A Hundred Pieces of Me (25 page)

There was a brisk knock at her door, and when she opened it, Rachel was standing in the doorway with two jute bags, both of which were filled with stuff. Next to her, on a lead attached to a brand new martingale collar, was Buzz.

Gina had a funny sinking feeling. So did Buzz, who cowered a little against Rachel’s jeans.

‘Hello!’ Rachel raked a hand through her dark bob. ‘I have good news and bad news. But mainly good. I think.’

‘You’d better come in,’ said Gina. Rachel seemed much keener to come in than Buzz did.

Chapter Eleven

ITEM
: a tatty red A4 file of hospital notes,  referral letters, appointment cards, printed  fact sheets, Internet printouts

Longhampton, June 2008

Stuart hasn’t stopped talking since they left the hospital car park, but the words are sliding past Gina’s ears. Instead she’s ticking off the familiar buildings on her side of the road: the row of Victorian terraced houses painted pink, yellow and fawn, the Neapolitan houses, as she’s always thought of them, two Border Oak new-builds, then the church. The creamy magnolias in the garden of the big villa set back from the road, exploding with exuberance over the wall. And then the main run of houses peters out, and they’re passing the old technical college, the Esso garage, heading back to half-finished Dryden Road, and the anaglypta they were going to steam off this weekend.

The outside world is exactly the same as it was when they passed this way a few hours ago, yet it feels as if it’s pivoting in the opposite direction. The anaglypta will still need steaming. It’s just that now she has breast cancer.

She tries it again in her head. Now I have breast cancer.

It still sounds as if she’s talking about someone else. Someone braver, someone older.

Following her consultation with the Midlands’ best breast surgeon, Gina officially has one small lump and some affected lymph nodes, all of which will be removed by Dr Khan at 3 p.m. on Friday.

‘. . . and then he said it was a positive factor that it hadn’t spread beyond those lymph nodes, which is something to focus on,’ Stuart continues, as if she hadn’t been there while Mr Khan was telling them exactly that. ‘And then I asked him about hormone treatment, and he said because yours was oestrogen receptive, you’d be able to have Tamoxifen . . .’

Gina lets Stuart carry on talking, neatly sidestepping the word
cancer
as he goes. Recapping stressful situations has always been his way of dealing with things. He likes to feel on top of the facts, owning the options when they come out of his mouth this time round. In a way it’s reassuring: being swept along on Stuart’s train of practicality gives her the secret space in her head for the wider implications Gina knows he won’t let her air.

How should she tell her mother? Janet gets hysterical in hospitals; she fusses like a demented hen, manages to make it all about herself. Better not tell her. Well, no, they’ll have to tell her something: it’d be hard to disguise the chemotherapy.

Gina watches the art deco fire station slide by outside her window. And time off work. When to tell
them
? When to write letters, in case . . . Well, in case. And her stuff. There’s so much stuff to sort out.

‘. . . brilliant that the lump’s so small. He said he didn’t think you’d need reconstructive surgery. Not that that matters . . .’

Darker thoughts press in like clouds. It’s not the size of the lump that freaks Gina out, it’s that it’s there at all. What has she done to get cancer? How did it start in her? Was it a trauma? Or stress? Has it always been there, waiting? Or has she caused it?

The Internet has not helped. Gina read some hideously judgemental blog about cancer being caused by suppressing emotions, forcing negativity down like coal, until it compacts into cancer. The words had felt as if someone had been yelling them in her head.

‘. . . I can take some time off work to go with you to chemo, or my sister can come, as she’s only a few streets away from the breast clinic . . .’

Stuart’s not leaving any space for her to say anything, but Gina doesn’t want to speak. It’s as though he’s talking about a friend, not her.

She mentally twirls around the spire of St Mary’s Church and realises she’s imagining herself flick-flacking from roof to roof of each house they pass, as she used to in the back seat of Terry’s car. Gina pushes a fingernail into the fleshy web between her thumb and her forefinger to bring herself back into Stuart’s car, into this moment. Into this new development that’s actually happening to her
now
.

‘. . . and you’ll be almost halfway through your chemotherapy by my birthday in September so maybe we could go somewhere, if you’re up to it . . .’

At last Gina’s blood freezes with realisation.

Naomi’s wedding’s in September. The apricot-and-cream-themed wedding they’ve been planning for nearly a year while Jason and Stuart have been at cricket nets and the gym, and she’ll be the spectre at the feast, the Bridesmaid with Breast Cancer, not even halfway through her treatment.

My hair, thinks Gina. My hair will have fallen out. Naomi will go mad. I’ll totally upstage her if I follow her down the aisle with a bald head. Maybe I can get a wig.

The thought of Naomi’s face when she has to tell her she’ll be wearing a wig to her wedding makes Gina giggle hysterically, and Stuart finally stops talking.

‘What did I say?’ he asks. ‘What’s funny?’

She glances across and notices, with surprise, how drawn he is. Stuart’s forehead is creased with concentration but there’s a vulnerability around his mouth that she’s never seen before, and she feels guilty: he’ll have to bear this too. The chemo, the appointments, the strain of not being able to
do
anything.

‘Is something funny?’ he repeats, more uncertainly.

Gina hesitates. Stuart probably won’t find it funny. But she tries. ‘No, I . . . Just that I might have to wear a wig for Naomi’s wedding. If my hair falls out.’

He frowns, then tries to smile. ‘Why not? Think positive. We can get you a gorgeous wig – we can go to London, if you want. Naomi’ll just be glad you’re there.’

‘She’ll maybe want me to get an apricot-coloured one,’ says Gina, hearing Naomi saying just that, chasing away the dread with a silly joke. ‘To match the dress.’

‘What? Of course she won’t. And if she did, I’d tell her to get a bloody grip.’ His voice cracks, as if he’s about to cry.

He doesn’t get it, thinks Gina, but at the same time she’s reassured by exactly that, by Stuart’s solid presence with his facts and his determination to win. To beat things.

‘Oh . . . shit,’ says Stuart, and pulls into the drive-through McDonald’s.

They sit in the car park, saying nothing, and the tempting smell of chips floats into the car. Gina’s surprised that it’s still tempting. The radio’s been on in the background, and she hears the gloomy opening bars of ‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol.

Stuart lunges at the off button.

‘Don’t,’ says Gina, mildly. ‘I’ve never liked that song. Now I’ve got a reason to hate it.’

They really don’t know what to say to each other. There’s too much. Too much they know they don’t know. The car feels huge.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ says Stuart, eventually, and there’s a wobble in his voice, under the determination. ‘We’re going to beat this.’

Gina forces a smile onto her face. This’ll be the easier way, playing the part of the brave patient until she believes it. Until it feels real. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘One step at a time.’

‘Gina.’ Stuart grabs her hand over the gearstick and makes her look at him. ‘I want to bring the wedding forward. Marry me this month. Before the chemotherapy starts.’

‘But Naomi’s wedding . . .’ It’s her first reaction; she knows it’s stupid.

‘Sod Naomi.’ He looks outraged. It’d be funny, Gina thinks, if she could bear to laugh. ‘You’re the only thing that matters to me. I want to show the world we’re a team, you and me. I love you.’ Stuart gazes at her, handsome and resolute and only slightly scared. Knight-like. ‘I
love
you, Gina.’

Did Mum feel like this when Dad proposed? Gina wonders. The feeling of being swept up in the arms of a strong, brave man who’ll fight for you is so reassuring right now, even if it goes against everything she’d usually believe.

But this isn’t usual. Nothing is usual any more. Her doubts about Stuart’s minor failings seem churlish, snotty, compared with his fundamental decency. What’s more important?

She buries her head in Stuart’s shoulder, tearful with gratitude. He smells of Hugo Boss and the Persil she used to wash their clothes earlier in the week when she didn’t definitely have cancer.

It still doesn’t feel quite real.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Let’s get married.’

‘The thing is,’ said Rachel, ‘it wouldn’t be for long. A week at the most . . .’

‘No, sorry,’ said Gina, in case Rachel hadn’t heard her the first time.

‘. . . and I
promise
you there’s no way I’d even be asking under normal circumstances, but you seem like a decent sort of person, and to be honest with you, he’s literally got nowhere else to go.’ Rachel raised her palms. ‘We’re so full I’ve got dogs in the
house
.’

‘What about private kennels? I’ll make a donation towards it.’

Rachel let out a quick, mad laugh. ‘I
am
the private kennels. All our volunteer fosterers are full up. We’ve got as many dogs as we’re legally allowed to take. I’ve rung around all the rescues in the county and I might be able to find Buzz somewhere by the weekend, but until then, even the police station can’t take him. And I suppose the owner might come back, in which case you’d have to hand him over anyway.’

‘I take it the owner hasn’t reported him missing?’ Gina was surprised to find that she didn’t really care about the bike. It had gone. Fine. She’d never liked it. Somehow she was angrier about the dog: for the callous way he had been dumped with a stranger, and because she now felt responsible for him.

Rachel leaned down and cupped Buzz’s ears in her hands, caressing them as if she didn’t want him to hear. ‘Of course no one’s reported him missing. My husband scanned for a microchip but he couldn’t find anything.’ She glanced up, and added, ‘He’s a vet,’ as if Gina might assume they had some kind of dog-scanning kit at home for fun.

She lifted the corner of Buzz’s left ear, which was much shorter than the right now Gina looked at it. ‘He probably had a tattoo on this ear, for ID, but as you can see, someone decided to remove it.’

Gina’s skin crept. ‘What? They . . .?’

‘Chopped it off. Yes. A while ago – see where it’s healed.’

‘God, that’s awful.’ She flinched as the bloody image flashed in front of her eyes – the fear. The pain. Buzz’s fear of people seemed understandable now.

‘It’s not uncommon in failed greyhounds.’ Rachel laid a long hand on his head. Buzz closed his eyes, and Gina could see the effort he was making to remain still. ‘They’re treated very badly sometimes. And Buzz isn’t very big. I can’t see him winning many races. We often get greys handed in half starved, just ditched in Coneygreen Woods. Tied to trees or just left to wander around to fend for themselves.’

‘I still can’t understand how anyone could just abandon their dog with a stranger, for the sake of a bike.’

‘If it was his dog. Easy trick – get a dog from somewhere, pretend it’s yours . . .’ Rachel shrugged. ‘Don’t get me started, I could be here all night.’

Gina gripped her mug of peppermint tea. Be firm, she told herself, as she ached inside. Do not be pushed over. This is about you feeling abandoned, not some dog.

‘So, I know it’s a lot to ask,’ said Rachel, ‘but could you keep him here for a few days? Someone from Greyhound Rescue West of England might be able to take him but if you could just give him somewhere to sleep till then? An old duvet would do. They’re incredibly easy-going, greys . . . Listen, I don’t normally do emotional blackmail. It’s very much my last resort.’

Gina sighed, and she knew Rachel would hear the sigh as a half-yes. It was what it sounded like to her. ‘I’m not a dog person,’ she said.

‘Ah, well, greyhounds aren’t your average dog!’ Rachel’s face brightened. ‘No yapping. No digging. They like to sleep most of the time, and they’re very tactile. I bet Buzz’ll be curling up on your knee given half a chance.’

‘Seriously?’ Gina eyed the dog; he looked like a bag of bones. Not what she’d call cuddly.

‘You just have to feed him,’ she went on. ‘Look, I’ve brought some food with me, and some instructions – I see you’ve got a backyard, so there is outdoor access – and give him a couple of half-hour walks. Greys don’t need long walks. They’re happy with short bursts.’

‘Yes, but I work full time,’ said Gina, playing her trump card. ‘I don’t have time to walk him.’

Rachel looked as if she’d been expecting that response. ‘If you wanted to drop him off at the shop in the morning we could take care of him during the day. We’ve got a yard behind the shop and I sometimes bring my own dog in, and he just naps. I don’t know if you saw him? The Border collie? He and Buzz have already met – they get on fine.’