Authors: Lucinda Riley
‘Thank God,’ I say in relief, as I turn and follow Alexis through the crowd. ‘How many of them are there?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.’
We both hurry around the house and up to the driveway, now packed with cars. I see shadowy figures emerging from the car in the distance, and count just . . . four. And my heart sinks as I know
that this was the last flight in from England tonight.
Immy is the first to reach me. She looks as tense and strained as I feel.
‘Sorry, Alex, but there was nothing I could do. I had to sit there at Gatwick, like, pretending it didn’t matter if the plane was late. Fred was no help whatsoever. As usual.’
She rolls her eyes as a gangly youth – my little brother – wanders towards us.
‘Hi, Fred, good flight?’
‘Boring,’ he says with a shrug.
Currently, this seems to be the only word in his thirteen-year-old vocabulary.
‘So, I will go and tell the guests you’re here,’ Alexis says to Immy. ‘You will bring them round, Alex.’
‘Yes,’ I say, as I look towards the two figures walking slowly towards me, an expression of total surprise on their faces.
‘Hi, Mum, hi, Dad,’ I say, as I guiltily search behind them for any further figures remaining in the car.
‘What on earth is going on, Alex?’ asks William as my mother hugs me.
‘Well . . . you’ll have to wait and see. How are you, Mum?’ I look at her, searching her face for clues.
‘I’m very well indeed, Alex,’ she says as she smiles at me. And it isn’t the painful ‘I’m not really, actually, but I am pretending for you that I am’
type of smile that I’ve become used to in the past three years. It’s one I actually believe.
‘Your mum got the final all-clear yesterday,’ William says. And again, I see tears brewing in his eyes. ‘It’s finally over.’
‘Oh my God, Mum! That’s wonderful news! Wonderful!’
‘Did you just say you’ve got the all-clear?’ says Immy from next to me. Even Fred looks as if he’s paying attention.
‘We didn’t want to tell you until we were all together. But I’m going to be fine.’
‘For certain, Mum?’ Immy clarified, having been given false hope before.
‘For certain.’
‘Forever?’ asks Fred, his bottom lip wobbling like it did when he was little. I move towards him protectively and place a hand on his shoulder, sensing his vulnerability.
‘Well, that may be pushing it, but tonight I feel it could be, yes, darling,’ Mum says as she kisses him.
Then we all have what is commonly termed a group hug, and have to wipe away the tears to make ourselves presentable.
‘Right,’ I say, clearing my throat, ‘we’d better make a move. A pity Chloë couldn’t have joined us. She didn’t make it, then?’ I say.
‘She said she’d try, but you know how demanding her boss can be,’ Mum says as I marshal them along the drive towards the house.
‘At least she gets free designer clothes, which is more than I get doing my babysitting,’ remarks Immy.
‘Do you want a free baby, then, Im?’
‘Oh, shut up, Fred! You’re such a douche.’
‘Alex, what exactly
is
going on here tonight?’ my mother asks me.
‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘You might have told me, Immy – I’m hardly dressed for an occasion.’ Mum indicates her jeans, flip-flops and white cheesecloth blouse.
‘Alex put me on pain of death not to. We’ve been planning it, like, forever.’
And I realise we can all use expressions like that again now, without flinching.
‘I’m so happy, Mum, really,’ I whisper to her. ‘It’s the best news I’ve ever had.’
‘You’ve been amazing, Alex. Thank you.’
Then we have another, private hug – just her and me. And I try to feel that whatever
didn’t
happen tonight, shouldn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.
‘So,’ I say as I pull myself together and we reach the edge of the terrace, from which a noisy hush is emanating. ‘Mum and Dad, this is a present from all of your kids. Happy
twentieth wedding anniversary!’
Then I lead them onto the terrace, where everyone shouts the same in Greek and begins to cheer and clap. Champagne corks pop, and I watch my parents being smothered in hugs and kisses, and my
mother’s delighted face when she sees Fabio and Sadie.
There is no question that I organised this for her. In the bleak years after her diagnosis, when we had no idea if the treatment would work or not, I thought about it many times. Here at Pandora
there are so many memories for her, and although some of them are less than happy ones, at least they were forged in the days before hospital beds and pain.
Right now, I can’t take in the fact that it is really over. That she is going to
live
.
So tonight, I will do my best to put aside the other dreadful pain in my heart; the one that is not life or death, yet feels like it. And celebrate – literally – my mother’s
life.
The evening wears on and the stars shine down on the tiny pinprick of celebrating humanity. The sound of the bouzouki takes me back to that night ten years before, and I hope
there will be no similar revelations to spoil the moment when Alexis once again calls for silence and proposes a toast. I drink more beer than I should, to celebrate the joy of my mother’s
recovery and to drown my private sorrows in equal measure.
‘Thank you, darling Alex, for organising the most amazing and beautiful surprise I’ve ever had.’
My mother has sought me out, and reaches up on tiptoe to put her arms around my shoulders and kiss me.
‘That’s okay, Mum.’
‘Tonight could not have been more perfect,’ she says with a smile.
‘Are you sure you’re absolutely one hundred per cent well, Mum? You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’ I ask her again, still struggling to believe it.
‘Well,
I
might, as you know,’ she smiles. ‘But Dad definitely wouldn’t. Seriously, Alex, I feel wonderful, I really do. Finally, I can get on with my life again.
I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you the way I wanted to be in the past three years. But it seems you’ve done absolutely fine without me. I’m so proud of you, darling,
I really am.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Oh, Alex,’ Mum turns and points, ‘look who’s just arrived! Let’s go and say hello.’
As I turn around too, and stare in wonder and amazement at the familiar, beloved face smiling at both of us, my heart does one of those dreadful flippy things that contains elements of
excitement and fear.
But most of all,
love
.
‘Chloë! Oh my God. How did you get here?’ Mum asks as we both reach her.
‘Don’t ask, Helena. We came from Paris.’ Chloë grins, hugging her. ‘Happy anniversary. Hi, Alex,’ she says, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘I promised I
wouldn’t let you down, didn’t I?’
‘You did, yes,’ I reply, not really concentrating on what she says, because standing just behind her is the subject of all my dreams and nightmares in the past year. ‘Excuse
me.’
‘Of course.’ Chloë gives me a knowing wink of encouragement.
I walk a few paces to where she is standing alone, half hidden in the shadow of the house.
‘Hello,’ she says shyly, and then averts her beautiful blue eyes in embarrassment.
‘I didn’t think . . . I didn’t . . .’ I swallow hard, feeling tears rise to my eyes and urgently instructing Sergeant Major Brain to send them into retreat
immediately.
‘I know.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s been’ – she looks everywhere but at me – ‘difficult.’
‘I understand.’
‘But Chloë was the one who helped. Talked me out of the place I was in. She’s been great, Alex, and I think that maybe we both have a lot to thank her for.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes. She’s the one who persuaded me to come with her tonight. And . . . I’m glad I have.’ She reaches her slim, pale hand to me, and I raise mine to clasp it.
‘I’ve missed you, Alex. Really, really badly.’
‘I’ve missed you too. Worse than “really, really badly”, to be honest. Actually, I’d go as far as gut-wretchingly, or perhaps heart-breakingly, life-threateningly .
. .’
‘Well.’ She giggles. ‘
You
would. But it’s really okay, isn’t it? For you and I to be together?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly the norm, but at least our kids won’t end up with six toes if we are. It’s just the semantics which were . . .’ I swallow hard.
‘Complicated. And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.’
‘So am I. But I understand why now.’
I
had
to ask the question before we went any further down this bumpy, hazardous road. ‘Are you here because you’re prepared to give us another go?’ Instinctively, my
other hand, the one that isn’t holding hers, reaches out to brush a lock of her glorious Titian hair back from her face.
‘Well, I’m hoping it’ll be rather better than just a
go
.’
‘Is that a yes, in Viola language?’
‘Yes, but you do understand why I had to take some time to work stuff through? I was . . .’ She gulps. ‘Broken.’
‘I know. And of course I understand.’ I edge closer to her, then wrap my arms around her and hug her to me. She melts into me. I kiss her then, and she kisses me back, and I feel an
immediate need to do things with her that are entirely inappropriate at my mother and father’s twentieth wedding anniversary party.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ booms Alexis’ voice from the terrace.
‘Come on.’ I pull her by the arm. ‘We should be there for the speeches. And by the way,’ I add, as I lead her through a sea of people gathering round to listen, ‘my
mother is completely well. She’s got the all-clear.’
‘Oh Alex! That’s wonderful news!’
‘Yes.’ I look at her. ‘There’s been a lot of wonderful news today.’
Viola
It all began just over a year ago, when my mum called me.
‘Alex, sorry to disturb you in the middle of your finals, but there’s a letter for you here from Sacha.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes, he’s in a hospital in London. Dad got a call from Viola a few days ago saying Sacha wanted to see him. It’s not good news, I’m afraid. He’s had a
huge heart attack, apparently, and of course, his liver’s shot to pieces . . .’
I remember my mother’s voice trailing off, and me thinking how I might not have either blood parent alive by this time next year.
‘What does he want?’
‘He asked Dad if you would go and see him soon. And I think the accent is on the “soon”. Alex, really, it’s up to you. I know you’ve had your fill of
hospitals in the past two years.’
‘Give me the address of the hospital, and I’ll think about it. Okay?’
She did, and I asked her to forward the letter to me. When it arrived two days later, even though I knew what it was likely to contain and had sworn to myself not to let it get to
me, of course it did. Sacha wanted to say goodbye.
So, on the Sunday before my finals were due to begin, when everyone else in Oxford was holed up feverishly revising/recovering from a hangover/contemplating suicide, I boarded a
train to London and took the underground from Paddington to Waterloo, then walked from there to St Thomas’ Hospital.
Hospitals are depressing any day of the week, but somehow on Sundays I’ve always found them worse. The dull hush was unbroken by the usual bustle of the Monday to Friday
routine, and the rank smell of boiled beef and damp cabbage – the sad facsimile of a roast lunch – permeated the air.
I can’t say Sacha looked much worse than the last time I’d seen him six years earlier – just even older. Yet he was only the same age as Dad; fifty-five – a
virtual teenager in this day and age.
He was in the ICU department, plugged in to all sorts of drips and monitors that beeped and clanked. He wore an enormous oxygen mask with a big pump in the centre of it that made
him look bizarrely like an elephant. The kind nurse explained that he wore the mask because his lungs had filled with water after the heart attack, and his heart wasn’t up to pumping enough
oxygen through them to expel it.
He was asleep when I got there, so I sat quietly by him, taking in for what I knew might be the last time the exponent of the physical seed that had produced me.
As I did so, I saw a young woman – or should I say, an angel of perfection – walking along the ward towards me. Tall and willowy, with unblemished alabaster skin and a
heart-shaped face containing pink rosebud lips and startling blue eyes. Her long Titian-coloured hair fell to beyond her shoulders and immediately reminded me of a figure from a Rossetti painting.
For a second I genuinely wondered if she was a famous model whose face – and body – I’d seen staring down at me from Adshel boards all over the place.
But as she came closer, I realised it was Viola Chandler. Sweet little Viola; she of the rabbity teeth and freckles, and a penchant for bursting into tears all over me.
‘Bloody hell!’ I muttered under my breath as she stopped at the end of the bed and stared at me quizzically.
‘Alex?’
‘Yes,’ I managed, having spent the past nine years training my mouth to form actual words when approached by a beautiful woman. ‘It’s me.’
‘Oh my God!’
And then, this exquisite creature walked towards me and threw her arms around me.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you!’ she said as she buried her head in my shoulder – admittedly not the way beautiful women normally greeted me. ‘Why are
you here? I mean,’ she corrected herself, ‘it’s very nice of you and all that, but . . . ?’
As I looked at the confusion in her eyes, I realised there was every chance that neither Jules nor the elephant man in the bed beside me had actually told her of my genetic link to
her father. And here, now, was not the moment if they hadn’t. Particularly as, when she pulled away from my chest, my shirt was damp from her tears. And close up, as I looked at her lovely
face, I saw the dark circles beneath her eyes and the misery beaming like lasers from her pupils.
Perhaps, I thought, I’d mention it casually to her over coffee later. Or something.
We talked in whispers about how serious the situation was – but she said that she hadn’t given up hope.