Chapter 22
DAWN
There’s no escaping a hot air balloon. I think that’s why I’ve decided to tell her now. We have to talk about it. Both of us. I’m not just trying to pen her in to face it, I think I’m forcing myself to face it, too. This is happening.
‘What?’ Megan repeats, her face ashen from both the height and my news. ‘Are . . . are you serious? You have MS?’
‘Yes, I was diagnosed with it almost two years ago,’ I say, unable to look at her, which I forgive myself for because one step at a time.
‘Two years,’ she splutters. ‘You’ve known this almost two years?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone. Except your father. He knew.’
‘Dad knew. Dad knew and he didn’t tell me either. Oh my god.’
Out of the corner of my eye I see her clamp her hands at the side of her head, her fingers digging into her skull.
I feel terrible about causing her any kind of distress.
This girl has lost her father, been forced into an air balloon and now learnt that her mum has a degenerative disease. I wouldn’t blame her if she lost her—
‘Are you okay?’ she asks.
I turn to see her looking at me wide-eyed and worried, like she used to when she was a child, needing my reassurance.
‘Yes, I’m okay,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘I’m sorry for not telling you, Megan. I knew I needed to, but it never felt like the right time.’
She scoffs. ‘But now in a hot air balloon feels like the right time.’
‘At least it’s memorable.’
‘I’m hardly going to forget this kind of conversation, Mum,’ she tells me, astounded. She shakes her head and then her expression fills with unease. ‘Is it . . . is it bad? I mean, what’s going to happen?’
‘It’s not as bad as it could be. I’m having treatment and—’
‘What kind of treatment?’
‘I go in every six months for an intravenous drip, which hopefully will slow the progression of it. When you think about it, that’s not particularly intrusive, not compared to other treatments for other ailments.
It affects me a little during the everyday.
Some days not at all, I wouldn’t know anything was wrong.
Other days, I might have pain in my limbs or the occasional tremor in my hands.
The spasms can be unpleasant, but, you know, it fades. ’
Megan’s watching me with a fierce concentration, her eyebrows knitted, her jaw set, her lips pressed together in a hard line.
She doesn’t want to get upset, she wants to learn because that will help her process it.
She did the same thing when her father was ill.
How sorry I am to put her through this sort of thing again.
She’s already proven her toughness, hasn’t she. It doesn’t seem fair to try her again.
‘Who has been coming with you for the treatments?’ she asks.
‘No one. But that’s on me. As I say, no one knows.’
‘You told Dad.’
‘Yes. And he was wonderful about it. He tried his best to get me to tell you and Jemma, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do so.’ I give her arm a nudge with my elbow. ‘Don’t blame him for not saying anything, I wouldn’t let him.’
She nods silently, processing it all.
‘Are you all right?’ I check, studying her face.
‘I . . . yeah. I can’t believe you haven’t said anything for so long.’
‘It’s easier than you think. I could pretend for longer. That’s what Francoise made starkly clear yesterday,’ I say, still bristling at our strained conversation.
‘You told Francoise?’ Megan says, justly surprised.
‘Not on purpose. I had a bit of pain and she happened to come along at that exact moment and helped me. She worked out something was worse than I was letting on and it all came spilling out. But she described what I was doing as “pretending” and the word struck a chord, I suppose.’ I stretch my legs out in front of me, staring at my shoes as my toes point up to the balloon carrying us away.
‘I’ve been mostly pretending to myself that not much has changed, but I think I should accept that it might. ’
I hear her inhale and exhale deeply beside me.
‘I don’t know much about MS, I’m going to have to do some research,’ she says rather sweetly.
‘I might be able to answer any burning questions you have. If you’re worried about it being hereditary, then I can assure you it’s not, although if you have someone in the family with MS then your chances are slightly higher of developing it, and I should mention that women are more likely than men to develop MS, but there’s a combination of—’
‘Mum,’ she says, blinking at me, ‘I’m not worrying about whether I might develop it. All I’m worrying about right now is you.’
‘Oh.’ Something swells in my heart. ‘Well. You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘The treatments for MS are good nowadays, aren’t they?’ she asks anxiously.
‘Yes, darling, they’re brilliant!’ I cry enthusiastically, determined to put her at ease. ‘It doesn’t impact me in a particularly challenging way and they encourage you to live your life as normal and with positivity. Carry on as usual, forget it exists.’
Megan attempts a wry smile. ‘That doesn’t sound like the sort of thing a doctor would say.’
‘No, that’s a rough translation,’ I admit. ‘But it’s not far off. And clearly your father agreed with some aspects of how I was handling it. Look at him forcing me onto that horse ride. Talk about a lack of sympathy.’
‘Exercise is probably good for the muscle pain.’
‘Light exercise, darling, light exercise. I don’t need to become a fucking jockey.’
‘What about you swimming into Collioure from the boat?’ she points out, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s not exactly light exercise. Was that on doctor’s orders?’
‘No, that was your father in my head once again telling me to take the jump. It felt good, I have to say, proving to myself I wasn’t completely . . . broken.’
Megan looks at me curiously. ‘Is that how you feel?’
‘Most of the time, no,’ I say earnestly, shaking my head. ‘But sometimes I have bad days and the darkness creeps in. In fact, I have another confession.’
‘God, what now?’ She groans.
‘The day of your engagement party I had a bad day,’ I say, turning to look at her.
‘Henry had to come and lift me up both physically and mentally. The diagnosis still felt raw and I was struggling. Not handling it particularly well. I’m ashamed to say I couldn’t face you seeing me like that.
I couldn’t bear it. And I’m very sorry I wasn’t there for you that day. ’
My voice cracks on the last sentence.
Megan tears her eyes from mine to stare straight ahead.
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she says.
I turn away to stare straight ahead, too, both of us sitting parallel, poor Laurence steering us expertly through the skies without an appreciative audience.
‘You should tell Jemma,’ Megan says. ‘She’s your best friend.’
‘I know. The problem is I know how she’ll react. She’ll be so caring and lovely about it, and I can’t bear the idea of being pitied.’
‘She deserves to know,’ Megan emphasises.
She pauses and then adds, ‘I get it, though. I feel like ever since the wedding was called off, I have to work harder at making sure that I come across as fine to my friends, especially Marisa. If I crack even for a second, then I know how she would see me, which is the person I really am: the pathetic, duped and foolish singleton who gets cheated on and cancels her wedding and cries whenever a friend WhatsApps a photo of a baby scan to announce their news, no matter how happy I am for them. And I really am happy for them.’
I feel winded with sadness and don’t dare look at her.
‘I know it’s not fair on Marisa because she’d be so hurt if she knew I wasn’t telling her exactly how .
. . fucking hopeless I feel a lot of the time,’ Megan continues brazenly.
‘But I need her and my other friends to think I’m okay.
Then I get to convince myself that I’m getting something right. At least I look like I . . .’
She trails off.
‘Like you’ve got it together?’ I suggest.
‘Exactly.’
‘Hm.’
She waits a beat. ‘Mum, I’m sorry you had to go to your treatments alone.’
Her voice is so soft and vulnerable, I don’t know the best way to respond. I tentatively reach for her hand and she lets me take it. Her fingers are so cold. I squeeze them. We sit like that for a while in silence, the noise of the world so far below.
‘Megan?’ I say eventually.
‘Yes?’
‘Did you say you got cheated on?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, weary and defeated. ‘I did.’