Chapter 2
2
‘Will you be okay?’ Louise placed a hand on her friend’s arm and left it there for a moment.
They were just outside Stella’s bedroom door.
‘Fine thanks, honestly.’
‘Good. Let’s leave the kids asleep tomorrow and go for an early walk. We can talk properly then.’
It was a relief when she’d gone. Stella sat on the end of her bed and stared out of the window. The shutters were wide open and the sky was a rich, velvety black, sprinkled with sparkling stars.
All she could hear was the faint chorus of buzzing cicadas. She wasn’t sure she’d ever stayed anywhere as quiet, but she didn’t find it troubling. It seemed to wrap her in a comforting cocoon, providing a welcome layer of protection against the harsh daytime world.
Her mind, usually so noisy and intrusive, was a little quieter too, as if darkness had lowered the volume to a level she could just about cope with; for once, she didn’t feel the urge to try to run from her thoughts, anyway.
Drawing up her legs, she hugged her arms in tight and rested her chin on her knees until a sharp pain made her pull back. She’d forgotten she’d tripped on that step earlier in the day. A big bruise was already blossoming.
Replacing her chin gingerly on the other knee, she relaxed again. She’d showered earlier and put on her pale-pink cotton pyjamas, which felt cool and soothing against her skin.
They’d been a present from her oldest and dearest friend, Harriet, many moons ago, and Stella wore them every night, except when they were in the wash. They seemed to bring the two women just that little bit closer.
Stella still missed Harriet so much. It was more than eighteen months since she’d died, but the grief never seemed to ease.
Everything had happened so fast. Prior to the summer before last, Harriet had just seemed a bit down, complaining about feeling super tired. Her irritable bowel syndrome had flared up again and she had stomach pains and was losing weight without meaning to.
Stella urged Harriet to see her GP, but she insisted she was too busy at work; and anyway, her doctor would only say the same stuff as usual – find ways to relax, do some exercise, avoid foods that trigger the IBS, and so on.
If Stella had known what she knew now, she would have tried to force the issue, but Harriet had a stubborn streak, which was partly what made her such a successful lawyer, and Stella knew she’d be difficult to budge.
After a few weeks had gone by and the symptoms still hadn’t improved, in desperation, Stella had secretly phoned Harriet’s husband, Jon. She was hoping he’d succeed where she’d failed, but Harriet dismissed his concerns, too. Even her seventeen-year-old daughter Jemima’s pleas fell on deaf ears, until she noticed her mother’s skin had turned a strange yellowish colour, along with the whites of her eyes, and insisted she must see her GP.
By then, Harriet had put up with her symptoms for three or four months. She hadn’t told anyone she’d also been throwing up several times a day and had diarrhoea, on and off, too.
When she finally saw her doctor, she was given an urgent referral to a specialist. Stella could still picture Harriet’s face when she told her the news.
‘It’s such a bore,’ she’d said, frowning with irritation. ‘They want to see me next week. I’ve had to cancel a very important meeting with a client, plus lunch with a former colleague I haven’t seen for ages. I really wanted to catch up with her and she’s quite difficult to pin down. I’m sure it’s just my wretched IBS playing up again.’
She and Stella were having coffee in a venue halfway between their southwest London homes. It took them both about fifteen minutes to get there and it had become something of a Saturday morning ritual, followed by a stroll in the nearby park.
‘I’m sure you’re right, but it’s best to get checked out,’ Stella had said with a reassuring smile. In truth, though, fear fluttered in her stomach and all of a sudden, she felt horribly cold.
She’d offered to go with Harriet to the hospital, but Jon wanted to take her. The results came back within days and the news was devastating: Harriet had Stage Four pancreatic cancer. It had already spread to her liver and lungs and the only thing they could offer was palliative care.
At first, Stella couldn’t take it in.
‘There must be something they can do – chemotherapy, radiotherapy?’ she’d asked Harriet dumbly. Jon was holding his wife’s hand on the sofa in their sitting room, having just returned from the appointment with the consultant. He couldn’t look Stella in the eye.
Harriet was as pale as a ghost but seemed eerily composed.
‘I’ve got six months to a year,’ she said with a paper-thin smile. ‘Rubbish, eh? I’d better make the most of it.’
In the event, she died in just over three months. During that time, Stella visited most days and came up with a list of enjoyable activities to entertain her friend and help take her mind off the grim reality of what was happening. She splashed out on tickets to the opera, and they spent self-indulgent afternoons in the theatre and cinema, catching up on old movies they’d never seen and watching some they practically knew off by heart.
They drove to the beach in Stella’s open-top Mini, singing along to the radio, with the heating up full blast and Harriet wrapped in blankets with a hot water bottle on her lap.
In the last few weeks, when her condition had deteriorated to such a point the pain was too difficult to manage at home, she was transferred to a hospice. Heartbreaking as this was, Stella was determined to stay upbeat for her friend’s sake. She gathered together the phone numbers of all Harriet’s friends and family and set up a WhatsApp group to make sure they worked together and she was hardly ever alone.
Next, she compiled a list of Harriet’s favourite music and sat, holding her hand, while they listened to each track. Sometimes they were joined by Jemima or Jon; at other times, it was just the two of them.
She bought fresh flowers for Harriet’s bedside and lit soothing candles in the evening, scented with some of her favourite fragrances: grapefruit, lemon, orange and pomegranate. When Harriet couldn’t face eating, Stella made cooling smoothies, which she could drink from a special non-spill cup with a straw.
Stella probably felt closer to Harriet in her final days than she’d ever been before. They chatted about all manner of subjects, from things they’d done together to books, poetry, politics and world events. But most of all, they talked about Jon and Jemima, and Stella promised faithfully she’d look after them.
‘Jon’s going to be lost,’ Harriet had said. ‘He can hardly boil an egg and he’s hopeless round the house. I’m not even sure he knows how to use the washing machine. Jemima will be incredibly sad, of course, but she’s young and strong and she’s got lots of friends, thank goodness. She’ll be okay. It’s Jon I worry about more.’
‘You mustn’t fret,’ Stella had replied, moistening Harriet’s dry lips with lip balm and popping an ice cube in her mouth for her to suck on. ‘I’ll show him how to use the washing machine and cook simple meals. He and Jemima will always be welcome at my place, and I’ll plan some nice things for them both. I won’t leave Jon to grieve by himself.’
When the end finally came, Stella was holding Harriet’s hand on one side of the bed, while Jon and Jemima held the other. Jemima looked achingly like her mother, with pale-grey eyes, straight blondish-brown hair, high cheekbones and a small, slightly arched nose.
Her face was flushed and she was shaking with the effort of trying not to cry. Stella’s heart went out to her even as she thought any minute her own might break into a thousand little pieces.
As Harriet’s breathing became more laboured, Jemima told her mum she loved her and Stella gently stroked her friend’s hair.
Finally, she whispered to Harriet that she could go now and promised again she’d look after her little family. Harriet gave a deep, rattling sigh, a single tear trickled down her hollowed cheek – and she was gone. No one spoke a word until the nurse came into the room and confirmed what they already knew.
‘She’s at peace now.’
Stella and Harriet had known each other since they were babies and had lived close to each other all their lives. Both only children; they were like sisters, really.
Their mothers had met at a local antenatal class and become firm friends. The girls were always in and out of each other’s houses, and the families went on many holidays together. Losing Harriet was like falling from a plane and Stella was still going down, wondering when she’d hit the ground.
A bat fluttered so close to the open window, she could see its tiny black eyes and translucent wings. She feared it might enter the room, but it swooped up into the sky and disappeared from view.
After marvelling at its speed and gracefulness, she resumed her train of thought. The aftermath of Harriet’s death had been horrific. Jon had been so maddened with grief that for a time, Stella thought he might take his own life. She’d been the one who’d looked after Jemima, talking with her for hours, trying to make sense of what had happened, organising lunches and dinners, trips to the theatre and cinema, anything to take her mind off her sorrows.
Stella had arranged counselling for her, attended meetings at her school, discussed university options and bought new clothes to cheer her up.
It was utterly exhausting and she felt guilty for neglecting Hector and Lily, but what choice was there? Harriet would have done the same for Stella’s kids.
When Jemima started university in September, nine months after her mother’s death, things had become a little easier. She seemed to settle in well, but Stella still worried about her and Jon and felt duty-bound to keep a close eye on them both.
No wonder she was hard up. She’d stopped pushing her catering business –Deliciously Yours – and orders were right down. It was only thanks to a few faithful friends that she had any work at all.
The phone pinged beside her on the bed and she hesitated for a moment before picking it up. She’d learned to dread texts since Harriet died. They were almost always from someone needing something.
To be fair, her friend, Alisha, had kindly messaged to wish her a happy holiday.
Hope you have a great time – you deserve it XX
Another text was from her GP, reminding her about her next smear test. Ugh. Then there was a message from Al.
Stella inhaled sharply. What did he want? She thought they’d agreed to no contact for a while, or at least only in an emergency. Just below was something from Jon, so she opened that instead.
Hi Stella, I hope you’ve arrived safely. I’m really struggling today. Can we have a chat? Sorry to bother you on holiday. Thanks. Jon.
A weight seemed to settle on her, like a monkey on her shoulder. She snapped on the lamp next to her bed and blinked in the sudden brightness.
No longer wrapped in her protective cocoon, she felt exposed and vulnerable again. More wants, more needs, but how could she refuse?
Opening her Recent Calls list, she quickly found the number.
‘Stella?’ She could sense his relief. ‘I so wanted to talk to you… Thanks for calling… I’ve been feeling so lost… Missing Harriet… I still don’t understand…’
For a while she just listened with eyes closed, making sympathetic noises every now and again: ‘Mm’, ‘I understand’, ‘Of course’…
He’d said the exact same things to her many times, but that didn’t lessen the weight of his suffering now.
He was like a toy – a car or train, perhaps, with a coiled spring inside that needed to unwind fully before it would grind to a halt.
Stella found herself picking at a scab on her lower arm. She couldn’t recall how or when she’d got the cut. Anyway, it didn’t hurt.
At last, his talking began to slow.
‘Enough about me.’ He sighed. ‘How are you? What’s the place like?’
She looked down at the scab and frowned. Blood was oozing from one corner of the wound, threatening to make a mess of the beautiful white sheets. She should have left well alone.
Glancing round in vain for a tissue, she realised the only thing for it was to lick her arm clean. The metallic taste of blood made her nose wrinkle.
‘Stella? Are you still there?’
‘What? Yes, sorry. It’s beautiful here.’ Already, fresh droplets of blood were appearing, like little crimson bubbles on the surface of her pale skin. ‘The house is gorgeous. It feels weird being away, though. Also, Hector’s being really difficult. I hope I’ve done the right thing, making him come.’
Jon coughed. She could imagine him knitting his brows and smoothing down the unruly tufts of brownish-grey hair that grew on either side of his bald patch.
‘You needed a holiday, Stella.’ He’d adopted his stern headmaster’s voice. He was the principal of an academy in south London.
‘You must look after yourself. You’ve had so much to deal with recently. Try to relax.’
‘It’s not that easy—’ she began, but he’d already moved on.
‘I should probably get away myself for a while,’ he mused. ‘It might help. I can’t imagine what it would be like without Harriet, though. I’m not sure…’
His voice tailed off and Stella felt a whoosh of compassion; she wanted to give him a great big hug to take away the pain.
He was alone and lonely. Once, it had been Jon and Harriet; now it was just Jon. The couple had talked about travelling round Australia in a camper van when Jemima left home. So many dreams, never to be fulfilled.
‘How about going to see Jemima in Exeter?’ Stella suggested. ‘You could have a long weekend there, maybe find a nice hotel for you both, or a bed and breakfast by the sea?’
Jon hesitated for a moment while he thought about it.
‘It’s a tempting idea,’ he said eventually, ‘but I don’t want to cramp her style. She’d feel she had to look after me the whole time rather than go out with friends. I don’t want to be a burden to her. She’s got enough on her plate with her studies and all her clubs and social activities and things.’
Stella sighed. ‘I guess.’
She was tired and had run out of inspiration. She felt deflated and a bit of a failure, but Jon seemed content just to have her ear.
‘Thanks for being so kind and lovely, Stella,’ he said warmly, before giving a great big yawn, which made Stella yawn, too. ‘We’d better both grab some sleep now. I’ll call you again tomorrow, if that’s okay. Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to get through any of this without you. I’d be a total wreck.’
* * *
After hanging up, Stella fell asleep quite quickly, but woke again at around 2a.m. and was unable to drift off for quite some time.
It had been the same story back home, ever since Harriet’s diagnosis, and Stella had become accustomed to listening to music or playing silly games on her phone in the wee small hours. If she lay wide awake for too long, her worries would grow so huge, she’d feel suffocated.
Tonight, though, instead of turning on the light, she tossed off the covers, because she was too hot, and was content to let her mind wander. It took her back to a happy weekend she’d spent with Al, Harriet and Jon some four years ago, before life had turned upside down.
It was February time. There was no special occasion, but it was so rare for the two couples to be together without the children, they’d decided to push the boat out. Harriet knew a lovely old hotel in a small market town in north Norfolk, not far from the beach. They’d driven from London together in Harriet’s smart black four by four, with Jon at the wheel, and had hardly stopped talking and laughing from the moment they left to the moment they arrived back home.
Al, an architect, had been particularly busy on a big extension project for a wealthy, demanding Surrey couple. Meanwhile, Stella’s decision to advertise her business in a local glossy magazine had resulted in a raft of new orders. They’d hardly seen each other, they were both exhausted and a break was just what they needed.
It was Stella who’d suggested the trip over lunch at Harriet and Jon’s one Sunday, and the pair had leaped at the suggestion.
‘How about staying somewhere near Holkham beach?’ Harriet had said. ‘It’s one of my favourite places. It shouldn’t be busy at this time of year.’
Stella and Al, who’d never been to that part of the UK before, had felt quite giddy with excitement when they’d said goodbye to Hector and Lily and driven off, waving from the car windows until they were out of sight.
Al’s parents, who lived near Oxford, had agreed to come to London to stay with the children, then fifteen and ten, and Stella knew she could relax, because Hector and Lily would be well looked after and they’d all have fun.
Hector, who was playing a lot of rugby back then, had a wide circle of friends, was doing quite well at school and bar the odd strop, was good company and loving at home most of the time. There was no indication of the angry, troubled young man he’d become. And Lily was just, well, Lily: sweet, a bit silly, boisterous, thoughtful and keen to please.
The two couples arrived at the hotel at lunchtime and immediately ordered food, wine and beer in the cosy main bar, which had comfy leather sofas, exposed beams and a roaring open fire.
Some other guests sitting nearby, a chatty, sixty-something couple, had an elderly Border terrier called Bobby, which had lost its back legs in a car accident but still managed to whiz round on a special sort of trolley-cum-wheelchair.
It scooted off to the reception area a few times, where staff kept a big jar of posh doggy treats on the counter. Harriet got into hysterics when Bobby’s doting owners, Dave and Pat, confessed their pet was very fussy and would only eat organic treats and drink filtered water.
Tears started to roll down her cheeks when Pat also revealed the dog had a girlfriend, a cocker spaniel aged thirteen, named Mavis. She even produced a photo of her with Bobby to prove it.
Bobby, with a neatly trimmed grey muzzle, puffing out his chest, and with his gleaming back wheels proudly on display, appeared to be grinning like a Cheshire cat at the camera. He was fit, trim, and looked very pleased with himself. All he needed was a bow tie to complete his dapper look.
Poor Mavis, on the other hand, resting on her haunches, with her head lowered and a soulful look in her eyes, was showing her age.
‘She’s got next to no teeth, bless her, but Bobby doesn’t mind. We often meet her in the park near our house. She and Bobby rush round and play together like pups. I think he wears her out, actually. You should see them!’
Stella, who was beside Harriet on the sofa, nudged her in the ribs to try to calm her down, but it only seemed to make matters worse. The hysteria was infectious and soon, Al was shaking with laughter, too. Pat and Dave didn’t seem bothered. Perhaps they were used to such daft reactions.
‘Bobby used to love the sea,’ Dave went on seriously. ‘We bought him a wetsuit, so his fur stayed dry. The poor chap can’t go in the water now, though. His wheels might rust.’
Fuelled with food and booze, Stella, Al, Harriet and Jon had left the hotel, still giggling, and gone for a walk round the town and across the fields, where they’d seen Muntjac deer and flocks of wild geese feasting on beet tops left on the soil after harvest.
Stella bought an overpriced sweater in a boutique shop, before they’d all rolled home to wash and change for dinner. Stella and Al had a luxurious walk-in two-person shower. Of course, one thing led to another and they were soon having noisy, enthusiastic sex. You’d think they’d been stranded on separate desert islands for weeks on end.
They were late down for supper and it was obvious what they’d been up to from their flushed cheeks and secret little smiles. Jon, meanwhile, looked like a cat who’d got the cream, while Harriet, acting prim in a vintage white lace shirt, her hair in an elegant up-do, fooled absolutely no one.
‘Go on, admit it, you’ve been at it like rabbits,’ Stella whispered teasingly in Harriet’s ear.
Harriet patted her hair and pretended to be shocked.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She picked up the drinks menu before clearing her throat and declaring in a rather loud voice, which made Jon wince: ‘I need a HUGE cocktail. What about the rest of you? A Harvey Wallbanger, Stella? Or have you already had one?’
She loved being outrageous, especially after a few drinks.
In fairness, it was Harriet and Stella who got on best. Jon and Al had to work a bit harder in each other’s company, being very different characters. Al loved a good laugh, and people generally warmed to his easy-going manner and engaging stories, peppered with the occasional risqué joke. Jon, by contrast, tended to be quiet, serious and analytical.
Al called him a ‘nitpicker’, but never to his face. He knew how important the friendship was to Stella, and fortunately the two men found just enough common ground to keep them engaged.
Harriet always said Al brought out Jon’s lighter side and it was true, he certainly laughed a lot more after a few hours in Al’s company. They all did.
‘I still don’t really understand why Harriet’s with him,’ Al had commented when he and Stella had finally got to bed that night. ‘He’s definitely punching above his weight. She’s so lively and interesting, but he really is a bit of a bore.’
‘He’s very knowledgeable,’ Stella replied, carefully taking out the silver earrings which Al had bought her for her birthday and putting them on the bedside table.
‘Yes, and he loves to show it. He completely lost me when he started talking about biofuel technologies and kilowatts per tonne of corn. Honestly, I nearly nodded off.’
‘You’d want him on your team in a quiz, though. And he’s a good father. I reckon he keeps Harriet steady. She could be a bit flighty and impulsive before she met him. She got herself into quite a few scrapes, especially with men. He makes sure her feet stay firmly on the ground.’
Al looked doubtful. ‘He ticks her off like one of his pupils. Did you notice his reaction when she was talking about Harvey Wallbangers? I’m sure he’d have said something if we hadn’t been there. I don’t know how she can stand it.’
‘P’raps she likes it,’ Stella replied mischievously.
‘What? You mean it’s part of their bedroom repertoire? Jon smacking her with a ruler and making her write lines in the nude? I don’t think so. He wouldn’t have the imagination.’
Stella snorted with amusement, before cocking her head on one side and giving her husband a playful grin. ‘Ooh, I’m not convinced. Maybe he’s a dark horse. You never know what might go on behind that stern headmaster’s exterior. Still waters can run deep.’