Over the course of the next few months, however, she had metamorphosed from an active, tennis-playing, smiling crossword enthusiast into a frightened, introverted woman at the mercy of bewildering mood changes and slowly deteriorating eyesight. By the time the tumour was finally discovered, it was beyond treatment. The headaches worsened, a creeping paralysis of the left side of her body made day-to-day living increasingly difficult, and the unpredictable changes of mood were replaced by a pathetic eagerness to please, and finally mild euphoria.
It had been heartbreaking for Gina, having to witness the gradual destruction of the mother she adored, struggling to care for her during that last terrible summer. She had done everything she could, bringing her home from the hospital and nursing her at Kingsley Grove, but love hadn’t been enough. The malignant growth had been unstoppable, eroding her mother’s memory until she was no longer able to understand that her husband had died three years earlier. Most heartbreaking of all, as far as Gina was concerned, had been having to listen to her mother crying out in endless bewilderment, ‘Thomas, where
are
you? Help me . . . don’t leave me here on my own . . . oh Thomas, I’m so afraid . . . please don’t leave me . . .’
Deep down, Gina knew that the similarity between her own symptoms and those of her mother was too great to be merely a coincidence. The battery of tests continued in earnest, but during the breaks between them she was doing her best to prepare herself - mentally at least - for the realization that she, too, had developed a brain tumour.
And she, too, was afraid . . . so terribly,
desperately
afraid . . . of being left to die on her own.
‘I’ve just been given a funny look by one of those nerve-wracking nurses outside,’ grumbled Doug, bursting into the room and thrusting a bunch of crumpled pink carnations into Gina’s lap. ‘I didn’t realise we were expected to dress for visiting hour, here.’
Gina, glad of the diversion, smiled up at him. ‘Maybe she’s just never seen anyone wearing an orange shirt with a maroon suit before.’
‘Oh. Is it bad?’ Doug looked so crestfallen, she had to bury her nose in the carnations in order to hide her laughter.
‘Not bad, just . . . individual. Mmm, these flowers smell gorgeous.’
Wanting to kiss her but unable to summon up the courage, he sat down beside her instead. ‘How are you feeling?’
Her ability to keep up a cheerful front still amazed her. Being asked the same question maybe twenty times each day, she had become adept at telling people what they wanted to hear, rather than the less palatable truth. In a way, too, she was ensuring that they would continue to ask. Weeping and wailing, Gina now realised, would only frighten people away.
‘Much better,’ she replied, running the fingers of her good hand through her freshly shampooed blonde hair. ‘They did more tests this morning, stuck electrodes all over my head and took a recording of my brainwaves. One of the nurses washed my hair afterwards.’
‘Good, good.’ Doug, who had been frantic with worry since returning from Manchester, looked visibly relieved. ‘I expect you’ll be out of here soon. And you’ll need to convalesce for a while before we get you back to work . . .’
Work, that was a joke. But she played along, glancing up at the clock on the wall and nodding as if in agreement. ‘You may have to get a temp in, though. For a few weeks or so. Is the office chaotic?’
For a moment he looked flummoxed, having had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about the state of the office. Gina was all that mattered. ‘I don’t know. Probably. What did they say about the brain scan you had yesterday?’
She swallowed, not wanting to think about it. The doctors, gathered in a cubicle adjacent to the scanning room itself, had conversed in whispers; all she had been able to make out were disjointed mentions of ventricles, white-matter and hemispheres, whatever they might be. As far as she was concerned, their unsmiling faces and covert sidelong glances were of far greater significance than any stupid words.
The awful panic rose in her throat once more. She didn’t want to die, alone and unloved . . .
‘They didn’t say anything.’ Her gaze slipped past Doug once more, to the wall clock, which still said four-fifteen. ‘Not to me, anyway.’
Her guard had slipped. Doug, glimpsing the bleak expression in her eyes, thought that if there was anything he could do to make her well again . . . anything at all . . . he would do it.
I love you, he thought, willing her to be able to read his mind. He didn’t dare speak the words aloud. I love you
so much
. . .
‘Is there anything you need?’ he said instead, his forehead creasing with concern. ‘Anything I can get you?’
Brightening slightly, Gina nodded. Pushing his flowers to one side, she said, ‘Thanks, Doug. On your way out, if you could ask Nurse Elson to come and give me a hand.’
‘What’s the matter?’ He looked alarmed. ‘Are you feeling ill again?’
‘No, no.’ She was reaching into her bedside locker now, pulling out her make-up bag. ‘I just want her to help me change into a clean nightie. Sam’s coming to see me at five and I want to look nice for him. Oh, and if you could pass me that bottle of perfume on top of the chest of drawers over there . . .’
The looks Sam received from the nurses upon his arrival forty minutes later were far from funny. Katerina, who had bumped into him in the plush foyer downstairs, noticed the effect he was having and grinned.
‘Don’t look now,’ she said, tucking the glossy copies of
Vogue
and
Harpers
under her arm and almost having to break into a trot in order to keep up, ‘but I think you’re about to be offered a bed bath.’
‘Hmm.’ Sam, unimpressed, quickened his pace.
‘Hmm?’ mimicked Katerina in admonishing tones.
Having taken a break from studying and spent a long and enjoyable weekend visiting Simon up at Cambridge, she was in high spirits. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you, then? Now that you’ve got rid of Vivienne I thought you’d be making the most of being free again. Or,’ she added slyly, ‘have you realised you miss her, after all?’
‘Did I ever tell you how much I loathe smart-aleck teenagers?’ countered Sam equably. As far as he was concerned, there was no earthly reason why Kat shouldn’t know about Izzy and himself, but Izzy had come over all coy and born-again-virginal and begged him not to breathe a word of their relationship to anyone.
The lift stopped at the third floor. Katerina pulled a face as they got out. ‘I’m only interested.’
‘You’re nosy. Maybe I like to keep my affairs private.’
‘And you think I’d run off to the
News of the World
,’ she said with good-humoured resignation. ‘Sam, I’m the soul of discretion. I’m my mother’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. I’ve had enough practice!’
On entering Gina’s room they were almost knocked sideways by the overpowering scent of Miss Dior. Katerina observed with inward amusement the way Gina cried out, ‘Sam!’ before realizing he wasn’t alone. ‘Oh and you, Kat, how nice,’ she amended somewhat less effusively. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs and make yourselves comfortable. I can ring for coffee if you’d like some.’
‘Relax, you don’t have to play party hostess,’ Sam told her gently, as he gave her a brief kiss. ‘We’ve come to see how
you
are.’
Katerina, settling back in a pink-and-green upholstered chair which exactly matched the flowery wallpaper, was further entertained by the sight of Gina blushing beneath her careful make-up. Surely there hadn’t been something clandestine going on between these two? Not Sam and
Gina
. . . ?
Two days later, the consultant paid her the visit she’d been waiting for. The tests had all been carried out and now he was here to give her his verdict. With her heart pounding, Gina submitted to yet another neurological examination and braced herself for the news.
But the tortuous game, it appeared, wasn’t over yet.
‘You’re a puzzle,’ he told her finally, when he’d finished testing what felt like every reflex in her body. ‘The good news, of course, is the fact that the paralysis on the right side is lessening, the headaches have stopped and your eyesight’s almost back to normal.’
He was wearing an exceedingly well-cut grey suit and a pale pink Armani shirt. I’m a private patient, thought Gina; of course he’s going to smile and give me the good news first.
‘And the bad news?’ she asked, wishing she had Sam here with her now to give her the support she so badly needed.
‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mrs Lawrence.’ The consultant sat on the edge of the bed in order to be frank. The smile was replaced by a professionally serious expression. ‘The tests we’ve been running have shown up an abnormality, but the precise nature of that abnormality isn’t clear.’
If she had been an NHS patient, Gina wondered, would he have simply come out with it and said, ‘You have a brain tumour and you’re going to die’? It was, after all, more or less what they had told her mother all those years ago.
‘So, what happens next?’ she persisted, having braced herself for the very worst.
‘Well, I think that poor old brain of yours needs a while to recuperate.’ He flashed dazzlingly white teeth at her and Gina winced. Such jocular remarks were all she needed. ‘There’s clearly some swelling in the left hemisphere’ - reaching across, he lightly tapped the left side of her head for emphasis - ‘and until that recedes, we can’t really come to any firm conclusions. So what I suggest is that we send you home for a week or two, then get you back here for another scan. By that time, hopefully, you’ll be as right as rain!’
‘And what if I’m not as right as rain?’ she countered with rising anger. This so-called bloody miracle-worker in his flashy designer suit and hand-made shoes was fobbing her off with ridiculous platitudes. She couldn’t just sit around and
wait
, for God’s sake. She needed to know.
Now
.
‘Why don’t we cross that hurdle when we come to it?’ This time he tried to give her hand a consoling pat, but Gina snatched it away.
‘Just tell me,’ she said evenly, ‘what
you
think is wrong with me.’
‘Ah, but the tests are inconclusive. It really isn’t possible to . . .’
He was shaking his head. Prevaricating. Fixing him with a steady gaze, Gina said, ‘But you can’t assure me that I
don’t
have a brain tumour, can you?’
Chapter 50
Katerina, despatched by Lucille to answer the front door, was delighted to see Vivienne standing on the doorstep.
‘I was beginning to think we’d never see you again,’ she cried, giving her a hug and almost having her eye taken out in the process by an enormous gold earring curved like a scimitar to match Vivienne’s flawless cheekbones. ‘And I thought that if we
did
ever see you, we wouldn’t recognise you. Now that you’re a country doctor’s lady, aren’t you supposed to trudge around in tweed skirts and wellies?’
‘Tried it once, didn’t like it,’ deadpanned Vivienne, glancing down at her cyclamen-pink silk jacket and short black skirt. Then she broke into a grin. ‘OK, that’s a lie. Thought about it once and couldn’t face it. Hell, at least this way the patients have something to gossip about. I figure it brightens their day.’
‘We’ve got a patient whose day could do with a bit of brightening.’ Katerina drew her inside, kicking the door shut behind them. ‘Come on, I’ll break open the gin, if Lucille hasn’t got there first. And I warn you, you’re going to need it.’
Vivienne was both appalled by the change in Gina, and enchanted by bossy, bustling Lucille who appeared to run the entire household and whose welcome entailed swiping the bottle of Gordon’s from Katerina’s grasp and all but emptying its contents into two enormous glasses.
‘That girl pours terrible small measures,’ she declared expansively, above the clatter of ice cubes. ‘Not that I’m much of a gin-person myself, ye understand, but I’m willing to join you for decency’s sake. And none of this poison for
you
,’ she added, swinging round to address Gina. ‘It does desperate things, y’know, to the human brain.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Vivienne cheerfully, taking her drink and sinking down on to the dark green sofa next to Gina. ‘I was so sorry to hear you were sick. Still, it must be great to be out of hospital.’