Chapter 11
Magazines make me weary these days. Karen used to pass her copies of Cosmo and Red on to me, and I would curl up on my sofa with a cup of tea, all eager to escape into their shiny, scented pages, to gape in awe at the prices of the fashion I would never dare to wear.
They were a window on another world, a life that I craved but seemed scary at the same time.
When Jake was born I traded them in for Mother vitality shining from their perfectly made-up faces, bursting with health and wellbeing, living their best lives.
As the years went on, I stopped buying them, only flicking through in the waiting room or when I was in hospital and someone brought me one for a treat.
Only it’s not a treat, not really, not anymore.
It’s a reminder of my frailty and my lack.
It’s the same with Instagram, which I installed in the hope it would transform my life into something that looked a little more perfect than it was, that if I could capture the good bits in little filtered squares that gave off the pretence that I had it all sorted, maybe I would be a little more sorted, after all.
I didn’t take pictures of my hospital bed or my thousands of daily pills, because honesty was too brutal for me, and before long I ran out of things to take pictures of.
So I deleted the app and deleted my best life all in one go.
Jodie buys new magazines every day and Kane brings more in for her, Heat and Hello and OK.
She flips through them, crowing over the outfits and perfect homes, reading out the quizzes; what sort of Disney princess are you?
Who were you in another life? Kat scorns them and says they are shallow and only propagate envy.
Violet likes to read them and complain about the terrible manners and lifestyles of the celebrities, she would never do things like that, how common. Amina doesn’t touch them.
Jodie tries to pass them on to me. ‘You’ll love this one. It’s got Ed Sheeran in it.’
I smile politely and thank her. Today it’s a scraggy copy of Woman’s Own.
There’s an article about building yourself up when you’re feeling tired and low.
I turn the pages slowly, scrutinising the page numbers, until I find it.
A picture of a perfect woman with bouncy auburn hair holding a plate of avocado salad and smiling with her perfect teeth.
She doesn’t look very tired or low. ‘Ten pick-me-ups for down days,’ goes the headline, and I read through, sighing.
Eat more fruit. Do more exercise. Try meditation.
Try mindfulness. Sleep better. Read more books.
Put your phone down. Make things. See friends. Hug people.
That easy.
It’s like when Marcus used to tell me that his brand of exercise would cure me.
He went slowly with me, his voice full of kindness, taking it an exercise at a time, patiently standing with me while I lifted weights and shook with the effort of it, guiding me as I dragged myself painfully slowly through the hills programme on the bike.
My muscles became more defined, my stomach flatter, my legs stronger, and I stood up straight, holding myself differently.
He’d fallen in love with me, he told me one glorious day, he thought about me all the time.
If I could just keep on following his programme, I’d be cured for good.
It’s like all those miracle cures. All those multi-level marketing schemes promising the world.
People telling me that if I buy their products I will get better immediately, so what am I waiting for?
If I don’t reply, or say no thank you, I see those cold edges of disappointment creeping over their faces, so better to obediently swallow down the smoothies and aloe vera drinks, and get sick anyway.
People in this ward are not like that. How strange it is that it’s when I’m in hospital I feel most understood, most at home.
‘Let’s have a ward feast,’ Jodie says. ‘I’m bored of the food in this place.’
‘A ward feast?’ Kat says, sitting on Jodie’s chair and watching out for Sister Harris or any of the other staff who might tell her off. ‘You mean like order in? I’m down for that.’
Jake is here, and Kane is here too, slouching on Jodie’s bed, pushing her over to make space for himself. Sister Harris wouldn’t like that at all. ‘You don’t need more food,’ Kane says, munching through a family size bag of crisps. ‘You should take the opportunity to lose a bit of weight.’
Jake glares at him but he takes no notice.
Jodie flushes. ‘I meant… well, I meant for Penny, and Amina and everyone really. I mean, Penny is veggie and they give her fish and such, and they don’t always even give Amina something if there’s nothing halal or whatever.’
Kane sneers. ‘She should take what she’s given.’
Violet nods vehemently, flicking a disdainful gaze over at Amina.
‘I think it’s a lovely idea,’ Kat says. ‘Should we get Dominos? Maybe Kane could go and pick it up for us, if they don’t deliver to hospitals?’
Kane grunts.
‘Please,’ Jodie says. ‘You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?’ She pushes herself up against him, pouting up at him and batting her eyelashes. He pulls her in tightly, squeezing that little bit too hard. She coughs and gasps and he doesn’t let go.
‘Anything for you.’
I squirm inside, exchanging a glance with Kat. Marcus held me tight, too, squeezing in hard as he told me that he loved me so much that he needed me to be better for him, that I just wasn’t quite pretty enough, or fit enough, or funny enough.
‘Can I have some?’ Jake says.
When Kane comes back with the pizza, we descend on him like a pack of hungry labradors. Even Amina is up, face all animated, digging out her purse and pressing too many notes on him with copious thank yous. He doesn’t give her any change.
Jodie is grinning widely. Her wonderful boyfriend, doing this for all her new friends, going out of his way for us like that. She’s a beacon of light, all sparkly eyes and glowing cheeks, delighted that Kane is, after all, what she needs him to be.
‘You can have one slice,’ Kane says to her, ‘and I’ll have the rest. Take it home for my dinner.’
Her face falls.
‘But…’
‘Tosser,’ Jake hisses under his breath, and Kat nods, her face tight with anger.
Jodie says nothing more. She eats her slice slowly, bravely, blinking back tears, her mouth quivering with tiny I’m-okay-really smiles. ‘This is delicious. Thanks, babe.’
‘You shouldn’t have any more dinner tonight,’ Kane says. ‘Remember what we said?’
Jake explodes through a mouthful of veggie supreme. ‘What right have you got to tell her what she can eat?’
Kane lumbers off the bed, squares up to Jake, all tattooed muscle and shaven aggression. ‘Pardon?’
Jake shrugs. ‘You heard me.’
It’s not like Kane can start a fight with a fifteen-year-old boy in a hospital ward, after all.
Jodie’s shoulders are tight with tension. ‘It’s okay, Jake. He’s right. I was on a diet, and… and he’s just trying to help me.’
‘But you’re ill,’ Jake says, his brow creasing up in baffled sadness. ‘You need to get strong. And have a treat too, being stuck in here all day.’ He sweeps his arm in a large arc around him.
‘It’s okay,’ she says softly.
All I can think about is Marcus, and how he convinced me that he was only doing these things for my good, too, and how I believed him for so long. How I was his project, his trophy to show off when he succeeded in reforming me.
Except he didn’t, really.
‘Kane will do anything for me,’ Jodie says, taking hold of Kane’s hand and leaning forward to kiss him.
‘Anything,’ he says.
???
‘Thank you,’ Violet says later to Jodie, ‘for the pizza I mean. It was a welcome change from the pigswill they call food around here.’
I’m amazed at Violet actually saying thank you to something.
Maybe that’s Jodie’s effect on her, of the cumulation of hours they must have spent together with their cigarettes, out in the cold together.
Violet saying thank you is like a light being switched on somewhere in a place full of too much gloom.
Jodie grins at her. Kane has left, and she is back to her effervescent self without his shadow hanging over her and pressing her down. ‘No worries,’ she says.
‘My grandson likes that pizza stuff. Oh, I mean my granddaughter, I suppose. He’s one of those transvestites now.’
Jake buries his head in his hands. ‘You mean transgender.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Violet says, her mouth a tight line of uncomprehending disapproval. ‘I never know what these kids are doing nowadays. Never know if I have to call him a boy or a girl.’
‘Probably kindest to call her what she asks,’ Kat says.
Jodie stares. ‘Bit woke for a vicar, aren’t you?’
‘No one says woke anymore,’ Jake says.
Jodie screws up her nose at him. ‘Careful, or I’ll yeet this Coke at you.’
‘Yeet,’ he scoffs.
I wonder what it is about Jodie. She has made my son smile more than he has in months.
‘Where does she live?’ Kat says to Violet. ‘Your granddaughter, I mean.’
Violet sniffs. ‘Oh. Well, they’re all over in London, see. Moved away from here as soon as he could, my son, got married to some bimbo he met in a bar. Doesn’t deign to visit his mother very much, even when she’s in hospital.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Kat says. ‘That must be hard.’
Violet nods, and I’m surprised to see tears begin to form in the corners of her eyes, then track a slow crawl down her cheeks. Kat goes over, takes her hand. ‘It’s okay to cry.’
Barbara is rigid in her chair, listening avidly. ‘I cried, when Bill died.’
Violet gazes at her. ‘Was that your husband?’
Barbara nods. ‘Sixty years.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Kat says. ‘When did he pass away?’