only to shoveling pigshit for a living." I glare, inwardly amazed at my defensiveness and wondering what's brought it on.

His expression has transformed from geniality into one of genuine concern. "I didn't mean it like that at all," he says. "What I actually meant was good God, no, I don't do anything as glamorous as that."

"Oh." I sniff slightly, now embarrassed by my overreaction. Particularly as both Tab and Will are looking at me as if I've lost my marbles. "Sorry, it's just that I get sick of people being scathing about the world of television."

Tab makes a small choking noise into her wineglass. "Jess!" she laughs. "You're normally the first to say how shallow and meaningless it all is."

I'm desperately trying to think of a convincing reply, but Ben beats me to it.

"It's OK. It's human nature that
we
can all say what we like about our jobs or relationships, but when a complete stranger says something we think is out of turn, we immediately become a little defensive." He smiles at me reassuringly.

I smile back, though halfheartedly, slightly annoyed by this holier-than-thou man who does some worthwhile, do-gooder job
and
benevolently bales out someone who has just been incredibly rude to him.

"More drinks?" He stands up and gathers our glasses.

"Christ, what's with Father Teresa?" I say grouchily at his retreating back. "Where did you find him--Saints R Us?"

"Yes, he's a nice bloke, isn't he?" says Will, my sarcasm whooshing over the top of his head.

Tab is a little quicker off the mark. "Now, now," she admonishes. "You just got off on the wrong foot with him, that's all." She looks across the table to Will. "She's not feeling very well."

"I'm fine," I say testily. "But I'm going to go home after the next drink if you don't mind. I
am
very tired."

They exchange the kind of knowing glance usually shared between the parents of a misbehaving, overwrought child, but I ignore them.

A few seconds later, Ben returns and places a glass of white wine in front of me.

"Thanks," I mutter, pretending to search for something in my handbag so I don't have to look at him.

"So!" Tab enthuses, clearly slipping into overcompensation mode. "Which charity do you work for?"

"It's called Sunshine House," replies Ben, smiling warmly at her. "It's a hospice for terminally ill children and their families."

That's it. Floor open and swallow me up. Right now, please.

I arrange makeovers for a lightweight, daytime TV show. He shares the precious, final days between parents and their children. The contrast seems all the more unbearable in light of my sister's sudden plight. It's official, I am a Grade A, 24 karat, unbeatably self-obsessed prat. Even though deep down I know it's completely irrational, it's hard not to feel that Olivia's illness is somehow the universe's way of punishing me for all my griping about what was in fact a perfectly good life--soulmate or no.

Unable to take any more, I knock back my wine with indecent haste and get to my feet.

"Sorry guys, gotta go." I smile quickly at Tab and Will. "Thanks for inviting me along and sorry I haven't been great company." I notice neither of them rush to disagree with me.

"And Ben . . ." I extend my hand towards his and shake it. "Lovely to meet you. Sorry about earlier, I don't know what came over me. I'm now going home to lie down in a darkened room."

He laughs a little. "Forget it. It was just a misunderstanding, that's all. Nice to meet you, too."

Outside, I walk a few yards along the darkening street until I know I'm out of sight, then I place my back flat against a brick wall and take in several deep breaths of cold air in swift succession.

My heart is fluttering like a trapped bird against my rib cage, and I feel sweaty and breathless. It's not a feeling I recognize from personal experience, but the symptoms are synonymous with something we once featured on the program. My skin shivers at the thought, but there's no getting away from it.

I'm having a panic attack.

Fifteen

I
t's 9 p.m., the electric blanket is on full, and I'm curled up in a tight ball under my duvet. I don't ever want to come out.

It was all I could do to hail a cab and stumble through the front door, gratefully falling onto the bottom stair and staying there for a good ten minutes trying to compose myself.

I was trapped in a vicious cycle, panicking about my panic attack, scared witless by my complete lack of control over my emotions.

I can only liken it to the one and only time I ever took an Ecstasy tablet. It was two years ago, during a party at the house Madeleine shared with four other girls, and almost immediately I started to go cold and get the shakes.

I found a quiet corner to sit in, and huddled there viewing the rest of the room as if through the bottom of a bottle. When I made a conscious effort, I could force my brain to take in what was going on around me, but most of the time I was lost in my own world.

Initially, it was a somewhat pleasurable feeling, but then a man I didn't know sat next to me and tried to strike up a conversation. I felt myself go brittle with discomfort, inwardly panicking at this intrusion into my own private reverie.

When I mustered up the strength to search for her, Madeleine, by contrast, was flying high, telling anyone who'd listen how much she loved them. Her pupils were the size of dinner plates, and she was grinning broadly from ear to ear, gabbing endlessly about nothing in particular.

"Isn't this fan-fucking-tastic, Jess!!" she'd shrieked above the music, spinning me around until I felt utterly sick. "I can't believe we've never taken this stuff before."

"Actually, I don't feel too great," I'd replied, before persuading her to give me the key to her bedroom upstairs.

Gratefully, I had switched her electric blanket on full, clambered into bed, and lain there quietly, waiting for my feelings of paranoia to pass. Once I was cocooned in my locked, impenetrable shell, safe from the loud intrusions of downstairs, the panic dissipated rapidly and I passed a pleasurable couple of hours with the fond memories of my life playing through my mind with movie camera clarity.

Now here I am, cocooned under the duvet once again, but this time the thoughts in my head aren't so reassuring.

Day in day out, I have to deal with other people's misfortunes on
Good Morning Britain
. Women like the indomitable Sandra dealing with her children all alone, women who have been beaten by their husbands, men who have been thrown on the job scrapheap in their forties. The bad-luck stories stay the same, only the faces change.

But the face attached to this particular piece of bad news is one I know and love dearly--my wonderful, vibrant sister Olivia. Wife to Michael, mother to Matthew and Emily, daughter to my parents and friend to countless others.

An hour passes, I think, because I can hear the faint strains of the ten o'clock news through my neighbor's wall. Or maybe it's nearly two hours. I'm not exactly sure what time I struggled back here from the pub, but I have been drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep ever since.

Now I have a raging thirst. I know I'm going to have to muster the energy to walk through to the kitchen, but my head flops back onto the pillow for a few more moments.

For the first time in years, I find myself yearning to be at home, with my mother fussing and clucking around me. Seeing me so out of sorts, she would be making me her cure-all potion of lemon, honey, and brandy and practically force-feeding me with smooth, milky porridge to "line the stomach."

Sighing deeply, I sit up and try to practice some of the positive thinking we have preached so often on the program. There's absolutely nothing wrong with me physically, it's just that I feel so wretchedly down in the dumps and can't seem to snap out of it.

Is it purely because of Olivia's crisis? Or was that simply what tipped me over the edge of my own life? I cruise along in my job, but could never say that I love it. In fact, for some time now, I have been feeling dissatisfied with the endless diet of recipes, gardening advice and makeovers, wanting to get my teeth into something a little more newsy or worthwhile.

Then there's my love life, or lack of it. Most of the time, I tell myself that I don't mind, that I'm happy to trundle along on my own, doing what I want when I want. And sometimes this is true. But deep down, it does bother me. I love my friends and would never give them up for anyone, but they're not enough. There's no substitute for a fundamentally good romantic relationship, complemented by great friendships. Saturdays usually pass in a blur of lie-in, lunch with a friend, shopping, and a party or pub crawl in the evening. But Sundays are more difficult, and I often mope around tormenting myself with thoughts of other people's lives. Richard and Lars, Tab and Will, Michael and Olivia, and yes, even Kara and Dan. All probably lounging around together, conversation interspersed with quiet moments of reading the papers or watching the television. Just knowing there's someone else around is reassuring, someone who cares about you, someone to share life with.

The phone rings and stirs me from my self-pitying thoughts.

"Hi, sweetie, it's me." It's Olivia, and to my eternal shame, she sounds a lot more cheerful than I feel.

"Hi!" I force myself to sound lively. "How are things?"

"Oh, not bad. I'm having a good day today. But then I'm having the lumpectomy tomorrow, so after that, who knows?"

She's
having the lumpectomy. Not me, the piteously self-obsessed blob sitting here feeling sorry for myself because I'm not that keen on my job and don't want to be single anymore.

Irritation at myself propels me into an upright position. "Is Michael going with you?"

"Yes. He's told his boss at work about the situation, so he has quiet carte blanche to take whatever time he needs, although I'll be in and out in a day."

"What about Matthew and Emily? Who's looking after them?" My mind is already whirring with the possibility of taking tomorrow off work so I can help out.

"They're both at school until three-thirty, then we've farmed them both out for tea at friends' houses, which naturally they're thrilled about," she says. "Michael will pick them up after tea."

"Oh." I'm mildly disappointed that I won't be needed. "Well, if you get stuck, then just give me a call and I'll collect them."

"Thanks." She sounds astonishingly calm, as if we're merely discussing a run-of-the-mill day in family life.

Silence descends for a few moments.

"So, once you've had the lumpectomy, how long before you know the results?"

"Not long, I think, could be immediately, could be a couple of days. And of course, Michael's part of the medical grapevine so hopefully that will speed things up a bit."

"Well, I'll keep my fingers and everything else crossed for you," I say lightly, belying the thumping sense of dread I feel inside.

"Good. I'm sure everything will be fine anyway," she replies breezily. "Now let's talk about something else. I need a diversion."

"Um . . ." My usual aptitude for small talk seems to have deserted me. "Work is pretty dreary at the moment, although I did have this amazing woman in the other day . . ."

"Not work . . ." She cuts across me. "Tell me about your dates; that's much more interesting."

Dates. Dates. I have to dredge back through my memory to remember. It all seems so trivial now.

"The last two have been pretty disastrous, even more than the one who was probably married. At least he actually went through with the date."

"What do you mean?"

I groan and tell her all about pretending to be someone else when I didn't like the look of the man outside the Gap, then, warming to the theme and embellishing my story with sound effects of horror and indignation, I fill her in on the gorgeous man outside the Hippodrome who rejected me because, according to him, I didn't look like my photograph. I finish it off with the anecdote about the tramp calling me a tight bitch.

"I mean, the fucking cheek of it!" I shriek down the phone. "Can you imagine
anything
more humiliating?"

Olivia is laughing uncontrollably on the other end and it's a wonderful sound. "Stop!" she pleads. "My stomach is hurting."

Galvanized by the sound of my sister's joy, I swing my legs out of bed and onto the floor. Grinning from ear to ear, I take the cordless down the hall with me towards the kitchen.

"So I think that's it for me on the Internet dating front," I conclude. "I can't take any more." Ducking into the fridge, I pour myself a long grapefruit juice and take several large glugs.

"Nonsense, I won't hear of it!" admonishes Olivia. "What on earth will I have to laugh about in life if you don't keep regaling me with your stories."

"I'll tell you what." I sit down at the kitchen table. "I won't go on the dates. Instead, I'll just make up stories to tell you. That would be far less time-consuming."

"It won't be the same," she replies petulantly. "Besides, Jess, I really want to see you meet someone special."

Her voice has turned serious again and I know she's thinking of the future, both mine and hers. It's unspoken, but she's alluding to the fact that if she doesn't make it, she'd like to know that I'm on route to being settled and happy in life.

"I might meet someone through the usual means, like work," I say halfheartedly.

"What, the gay hairdresser?" she scoffs. "Or maybe one of the older men featured in an item about prostate problems? Jess, get real. You've got to get out there and seize life with both hands."

She doesn't actually say "or one day life might slip away from you," but we both know that's what she means.

"OK, OK," I sigh. "I'll go on a few more dates . . . just for you."

"No, not for me," she says. "Do it for yourself."

Spontaneously, we both break out into a chorus of
Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves
, the song we used to sing as teenagers before we went out for the night.

I have never loved her more than I love her right now.