Chapter 70 Margot
Chapter 70
Margot
I spit another mouthful of dark brown mucus into a paper tissue. It’s disgusting. I’m like a miner with black lung and a sixty-a-day cigarette habit. My specialist told me I should be grateful the majority of debris used for the fire was wood-based. Had there been more plastics or chemicals, it would’ve poisoned me much worse than the smoke did.
A month has passed since I woke up to find myself a modern-day Joan of Arc, and a further three days since I was allowed home. Every couple of hours during the day I’m required to breathe into a spirometer, an ugly plastic tube attached to a cylinder that I put to my mouth. It measures my current lung capacity to see if it’s improving. Next to it on my bedside table are two packets of blackcurrant-flavoured cough sweets. They’re not to tame the constant hacking, but to lubricate my throat. I’ve also been warned to steer clear of anything that might irritate me, such as cold air, so I’ve yet to venture outside into the December chill.
The specialist, a stout woman with a mouth so wide she resembled a sock puppet, also advised one of the quickest routes to recovery was plenty of rest and sleep. Normally, I have the latter mastered. But nowadays, it’s easier said than done. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I think I can hear the crackling of the flames and feel their heat burning my skin. I can nod off for an hour, perhaps two if I’m lucky, before I wake myself up coughing. And if the night terrors don’t leave me screaming or kicking the duvet like a Moulin Rouge can-can dancer, then I’m sitting upright with a tight chest.
Nicu has been by my side every day. Strictly producers have given him as much time off as he needs, but I’ve told him to rejoin in the run-up to the Christmas finale. We need some normality in our lives, if that’s possible.
We’ve communicated more of late than we have in the last five years. I think despite the hurt I’ve caused him, almost losing me has reminded him that he does still actually love me. I wouldn’t say our marriage is back on track, but at least we’re now working on it instead of burying our heads in the sand. The next few months are going to be tough, as much for Nicu as for me, but I have a strong feeling this isn’t the end for us. I’ve promised to be honest with him about everything, and I have been.
Almost.
Because sometimes, full disclosure is too much of a burden to place on another person’s shoulders. There are things he didn’t know that I’ve been forced to tell him, all thanks to a doctor who made assumptions. And Nicu has handled it surprisingly well.
My connections with Frankie and Tommy have altered beyond all recognition. Both have held my hands as I coughed, thrown away my dirty tissues, steadied cups of cold water as I drink with trembling hands, and rubbed antibacterial creams into my charred skin. They’ve parented me more than I have ever parented them. It’s not even as if we’re rebuilding our relationship, because you can’t rebuild what didn’t exist in the first place. But you can create something new. And I’m enjoying the process much more than I could have ever imagined. We’re not exactly the Von Trapps – neither child could carry a tune if I gave them a suitcase to put it in – but I’m enjoying their company. Who knew?
I did a live interview this morning with the TV show BBC Breakfast News about my recovery. I might as well capitalise on the goodwill being thrown in my direction by being who they want me to be. So I coughed when I didn’t need to and sipped water with the grace of a chapped-beaked hummingbird sucking nectar from a flower. I even told the presenter that I forgave whoever had tried to kill me and that I hoped they would get the help they needed. I tell a better fable than Aesop.
Before letting me go, they asked me to respond to news that the Party Hard Posse had cancelled their forthcoming tour after secret backstage video recordings leaked of three band members mocking disabled fans with foul words and gestures. The band tried to apologise, pointing out the footage was recorded years earlier and that they had since ‘grown as people’. But it was too late, social media had cancelled them. I told the presenter it was a pity the band’s legacy had been tarnished and that I wished them well with their spiritual growth. And once we were off air, I might have smiled to myself. Negative energy has never felt so positive.
The house is my own until early afternoon, when Nicu brings the kids back from hockey and football matches. So I’ve invited Anna over for a long overdue tête-à-tête. About twenty-five years in the making, by my reckoning.
At a minute before 11 a.m., there’s a knock on the door.
‘Hello,’ I say as I open it.
She responds with a simple ‘Hi’, and the ghost of a smile.
I turn my back to her, leaving the door ajar but without inviting her in. It closes behind me as she follows me into the kitchen. She hovers at first, scanning the room and the adjoining lounge as if it’s a trap.
‘We’re alone,’ I confirm. ‘Tea or coffee?’
She hesitates. ‘Tea. Please.’
Even with my back turned, I can feel her eyes drilling holes into me, keen to register what’s different. Most of my scars are mental, but physically, there is debris. My hair is a little shorter thanks to a stylist friend of Nicu’s who cut away the singed bits. I’ve filled in the gaps in my eyebrows with a pencil but I can’t hide my lack of eyelashes with false ones as the glue will irritate my eyelids. My wrists bear scabs, the remains of burst blisters, and my face and arms are still a crimson colour from the heat. I look like someone from a council estate who’s just returned from their first week abroad during a Benidorm heatwave.
I use the hot water tap to fill the teapot, flinching momentarily as the steam passes close to my skin. I wonder if she’s noticed. When I sit down at the kitchen table, she finds a spot opposite me.
We lock eyes.
‘Well.’ I smile firmly. ‘Where shall we begin?’