The Two Week Wait (3 page)

‘Biscuit?’ Lou reaches for the tin.

‘Why not?’ Karen takes a digestive and breaks off a chunk for Molly. ‘Actually, we’re having a little family gathering on Christmas Eve, in the day, to remember Simon,
you know. I thought it would be nice for the children. As well as for me and the grown-ups, obviously.’ She’s regained her composure; Lou can’t help but feel relieved.
‘I’d love you to come if you’d like?’

Although Karen has become a good friend in the last ten months, Lou hesitates. ‘If it’s just family, I’m not sure . . . I wouldn’t want to intrude.’

‘It won’t be entirely relatives – you can bring Sofia, and Anna’s coming as well. There’s no ceremony or anything formal – it’s a party. We’re
having bubbly. And cake . . . ’

‘OK.’ Lou grins. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’

When Karen has gone, Lou checks the clock: it’s a while before she’s due to leave for the doctor’s, where she’s been promised an appointment last thing.

Lou had been hoping to tell Karen about the lump, but it didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances. It’s been good having Molly to look after, kept her worries in perspective. She
bends to pick up the cushions she and Molly used to make a train on the floor.

Poor Karen, no wonder she was so tearful, she thinks, plumping the sofa. I can only begin to imagine what it’s like, losing your partner that suddenly. Simon died of a heart attack one
morning on the train. Karen was with him, Lou witnessed everything. She is haunted by the memory of the 07:44 to Victoria. One moment she was half watching people as she dozed; across the aisle was
Simon, stroking Karen’s hand. The next:
boof!
He was gone, and there was nothing anyone could do to revive him. If there’s one thing Lou has learned, it’s that you never
know what’s coming to knock you off course.

*  *  *

Down,
swish,
down,
swish
, down,
swish
; Cath is gaining confidence, becoming more stable on her skis, able to go faster. The instructor is ahead of her;
she’s following in his tracks, her first blue run. Here’s the scary bit – the steep gradient she has been dreading. From the cable car she’s seen more proficient skiers fall
foul of it. They’re early in the season and even though they’ve chosen a resort at a particularly high altitude, it’s not snowed in days, so it’s icy in patches. But she
hasn’t the time to get really nervous; she’s in the present, eyes on Claude, carving the same sweeping curves as best she can.

Along, turn, bend the knees, swoosh; along . . . and
swoooooooooosh!
She pulls up beside him with a spray of powder, triumphant.

He lifts his goggles and beams at her. ‘Well done, Cathy!’

Her name isn’t Cathy, it’s Cath, but she lets it pass because he’s young and good-looking and it sounds extremely charming with a Gallic accent.

She beams back.

‘Much less snowplough and more skis parallel. You are getting so much better!’

Her grin broadens.

‘Now, once more up in the lift and we do it again.’

Damn. She thought that was it for the day and wanted to finish on a personal best. Next time she’s bound to fall. Dutifully, she staggers after him, skis skidding diagonally like a clumsy
duck, and joins the queue to return up the mountain.

Rich was right, she realizes as she edges forward in line, it’s taking her out of herself, learning to ski. She’s been so focused, so determined to master at least the basics, she
hasn’t had time to worry or analyse anything else, and that’s been such a change, a joy. For the first time in ages her nervousness has been excitement, not fear, and her muscles have
ached as the result of exercise rather than chemo. She’d not been at all sure beforehand; she’d had moments of believing the holiday was just a ruse for Rich, a skier since childhood,
to indulge his own passions. But her husband isn’t so self-centred, and he is aware how fragile she’s been.

Later, she and Rich are sitting on a wooden bench by their locker, struggling to remove their boots, when Cath has an urge to say, ‘Thank you for making me come.’

‘No worries,’ says Rich. But he remains focused on clasps and Velcro – she doesn’t think he’s taken it in. She wants him to know he understood what was good for her
better than she understood herself.

She places a damp gloved hand over his. ‘No, I mean it. I appreciate your persuading me. I’m having such a good time. I feel much better, really I do.’

‘That’s great,’ he says, swapping his hand so it’s over hers, and squeezing it.

The party seems well under way; Lou can hear voices as she and Sofia lock their bicycles to the drainpipe of Karen’s 1930s semi. Lou rings the bell: it ding-dongs like
the ‘Avon Calling’ ads of her youth.

‘Get that, will you, someone?’ she hears Karen call.

Anna opens the door. She’s dressed in a slim-fitting black shift dress that emphasizes her height and figure. Her makeup is perfect, dramatic as always, her bob sleek. Although Lou has
washed her hair and has her favourite T-shirt on, she feels hot from cycling and scruffy next to Anna.

‘Lou! Sofia!’ Anna kisses each on the cheek vigorously. ‘Before we go in’ – she leans in to Lou – ‘tell me. How was the doctor?’ Lou had confided
her concerns on the phone the night before.

‘He couldn’t really say much,’ says Lou. ‘But let’s get a drink and I’ll tell you.’

They squeeze past a cluster of grown-ups standing in the hall, chatting. One is Karen. She’s in a chiffon blouse and surprisingly trendy jeans. Lou can tell she’s made an effort to
look her best – it’s strange to see her wearing lipstick. ‘Hello, hello,’ she says when she sees them. ‘Glad you could make it.’ She turns to the people she has
been talking to. ‘Excuse me, just want to have a quick word with these friends.’ They head through to the kitchen.

‘Pop your cycling stuff under the table if you like,’ says Karen.

Lou and Sofia do as she suggests, one helmet atop the other.

‘Bubbly?’ offers Anna.

They both nod, and Anna deftly pours them each a glass.

‘Anna tells me you’ve had a bit of a scare this week,’ says Karen.

Lou is taken aback that they’ve plunged straight into the subject, but perhaps she shouldn’t be – the fact that she met these two women on the day Karen’s husband died
has fast-tracked their intimacy. They’ve shared so much, why not this?

‘Mm,’ she says. ‘I’ve found this lump in my lower abdomen, so I went to the doctor.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He couldn’t be that specific.’ Lou is about to elaborate when she recalls the occasion. ‘Anyway, it’s OK. I’ll be OK. I’ll tell you another day. You go
and mingle.’

‘No, no,’ says Karen. ‘I want to know.’

Typical Karen, thinks Lou, always more interested in others than herself. Having started, Lou will have to finish. ‘It seems I have some sort of tumour in, er . . . ’ – she
checks no one else is listening – ‘my uterus.’

Karen frowns. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘You told me the doctor said it was probably . . . what is the name . . . ? A fibroid,’ Sofia offers.

‘Or cyst,’ adds Lou. ‘But we don’t know yet.’

Karen continues to look perturbed.

Lou is still afraid it’s something worse but knows she mustn’t bring her private gloom into such a difficult occasion. ‘Don’t worry. Whatever it is, he said it’s
most unlikely to be malignant.’

‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

‘I’ve got to go for a scan on Monday.’

‘Your poor thing,’ says Karen. ‘That’s no fun.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘I had scans when I was pregnant and they can be a bit daunting.’

‘Really?’ says Lou.

‘Depends how you are with . . . um . . . hospitals.’ Karen gulps. We really ought to change the subject, Lou thinks. ‘I mean, usually doctors are fine, but sometimes, and
I’m sure they don’t mean to be, they can be a bit brusque. And, you know, it can be hard to take everything in.’

‘I must come with you,’ says Sofia.

‘But you’ve got work,’ says Lou.

‘Take her,’ urges Karen. ‘She can listen too, in case you miss something.’

‘If you insist.’ Lou relents. She’s used to counselling others, is not entirely comfortable with the notion of needing her own hand held, but it seems good advice.
‘Enough of me. Did you hear Sofia got promoted last week?’

‘No! Sofia, well done!’ says Anna. ‘So what does that make you now?’

‘I’m a partner,’ Sofia grins.

‘Wow.’ Anna stands back, impressed.

‘I will be doing less of the web design work and more consultancy,’ she says.

As Sofia continues talking about her job, Lou takes a look around her. Karen’s place is such a contrast to their little attic and she wonders if she and Sofia will ever live in a proper
house like this, filled with Christmas decorations and cards from other families. Nevertheless, there are similarities. The kitchen walls bear witness to years of fingerprints and spillages. They
need painting as badly as hers and Sofia’s do. Outside the window, the patio garden looks badly in need of some TLC. But it’s just not possible to do it all with kids as young as
Karen’s; nor, in Lou’s opinion, should it really matter. Pristine homes be damned. Karen has had a hideous year, it’s incredible she’s not sunk under the strain, yet
she’s still here, smiling and welcoming guests.

Even if it’s a front – and Lou has seen Karen weeping often enough to know that in many ways it is – it’s laudable. Fleetingly, she wonders what’s kept Karen going.
And then she remembers the way she was with Molly, the comfort she has gleaned from her daughter. Though Lou is not a mother, she does work with kids. It’s another way her life echoes
Karen’s; the way children both drain and sustain them.

*  *  *

After a morning of fresh air, concentration and exercise, Cath is so hungry she devours her lunch in minutes. The menu is nothing to write home about – baguettes filled
with rubbery cheese or ham, too-dry toasted sandwiches, slippery omelettes and chips: only the hot chocolate is exceptional. Doubtless the owners know they have a captive audience; the cafe is at
the hub of the resort. Rich has had to dash off to his lesson for advanced skiers, but Cath is in no hurry to leave. The terrace is perfectly situated to take in the Alpine views and
people-watch.

Climbing up the mountain to the left of her is a red run, ‘a cinch’ according to Rich; Cath finds it intimidating merely to look at. She watches a group of young snowboarders with a
mixture of envy and awe. Such agility and assurance, such recklessness – she can’t imagine ever being that bold. They are laughing and joking, poking fun at each other and the world.
With their array of headgear – a court jester, a black bowler with devil’s horns, a Mad Hatter, a furry pig’s head – they remind Cath of a band of travelling players.

To her right is the top of the lift that returns skiers from the blue run she conquered for the first time last week. Round and round it spews endless brightly coloured holidaymakers back onto
the snow, as if they were sweets on a factory line. Most head straight back down the slopes again, dogged and purposeful, but one couple fail to cope with the speed at which they are ejected, and
tumble giggling and inept, skis zigzagging madly.

Sweeping close by her is the gentle gradient of the nursery slope. It’s here that dozens of children follow in the wake of instructors, diminutive trains of helmeted focus. Some are so
small Cath is amazed they can walk, let alone ski. Yet ski they do, limbs constrained by padding, with a fearlessness and enthusiasm that exceeds that of their adult counterparts. Cath wishes
she’d learnt when she was as young and open; the dread of falling seems to mean nothing to them. There’s something about the way they form a succession of triangles, legs angled
outwards one way, skis to slow their speed another, that she finds touching. She’s just thinking of her nephews, eight-year-old twins Alfie and Dom, and how much they would love this –
they are such physical boys, and they’ve not yet hit that age when cynicism sets in, when it’s important to be cool, not to be caught trying – when,
WHOOPS!
a little girl,
right at the back of one of the trains, loses her balance and falls over.

Ouch! Cath says to herself, then sees the child struggle to get back up whilst keeping her skis on her feet. But she slips and falls again.

It takes a moment for the instructor to notice what has happened. ‘
Ici, Angeline, lève-toi!
’ he shouts up at her from the bottom of the slope.

Angeline tries again, to no avail. Cath feels her distress and fear; she’s fallen herself many times. Oh, the confusion over what limbs to move, how to push up on the skis with gravity
pulling you downhill.

‘
Comme ça!
’ The instructor tries to show Angeline how to raise herself to standing, but he is a long way from her, powerless to really help, and his encouragement only
makes her more flustered. Cath can tell she feels the pressure of a dozen impatient classmates, waiting. She is much nearer to Angeline than he is. As hurriedly as she can, she clumps across the
snow – darn her ski boots, they’re so stiff and difficult to walk in, she’s like a slow-motion storm trooper. Presently she is standing over the little girl.

‘Here,’ she says, and holds out a hand.

The child looks up, worried.

‘It’s OK,’ says Cath, softly. She wishes she spoke better French.

Grateful, the little girl reaches out, and Cath braces her legs so that Angeline can yank herself up.

‘
Merci
.’

Cath steps back and watches her shoot off down the hill, wobbly and precarious on her skis, but upright.

She returns to the cafe, sits down again.

Then, suddenly, like a gale-force wind whooshing over the mountains onto the terrace, it hits her, right in her lower abdomen.

A longing, primal and powerful, so overwhelming she nearly falls from her chair.

She’s put her desires and hopes on hold for such a long while – she had no choice but to do so – but now it seems a familiar yearning is making itself felt once more.

*

She’d still been woozy from anaesthetic when the oncologist had finally come to her bedside. Rich had been sitting next to her, on one of the hospital plastic chairs,
waiting in trepidation for the doctor to do his rounds.