Chapter 3 Noah
Noah
Istick my head around Mrs Barrowman’s door.
She’s propped up on her pillows, fast asleep, catching flies.
The sash window is fully open, and the fine voile curtains flutter in the breeze.
The hum of traffic and voices and birdsong carries through from outside, but I suspect they provide white noise rather than a disturbance.
I smile and nod, even though she’s blissfully unaware of me, and carry on my farewell rounds.
Today has been a good day at the Good Vibes hospice.
The weather is so beautiful that all our guests (never patients, always guests) have been able to have their windows wide open, and this has meant that those too weak to leave their rooms can still enjoy the dreamy chords from the string quartet that my team arranged to come and play in the building’s garden this afternoon.
We do as much of that kind of thing as possible.
Everyone’s here because there are very few other realistic options open to them.
Some guests have tried everything and nothing has worked, some got remissions and extended life spans that are now in the past, and some have declined treatment on the basis that they don’t want their last months on this earth to be spent in a hospital bed, with tubes everywhere.
But my team and I are determined that this is not a place to wait around to die.
No matter how compromised their circumstances, no matter how much the quality of life they’re used to has been relentlessly chipped away, our guests are still living, and these last few days or weeks or months of life should be more precious, and more magical, than before their illness, not less.
Even if what a person defines as magical or precious now, in these final moments, varies greatly from how they would have defined those qualities when they were in full health.
The staff members at Good Vibes aren’t just doctors and nurses.
I hope we are friends and family and magicians and counsellors and holders of hands and whisperers of comfort and bearers of tea.
Lots and lots of tea. And the building itself isn’t a facility so much as a guesthouse, where medical equipment is state-of-the-art but as unobtrusive as possible, and great care and expense has gone into the furnishings and lighting and artwork, and we’ve designed every detail to soothe and delight and uplift and inspire.
For a place people go to die, Good Vibes is a surprisingly happy place.
And indeed, guests and family members and friends always profess their amazement that it isn’t depressing or scary or even apologetic for its mere existence, but rather a joyful and peaceful sanctuary where gratitude and the power of human connection reign.
Sure, there are really tough days when guests leave us and their loved ones are unprepared and devastated and wrung-out.
But I always find that facing up to death, and grief, and the undeniable fact of our own mortality, is the biggest step we can take to fully appreciating this human experience with which we’ve all been blessed.
There’s a reason memento mori is the motto of so many people.
I’m thankful it’s been an easy, lighthearted day, because I’m due at Mum and Dad’s for a quick drink.
If I’d had a tough, draining day of assuming the pain and bewilderment of others, I’d probably make my excuses.
But as it is, my steps are light as I run down the shallow main staircases and pop my head around the open doorframe of the nurses’ station to say good evening.
It’s a beautiful evening, and the short walk down from Avondale Park, where Good Vibes is based, through Holland Park to High Street Ken, where Mum and Dad live, is a real pleasure.
Apart from a quick bask in the afternoon sun when the string quartet was playing, I haven’t really been outside today.
I cut down through enchanting Clarendon Cross, home to my parents’ favourite London restaurant, Julie’s.
The outdoor dining space is full, and the fairy lights strung across the trees will undoubtedly have their moment later, when dusk falls, rendering this little corner of London as pretty as a Working Title movie set.
I stroll down Portland Road, past endless narrow but immaculate townhouses, and once I’m over the main Holland Park Avenue, I’m into the realm of serious money, where enormous stucco-fronted villas border the park.
Oh, to have a hospice here! We could take the patients into Holland Park and sit with them for hours in the Kyoto Garden.
But these villas are tens of millions of pounds, and unless your surname is Beckham, they’re not an option.
Avondale Park works great as a location for us.
It’s far less posh than the surrounding areas, which means it’s actually a (just about) viable base for Good Vibes, but it’s nestled right up close to some of the most impeccable and privileged streets in London.
Mum mentioned that one of her friends’ mothers has just received a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis and she asked if I could pop along to talk to her.
I’m not clear which friend. Mum runs in some pretty glamorous, impressive circles.
Dad does too, but he’s far more introverted than Mum and tends to leave the socialising to her.
Mum’s zest for life has never waned, and she has more energy in her sixties than he’ll ever have.
Her girlfriends tend to be as accomplished and driven as her.
I socialise with my parents as little as possible, not because I don’t love them, but because being around people who are dying all day means that all you want at the end of a shift is a quiet pint in a beer garden or a home-cooked meal at a friend’s house while their kids run around the kitchen table.
You want humanity, not high-octane glamour.
Not that Mum’s friends are remotely vacuous—no one could call them that.
These women—the ones I’ve met, anyway, like Stacey and Evelyn—are powerhouses. They run circles around me.
The park is so gorgeous that I can’t face leaving it just yet.
I find a bench overlooking the formal flower gardens and flop down onto it.
Its wood has been wonderfully warmed by the sun.
I shut my eyes and tilt my head towards the evening rays.
There aren’t many better human experiences than the feeling of the sun on one’s face.
I can’t wait to get to France next week.
After a couple of minutes of catching rays, I open my eyes.
There’s an abandoned Evening Standard on the bench next to me, lying face-up.
On the cover is a grainy photo of Honor Chapman crossing the street, head down.
She has her son with her; he’s in his school uniform.
There are two faces inset next to her—Jackson James and that actress, Leila whatever-her-name.
The headline screams HONOR DEVASTATED BY JACKSON’S LATEST FLING.
For fuck’s sake. That guy is such a twat.
A great entertainer, that’s for sure—apparently he even does most of his own stunts—but a useless fucking husband.
What the hell is he thinking? He has literally the world’s most beautiful wife, and he cannot seem to keep it in his pants.
Not that the papers usually come out and say that, but you can’t avoid the consistent rumours about him if you move in certain circles in West London.
If I had to describe my ideal woman, physically, at least, Honor Chapman would be her.
She’s flawless. Just flawless. The photo shows her gazelle-like stride, and those amazing legs.
She’s wearing some kind of short, white sundress with a full skirt, and she looks positively girlish.
Her face is hidden, her beautiful auburn hair swinging over it.
The poor woman. It’s so fucking depressing to think that even someone as gorgeous as her isn’t entitled to love and fidelity and the fucking basics of the marriage vows they presumably made to each other.
Just seeing the story has shifted my mood.
I push the paper away in disgust and, getting up, make my way through the park and out to Phillimore Gardens.
Some people are so entitled that they think they have carte blanche to behave how they want.
Surely humiliating your wife like that has got to be one of the worst things you can do to a fellow human?
When I get to my parents’ place, there are a couple of guys lurking near the house with bulky long-lens cameras.
Across the street, a security guard with an earpiece leans against a black Mercedes, arms crossed, staring at the cameramen in a menacing fashion.
What the fuck? God knows who Mum has at the house this evening.
As I extract my set of keys, a couple of the cameramen click, and I make a run for it down to the basement entrance.
It’s quicker to get out of sight that way, and I have a plan: grab a few slugs of ice-cold Peroni in peace to recover my personality before pasting a smile on for Mum’s friends and whatever poor person is dealing with her mother’s illness.
The basement door leads straight through to a huge white kitchen which, thanks to the power of a very expensive lighting consultant, is beautifully lit. Several platters of cellophane-covered food stand on the island, ready to go. Ooh, Ottolenghi. Mum’s go-to.
I resist the urge to pull off the cellophane and dig in and make a beeline for the drinks fridge. Peroni. Bingo. I crack off the lid and take a long swig. The cold, tart bubbles hit the back of my throat. Heaven. If life is about simple pleasures, this is as simple and as good as it gets.
I’m leaning against the island, resting the bottle against my cheek and contemplating facing Mum’s gang of superwomen, when I hear the handle turn on the door to the loo and look up.
What happens next seems to be in slow motion. The woman who comes through the door is tall, elegant. Beautiful. And instantly recognisable. Wearing a short, white summer dress that looks as fresh as if she’s just put it on, even though I know the paps saw it hours ago.
Her huge eyes widen as she clocks me, and I catch a flash of panic—she’s momentarily like a deer caught in a car’s headlights—before she visibly collects herself and steps towards me.
The smile on her face is the same polished, professional but dazzling smile that I drooled over on so many viewings of her morning show, Sunrise, after so many night shifts when I was at med school.
‘Hello.’ She puts out her hand. Her cut-glass accent is instantly recognisable, after all these years. Iconic, one might say. ‘You must be Elaine’s son. Noah, isn’t it? I’m Honor.’