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‘It’s not just me I’m worrying about—’
‘Excuse me, madam, but are you going to be much longer? There’s a queue out here.’
‘Sorry—just give me one more minute. Mum, I promise I’ll call you back.’
‘Listen, your father’s in hospital.’
Sam was silent as her emotions jostled for supremacy.
‘I’m afraid it’s serious. He’s got a tumour in his liver and apparently it’s a secondary one. They’re going to operate on Monday, and then hopefully start chemotherapy, but apparently it’s large enough to suggest it has probably already spread further. It seems to be a case of damage limitation rather than cure.’
Her mother must have spoken to a doctor. Either that or she had been to med school since their elderly neighbour had gone through breast cancer when she had explained everything in terms of zapping and lumps.
‘They’re running all sorts of tests, and he says he’s been scanned to within an inch of his life. They’re still trying to ascertain the primary site.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s at the Royal Marsden. It’s one of the best places he could possibly—’
‘I’m incredibly busy at the moment.’ Clearly denial had beaten the others hands down in the battle of her emotions.
‘I know it’s been a long time, but you just don’t know… I mean at the moment they don’t even know…’
‘So now I’m supposed to sit at his bedside?’
‘Don’t be so stubborn. You remind me of him when you’re like this.’ Her mother pretty much had a doctorate in emotional blackmail. ‘I went to visit yesterday. He’s in there all by himself.’
‘What about his teenage girlfriend? Isn’t this her remit?’
Sophie glared at the fitting room assistant as she approached Sam’s cubicle, where she was now standing guard, protecting what little privacy Sam still had.
‘Honestly, darling, Susie must be in her forties now. It’s been a long time. You can’t have seen him in at least five years…’
‘More like ten.’
‘I know it’s a shock…’ Sam could hear her mother’s voice faltering as she battled with tears.
It didn’t take much to set her off at the best of times: an Andrex puppy, a wedding on television, Sam getting into Oxford, Sam leaving Oxford, Sam finishing law school. So, by rights, an ex-husband with cancer should have had her in floods. She was obviously focused on being strong for Sam’s sake. And Sam was quite happy not to have to support her mother on this one.
‘Simon is more of a father to me than Dad ever was.’
‘Simon’s not going anywhere. You know how much he loves you. But the fact is Robert is still your dad. I’m sure it would mean a lot to him if you just popped in.’
‘I don’t know how you can be so nice about it. We were there for him. And then he left us.’
‘He left me. Twenty-three years ago…’
Sam could still feel the weight of the silence after the front door slammed. Still remember the sun coming through the sitting room window. The dust particles swirling around her. The smell of the warm musty air. The pattern on her white knee-length socks. The sound of his car starting and driving off. For a fraction of a second she was a six-year-old trapped in a twenty-nine-year-old body.
‘It wasn’t meant to be. I married again. I learned to let go. And you need to. Because of you we’ve always kept in touch. And he does love you.’
‘Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it.’ Sam knew she didn’t have the monopoly on divorced parents. Almost everyone she knew had gone through the parents-living-at-separate-addresses thing. But, selfishly, all she’d wanted was a nuclear family. And maybe a brother or sister. And maybe a dad at home for a little bit longer than six years. It wasn’t that she hadn’t got on with her life. She couldn’t have been working any harder…
‘You’re the one who won’t see him.’
‘He can’t just expect to have a daughter at his beck and call when it suits him.’
He’d never taken her to the zoo. She didn’t even really agree with zoos any more. But she didn’t have any of those memories. No trips to theme parks or burger bars, no camping holidays—not that these were necessarily indices of good parenting, but it would have at least showed willing. Everyone knew children were the worst sort of investment plan. At least eighteen years to mature and no sign of the capital invested. Not much appreciation either. No good for impatient people. Simon, though, had unquestioningly done it all. Sam wondered if she had thanked him enough.
‘We managed perfectly well without him.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you know if we’d stayed together none of us would have been happy.’
Deep down she did. And maybe if they hadn’t had her they’d still be together. He hadn’t exactly made a secret of the fact that he’d never really wanted children in the first place.
‘Sam, sweetheart, you don’t have to be all brave about this. I’ll come with you, if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Next you’ll be suggesting I bake him some biscuits.’
‘There’s no point taking it out on me. I didn’t want him to leave either.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry, but I’m not going.’
‘Please? Think about it… He’s in Room 136. Maybe just call him…’
‘I’ve really got to go now, or it’ll be death by coat hanger for me.’
‘You’re bound to need a bit of time to let all this sink in. Love you, darling. I’ll call again later.’
‘Bye.’
Sam sat down and stared at the floor, seeing nothing. There was a tentative knock at the changing room door.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Give me a minute.’
Sophie gave her twenty seconds.
‘Come on, you, let’s get out of here. I need a coffee. A diet coffee, obviously.’
Sam regrouped and pulled on her pale blue v-neck, shopping forgotten. ‘I’m ready.’
‘It’s Okay, love.’ Sophie shifted her weight from foot to foot apologetically. ‘To be honest—’ she gestured at the saloon-style swing doors ‘—these changing rooms aren’t exactly soundproof.’
Sure enough, several sympathetic glances from the fitting room queue followed them to the front of the shop.
‘She still doesn’t get it. Just because I have a phone with me doesn’t mean I can chat for ages.’
‘It’s your dad, isn’t it?’
Sam nodded, momentarily speechless.
Sophie shrugged. ‘You’ve never exactly had a whispery voice, and there were only a couple of inches of plywood between us.’
‘Cancer, apparently. Liver secondaries.’
‘Oh, God.’ Sophie paled visibly. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not like we’re close. I haven’t seen him in years.’
Sam couldn’t have been any more matter of fact. This had to be it. First Richard, then her diary, now her father. Everyone knows these things come in threes. Come in threes? Now she was sounding like Gemma.
‘Sam, come on—give yourself a break. Don’t be so bloody stubborn.’
‘Gemma didn’t even tell me she’d called again this morning.’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘I mean, how hard is it to write down a phone message?’
‘Sam?’
‘She must have to take messages at work all the time. If she’s not going to bother, I’d rather she didn’t answer the phone in the first place. Anyway—right—shoes. Where next? What do you think? King’s Road? It’s still only three-thirty. We’ve got plenty of time. Let’s just get a cab. My shout.’
Sophie dragged her into the nearest Starbucks. ‘It’s totally acceptable to be upset. In fact, it’s recommended. And you only have one father.’
‘Actually, I have two. Look, I’ll have a think and take a view. But today you, my friend, need white shoes, and it’s my job not to leave your side until we complete our mission.’
‘So I’ll wear flip-flops. You’re not going to get away with using my wedding or your work as an excuse to hide from the rest of your life—partnership race or no partnership race. What about going tonight?’
Silence. Sam’s face was expressionless, and for a moment Sophie wondered whether she had crossed the invisible unconditional-support-versus-advice friendship divide.
‘I’m seeing EJ.’
‘She’ll understand.’
‘I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks and I really want to—’
‘You’re right. You should tell her.’
Sam didn’t want to correct Sophie. But she’d only been going to say ‘see a film’. One step at a time.
Sophie had her diary out. ‘Well, Mark and I have a lunch tomorrow, but I could go with you first thing.’
‘Thanks, Soph, but honestly there’s no need. You’ve got quite enough on your plate as it is. And I will go. Soon. I just need a bit of time.’
‘Don’t leave it too long.’
‘He’d better be on his best behaviour.’
‘He’s got cancer.’
‘Which is why I’m going…’
Sophie reached over and gave her a half-hug. Not that it was really reciprocated, but it made her feel better for a start.
A doyenne of denial, Sam gathered her bags and got to her feet. ‘Now, come on. King’s Road or Knightsbridge? Your call.’
Chapter Five
108,102,96,94,88…Ben squeezed the brake and focused on the house numbers. Last week, safely on the other side of the Atlantic, this had seemed like a great idea: one knight, minus shining armour—well, more of a boy scout—doing a good deed for a damsel likely to be in distress. But at this precise moment he couldn’t help thinking that a stamp would’ve been far simpler. Added to the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he was there out of guilt, gratitude or just sheer curiosity.
Gemma flopped onto the sofa, cold bottle of lager in hand. The relief of pyjama bottom on sofa cushion was blissful. It had been a mundanely hard day in PAsville, most of the afternoon had been spent in Excel hell, and her eyes ached from sustained concentration. Fortunately Sam and EJ were checking out the latest influx of actors trying to make the transition from the big screen to the small stage, so the flat was hers for the evening.
Stretching out, she wondered how early she could go to bed without losing every self-respecting girl-about-town point. Almost all her friends with new babies were in bed by ten…and up at one, three and five. Surely she wasn’t getting broody? Well, maybe a little. And it wasn’t that she was short of male attention, but she’d always wanted to believe in The One, a sole soul mate, yet judging by the forest of wedding invitations on Sam’s mantelpiece, it did seem to be more about timing. In which case she should probably be out strategically sipping cocktails or salsa dancing. She knew she wasn’t going to meet anybody lying in front of the TV.
Ben took a look around as he slowed down. Aside from the roar of his Vespa—well, more angry wasp buzz—it was an eerily quiet road. And tidy. Window boxes added carefully thought-out finishing touches to newly painted windowsills and lovingly glossed front doors in muted blues, reds and greens. A smattering of estate agent boards signalled the transience of Battersea’s young residents as they moved onwards and outwards in search of more affordable space and room to park the inevitable people carriers. Shiny scooters broke up the Audi TT, MG, VW and Peugeot party, and Ben added his to the nearest bay. Strolling towards his final destination, he peered into the front rooms. Ikea envy. His foot was still nowhere near the first rung of the property ladder.
As he reached the front door of number 68, a large three-storey Victorian semi, he ruffled his hair. He knew better than to complain about an unruly mop when most of his mates were desperately trying to hold on to theirs, but it was a constant challenge to persuade it to lie flat, especially when there had been a helmet involved. Licking his finger, he held it firmly on the most independent tuft.
Houston, he had a problem. He’d carried the diary three and a half thousand miles and now there were three bells.
Johnson.
Brooks.
Washington.
And a perfectly acceptable communal letterbox. But surely that would be cheating?
Uncharacteristically tense, Ben rechecked the package in his hand. A sweat broke out in the small of his back as he remembered his broken promise to Ali, and he flapped his T-shirt to try and cool himself down. Flat 3. He checked his watch. Nearly eight-fifteen.
Taking a logical guess, Ben pushed the top bell.
A crackle of static. ‘Halloh…who is speaking, please, thank you?’
He seemed to have been connected to somewhere in central Europe. ‘Hi. Is that flat 3?’
A child shrieked in the background. Maybe two. Ben shook his head. He should have known that British electricians installed bells in whatever order they fancied. Bob the Builder should really have been Bodge the Builder. If he ever turned up at all, that was.
‘Heylow?’
His adult self compelled him to stay. ‘Sorry to bother you. Wrong apartment.’
‘No party here.’
